The Coronation

8 May

Following long telephone conversations between the Petrovsky Palace, the governor general’s residence and the Hermitage, control of the operation was entrusted to Colonel Karnovich. The high police master of Moscow was instructed to provide every possible assistance, while Fandorinwas assigned the rather indefinite role of adviser, and even then only at the stubborn insistence of Georgii Alexandrovich who, following the rescue of his daughter, believed fervently in the exceptional qualities of the retired deputy for special assignments.

Like everyone else, I knew very little aboutKarnovich, because this mysterious man had only made his appearance at the foot of the throne very recently. He was not obviously fitted for this responsible, indeed one might say crucially important, post either by age, or rank or social connection, especially since before this exalted appointment Karnovich had performed the modest duties of head of one of the provincial offices of gendarmes. However, following the sensational exposure of an anarchist terrorist organisation, people had begun speaking of the colonel as the rising star in the field of political detective work, and soon this quiet, unprepossessing gentleman, who always kept his eyes hidden behind blue-tinted spectacles, was the head of His Majesty’s bodyguard – a truly prodigious advancement which did not endear Karnovich to the members of the court. But then, when had the head of the court police, who, by the very nature of his job, is exceptionally well informed about the weaknesses and secrets of individuals who stand close to the throne, ever enjoyed the sympathy of the court? Such is the nature of the job.

In contrast, High Police Master Lasovsky was very well known, a figure of almost legendary status in both capital cities. The St Petersburg newspapers loved to describe the eccentric and despotic behaviour of this modern-day Ivan the Terrible (the Moscowpapers did not dare): his love of driving round the streets in the famous police master’s carriage with the finest horses in the entire city, his particular enthusiasm for the fire brigade, his exceptional strictness with yard keepers and his famous orders, printed every day in the Moscow Municipal Police Gazette. That very morning, on the front page of this remarkable newspaper, I myself had read the following order:

While driving out on 7 May I observed the following: on Voskresenskaya Square opposite the Bolshaya Moskva hotel I detected the foul odour of rotting herrings that had not been cleared away by the yard keepers; at 5.45 a.m. two nightwatchmen standing by the Triumphal Gateswere making idle conversation; at 1.20 in the afternoon the constable was not at his post on the corner of Bolshay tverskaya-yamskaya street and the Triumphal Gates Square: at 10 p.m. on the corner of Tverskaya Street and Voskresenskaya Square, the constable stepped up on to the pavement and began arguing with a cab driver.

I hereby order all the guilty con-stables, watchmen and yard keepers to be arrested and fined.

Acting High Police Master of

Moscow, Colonel Lasovsky

Of course, the head of police in a city of a million people ought not to concern himself with such petty matters, but in my view we could well introduce some of Moscow’s innovations in St Petersburg. For instance, we could station constables at crossroads in order to direct the movement of carriages – on Nevsky Prospect and the embankments the crush is so thick that you cannot pass either on foot or in a vehicle. And it would also be a good idea to followthe example of Moscowand forbid cab drivers to swear and drive unwashed carriages on pain of a fine.

But Colonel Lasovsky’s temperamentwas genuinely gruff and whimsical, as I had the opportunity to observe during the briefing meeting before the beginning of the operation.

Although my main supervisor was Karnovich, the high police master constantly interrupted with his own remarks, and his entire manner suggested that he, Lasovsky, and not the upstart from out of town was the true master in the old city. Arguments flared up repeatedly between the two colonels as to whether one ought to arrest the doctor’s messenger when he came for the money: the Moscow colonel was emphatically in favour of an immediate arrest and swore he would shake the son of a bitch’s very soul out of him, together with the rest of his innards, while the colonel from Tsarskoe Selo spoke no less emphatically in support of caution and emphasised the threat to Mikhail Georgievich’s life. Fandorin was present in the drawing room, but he did not get involved in the argument.

Karnovich took a number of measures that appeared very sensible to me. Three disguised carriages with police agents in civilian dress were to drive ahead of my carriage. The agents would all be from the court police – fine strapping young men. Their task would not be to seize Lind’s messenger, but to ‘sit on his tail’ (as the colonel put it) and ‘tail’ him to the kidnappers’ lair. In addition, since the previous evening a special group of treasury officials had been engaged in copying out the numbers of all the banknotes to be handed over to Lind, each of these would then leave its own trail to be followed.

My task appeared simple: to drive without hurrying along the Garden Ring Road and wait for the villains to show themselves, then demand that their man take me to His Highness, and until I saw Mikhail Georgievich alive and well, not to let them have the suitcase under any circumstances. If the bandit or bandits used force, the disguised agents would intervene.

