At quarter to one in the afternoon, that second Sunday in March, Alexander Romanov prepared to leave the Winter Palace of St. Petersburg.
He kissed his new wife warmly, and asked her to be prepared upon his return for their customary Sunday stroll in the gardens. She tried once more to dissuade him from going out, but he merely shrugged off her words with light banter.
“Don’t try to dampen my mood, my dear wife.”
He took her hands in his and focused his eyes lovingly upon her for a brief instant, heedless of all the city’s gossip and revulsion at his open love for her. “I am so happy at present, Catherine, that it almost frightens me.”
Outside he was greeted by a pleasant winter’s day. Frost hung in the air, and snow packed the ground. There had been no fresh snowfall for days, and he would thus be able to travel in the wheeled carriage rather than the sleigh.
A guard detail of six mounted Cossacks accompanied the carriage, with a seventh, Lieutenant Grigorov, standing on the coachman’s box, rifle in hand, keeping vigilant watch. Two sledges followed the royal carriage. And the tsar’s brother, the Grand Duke Michael, rode alongside on horseback.
The ride to the parade grounds proved uneventful. The ensuing hour of viewing the precision exercises of the Guard passed quickly.
Misha found himself wondering at the royal fascination with military drills. He supposed it gave an impression of security, however false, to know one’s army could perform so well in ranks. If it only bore out with the same efficiency upon the battlefield!
The Cossack resumed his position in the carriage.
True, this was no battlefield, but agonizing experience had too often proved that even a peaceful St. Petersburg street could erupt into violence at any unexpected moment. He had saved the tsar’s life once. He hoped he never had another such opportunity, but he could take no risks.
He gripped his rifle as if readying to meet a heathen Turk, and the carriage lurched into motion to begin the return journey through the streets to the Winter Palace.
As the carriage clattered steadily along, its wheels occasionally crunching across remaining patches of hardened snow, Misha kept his head roving slowly in all directions.
Peering into the distance, suddenly a flash of light caught his eye, then disappeared. He shouted at the driver to slow a moment. He squinted ahead, studying the area carefully. It must have only been the sun glinting momentarily off a window.
“Go on!” he called. Perhaps he was too vigilant, he thought. Yet these days, one never knew. He couldn’t afford to let his guard down for an instant.
Even though it had proved to be nothing, Misha found himself still nervous after the incident. He therefore felt an unaccountable sense of relief when the tsar signaled the driver that he had decided not to go straight back to the palace.
Instead, he wanted to make a brief stop at his cousin’s, the Grand Duchess Catherine’s.
The carriage rumbled on through another long block, then veered sharply left along the new route. Misha Grigorov, Cossack guard to the emperor, immediately found himself breathing much easier.
His roving eye, however, continued scanning the street ahead.