The Girl Who Fought Napoleon: A Novel of the Russian Empire (37 page)

Chapter 58

Paris

March 1814

Alexander rode into Paris in the blue uniform of the Chevalier Guard. The sun reflected off his gold epaulets, his blue cordon of the Order of St. Andrew stretched diagonally across his chest.

Flanked by King Frederick of Prussia and the Austrian general Schwartzenberg, Alexander sat tall on his light-gray thoroughbred, Eclipse, a gift from Napoleon in earlier days. His expression carefully balanced the pride and satisfaction of victory with his sorrow at the death and destruction. The allies paraded through the streets of Paris and marched beneath the yet unfinished Arc de Triomphe, ordered by Napoleon to honor his victory at Austerlitz.

Cheering Parisians, many thin and hollow eyed from the hardships of war, thronged the streets, climbing into trees, hanging out of windows. The women waved white handkerchiefs.

“Long live Alexander!” shouted a voice, then another and another.

“I do not come as an enemy,” said the Tsar. “I come to bring you peace and commerce!”

“We’ve been waiting for you for a long time!” shouted a man in a tattered coat.

“If I didn’t come sooner, it is the bravery of your French troops that is to blame.”

The crowd erupted in cheers.

A group of nationalists tried to agitate for the Bourbon royal family.

“Long live the Bourbons!” shouted one loyalist. “The rightful heirs to France!”

A scuffle broke out as a French citizen pushed the loyalist aside.

“
Merde!
”
shouted the citizen, waving his emaciated arms. “The Bourbons fled. It is a Russian who has freed us.”

“Long live Alexander!” came a call that reverberated down the Champs-Élysées.

Alexander thought, “Paris is mine.” Then he stopped himself. “No,” he thought. “Not mine. Paris belongs to the world—and foremost to the French. They alone should determine its future. Napoleon is defeated. I have achieved my goal.”

A twelve-year-old boy crept up to a campfire on the Champs-Élysées. He had seen these strange men, in loose fitting pants and tunics, their tanned faces all bone and sinew. He gawked at them as the other Parisians did as they rode bolt upright in huge saddles down the boulevard.

Their strange mutterings and fierce bearing had entranced him, for this young boy Jules Verne had an insatiable thirst for adventure.

The horses were tethered to the trees, gnawing at the bark. The smell of animal fat, horse manure, and soured milk emanated from the campsite. Wet laundry flapped from the railings of the palaces that lined the Champs-Elysées.

Jules was not alone. He could see in the firelight whole families who had crept near the Cossack camp to watch these wild men who slept in their saddles, smoked pipes, and played cards.

Another boy touched Jules’s elbow, making him jump.

“Better than a circus!”

“Shhh!” said Jules.

“They won’t hurt us. I’ve thrown a rock at ’em and they laughed. Threw it right back at me, hitting me right here on the shoulder,” he said, touching the spot. “They laughed again really hard. No harm done.”

“You are stupid but lucky,” said Jules, watching the Cossacks. “I heard they are under strict orders to behave. Otherwise they would have speared you with one of their lances. Or cut off your ears faster than a Les Halles butcher.”

The boy pulled at his earlobe, thinking.

“They are fierce looking,” he said, nodding.

“That’s what it took to defeat Napoleon,” said Jules, his eyes still riveted on the men. “Those Russians and their tsar.”

Chapter 59

Hamburg

May 1814

While our tsar was completing his glorious conquest of Paris, we were still stuck outside Hamburg, battling the stubborn General Davout. Despite the news of Napoleon’s surrender, Davout held on to Hamburg in the name of the Bourbon king Louis XVIII until late May.

Despite the defeat of Napoleon, which allowed the Bourbons to regain the throne they had lost during the Revolution, Louis XVIII did not want to cede an acre of land the Corsican had conquered.

I thought General Davout was a blockhead but a brave soldier nonetheless. At last he capitulated and rode away under the protection of the Tsar’s Imperial Guards.

The Germans were jubilant, opening their houses to us. Families brought out their good silver and dishes, sharing all the food and drink they could offer us. We were offered soft beds—with clean bedding—to sleep in.

A family—not wealthy, but fine-mannered peasants—took me in, along with other officers. They served us as if we were royalty.