‘You should grab the fellow by the scruff of the neck straight away,’ the stubborn police master repeated for probably the tenth time already. ‘And hand him over to me. After I’ve had a talk with him, there’ll be no need to sit on his tail. He’ll tell you everything you want to know and show you everything you want to see. But you, Mr Colonel, are trying to be too clever by half and making a mess of things.’

Karnovich nervously adjusted his spectacles, but he vented his irritation on Fandorin instead of his Moscow colleague.

‘Listen here, sir, what use to me is an adviser who never opens his mouth? Do you have any thoughts?’

Fandorin sceptically raised one eyebrow, as elegant as if itwere painted on.

‘Lind is very cunning and inventive. He can guess all the actions that you might take in advance. And copying out the numbers of the banknotes is simply a joke. Are you really going to hang up lists of forty thousand seven-digit numbers in all the shops and bureaux de change?’ He turned to address me. ‘The most important thing depends on you, Ziukin. Acute observation, attention to the most minute details – that is what is required. Remember that today is only the first meeting; there are at least six more to come. All you need to do now is get a good look at things. And as for a tail,’ he said, speaking to Karnovich now, ‘it can be tried, but don’t push too hard, otherwise we’ll be handed a corpse.’

‘A most valuable recommendation, merci,’ the head of the court police replied with a sardonic bow. ‘Are you intending to pay the respected doctor a million roubles six more times? Are you not perhaps receiving a commission from Dr Lind for giving such advice?’

Fandorin got up and walked out without saying anything in reply.

‘That’s the one we ought to put a tail on,’ Lasovsky hissed in the direction of the door after it closed. ‘A highly suspicious individual.’

‘If the need arises, we will,’ Karnovich promised. ‘He really is a most disagreeable fellow.’

I shared this judgement with all my heart, for my view of Mr Fandorin, who had initially produced a positive impression on me, had changed completely. And with good reason.

The first half of the day had dragged by at a distressingly slow pace. While the higher spheres were arguing over which departmentwould head the operation, everyone had left me alone, and I was tormented by both alarm and inactivity. Owing to my forthcoming responsible assignment I was released from my usual responsibilities, which were transferred to Somov. Georgii Alexandrovich said that only one thing was required from those of us who were privy to the secret: not to let anything show and to maintain an air of serene imperturbability. Endlung was given the task of cheering up the dejected Pavel Georgievich. In order to perform this important mission, the lieutenant was given a certain sum of money. He adopted an exceptionally brisk and lively air, put his ward in a carriage first thing in the morning and drove him off to the gypsy restaurant at Tsaritsyno – for a ‘razzle’ as Endlung put it.

His Highness entrusted Xenia Georgievna to me, and my task did not appear to be simple. The grand princess came down to breakfast with red eyes, looking pale and sad, and that evening she would have several visits to make and then drive to the Petrovsky Palace for supper and a serenade in a narrow circle.

Georgii Alexandrovich consulted me onwhat should be done, and we came to the conclusion that the most effective way of dispelling melancholy was physical exercise. Let her play tennis, His Highness decreed, since the day had turned out dry, if over-cast. After that he dressed in civilian clothes and left on some business that I did not know about, having instructed me to arrange the game.

‘But Afanasii, with whom can I play?’ Xenia Georgievna asked.

Indeed, as it turned out, there were no partners for Her Highness. On instructions from Simeon Alexandrovich, Prince Glinsky had called for the Englishmen and driven them to Sokolniki Park to go riding, and from there to lunch at the governor general’s residence. Remembering the interest that His Highness had taken in the elegant Mr Carr the previous day, I felt alarmed, but not greatly so, since I had more serious concerns on my mind.

After thinking for a little while, Xenia Georgievna said: ‘Go to Erast Petrovich and ask him. There isn’t anyone else, after all.’

So I went to Fandorin’s room. Before knocking, I listened at the door and heard very strange sounds: dull blows, loud snorts and the jangling of glass. Alarmed, I knocked gently and opened the door slightly.

The sight that met my eyes was amazing. Mr Fandorin and Mr Masa, both wearing nothing but white underpants, were performing some strange kind of ritual, taking turns to run, jump to a quite incredible height and strike the wall with one foot, which was the cause of the jangling sound that had frightened me. Erast Petrovich performed this outlandish exercise in total silence, but his servant panted and snorted, and after each attack on the wall, he did not simply bounce back, but tumbled across the floor like a ball.

‘What can . . . I do for you?’ Fandorin enquired jerkily, interrupting his question halfway through for another blow.

A good butler is never surprised by anything. And if he is, then he does not show it. So I simply bowed as if everything was perfectly normal and conveyed Xenia Georgievna’s request.

