The Polish prince drew in a heavy breath, stunned.
“I see,” he said. “I am no longer in favor, since I speak the truth. Paul Stroganov and Nikolai Novosiltsev warned me as much. We cannot speak the truth to Alexander as we once did. But I cannot stand by quietly while Russia crumbles.”
Alexander winced hearing the names of his two old friends. A memory of cognac-fueled toasts and dreams of reformation sifted through his mind, then disappeared.
“Our drunken talk was just that! Pipe dreams among boyish friends.”
“I thought—as did the others—that reform in Russia was more than a mere pipe dream, Your Majesty.”
“Russia! You always defended Poland, Adam. Could it be that our alliance with Prussia is the real reason for your bitter criticism? The Prussians are no friends of Poland.”
“They are no friends of Russia either.”
Alexander was slow to anger, but when piqued his temper could burst into flame.
“How dare you attack my staff and motives for making peace with France!”
“Your Majesty knows peace with Napoleon will never last!”
“You come to me, spoiling for a fight, Adam. What do you want me to say?”
“Stand up to Napoleon!” shouted Czartoryski. “Don’t listen to bad counsel, Alexander!”
“Adam! What possesses you to address me in such a tone?”
Czartoryski shook his head.
“Is this outburst solely rooted in politics,” said Alexander “Or …”
“Or what?”
Alexander glared at his old friend. “Or it perhaps the Empress Elizabeth who provokes you to such diatribes? And her liaison with Captain Okhotnikov.”
Adam Czartoryski’s eyes blazed. His mind flashed on Elise, his lover, her blond hair strewn over his chest. For a moment he was at a loss for words.
The Tsar drew nearer.
“It is Elise, then,” said Alexander, now more gently. “You are too wise to be jealous, Adam. Don’t make the mis—”
“I understand I have been dismissed, Your Majesty. I shall take my leave, begging your pardon.”
“No. Stay here, Adam. We need to talk,” said the Tsar, his eyes flicking to the closed door. “First, I am assigning you to another post—in Poland. You will be groomed for a leadership role in your own country when reforms take place. Secondly”—Alexander put his arm on his friend’s shoulder—“I do not approve of my wife’s current choice of lover—”
“Anymore than the tsarina approves of Maria Naryshkina,” snapped Czartoryski.
“Damn you, Adam! You know I have my lovers and the empress has hers. But her relationship with you was distinctly different. You are a man of character and morality. But this Alexis Okhotnikov tarnishes her brilliance. The captain is boastful and he jeopardizes Elise’s reputation. I do not believe he is as discreet and loyal as you.”
Czartoryski’s nostrils flared. He looked beyond Alexander at a gold clock ticking the minutes, to avoid the Tsar’s eyes.
Do you know how you are wounding my heart, speaking of her lover? A bullet could do no more harm.
“What’s more, Okhotnikov poses a grave danger,” said Alexander. “My brother, Grand Duke Constantine, despises the man. He warns me daily of the scandalous gossip of the tsarina’s affair circulating amongst the army and in the streets of St. Petersburg.”
Czartoryski stood deadly still. “Can you not send the captain to Siberia?”
“A sudden assignment like that would be a tacit acknowledgement of his relationship with Elise. There would be trouble. She is smitten with him.”
Alexander looked his old friend in the eye—and in an instant, the fate of Russia, which had driven Czartoryski to demand this meeting, was swept aside.
“Adam—Elise is pregnant.”
The opera had been short of brilliant. No matter. Alexis Okhotnikov had indulged in vodka and champagne during the performance, which put him in a good mood, despite the dismal October weather. His thin aristocratic lips pulled up in a smile, making his handsome face turn cruel.
Ah! The slaps on the back, the camaraderie of the regiment. How Okhotnikov’s popularity had risen since the rumor of Tsarina Elizabeth’s pregnancy! Next month he would be the father of a grand duke or grand duchess. No one would dispute paternity, especially not Tsar Alexander. Russia could not risk the disgrace.
