CHAPTER NINE

The Congress opened in Vienna on the 1st of October, 1814, in a setting of social brilliance reminiscent of Napoleon’s zenith. Vienna was full; full of Kings, Princes, Royalties and nobles from every country in Europe; the crowded diplomatic staffs of the Allied Powers, attachés, equerries, secretaries, and spies and adventurers of both sexes. All fashionable European society poured into Vienna to watch the great world powers settling affairs, and to see men as famous as Alexander of Russia, Metternich and Talleyrand at close quarters.

Talleyrand was again Minister for Foreign Affairs, entrusted with the task of saving what he could for his defeated country by a King who disliked him and made the appointment to get him out of the Court. The Russians and Prussians were united in their demands. Poland for Russia and Saxony for Prussia.

Metternich and Castlereagh listened to these proposals and then decided they could have no better ally against the ambitions of their former allies than the Foreign Minister of France. Talleyrand made the utmost of the jealousy and dissension growing up between Austria and England and the bitter Autocrat of Russia, who was soon backing his demands with threats of war in language which was a warning echo of Napoleon.

A secret treaty was signed between England, Austria and France, promising mutual military aid if the Russo-Prussian claims were pressed too far. Talleyrand’s place at the conference table had little relation to his country’s defeat after a few sittings, and by the beginning of 1815 Alexander realized the extent of the barrier his allies had erected against his ambitions. The effect upon him was startling; the charm and gentleness disappeared completely; he shouted and raged, on one occasion threatening to throw Metternich out of the window after a particularly frustrating interview.

Only the Austrian Emperor’s intervention prevented him forcing a duel on the Count. Metternich laughed at the uncivilized behaviour of the Czar behind his back and continued to avenge that broken promise not to restore the Bourbons. Alexander had smashed Austrian hopes of power, now he would smash Russia’s; the Czar was proving himself nothing but a barbarian, he protested; he was claiming the victory over Napoleon for himself as if England and Austria had never taken part! It would be tragic indeed, he declared to the French and English Ministers, if their countries had made so many sacrifices to free Europe from Bonaparte’s tyranny only to replace it by the domination of Alexander and his friends, the Prussians. Both nations were revealing themselves as aggressive and untrustworthy; their insolence was not only impertinent but unjustified.…

Napoleon’s murderous victories were all conveniently forgotten, Metternich sneered; Jena, Friedland, Austerlitz, where the Czar himself had ridden for his life.… Austria had poured out men and money fighting Napoleon and never pressed the claims of the Empress Marie-Louise at the abdication. All Austria wanted was peace, and a just balance of power. Russia and Prussia would have to be checked.

Those first months of 1815 were restless and unhappy for Alexander. The Empress Elizabeth had joined him in Vienna; he hadn’t seen her for nearly two years, and they met like strangers and immediately went their separate ways. Elizabeth avoided the Balls and Banquets as often as she could and stayed at her rooms in the Hofburg, while a round of gaiety and riotous spending engulfed the whole city. When she did accompany Alexander to an official function, they played their parts with dignity, the handsome Autocrat whose smile only warmed to women, and his stately wife whose marvellous jewels were the talk of Vienna. Afterwards they separated, and Elizabeth went to the arms of her old lover, Adam Czartorisky. Adam was on Alexander’s staff at the Congress; it was years since he and Elizabeth had met, and neither had been faithful in the interval, but their passion for each other blazed up again, fanned more by sentiment than desire.

Both were unhappy, but Adam was becoming desperate as his hopes for Polish freedom faded with every word Alexander pronounced. His old friend had tricked him again, and he threw himself at the Czarina’s feet, imploring her to forgive his desertion and take him back again.

Meanwhile Alexander alternated hours of prayer with fits of savage debauchery. His lapses in France were repeated in Vienna; the sensual fever raged in his blood, and it was only equalled by the turmoil of his mind. One of his first exploits was the seduction of Metternich’s mistress, the haughty, beautiful Duchess of Sagan, who surrendered to him within a few hours, unaware that he was revenging himself on Metternich when he possessed her body, or that he left her to sink into a stupor of prayer that was almost a trance. He danced and dined and made love with the Viennese women of all classes, cynically judged them the most expert in the world, and then left them to agonize in wondering why God was allowing His servant to be treated so badly by the nations he had liberated.

