The Girl Who Fought Napoleon: A Novel of the Russian Empire (23 page)

Chapter 33

Tilsit

July 1807

Tsar Alexander dressed in his imperial blue uniform and crimson sash stood erect on the small sailing vessel that carried him to the middle of the river Niemen. French carpenters had worked frantically to build the rafts and the pavilion for the meeting. As Alexander’s sailboat tacked in the capricious wind, he stumbled backwards, catching a line to balance himself.

Nothing is more revolting than making peace with this little Corsican demon! He dares to declare himself emperor. Not a drop of noble blood—he has peasant lard in his veins. Now I must greet him as an equal.

Alexander swallowed, his nose wrinkling at the sour taste in his mouth.

Alexander’s boat docked at the rafts anchored midriver. The French flag, blue, white, and red, waved triumphantly from Napoleon’s vessel. The two boats had set sail from opposite banks at the same moment, by agreement, but Napoleon, of course, had sprinted ahead and was already on the raft, waiting to greet his defeated enemy.

The white pavillion on the rafts housed a mahogany table and chairs, with six windows so that guards could watch the actions of both emperors.

Alexander squinted at a wreath of laurels on one side of the pavillion, encircling the initial
N
. A wreath on the opposite side, identical, but noticeably smaller, was marked with a capital
A
. Pale-green banners of silk brocade festooned either side of the entrance. Napoleon did not smile at Alexander. He stood stiffly in his cutaway blue uniform, startlingly white riding breeches, and waistcoat, his black tricornered hat held in his left hand, the white plumes dangling like tail feathers.

Alexander stepped onto the float, the platform bobbing with the weight of his foot. He could not help but admire the style and flourish the French had produced so quickly.

How do I address this little man who has decimated my armies—and those of Austria and Prussia? He will never be my equal, yet I must secure peace.

“I hate the English as much as you do,” said Alexander, addressing Napoleon without as much as a salute.

“In that case,” said Napoleon, “peace is as good as made.”

Chapter 34

Winter Palace, St. Petersburg

August, 1807

“How could you make peace with that barbarian!” said Ekaterina, throwing a gold-plated fork to the ground. A servant scurried to recover it. Another swiftly gave the princess a new one.

“Katia!” admonished the dowager empress. “Your manners. The servants observe us.”

Ekaterina’s round face took on a fierce aspect. “How can you embrace this Corsican who demeans nobility, murders our—”

“I have no choice, Katia,” said Alexander, putting down his fork. “Our armies and the Prussians were destroyed by Napoleon’s Grand Armée—”

“Don’t call it that!” said Ekaterina.

“What?”

“Grand Armée! It’s as if you tip your hat in obeisance every time you say it! And how could our Russian army be defeated by the French? I simply do not understand.”

“No, you don’t,” said Alexander. “You did not see shreds of flesh, shards of human bones sharp enough to cut into the horses’ hooves. You did not look down into a bloody hole that was a soldier’s head just minutes before. Or children younger than you fighting among the front ranks.”

“Alexander!” said the dowager empress. “We are at the dinner table.”

Empress Elizabeth made a move to catch her husband’s hand. He snatched his fingers from her grasp, clenching his fists in emotion.

“I cried, Katia! I held my head in my hands and wept! I led the Imperial Army into battle, haughty and full of bravado. Instead of a victory, I opened the bloody door of hell for tens of thousands of souls. One by one they died for Russia, for me. I led them into hell.”

Alexander pressed his knuckle into corners of his eyes to stop the new flood of emotion.

“Yes, dear sister. I made peace with Napoleon so that a serf could return home to his family. I signed the filthy treaty and drank champagne with a monster so that a nobleman could once again oversee the lands to bring in the harvests so that hundreds of thousands don’t starve. I made peace in Russia’s name so that we might survive another day.”

He wadded his napkin, hurled it to floor, and strode out of the room, his riding boots clicking on the magnificent parquet.

“The Tsar wishes to be received,” said one of Ekaterina’s ladies. The duchess looked up from her book of Kant, the German words still filling her head.

“Of course, show him in at once.” She placed her book on the table among the many others written in an array of foreign languages.

As her brother entered her study she remained determinedly seated, arching an eyebrow at her visitor.

“Ah!” said Alexander, kissing her cheeks three times. “I see you do not observe proper court etiquette by standing when the Tsar of Russia enters the room, Katia.”

“I see that you have done everything to abolish proper court etiquette and the court itself, dear Alexander, ” she replied.

Alexander took a seat next to her, settling back into the stuffed chair.

“Did you put our mother up to writing that damnable letter?” he said, pulling the paper from the pocket of his jacket.

“Which damnable letter do you refer to?” she asked, laughing. “I cannot accept blame for every letter our mother writes. Do let me see it.”

Alexander passed the letter to her. While she read, he examined the pile of books on her table.

“I see you are reading Kant,” he said. He lifted another book, scanning the spine. “Rousseau. And what’s this? Locke and Hobbes?”

“Shhh!” said Ekaterina. “Yes, I am reading. Ah! Here she makes reference to me. A motive for respecting myself by attending balls—which she means meeting a future husband, I am sure. Oh, that is rich!”

“Did you say as much?”

“No!” said Ekaterina. “I simply notice your absence. You have withdrawn from all of us, not just the court. But yes, a ball or two might enhance your popularity amongst the nobles.”

“Bah! The nobles. They hate me as do the commoners since the Tilsit accord.”

Ekaterina cocked her head. “And Mama is right. We do miss Grandmama’s elegant parties.”

Alexander smiled. “You enchant me, little sister.”

“If I so enchant you, dear brother, then I ask you, why do you not spend more time with us?”