A cold rain lashed the stone walls of the Imperial Kamenny Bolshoi Theatre. Okhotnikov turned up his collar to the wet wind coming off the city’s canals.
The brick pavement was slick and he could hear the roughshod horses—already prepared for the snowy winter—resound in a chorus of clicks and clatter as the carriages rolled away from the theater. Voices rang out in laughter, a few words in Russian—several vulgarities—rough and muscular amid the French language. The coach lanterns threw erratic pools of light on the wet road as the voices faded away.
Okhotnikov headed toward a tavern where he could find other officers from his regiment. The strong drink had affected his stride—not staggering, but less than perfectly coordinated.
The vodka and heat of the crowded theater had made him randy. He thought of the Tsarina Elizabeth and her creamy white skin, so smooth under his touch. He sucked in his breath thinking of her bosom and the sweet smell of his lover, pregnant with his child.
I can’t risk entering the Winter Palace at this hour. Under what pretext? I’ve seen how Grand Duke Constantine’s eyes burn with hatred whenever he sees me. Ah, but to touch Elizabeth’s breast, to press my mouth to her lips, to her neck. Everywhere!
How delicious to make a cuckold of our tsar!
Captain Okhotnikov thought back to that morning: how he stood straight and still under the Tsar’s inspection of the regiment. But Okhotnikov had dared to swivel the tip of his tongue back, licking his back molar at some sweet taste left from breakfast. It was a minute movement. But he was sure Tsar Alexander had seen it. The emperor had said nothing—really, what could he say without drawing attention? Everyone knew he was being cuckolded by Alexis Okhotnikov.
How divine! A tsar who bedded down every woman who caught his fancy, who proclaimed emancipation in his marriage—and now his tsarina was pregnant with a cavalry officer’s child. If he be a boy, he would one day inherit the Russian throne.
The Tsar had met Okhotnikov’s eye and then passed to the next soldier in the ranks.
The cocky Okhotnikov had stifled a smile that died on his lips as the Tsar moved on and revealed Grand Duke Constantine’s stormy face, his eyes burning with hatred. The grand duke did not move with his brother but continued to stare at Okhotnikov.
The Tsar was harmless. But the brother.
Alexis Okhotnikov, so deep in reverie, did not notice the dark figure behind him in the rain. He turned only when he heard the racing boot heels strike the wet stones. He saw the gleam of the knife and reached for his sword, but too late.
The stranger’s blade sank deep between Okhotnikov’s ribs, then twisted and forced its way upward within his chest.
The assailant walked off into the darkness, leaving the wounded Captain Okhotnikov lying in the freezing rain.
The room smelled of fetid wounds and death. Tsarina Elizabeth sat by the bedside of her lover who had lain here in fevered pain for two and a half months. The Tsarina dismissed everyone from the room except her lady-in-waiting.
“Alexis! Can you hear me, my darling,” she whispered.
The injured man could only moan.
“You are a father, Alexis. You have a little daughter now. She is beautiful, my love.”
“What is … her name?”
“Elizabeth. I call her Lisinka. You must see her, you’ll—”
Okhotnikov writhed. “No. They—He—tried to kill me.”
She flicked a glance at her lady-in-waiting. “Who? Who was it, Alexis?”
“Assassin. He was sent.”
“Sent by whom?”
“The grand duke. Constan—Oh! Oh!” shouted Okhotniko
v.
Elizabeth placed her fingertips to her mouth. “Fetch the doctor,” she said to her servant. “At once!”
The doctor rushed in. He saw the fever burning in Okhotnikov’s eyes.
“Forgive me, Your Majesty. It is better if you leave.”
“Of course,” said Elizabeth, gathering her skirts as she rose.
Alexis Okhotnikov died in early January, just days after Orthodox Christmas. It should have been a joyous time, especially after the christening of a new child, the daughter of Tsar Alexander and Tsarina Elizabeth.
But Alexander’s mind was on Napoleon, and Elizabeth could think of nothing but the murder of her lover, father of her child.
Elizabeth had a mausoleum built over Alexis Okhotnikov’s grave: a mighty oak split by lightning, a woman weeping at the foot of the tree.