In the last days of February he went to his wife’s apartments in the Hofburg and asked one of her ladies, Mademoiselle Stourdza, to come to him. There was no lecherous intention; the Stourdza was a well-known mystic of unquestioned virtue.

Alexander received her alone; he had spoken to her before and found her simplicity refreshing.

“You must excuse this visit, Mademoiselle,” he said. “I would be grateful for your company for a few minutes.” His head fell forward into his hands and he stared gloomily at the carpet.

“I am tired and dispirited. Perhaps you can comfort me.”

The young woman sat down and looked at him kindly.

“You need guidance, Sire,” she said gently. “Would you like me to pray for you? I will pray now if you like.”

He made a gesture of assent and closed his eyes; his head ached and his whole body felt paralysed by despair.

“God has abandoned me,” he muttered to himself. “I destroyed Napoleon, all I want is to secure peace for the world, and everyone is trying to thwart me. I’ve told them it’s not my will, but God’s, but they don’t listen!” His face flushed; he was beginning to get angry again.

He should have Poland, it was his due; it was God’s reward to him for all he had achieved.…

The Stourdza had slipped to her knees; she was praying in whispers while he sat and watched her. The sight of her piety filled him with sickening shame; he thought of the hours he had spent with women of a different kind, and shuddered. He had tried to subdue that side of his nature, driven Marie away from him because he felt he must be worthy of the victory God would give him, and now, after that victory.… The Sagan, Princess Auesperg, Countess Orczy, and God knew how many more.

He was the grandson of Catherine the Great after all, the heir of the ‘Messalina of the North’. He bowed his head again and began to follow Mademoiselle Stourdza’s prayers. Later she asked if she might read him a letter she had received. He felt rested and calm for the first time in weeks, and he agreed at once. The writer was a Russian noblewoman of great prophetic powers; she had long foretold the Czar’s victory and his selection by God to a wide circle of people, including Mademoiselle Stourdza, who was deeply impressed by her spirituality. This last letter mentioned Alexander in detail and foretold his triumph over the forces of the Devil.

“She is a most remarkable woman, Sire. I wish you would receive her; her powers of prophecy are really wonderful.”

“She has just prophesied a victory for me over anti-Christ,” Alexander said. “But I have already beaten him, Mademoiselle. He is at Elba.…”

Mademoiselle Stourdza rose and curtsied as he stood up to end the interview.

“Madame de Krudener is never wrong, Sire,” she said calmly.

“I shall remember her name,” he promised as he left.

On the night of the 6th of March the representatives of the five great powers met in the Austrian Foreign Minister’s rooms, and after a long and angry meeting came to no conclusion. Alexander heard the report and then went to bed. He lay awake till dawn, slowly deciding that there was nothing for it but to take up arms against Austria and England. The peacemaker would have to unsheathe the sword again; the prospect filled him with fierce happiness and he smiled in his sleep.

He was drinking chocolate in his dressing-room, when his valet announced the Austrian Foreign Minister. Alexander looked at his watch; it was a quarter-past eight in the morning. He hesitated; last night he had been going to war; last night Metternich had managed to thwart his claims once again.

“What the devil does he want?” he exclaimed irritably.

“He says it’s extremely urgent, Your Majesty. He has just left the Emperor Francis.”

Could he have come to his senses at last? Was he going to agree to the Russian proposals?…

“Admit the Count,” Alexander ordered.

Metternich was immaculately dressed as usual, but his face was expressionless and very pale. He bowed deeply to the Czar.

“My apologies for disturbing Your Majesty at this hour. Only the gravest development could excuse it. Unfortunately it does.”

Alexander’s eyes narrowed; in spite of the suave manner he knew that Metternich was shaken, and instinct prompted him to remain calm and prolong the other’s suspense. Whatever had happened, they needed him again, he thought grimly.

“I believe you have just left the Emperor Francis,” he remarked.

“I have. Sire, and he charged me to come straight to you.”

Less than an hour earlier the ruler of Austria had stood trembling in his dressing-gown, wailing that if the Czar had been alienated too far by his treatment at the Congress, if he deserted them now, God help them all.… And for once Metternich respected his master’s opinion. Without Alexander none of them had a hope of survival.

“Sit down, Count, and tell me of this grave development,” Alexander said coolly.

Metternich remained standing, and one slim hand touched the satin stock at his throat.

