Imperial Splendour

by Barbara Cartland

  She spat out the words venomously and then seemed to be swept away down the corridor by other people running, shouting and yelling out vehemently against the French and their leader, Napoleon Bonaparte.

  The Princess found her carriage waiting and, as she and Tania drove away, the girl said tentatively,

  “Will the French kill us, Mama?”

  “I am sure that your father and the Russian Army will stop them long before they reach St. Petersburg,” the Princess asserted firmly.

  At the same time she crossed herself as she spoke and murmured a short prayer to God beneath her breath.

  Back at the Ysevolsov Palace everything seemed to be calm and quiet after the tumult of The Winter Palace.

  It was obvious that the bad news had not yet reached the servants and the Major Domo merely stepped forward to report,

  “His Grace the Duke of Welminster called when you were out, Your Highness.”

  The Princess frowned.

  “Did you tell him at what time I would return?”

  “He did not ask, Your Highness, but he spoke for some time with Mademoiselle Vallon and she may have conveyed the information to him.”

  “He spoke with Mademoiselle Vallon?” the Princess asked sharply.

  “He asked for her, Your Highness, and I informed His Grace that she was in the Music Room.”

  The Princess’s lips tightened.

  She had thought several times about the strange way that the Duke and Zoia had stood staring at each other when they had first met.

  It had seemed peculiar at the time and now, as she remembered how interested the Duke had seemed in Zoia, her eyes darkened.

  Without saying anything to Tania, she swept up the stairs and heard before she reached the landing, the sounds of music, which told her where Zoia was to be found.

  She opened the door.

  Zoia was sitting at the piano, her face raised, her eyes lifted as if she was looking into space and was totally unaware of what was happening in the world around her.

  She had a radiant expression, which made her look lovelier than the Princess had ever seen her.

  Harshly she banged the door behind her, shutting out Tania who had followed her mother upstairs.

  The sound immediately jerked Zoia back to reality.

  She ceased playing and rose slowly to her feet as the Princess advanced towards her.

  When she reached the piano, the Princess demanded in a hard voice,

  “I understand the Duke of Welminster has been here?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “And he stayed some time?”

  “Not for ‒ very long, ma’am.”

  “How long?”

  “I don’t know exactly,” Zoia replied.

  “You know as well as I do, you have no right to entertain gentlemen in my absence. It is not the way I expect a young woman staying in my house to behave.”

  “I am sorry, ma’am,” Zoia answered, “but the Duke came into the room unexpectedly. When he realised that you were not at home ‒ he talked for a few minutes and then left.”

  “What did he say? What did he talk about?”

  Zoia was quiet for a moment and then she answered,

  “About music – and my father.”

  Because she appeared to answer the question in such a straightforward and truthful way, the Princess should have been placated, but somehow it seemed to make her angrier than she was already.

  All the resentment she felt at Zoia overshadowing Tania and the way, without apparently making any effort she attracted men, seemed to boil up inside her until she could no longer contain herself.

  “Your countrymen are marching on St. Petersburg,” she snapped. “They threaten our lives and everything we hold dear and sacred. You had best return to your father for I have no intention of sheltering an enemy!”

  As the Princess had begun to speak, Zoia’s eyes widened and there was no doubt of her astonishment at what she heard.

  Then, as the Princess finished, almost spitting the last words at her, she said quietly but with a dignity that was unassailable,

  “I understand, ma’am, and I will leave immediately ‒ for Moscow. I can only thank you for your hospitality and say that my father and I are ‒ very grateful.”

  She curtseyed and, as if the Princess was suddenly aware of how young and slight she was, she said in a voice that was a little less aggressive,

  “I will order a travelling carriage for you and enough of our most trusted servants to accompany you and ensure your safety.”

  “Thank you ‒ very much, ma’am.”

  Zoia curtseyed again and went from the room.

  *

  The Duke was with the Czar when the rumour that Napoleon was now moving towards St. Petersburg was brought to him.

  Alexander read the despatch and his face paled as he handed it without saying a word to the Duke.

  The Duke read what was written in large sprawling and half-unintelligible writing in the communiqué and commented,

  “Quite frankly, I don’t believe this, Sire.”

  “Why not?” the Czar enquired.

  “Because if it was true you would have heard from General Kutuzov himself.”

  “The despatch is not from him?”

  “No, Sire. It has been sent to you by Count Povolsk who, I think you will remember, was in your suite when we met in Vienna.”

  “Yes, yes, I do remember.”

  “I always thought the Count to be a dilettante and a gossiper. I don’t know what position he holds in the Russian Army, but I would not rate it very high.”

  The Czar snatched the despatch from the Duke’s hand and read it again.

  “I believe you are right,” he admitted. “We should not pay too much attention to this until we have further confirmation from Kutuzov himself.”

  Unfortunately when the Duke left the Czar’s apartments, he found that the despatch had been read by Members of the Government before it reached the Czar and the Courier who carried it had conveyed its contents to everybody he met.