‘Thank Her Highness for the honour,’ he replied, wiping away his sweat, ‘but I do not know how to play tennis.’

Iwent back to the grand princess, but she had already changed into a loose-fitting tennis dress and white shoes.

Shewas very upset by Fandorin’s refusal: ‘What am I supposed to do, serve the ball to myself? Ask him anyway. Say I’ll teach him.’

There were tears in her eyes.

I hurried back to Fandorin and this time I asked him properly, and also mentioned Georgii Alexandrovich’s instructions to me.

Erast Petrovich sighed and gave way. In an instant I brought him Pavel Georgievich’s tennis clothes, which were almost a perfect fit, except for being a little tight in the shoulders.

The lesson began. I watched from the side of the net, since I had nothing to busy myself with. Soon Iwas joined by Masa, and a little later Mr Freyby also came out, attracted by the sound of a bouncing ball, so enchanting to the English ear.

Fandorin proved to be a rather good pupil and after a quarter of an hour the ball was already flying backwards and forwards over the net as many as ten times in a row. Xenia Georgievna became more cheerful, roses appeared in her cheeks and a few strands of light hair crept out from under her hat – she was a joy to look at. Her partner was also a fine sight. He held the racket wrongly and struck the ball powerfully, as if he were slashing with a sabre, but his movements around the court were agile, and it must be admitted that he looked very handsome.

‘They make a lovely couple, don’t they?’ said Mr Freyby.

‘Beootifur per,’ Masa translated succcinctly.

Iwas astounded by this remark and attributed it to a distortion of meaning in the translation. Of course, Mr Fandorin could not possible make a ‘pair’ with Her Highness, not in any sense of the word. However, after those words of Mr Freyby’s I looked more closely at Xenia Georgievna and for the first time, as the common folk say, felt a cat scratching at my soul. I had never seen Her Highness look so radiant, not even before her first ‘grown-up’ ball.

‘That’s all now, Erast Petrovich, no more time-wasting!’ she shouted. ‘You already know enough for us to play one game keeping score. The rules are very simple. I’ll serve, because you don’t know how to anyway. First I’ll hit the ball into this square, then into that one, and so on by turns until the game is won. And you hit it back, only into the court. Is that clear? The loser will crawl under the net. And I’ll ask the Englishman to be umpire.’

She spoke to Mr Freyby in English and he bowed with a serious air and walked up to the net. However before signalling for the game to start, he turned to us and said something.

‘He want bet,’ Masa explained, and sparks of mischief glinted in his little eyes. ‘Two to one on rady.’

‘On the what?’ I asked, mystified.

‘On young rady,’ the Japanese replied impatiently and then he also started babbling away in English, pointing to his master and to Her Highness by turns.

‘All right,’ the Briton agreed. ‘Five to one.’

Masa translated.

With a despairing sigh, he took a brightly coloured wallet out from somewhere under his clothes, showed Mr Freyby a fiverouble note and put it down on the bench.

The Englishman immediately took out a squeaky wallet of fine leather and extracted a twenty-five-rouble note from it.

‘What about you, Mr Ziukin?’ he asked, and I understood that without any translation.

To my mind the idea of betting was not entirely decent, but as Georgii Alexandrovich was leaving, he had ordered me: ‘Fun and relaxation, Afanasii. I am relying on you.’ So I decided to behave in a relaxed fashion.

And anyway, the bet looked like a certainty. Xenia Georgievna had been exceptionally flexible and agile ever since she was a child, and there was no one among the ladies who could match her at tennis. And not just among the ladies, either – I had often seen her outplay Pavel Georgievich, and Endlung, while Fandorin had never even held a racket before today. Masa could only have bet on his master out of a sense of loyalty. I have heard that among Japanese servants loyalty extends to a fanaticism that knows no bounds. They write (I do not know if it is true) that a Japanese servant will rather rip open his own stomach than fail his master. Such self-sacrifice, in the spirit of the butler Vatelle, who fell on his own sword when the fish dish was not served in time, cannot occasion anything but respect. However, the spilling of one’s own intestines on a polished parquet floor is an act that is quite inconceivable in a respectable house.

I began feeling curious as to how far the Japanese valet’s self-sacrifice extended. I happened to have exactly fifty roubles in my purse, set aside to be deposited in my savings account at the bank. I took out the notes and put them in the same place on the bench.

To give the Japanese his due, he didn’t turn a hair. He took another ten-rouble note out of his wallet, and then Mr Freyby shouted: ‘Go!’

I knew the rules of the game very well, so I did not need to pay attention to what the Englishman shouted.