“I received a dispatch from Genoa this morning,” he said. “Napoleon has escaped from Elba.”

The Emperor of the French landed at Cannes with a small following of his Guards who had travelled with him from Elba. Within a few hours their numbers were swelled by volunteers from every town and village within reach. The words flew ahead from mouth to mouth; “The Emperor’s returned! Vive L’Empereur! To arms!”

Men rushed to join him; everywhere he went crowds cheered and wept with joy; the white cockade of the Bourbons was torn off and trampled underfoot, the tricolor of the Empire appeared in every hat and buttonhole. Everything was forgotten; the wars, the suffering, the acts of folly; they saw Napoleon and they rallied to him blindly. France was sick of the Bourbons already; she had recovered from the shock of defeat and decided her Emperor had been cruelly betrayed in favour of a gross old reactionary who was trying to reimpose the old régime as if the Revolution had never taken place.

Away with the Bourbons, who dared ignore the army which had made France so great. Away with them all! Thank God the little Emperor had returned, he’d smash the enemies of France, and bring her back to the forefront of the world!

Vive L’Empereur!

He rode among them, smiling and acknowledging one delirious reception after another, leading a growing army on the road to Paris. Wherever he stayed, crowds danced and sang under his windows, and the forces sent by King Louis to fight him simply arrested their Royalist officers and put themselves at his disposal. The veterans of his campaigns who’d been dismissed into civilian life, left fields and workshops, donned their old uniforms with tears of joy, and marched to join their General.

In Paris, Marshal Ney set out to capture him at the head of an army, swearing wild oaths against him to the King. As he advanced, he was met with the news of one Bonapartist victory after another; his men were murmuring, many deserted. Louis XVIII had pardoned him, but neither he nor the other Marshals were accepted by the old régime. The Prince de La Moscova was still laughed at as the son of a cooper, and the wife he adored was snubbed till she refused with tears to come to Court. The sores of humiliation and neglect had been rubbed raw, and he missed the presence of the Emperor in the stuffy Tuilleries as a prisoner might miss the sun. Throughout the march he was gloomy and quick tempered, fighting with all his strength against the wild desire to break his word to the despicable King and follow the beckoning drum-beat of the greatest soldier the world had ever known.

Within a few miles of Napoleon’s headquarters Ney received a personal letter from him.

The two armies met at Besançon, and in scenes of the wildest enthusiasm, Michel Ney flung himself into Napoleon’s arms. His entire force followed him.

Then Murat, who had gone over to the Allies in 1813, declared for his Emperor and set out from Naples to conquer Italy in his name. Everywhere men who had foresworn him hurried to kneel and beg him to take them back. The soldiers and politicians who had abandoned him because they believed his ambition and obstinacy to be leading to absolute ruin, forgot everything in the mad excitement which greeted his return.

The old joy of battle and conquest surged up in them all; released from the bondage of a feeble King and a reactionary Government, the armies of Imperial France swept all before them and bore Napoleon into Paris on the 20th of March.

Louis XVIII and his Court had fled into Belgium; the Emperor was carried into The Tuilleries on the shoulders of a hysterical crowd, and from there he issued a statement.

He was willing to honour the Treaty of Paris imposed by the Allies after 1814, and he intended to reign peacefully as a constitutional monarch, restored by the will of the French people.

The powers at Vienna replied by declaring him an outlaw and a public enemy, and ordered their armies to march into France. Faced by the common danger, the allies solved their differences in a few sittings; Alexander contented himself with the Grand Duchy of Warsaw, Prussia accepted the Rhine provinces instead of Saxony, and a treaty was concluded by June 9th. But Alexander was not in Vienna on that date. He had left the capital and was at Heilbronn, waiting for his army. And at Heilbronn he met the woman who had prophesied his second battle with Bonaparte.

It was a night when he could not sleep; he had been pacing up and down his bedroom, unable to find his usual consolation in women or in prayer, when his aide-de-camp and confidant, Prince Volkonsky, knocked at his door.

“What is it?” Alexander asked irritably.

“Sire, there’s a woman downstairs insisting on seeing you. I didn’t like to send her away without your permission.…” Volkonsky paused; he had admitted so many ladies to the Czar during the past few months.

“I’m not expecting anyone,” Alexander said. “Who the devil is she?”

“She says her name is Madame de Krudener, Sire.”

