The Girl Who Fought Napoleon: A Novel of the Russian Empire (8 page)

Chapter 12

St. Petersburg

November 1796

Only hours after Catherine the Great’s death, Grand Duke Paul was notified in Gatchina. He mounted his horse, galloping toward the Winter Palace to claim his throne as emperor of the Russian Empire.

He was not unaccompanied. He led his Prussian-style cavalry and foot soldiers into the capital—
his
capital. Overnight the grandiose Winter Palace—full of exquisite art, music, and enlightened culture—became a fortress with sentry boxes manned every few yards of the perimeter.

The inhabitants of St. Petersburg watched in horror as their beloved palace, the jewel of Russia, was transformed into a military barracks, where chandeliers burned bright throughout the night as Tsar Paul wrote imperial edicts, bitterly erasing the mark of his mother, Catherine the Great.

“Bring me her personal papers!” he roared. One by one he burned all that he could, vowing to destroy the empress’s mark on Russia. He reinstituted the traditional laws of succession, specifically primogeniture—the crown would pass always and only to the tsar’s oldest son. He proclaimed there would be no more “reign of women.”

Paul had long detested his mother’s love of fashions, debauchery, and immorality. St. Petersburg under his hand would become more like Berlin, the Prussian capital—austere, disciplined.

Meals would be only for sustenance. Nobles must eat a frugal dinner at one o’clock. No tailcoats, no round hats, no folded-down boots. Hair must be cut round, powdered. No foreign books or music scores were permitted. Study in universities outside Russia was forbidden. Children could not venture into the streets without parental accompaniment. Ribbons would not be tolerated or any garment deemed frivolous. Side-whiskers were banned, as was the waltz.

Paul’s spite had no limits, especially when it came to his son Alexander. He seethed with jealousy at his mother’s intentions to pass him over and give the throne to young Alexander. He immediately demoted Alexander to a junior officer in the imperial cavalry.

And so began the reign of Paul Romanov.

Chapter 13

Winter Palace, St. Petersburg

April 1798

Grand Duchess Elizabeth picked up the quill, after brushing away her tears, and continued her letter to her mother in Baden.

Most of the public detests him. People even say the peasants talk about him with disgust.

He has said it is all the same to him if he is loved or hated, as long as he is feared. And he is. He is feared and hated, at least by everyone in St. Petersburg.

A French lady-in-waiting, Countess Golovine, knocked discreetly.

“Grand Duchess, the grand duke would like to enter and speak to you, if you are not ill disposed.”

“Please send the grand duke in,” said Elizabeth. She pressed her fingertips to her eyes, drying her tears. The morning sun glanced off the gold samovar, making a bright coin of light in the far corner of the room. The lady-in-waiting stood at a respectful distance by the door.

“Elise, I am sorry to disturb you.”

“I was only composing a letter to my mother. What is it, Alexander?”

“I would like you to accompany me to the military review tomorrow. We will appear on the balcony together—”

“Oh, Alexander! I am so tired of military reviews. I am tired of curfews and simple meals and plain dresses, no ribbons or pearls. How I miss the balls and gowns—the gay music of Germany and France. Books! Your grandmother’s literary salons and graceful society. All Russia misses Catherine!”

Alexander darted a look at the lady-in-waiting. He frowned.

“You are excused,” he said curtly to the French woman.

“Yes, Your Majesty,” said the woman curtseying deeply. The tumble of boiling water in the samovar punctuated the imposed silence.

When the door closed, Alexander said. “Elise, you must be careful what you say. She could repeat your words. My father would punish us most severely.”

“The Countess Golovine? No, she, like everyone else in St. Petersburg, detests your father. He has stripped all that is beautiful and alive from this heavenly capital! Replacing it with what? A garrison with not a trace of the grandeur your grandmother instilled.”

Alexander opened his hand, caressing his wife’s cheek.

“It is all right, Elise. We will survive . . . and so will Russia.”

Elizabeth clasped her husband’s hand, kissing it.

“Will we?” she asked.

Chapter 14

Alexander Palace, Tsarkoe Selo

July 1798

Tsarkoe Selo, the emperor’s village of summer palaces, was a two-day journey north from St. Petersburg. The entire court moved with the tsar, enjoying the festive months of nearly endless sunlight. The darkness had hardly time to settle into dim starlight when the fresh morning dawned.