Xenia Georgievna arched over gracefully and served the ball so powerfully that Fandorin barely managed to get his racket in the way. The ball flew off at an angle, caught the top of the net, hesitated for a while over which way to fall, then tumbled over on Her Highness’s side.

Love–fifteen to Erast Petrovich. He was lucky.

Her Highness moved to the other side of the court and hit a very tricky serve with a powerful swerve, then ran rapidly up to the net, knowing in advance where her opponent would return the ball – if he returned it at all.

Fandorin did return it, but so powerfully that the ball would certainly have flown out of the court if only it hadn’t struck Her Highness on the forehead.

Xenia Georgievna looked rather shaken, and Fandorin seemed frightened. He dashed to the net and applied a handkerchief to Her Highness’s forehead.

‘It’s all right, it’s nothing,’ she murmured, holding Fandorin’s wrist. ‘It doesn’t hurt at all. You are a lucky beggar, though. Love–thirty. But now I’ll show you.’

The third serve was one of those that are quite impossible to get. I didn’t even see the ball properly – only a streak of lightning that flashed above the court. By some miracle Fandorin managed to catch the ball with his racket, but extremely awkwardly: the small white sphere flew up onto the air and began falling back down straight onto the net.

Xenia Georgievna ran forward with a triumphant exclamation, prepared to hammer the ball into the court. She swung and smashed the ball hard, and once again it caught the top of the net, only this time it did not tumble over on to the opponent’s side, but fell back to Her Highness’s feet

The grand princess’s face expressed confusion at the strange way the game was turning out. No doubt it was this confusion that caused Her Highness to miss twice on her last serve, a thing that had never happened before, and the game was lost ‘to love’, as the sportsmen say.

I felt my first twinge of dislike for Fandorin as his valet coolly stuffed his substantial winnings into his bright-coloured purse. It would take me quite a while to get used to the idea of losing fifty roubles in such an absurd fashion.

And I did not like the scene that was now played out on court at all.

As it had been agreed that the losing party would do, Her Highness went down on all fours and crawled under the net. Fandorin bent down hastily to help Xenia Georgievna get up. She looked up at him and she froze in that absurd pose. Embarrassed, Erast Petrovich took her by the hand and pulled, but too strongly – the grand princess fell against him with her chest and her hat went flying to the ground, taking her hairpins with it, so that her thick locks scattered loose across her shoulders.

‘I beg your pardon,’ Fandorin mumbled. ‘Thank you for the lesson. I must be going.’

He bowed awkwardly and strode off towards the house, with the Japanese waddling after him.

‘Lucky devil,’ said Mr Freyby.

Then he translated it: ‘

S-cha-stlivy . . . chort.’

And he began counting the money remaining in his wallet with an obvious air of regret.

But I was no longer thinking about the money I had lost. My heart was wrung by a feeling of alarmand a sense of foreboding.

Ah, how Xenia Georgievna gazed after Fandorin as he moved away from her! The cunning beast walked as if nothing at all had happened and only looked round at the very last moment – just before he turned the corner. He glanced briefly at Her Highness and immediately turned away. A low trick, very low, perfectly calculated for its effect on a young, inexperienced girl!

The grand princess flushed bright red at that lightning-fast glance, and I realised that something monstrous, something quite scandalous had occurred – one of those events that shake the very foundations of the monarchy. An individual of the imperial blood had fallen in love with a person who was inappropriate. There could be no mistake about it, although I can certainly not be considered an expert on the subject of women and their feelings.

Afanasii is an old bachelor and will evidently remain one. Our honourable dynasty is destined to end withmebecause, although I have a brother, he has forfeited the right to continue the Ziukin line of court servants.

My father, Stepan Filimonovich, and before him his father, Filimon Emelyanovich, were married at the age of seventeen to girls from similar court servant families and at the age of eighteen they had already produced their eldest sons. God grant to everyone the respect and love in which they lived with their spouses. But with me our family’s good fortune faltered and stumbled. The Ziukins will die out because I was given a feeble soul incapable of love.

I have not known love for the female sex. Adoration, though, is a different matter: I experienced that feeling when I was still a youth, and it was so powerful that afterwards I seemed to have no strength left for ordinary love.

From the age of fourteen I was a servant at a certain grandducal house too well known for me to name it. One of the grand princesses, whose name I will also not mention, was the same age as myself, and I often accompanied her when she went riding. In all my life since then I have never met a girl or a lady who could even remotely compare with Her Highness – not in beauty, although the grand princess was quite indescribably lovely, but in that special glow that radiated from her face and her entire person. I cannot explain it any better than that, but I saw that radiance quite clearly, as others see the moon’s rays or the light from a lamp.