De Krudener … the mystic who had foretold his victory over Bonaparte while Bonaparte was still at Elba.…

“Admit her at once!”

He tried to visualize her as he waited. She was middle-aged, he knew, a woman with a notorious past who had suddenly become religious after seeing one of her lovers drop dead in the street as he passed her window. But whatever she looked like she might bring him peace of mind; surely it was an act of God that she came just at that time, while the armies of Prussia and England were advancing on Napoleon’s forces and his own troops were being rushed to join them.

The door opened again and Volkonsky appeared.

“The Baroness de Krudener, Sire.”

A tall figure came slowly into the room; Volkonsky closed the door, and she threw back a long veil which covered her face. Even by the dim candlelight, Alexander could see his visitor was an extremely beautiful woman.

Madame de Krudener was singing to herself as she moved round the room. It was an elegant room, very well furnished, and it was full of flowers which she was arranging. She settled a large spray and stepped back to inspect the effect. It pleased her and she began filling another vase; the Czar liked flowers. He was coming to see her that evening and she prepared everything for him herself. Since that night at Heilbronn he visited her every day and had brought her to Heidelberg to be near him.

She sighed with contentment; he was paying all her expenses and had promised to take her to Paris with him after Napoleon’s defeat. She knew Napoleon would be defeated, and she assured Alexander of it over and over again. They prayed a great deal; as soon as she knelt, the knowledge of her own beauty and eloquence affected her and enhanced her natural gift for acting. It was necessary, she admitted, to present prayer in an attractive way; so long as she saved souls for God the methods were not important, and since she had spent all her own fortune evangelizing, there was no harm in accepting money from someone as rich as Alexander. She had a large following of poor people whom she fed and clothed at her own expense, and later at the Czar’s; her household was filled with reformed sinners like herself, and with some very unsavoury charlatans who made use of her name. Her gift for making vague predictions had won her a wide reputation and they were always nebulous enough to be made to fit any event of importance.

She told Alexander he was God’s chosen among Europe’s Kings, and roused his religious fervour to a pitch of frenzy; sometimes she took his hand while they knelt together and felt it trembling with emotion. She was fifty years old and more attractive than she had been at thirty.

She was blonde, with expressive blue eyes, a pale skin and a sensual mouth. Her figure was perfect and she dressed cleverly; the whole effect was sophisticated and yet simple; the woman of the world who had renounced the world. Emotional, passionate and a born exhibitionist, she believed in herself and her message for the world. The message was simple; brotherly love, peace, humility and constant recourse to the Scriptures. She also considered physical love the lawful result of close spiritual union, but she was shrewd enough not to mention that aspect to Alexander yet. It was necessary to attain a very high standard of mystical experience before the body completed the spirit’s ecstasy. Some great event was needed, some overwhelming proof of her powers for the Czar. She had gone so far as to hint at a decisive battle within the next few days, while Alexander nodded; the armies of Wellington and Blücher must soon meet Napoleon in Belgium.…

She stood in front of a wall mirror and studied herself; at that moment she heard footsteps. Quickly she pulled the tiny muslin sleeves of her dress down, revealing her magnificent shoulders and the shadow between her breasts, then she ran to a sofa and lay down.

Alexander was not even preceded by a servant. He flung the door open and stood staring at her, his face flushed, too breathless with excitement to speak. She rose and hurried to him; he caught her hand as she tried to curtsy to him.

“Madame,” he stammered, “Madame, your prophecy has been fulfilled! The news has just come through … he’s been defeated, routed! We’ve won, Madame, we’ve won once and for all!”

“Oh, thank God!” She closed her eyes. “Glory to God! Where, Sire? No, no! Don’t tell me … I know, I can see the place … Belgium.…”

“Waterloo!” he burst out. “You’re quite right, it was at Waterloo!”

She caught both his hands in hers and pressed them eagerly.

“Kneel with me!” she urged. “Kneel and give thanks for your great victory.”

It made no difference to him that Russian troops had taken no part in the battle. It was still his victory. The prophecy was fulfilled; he had beaten the anti-Christ again. Napoleon’s army was scattered across the countryside; his Old Guard were almost annihilated, fighting to the death to save their Emperor.

At the end, the traitor Ney and Napoleon himself had fled the battlefield for their lives.