“It will be a sultry day, I wager,” said Igor Ivanovich, cranking open the white canvas awnings as the maids opened the windows to let in the morning air.

His companion Dimitri Petrov worked the lever on the adjoining awning, shading the duke’s reception room. He sniffed the air and turned to his friend.

“You should visit the bathhouse, Igor Ivanovich! You stink of cabbage and pork trotters.”

Igor lowered his nose to his own armpit and smiled.

“I’ll keep the smell. It reminds me of who I am. A humble serf from the country sent to serve his emperor. A true Russian. And I like pork.”

“Mercy! Here comes the grand duchess! Now she is an early riser.”

“No one disturbs her sleep. If you know what I mean.”

“How will Russia ever have an heir?” whispered Igor. “Such a beauty, too.”

The two servants bowed low, studying the pebbles of the pathways, as Grand Duchess Elizabeth passed by on her morning walk with her lady-in-waiting Countess Golovine.

The morning heat had begun to seep through the lush leaves and grasses of the garden, infusing the paths with a heady perfume. Elizabeth could detect a delicate scent of rot—decaying petals not yet raked by the palace gardeners?

When she walked with her lady-in-waiting, all others were ordered to vacate the gardens, thus the consternation of Igor Ivanovich and Dimitri Petrov. Of course the order did not extend to the emperor himself or to his officers.

And certainly not to his best friend, Adam Czartoryski.

When Elizabeth came around the sharp bend of the hedgerows, she almost ran into the Polish nobleman.

“I beg your pardon, Grand Duchess,” said Czartoryski, reaching out to catch her arms and steady the young woman.

“Monsieur! I beg you!” admonished Countess Golovine at the sight of Czartoryski’s hands on her mistress.

“Oh, forgive me!” said Czartoryski, blushing beet red. “I—I ask a thousand pardons, of course. Are you sure you are quite all right?”

“Of course, I am perfectly fine, Prince Czartoryski,” said Elizabeth, collecting herself. She laughed. “I’m really not the delicate violet the Romanovs make me out to be!”

“So clumsy of me, all the same, Your Highness,” said Czartoryski. “I was deep in thought. I should have heard your steps.”

“Deep in thought?” said Elizabeth.

“The smell of the jasmine in the gardens. My memories of Paris, Your Highness. I was there right after the revolution, with my mother. What swift changes, reforms. And now Napoleon brings changes again! It makes one’s head spin.”

“You were in Paris?” said Elizabeth, brightening. “Were you really? Would you be so kind as to describe it to me, monsieur? I think I shall never see the grand city now given this nasty business with the Corsican.”

Adam Czartoryski drew in a quick breath.

“I should love to describe Paris to you, Grand Duchess! If you will permit me.”

Elizabeth turned to her companion.

“
Comtesse Golovine, s’il vous plaît
. If you would escort us from five—no, ten paces behind. I should like to continue my conversation with Prince Czartoryski.”

“Of course, madame.”

The young couple walked ahead, Czartoryski’s hands gesturing in delighted animation.

The lady-in-waiting saw her mistress’s face in profile as she turned to listen to the stories of Paris. The grand duchess’s eyes crinkled in merriment, a smile gracing her delicate mouth, so often downcast in sorrow.

Countess Golovine, who loved her German-born mistress with all her heart, rejoiced in the floral scent of Tsarkoe Selo. She could detect no rot whatsoever.

Grand Duke Alexander invited—
required
—Adam Czartoryski, his best friend, to spend the summer wherever Alexander and Elizabeth were in residence: Alexander Palace or Catherine’s Palace or even Stony Island in the Neva.

Most evenings Alexander disappeared to be “at home,” as he called it, with his Polish mistress. The grand duchess took her evening meal at the palace and was delighted when Czartoryski accepted an invitation to join her table that very same evening, after their walk in the garden.

“Tell me more about Paris,” she implored her guest. “What would I see if I could travel there?”

The Polish prince bowed his head.