I do not recall ever making conversation with Her Highness or asking her a question. I simply dashed to carry out any order that she deigned to give me without saying a word. In those years my life consisted of days that happened and days that somehow didn’t. When I saw her, it was a good day; when I did not see her, it was as if there was no day, nothing but blackness.

She must have thought that I was dumb, and she either pitied or simply grew used to me, but sometimes she would look at me with such an affectionate smile that I simply froze. It happened once during a horse race through the forest. Her Highness looked round at me and then smiled in that way, and in my happiness I let go of my reins. When I came round I was lying on the ground with everything swimming around me and Her Highness’s radiant face bending down over me, with tears in her eyes. I believe that was the happiest moment in my entire life.

I was a boy servant at that court for two years, seven months and four days, and then the grand princess was married to a German prince, and shewent away. It did not happen all at once – in imperial households marriages are arranged slowly – and all that time I had only one dream – to be among the staff of servants that would go to Germany with Her Highness. There was a vacancy for a junior footman.

But it did not happen. My father, the wise man, would not allow it.

I never saw Her Highness again. But at Christmas that year I received a letter she had written to me in her own hand. I still keep it to this day, with my parents’ wedding rings and my bank book, but I never open it to look at it – I know it off by heart in any case. It is not even a letter really, more of a note. Her Highness sent one like it to all her former servants who had stayed at home.

Dear Afanasii

All is well with me, and soon I shall have a little baby – a son or a daughter. I often remember our rides together. Do you remember the time you fell and I thought you had been killed? Not long ago I dreamed of you, and you were not a servant but a prince, and you told me something very happy and very nice, only I don’t remember what it was.

Be happy, Afanasii, and remember me sometimes.

That was the letter that I received from her. But there were no more letters because Her Highness passed away during her first labour and for almost thirty years now she has been with the angels, which is certainly a more suitable place for her than our sinful earth.

And so my father was proved right all round, although for a long time, right up until his death, I was unable to forgive him for not letting me go to Germany. Soon after Her Highness’s departure I turned seventeen, and my parents wished to marry me to the daughter of the senior doorman at the Anichkov Palace. Shewas a fine girl, but Iwould have nothing of it. Despite my equable and accommodating character, I would sometimes be overcome by stubbornness like that. My father struggled and struggled with me, and then finally gave up. He thought that in time I would come to my senses. And so I did, but I never did feel the desire for family life.

And that is the best way for a genuine butler – there is nothing to distract you from serving. Foma Anikeevich is not married either. And as for the legendary Prokop Sviridovich, although he had a wife and children, he kept them in the country and only visited them twice a year – at Christmas and at Easter.

A genuine butler knows that his service is not a duty but away of life. It is not a matter of being a butler from morning until evening and then going home and simply being Afanasii Ziukin. A butler is like a nobleman, they both serve at court, only we are a lot stricter with ourselves than the nobility. That is what makes us worth so much.

Many people would like to lure away a genuine butler from the court of the tsar or a grand duke and they have been known to offer huge amounts of money. Any rich man is flattered to have his own home ordered in the same manner as the imperial palaces. My own brother Frol could not resist the temptation: he felt flattered by a handsome offer . . . Now he serves as a butler – no, they call it a major domo – for a Moscow millionaire, the banker Litvinov, a Jew. Frol was given five thousand for making themove and three thousand a year, all found, with an apartment and gratuities. There was a butler once, but no more.

I severed all relations with my brother. And he does not bother me either – he understands the sin he has committed. And never mind millionaires, I would not even go to Prince Borontsov, although he offered me everything you could possibly imagine. One can only serve someone with whom one will not compare oneself. Distance is required. Because on one side there is the human, and on the other side the divine. Distance will always help to maintain respect. Even when one discovers Georgii Alexandrovich in the black chef Manefa’s little room or when Pavel Georgievich, unconscious and covered in vomit, is delivered home by cab in the middle of the night. But who is Prince Borontsov – merely a noble, and what is so special about that? Even we Ziukins were nobles once, although not for long.

This is an unusual story concerning one of our ancestors, my great-grandfather Emelyan Ziukin. I think it is probably worth telling – it is highly edifying, since it demonstrates once again that the foundation of the world is the established order, and God forbid that one should disrupt this order – no good will ever come of it in any case.

