Rebel Princess (34 page)

“Natalie. Do you like me a little?”

He was like an animal, she reflected desperately, avoiding those sad, searching eyes; a creature starved of love, and pitiful despite the trappings of power and grandeur which disguised his state.

The heir to one of the mightiest European thrones sat at her side, begging for her approval like the humblest suitor, suing for what was already his by right. In all the short time that remained to them, she would never come nearer loving Paul than on that first night of their marriage.

“Indeed,” she whispered, “indeed, I like you very much …” and it was only half a lie.

In her own suite, the Empress and her chief Minister, Panin, were discussing the despatch from the Urals.

The Count affected to minimize the danger. He assured Catherine that a few troops and cannon would scatter the rebels, and he treated the question of the self-styled Peter the Third with amused contempt.

“The reports say he is a Cossack named Emilian Pugachev,” he remarked. “From my knowledge of your good subjects of the Don, he's apt to be above six feet in height and powerful as a bull.… I fancy he bears small resemblance to the illustrious Czar! Come, Madame, don't disturb yourself! It's unfortunate that such news should arrive on a joyful occasion, but I assure you these rabble will be put down and their leader captured within a few weeks. As for this Pugachev, we'll make an example of him that will discourage others from trying on dead shoes.…”

Catherine rose and began to walk up and down. She seemed restless and angry, impatient of Panin's soothing explanations.

“I cannot take your light-hearted view, Nikita. My people rebel against me; they follow a man they believe to be my husband! Don't you see what this means to me? What if you capture a thousand Pugachevs and put them all to death? … My trust in my people has been shaken by this. I believed them satisfied; God knows I have never played the tyrant! Ten years ago all Russia cried out against Peter: now they rebel in his name.…

“I have done my best, you know that, Nikita. Tell me, have I been harsh or cruel to my subjects? Haven't I made the name of Russia feared all over Europe, increased our power and possessions? Yet twice in ten years I have been faced with revolution. Not palace revolution, but disloyalty from the people themselves!”

Panin abandoned his pretence and followed the Empress's example in frankness.

“If I may speak openly, Madame, you've always been too mild. In Russia, obedience is only ensured by fear, and fear is something that you have never taught the common people. The Court, yes. They know you and they know me. They do not dare to plot; and since the death of Ivan there is no alternative to you but the Czarevitch.”

“And no one would depose me to put him in my place, is that what you mean?”

Panin shrugged. “Only a traitor and a fool would think of deposing you, Madame.”

“Don't flatter me, Panin. You tell me I've been weak with the people; would you have me become a tyrant?”

“It may be necessary, if you would keep your throne in peace.”

Catherine stopped abruptly. She looked tired and drawn. Panin, whose fortunes depended upon her supremacy, begged her to sit down.

She seated herself wearily and accepted the glass of wine he offered her.

“I've tried to do my best, Nikita,” she said slowly.

“I know, Madame, and if kindness has led you into error, it's no great fault. I beg you to place this rebellion in the hands of my brother, Peter Panin. He'll know how to deal with this Cossack rabble. Only you must allow him to enforce what measures he thinks fit.…”

The Empress regarded him with hard, unhappy eyes.

“I won't tolerate ingratitude. As you say, Nikita, since my subjects do not love me, then they shall learn to fear me. The rebels are to be punished with the utmost severity, and their leader must be taken alive. I wish your brother to forget that there is such a word as mercy until the last follower of Pugachev has been hunted down!”

The Minister smiled and nodded.

“I shall draw up those orders, Madame. And I promise you they will be most faithfully carried out.”

Catherine set down her wine glass suddenly and turned to him.

“Shall I never escape Peter Feodorovitch, my friend? Must I be haunted by him for the rest of my life?”

“I assure you, Madame, this crazed Cossack …”

“I don't mean Pugachev,” she interrupted. “He is one form of Peter, but have you forgotten the other?”

“Your Majesty means the Czarevitch?”

