Curse Not the King (6 page)

“Ah,” said the Empress under her breath. “Let him make one false move, and I swear by God that Panin shall have his way.”

Before autumn the Court was preparing to leave Tsarskoë Selo and return to Petersburg. Already an army of servants and lesser courtiers had departed to put all in order for the Empress's arrival.

The end of that long summer idyll was a source of dread to Natalie Alexeievna. Here, where etiquette was lax, her meetings with her lover had been easily arranged, the disappointed, trusting Czarevitch fobbed off with pleas of headaches and fatigue, and her ladies anxious to pursue their own paths and leave the Grand Duchess to herself.

From the moment of her surrender to André, Paul's wife dispensed with modesty or guilt. She loved the handsome equerry beyond all caution, and as her passion for the one increased, so her dislike of intimacy with the other deepened in proportion. Rasumovsky became less reckless as the weeks went by, sobered by the enjoyment of his prize.

It was necessary to keep up appearances, he told his mistress a little anxiously. It would be unwise to underestimate the Czarevitch; fool though he was, there was still a limit it was dangerous to overstep. She must coat the pill with sugar, and pretend to some wifely feeling for him. He was stupid enough to be content with very little, André argued. A few words, a little praise, a sentimental sop to set his mind at ease, and any amount of lies to keep him out of their way.

It was easy enough to dupe Paul, less easy to keep him out of her bed, but with a ruthlessness born of her love for the equerry, Natalie almost managed to do both while the Court stayed at Tsarskoë Selo. With alternate coquetry and excuses, she deceived and avoided him, until even Rasumovsky marvelled at the depths of duplicity and passion which dwelt in the gentlest of women.

He marvelled and became even more enslaved. Other mistresses had tired him, wearied him by their caresses and their words, but the Grand Duchess in her teens did neither. Their love was mutual, and it fed fiercely on itself until he who had counselled her to caution with regard to Paul, became a prey to savage jealousy once more.

Often they discussed the Court's return to Petersburg, talked of it with mingled anger and despair, aware that freedom would be much restricted for them both.

A thousand difficulties stood in the way of their meeting in the confines of the palace in the capital, where Paul and his household were subject to rigid discipline by the Empress. Never would the danger of discovery be so great as when they both became involved in the routine of life under the eyes of waiting-women with nothing to do but watch their mistress, and the duties of equerry to the detested Czarevitch would occupy most of Rasumovsky's time.

With that prospect before her, Natalie clung to him and cried, and the sight of her distress drove him to frenzy.

“We'll meet, my beloved,” he promised her. “Nothing shall deprive us of our happiness together. I swear to you; we'll find a way as others have before us.”

“We will, André, my love. We must.…”

So they resolved, desperate in their need of one another, and in happy ignorance that their intrigue had been discovered long before.

3

Nikita Panin sat at his desk, supporting one pendulous cheek with his left hand while he turned the pages of a thin dossier with the other. He knew the contents off by heart, and it made very curious reading. Six months of careful observation lay between the covers of that report, the work of the Minister's spies who had been lurking in the shadows whenever the Grand Duchess Natalie walked or spoke to members of her suite, whether she rode with her husband in the park at Tsarskoë Selo, or sat sewing with her ladies.

Sandwiched in between accounts of her most harmless activities, they reported the astounding fact that the virtuous bride of seventeen was committing adultery with a royal equerry within a few months of her marriage.

Nikita, whose hopes of discovering the Czarevitch engaged in treason were still frustrated, swallowed his astonishment and for the time being kept the information to himself. His opinion of feminine virtue could sink no lower for the revelation: he only marvelled at the stupidity of the girl who plunged into a love affair before a legitimate heir was born.

For six months he had waited, collecting the reports of stolen meetings; but at the end of that time, when the Grand Duchess was still childless, though possessed by a husband and an extremely virile lover, Panin decided at last that there was no more time to waste. If there had been a child, even if fathered by Rasumovsky, then a secured succession would have set many uneasy minds at rest, and opened the door of a cell to Paul.