The Ziukins have their origins among the serfs of the Zvenigorod district of the province of Moscow. My ancestor, Emelyan Silantievich – at that time simply Emelka – was taken as a child to serve the master and his family, and his quick wit and efficiency made him well-liked, so that after a while they began treating him specially: they dressed him in clean clothes, kept him away from dirty work and taught him to read and write. He was attached to the young master as a kind of play friend. He read a lot of books, picked up some manners and even learned a certain amount of French, but the worst thing was that he started to feel ashamed of being a serf. And I believe that is why he started looking at the young lady of the house, the landowner’s daughter, not as one looks at a grand princess, with reverential devotion, but with the most audacious of intentions: he was determined to marry the object of his interest. You might think, who has ever heard of a peasant boy marrying a noblewoman? Anyone else would have dreamed for a while and then given up, but Emelyanwas a stubborn character – he thought a lot and planned a long way ahead and, as they would say nowadays, he believed in his star.

He did not tell a single living soul about his dream (although one could call it a plan, not a dream), especially not the young lady, but when recruits were being enlisted – they were fighting the French at the time – he suddenly asked to go for a soldier instead of the miller’s son, whose name had been drawn in the lottery. Emelyan was not yet old enough, but he was a fine strapping lad, and he added a year or two to his age. He was willingly let go, because by that time he had become insolent and disobedient – the master and his family no longer knewwhat to do with him.

So my great-grandfather put on a soldier’s uniform and took a payment in compensation from the miller, the richest man in the village, of seven hundred roubles in paper money, which he didn’t give to his father but put in the bank in his own name. That was in order to carry out his plan.

Emelyan was sent straight to the war, to fight in the Austrian campaign, and he fought for seven or eight years without a break – against the French and the Persians and the Swedes and the Turks and then the French again. He found his way into the very hottest spots and always volunteered for every desperate adventure. He was wounded many times and awarded medals, won a corporal’s stripes, and still that was not enough for him. And in the campaign of 1812, at the battle of Smolensk, when all the commanders in his company were killed, Emelyan won his cherished reward: General Bagration himself kissed him and promoted him to officer’s rank, something that almost never happened in those times.

After that Emelyan Ziukin fought for another two years and went as far as Paris with the army, but as soon as the armistice came, he asked for extended leave, although he was regarded most highly by his superiors and could have hoped for further advancement in the army. But my great-grandfather wanted something else – his impossibly bold plan was finally coming close to fulfilment.

Emelyan returned to his native parts not simply as a nobleman and a lieutenant in the grenadiers, he also had his own small capital, because in all those years he had not spent his pay, and when he was discharged he received bonuses and medical payments, and his initial seven hundred roubles had also almost doubled owing to accrued interest.

And in his home village everything could not have gone better. The estate had been burned by the French, so that the master and his familywere absolutely ruined and nowlived in the priest’s house. The young master, Emelyan’s former playmate, had been killed at Borodino, and the maiden who had inspired my great-grandfather to play his desperate game with fate had been left without a bridegroom, for he had laid down his life at Leipzig. All in all, Emelyan appeared to the object of his dreams almost in the guise of an angel sent to rescue her.

He presented himself at the priest’s log-built village but in his dress uniform, wearing his medals. The young lady came out in an old patched dress, and the trials she had suffered had spoiled her looks, so that he did not recognise her immediately. But that did not matter to him, because itwas not the young lady he loved but his own impossible dream.

Only nothing came of it. The young lady greeted him affectionately enough at first – she was delighted to see an old acquaintance – but she replied to the offer of his hand and his heart with an insulting amazement, and said she would rather live under sufferance with her relatives than ever become ‘Mrs Ziukin’.

These words clouded Emelyan’s reason. He had never drunk intoxicating liquor before in his life, but now he launched into a wild binge, and it ended very badly. In his drunken state he tore off his epaulettes and medals in public and trampled them into the ground, all the while bawling out an incoherent stream of words. He was tried for bringing disgrace on the uniform, stripped of his officer’s rank and expelled from the nobility. He would have been completely destroyed by drink but, by a fortunate chance, he was spotted by his former regimental commander, Prince Drubetskoi, who took pity on the down-and-out and for the sake of his former meritorious services found him a place as a manservant at Tsarskoe Selo.

And so the fate of our family line was decided.

When an individual of loworigins cherishes inadmissible dreams regarding a person of higher standing, this is deplorable and even perhaps outrageous, but not really so very dangerous for, as they say, a wicked cow has short horns. But an infatuation that runs in the opposite direction, not up from below but down from above, is fraught with far-reaching consequences. The case of Grand Duke Dmitrii Nikolaevich is still fresh in everyone’s memory. He defied the tsar’s will and married a divorced lady, for which he was banished from the empire. And we court servants also know that when the present tsar was still the tsarevich, he begged his august father with tears in his eyes to release him from succeeding to the throne and allowa marriage beneath his station to the ballerina Snezhnevskaya. That had everybody trembling, but any damage was prevented by the grace of the Lord and the abrupt temperament of the late tsar.

