Rasputin's Revenge (4 page)

A double row of trees lined the wide boulevard that led to the two palaces. We passed the larger of the two, skirted a lovely lake, and approached the vine-covered Alexander Palace, an Italianate structure of some one hundred rooms. Even so late in the Fall, the smell of lilacs and fresh flowers from the Crimea made the Palace smell like a Summer garden.

I was led through a huge circular hallway, then turned right into the Imperial apartments, which were hung with photographs of children’s bicycles! The “art” made a strange impression on me, as though I had entered a children’s world of make-believe.

But I had no time to reflect on that feeling. At the door to the Czar’s private study, two huge black men in the flowing robes of Arabia stood watch, huge scimitars crossed between them. They further reinforced my sense of the unreal nature of things at court.

In a moment I was being introduced to Nicholas II, Emperor and Autocrat of all the Russias; Czar of Moscow, Kiev, Vladimir, Novgorod, Kazan; Astrakan of Poland, of Siberia; Sovereign of the Circassian Princes; Lord of Turkestan; Heir of Norway; Duke of Schleswig Holstein, etc.—his various titles in my etiquette book cover fully half a page.

In the flesh, Nicholas is less imposing. Short of stature, with the mildest and friendliest of expressions, and dressed in the uniform of a
colonel in the Russian army (though he is its active Commander-in-Chief), he could be anyone. Certainly he projects no imperial aura.

We sat on leather armchairs quite close to one another and he offered me a cigarette, which I declined. For his part, he smoked continuously during our interview.

Thinking to heed Sukhomlinov’s advice, I didn’t plan to press my immediate objective, preferring to simply take the tenor of the man. I was not even able to do that. We’d barely finished exchanging pleasantries when a lady-in-waiting interrupted us. She whispered something to the Czar and, chuckling good-naturedly, he turned to me.

“It seems there are no secrets, Monsieur Giraud. My wife, the Empress, has heard of your arrival and would like to meet you.”

“Of course,” I answered, “I would be flattered.”

He rose. “We’ll have to go to her. Now that I’m home, she’s taking a much-needed rest.” His faintly apologetic tone, filled with wry humor, impressed me. He might be Czar of Russia, but he was first a human being, a husband and father, and he had the courage to show it.

We passed through a billiard room, across a corridor, and then through what looked to me to be the royal bedchamber. Beyond that, we entered the darkened mauve room I’ve earlier described. And on a mauve divan, covered to the waist with a blanket, reclined the Czarina Alexandra, Empress of Russia.

“Good morning, Sunny,” the Czar said in English, leaning over and kissing her. “How are you feeling?”

The scene was so intimate as to be embarrassing, although neither of their Royal Highnesses seemed to notice. Nicholas said to his wife, “May I introduce Monsieur Jules Giraud.”

I stepped closer and took her proffered hand to kiss. No sooner had I done so than I felt a pressure that prevented me from releasing her.

“Vous etes francais, n’est-ce pas?”
she asked with an execrable accent.

“Bien sûr, Madame l’Empress.”

Now she took my hand in both of hers and stared deeply into my eyes. I felt compelled to meet her gaze, and struggled to maintain my composure in the face of such intense scrutiny.

None of the rumors I had heard about Alexandra—that she was haughty, unfriendly, reserved—prepared me for the warmth I read in her eyes. She had a lovely face, perfect skin, a slim yet buxom figure. And lastly, as she reached some decision, a beautiful smile.

I felt myself drawn to her, wanting to protect her, and I believe I got an indication of what the Czar must feel as her husband. There might be a
certain surface reserve there, but this was a woman with deep feelings and a passionate nature.

She released my hand, then, and turned to her husband, who had been standing by passively. “Oh, Nicky,” she said, again in English, “our prayers have been answered.”

The Czar pulled up two chairs and motioned for me to take one. “Which prayers are those, Sunny?”

“For Alyosha, as our Friend predicted.”

“Ah.” Nicholas sat back and lit a cigarette. Alexandra looked at me.

“Monsieur Giraud, your arrival has been foretold. I saw in your eyes that you are a good man, a kind man. And last week our son’s tutor, Pierre Gaillard, was taken down with cholera. We pray for him daily, but he is contagious and cannot go near Alexis.” She reached out and took the Czar’s hand. “Do you remember, Nicky? Last week Gregory said a Frenchman would arrive in court to take Pierre’s place?”

Nicholas responded gently. “Monsieur Giraud isn’t here to tutor Alyosha, I’m afraid.”

But the Empress would not be gainsaid. She reached her hand out to me. “Monsieur Giraud?”

It was not professional. It was possibly not even smart, but I’d not been sent as a professional diplomat, and the opportunity to become close to the Royal Family seemed rich with potential for my mission. I looked into Alexandra’s eyes and saw there a great reassurance.

“I am your Majesty’s humblest servant,” I said, not exactly striking a blow for the spirit of republican France.

But in reality I was acting from the most French of motives—the desire to please a woman. And the Czarina is already, after but one meeting, first a woman, and only incidentally Empress of Russia.

I was invited to stay on here in Tsarkoye Selo whenever I would prefer. My suite is on the top floor of one of the many houses for nobility that line the boulevard leading from the train station to the Alexander Palace. The house itself—as are all the houses—is guarded by Imperial troops in the most outlandish of costumes. Blue sashes and swinging sabers.

In all, I’m not dissatisfied with events thus far. True, I haven’t gotten any commitment from the Czar, but then I haven’t tried. It is no small thing to become an intimate of a royal family, and I am well on my way to that position.