But Natalie Alexeievna had not conceived, and for that reason Panin had decided to denounce her.

At five minutes to ten he heaved his increasing bulk out of the chair, settled his wig firmly on his bald, bullet-shaped head, gathered up his papers in their proper sequence, and went on his way to the Imperial apartments.

The usual throng of courtiers was waiting in the ante-room of Catherine's suite; the air was stale with mingled perfumes, and the atmosphere was stifling. The Empress's subjects did not share her passion for open windows and the corresponding draughts.

As he passed through into the ante-room adjoining Catherine's own chamber, Panin's little eyes flashed shrewdly along the lines of those whom his Empress had favoured with the promise of an early audience. He noted two generals, her secretaries, Leo Naryshkin, whose friendship with Catherine was an institution, and then glanced sharply at a tall, uniformed figure which lounged ungracefully against the very pillars of the Imperial doorway.

He recognized the man who waited there immediately, even before the great head turned towards him, and he smiled blandly into that ugly, arrogant countenance.

In answer to Panin's nodded salute, the soldier barely moved. He was a man of massive build; his dress was careless to the point of disorder; his manner haughty and detached. His colouring betrayed a strong strain of Tartar blood, and though a patch covered one empty eye socket, the light of a fierce intelligence glowed in his remaining eye.

Panin was well aware of the rumour that Vassiltchikov was about to be dismissed, but he doubted if he had just looked on the Empress's new choice. He was far too ugly, with his sallow, Oriental features and clumsy giant's strength. However, it was as well to err on the side of safety.

“Good morning, M. Potemkin,” he said amiably, and then passed through the doors to Catherine's private room, his mind already returned to the downfall of Natalie Alexeievna, unaware, as he went, that he had just given greeting to the man who was to prove his own.

“Before God, I'm astonished! After a few months she's creeping into someone else's bed!”

The Empress threw the Minister's report down on to her desk and regarded Panin, frowning and still almost incredulous. The Count smiled at her, and his smile was a diplomatic mixture of sympathy for his mistress and censure for the culprit, whose real fault lay in having been discovered in her crime.

“It's most unfortunate,” he agreed, “and distressing for you and the Czarevitch. But I'm afraid there can be no doubt. The Grand Duchess is this young man's mistress; they're intriguing here in Petersburg. It pains me to have to shatter your Majesty's faith in the girl, but we can't afford to let this scandal continue. Now that we know she's unchaste, the Grand Duchess can never be trusted again.… Even if we punish Rasumovsky, as of course we must, there'll always be others.”

“As you say, Nikita. There'll always be others. But what woman living will ever remain faithful to my son! As she was young and inexperienced I hoped she might settle down. But I never expected her to love him—I don't ask for miracles, my friend!”

“I know that, Madame. But I think the most vital point is being overlooked. There's no heir of this marriage. And you must have an heir! As long as your son remains at liberty, neither you nor those who serve you can be certain of their lives.… You said yourself that he was the greatest danger to you. There's a scandal and there's no child after a year of marriage.… Supposing the Grand Duchess is barren! We can't afford to wait; take her and the equerry and put them to death! That'll teach her successor a lesson in chastity and obedience …!”

Panin sat back and wiped his forehead with a large lace handkerchief; he was sweating with his own vehemence and his little green eyes glittered with malice.

“Put them to death …”

The Empress regarded him intently and under that searching look he smiled uneasily and lowered his eyes. With her genius for reading human hearts Catherine divined the depths of spite that prompted his suggestion. Nothing had been proved against her son, and the hatred Panin bore him hoped to strike at him by shedding Natalie's blood and proclaiming the failure of his marriage to the world.

It was a mistake that he could ill afford to make with her, and he fell into such errors when he forgot that for all her failings she was never cruel.

“There'll be no open scandal, Nikita,” she said firmly. “Rasumovsky shall be dealt with, but as for the Grand Duchess … if there'd been a child, I might have pardoned her, but in this, too, she has failed my son. Therefore he must divorce her. She will be shut up in the Novo Diévichy Convent for the rest of her life.…”

“And the succession, Madame?”

