Rasputin's Revenge (3 page)

My life with Tama and our daughter, Michelle, had been so serene and domestic, nestled amid my vineyards and oaks in the beautiful Rhone Valley, that I had been all but able to forget the War as it dragged into its third year. I had no desire to reenter the fray I had so lately abandoned. Too many of my friends, too many of our friends’ children, had already given their lives in that fight, and living—the daily, even boring routines
of country life—had become an end in itself, each day treasured for its small compensations, its bland contentments.

But Foch had surprised me. At stake, he said, was nothing less than the very future of France. Preservation of the alliance with Russia was our best hope of winning the war. With America becoming less and less isolationist, we needed to hold out until that young giant had come to our aid. Foch had no illusions about Russia’s stability, but he thought our offer could delay the inevitable separate peace between Germany and Russia until beyond the Spring, and that might be enough time.

Foch and I had been sitting at a field table over a lunch of chicken and a chilled rose as he explained the situation to me. Though ten years my senior, he spoke with a fire and conviction that made him seem much younger than I. I, not he, was the old man. I wondered if my will to survive, to merely exist, was the beginning of the process of dying. Surely Freddy had had tragedy enough for any man—his only son and his son-in-law had both been killed in the first month of the war. And yet he didn’t retire. He continued to fight. I could do no less.

After he finished, I spoke. “All that’s fine, Freddy, but I don’t understand why you chose me.”

“You are too modest,” he said.

“Not at all. This is entirely out of my province. Surely our ambassador …”

“Maurice Paleologue, a good man.”

“Surely he is a more logical choice.”

Foch stood and took me by the arm. We moved away from his aides-de-camp and walked to a nearby hillock. Smoke hung like mist over the trenches in the distance. Occasionally a volley of shots would carry up to us on the heavy breeze.

“Paleologue is a diplomat. You are a man of action. Do I make myself clear?”

My confusion must have shown, for he continued. “Jules, a diplomat must move in certain prescribed ways. He cannot just drop in at the Czar’s Palace and speak with him. As a matter of fact, Paleologue has been denied audiences with the Czar for the past two months. He has met with ministers, with bureaucrats, with clerks, but not with Nicholas. This is no coincidence. Nicholas is contemplating peace with Germany, and he can’t bear to face our ambassador.”

“Then why will he see me?”

“If Paleologue says he has a new offer from Paris, the Czar will think it is merely a ploy to get an audience. If an entirely new emissary arrives
by military carrier, the demands of protocol and curiosity ought to play into our hands. You will see the Czar.”

“And then?”

“And then, Jules, you personally will convince him to accept our offer.”

It was a staggering demand and I said as much. How could I accomplish what others, with lifetimes of training in diplomacy, could not?

Foch smiled. “There are few better natural diplomats on earth than yourself, Jules. Also”—he put his arm around me—“I trust you, which is why I chose you.”

If it was flattery, it worked. I am in St. Petersburg, and someone is at the door.

OCTOBER
7, 1916.

The orderly was polite enough, though the tone of the invitation to the unscheduled and unofficial meeting was unambiguous. It was a summons.

I followed the courtier through ornate halls so vast that we walked for nearly twenty minutes before reaching our destination. There appear to be at least fifty separate wings of the Palace, each with ten rooms or more.

At last we came to the offices of Vladimir Sukhomlinov, who had been the War Minister until the first shots of the War were fired. That he still had an office in the Winter Palace was surprising, but I was starting to sense that many things about the Russian capital were not wholly reasonable.

My first impression was that it was too hot. A huge fire blazed on the hearth, and enormous samovars squatted in each of the four corners. Sukhomlinov himself was half reclining on a divan, picking from a chicken carcass that sat on a low table in front of him. There was no desk, no sign of a file drawer. The floor was covered with layers of Oriental rugs, so that I had to step up to enter the chamber. The soft, yielding carpet made a dignified approach next to impossible, but I tried to manage.

When I was announced, the General didn’t rise, but nodded vaguely in my direction and gave some signal for the secretary to withdraw. The door closed behind me and there was a long and, I thought, ominous silence, which I used to study the man.

Sukhomlinov has a rounded, cherubic face with the eyes of a ferret. He wears his whiskers in a Vandyke, in imitation of the Czar. Black boots covered thin legs to the knees, but his torso, bedecked with medals, is ample. No, it is fat.

“You sent for me, General?”

He pulled himself upright, wiping his hands on the linen tablecloth, and showed me his teeth. “I did, your Excellency,” he said. “Can I offer you some tea? Vodka? A plate of chicken?”

I declined. “And I am a simple emissary, General, with no title.”

“You are not a minister?”

“A citizen of the Republic of France, a personal guest of Czar Nicholas, nothing more.”

To my surprise, this answer delighted him. He clapped his hands and laughed heartily. “Splendid! Wonderful! Please, take a seat. In any event, we must get acquainted.” His French, the language of the court, though accented, was quite good.

I sank deeply into an armchair at his right hand, wishing I could loosen my tie. The heat was really quite stifling. He rang a bell and when a servant entered, he ordered a bottle of wine and a tray of cakes. We sat in continued silence while the chicken was cleared and the new service laid.

“There, now,” he said at last. “You are French. You will have some wine.”

I took a glass and we toasted the Czar. Then I decided it was time to get to business, if it was to be a business meeting.

“How may I be of service to you, General?”

“It is rather the other way around. I believe I may be able to help you.”

“I would be most grateful for any assistance you could give me. You know why I am here, then?”