After the funeral, she refused to leave her apartments in the Winter Palace.
Maria Feodorovna summoned the Tsar.
“The tsarina must accompany the Tsar to functions,” complained the dowager empress. “You must insist, Alexander. You must appear together. She must watch the parades and attend dinners and balls by your side. Otherwise tongues will wag.”
“Mama. Elise is a new mother. She must care for the baby, the—”
“Nonsense! She has nursemaids to attend the child!” snapped Maria Feodorovna.
“Mama. She suffers—”
“Suffers! Elizabeth has disgraced us!” she hissed. “Disgraced you! She is mourning for the captain who fathered that child, that bastard! The two of you bring shame to the Romanov name—”
“Shame?” said Alexander, stiffening. “A fine example my grandmother set. Some of her lovers were almost as young as me! Or my father with Princess Gargarina!”
“Alexander!”
“I beg you, Mama. Leave Elise alone. Never mention this affair again.” He stomped out of his mother’s apartments.
Alexander sent a card announcing that he would visit his wife in her apartments. When he was ushered in, he was stunned at the sight of Elizabeth, her face pale and drawn from lack of nourishment and sleep. Her eyes were swollen red from fits of weeping.
In her arms was the sleeping baby.
“Oh, Elise!” he whispered.
She looked up, her blue eyes spilling tears.
“You see, I can’t stop crying, Alexander.” She forced a smile and then looked down at little Lisinka. “She is a darling baby and I am such a sad mother.”
“Then let me hold her,” said Alexander, his hand resting on Elizabeth’s shoulder.
Elizabeth turned her face up toward her husband.
“You want to hold her?” she said. “After—”
“Of course, Elise,” he said, reaching out for the baby. “She is my daughter.”
Elizabeth began to cry again. But this time her smile showed through her tears like the sun through a passing rainstorm.
Chapter 37
Polotsk, Russia
January 1808
Our carriage pulled up in front of a splendid house where uniformed guards stood sentry.
An adjutant was waiting by the door.
“Good luck, Durov,” said Neidhardt.
“Thank you,” I said, puzzled more than fearful.
I was led to Count Buxhowden’s study. He stood immediately from his desk.
“Durov!” he said, smiling. “But where is your saber?”
“All my weapons were confiscated, sir.”
“I shall order them all returned to you immediately. A soldier should never be without his weapons.”
I was still a soldier?
He asked me to sit down and regarded me with an avuncular smile.
“How old are you, Durov?”
“I am in my eighteenth year.”
“Eighteen!” he repeated. “I’ve heard much about your bravery. Your commanders have reported nothing but the best from you.”
He put a hand on my shoulder.
“Now what I am about to say should not alarm you.”
I was immediately alarmed.
“I must send you to the emperor.”
The emperor! What had I done?
I felt my knees start to buckle.
“No, I told you, do not be alarmed. Our emperor is the embodiment of grace and magnanimity—”
“But, sir! He will send me home. Your Excellency, I will die of sorrow!”
The count shook his head.
“Have no fear of that. The emperor wants only to recognize your fearlessness and honorable comportment. I will add my own report to those of your commanders, Captain Kazimirski and Major General Kachowski.”
“Major General Kachowski wrote a report?”
“A very glowing one, indeed,” said the count, smiling at my amazement. “So you see, Durov, I don’t think the emperor will take away the uniform to which you have done such honor.”
Chapter 38
Winter Palace, St. Petersburg
January 1808
Alexander unfolded the wrinkled letter yet again:
Please, I beg you, my Tsar, Your Highness. Help me locate my daughter Nadezhda. Return her home to the father who loves her most dearly.
Alexander looked out the window of his study, onto the Neva River. Chunks of ice floated in the water, knitting up into solid frozen blocks anchored to the banks below.
Who is this girl who defies her father and runs away from home to fight for Russia? This mere girl who dashes into the bloody battlefield. To imagine her amid the death fields of war. A girl fighting Napoleon!