He knelt, listening to the exultant tones of Madame de Krudener’s voice; her words meant nothing to him, neither did his own when at last he joined her; it was a chant of triumph, the praise was for him, the glory of God was his glory.… The French defeated, the French who had ravaged his country, menaced his throne … the eagle standards which had once been carried into Moscow now lay in the dust, and Napoleon himself had ridden, as he himself had done at Austerlitz, in peril of his life from the victorious armies.

They looked at each other and began to rise at the same moment; they were still holding hands. Alexander’s head was swimming, he felt superhumanly exalted, filled with the strength of ten men. For a moment they stood motionless, and Madame gazed up at him, her eyes brilliant with excitement, her full lips trembling. Neither knew who moved first, but the next instant they were in each other’s arms, and the near-hysteria she had induced in him blazed up into furious passion. The borderline between religious ecstasy and eroticism was very narrow, as she knew from her own experience; weeks of emotional tension had brought the Czar to the edge of it, and the news of Waterloo had pushed him over.…

Outside the door one of Madame’s penitents straightened up from the keyhole with a smile and pattered away to tell the rest of the household that Madame the Baroness had completed her conversion of the Czar and they would all be kept in comfort from then on.

“My Beloved Sister.”

The words stared up at Alexander as he took up his pen for the third time to try and write the letter.

“I have a great deal to tell you and it is difficult to know where to begin. Firstly, Bonaparte has been exiled to an Island in the Atlantic called St. Helena. He placed himself under the protection of the English after Waterloo—truly God took away his wits, for they’re more harsh towards him than anyone—and instead of giving him asylum in England they made him a prisoner when he boarded their ship the Bellerophon, and took him to this place. I have heard the island is very unhealthy and he is to be very strictly kept.

“Ney was arrested, and I regret to tell you that he was shot; so also was Murat. They were both brave men, and the executions have aroused great resentment among the people. The King returned to Paris after Waterloo, and the police are arresting so many Bonapartists it is being called the Bourbon Terror. Otherwise Paris is very gay and all the émigrés are back again.”

He paused and dipped his pen into the gold inkwell. The King was in Paris, as he had said, but so was the English commander Wellington, and Wellington was the hero of Parisian society while the Czar of Russia was neglected. He couldn’t bring himself to tell Catherine that; the humiliation stung too bitterly. He wrote about the review on the plain of Vertus instead.

“I held a military review on the 10th September at Vertus outside Chalons; one hundred and eighty thousand men and six hundred heavy guns. It was a most imposing and magnificent spectacle; if any of my allies feel inclined to underestimate my strength, they have only to remember Vertus!

“I ordered a Service of Thanksgiving for victory to be offered there the next day, and Madame de Krudener came with me.”

He had taken a house for the Baroness in Paris, adjoining his own residence. After Heidelberg he found her indispensible, and she easily convinced him that their fiercely sensual relationship was lifted above the level of human in by their spiritual condition. He prayed and read the Bible with her and discussed his plans for a world alliance based on Christian precepts. He gave her large sums of money for the support of her charities, and allowed her to rouse him and herself to that pitch of fervour which always ended in erotic excess. She began to speak of this aspect of their relationship as a rite in which she sacrificed herself, and for the first time Alexander’s common sense was jarred. He was quite ready to believe he could reach peaks of spiritual experience through the senses, but there was nothing unselfish about Madame’s eager response. The pose irritated him, and then gradually Madame herself began to get on his nerves. He frowned as he wrote again.

“My proposals for World Peace were accepted and signed on September 26th. I have called it the Holy Alliance. Only England and the Pope have refused to sign. It is the finest achievement of my life, Catherine. Under its rules all nations can live at peace together, and if one commits aggression, the rest combine to punish it. All the disappointment, the treachery and ingratitude I’ve experienced since I left Russia at the end of 1812 has been worthwhile, for this has passed my Allies’ full approval. It is my plan and no one else’s.”

He underlined the last sentence heavily. That was Madame de Krudener’s mistake; he had discussed the idea with her and she had promptly claimed the authorship. All over Paris the intellectuals who thronged her salon were saying that the Holy Alliance was her conception and not the Czar’s original idea. The boast cost her his patronage. His pride, already outraged on so many points, was now hurt by this woman who owed everything to his generosity. She was making herself more and more ridiculous every day, and ridicule was catching; their relationship seemed to have quite unbalanced her, and his advisers were imploring him to get rid of her and her household.