“I need time to think,” he said, shaking his head. “To pray.”

“What? Pray? To whom?” Ekaterina laughed. “To your Polish mistress, perhaps?”

He shook his head vehemently. “You are too young to understand.”

“Alexander! Do not be a fool. I am nineteen years old.”

Alexander looked down at his hand. “Which brings me to business.” A shaft of light cast his profile into shadow.

“Oh, no. You are about to be serious, aren’t you, dear brother? If it is about marriage, I mean to marry Francis of Austria.”

“No!” said Alexander, dismissing her with a wave of his hand. “Do not talk nonsense. I would never consent to it. He is nearly forty years old! Besides Austria is a fickle ally.”

“I would be the empress of Austria and of the Holy Roman Empire, Alexander! Yes, I know Francis is no Adonis, but he is a decent man.”

Alexander shook his head vehemently.

“I forbid it,” he said. He leaned over and took his youngest sister’s hand. “I could not bear to have you be unhappy.”

“You have read too many French plays, I think,” said Ekaterina, though she did not withdraw her hand from his warm grasp.

“You are my conscience, my rudder in all these turbulent seas of war, of leadership,” he said. “Ah, I see in your eyes you think me flattering you.”

“Only because you will not allow me to be empress of Austria,” she said, pressing his hand. “I think you rather selfish.”

“Ah, dear sister. Your spirit, your light is beyond me. I cannot fathom its depths. You share my blood. I see myself in you, our father, and most of all our grandmother, God rest her immortal soul. You have her vivacity, her wisdom—”

“So am I to remain a spinster then, good brother? So that you can worship at my feet, Alexander? Really. Do you think I have no ambition?”

Now he dropped her hand, ever so gently.

“I do have a proposition for you, dearest Katia. You say you have ambition. All right. Prepare yourself.”

Ekaterina crinkled her eyes at him, laughing.

“Whatever must I prepare my—”

Alexander waved his hand for silence.

“The emperor Napoleon has asked for your hand.”

“What?”

“He has divorced Josephine in order to find a wife to give him an heir. He wanted to wed our little sister Anne, but Mama of course protested.”

The blood drained from Ekaterina’s face, her jaw slackening in horror.

“You cannot be serious, Alexander!”

“Yes. I mean to discuss it with Mama this afternoon.”

“But! No, I will not! I would rather marry the lowest Russian serf than that Corsican!”

Alexander drew a deep breath into his lungs. He held it for several seconds before he expelled it, his shoulders shrinking.

“You know that if we refuse, our tenuous alliance with Napoleon will rupture. We will return to the battlefields where—”

“You will not marry me to that monster! You who said I was your conscience. You are in great need of a conscience this very minute!”

Alexander rubbed his brow hard. “Your refusal will be war. He will take it as a colossal insult, a rejection of our alliance.”

“I do not give a damn what Napoleon thinks! Do not pander to that boastful peasant! Russia shall prevail.”

“We haven’t the troops, Katia! We cannot defeat—”

“You disgrace our ancestors, Alexander! You would prostitute your own sister to that Corsican swine?”

Alexander said nothing. He stood up and walked to the door. As always an Ethiopian serf turned the handle, opening it for the Tsar and bowed low.

Alexander spoke to Dowager Empress Maria Feodorovna that afternoon.

“Mama, you must speak to her. Convince her it is for the sake of Russia.

“No! Categorically, no!” she answered. “I will not have my brilliant daughter married to that peasant. We have discussed it.”

“Then how shall we approach Napoleon?” Alexander asked. “What excuse can we give him that he does not engage us in war?”

“Stand up to him, Alexander!”

“Mama, you do not understand. It would mean the slaughter of our army, a massacre—and still we would not win! Napoleon would seize Russia.”

The dowager empress turned away, gazing out the window toward the Neva. Then she looked from her son to the little gold casket that held Tsar Paul’s bloodstained nightshirt.

She raised her eyes slowly again to her son’s.

“I shall make it impossible!”

“Mama! You can’t!”

Maria Feodorovna shook her head, dismissing his protest.

“Do not contradict me, Alexander. I will arrange a marriage this very day. Who is available?” An idea brightened her eyes. “Ah, Count George of Oldenburg!”

“Mama! Her first cousin? Hardly an attractive man. Nor very imposing,” sniffed Alexander. “He is too old for Katia.”

The dowager empress glanced at her son. “I would almost think you jealous, Alexander, dear.”

“Nonsense!” said Alexander. He rubbed his forehead aggressively. “It is just the comparison of Napoleon to a Prussian count is, well—”

“The Count of Oldenburg is a decent man and will make a good husband. I shall write to him immediately.” She rang a bell, immediately soliciting a servant. “Please send for Duchess Ekaterina immediately.”

The dowager empress Maria Feodorovna looked at her son, whose shoulders were huddled in defeat.

“I know how you love her, Alexander. At least this way she will be safe from that tyrant. My beloved daughter shall not be a sacrificial lamb to that Corsican usurper!”

Alexander threw up his hands. “How can I negotiate peace now?”

Maria Feodorovna stared at her son as a crow eyes a button on the ground.

“What, Mama?”

The dowager empress shook her head. “What worries me now, Alexander, is how you are changing. Where are your ethics, your moral grounding?”

Alexander shook his head vehemently, his cheeks scorching under his mother’s rebuke. “I have seen death. I have seen the horrors of war firsthand. I’m trying to maintain peace for Russia, Mama!”

The dowager empress met his eye. “At the cost of your very soul.”

Alexander blanched under her withering look. He watched his mother’s gaze shift to the golden casket and closed his eyes in anguish.