“Our king has ordered us to treat Russians well,” the patriarch told me. “Everything we have is yours to share. If it weren’t for the Tsar’s armies, we’d all be speaking French now!”

What fine food they served us! Succulent pork with stewed apples, the finest dark rye bread I’d ever tasted. Dry white wine and plenty of coffee with cream. Our meals were served on china dishes with silver spoons and saltcellars, fine crystal goblets. The tables were spread with delicate embroidered tablecloths, fit for a king. The Germans could not do enough for us after we liberated them of the tyrant Napoleon.

Our troops were billeted in Holstein, Prussia. We Russians honored Holstein as the homeland of Catherine the Great, grandmother of our magnificent Tsar Alexander. As I walked the peaceful land, I thought of the bravery of our emperor, taking Paris. Now he was in Vienna, orchestrating talks to settle an enduring peace for all Europe.

The “Holy Alliance” he called it. I marveled at the thought of all the nations of Europe coming together to work for peace. Surely our tsar was the first to conceive such a brilliant notion!

Did the other nations realize the deep sacrifices Russia made to put an end to Napoleon’s tyranny? Would they teach their children and future generations of the battles of Smolensk, Borodino, Berezina, and the final fierce battle at Leipzig, the largest confrontation ever fought on European soil? Will the pages of history books be filled with images of the burning of Moscow or the glorious ride through the Arc de Triomphe of Tsar Alexander?

What sacrifices Russia has made to defend all of Europe! Russia defeated Napoleon. It is an achievement that should never be forgotten.

And yet, I wonder: Will our sacrifices—my comrades fallen in battle, my horse torn to pieces by a cannonball, those deaths of hundreds of thousands of Russian souls—will they be remembered?

I wonder.

Part 6

Can Wounds Ever Heal?

Chapter 60

Island of Elba

September 1814

Napoleon Bonaparte looked down at the smooth stones two meters under the salt water of Portoferraio. The sea surrounding the island of Elba was so crystal clear, it resembled water from a mountain lake.

An Austrian guard stood on a rock just above him. He held his rifle in his hand.

“It is not so bad being held prisoner here, is it, Your Majesty?” said the guard.

Napoleon tossed a stone out into the gently lapping waves.

“I am an emperor. I am a prisoner. I despise this place.”

“Have it your way,” muttered the guard, turning away as he added, his voice even lower, “You shouldn’t have started a bloody war!”

Bonaparte could make out the misty coastline of Italy from where he stood. He watched the seagulls circle and dive over the wharf. There, just across the water, were soldiers still loyal to him. His villa here, the hundreds of men and servants who surrounded him, even his six hundred French Imperial guardsmen—it all meant nothing. France was calling, waiting for his return. He was certain.

Would my brilliant commander General Ney join me? Ney, who openly declared he would like to see me brought back in an iron cage. Ney, who breakfasted with Tsar Alexander in Paris!
Does my best soldier really despise me so much? My faithful general who served me better than any. Shrewd and brave. Surely he would stand with me once more.

Wouldn’t he?

Napoleon squinted at the coastline again.

We could take back Tuscany! March on to Paris, gathering troops as we go. I know the Frenchman’s heart. I know the Parisians. They would rally around me.
“
Vive
l’empereur
!
”
I can hear the cry.

A small fish darted by just a few inches under the water.

At least Elba is in the Mediterranean. So close to France.

The guard spoke again, shaking Napoleon from his reverie.

“They say the Russians lost more than a quarter of a million soldiers in the war. Across Europe, five million lives—”

Napoleon threw up a hand.

“Perhaps. Monsieur, I was not present for the count. I was otherwise occupied,” Napoleon sniffed.

The guard tightened his grip on his rifle.

“You destroyed Moscow, they say. Burned it to the ground.”

Napoleon ignored the man.

Ignorant bastard! Of all the adversaries I had, Alexander is the one I respect. True he was a vainglorious nincompoop at Austerlitz. But it was a youthful folly. Eight years later he led his army into Austria and the Battle of Leipzig—and then into Paris. Riding the stallion I gave him!

Ah, Alexander. I never wanted war with Russia, only for you to stop meddling in Europe.

We wanted the same thing. Reforms and freedom for our people.

The cries of two circling seagulls overhead made him shade his eyes and look skyward. The sun glanced off their yellow beaks.

