Imperial Splendour

by Barbara Cartland

  *

  When they were clear of Moscow and the four horses pulling their carriage were moving at a good rate, Zoia gave a sign of relief that seemed to come from the very depths of her being.

  Outside the windows there was the unspoilt Russian countryside and there were only a few people on the road.

  She wondered why they were going to Odessa until her father explained to her why he had made the decision.

  “It would be impossible to travel into Europe accompanied by an Englishman,” he said, “and I also think we are wise to travel South where the weather will be warmer than it is likely to be here in a very short time.”

  “That is true,” Zoia agreed. “It often becomes very cold in October.”

  “Last year it snowed at the end of September,” her father replied, “and that is something the Emperor would be wise to remember.”

  Zoia had been surprised when morning came to find that her father, or perhaps Jacques, had engaged no less than eight servants to accompany them.

  She did not ask where these Russians had been hiding, but thought perhaps that it was in the same place where Jacques had concealed their carriages and horses, which were strong and well-bred.

  Because she was so close to her father, she knew that he was feeling apprehensive that the soldiers in their escort might take it upon themselves to commandeer the horses, which, after the slaughter at Borodino, were obviously in short supply.

  But the French soldiers were not inclined or reckless enough to do anything but obey the orders they had been given and soon after dawn they started to move towards the Rogozhskol Gate which would take them out of the West side of the City.

  Fortunately this did not require them to pass through the centre where most of the troops were quartered.

  Nevertheless it was a most nerve-racking drive as, apart from the fear that some officious Frenchman might challenge them, or a mob of drunken soldiers decide to pilfer the carriages, there was also the danger of the burning houses and the falling walls.

  As they drove along, it looked to Zoia as if at least three-quarters of the houses they passed were in flames, but Jacques had said that there were still parts of Moscow that had not been damaged.

  But at times she could feel the burning heat of the flames almost scorching her face and, when they reached the bridge over the river, her father looked back with an expression that made her ask quickly,

  “What has upset you, Papa?”

  “The Grand Theatre was burning last night”

  “Oh, Papa, I am sorry.”

  “It is not surprising. It was built of wood and a year’s supply of timber had been stacked against the walls.”

  He spoke almost without expression in his voice, but she knew how much it hurt him.

  Again he was thinking of her mother and how pleased she had been when they first came to Moscow because the theatre had seemed to be an ideal place for him to build up a great orchestra in exactly the way he wanted it.

  Deliberately, because she wanted to cheer him up, Zoia made her voice sound light and almost happy as she tried to reassure him,

  “We are starting a new chapter of our lives, Papa, and I have a feeling that it will be an exhilarating and exciting one for you.”

  Her father did not reply and she could not help remembering that she could not say the same thing for herself. But she knew that what mattered for the moment, more than anything else, was that the Duke was safe and that he still needed her.

  Jacques had constructed a very comfortable bed in the larger of Pierre Vallon’s carriages, using a board of wood stretching from the back seat onto the smaller one opposite.

  He had heaped on it two comfortable mattresses and, with the help of their new servants, they had carried the Duke downstairs.

  Careful though they had been, Zoia knew that the Duke found it extremely painful.

  She had seen his lips tighten and the colour leave his face, but he said nothing except to thank those who had carried him to the carriage.

  There was room for her to sit beside him and her father to sit on the small seat opposite, but she was determined that, once they were out of the City, she would persuade her father to drive in the other carriage.

  This, at the moment, contained only Maria and a number of small packages and parcels that she had insisted on taking with them at the last moment.

  Their trunks had been strapped on the top of the two carriages and Zoia could not help thinking it was fortunate that the Russians could not see the very elegant clothing that the Duke owned.

  After his valet had been killed by the explosion, Prince Ysevolsov’s servants had been sensible enough to take all the Duke’s possessions from the Czar’s carriage.

  The chief servant who had escorted her to Moscow had been in the Prince’s employment for many years and he understood the needs of a gentleman.

  It would have been difficult otherwise, Zoia thought, to provide the Duke, who was so tall and broad-shouldered, with the clothes that he would need once he was on his feet again.

  She and Maria had packed only the essentials for themselves for the journey.

  There were many little things that Zoia would have liked to take with her because they reminded her of her mother or simply because she was so fond of them, but she knew that to overload the horses on such a long journey might easily prevent them from reaching their destination safely.

  She therefore restricted herself to packing only what she thought she would actually need and just a few of her prettiest gowns that were light and took up very little room.

  What was more important than anything else was that they should have enough food for Jacques thought that it might be difficult to buy much on the journey.

  “People are frightened when there’s a war that they themselves will go hungry,” he said to Zoia. “I can’t have the Master gettin’ ill, or you, m’mselle, for that matter.”

  He did not include the Duke in his solicitude and Zoia knew without being told that Jacques almost resented the strange man who, he felt, had intruded on the family atmosphere that had been so evident in their small household before the Duke had joined it.

