The Fabergé Secret

by Charles Belfoure

  Lara gave him an icy smile. ‘Thank you, Igor. Odd to meet you in a ladies’ hat store.’

  ‘Always so sharp.’

  ‘I take that as a real compliment, Igor.’

  ‘I just happen to know that you’re as intelligent as you are beautiful, that’s all,’ Moncransky replied. The sales lady gave the General the package to carry. ‘Come, Larissa, let us chat a bit.’

  Lara walked with him along the Nevsky. He talked about the weather, the racing season, and upcoming social events. Lara remained silent.

  ‘Why don’t we step in here for some refreshments?’ Moncransky suggested, pointing to the storefront of a little cafe. They took a table in the rear.

  Once seated, Lara glared at him. ‘What’s on your mind?’

  ‘You know, I always find it interesting that commoners think the aristocracy lead such care-free lives. Like we can do any damn thing we want without fear of consequences,’ the General said in a jovial voice. The waiter brought their glasses of tea with a plate of pastries. He offered Lara the plate, but she just stared at him. Her cold attitude didn’t ruffle him a bit, and he continued talking in a most pleasant manner.

  ‘But people like us can’t do anything we want,’ he exclaimed. ‘The commoners don’t understand that the aristocracy and the members of Court must obey an iron-clad set of incredibly strict rules that govern every damn aspect of our lives. We aren’t free at all! But you know that already.’

  He sipped his tea and wolfed down a scone.

  ‘Your tea is getting cold, Larissa.’

  Lara didn’t touch her tea. She just continued staring at him.

  ‘And if we break these rules, there’s no second chance – no mercy in our little world. You’re cast out of society as though you’re a leper. Everyone turns their back on you, never to speak to you again.’ Moncransky helped himself to a pastry.

  After the last swallow and a sip of tea to wash it down, he asked in a very breezy manner, ‘Larissa, does anyone know that you and Count Nagrov’s very handsome footman had that little tête-à-tête last summer in the Crimea?’

  Lara’s eyes narrowed to slits. She clenched her fists.

  ‘You know the rules of the game – hands off the help,’ the General said, patting his lips with a linen napkin. ‘Think what people would say if they found out. This revelation would definitely set Court tongues wagging. A mere footman and the beautiful Princess Lara? How could she lower herself like that?’

  ‘It was just once!’

  ‘Times three, I’ve discovered.’

  ‘I have the feeling you’re going to tell me my little indiscretion isn’t going to remain a secret for long.’

  Moncransky just smiled. Lara’s expression told him that she understood the severity of her situation.

  ‘You wouldn’t,’ snapped Lara.

  ‘Rule Number One: a girl can never get herself talked about,’ lectured the General. ‘I know you adore scandal about others, but you’ll find scandal about yourself not so amusing.’

  ‘So, in exchange for your silence, I have to let you fuck me a few times. Is that the deal?’ Lara asked scornfully. ‘Because Dimitri has been fucking your wife on and off.’

  ‘Well, that … and something else.’

  Lara crinkled her brow.

  ‘I need you to do some detective work on Dimitri. I believe he’s part of the revolutionary movement.’

  Lara burst out laughing. ‘Dimitri!? He’s no more revolutionary than my borzoi!’

  ‘My original contact was retired to Siberia. I’m hoping you’ll be more effective.’

  ‘Is there something I can get you, madame?’ asked the waiter with a look of alarm. ‘You don’t seem well.’

  Lara had remained at the table after Moncransky left. Her mind was dazed. For a moment, she thought she was going to throw up.

  ‘No thank you, I’ll be fine in a minute.’ She took a sip of her cold tea.

  Moncransky was right; she’d broken the rules. It was hubris that made her think she could have Count Nagrov’s tall, good-looking footman and get away with it. Now, she knew her whole world was about to disappear; the only one she’d ever known. She wouldn’t be forgiven for such a small infraction. On the contrary, because her gossip and innuendo had caused many women to be cast out of society, people would be eager to see her fall. Society would cheer to see the great Lara Markhov finally receive her comeuppance. But that wasn’t going to happen.