He nodded patiently, with the air of one tutoring a child. “
On sail tout
. One knows everything, I’m afraid. It is more a burden than anything, but especially here at court, it is a necessary evil—if one wants to survive.” He savored a mouthful of wine, then continued. “In any case, Monsieur Giraud, I do know the workings of the Czar’s mind, and just now it is in a difficult state—not only because of the War, though that goes badly enough, but there are other things …”

“Such as?”

“His son, the Heir, Alexis.”

“What about him?”

“He is a bleeder, you know. A tragic disease. It consumes the Czarina with trying to protect him. It also brought Rasputin to the court.”

“Rasputin?”

“Surely you know of Rasputin?”

I shook my head no, and the general laughed coarsely, then leaned conspiratorially toward me. “Monsieur Giraud, it is fortunate I invited you here. Talking to Nicholas, or especially Alexandra, without knowing about Rasputin is a dangerous enterprise.”

“Who is he?”

“On one level, he is a simple monk from Siberia, a faith healer. On another, he is, after the Czar, the most powerful man in Russia.”

I sat back, chuckling. “Surely that’s an exaggeration.”

Sukhomlinov took his time pouring more wine. “No. No, I don’t think it is. His influence over Alexandra is hard to overestimate. Powerful men have fallen because of Rasputin’s disapproval—if he were still alive you could ask Peter Stolypin, our past prime minister, about that.

“Don’t misunderstand me, Giraud. I myself think Rasputin is a genuine starets—a holy man—so we’ve had no problems. But with Nicholas at Spala commanding the army, Alexandra rules Russia. And Rasputin rules Alexandra. A wrong word to the wrong person could leave your mission in ruins and yourself in great danger.”

“How can that be?”

He popped a small cake whole into his mouth, washing it down with half a glass of wine. “Rasputin has convinced Alexandra that he is the voice of God’s will. And it does seem to be true that he has great healing powers. Twice he has laid his hands on the Heir and brought him back from the brink of death—even after the doctors had given up.”

“You said danger. You don’t mean physical danger?”

Again that condescending laugh. “I see you don’t know about the murders either, then.”

At my blank look, he went on. “The other reason the Czar is so distressed lately is that three of his closest aides have been killed in the past three months, and not at the front. Here, right in St. Petersburg.”

“Murdered?”

“Two bomb blasts and a cut throat could hardly be accidental.”

“And this is Rasputin’s doing?”

He almost spit out his wine. “No! Of course not. I hope I didn’t give you that impression. That’s not even suspected.”

“It seemed to follow that …”

“No, no, no. I only mentioned the murders to show that there are forces at work here that may not be obvious—forces that have influenced the Czar’s state of mind.”

“And you think all this will have some effect on me?”

He sat forward. “Let me be frank. At this stage the Czar is nearly beaten. After our victories earlier this year in Galacia, and then our disastrous rout, his will is nearly crushed, and he longs for a return to normalcy If he is pushed too hard …” He sighed.

“Monsieur Giraud, in some ways the Czar is like a child. He is sheltered, he doesn’t understand the motives of those around him, he is perplexed by the evil in the world. But, like a child, if he is pushed too hard in one direction, he will sometimes go in the other out of willfulness. He is, after all, the Czar, the absolute ruler of Russia, and he does not like to feel that his options are determined by something or someone else.”

With some effort, Sukhomlinov rose. We crossed the thickly carpeted room to a window. “My advice to you, Monsieur Giraud, is to go slowly. Know your quarry before you hunt.”

He put his arm around me, enveloping me in the strong scent of his cologne. I was grateful for his information, but another minute in that room with the heat and perfume would have turned my discomfort to true nausea. Fortunately, the interview seemed to be over. A servant appeared and the General shook my hand. I thanked him for his warning, and within seconds was transported over the rolling rugs outside to the blessedly cool corridor.

Though it was just past four in the afternoon, already the lights in the Palace had been turned on. Outside, a pink dusk deepened, and I felt an urge to be out in it.

Unescorted, I found my way to an exit and walked the streets of St. Petersburg until full night had fallen.

The War shows here more than in my native Valence. One building in four seems to have been converted to care for the wounded. From the narrow byways off the main streets comes a continuous low moan, like a threatening wind—the haunting refrain of men suffering.

Beyond the shadow of the Palace, and off the Nevsky Prospekt, beggars—even women and children—hold out their bony hands for kopecks. I gave away all of my coins, though not one hollow eye even acknowledged me.

Thoroughly dispirited, I returned to the Palace, its polished marble surfaces glinting in the light of a nearly full moon.

OCTOBER
9, 1916.

After sending a messenger to Maurice Paleologue at the French Embassy announcing my arrival, I spent the greater portion of two days with a series of books reviewing court etiquette. My reading was for naught. None of the reference books covered anything like the situation with which I was confronted when I first met Nicholas and Alexandra.

I had of course been briefed that the royal family spent very little of their time in the capital, preferring the peace of their accommodations at Tsarkoye Selo, some fifteen kilometers south of the city, yet I was surprised when I was summoned there. I had assumed that state business would be conducted at court, but I was wrong.

If my first impressions are correct, the very seat of Russian government is an icon-bedecked boudoir, decorated in various shades of mauve, a comfortable yet utterly hideous bedchamber reminiscent of little-used guest rooms in any number of British country estates.

But I’m getting ahead of myself.

A servant called at my room just after an upsetting breakfast of cold fish, onions, and tea. (Oh, for a fresh croissant dipped into a steaming bowl of cafe au lait!) The Czar had returned from military headquarters at Spala and would see me at my earliest convenience.

We traveled by train—the railroad line is the oldest in the country—a short distance over swampland and then came to a small village station with a steeply sloping roof. There, surrounded by mounted Cossacks, our car was separated from the train and transferred to another track, which led to the Czar’s station.