But we’ve changed, we two. We are not the same men at all. The war is to blame.

Time and power have worn us down.

Our dreams of enlightenment, of democracy. Where are our reforms? Where is the brotherhood of liberty, the precepts of revolution?

We grew fat with power. Our dream, the bright coin of enlightenment is tarnished metal at the bottom of a once-sparkling fountain.

We have shed those dreams like snakes shed their skins. But I can still dream.

Of returning.

Chapter 61

Vienna, Austria

January 1815

Tsar Alexander convened the Congress of Vienna, gathering the royalty of Europe to form a lasting alliance that would eliminate the threat of another great war in Europe.

The Tsarina Elizabeth’s mature beauty and grace made an impression on the courts of Europe, although her husband paid her no attention at all. Instead, he flirted and consummated relationships with the most dazzling princesses and noblewomen of Europe.

Elizabeth, who had grown accustomed to her husband’s philandering over the years, stood by his side at fetes, balls, and banquets, her head held high.

But her greatest admirer, Adam Czartoryski, knew how she suffered. Adam Czartoryski, whom she had refused to see in more than fourteen years, was once again infatuated, the embers of his love ignited.

At a dinner the Tsar and tsarina hosted, Czartoryski caught her eye from across the crowded room and raised his glass in silent toast.

Later, Czartoryski wrote feverishly in his journal:

I see her very much changed but to me she is still the same because my feelings for her have not wavered (perhaps some of their warmth has diminished but they are still strong enough that the possibility of not seeing her at all is torture to me). I have seen her only once so far. Having been ill received, I am experiencing a bad day.

Second meeting: Ah! She is, as always, my angel. I want nothing more than to secure her happiness. I have forgiven her infidelity with all my heart.

The two lovers had reunited. Neither one had tasted such happiness in many years.

Amid the dizzying round of royal fetes and balls in Vienna, the Tsar and tsarina of Russia hosted the heads of Europe at a magnificent dinner. An indoor riding arena was converted to a vast banquet hall. Three hundred and sixty guests were invited, including two emperors, four kings, and thirty reigning princes. Tsarina Elizabeth was seated at the right of Emperor Francis of Austria and Tsar Alexander next to Empress Maria of Austria.

At tables glittering with a veritable bonfire of candles, plates were adorned with pineapples and cherries from greenhouses in Moscow, truffles from Perigord, oranges from Palermo, strawberries from England, and grapes from France.

“Look at her majesty the tsarina!” exclaimed the French writer Madame de Stael, leaning closer to her dinner companion, Auguste-Louis-Charles de La Garde de Chambonas. “An angel. No other . . .” Her voice trailed off. Between these two old friends sentences scarcely needed to be finished. An elegant shrug, a raised eyebrow said so much. The tsarina was beyond compare.

De La Garde concurred. “Her hair. Her eyes. The purity of her soul.”

The writer smiled. “And the arts . . .” She shrugged. “Beethoven.”

Her companion shot her a puzzled look. He didn’t know! Now there was a real tale to tell. Madame de Stael leaned as close as her gown and elaborate coiffure would allow.

“You haven’t heard? Beethoven wrote a violin sonata for the Tsar and he couldn’t be bothered to pay his debt.”

De La Garde raised an eloquent eyebrow. Royalty never paid, did they?

“So the tsarina paid it for him,” de Stael went on. “And Beethoven has written a piece expressly for her to show his gratitude.
Fur Elise
he calls it. That’s certainly clear, isn’t it?”

They both smiled.

“The toast of the continent,” said de La Garde.

And they exchanged an arch look.

What a shame her husband is such a philanderer!

The Russian courier’s horse stumbled into the Viennese courtyard, half-dead with exhaustion.

“I must see the Tsar at once,” said the young man, his legs buckling under him as he dismounted. An imperial squire grasped the courier’s arm, pulling him to his feet.

“Stable boy! Take care of this horse at once.”

The squire turned to loosen the ties on the leather satchel.

“Don’t touch it!” snapped the courier, regaining his strength. “It is a confidential letter for the Tsar. Only I can deliver it.”

The courier did not take time to wipe the mud and dirt from his face, clothes, and boots. He was admitted to Alexander’s office at once. The Tsar was seated at his desk conversing with the tsarina.