  It was the kind of thing, he knew, that would never have happened in the British Army and he was appalled at the hysteria that had taken possession not only of The Winter Palace but also of the inhabitants of St. Petersburg.

  He soon learned that the majority of the noble families were packing their valuables into carriages and moving from the City to their houses in the country.

  So only the poor would be left helpless and unprotected and crowds of them now stood outside The Winter Palace, staring at the huge edifice as if they felt that only some Divine Providence linked with the Czar himself could save them.

  The Duke was certain that with Moscow directly in their line of advance and far nearer it was extremely unlikely that Napoleon would change direction and march on St. Petersburg.

  What he might do after capturing Moscow was a very different matter, but the Duke, who at one time had been a soldier himself, was quite certain from a Military point of view that St. Petersburg would not be the immediate objective.

  It was, however, difficult to find anyone to discuss it with him let alone agree with him.

  Finally he talked to Lord Cathcart, the British Ambassador, who informed him, what he had not known before, that Sir Robert Wilson, who was known as ‘the English General’, was with the Russian Army.

  Sir Robert had acquired a European reputation as an expert on Russia at war when he had written a book published two years earlier and studied by all the Military specialists of the age including Napoleon Bonaparte himself.

  Lord Cathcart informed the General that Sir Robert had been sent out by the British Government from Turkey to the Russian Front and had arrived only just in time to witness the fall of Smolensk.

  “He is with them now,” Lord Cathcart said, “and I am awaiting a report from him about what is occurring.”

  He smiled as he added,

  “You will understand, Your Grace, that I find his reports very much more cred
ible than those that come from the Russians and they often mislead the Czar.”

  The Duke then settled himself more comfortably in the chair in the Ambassador’s very impressive Reception room.

  “I am very relieved at what you tell me, my Lord,” he said, “and, if it is true that you are expecting a despatch at any moment, I would like to wait for it.”

  “I shall be delighted for you to do so,” Lord Cathcart replied.

  The Courier, however, carrying the despatch from Sir Robert Wilson did not arrive until very late in the evening.

  The Duke stayed on at the British Embassy for dinner and only when they had finished an excellent meal did a servant intimate to his host that the Courier had just arrived.

  There was no doubt that both the Ambassador and the Duke were feeling tense as the Ambassador himself undid the despatch.

  He read it first and then, with a sigh that was obviously one of relief, he passed it to the Duke.

  Robert Wilson wrote crisply and positively that he understood General Kutuzov intended to halt his retreating troops who had been moving steadily back in front of the advancing French and would engage the invaders in battle before they reached Moscow.

  “That is Bonaparte’s current objective,” he wrote “And there is no doubt that he must be prevented from achieving it.”

  That was the end of the despatch, which was a short one and the Duke looked at the Ambassador with a smile as he said,

  “I was certain that the panic that has swept St. Petersburg was completely unnecessary.”

  “So was I,” Lord Cathcart nodded.

  He rose to his feet.

  “1 must carry this immediately to the Czar, but I would be grateful, Your Grace, if you would be kind enough to inform any Members of the Government who are available what we have just learned.”

  “I will,” the Duke agreed.

  It was, as it happened, no easy task. However, nearly three hours later, the Duke knew that he and the Ambassador between them had arranged for a great number of panic-stricken orders to be countermanded and prevented a number of people of influence from leaving the City.

  By this time the Duke was very tired and, when finally he retired to his bedroom, he hoped that tonight Katharina would not be demanding his attention.

  He had not really had time during the day to think about what his reaction last night had been when she had come to him as before through the secret panel in the wall.

  He had known, as she advanced towards him wearing a new and even more attractive negligée than she had worn the night before, that his interest in her had died and, incredible though it seemed, she no longer attracted him.

  He had not for one moment assumed that their interest in each other was anything but a passionate exchange between two sophisticated people who really appreciated the expertise of making love.

  That physically she was eminently desirable went without saying and the Duke without conceit knew that she did not exaggerate when she described him as an exceptional lover.

  She amused and aroused him in equal proportions.

  What was more his knowledge that she was there to spy on him gave a piquancy to their affair which he appreciated as she did.

  Then, quite unexpectedly, almost like a bombshell, he knew that his feelings for her had changed and, even if he wished to do so, he could no longer play the role of her lover.

  Because he was half-prepared for his reaction to what she expected of him, he had not undressed.

  His valet had taken away his evening coat with its decorations and he had loosened his tightly tied cravat, but, when she appeared, he was still wearing his fine lawn shirt and black satin knee-breeches with the diamond garter glittering against his black silk stockings.

  Before Katharina could speak and before she could ask him the obvious question as to why he was not in bed, the Duke said rapidly,

  “I have some urgent despatches to write, Katharina, and they will keep me busy until the early hours of the morning.”

  She smiled.

  “Then I will write them with you. You know how I wish to read them.”

  “Unfortunately they will be in code and, although your countrymen have attempted to break it, I don’t think as yet they have managed to do so.”