Tomorrow I am to be introduced to Alexis and to his sisters, the Grand Duchesses Olga, Tatiana, Maria, and Anastasia. But tonight I will be attending a soiree of some kind at the house of a woman named Anna
Vyroubova, who I gather is the Czarina’s only personal friend. Alexandra mentioned that she would not be surprised if a special guest were present—the man who “predicted” my arrival at court, who has healed the Heir Apparent on at least two occasions, whom Sukhomlinov called the most powerful man in Russia.

I am very much looking forward to the party. I am beginning to have a strong feeling that my success will depend to a great degree on the support of the Friend—Gregory Efimovich Rasputin.

2

(
OCTOBER
10, 1916.)

I
am exhausted, but I must try to get some of this down.

It is perhaps fortunate that the days here are so short. By five o’clock, full night had arrived, and I took a rest for nearly three hours before the party. Without that sleep, I would not have lasted through the night.

Tsarkoye Selo after dark is, if possible, even more a fairyland than it appears during the day. Two sets of trees, now leafless, line the main boulevard and bracket the road like supplicating hands, their thin fingers splayed to the night sky. As it happens, tonight there was a full moon, and its reflection on the lake and the structures surrounding it—the Turkish bathhouse, gazebos, monuments and arches—imbued the scene with magical overtones.

Unescorted, dressed against the chill, I walked to the Old Palace—an enormous blue and white building that I preferred to the royal residence. Dinner would be served there, and afterwards a private group would retire to Anna Vyroubova’s.

The ostensible reason for the dinner was the Czar’s return from military headquarters at Spala some eight hundred kilometers away. I will do well to remember that he is in fact the active leader of the Russian army. Though he seems the least warlike of men, Commander-in-Chief may be the title he is proudest of.

Because of the diplomatic nature of the dinner, it was extremely well-attended. Even as I approached the Palace, a long line of carriages and limousines were depositing guests at the door. Most of the male guests were in the uniforms of Russian officers—medal bedecked and colorful in
bright blues and reds. The women might have come from Paris, and in fact their dresses in all likelihood had. Décolletage is quite the fashion, and since many of the women tend to be Rubenesque, the effect is striking and daring,
très haute monde
.

And jewelry!

The incredible jeweler Fabergé has his headquarters here in St. Petersburg, and his work is everywhere—tiaras, necklaces, bracelets, clasps and pins of every description glittered out of hairdos, between breasts, off throats and wrists. On every table were gem-encrusted ashtrays, cigarette cases, and knick-knacks, each of which could supply a regiment with food for a week.

As it happened, I had just removed my overcoat, feeling undepressed in evening clothes, when I heard a familiar voice behind me. Vladimir Sukhomlinov had entered the room, escorting a lovely woman whom I took to be his daughter.

“Ah, Monsieur Giraud,” he boomed on recognizing me, “you have made the party lists already. A good sign, a very good sign.” He crossed over to me, kissing me on both cheeks. He seemed already to have been drinking. “May I present to you my wife, Katrina.”

As much to keep from staring as out of politeness, I bowed over her hand and kissed it. Madame Sukhomlinov was stunning. Moreover, she could not yet be thirty!

But before we could get involved in any discussion, a short portly man, dressed simply as I was, smoking a long cigar, came through the door into the receiving room. Again Sukhomlinov boomed. “Ah, Maurice!
Vien ici
. Come and greet your fellow countryman.”

With some show of reluctance to which the General seemed oblivious, the man came over. “But surely you know one another?” Sukhomlinov asked. Upon seeing that we didn’t, he continued. “Your latest minister to court, Maurice. Jules Giraud, the French Ambassador, Maurice Paleologue.”

I was delighted to make Paleologue’s acquaintance under these circumstances. It was far better than the sometimes stilted etiquette that determined behavior in so many of the world’s embassies. Still, he seemed to be on his guard—his dark eyes revealing nothing of the man within. “I believe my staff extended an invitation for you to come to the Embassy just today,” he said. “They told me you had left the Winter Palace.”

“I’ll be staying here in Tsarkoye Selo from time to time,” I said. “The Empress had a chore or two for me.” I thought I would keep my actions suitably vague. Neither Sukhomlinov nor Paleologue need to know that I will be tutoring the prince.

“Alexandra is a great woman, another Catherine the Great,” Sukhomlinov said. “She is Russia’s savior.”

The Ambassador smiled coldly. “She has certainly been the savior of some Russians,” he said.

The General’s face hardened and began to turn red. His wife tugged at her husband’s sleeve. “We must get settled at the table, dear. Come along.” Stiffly, Sukhomlinov bowed to me and turned on his heel without another glance at Maurice.

“What was that about?” I asked.

Paleologue took me by the arm and we moved toward the dining hall. “I hope you are not too close to that man.”

I shrugged. “He seems a nice enough fellow.”

“He is Russia’s greatest living traitor.”

“Sukhomlinov? He is past Minister of War, isn’t he?”

The Ambassador laughed coldly. “He is also less than two months out of jail for treason. Freed by Alexandra Fedorovna, the Czarina.”

“Why did she free him? Was he guilty?”

“Oh,
sans doute
. But he is also a friend of the Friend.” He stopped me before we had joined the queue, punctuating his words with stabs from his cigar. “Rasputin!” he hissed. “Those are the kinds of men he favors—sycophants, hedonists and fools—and Sukhomlinov falls into all three categories. Did you meet his wife?”

I nodded.

“His fourth. A beauty, is she not?” Without waiting for me to answer, he went on, his voice rising. “And obviously aware of it herself. She spends more than our entire Embassy. And where did her husband get the money to keep her in the style which she demands? From systematically plundering the War Treasury for nearly two decades while he was Minister.”