Rebel Princess (24 page)

He accorded his new position the respect with which he treated all things Russian, and spent the first days of his accession in an orgy of drunkenness and hysterical debauch. He was ruler at last; all men's lives and property were his to dispose of as he wished; the limitless expanse of a kingdom so vast that it comprised almost a continent within its borders had come under his domain; wealth and power without measure had devolved upon him; and Peter Feodorovitch took refuge in the comforting oblivion of wine.

For twenty years the specter of the Russian Crown had tormented and oppressed him; the magnitude and responsibility which was Elizabeth Petrovna's legacy had filled him with rebellious terror, even as the immensity of her power had threatened to overwhelm his weaker personality when he should be called upon to wield it. His vision of vengeance and freedom had never quite dispelled his fears, and the new Czar regarded his kingdom and subjects as if he had been suddenly thrust into a cage of wild beasts and left to tame them.

His aunt, whose corpse lay in state on a huge bier in the palace, had used her authority to persecute and punish him, to banish his friends and honor his enemies. Peter emerged from his dissipations with the fixed intention of imitating her actions in reverse.

Almost his first thought, once the long, colorful ceremony of swearing allegiance to him was ended, had been to send soldiers to arrest his wife, and only the habit of unwilling obedience had caused him to listen to the exhortations of Chancellor Vorontzov.

“I beg Your Majesty to wait. To arrest the Empress now would be a sacrilege so soon after the death of your Imperial Aunt; only restrain your justice for a few more months; wait until you have truly gathered power over the people. The Empress is helpless, Majesty, and her repudiation will be a simple thing. It has been done a hundred times by other Czars, but not within the hour of their inheriting the throne. Such an affair would make her a martyr and brand you a tyrant! Within a few months you will be as firmly settled at the head of the State as if you had ruled it a dozen years, and the arrest or death of Catherine Alexeievna can be accomplished overnight.”'

His words were persuasive, and at last even his niece's slow intelligence acknowledged the wisdom of his advice. Let Catherine wait, suffering the torments of suspense, and the thousand last humiliations which Elizabeth Vorontzov and her royal lover would be able to inflict upon her in the meantime.

Yet despite all the efforts of his advisers, Peter had begun his reign by affronting those traditions most dear to his people's heart; careless of the Chancellor's entreaties, he received his ministers and reviewed his troops dressed in splendid Prussian uniform, glittering with German decorations.

By contrast, the Czarina spoke Russian faultlessly, her habits, dress and bearing entirely belied the German blood which ran in her veins, and none took greater care than she to disguise her foreign origin.

The child she carried stirred with life; within a few short weeks it would be born, and the burden of incapacity would be lifted from her. No one but Gregory and Vladyslava knew her secret, and the impatient Princess Dashkov urged her day and night to give the word for which a growing number of conspirators were waiting.

Among them, still in his post of tutor to the little Czarevitch, remained Count Nikita Panin.

The good Count had lost a little weight in recent weeks, his rounded cheeks were pale and his little eyes blinked warily. Without the Empress's will to legalize his plans, Panin was inclined to hesitate; his abundant flesh crawled a little at the thought of an unsuccessful rising and consequences for him as a chief conspirator.

Quite soon after Elizabeth's death, the Count made his way to Catherine's rooms, his visit excused by the Czarevitch Paul, who dragged unwillingly at his heels.

It was the first interview with the Czarina since Elizabeth's death, and his intention was to withdraw from the plot he had himself proposed to her during the summer of the previous year.

Catherine received him seated in a high-backed gilt chair. Her black velvet gown accentuated her pallor but her blue eyes were hard and glittering. She guessed only too well the reason for this visit; clever, unscruplous Panin was going to step down from a cause he judged to be already lost, and with him would depart a host of useful sympathizers. But, for all his shrewdness, he had made the mistake of many; even his acknowledgment of her talents and ambition had underestimated Catherine Alexeievna.