  “You must not forget our invalid, Jacques,” she said aloud.

  “We’ll not do that, m’mselle,” Jacques nodded.

  But his voice was cold and had none of the warmth in it that she would have liked to hear.

  Maria, however, thought that the Duke was the finest man she had ever seen and, when he thanked her in his quiet voice for dressing his wounds and knowing that he was suffering acutely, she was overwhelmed by his bravery.

  She would, Zoia knew, have done anything in her power to help him. But it was Jacques who was really responsible for the whole organisation of their journey from the moment they left Moscow.

  When they were finally out of sight of the City and its spires and domes were no longer visible and there was only a great crimson glow in the sky from the fires, Pierre Vallon had an expression on his face that told Zoia that a composition was forming in his mind.

  She knew the signs so well and, as soon as it was possible, she stopped the carriage and persuaded her father to change places with Maria.

  If he was composing, he would want to be alone and she felt too that not only would he be more comfortable but she would be able to talk to the Duke without the feeling that every word they said to each other was overheard.

  From the moment Pierre Vallon had realised that it would be impossible for the Duke to leave them without the certainty of being arrested and maybe killed for being English, he had not referred to Zoia’s feelings for him again.

  She knew, however, that he was still afraid that she would break her heart over a man who could never really be of any consequence in her life.

  But, as if he realised that further discussion would only disrupt the closeness of their own relationship and anyway have little effect, Pierre Vallon had, in his characteristic manner, tried to divorce his mind from the problem.r />
  It would be a great relief, Zoia told herself, if he could really concentrate on his music, because that meant that she would no longer feel guilty or that she was in any way defying her father whom she loved so devotedly.

  The carriages started off again and Maria, after fussing a little over the Duke, sat back and almost immediately fell asleep.

  Travelling by carriage always made her sleepy and Zoia thought with a little smile that now she was to all intents and purposes alone with the man she loved.

  She expected him to sleep, but, when she looked again at the Duke, she found that he was watching her with his grey eyes.

  “You are comfortable?” she asked.

  “I am thinking how fortunate I am not to have been left to die at Borodino.”

  “Forget about it,” Zoia said. “I have told Papa that ‒ we are starting a new chapter in our lives and so I don’t want to think anymore of the terrible casualties to both Armies or that Moscow is burning.”

  The Duke did not answer and after a moment she commented,

  “There will be problems in the future, of course, but they will be new problems and perhaps we shall feel like the snakes who shed their old skins and emerge with new ones.”

  “I like your skin just as it is,” the Duke murmured quietly.

  She blushed because she was not expecting a compliment from him.

  After a moment he went on,

  “You are very remarkable, Zoia. I know of no other woman who would take what has happened these past few weeks so calmly or leave her home to burn to the ground without complaining about it with tears.”

  “I mind – of course I mind,” Zoia replied, “but I have saved the only things that are of any importance to me – Papa – and you!”

  She said the last two words very softly and did not look at the Duke as she spoke, but she was aware that his eyes were on her face and she wondered what he was thinking.

  After a silence of some minutes, she turned to look at him and saw that once again he was asleep.

  *

  Afterwards it was difficult for Zoia to remember the details of the long journey between Moscow and Odessa.

  They could not travel very far every day because the horses had to rest and there was no possibility of changing them as there had been on the journey from St. Petersburg,

  In fact, owing to the War, horses were in such short supply that one of the servants had to be on watch every night for fear that the horses might be stolen or worse still they might be attacked by robbers.

  When they went further South, it grew much warmer and there were vineyards where the grapes were being harvested in the hot sunshine. There was plentiful fruit on the trees and flowers everywhere so that Zoia found it enchanting.

  Soon there were no further obvious signs of war, of soldiers being marched to the North to join Kutuzov’s Army or only women working in the fields as their men had been taken from them for Military service.

  Instead there were peasants who greeted them with smiles and were willing to sell them any fresh food they wished to buy.

  The horses were now growing tired, but Zoia felt a new vitality and new energy seeping through her.

  She knew it sprang from her happiness that the Duke was with her and every day he seemed to grow stronger.

  They would talk together or sit in silence and yet know that they were communicating without words and there was a closeness between them that she dare not try to analyse.

  Jacques had brought two tents where they could sleep at night or, if it seemed easier and more comfortable, she and Maria shared one carriage while her father slept beside the Duke.

  It was then that Zoia would lie awake in the darkness and know that her love for the Duke had increased every hour and every minute that she had been beside him.

  It was not what he said and it was not for any reason that she could explain rationally to herself.

  It was just because her whole being went out towards him as the man she had always wanted to find and the man she had loved secretly in her music long before she met him.

  ‘I am happy,’ she thought, ‘happier than I have ever been in my whole life and, as far as I am concerned, this journey can go on for ever into Eternity and I shall be content!’

  But finally, because everything must come to an end, they saw Odessa ahead of them and her father announced when they were lunching beside the road,

  “We will take Your Grace to the Governor General’s Palace and then Zoia and I will find somewhere to stay.”