  “That is true and all the more reason, my adorable Blake, for you to translate them to me.”

  “Can you really imagine me committing such treachery?” the Duke questioned. “I have not asked you to show me your confidential reports.”

  “You may see them if you wish,” Katharina replied, “but I can tell you far more easily what I think about you and what you are like as a man.”

  The last word was a caress in the way she said it and the Duke answered swiftly,

  “Go to bed, Katharina and leave me with my work.”

  “Can you really be so unkind?” she almost demanded.

  She moved towards him and, before he could avoid it, her arms were round him and her lips were against his shoulder.

  He could feel them warm and possessive through his thin shirt, but, as she touched him, he knew, as he had known when she came into the room, that she no longer had any power over him.

  It was difficult to believe it because their liaison had been so fiery and their desire for each other almost a violent confrontation.

  The Duke put his fingers under Katharina’s small chin and turned her face up to his.

  For a long moment he looked into her eyes and, seeing the fire lurking in their depths while her breath was coming quickly through her parted lips.

  ‘How has this happened?’ he asked himself and knew the answer as if somebody had called it aloud.

  Only when Katharina had left him reluctantly and he was alone as he wished to be, did he walk to the window and pull back the curtains to breathe in the hot windless air.

  As he did so, he heard in his mind the music that Zoia had played and that her father had called The Melting of the Ice.

  He thought to himself as he listened that it melted within himself years of cynicism and of assuring himself that women fell into two categories only, those who were desirable and those who were not.

  Tonight it was not any sort of physical barrier that had been erected between himself and Katharina but an idealistic one.

  He felt as if he was a Knight entering a joust and, because he carried the favour of his lady, all other women had ceased to have any meaning for him.

  It seemed utterly incredible and yet he knew that it had happened.

  The music that Zoia played seemed to deepen and to encompass not only his mind but a part of his anatomy that he had not known for a very long time, but which he had once called his ‘soul’.

  *

  When the Duke rose the next morning, he found that The Winter Palace had returned to normal and the confusion and chaos of the day before might never have materialised.

  The Grenadiers of the Golden Guard were as impassive as statues as the Duke proceeded along the corridors to the Czar’s apartment and the people he met, who were mostly officials, walked slowly and circumspectly passing him with a deep respectful bow as though they had never heard of the word ‘panic’.

  The Czar was in an excellent mood, certain from his Bible readings of the night before that Kutuzov would somehow, because he was favoured by God Himself, prevent the French Army from reaching Moscow.

  As the Duke listened to him, an idea began gradually to present itself to his mind, but for the moment he did not voice it.

  However, he left The Winter Palace as soon as he could excuse himself from attendance on the Czar and set off once again in the direction of the Ysevolsov Palace.

  He told himself that it would be only polite to let Princess Ysevolsov of all people know that all the rumours, which she would most undoubtedly have heard, of Napoleon marching in the direction of St. Petersburg were totally untrue.

  But he soon realised that his real motive for going to the Ysevolsov Palace was to see Zoia again.r />
  All last night, when without bothering to write any despatches, he had climbed into bed, he first of all thought about her and then dreamt about her.

  ‘She is beginning to haunt me,’ he told himself and wondered once again if it was part of the mystery and climate of Russia or did the explanation lie in something that he would not yet admit frankly to himself?

  At the Ysevolsov Palace he was pleased to see that there were no carriages being loaded up in the courtyard and, when he asked to see the Princess, he was taken immediately to her private sitting room.

  As he was announced, the Princess, who was sitting at her secrétaire writing, gave a cry of delight and rose to her feet.

  “Blake!” she exclaimed. “I am so delighted to see you and I am sure that you can answer many questions that I am longing to ask.”

  “I expect you have already heard,” the Duke replied, “that the panic yesterday was only a rumour spread by that indefatigable scandalmonger Count Povolsk.”

  The Princess laughed.

  “I might have guessed that Felix would be at the bottom of it, but fortunately one of my friends called late last night to say that he had seen Lord Cathcart and there was no need for any of us to become excited.”

  “I felt that you, if nobody else, would be sensible,” the Duke remarked.

  “I must order some refreshment,” the Princess smiled. “Will you have coffee or wine?”

  “Coffee, please,” the Duke replied.

  The Princess rang a gold bell and gave the order.

  The Duke waited until the door closed behind the servant and then he said,

  “I hope that Zoia Vallon was not upset by the rumour. I feel certain that she is already deeply concerned with the fate of her father in Moscow.”

  “Pierre Vallon is a Frenchman,” the Princess said coldly, “and, after what we all felt last night, it will take quite some time before any of us regard the French as anything but our most implacable enemy!”

  The Duke looked at her in surprise.

  “Surely that does not include Vallon and his daughter?”

  “I am afraid, Blake, when my husband is likely to be killed by a French bullet and his country invaded in this despicable manner, I have little use for French citizens whoever they may be.”