“Who else? My enemy, Panin, and my rival. You say the Court would never conspire against me in his favour; but what of the people? If they'll follow an impostor like this Pugachev, how much more dangerous is my son.…”

Panin moved his chair a little closer to her.

“Perhaps your Majesty sees the wisdom of the advice I have given you these last few years. Imprison him, Madame. Abandon your maternal scruples and send him to the Schüsselburg. Return this child from Darmstadt to her home and let me arrest the Czarevitch. We can say he was implicated in the Pugachev plot.…” he added.

Catherine smiled cynically. “You're very anxious for his death, aren't you, Nikita? I'll swear there is a cell already prepared for him.…”

“It has been waiting for the past three years, Madame. Ivan's cell.… You have only to give the word!”

Catherine Alexeievna rose and walked to the window. She stood with her face in shadow, and he waited for her to answer.

One word, one sign, and he would be free to remove the greatest menace to her safety and his own. She was safe from palace revolution, he had said, but the statement was a lie.

It was true that the Court feared her too much to plot against her yet, but in Petersburg as everywhere else, there were malcontents, men greedy for advancement and riches who had failed to receive them at her hands. And then there were the people. He had not expected her to reckon with them, for she lacked his knowledge of the seething unrest among the overtaxed, ill-fed masses, still labouring in serfdom. Paul Petrovitch was the answer to the seditious hopes of Court and country, should they decide to rise against the usurper Empress, and Nikita Panin and his friends would never know peace or security until they had persuaded his mother to put him to death.

“I'm going to disappoint your hopes, my friend. You are not to lay hands on the Czarevitch. Whatever his disloyalty, he is still my son, and I can't bring myself to shed his blood.”

Panin bowed in submission, his fat face set with chagrin.

“As your Majesty commands. But I shall continue to have him watched, with your permission.”

Sensing the anger in his voice, Catherine left the window and came to him. She smiled, and instinctively Panin's hopes rose.

“Because I refuse your request, don't, think I disregard your warning. I have reason to respect your judgment, Nikita.… It's necessary that I should have an heir to stabilize the throne, you understand. When the Grand Duchess Natalie bears a child, we'll reconsider this question of my son's retirement from the world.…”

Apparently satisfied, the Minister kissed her hand and retired. On the way to his own apartments he passed the suite allotted to Paul for his wedding night and his pace became suddenly slower at the sight of a man leaning against the corridor wall, watching the entrance to the Czarevitch's rooms. A lackey stood guard by the ante-room door, and by the light of the candelabra which the servant held, Panin paused before the unknown.

“Are you keeping some vigil, friend, that you're not gone to your own quarters at this hour?”

The man he addressed raised his head and bowed unsteadily. To his surprise Panin recognized Paul's equerry, André Rasumovsky. He also noted that the young man was undoubtedly drunk.

“Well, André, what are you doing here? Watching over your master?” he asked smoothly, suddenly curious.

Rasumovsky bowed again.

“You must forgive my zeal, Count Panin. I came to offer my humble good wishes to their Highnesses … but I find them already retired.… Such haste is natural when the bride is so beautiful,” he said, and his tone was as strange as his expression.

Panin regarded him attentively.

“I advise you to go to bed, André. The Czarevitch has no need of your attendance at this hour. He is surrounded by those who wish him well. Now go to your rooms.”

Rasumovsky stepped away from the wall which had supported him and stood swaying in the middle of the corridor.

“I am obedient, my dear Count. I retire as you suggest.…” He turned towards the door of the bridal suite and swept the astonished lackey a deep, unsteady bow.

“God bless the Czarevitch,” he muttered savagely.

“And grant him long life,” responded Catherine's chief Minister smoothly.

Then he departed, walking with the soft-footed speed common to many fat men, and silence enveloped the dark palace corridors once more.

2

Four months after their marriage, the Grand Duke and Duchess followed the Empress to the Summer Palace of Tsarskoë Selo, and there, in a setting of perfect architectural and scenic beauty, Paul enjoyed greater happiness and freedom than he had ever known.