The spell was broken, and he recognized the whole incident as eccentric and revolting; though he knew the Krudener to be as sincere as she was mad, her influence was at an end.

“You will have heard of Madame de Krudener,” he continued. He could imagine Catherine and the pious Baroness.… “She is a good woman and her companionship has helped me a great deal. However I am leaving Paris tomorrow, my dear sister, and the lady is not coming with me, though I fear she expected to do so. I long to see you! Do you know, I shall be thirty-nine soon and I feel like an old man.… At last it is all over, my sister; I have accomplished what I promised you that night at Tver when we Waited for word from Kutuzov. Do you remember that evening? I said I would drive Bonaparte out of France. Now he is driven out of Europe, out of the counsels of the world as if he had never been born.… It is done, and by December I shall be back in St. Petersburg.”

Alexander returned to his Capital as the greatest conqueror in Russian history. The streets were packed tight with cheering crowds in spite of the bitter cold; lines of troops held them back as the Emperor passed, acknowledging the shouts and waving hands. A salute of cannon sounded as he entered the city and every church bell pealed. The procession halted at the Winter Palace and Alexander was met by his mother, his two younger brothers, his wife and his sister, waiting at the head of the whole Court.

“Ah, my son,” the Empress Dowager cried, as she kissed his hand with tears of pride on her cheeks; he embraced her and paused to salute the Empress Elizabeth; for a moment their eyes met before he touched her cheek quickly with his lips and passed to Catherine Pavlpvna.

They forgot protocol at that moment; she curtsied to him and then clung to both his hands as he kissed her warmly. Her mocking eyes were shining, she looked brilliantly beautiful with a high flush of excitement in her face.

“Hurry,” she whispered, “I can’t wait to hear everything.…”

He smiled and promised under his breath, thinking how strange it was that they should once have been rivals, and that out of his conflict with Napoleon, this love for his irreligious, unprincipled sister should now be the strongest feeling in his life. He greeted his second brother, the Grand Duke Nicholas. Nicholas had grown even taller than he was himself, and he was good looking in a stiff way. Alexander remembered Catherine’s jeering description of him as Nicholas bowed. ‘I’ll swear he’s worked by clockwork!’

Then his youngest brother, the Grand Duke Michael; Michael had grown up in the last two years, he too was tall. Only the monstrous Constantine was absent; he had been given command of the new Polish Army and was adding to his reputation for committing atrocities in Warsaw. Alexander received his Ministers and Generals, foremost among them being Araktcheief in a magnificent uniform, so tight and heavy with gold braid that he bowed with difficulty. Everywhere, lines of Courtiers as he passed through the huge reception rooms, bowing, curtsying, watching him with pride. The atmosphere of popularity was so strong he flushed with pleasure. Thank God to be home again! Thank God he was out of Europe. At least his own people loved him and were grateful.

He went to his apartments to rest after the journey, and later joined his family for a State dinner. But he retired early, sent for his sister and gave orders they were not to be disturbed.

“When I heard of this Krudener creature, I couldn’t believe it! Do you mean to say you did nothing but pray all the time?”

Alexander frowned. He had done his best to protect that damned woman’s reputation and conceal their relationship while they were in Paris, but he had no hope of deceiving Catherine.

“Not all the time,” he answered.

She laughed. “I thought not! Isn’t it fortunate I’m a pagan. Or perhaps it isn’t, perhaps I miss something.… You know, I’ve never considered kneeling in a seductive posture; but in her case it was, is that it?”

“I suppose so,” he said. “God knows! My intentions were always good, but she made me feel uplifted, excited.…” He stopped and passed his hands over his eyes.

“I can imagine,” Catherine said dryly. “I wish you were an honest sensualist like me, it’s so much simpler. Oh, I can imagine what the Baroness was like! Thank God you didn’t bring her here.” She looked at him narrowly. “Keep away from those people, Alexander, they’re dangerous. You’ve always had a weakness for them. You need gaiety, amusement, my brother. You look tired out.”

“I am,” he admitted. “I feel as if I’d lived my whole life in the past three years. And it’s not over yet; there are more conferences to be held later on, and I shall have to go to them.”

She glanced at him and then said quickly, “Then you’ll be visiting Europe again?”

“Oh, quite often I should think.”