Alexander looked down at the bare-branched linden trees that lined the north face of the palace. He longed for spring, to see crocuses lift their garish colored heads from the snow.
My people despise me for making peace, when all I meant to do was save Russian lives.
A dove-gray and black crow settled in the branches of a linden. It scratched its beak against the bare twigs. Its perfectly tailored suit earned a half-hearted smile from the Tsar of all Russia.
I need the strength to resist this French tyrant who threatens the entire world. And here is a girl whose heart beats with Russian blood of courage, defiance.
If only I could muster the same courage.
“Your Majesty? Recruit Durov has arrived.”
“Yes, show Durov in,” said Alexander. “See that we are not disturbed. We will speak alone.”
I stood erect, saluting the emperor and then bowing, not quite sure of the etiquette. He walked over to me and took my hand. For a moment—what a moment!—he looked directly into my eyes.
He spoke in a gentle voice that might have dispelled my anxiety—except for the words he spoke.
“I have heard, Durov, that you are not a man. Is that true?”
I couldn’t breathe. I looked down at the glorious Persian rug, wishing I could hide in its red and indigo designs, its intricate swirls.
When I looked up again, I met his blue eyes.
“Yes, it is true, Your Majesty.”
I saw that he was blushing.
A sob of remorse welled up in me, for I was so ashamed. I threw myself at his feet, begging forgiveness.
“Your Majesty! Forgive me for my deceit.”
My face met the polished leather of his boots.
“Rise, soldier,” he said.
I wiped the tears away with the back of my hand and rose. When I looked up into his face, his blue eyes twinkled.
“Such courage! You fought in Friedland. I have never heard of a similar feat—a girl in one of the fiercest battles of all our history! Your commanders list your honors, your sacrifices. I have read how you saved officers, risking your own life. You swam across a raging river to secure your horse. You and your horse engaged in every battle. You survived without food, supplies, or adequate clothing.”
He smiled.
“What is your real name, maiden?”
I swallowed. “My father gave me the name Nadezhda Durova. As a recruit I go by Durov. I beg of you, Yo
ur Majesty, please address me as Durov, not Durova … I—”
“You shall return home with honor—”
At the word home I threw myself once more at the emperor’s feet, groveling like a serf.
“Home? No!” I pleaded.
“Mademoiselle Durova! Whatever is wrong?
I winced at the feminine name—Durova—the name, the world, I would return to as a woman.
“Don’t send me back! I should surely die there! Don’t make me regret that there was not a bullet marked with my name.”
My tears streaked the leather of the emperor’s boots.
“Rise, Durov,” he said.
He called me Durov—the masculine form of my name. I said a silent prayer.
I felt his hand under my shoulder. I met his eyes. They too had tears.
“What is it that you want, then?” he said.
“To fight Napoleon,” I answered. “To wear a uniform and bear arms for Russia. That is the only reward I want. I was born in an army camp. The call of trumpets was my morning hymn.”
I crossed my arms over my breast as before an icon.
“And now Your Majesty wants to send me home? If I had foreseen such an end, nothing could have prevented me from seeking a glorious death in the ranks of your warriors!”
The emperor remained silent for an endless minute. I could see he was contemplating my words, my fate. At last his countenance brightened.
“If you presume that permission to wear a uniform and bear arms is your only possible reward, you shall have it!”
His face was so animated, so full of goodwill I could not help but gasp with joy.
“And from this moment on, you will call yourself by my name, Alexandrov!” he said, taking my hand.
Son of Alexander.
“Your Majesty!”
He was like a boy, his face lit with joy. “And I have no doubt that you will make yourself worthy of the name we will now share.”
I was beside myself in astonishment. To carry our tsar’s own name?
“I will promote you to lieutenant and you will be enrolled in one of our finest regiments of noble families: The Mariupol Hussars, a most valiant corps.”
The Mariupol Hussars! Me, an officer! My ears hummed as if I had been struck a great blow to the head.
Then he bowed to me. Yes. Alexander, the Tsar of all Russia, bowed to me.
The Girl Who Fought Napoleon: A Novel of the Russian Empire Page 20
