The Girl Who Fought Napoleon: A Novel of the Russian Empire (12 page)

Oh, Mother. She is my life! I want nothing but for her to love me the way I did you. The greatest delight of my childhood was sitting next to you, going for a walk by your side, playing hide-and-go-seek under your watchful eye. How can I instill this love in my Maria? The love of a daughter for her mother is a sacred gift.

The letters continued even when Maria Alexandrovna was sent into quarantine at the Marble Palace, where royal children who were not vaccinated against smallpox were taken for their own protection until they could receive inoculations. Grand Duchess Elizabeth accompanied her baby there, forsaking her royal apartments and husband in order to spend every moment with her baby girl.

It was one evening in the Marble Palace that Elizabeth received a parcel from Italy.

The grand duchess stopped breathing. She knew Adam Czartoryski had followed the exiled Sardinian Court to Rome.

She opened the leather and velvet wrappings to find an exquisite box made of polished walnut with gold hinges.

A letter was enclosed.

For our dearest Mouse. Teach her to love the image under the velvet, even if she is never to know its significance to her.

Elizabeth pulled back the plush velvet. In brilliant enamel was the image of a yellow knight in medieval armor astride a warhorse. The rider brandished a sword pointed skyward.

The Czartoryski family shield.

“My God!”

Elizabeth shrieked at the sight of her beloved daughter writhing in her crib.

“Send for the doctor . . . and my husband. At once!”

Alexander rushed in, not far behind the court physician.

“What is happening?”

“Convulsions, Your Highness,” said the doctor, leaning over the crib. “The baby has a fever.”

“But I kept her away from smallpox—”

“It is not smallpox, Grand Duchess. But a dangerous fever all the same.”

Alexander took his wife into his arms as she sobbed.

“Elise!” he whispered. “Oh, Elise! I will get word to Adam.”

“Do not tell him yet,” she cried. “He will be here immediately—and the Tsar will kill him.”

Just days later, Maria Alexandrovna, barely thirteen months of age, died in her mother’s arms.

The grief-stricken young mother could barely shed tears. She locked herself in her apartments in Pavlovsk Palace, refusing to participate in court. Instead she wrote to her mother.

Oh, my dearest Mother! I have never felt such an abyss of sorrow. I am alone in the world, my adored Mäuschen no longer exists. As long as I live I shall never overcome this pain.

Princess Maria was buried in the tomb of the Annunciation of Alexander Nevsky. The tiny white coffin was a toy boat adrift on waves of sorrow from the ladies-in-waiting who had come to love the little girl with the enchanting smile.

The Grand Duchess Elizabeth was inconsolable. In deep mourning, her letters to Adam Czartoryski stopped.

Alexander knocked quietly at her bedchamber.

A lady-in-waiting answered, bowing deeply to the grand duke.

“I would like to address the grand duchess in private,” he said, entering the antechamber.

“Of course, Your Excellency. Pardon me while I notify the grand duchess of your request.”

She backed out the door still bowing. In a matter of minutes she returned and opened the door for the grand duke.

Alexander strode into Elizabeth’s bedchamber. He stopped midstride upon seeing how grief had transformed her face.

The heavenly radiance, the sparkle of her blue eyes that he had taken for granted since she was fourteen, had disappeared. In its place was the gray skin of the dead, grieving eyes dull and ringed in red.

“Oh, my darling Elise!”

“Alexander,” she said. Her voice was flat, emotionless. She turned away from him, looking toward the gardens of Catherine’s palace. “Look how they bloom, the roses. Oblivious to death, to the end of life.”

“Perhaps that is why we send them to those in grief. A rose in bloom is resurrection.”

“Resurrection,” mumbled Elizabeth. “How can a child so young find her way up from the cold wet earth to heaven.”

Elizabeth stood up, staring at the roses. She raised her right hand to her mouth.

“She will get lost! My poor little Mouse!”

Alexander took his wife in his arms, embracing her.

“Cry, my love,” he said. “Let her spirit go. She will be in Jesus’s arms, I swear it!”

He felt his wife’s body melt, bending into his own.

Then for the first time in days, Elizabeth began to weep. She wept convulsively, her body shuddering like a sail in a storm.

“Adam Czartoryski has written me,” said Alexander, stroking back his wife’s blonde hair. “He is sick with grief. He tells me he has received no letter from you since Maria’s death.”

“I cannot write to him,” said Elizabeth. “I cannot bear to think of Adam. My little Mäuschen looked so much like him, Alexander. I can’t . . . I can’t.”

“It’s all right, Elise. It’s only that he worries about you.”

“I cannot. Do you think, dear husband, that God has punished me for loving Adam?”

“Oh, my darling Elise. No!” he said, pressing her close to his chest. “It was I who wanted my two best friends to love each other. The God who is all-merciful would never take a child in revenge. A child who was loved by all of us!”

Elizabeth looked up at her husband. The rough gold braid of his uniform had left a red welt on her cheek.

She sniffled, reaching into her sleeve for a handkerchief.