  Lara stared down at the tabletop. She would have to do what Moncransky wanted. It filled her with disgust that she had to sleep with that pig, but she was even more furious with Dimitri. At first, she’d thought it total nonsense that he was a revolutionary; Moncransky just wanted to get her in the sack for revenge. The General had explained further, how her husband had gotten mixed up in the revolutionary movement through Doctor Golitsyn and her arts circle soirees. A choice lay before her: to betray Dimitri, or become a social leper. The decision was simple: she’d be damned if she’d allow Dimitri’s folly to get her kicked out of society.

  There was one more reason she would do Moncransky’s bidding. Lara and Dimitri were no longer in love, but she was still fond of him. Their marriage was for appearances only because divorce was out of the question. She didn’t care about his infidelity, but now it was a matter of principle: he’d committed class betrayal; worse than selling out one’s country to the enemy in a war. She felt he had betrayed her, his best friend, Nicky, and the entire aristocracy. Dimitri had done something unforgivable, and he would have to pay.

  FORTY-SEVEN

  Dimitri believed that Princess Betsey gave the best balls of the season; better even than Lara’s. She truly had a God-given talent for social functions. Bacchus would have envied her parties. Betsey didn’t put on entertainment, but spectacles. Besides the dozen Imperial Balls given in the Season, there were the private ones given by the courtiers – and there was Betsey’s. An invitation in embossed gold letters on stiff white vellum delivered by her couriers in dark blue jackets was highly coveted. Only five hundred of the crème de la crème of St Petersburg society were invited on January 2 to her magnificent light-blue Italian Renaissance palace overlooking the Fontanka Canal. Sleds pulled by horses with bells jingling on their harnesses brought her guests, wrapped in ermine and mink blankets, over the snow-packed streets.

  Dimitri was dancing a Strauss waltz with Lara (a husband was required by custom to dance with his wife once). All around them, people were twirling around the parquet ballroom floor in their own happy magical world. The young officers in brilliant uniforms led happy young girls in flowing gowns and diamonds, their faces flushed red from excitement and the excessive heat. A few times tonight, some middle-aged lady had fainted from the heat and had to be carried away by footmen to lie down. Once recovered, they always returned to dance; it was an unspoken rule of society. Along the great mirrored walls lined with displays of exotic flowers from the Crimea sat grandes dames fluttering fans, members of the Diplomatic Corps, government ministers, and even a few long-bearded bishops in black and purple robes. Officers liked private balls because they could drink, unlike at the Imperial Balls.

  Betsey liked to vary the music. First a symphony orchestra played Strauss, Rimsky-Korsakov, and Tchaikovsky, reminding Dimitri that the laying of the cornerstone for his Memorial was coming up. Then gypsies in colorful native garb played, followed by a balalaika orchestra. The musical styles alternated during the evening. Dimitri and Katya finished their dance, and he escorted her to the side of the room. Colonel Rassisky came up to Lara.

  ‘I believe this our dance, Princess Lara,’ he said with a bow, extending his hand. They spun out onto the floor and effortlessly blended in with the dancing couples.

  As Dimitri watched them, a voice from behind whispered in his ear.

  ‘Hello, Dimitri. We never caught up after you returned from Spała.’

  ‘Why, hello Kate. How beautiful you look tonight. My wife, Lara, was admiring your gown.’

&
nbsp; Mrs King was wearing a stunning scarlet gown, whose low neckline accentuating her beautiful full breasts was trimmed in alternating blue diamonds and green emeralds. A single large pendant diamond set against an emerald hung around her long neck.

  ‘Thanks, Dimitri, but I’d rather you say how beautiful I look naked.’

  Dimitri smiled but didn’t respond.

  ‘I’m getting my Fabergé egg, a copy of the “Pine Cone Egg,”’ she said with great satisfaction.

  ‘Ah, that’s the one with the automaton elephant. Quite charming. And I suppose you bought out the Moscow Fabergé store for gifts to take back home.’

  ‘You bet I did.’

  Dimitri didn’t keep up the conversation, he just watched the dancers in silence.

  ‘So, can you call on me this coming week?’

  ‘I have my work on the Tchaikovsky Memorial I told you about, and then there is the crush of these events for the season. I’m so busy.’

  Mrs King frowned. ‘Certainly, you can find a little time for little ol’ me, Dimitri,’ she said in a sing-song child-like voice.