Therefore, the sense of alarm that came over me following that infamous game of tennis is entirely understandable, especially since Xenia Georgievna already had a fiancé in the shape of a Scandinavian prince with good prospects of becoming king (everybody knew that his elder brother, the heir to the throne, had consumption).

I needed urgently to consult someone who understood the workings of a young girl’s emotions, for I myself, as must be clear from what has already been said, can not consider myself an authority in such matters. After long hesitation, I decided to take Mademoiselle Declique into my confidence and I informed her of my apprehensions in the most general and delicate of terms. Mademoiselle nonetheless understood me perfectly well and – to my dismay – was not at all surprised, indeed she took what I said in a spirit of quite incredible frivolity.

‘Yes, yes,’ she said, nodding absent-mindedly. ‘I noticed that too. He is a handsome man, and she is at that age. It is all right. Let Xenia know a little love before they put her in a glass case.’

‘How can you say such a thing!’ I exclaimed in horror. ‘Her Highness is already engaged!’

‘Ah, Monsieur Ziukin, I saw her fiancé Prince Olaf, in Vienna,’ Mademoiselle said, wrinkling up her nose. ‘What was that folk saying you taught me . . . one of God’s own fools, yes?’

‘But if the elder brother should die – and everyone knows that he is consumptive – Prince Olaf will be first in line to inherit the throne. Which means that Xenia Georgievna could be a queen!’

Of course, the governess’s remark that I found so jarring should be attributed to her state of dejection. I had noticed that Mademoiselle was absent that morning and believed I had guessed why. No doubt, with her active and energetic temperament, she had been unable simply to do nothing and had attempted to undertake some searches of her own. But what could she do in a foreign country and an unfamiliar city when even the police felt helpless?

Mademoiselle had returned looking so tired and miserable that it pained me to look at her. And it was partly because of this that I began the conversation about the subject of my concern – in a desire to distract her from her thoughts about the little grand duke. In order to calm her a little, I told her the direction that things had taken and mentioned the responsible mission that had fallen to my lot – naturally without any undue inflation of my own role in matters.

I had expected Mademoiselle to be delighted by the news that now there was a glimmer of hope, but after hearing me out she looked at me with a strange, frightened expression and suddenly said: ‘But that is very dangerous.’ And turning her eyes away, she added: ‘I know you are brave . . . but don’t be too brave, all right?’

I was quite nonplussed by that, and there was a rather uncomfortable pause.

‘Ah, what bad luck,’ I eventually said to recover the situation. ‘It has started raining again. And the combined choir serenade for Their Imperial Majesties is set for this evening. The rain could spoil everything.’

‘You’d better think of yourself. You have to ride in an open carriage,’ Mademoiselle said in a quiet voice, pronouncing the final phrase almost perfectly. ‘It’s very easy to catch cold.’

When I drove out through the gate in the gig with the top back, the rain was already lashing down in earnest and I was soaked through before I even reached Kaluga Square. That was bad enough, but in the stream of carriages rolling along Korovii Val Street, I was the only person behaving in this intrepid manner, whichmust have appeared strange to any onlookers. Whywould a respectable-looking man with a large moustache and whiskers not wish to put up the leather hood on his carriage? The water was streaming off the sides of my bowler hat, and my face was inundated too, while my fine tweed suit clung to me like a wet sack. But how else would Doctor Lind’s people have been able to recognise me?

Standing at my feetwas a heavy suitcase stuffed full of twenty-five-rouble notes. Colonel Karnovich’s agents were driving in front of me and behind me, maintaining a cautious distance. I was in a strangely calm state of mind and did not feel any fear or excitement – my nerves had probably been numbed by the long wait and the damp.

I did not dare to look round, for my instructions had strictly forbidden it, but I did glance to the sides every now and then, examining the occasional pedestrian passers-by. Half an hour before I left, Foma Anikeevich had telephoned me and said: ‘Mr Lasovsky has decided to take measures of his own. I heard him reporting to His Highness. He has positioned his sleuths from Kaluga Square all the way down to the Moscow River, spaced fifty paces apart, and told them to stay alert and arrest anyone who comes close to your carriage. I am afraid this might put Mikhail Georgievich in danger.’

I had no difficulty in spotting the sleuths – who, apart from them, would be out strolling with such an air of boredom in a downpour like this? Except for these gentlemen with identical black umbrellas there was almost no one on the pavements. There were just carriages driving in both directions, crowded close together, almostwheel-to-wheel. After Zatsepsky Val Street (I read the name on the street sign) a priest came up beside me in an old rattletrap of a carriage with its tarpaulin cover up. He was in a ferocious mood, in a hurry to get somewhere, and he kept shouting at the driver in front: ‘Come on, get a move on, servant of God!’ But how can anyone get a move on when he’s stuck behind a solid line of carriages, wagons, charabancs and omnibuses?