The first thing the Count noticed was that the Czarina was not alone; a man stood by the window, his immense height silhouetted against the sunlit panes, his back towards the room and its occupants. It seemed to Panin as he bowed over Catherine's hand that the outline of that figure was familiar.…

Smiling, he presented the little Paul to his mother and waited while Catherine embraced her son with indifferent haste. If Panin was going to play the innocent, then she must shatter that pretense as only she knew how.

“His Imperial Highness is well, Your Majesty,” commenced the tutor. “I have only good reports of progress and behavior.…” Catherine held up her hand for silence and regarded him with a hard, unsmiling stare.

“I shall hear your praises of my son another time, Count Panin. Send the boy into the next room where Vladyslava will amuse him. I have other matters to discuss with you.” The bland expression on Panin's face became a trifle strained but he could not disobey. Once the door had closed behind the Czarevitch, Catherine turned towards the man whose identity was puzzling the good Count.

“Gregory! Come here; I would present a friend of mine.” Orlov, whose stance had never altered, left his post by the window and walked over to the Czarina's chair; he stood behind it and looked long and searchingly at Panin.

“Count Orlov, this is my son's tutor, Count Nikita Panin. A fellow conspirator,” Catherine added distinctly, and the minister winced. The two men bowed and Panin began to sweat under the other's unblinking scrutiny. He knew Count Orlov by reputation as well as by sight, and his attitude in that room left no doubt as to her relationship with the Czarina. How long had that been going on under the noses of them all?

Catherine watched Panin with hard eyes. So he had come to wriggle out of his own plot, had he? Well, doubtless after she had done, he would have changed his mind!

She came at once to the point.

“Since her late Majesty's will has been destroyed, I think it as well that we should review the situation. Doubtless that was your reason for coming to see me.”

The minister shuffled and tugged uncomfortably at his cravat. Damn the woman, she knew very well why he had come!

“A most unfortunate occurrence, Madame. Quite disastrous to our plans,” he stammered.

“Unfortunate, as you say, Count, and criminal as a deed. But I would not describe it as disastrous. You yourself informed me of Elizabeth Petrovna's wishes and, whatever the actions of a traitor, it is our duty to see that her last desires are carried out.”

While she spoke, it occurred to Panin that neither she nor the fearsome Orlov intended to let him withdraw; he wished with all his heart that the silent Lieutenant of Guards would cease staring at him with those cold, pitiless blue eyes.

How alike they both were, the barbarian soldier and the beautiful cultured Czarina, hard-eyed and implacable in the pursuit of their design. Well fitted for one another; and for the first time Nikita Panin glimpsed the true nature of the woman he had thought to use for his own ends. A tigress of ambition lurked behind that false exterior; as he looked at her he saw the fruition of Bestujev's early judgment, the mask of dignity and charm no longer quite concealed the passionate sensuality which could bind such a man as Gregory Orlov. Lover and mistress they appeared without a doubt, and, despite himself, Panin felt his resolution weakening. His fat hands fluttering nervously; he made a last attempt.

“In principle Your Majesty is right, of course. But to carry honor to such lengths—to endanger your life and the life of your son—I would beg you to consider; might it not be better to forget our plan? Elizabeth Petrovna is dead, there is no proof she ever left a will. When the Czar is crowned it will be difficult to persuade anyone that the throne does not belong to him.”

“The Czar is not crowned yet, Count Panin. And he has named no date for his coronation. You speak of danger in this enterprise.… Well, I think you cannot be ignorant of what everyone in Russia knows; that my husband intends to repudiate and murder me! I have no doubt my son would also share that fate. We have little to lose, my friend, that Peter the Third has not already declared forfeit in his heart. We are all in this affair together and I fear that you will be one of those who stand or fall with me!”

The Count went very pale and his face shone with perspiration. Catherine regarded him without mercy, once she had made this threat.

“I think the Count understands the wisdom of your words, Madame,” remarked Orlov abruptly. “I think the Count would prefer your protection and my friendship in the days the come. The lack of them could cost him his head,” he added flatly.

Panin had been a statesman for too long not to know when he was beaten. If anyone could wrest the throne from Peter without a legal right to it, it was this woman and her lover.