  ‘I really don’t think I can get away, Kate. Maybe tea at the end of the month,’ Dimitri said apologetically.

  Her face became flushed, and she looked irritated.

  ‘But if you’re free now, let’s dance the quadrille coming up,’ Dimitri said.

  ‘No thanks. It’s too damn hot in here, and I thought it was hot in Alabama,’ Mrs King replied testily. She began to walk away.

  ‘You still have to come to the palace and meet Jim,’ he called out after her.

  She turned to him and glared. ‘I didn’t come to Russia to talk to some darkie.’

  He frowned. He realized that people had started streaming into the adjacent banquet hall for supper, and followed them in. A woman let out a gasp, and loud shouting broke out.

  Guests were standing or sitting at their places at the table designated by place cards. But everyone was lifting the Sèvres dinner plates to find a copy of the Misery of Russia booklet hidden underneath. It was if they’d found a dead rat. People began flipping through the pages.

  ‘I’ve heard about these,’ exclaimed Monsieur Blerot, the ambassador from Belgium.

  ‘Thousands of them have been showing up all over Russia for the last few months,’ complained a general of Chevalier Guards. ‘The Okhrana can’t keep up with confiscating all of them. They say they’ve turned up in Paris and Berlin; even in New York.’

  ‘This is revolting,’ cried a woman who threw her copy on the floor.

  But most of the guests were absorbed in the photos.

  Princess Betsey charged in. ‘What is the meaning of this outrage?’ she screamed at her head butler. He was flabbergasted and couldn’t get the words out.

  ‘Your Highness, when we set the table last night, there were no books under the plates, I swear to you.’

  ‘I apologize, my friends,’ Betsey said frantically. ‘Collect this filth,’ she ordered the footmen. But most guests didn’t hand them over. Even Lara didn’t give up her copy.

  Finally, order was restored, and guests settled in to eat the sumptuous seven-course meal served with French wines and champagne. Conversation was humming while an orchestra played quietly. Then people’s heads cocked in reaction to a sound in the distance. Talking trailed off until there was complete silence in the banquet hall. The orchestra had stopped playing. The commotion was coming from the street, and guests got up to look out the tall windows. Some opened them.

  ‘Port Arthur has surrendered! Port Arthur has surrendered!’ screamed the crowd in the street outside the palace. ‘Russia has lost the war!’

  A huge mob had gathered on the Nevsky Prospect, and now was heading north toward the Neva River. People seemed to come out of nowhere to join the crowd, swelling its numbers to what seemed like thousands.

  ‘My son died for nothing!’ yelled a woman. ‘My son died in vain,’ countered another woman. ‘Russia has been beaten by yellow monkeys!’

  Most of the guests were in disbelief. One woman began crying. The military men bowed their heads. Some covered their faces with their hands in grief. People began walking back to the table to resume eating, but others walked out of the hall. No one talked while they ate.

  Dimitri stood by the window, listening to the shouting. ‘This is the beginning,’ he said to himself.

  Azref was marching along with the crowd on the Nevsky, screaming that Russia had been whipped and humiliated in front of the world. But he had a hard time suppressing a smile, he was feeling so happy.

  FORTY-EIGHT

  Miss O’Brian was walking back to the train station after attending the Sunday service at the English High Episcopal Church of St Petersburg. With all the British diplomats, their staff, nannies, and governesses in the capital city, they had their own church designed after the High Victorian ones back in England. Because of the Tsarina’s fear of gossip, the nanny made the barest of conversation with her fellow parishioners after the service. She actually was held in very high esteem by the British community because she took care of the Tsar’s children. They were proud that the Tsarina had been brought up by her grandmother, Queen Victoria, and was English to the bone. She knew British nannies were the very best.

  Bundled up in a sable coat the Tsarina had given her as a Christmas gift two years ago, Miss O’Brian trudged on through the bitter January cold. She couldn’t wait to get to the station to have a glass of tea there before her train left for Tsarskoe Selo. The nanny still found it odd that Russians drank their tea in clear glasses held in metal holders, instead of china cups. She heard someone shouting in the distance, and when she turned the corner, was surprised to see hundreds of people huddled in a square listening to someone. Since the news of Port Arthur, there had been scores of angry gatherings like this. She stopped to listen to a young priest shouting from a balcony.

