Curse Not the King (25 page)

“Oh, Paul … Paul, don't! Don't distress yourself. Let me pour you some wine.…”

He shook his head, but his fingers returned the affectionate pressure of her own, and for a moment the staring, arrogant mask of the past few days vanished, and she saw only the tired, sick countenance of the man who had become more dear to her than life itself.

“My father …” he said slowly. “After all these years in an unworthy grave, I can give him the burial that is his due.…”

Concern for him blinded her then; seeing that terrible pallor, the throbbing cheek and red-rimmed eyes, she thought only of his health, of the excruciating headaches, the fits of melancholy which sometimes tormented him for days on end, racking his body and casting a terrifying, illogical cloud over his mind, and in her anxiety to protect him from himself, forgot the lesson that many a miserable quarrel had taught her. There were some lengths beyond which no one might safely go with Paul, some subjects, however dangerous or exaggerated, which were sacred to him and which must never be questioned or belittled. Urged on by selflessness and love she plunged into folly, and the treasonable words were spoken before she had time to realize what she had said.

“Oh, God, what does it matter! Why disturb the dead, why bring all this grief upon yourself, remembering a man you never really knew! Beloved, bury your father's bones again and shut the past in with them. Begin your life and reign afresh; what's done is done, and since you've pardoned Alexis Orlov, what use is this morbid vengeance on your mother!”

For a moment he said nothing, but the hand holding hers unclosed and withdrew with a violence that almost threw her to the ground.

“What does it matter?”

The question was unspeakably menacing, spoken in that soft voice through which anger sounded like a distant warning note.

“My father … usurped and strangled, my inheritance delayed for thirty-seven years … a lifetime of persecution, of suffering, of living under the shadow of death. You can dismiss it so lightly, Mademoiselle.… You think it of no consequence. I have pardoned the wretched tool of my mother, the vassal who slew on her orders, pardoned his life because he helped to secure me my throne.… Therefore you suppose all is forgotten!”

He had risen and stood over her, his clenched fist raised as if about to strike her where she half knelt at his feet, staring up at him in terror.

“If you loved me, you'd never have spoken those words!” He had begun to shout, rage and amazement flooding his heart and mind with a torrent of furious suspicion. How often had she said she loved him, repeating the formula like a hypnotic chant that robbed him of his judgment; kissed and clung to him, her body performing the motions of a passion that was obviously as spurious as her avowals! And for nearly nine years he had believed her, fallen dupe to a deception which she had just revealed in its true light.

“You fool! Are you so blind to your own ugliness that you think any woman could love you …?” Catherine's taunt, spat at him concerning Natalie Alexeievna, sounded in his brain as clearly as if she had returned to life and spoken it aloud.

And in that instant of unbalanced grief and temper, stung by the jibe delivered all those years ago and afterwards proved right when his adulterous wife was safely dead, Paul answered his own doubt concerning Catherine Nelidoff, answered it finally and accepted it like a death blow.

If she had really loved him, she would have loved and honoured what was most sacred in his life. If she had ever been sincere, she would have shared his grief and borne the burden of his hatred for those who had attempted his destruction.… Slowly his hands lowered to his sides, the blood drained out of his face, leaving it livid and contorted with pain.

“For the love of God, Mademoiselle.… Leave me, I beg of you.”

She caught at his knees, weeping in an agony of distress, her excuses choking in her constricted throat.

He stepped back from her, and she fell forward on the carpet, sobbing.

“Paul … Paul, my love … please listen.…”

“As you persist …” he said, and walked into his bedroom, slamming the door shut.

A moment later she heard the bolt shoot into its socket; Catherine's chambers which had never been fitted with locks were now equipped with every device necessary to guard against assassination. With the sound of final exclusion in her ears, Catherine Nelidoff fainted.

The news of the favourite's disgrace spread like wildfire through the Court; within a few hours of the quarrel Marie Feodorovna heard that the liaison of many years had ended and that the unhappy Nelidoff was prostrate in her rooms, waiting for the Emperor's orders to go into exile.