Etiquette was slack. Catherine herself relaxed from the business of affairs of State, gave intimate parties from which her son was naturally excluded, and generally left him to his own devices. He was at liberty to please himself, and the fount of all his pleasure, the mainspring of his life, was Natalie Alexeievna.

He was so hopelessly in love with her that his subjection would have been ridiculous if it had not strengthened him in other ways. He insisted on her company for every minute of the day, dismissed his equerries and her ladies-in-waiting, and, clasping her hand in his, hurried her away into romantic solitude. He never tired of watching her, of admiring her beauty, of listening to the tone of her sweet voice, and he loved her with a passion that was almost frenzy.

His shyness had given place to manhood and growing confidence, his step was firm, his glance direct, and in his treatment of his wife, he was tenderness itself. And like all lovers, he was mercifully blind. The essential shallowness of her nature and weakness of character eluded him; he worshipped in happy ignorance of the fact that his bride was neither in love with him nor as trustworthy as he supposed.

He never suspected that their long rides through the snow were nightmares of exercise and endurance to the shivering Natalie; that she was as bored by his lectures on military tactics and Russian politics as she was unmoved by his love-making. And he also failed to notice that her eyes followed the figure of another man, and watched him with an expression that was absent when she looked upon her husband.

Before she left for Russia, her advisers had warned her to expect little personal happiness; a loveless marriage was the lot of royalty, and Natalie was prepared for indifference and neglect. She knew nothing of what love might mean, and Paul's devotion bewildered and frightened her.

His tastes were alien; he revelled in exercise which she hated, bored her with intellectual discussions which were beyond her understanding, loaded her with priceless gifts whose value she did not appreciate, and in the middle of showing her some treasure in his library, he often threw the books aside and took her in his arms.

She thought him violent in his enthusiasm and unbalanced in his hatred of his enemies. And inwardly she shrank from his devouring passion for herself.

For the first time in his life Paul had a confidante, and the full flood of his grievances and hopes were poured into his wife's ear. The weeks in Petersburg had been a nightmare to Natalie; her early dislike of the Empress was increased a hundredfold by the tale of treachery and hatred that Paul told her, and often he repeated the story of the late Czar's death until her flesh crept with horror; and sometimes, taking her arm, he pointed out one of Catherine's most favoured intimates, a gigantic Guards officer, with one side of his face furrowed by a jagged sabre scar. That man, Paul whispered savagely, was the one who had strangled his father.

The other brother, Gregory Orlov, had returned to court after their wedding, returned, so rumour said, to oust the Empress's new lover, Vassiltchikov, and regain his former place in her affections.

Natalie only spoke to him once, when he was formally presented to her; and despite her rank, she blushed under that impudent, lustful stare, and for a moment understood why Catherine herself, whose word was the law of life and death, had run from a palace ballroom and hidden in her Minister Panin's rooms, when she first heard that Gregory Orlov had defied her and come back to Court.

She had never seen such men as these—giants and barbarians, without fear of God or man; the immensity of their build and personality terrified her more than it fascinated; she was not Catherine, who Could love an Orlov and yet remain free.

To illustrate the point of his mother's depravity and the kind of men she honoured, Paul repeated the old tale of the young Lieutenant Potemkin, another traitor who had helped the Empress to usurp the throne. He, too, had wished to become Catherine's lover, until the elder Orlov, Alexis the royal murderer, had dispensed with this rival to his brother's place by picking a quarrel with him during a game of billiards, and knocking his eye out with a well-aimed cue.

Armoured by inexperience, Natalie turned from the Empress and her Court in horror and disgust, unaware that her censure and dislike were rooted in jealousy and discontent. She hated Catherine, hated her for her brilliance and her power, for the freedom with which she ordered her life and arranged her love affairs, taking and discarding whom she would, while her daughter-in-law remained tied to an ugly, ardent husband and tried to pretend that her mind and body did not yearn for someone else.

At Tsarskoë Selo, Natalie finally ceased pretending to herself as well as to the world and to the unsuspecting Czarevitch.