  ‘Millions that should have gone to take care of the people were wasted on a war that made Russia a laughing-stock in the world!’

  The Assembly of Russian Workingmen standing shoulder-to-shoulder in the square howled their lungs out at that observation.

  ‘End the war!’ the crowd shouted over and over again.

  Miss O’Brian knew from Azref that the young priest was named Father George Gapon. The charismatic leader of the Assembly had been whipping up support for his grand plan for the rights of the common working man. He was waving a large piece of paper about. Then he raised his other hand, and there was complete silence.

  ‘This petition will free the people from their evil oppressors – the despotic and indifferent government, the capitalistic exploiters who constantly rob the Russian people.’

  The crowd went into a frenzy. Men were jumping up and down, grabbing the man next to him and giving him a great bear hug.

  ‘Next Sunday, I will lead you on a mass march to the Winter Palace, where I will hand this petition personally to our Tsar, our Little Father, who will deliver us from oppression. This petition demands a constitution, universal suffrage, universal education, separation of Church and state, amnesty for political prisoners, a minimum wage, and an eight-hour day. And he will end this hopeless war!’

  Miss O’Brian smiled at what she had wrought. After the horrible news came that Port Arthur had fallen to the Japanese, all of Russia was humiliated. A wave of protest had swept across the country damning the Tsar and the military for the disaster. The mismanagement of the war revealed the rottenness of the autocracy. It seemed that all Russians had had a relative or friend who had died in the Far East. Strikes had begun to pop up all over the country. Tens of thousands of workers walked off their jobs; over one hundred thousand workers in St Petersburg alone. Losing the war was like a match that lit the fuse of the powder keg, that was setting off a revolution as Azref predicted. The Tsar hadn’t officially capitulated; he was hoping the Baltic Fleet, which had set sail in October on an eighteen-thousand-mile voyage to Japan, might perform a last-minute miracle. But it was d
oomed to fail.

  ‘I will see you on Sunday, my brothers,’ shouted Gapon. The crowd cheered wildly and began to break up.

  Miss O’Brian shook her head. She had helped to bring about the revolution she’d dreamed of, but to march on the Winter Palace was sheer folly. The Imperial Family had permanently moved to the Alexander Palace, so the Tsar wouldn’t even be there. The crowd here was probably full of Okhrana spies, so the Tsar would know what was going to happen.

  ‘Damnit, where’s my shoe?’

  Fedor had the habit of carrying around Lara’s shoes. The borzoi wouldn’t chew it up, but just take it to another part of the palace and drop it. Many a time, servants had to search the place to find shoes, especially if they were ball slippers, like she needed tonight. Lara looked at Fedor asleep on her bed. Next to him was Dimitri’s cat, Tolstoy. At first, Lara was angry that the cat kept coming into her bedroom suite and sleeping on her silk pillows. She kept tossing it out, but it always came back. She even thought of chucking it into the Neva. But after a few months, she gave up and got used to it. She had to admit, it was a comforting sight to see Fedor and Tolstoy, who had become good friends, sleeping together peacefully. Fedor liked to lick Tolstoy’s head as though he was grooming him.

  Lara looked around her bedroom, then went into Dimitri’s. He had left to go to his office downstairs. She got down on her knees to look under the bed. Between the slats of the frame and the mattress was a booklet. She smiled and pulled the thing out, assuming it was pornography. She had seen lots of pornographic material that courtiers had collected over the years. When she saw the cover, she frowned. It was the book of photos from Princess Betsey’s ball. Dimitri must have kept his copy, but when Lara leafed through the booklet, it was marked up in a red ink: ‘Shift up, add photo of starving child.’ ‘Delete peasant picture of hut, put in worker asleep under his machine.’

  Lara’s eyes widened in disbelief.

  ‘Goddamn you, Dimitri!’ she yelled.

  It was obvious that Dimitri was revising the layout of the pictures. He was a dirty revolutionary. She thought for a moment about how she could get this to Moncransky. The ballet was tonight, so she might talk to him if he was there. Or she would call him in the morning to arrange a meeting. Brimming with anger, she carefully returned the booklet to its hiding place.