We crossed a little river or canal, then a river that was a bit wider. The chain of sleuths had ended long ago, and still no one had hailed me. I was already quite convinced that Lind had spotted the police agents and decided to call the meeting off. The flow of traffic halted at a wide crossroads, with a constable in a long oilskin raincoat whistling frantically as he gave right of way to traffic from the street crossing ours. The newspaper boys took advantage of the hold-up and darted in between the carriages, screeching: ‘One-Kopeck News!’, ‘Moscow Gazette!’, ‘RussianWord!’

One of them, with a flaxen forelock stuck to his forehead and a plush shirt turned dark by the rain hanging outside his trousers, suddenly grabbed hold of my carriage shaft with one hand and adroitly plumped himself down beside me on the seat. He was so small and so nimble that probably no one in the carriages behind had noticed him through the curtain of rain.

‘Turn right, Mister,’ the little lad said, nudging me in the side with his elbow. ‘And orders are not to turn your head.’

I wanted very much to look back to see if the police agents had missed this unexpected messenger, but I did not dare. They would see me take the turn anyway.

I pulled the reins to the right, cracked the whip, and the horse turned into a slanting side street that looked most respectable, with fine stone houses.

‘Move on, Mister, move on!’ the boy cried, looking back. ‘Come on now!’

He grabbed the whip from me, gave a wild whistle, lashed the chestnut horse, and it started clopping its hooves over the cobblestones for all it was worth.

‘Turn in there!’ said my guide, jabbing one finger to the left.

We went flying into a street that was a bit smaller and less grand, hurtled past one block of buildings and took another turn. Then another, and another.

‘Go that way, into the gateway,’ the newspaper boy ordered.

I pulled back slightly on the reins, and we drove into a dark narrow archway.

Less than half a minute later two carriages carrying police agents went rumbling and clattering past, and then all was quiet except for the splashing of the rain as it lashed even harder against the surface of the road.

‘And what now?’ I asked, taking a cautious look at the messenger.

‘Wait,’ he said grandly, blowing on his chilly hands.

It was clear that I could not expect any help from the court police and I would have to fend for myself. But I was not afraid, for I could deal with an opponent like this on my own. A small boywas no problem. Grab him by his skinny shoulders, give him a good shaking and he would tell me who had sent him. Then I could follow the trail.

Then I took a better look at the little fellow, noting the swollen mouth not at all like a child’s and the screwed-up eyes. A wild wolf cub, a real wolf cub. One could never shake the truth out of a boy like that.

Suddenly I heard the sound of another carriage approaching in the distance. I craned my neck to look, and the boy immediately took his chance. I heard a rustling sound and when I looked back I saw there was no longer anyone beside me – there was nothing but a blurred smear on the wet seat.

The rumbling was very close now. I jumped down off the coach box, ran out of the archway to the pavement and saw a foursome of sturdy blacks pulling a carriage with all the curtains tightly closed at a spanking pace. The driver had a hood lowered over his face and he was cracking a long whip loudly over the gleaming backs of the horses. When the carriage drew abreast of the archway, the curtains suddenly parted and there in front of me I saw His Highness’s pale little face framed in golden curls and that familiar sailor’s hat with the red pompom.

Mikhail Georgievich also saw me and started shouting loudly: ‘Afon! Afon!’

That was what he had always called me.

I tried to shout too and I opened my mouth, but only sobbed.

Lord, what was I to do?

The tricky procedure of backing the gig out of the gateway would take me too long. Not even realising what I was doing in my agitation, I dashed after the carriage as fast as I could run. I did not even notice when the wet bowler hat went flying off my head.

‘Stop!’ I shouted. ‘Stop!’

I could see the driver’s round hat above the roof of the carriage, and his flailing whip.

I had never run like that before in all my life, not even during my time as a court outrunner.

Of course, there was no way I could have caught a team of four horses if the street had not suddenly taken a tight bend. The carriage slowed down, heeling over slightly to one side. I took several huge bounds to reduce the distance, jumped and clung onto the luggage rack with both hands. I pulled myself up and was just on the point of climbing onto the monkey board, but the driver, without even looking round, lashed his whip back over the roof, stinging my temple, and I fell off. I landed face down in a puddle and then rolled across it, sending up a fountain of spray. When I lifted myself up on my hands the carriage was already turning a corner.

I limped back to the gig, wiping my dirty face with my sleeve, but when I got there the suitcase of money was gone.