The new Empress was far less pleased than her informants had expected; the violent storms of the past had subsided, her husband's mistress had long ceased to wield the main influence over him, her hold was sentimental as well as sensual, and lately the result of that placid relationship had been one of growing harmony between the trio.

Marie walked up and down her boudoir, frowning and biting her full lower lip, torn between wifely spite and the regret of her common sense which foresaw all sorts of complications should Paul replace the Nelidoff with a more ambitious woman.

It was too late for pride, she decided, and ordered her chattering ladies to leave her alone. Paul still slept with her at rare intervals, and her sexual jealousy of Catherine Nelidoff had died the death of acceptance and indifference to an unalterable situation. Gradually they had come to share him and, since he was Czar and prepared to endow her with the wealth and privileges of his Consort, Marie had not the slightest ethical or emotional objection to his making love to her unattractive maid of honour.

“Oh, dear Heaven,” she murmured, “why must the little fool contradict him.… I'll swear that's what she did.… Just when we had all settled down in peace.… I can see I shall have to do something.”

And she went in person to Paul to persuade him to take his mistress back.

He was signing papers when she entered, and the sight of Araktchéief standing behind his chair checked her words. Paul looked up and greeted her politely; he was very pale and his eyes were red-rimmed with sleeplessness. Marie noticed distastefully that the nerve in his left cheek was jumping visibly under the skin.

“Sit down, Madame, if you please. M. Araktchéief is just discussing a few matters with me. We will not be a moment.”

The man who had just been created military commander of Petersburg bowed low to the Empress and regarded her with the hostility reserved for any woman connected with his beloved master.

Together they had completed the arrangements for absorbing Paul's loyal Gatchina garrison into the guards regiments, always the forcing house of plots and counter-revolutions, thereby rewarding the most notorious collection of military ruffians in the country with all the privileges and honours enjoyed by the Russian nobility. Also the proposed war against. France had been abandoned, for Paul declared that he brought peace rather than bloodshed to his people. At the same time he ordered the imprisonment of one of Catherine's favourite footmen for having been a witness of her amours; and signed the warrant for his removal to the Peter and Paul fortress where he subsequently went mad in an underground dungeon. There were others, Araktchéiet pointed out, while Marie sat on the edge of her gilt chair, her fear increasing with every moment as she listened to that cold voice, suggesting a long list of atrocities for the Czar's approval.

The late Empress's confessor was to be prosecuted, and had his Majesty forgotten that infamous woman whose part in the Revolution and death of his illustrious father would go down to history?

The Princess Dashkev, Paul echoed, remembering that his mother had abandoned her friend soon after the
coup d'état,
because her lover Gregory Orlov hated her. That old friendship had never really been resumed and the Princess now lived most of the time on her estates. “She is to be banished to Korotoya. I believe it is very cold.…”

Then two secretaries in the employ of Plato Zubov were consigned to prison, and having disposed of a host of lesser creatures, Araktchéief reminded the Czar of a much more powerful victim.

“What of Prince Plato Zubov, Sire?”

Paul looked up at him and smiled grimly.

“Patience,” he said quietly, “patience. We will come to him later. And to Alexis Orlov. Go now, my friend. I will attend the parade in an hour's time.”

Marie Feodorovna rose from her chair and went to him, her plump legs trembling under her, having witnessed the downfall of a score of persons being sanctioned in the course of a few minutes. Unimaginative and stupid as she was, Marie had seen the true nature of her position, of the position indeed of every living soul surrounding Paul. His displeasure had always been a source of dread, even in the old days of his powerless youth; now the loss of his favour could mean death or exile to Siberia, or, if his mood was cruel, incarceration in some dank, airless hole beneath the level of the ground until the blind and half-crazed prisoner prayed to die.

She who had quarrelled with him, complained against him to Catherine, tormented the Nelidoff and incurred his wrath a hundred times in the past, now fell on her knees beside his chair, trembling in every limb, and tried to maintain their amiable truce and make amends for former folly, by pleading with tears for her old rival.

“Mademoiselle! Mademoiselle, the Empress is here and wishes to see you!”