“Then if I were to marry again and live in Europe, we could still see each other.”

His head jerked up and he said sharply, “Marry? Live in Europe? What do you mean?”

She met his angry look without flinching, only her hands tightened on the arms of her chair.

“The King of Würtemburg wishes to marry me,” she said. “He’s going to ask your permission and I want you to give it.” He sat rigid with anger and disbelief. Marry, leave Russia … he had never for one moment imagined she would want to leave him. His first impulse was to forbid her to do anything of the kind. How dare she, he thought furiously, how dare she want to marry Würtemburg as soon as I’ve come home.…

“I have a right to re-marry, Alexander,” she continued. “I’m young and I made my first marriage with the man you chose for me; he’s dead and now I wish to choose for myself. I’ve lived my whole life in your shadow and you would never let me go; now I want to cast a shadow of my own. I want to be Queen of Würtemburg.”

He stared at her coldly. “Do you love him, is that it? Why didn’t you tell me?”

“I loved one man once.” Her voice was harsh when she answered him. “And you brought me the news of his death. Do you remember? Würtemburg is a King. That’s why I want to marry him.”

His anger was fading, giving way to surprise at his own reaction. She was right; he’d forced George of Oldenburg on her, and then told her Bagration had been killed on the night he broke her heart and her spirit to save his throne.

“Don’t keep me here against my will,” she said suddenly.

“You know I would never do that,” he retorted. “I was just selfish for a moment. I couldn’t help thinking how empty life will be without you here. Is there nothing I can offer you to make you stay with me?”

The clock at her elbow chimed the hour; she turned to watch the little golden figure of Cupid strike the bell with his arrow; it was a French clock, brought back from France by Alexander when he first entered Paris.

Then she looked at him and answered.

“Nothing society would allow. We should never have been born brother and sister, Alexander. But we are, and you had better let me go to Würtemburg.”

It was said at last; the hints and scandals which had followed them for so many years were acknowledged in those few words.… ‘We should never have been born brother and sister.…’

Was that it? Was that the explanation for their hatred and duelling for power in the beginning, for the queer alliance which had grown up between them after Bagration’s death?… The letters he had written in the days when he feared her, letters more fitting for a mistress than a sister.… Did he say he adored her and thought her the most fascinating creature alive because it placated her or because he meant it in some terrible twisted way?… God knew!

He thought in horror: ‘We played at this thing, she and I, for our own purposes, for reasons of deceit and power-lust, but though the world accused us, it’s not true, it was never true! Of all the sins on my conscience, murder, concupiscence, treachery, infamy is not among them!’

She knelt beside his chair, looking up at him, and the flames from the fire shone on her face, highlighting the jutting cheekbones and the brilliant Kalmuck eyes. There was an expression in them that he had never seen before.

“You don’t want me to go, do you?” she whispered. He was trembling; drops of sweat ran down his temples, he clung to the arms of his chair; he thought suddenly that his sister Catherine looked a little mad as she stared at him, her face a few inches from his own.

“You must let me go, Alexander …” her voice murmured. Something inside his head said clearly: this is damnation. Keep very still.

“I only want you to be happy,” he said hoarsely. “You have my permission.”

He sprang out of his chair and rushed from the room without looking back.

Catherine had left Russia when he went to see Marie Naryshkin. Marie had attended Court as usual, and at the State Ball given in his honour, he had asked her to waltz with him. He had noticed immediately her simple white dress, the clusters of flowers she wore in her hair and knew she had dressed to please him; he had always hated elaborate clothes. The implication touched and saddened him at the same time.

One afternoon he drove over to Dmitri Naryshkin’s mansion to visit her. The lackey who admitted him, gaped, and then mumbled that the Princess was in the nursery, but if His Imperial Majesty would wait for one moment in the Gold Salon. The household was in a panic at the news of the Czar’s arrival; the Naryshkin’s Comptroller hurried forward, bowing and stammering apologies. “His Majesty was not expected … there had been no one to receive him properly … the Princess would be furious.…”

Alexander calmed him with a few words. It was a private visit, he insisted, and he wanted to be taken straight to the nursery; he would see the Princess there.

He was shown into a large sunny room, and kissed Marie’s hand as she curtsied to him. A gaping nursemaid held a little girl on her knee; the child was wriggling and staring at the strange man with her mother.