“A city of lively people, thirsty for change, for liberty. For enlightenment! The main streets are lined with enormous palaces gleaming with the magical green patina of copper roofs. Ah, the majesty of that city! Classical, Roman, Gothic, Renaissance—layer upon layer of history.”

“Not like St. Petersburg, then,” said the Grand Duchess.

“No, though St. Petersburg is majestic.”

“Oh, really, Monsieur Czartoryski. You do not have to flatter St. Petersburg for my sake. It was a swamp before Peter the Great. As beautiful as it is now, it hasn’t the history of the rest of Europe!”

Czartoryski smiled. “Well, then. Paris. Fine carriages carry ladies and gentleman across the many bridges—themselves exquisite monuments. The avenues and boulevards are flanked by the most exquisite
palais
, with mansard roofs, their copper trim colored with a green patina. Boats line the Seine and fishermen stand along the banks. And intoxicating aromas fill the air, such cookery! The French are great appreciators of beauty and taste, much like the Italians. The poorest meal composed of the simplest ingredients is made savory by the culinary sorcery of the Parisians.”

“If you could take me there,” ventured Elizabeth, taking a sip of wine, “where would you choose to walk?”

Czartoryski blushed. He wet his lips, considering such an unimaginable delight.

“Ah, what a pleasure to contemplate. The winding roads of Paris are a hopeless tangle where a wanderer can stumble into colorful markets, street hawkers, cemeteries, or even circuses. But the streets that line the Seine, flanking the Notre Dame, rising with Gothic splendor—that is where we would walk. In the shade of the great plane trees.”

Elizabeth closed her eyes, imagining.

“We’d walk along the Seine on a summer evening and smell the sweetness of lilies or blue-flowered rosemary from the gardens. Below us water laps against the banks. We’d taste the scent of spun sugar and crepes from the vendors in the river breeze. Young men and women laugh as they walk near us, bursting into song, patriotic hymns of their new-found liberty.”

Elizabeth drew in a deep breath.

“We would go in plain clothing,” said Czartoryski. “We’d speak French just as we are doing now. No one would know us. We would walk in secret, a part of the republic.”

Elizabeth looked into her companion’s eyes.

No one would know us. If only this fantasy were true!

“We’d watch the swallows dart and swoop over the Seine as the last of the light faded. Along the embankment we’d see the silhouettes of lovers embracing in the moonlight.”

Czartoryski watched the grand duchess’s blue eyes shine in the candlelight. Something he said had brought tears to her eyes.

“Forgive me, Grand Duchess,” he said, his languid smile disappearing. “I have upset you.”

“Oh, no,” said Elizabeth, dabbing her eyes. “I think I might be coming down with a bit of a cold.”

Prince Czartoryski said quietly, “Grand Duchess. Please excuse the servants. I must speak to you in private.”

Elizabeth made a gesture with her hand. The three servants who stood against the walls bowed and retired to the antechamber.

Czartoryski moved his chair close to his hostess’s. He quietly took her hand, holding it as gently as if it were an injured dove.

“Let me tell you more about Paris, my dear grand duchess. Privately. There is so much more I want to express.”

Countess Golovine dismissed the servants. She alone peeked into the grand duchess’s bedchamber.

Two lovers, dark and fair, were entwined in embroidered linen. The woman’s white neck turned as gracefully as a swan to kiss her lover, his curly dark hair matted with perspiration from lovemaking.

The woman laid her head on her lover’s chest.

“I can hear your heart beating,” she said. “Adam, it is racing!”

“It beats with passion. With joy,” he said, looking down at her. “I love you and have always loved you, Elise. Since the morning I arrived and saw you walking along the Neva with Alexander—”

The grand duchess raised her white finger to his mouth. She touched his lips with her fingertips.

“Adam, we both love my husband,” she said.

Czartoryski drew a deep breath.

“Yes, we both love your husband. Alexander is my best friend.”

This time it was the grand duchess’s turn to sigh. “He is my best friend too. There lies the problem.”

Czartoryski stroked her cheek. Lifting her gently from his chest, he rolled her gently into the feather mattress. Then he smothered her mouth with kisses.

“Elise, my love,” he whispered. “There is not room for our mutual best friend in this bed. Surrender to me, to us.”

There was no more talk of friends that night.