  Zoia started at her father’s words and, without realising that she was doing so, looked pleadingly at the Duke.

  “What are you saying?” the Duke enquired. “Of course you must come with me. As you must be aware, I cannot possibly do without you.”

  “I think it would be better, Your Grace, if we stayed on our own,” Pierre Vallon replied. “After all for all you know the Governor-General may look on me as an enemy of his people, which indeed my countrymen are.”

  The Duke smiled.

  “The Governor-General is, in fact, a Frenchman.”

  Pierre Vallon looked astonished and the Duke then explained,

  “The Duc de Richelieu was an émigré during the French Revolution and entered Russian service. He became Governor General of New Russia, as they call the Ukraine, in 1803 and has been responsible for the development of the Port of Odessa, which I know will impress you.”

  As Pierre Vallon still looked surprised, the Duke finished by saying,

  “I am assured that you will both find a warm welcome waiting for you at The Palace.”

  But Pierre Vallon still hesitated before he retreated,

  “If you will promise me that we are not of the slightest embarrassment to Your Grace, then Zoia and I will be honoured to accompany you.”

  “May I also tell you,” the Duke said, “that the Governor-General is extremely musical. In fact last time I was in Odessa some years ago, I remember being excessively bored by the concert that I had to attend when I was staying in his Palace.”

  Pierre Vallon laughed.

  “That, of course, is an undeniable recommendation! At the same time, Your Grace, I understood that you are fond of music.”

  “Very fond when it is the right sort,” the Duke replied. “And let me add I am looking forward to hearing what you have been composing while we have been travelling here.”

  “I shall be delighted to play it to you,” Pierre Vallon replied, “but actually it requires a large orchestra.”

  “I expect the Duc will be able to supply one,” the Duke answered.

  “Are you so sure that your friends will welcome us?” Zoia asked. “They may think us an intolerable nuisance or maybe The Palace is full.”

  “Wait until you see it,” the Duke replied.

  They arrived the following afternoon and, as Zoia saw the tall cypress trees that had first been introduced by Catherine the Great silhouetted against a translucent sky with the blue sea beyond, she thought that she had never seen anything so lovely until she saw the Governor-General’s Palace.

  Then she was just spellbound by its gleaming white beauty, surrounded by flowers and shrubs that were a kaleidoscope of colour.

  As they drove up to The Palace, Zoia could not help thinking that in contrast she looked dusty and travel-stained while she knew that the Duke himself was very tired. Nevertheless, when the servants fetched first one of the Governor-General’s aides-de-camp and then His Excellency himself, there was no doubt of their welcome and Pierre Vallon need not have been concerned that he and Zoia were an embarrassment.

  “I heard you conducting in London,” the Governor-General said, “and I can assure you, Monsieur Vallon, that nothing could ever give me any greater pleasure than to offer you my hospitality.”

  When the Duke presented Zoia, the Frenchman appraised her with shrewd eyes and said,

  “There is one very easy way, mademoiselle, into the heart of Odessa and that is beauty!”


  Zoia blushed, but there was no doubt of his admiration or the way that he continued to look at her as they entered The Palace.

  The Duke was too tired to do anything but fall asleep as soon as he was shown into his bedroom and helped into bed. But Zoia, after having enjoyed a warm bath, put on one of her prettiest gowns and went downstairs.

  The Governor-General’s wife, the Duchesse de Richelieu, made them welcome, although some of the other women staying in The Palace were not so effusive, sensing her as a rival and knowing that they could not compete with her in looks.

  But the fact that they had come from Moscow and had news of the Battle of Borodino, which had only just been reported in Odessa, made Pierre Vallon the focus of attention and he had to explain in detail all that had occurred besides recounting his own interview with the Emperor Napoleon.

  “How can he behave in such an uncivilised way?” the Duchesse asked. “He is nothing but a Corsican barbarian and a savage.”

  “I agree with you, my dear,” the Governor-General said. “At the same time one has to admit that it was an amazing feat of Generalship to lead six hundred thousand men such a distance and to enter Moscow without resistance from anyone.”

  “I only hope he will be burnt to death with all those lovely houses!” one of the guests exclaimed. “I had intended to go to Moscow this winter for the balls.

  “There will certainly be no balls,” Pierre Vallon answered, “and I doubt if, by the time the French leave, there will be anything left standing except perhaps the Kremlin.”

  “Why should the French leave?” the Duchesse enquired.

  “They will have to go,” Pierre Vallon answered, “for there is not enough food to last for long except perhaps for Members of Napoleon’s large Staff and what is left of the Russian population, hiding in Churches and in cellars, is already on the verge of starvation.”

  “It does not bear thinking about,” one of the women guests cried. “I only hope that all the French, every single one of that detestable nation, will sooner or later die like rats in a trap!”

  There was then an uncomfortable silence after she had spoken as the lady remembered that both the Governor-General and Pierre Vallon were French.