“I should go now, Elise.”

Elizabeth nodded solemnly. “You are indeed my angel husband. I don’t know if I can bear to see Adam ever again. I will always see our little Maria in his eyes.”

Chapter 20

St. Petersburg

November 1801

Count Nikita Panin waited until Alexander was settled at the Winter Palace. What Count Panin had to say could not be uttered within Mikhailovsky Castle.

“What does he want?” asked Elizabeth, when the count sought to be admitted to the grand duke’s private apartments. “Why should he want to speak to you here and not at court?”

Alexander sipped a glass of his favorite Burgundy. “We will find out soon enough.”

The tsarevitch was already certain of what Count Panin would propose. He made sure only his most trusted servants were on duty when he admitted the vice-chancellor to his study in the Winter Palace.

“Good evening, sire,” said Count Panin. “It is most gracious of you to permit me to visit you.”

“I am sure you have ample reason, Count Panin.”

“Have you heard that the emperor has made more overtures to Napoleon? He has encouraged Napoleon to declare himself king.”

Alexander nodded. This was not a complete surprise—not after his father had announced that he planned an alliance with Napoleon.

Panin continued. “Your father and mother were close friends of Louis XVI and Marie Antoinette. They gave sanctuary to the French royal family here.”

“I am aware of that, Count Panin.”

“Yes, sire, but that is my point.” He took a deep breath and then plunged ahead. “Tsarevitch Alexander, your father is acting in a most contradictory—forgive me for speaking candidly—a most
mad
way. He has turned his back on all his former allies. He is suspicious of everyone.”

These words were treason. If Alexander did not call the guards and denounce Panin on the spot, he too would be guilty, just for having listened. He swallowed, clearing his throat.

“Pray continue, Count Panin.”

“His Majesty Tsar Paul has imprisoned a thousand British seamen who happened to be in port, thus destroying most important commerce with England. He has dispatched twenty thousand Cossacks to the Indus River to join the French in an invasion of India, a mission that is surely doomed. We will be at war at once with Britain.”

Alexander could only nod, yet again. He didn’t trust himself to speak. His brother Constantine had said at dinner the night before, “Our father has declared war on common sense, firmly resolved never to conclude a truce.” Alexander wondered if Constantine had been paid a visit by Count Panin as well.

Panin continued. “There can be no further delay. Our troops in India threaten mutiny. Admiral Ribas supports us, as do most of the Imperial Guards. Tsar Paul destroys the heart of Mother Russia. Our nation bleeds. Since the death of our beloved Tsarina Catherine, we have lost all grace, beauty, power. Only you can stanch the blood, Grand Duke.”

Alexander stared at the count. He steepled his fingers, pressing them hard to his forehead.

What must I do? Can I stand aside and let Russia be destroyed? But to betray my father . . .

“I beg you, do not hesitate, Tsarevitch. An empire turns its eyes to you, imploring your leadership. Otherwise . . .”

Alexander raised his hand, interrupting him. “But, Count Panin. I have not the qualities Russia seeks. You know of my love of democracy, of reform.”

“Forgive me, Your Excellency. You will outgrow that—they are youthful notions. Russia needs you! Napoleon will seize power if you do not.”

Alexander’s lip curled at the thought of Napoleon as king. “Napoleon would certainly make himself emperor if he could! He is brazen and arrogant.”

“And your father encourages an alliance. Which will only last until he changes his mind again—perhaps next month? In the meantime our Mother Russia will be committed to war on all the eastern fronts, alienated from England and all the rest of its allies. We will be vulnerable on every frontier,” said Count Panin. His eyes swept the vicinity, checking that they were alone. He lowered his voice.

“And ruled by a madman.”

Alexander drew in a deep breath, making the gold braid on his uniform creak. But he still said nothing.

“You must come to Russia’s aid, Grand Duke. If you hesitate it will be too late.”

“I will take all you say into consideration, Count Panin,” Alexander said at last. “But my father must be allowed to live out his days in peace.”

The count bowed his head solemnly. Alexander could not see the curve of a smile on Panin’s lips as he lowered his gaze to the floor.

General Pahlen hesitated outside the door of the Tsar’s private office. The general had cultivated Tsar Paul’s friendship and trust through the years, and was the head of the state police, the Semyonovsky Life Guard Regiment. He had to play his part perfectly—the penalty for even the slightest mistake was death.

And even a flawless performance could end with imprisonment, torture, and death.

The Tsar was balanced on the precarious brink of madness—and all of Russia was there with him.

By now, with the first hints of spring still far off, more than sixty people had joined the circle of conspirators, including aristocrats, senators, members of the emperor’s inner circle. But it was General Pahlen who led the plot.

The general swallowed hard and marched confidently to meet the Tsar.

He was hardly inside the door when the Tsar bellowed: “What do you know of the conspirators who threaten me? Is there a coup being planned? Are
you
involved, sir?”

General Pahlen looked solemnly at the Tsar.

“Yes, Your Majesty.”

“Yes?” The Tsar’s eyes bulged. “You say
yes
?”