He bowed low over her white hand.

“Your majesty can count on my loyalty and support. Believe me, I have no love for tyrants!”

“Nor I, my dear Count. I knew I could rely upon you; and I promise you that in the hour of my success I shall know how to reward my friends!” For some reason, Panin believed this assurance to be as genuine as the threats which had preceded it. She would reward him, if the
coup d'état
succeeded, just as she would implicate him without hope of extrication if he withdrew or betrayed the plot.

He left the royal apartments, wiping his face with an embroidered handkerchief, dragging the protesting Czarevitch by the hand. He was considerably shaken by the ordeal, and not until some hours later did he realize that the Czarina had never mentioned her son's succession to the throne.…

As the months went by and the great yearly migration of the court to the Summer Palace took place as usual, an air of growing tension and uneasiness spread over the capital.

Peter the Third was escaping the restraint of his Chancellor and the wily Volkov who had become his secretary; they poured advice into his ear and Peter, whose whole life had been spent in bending unwillingly to the dictates of others, decided that he did not need to listen. He was getting used to power, to the odd sensation of giving an order, however ridiculous, and seeing it instantly obeyed. The ever present sense of his own inadequacy took a perverted turn and urged him to test the strength of the chain which tethered his subjects in obedience.

To the horror of Vorontzov, he began to interfere with the Church. He hated the dogma, pretensions and elaborate ritual of Orthodoxy. Also Elizabeth Petrovna had been devoted to the Church.

The thunderstruck Archbishop Arssenij received a demand from the Czar that all ecclesiastical lands should become the property of the State. Further messages revealed that the new Emperor intended to have his priests shorn of their beards and dressed in the simple cassocks of Lutheran clergy, and that he proposed to build a Protestant chapel in the palace itself.

Not even Catherine had dared hope for such an act of lunacy; the whole organization of clerical power rose in violent opposition and all over Russia the name of Peter was vilified and denounced by priests who saw in him a menace to their sacred rights.

While the Czarina went regularly to church, the Czar declared himself a patron of heresy, and it was one of the ironical jests of Fate that the might of Orthodoxy should range itself on the side of the atheist Catherine.

Outside the Russian border the world waited, watching Peter Feodorovitch proceeding obstinately along the path of his own destruction, wondering when the Czarina would break her silence and make a move. It was not the first time that a madman had sat upon the throne of the ancient Muscovite Czars, but few of them would have been lunatic enough to leave a wife like Catherine at liberty for so long.

The hope of Vorontzov that he could make a popular ruler out of Peter was fast vanishing; no man's word could turn the Emperor from the course of alienating the loyalest of his subjects, and it came to the Chancellor's mind that the arrest of Catherine in the beginning could hardly have caused more scandal than Peter's violation of every known law of Church and State.

In conference with Volkov, the Chancellor decided that the two focal points of discontent were Catherine Alexeievna and the legendary prisoner Ivan, now grown to manhood in his dungeon. Revolution might be proclaimed at any moment in the name of either one, and the only way of securing Peter on the throne was to eliminate any possible successor. In time Ivan Ivanovitch could be accorded the merciful release of silent death. But it would be as well to deal with Catherine first.

“Gentlemen, I tell you it is a damned insult to the army! I swear I'll run my sword through the first cursed Prussian who shows his nose in the palace!”

Alexis Orlov drew the weapon out of its scabbard as he spoke, and the shining blade flashed in the smoky, torchlit barrack-room. The long, bare chamber was filled with men, some sitting round the table which ran down the center of the room, others leaning against the wall, all of them with glasses in their hands. Their body servants moved among them carefully, refilling empty cups, and there was silence while Alexis spoke.

A little further down, Gregory sat drinking and watching his brother; Alexis was the orator, and he presented a fine picture in his handsome uniform, sword in hand, and that hideous scar on his face throbbing with emotion. It occurred to Gregory that his brother was most probably in love with Catherine himself.…

Alexis glared round him, and there were many faces among the assembled officers whose expressions matched his own.