“A letter for you, Your Majesty. From Paris,” said the courier, bowing.

Elizabeth stared at the weary messenger.
No good can come of this
.

Alexander slipped a knife under the wax seal. As he read the words the color drained from his face.

“What is it, Alexander?”

The Tsar looked at her, barely able to speak.

“Napoleon has escaped from Elba. He is mounting an army in the south of France.”

Alexander inspected his face in the mirror
.

I am balding. But the hair I have left still has color. My sideburns are thick enough.

The Tsar rubbed a piece of ice over his face, tightening the skin and bringing out the natural rosiness. It was a ritual he repeated each morning.

Peacetime has made me a bit stout. But I can still dance the night away.

He smiled, thinking of the dizzying array of flirtations, including the ravishing widow of the war hero General Bagration.

Ah, Madame Bagration. She has bewitched me . . .

Then an image of the battlefield flashed in his mind.

Alexander saw the body of a young soldier in a Russian uniform, a bullet through his temple. His pale mouth sagged open in surprise.

Napoleon had escaped. It all could happen over again.

Alexander’s rosy complexion faded and he heard the drip of the melting ice in the basin.

He looked back to the mirror. A middle-aged man growing stout and wattled stared back at him.

“Boris! Inform the Tsarina Elizabeth of my intention to dine with her tonight,” he said. “A private dinner, just the two of us.”

“Yes, Your Majesty.”

Boris lingered, noticing his master’s slumped shoulders.

“Your Majesty,” he said gently. “Are you quite all right?”

Alexander looked at his loyal servant and his graying hair. He thought of the faraway days in the nursery of the Winter Palace.
Ah, Boris. How I’ve changed since those innocent days.

Who are you now, Alexander Pavlovich Romanov?

“I play a part in a play, Boris, but I detest my role. I seem to have forgotten my lines.”

“Your Majesty, have patience with yourself. The last years have been cruel.”

“Cruel? To all of us. But my heart aches.”

Maria Naryshkina left me for another lover. Millions of souls have perished on the battlefield. Moscow has been burned to the ground.

All Europe turns its eyes to me to secure lasting peace. Yet I still play the part of philandering tsar.

He dashed the remaining shard of ice against the porcelain basin.

“Boris! Tell the tsarina I need to see her.”

The servant opened the double windows.

“I think I feel the first breath of spring,” said Tsarina Elizabeth. She smiled. “Freshly turned earth and first growth. Can you smell it, Alexander?”

“Spring comes much earlier here in Vienna, but I can’t say I can detect it.”

She sighed and breathed deeply.

A servant appeared carrying a lacquered tray with an envelope sealed with red wax.

“Your Majesty, a letter for you.”

The Tsar flicked his eyes toward his wife. She was such a graceful consort, admired by all Europe. But for comfort of a more carnal nature he had turned to the widow of General Bagration.

She should know better than to send communication here. I can’t have a scene with Elise.

Alexander picked up the envelope inspecting the seal. The image of the medieval knight on a rearing horse.

“Adam Czartoryski,” he murmured.

“What?” said Elizabeth. She walked quickly over to her husband.

“What would Adam want to talk to me about now? He knows my stance on Poland,” said Alexander. “Poland will have its government and civil rights, but I shall be king. I’ve made that quite clear.”

He turned to his wife. Elizabeth had gone deathly pale.

“Elise? Do you know anything about this?” he said, accepting the letter knife from the servant.

“Alexander—I . . .”

He looked at her quizzically and then withdrew the letter from the envelope.

“He requests a private audience with me this morning. The devil with him! Does he think I can spare time from the Holy Alliance? Napoleon has escaped Elba. The tyrant is on the loose again! I do not have time for Polish politicians.”

“Your Majesty, Prince Czartoryski waits in the anteroom.

“Show him in.”

Tsar Alexander continued signing documents. The scratch of the quill pen punctuated his response to his visitor. He barely looked up.

“What is it, Adam? I’ve made my points clear on Poland. Already I hear that I give Poland more liberty that the Russians themselves experience—”

“Your Majesty . . .”

“Please dispense with formalities. We are alone. But be brief. I must meet with the Austrian ambassador to finalize—”

“Alexander. I have come to ask for Elise’s hand in marriage.”