“This is a great honour, Sire,” Marie said. She had flushed and instinctively one hand flew to her hair; it was fluffed up and untidy, she wore a loose pink wrapper and house slippers.

“I had no idea you were coming or I would have been ready to receive you properly; you must forgive me. Won’t you come downstairs, Sire?”

He smiled at her, but his eyes were on the child.

“In a moment, Madame; I find this domesticity quite charming. I believe you’ve forgotten to present Mademoiselle Naryshkin to me.”

Marie signed to the nursemaid, who let her charge get down; she was frowning slightly. Alexander had never shown the slightest interest in her children till that moment.

“Sophie, come here!”

The little girl walked slowly towards them and her mother turned her to face Alexander.

“Curtsy to His Majesty,” she ordered.

The child bobbed down, her face tilted up, her blue eyes open wide with curiosity. Gravely he took her hand and held it when she stood in front of him. Sophie. This was his daughter. He hadn’t seen her since she was a tiny child, and there were two more reputed to be his; but there was no doubt about this child’s paternity. For a moment they stood considering each other, and then Alexander smiled down at her.

“Good day, Mademoiselle.”

Slowly the solemn face softened in an answering smile, the image of his own, and the small hand curled round his fingers.

“Good day, Monsieur.”

“Sire!” corrected Marie.

“Sire,” Sophie amended, and then laughed up at her father. He knelt and touched her cheek with his finger.

“How old are you, Sophie?”

“Nine, nearly ten, Monsieur.” She paused and then asked sweetly, “How old are you?”

Alexander laughed and silenced Marie’s reproof with a quick gesture.

“A great deal older than that, I’m afraid. What were you doing when I came in?”

“Playing with Mama,” she said. “I have a new doll, Monsieur, would you like to see it?”

“I would indeed.” He looked up at Marie and said, “Send the nursemaid away. I want to talk to you and Sophie alone.”

The maid slipped out, walking backwards and curtsying; she fled to the servants’ quarters with the news. The Czar himself, just like an angel out of Heaven, talking away to little Sophie! Oh, she would never forget that day as long as she lived!

When they were alone Alexander sat down and took his daughter on his knees; she showed him her doll and he admired it; when he kissed the top of her curly head she slipped one arm round his neck and squeezed him affectionately.

“Why have I never seen her?” he demanded of Marie, and she flushed.

“I see you so seldom myself, Sire, and I could hardly bring Sophie to Court!”

He was too absorbed with the child to notice her tone.

“Does she know who she is?”

“No,” Marie answered. “I saw no reason to tell her yet. She wouldn’t have remembered you and it would only have confused her. Why didn’t you let me know you were coming; I could have made proper arrangements to receive you.”

“I wanted to surprise you,” he said. “And I’m very glad I did. I’ve made Mademoiselle Sophie’s acquaintance, and that’s very important.”

“She’ll be impossible after this,” Marie said shortly. “God knows she’s spoilt enough!”

He looked at her in surprise, and suddenly realized that she was jealous; he had found her carelessly dressed, playing in the nursery like any little bourgeoise, and he had given his whole attention to the child. No setting could be less romantic for a reunion between lovers.… He remembered the plain Court dress, the forget-me-nots in her hair; years before she had worn an identical costume during a State visit by the King and Queen of Prussia, and he had told her afterwards she was the most beautiful woman in the whole gathering. Poor Marie. And suddenly dear Marie, because she had given him this enchanting child.

“Let’s go to your apartments,” he suggested gently. “I should like some tea and we can talk.”

He set Sophie down and she lifted her face to be kissed.

“Will you come and see me again, Monsieur?” she asked, and he promised that next time she should come and see him.

Then he took Marie downstairs and told her very kindly that he hoped she was happy and would allow him to be her friend. He also hoped he might see his daughter as often as he wished. She cried as he spoke of the happiness they’d known together in the past, and the necessity to keep it in a new relationship.

Friendship was a precious thing, he said, and kissed her lips like a brother, and she was not to weep, because he was still devoted to her. Only his mode of life had changed, not his affection or his gratitude, especially for the gift of Sophie. She reminded him he had another daughter and a ton, but he dismissed the mention of them.

“My father had a son,” he said blankly. “A son can betray, he can covet.… I’m not concerned with my son. But take care of Sophie for me. You are both precious to me now.”