Catherine Nelidoff raised herself on the bed where she had lain for twenty-four hours, the prey of utter despair, refusing food and comfort.

Listening to the agitated page, she jumped to the conclusion that Marie Feodorovna had come to gloat over her enemy, or even to deliver Paul's sentence of exile.

For all her weakness, her prostration in the face of her lover's anger, she possessed her own brand of courage.

“Beg Her Majesty to allow me a few moments' grace. I shall wait upon her as soon as I am dressed.”

The page withdrew, and Katya Nelidoff fastened a long velvet robe over her nightdress, sponged her face with toilet water and combed her dark hair into some semblance of order. Then she went into the room where Paul's wife waited.

The sight of her fallen enemy shocked Marie Feodorovna, whose eyes were not deceived by the neat
déshabillé
and the formal curtsy with which the Nelidoff greeted her.

Instead she noted the desperate pallor, the nervously interlocking hands, and reflected that the other woman's sallowness and irregularity of feature were now accentuated into ugliness by strain and grief.

“Sit down, Mademoiselle,” she said and her tone was unexpectedly kind. “You look ill. I am quite concerned about you.”

“I thank your Majesty,” whispered the unhappy Nelidoff, the ready tears filling her eyes, aware that the words were free from sarcasm.

Marie coughed awkwardly, until the memory of Paul sitting signing death warrants overcame her diffidence.

“I have good news for you,” she said. “I heard of your plight and interceded for you. The Emperor has decided to let you stay at Court.”

Catherine Nelidoff threw herself at the Empress's feet and burst into a flood of tears.

“You interceded.…” she sobbed, overwhelmed with shame. “Oh, my God, how can I thank you …?”

“Please control yourself, Mademoiselle. There's no need to cry now. I'll grant you a few moments to recover and then I would like to talk to you.”

Paul's mistress wiped her face with a handkerchief and rising, rang for her page.

“Will your Majesty have a little wine?” she asked, and sensing the other's need of it, Marie nodded.

The Nelidoff seated herself once more, and drank a full glass of wine before the Empress judged her calm.

“I think the time has come for us to be quite frank with one another,” Marie remarked at last. “Therefore I wish you to understand that however I may have resented your relationship with my husband in the past, I have no objection to it now. The Czar is … er … difficult sometimes and I am aware that your good offices are as necessary as my own to keep him placid.… In the circumstances I am prepared to take you under my protection and offer you my friendship. My first duty is to my husband and I consider you to be a benefit to him.…”

Catherine Nelidoff's face flushed to the roots of her dark hair as she gazed at the calm, colourless countenance of the woman who had been so long accounted a bore and a nonentity. For the first time she recognized a certain dignity and for an instant suspected that the Empress Marie was less of a fool than her enemies supposed her. That flash of insight was correct, for twenty years of living in the midst of fierce and tortuous intrigue had schooled the stolid German Princess in the art of guarding her own interests even at the expense of her pride.

The suspicion that she now befriended her rival in order to make use of her passed through the Nelidoff's mind and was swept away on a flood of gratitude and thanksgiving.

She went down on her knees and pressed Marie's plump fingers to her lips.

“You've been so kind, Madame; I'm in your debt for the rest of my life!”

“Not kind, my dear Mademoiselle,” the Empress responded. “Just sensible. Now I advise you to go and repair your toilette so that the Czar won't see a pale face and red eyes at the reception this evening.…”

Once outside the Nelidoff's apartments, Marie sighed with relief, confident that after that interview the lady's gratitude would be unbounded.

“Thank God,” she mused, “as long as she's with him I shall be safe. And so will Alexander!”

Then she hurried to tell her eldest son that he, too, must enlist the friendship of Paul's mistress.

It was a clever move, and for a time the strong and secret faction who detested both Katya Nelidoff and the Empress Marie were confounded by the outward reconciliation. As always a crowd of parasites followed in the train of the Royal favourite and the generous and unsuspecting Nelidoff had secured posts for her relatives and friends in the Czarevitch's Gatchina household and again on his accession to the throne, thereby incurring the hatred of many of Paul's intimates who coveted these places for themselves.