“As you hinted, my dear Nikita, we'll marry Paul to someone else before the year is out.”

She touched the dossier, and then rose to end the interview.

“I shall keep this for the moment. Now be good enough to send the Czarevitch to me; I think I'd better break this news to him myself. And Nikita———”

“Yes, Madame?”

“Have guards posted round the Grand Duchess's rooms. It may be necessary to protect her against the fury of my son.”

It never occurred to Catherine that he might not believe her. She was prepared for a fearful storm of anger, for violent reproaches, even tears, for in moments of great stress she knew that he was still boy enough to weep.

Instead, he stood before her as if petrified and flung the damning report on to her desk. Her invitation to sit down had been curtly refused; his only concession to the tremendous shock of the accusation was to steady himself with one hand against the back of the empty chair.

He regarded his mother in silence for a moment, his eyes blazing with rage, the nerve in his left cheek twitching violently.

“I don't believe one word of this,” he said harshly, and in spite of herself, Catherine started.

“Do you dare ignore the proof that I've given you? In God's name show yourself a man! Don't try to deny that Natalie's made a fool of you with one of your own suite, that she's abused your trust by adultery and deceit!”

Paul shook his head with bitter irony.

“No, Madame, my wife's not going to be ruined to gratify your whim or any other's. These lies haven't deceived me, nor the indignation you simulate so well. Must I remind you of my father, of Prince Gregory Orlov, or a certain M. Vassiltchikov, to convince you that I'm not impressed?”

Catherine stood up slowly, her face as pale as his own, and her mounting anger might have daunted many lesser men. But Paul only saw that his insults had struck home, and he smiled savagely, his heart pounding, a great wave of hatred and nurtured grievance rising in him. Even as he spoke, the old theme of his childhood wrongs repeated itself in his throbbing brain.

She had murdered his father and taken the throne which was his right; she and her adherents had neglected and slighted him, with the thought of final imprisonment always in their minds. Now she was trying to separate him from the only human creature he had ever loved, and with the aid of forged evidence she hoped to persuade him to sanction her plan.

If Catherine had judged him obstinate in the past, she little guessed the power of the resolve forming in his heart at that moment.

Instead she lost her temper, outraged by his allusions to herself.

“How dare you speak to me like that! Don't presume too far upon my gentleness with you. Even
you
are not beyond the reach of my justice. Take care lest I send you to join your bride in the Schüsselburg!”

Paul glared at her in fierce defiance, and a tinge of colour stained his sallow cheeks. He trembled, but the cause was reckless fury rather than fear.

“Ah, my mother. Would you murder me as you murdered Ivan?” he said quietly, and Catherine shrank back at these terrible words, catching at her gilded chair for support. It was a deadly thrust and the accusation stung her to bitter cruelty.

“You fool!” she spat at him. “Are you so blind to your own ugliness that you think any woman could love you, or feel anything for you but distaste? There's a mirror; look in it and look at yourself.… Then think of André Rasumovsky! So tall and handsome! Think and compare! You stand there prating of Natalie's virtue, when any numskull would realize that she despises you and only submits to you because she must! There's your proof, my son. There, read it again and then admit that every word of it is true!”

Paul's answer was to seize the dossier and rip it across; he almost threw the fragments at his mother as he leaned towards her, white faced and quivering with rage and pain.

“How you hate me,” he said hoarsely. “Is it because of all the wrongs you've done me? You taunt me with my hideousness, you say all women must see me with your eyes; that my wife must betray
me
as
you
betrayed my father, over and over again if rumour is to be believed … Well I say that you lie! You
lie,
Madame! What do you want me to do, divorce her, deliver her to you to punish? Ah, by God, if any man dares to lay a finger on her I'll murder him with my own hands!”

“Do you threaten me? I warn you, Paul, I warn you for your own sake …” Catherine interrupted, her voice trembling with fury.