“A conspiracy is indeed developing. I myself have joined it to be fully informed on all its aspects.”

Pahlen watched the Tsar carefully. Paul tightened his bulldog jaw.

“You have nothing to fear, Your Majesty,” said Pahlen calmly. “All is under control.”

“My two sons, Alexander and Constantine. Are they involved in any way?”

This was the moment he had waited for. If he could force Alexander’s hand, give him real reason to join the conspiracy . . .

“It grieves me to say . . .”

“What?” roared the Tsar. “Are my sons involved in the plot?”

General Pahlen took a deep breath. If this went wrong, if word of this lie were to escape, the Tsar would have him killed. Alexander would have him killed. He exhaled and threw his life into the game, onto the bonfire.

“Not only your sons, Your Highness. But your wife as well, the empress Maria Feodorovna.”

The color drained from Tsar Paul’s face. His right hand trembled. Then all the color came back—and more—until his face was purple with rage.

“I knew I smelled a traitor in my family! Now you say there are three rats gnawing at my entrails! No, four! From even beyond the grave my mother haunts me!”

“Your Highness, we must act rationally. Stealthily—”

“By God, no!” the Tsar said.

“The best plan is—” said Pahlen.

“Silence! Arrest them at once, both my sons!”

My God. What have I done?

“My Tsar! To arrest royal dukes, I must have permission from the courts. I must have a signed affidavit and show proof.”

“You have given me proof enough. Damnation! Can I trust no one? You are all snakes. Even you, General Pahlen!”

The Tsar did not believe anyone. He issued warrants for vast numbers of arrests in St. Petersburg—including his sons, Alexander and Constantine.

General Pahlen raced to warn Alexander.

“Grand Duke, even your mother is in danger. The emperor suspects she may be privy to the conspiracy.”

“My mother?” said Alexander, his lips losing all color. “That is outrageous! The Tsar is truly mad!”

“We must act immediately.”

Alexander clenched his fists.

“So be it.” Alexander could resist no more, wait no longer. “But there must be no violence, no blood spilt! You give me your word, General Pahlen! Give me your word.”

“Of course, Your Excellency. But we must act at once.”

Paul pulled back the heavy curtain of his bedroom. It was a cold morning, another storm threatening, gray clouds hanging low. The ceramic stoves were struggling to keep the palace warm.

No sign of spring. It feels like the dead of winter.

His grim mood was interrupted by an unexpected visitor.

“Why do you disturb me, General Pahlen?”

“Your Majesty,” said the count, bowing low. “You must relieve the horse guard, Colonel Sablukov, of his duty.”

“Colonel Sablukov? He is one my most trusted officers.”

Pahlen gave the Tsar a knowing look. “Your Majesty, your life is in danger. I beg you to take my advice.”

“Leave me, General Pahlen. I lose patience.”

“But Your Majesty!”

“At once!”

Tsar Paul sat, staring at the gilded moldings. The winding vines of gold seemed ominous, as if they’d slither down from the wall and wrap around his neck, strangling him.

He stared at the interior door that communicated with his mistress’s, Lady Gargarina, apartment.

“Ivan!” He called to his servant. “Tell a carpenter to nail shut the door between my bedroom and Princess Gargarina’s. At once! There shall be no other entrances to chambers but the front hall, and that must be guarded at all times.”

“Yes, Your Majesty.”

“You are dismissed. Go!”

The Tsar sat down at his writing desk. He looked over his shoulder to make sure he was alone. He opened a drawer, pulling it completely out of the desk. He opened a hidden compartment at the back of the drawer and took out a sheet of paper covered with numbers.

Referring frequently to the sheet, he painstakingly composed a coded message.

He would send it after dinner, when no one was watching.

That evening Tsar Paul dined with General Mikhail Ilarionovich Kutuzov, hero of the Turkish war. The dinner was splendid and the Tsar joked with the general’s eldest daughter.

Alexander watched his father’s easy relation and admiration for Kutuzov.

My father has issued orders for my arrest! Yet look how charming he is with that fat toad of a general.

Paul studiously ignored his family. He gave his full attention to Kutuzov and his stories of crossing the Alps on horseback in the dead of winter.

“We dragged the caissons and cannons up the rocky cliffs, hauling them with ropes up precipices higher than the Winter Palace,” said Kutuzov, spooning sugar into his champagne before draining the glass. “Snow was up to the horse’s flanks as we made our way down the mountains.”

“Now here is a man who loves Russia!” declared the Tsar, raising his glass to Kutuzov. “A man I can trust!” He flicked a glance at Alexander, seated across the table.

The Tsar held out his glass for the servant to refill.

The candlelight glimmered against the cut crystal of the wine goblet and reflected brightly in the large mirrors, whose imperfect glass twisted and distorted the light before sending it back again into the room.

As Tsar Paul laughed at a remark made by General Kutuzov’s daughter, he caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror.

“A most peculiar mirror,” he said, nodding at his reflection, “I see it wringing my neck!”