The Coronation

12 May

I came to instantly, without any preliminary wandering between oblivion and wakefulness, that is, not at all as if I were emerging from ordinary sleep. One moment I was seeing the basement illuminated by those creeping beams of light and the rapidly approaching yellow shoe, then I closed my eyes, and when I opened them I was in a completely different place: daylight, a white ceiling and at one side, at the limit of my vision, two faces – Mademoiselle Declique and Mr Fandorin. At first for a moment I did not think this fact of any great importance. I simply noted that they were sitting there, looking down at me, and I was lying in bed. And then I began feeling the strange numbness in all my body, heard the regular murmur of rain outside the window and started. Why were their shoulders touching like that?

‘Grace à Dieu!’ said Mademoiselle. ‘Il a repris connaissance. Vous aviez raison.’¹

I looked from her to Fandorin with a feeling that there was something that I ought to ask him.

‘What is uragirimono?’ I then asked, repeating the resounding word that had stuck in my memory. In fact, I thought that I had only just heard it.

‘It means t-traitor in Japanese,’ Erast Petrovich replied coolly, leaning over me and for some reason pulling down my lower eyelids with his fingers (I was simply mortified at such familiarity). ‘I am glad that you are alive, Ziukin. After a blow like that you might never have recovered consciousness. You have a very thick skull – there is not even any concussion. You have been lying unconscious for almost forty hours. Try to sit up.’

Sitting up without any especial effort, I suddenly felt embarrassed because I saw that I was wearing only my undershirt, and it was unbuttoned over my chest. Noticing my unease, Mademoiselle delicately averted her eyes.

Fandorin handedmea glass ofwater and in the same measured tone of voice told me something that brought me back to reality: ‘You, Ziukin, have done serious damage to our cause by telling Karnovich about our plans. A highly promising lead has been lost. Stump has been killed. Four of his gang, including the sentry whom I stunned, have been taken alive, but they are quite useless to us. Onewas used for snooping around the Hermitage. Another was the driver in the carriage that you attempted to chase. He was the one who lashed you with his whip, remember? But he does not know who was sitting in the carriage – he did not even hear the child cry out. Stump ordered him to get up on the coach box on Nikolo-Yamskaya Street, drive along a set route, and then get back down again at the Andronnikov Monastery. There he gave up his seat to a different driver, who did not look Russian. And that is all. Stump, at least, knew where L-Lind’s lair is. But now we have been left empty-handed. So Masa’s anger is understandable. Now that it is clear you are alive and almost well, my assistant will finally be released from custody, and a good thing too – without him I am like a man without arms.’

I touched my forehead and felt a substantial bump. Well, serve me right.

‘But are there no leads at all then?’ I asked, my voice trembling with awareness of the gravity of my mistake.

‘Now all we can do is put our trust in Mademoiselle Declique. I am afraid I have run out of ideas. My Lady, tell Afanasii Stepanovich about your journeys to Lind’s place yesterday and today.’

‘What, have you already been to see him twice?’ I asked in amazement and turned towards the grey window, wondering what time it was.

‘Yes, today’s meeting was early this morning,’ Mademoiselle replied. ‘Will you permit me to speak French? It will be much quicker.’

And indeed, in five minutes she gave me an account of the events that had occurred during my enforced absence.

The previous day, Saturday, she had once again been summoned from the church by a note. The carriage (not the same one as the day before, but verymuch like it and also with boarded-up windows) was waiting on the next side street. The driver was the same – bearded, unspeaking, with his hat pulled down low over his eyes. Fifty-four minutes later (on this occasion Fandorin had given Mademoiselle a watch with phosphorescent hands) she was once again blindfolded and soon found herself in the same underground vault. This time they uncovered her eyes for a few moments so that she could take a brief glance at Mikhail Georgievich. The boy was lying with his eyes closed, but he was alive. The governess was forbidden to look around and all she saw was a bare stone wall dimly lit by a candle, and a chest that served His Highness as a bed.

On the morning of that day the whole procedure had been repeated. Doctor Lind had acquired an aigrette of diamonds and sapphires. During the few seconds that Mademoiselle was not blindfolded, she was able to take a closer look at the prisoner. He was still unconscious, had lost a lot of weight and his left hand was bandaged. Mademoiselle had touched his forehead and felt a strong fever.

Mademoiselle’s narrative broke off at that point, but she quickly took herself in hand.

‘How I wish this was all over,’ she said with a self-control that I found quite admirable. ‘Michel will not survive very long in conditions like that. He is a strong healthy child, but everything has its limits.’

‘Did you see Lind? Even out of the corner of your eye?’ I asked hopefully.

‘No. The blindfoldwas removed for no more than ten seconds and I was strictly forbidden to turn round. I only sensed that there were several men standing behind me.’

I felt an empty ache in the pit of my stomach.

‘So the search is no further forward at all?’

Mademoiselle and Fandorin exchanged glances in a way that seemed conspiratorial to me, and I felt a stab of almost physical pain. The two of them were together, a couple, and I had been left on the outside, alone.

‘We do have something,’ Fandorin declared with a mysterious air and, lowering his voice as if he were revealing some highly important secret, added: ‘I have taught Emilie to count the creaks made by the wheels.’

For a moment the only thing I understood was that he had called Mademoiselle Declique by her first name! Could their friendship really have gone that far? And only then did I attempt to penetrate the meaning of his words. I failed.

‘The creaks made by the wheels?’

‘Why yes. Any axle, even if it is perfectly lubricated, produces a creak which, if you listen closely, is a constant repetition of the same set of sounds.’

‘So what?’

‘One cycle, Ziukin, is a single revolution, a turn of the wheel. You only have to count how many times the wheel has turned in order to know how far the carriage has travelled. The wheels on carriages of the phaeton type preferred by the kidnappers are a standard size – in the metric system, they are a metre and forty centimetres in diameter. Therefore, according to the laws of geometry, the length of the circumference is equal to four metres and eighty centimetres. The rest is simple. Mademoiselle counts and remembers the number of revolutions from one corner to the next. It is easy to tell when the carriage turns a corner, because it leans either to the right or the left. We are not having the carriage followed, in order not to alarm the kidnappers, however, we do see the direction in which Emilie is driven away. After that everything d-depends on her alertness and her memory. And so,’ Fandorin continued in the voice of a teacher expounding a problem in geometry, ‘if we know the number and direction of revolutions, and also the d-distance between the corners, we can identify the place where they are hiding the child.’

‘Well, and have you identified it?’ I exclaimed in eager excitement.

‘Not so fast, Ziukin, not so f-fast,’ Fandorin said with a smile. ‘The mute driver deliberately does not follow a direct route, but turns and twists – evidently checking to see if anyone is on his tail. And so Emilie’s task is not a simple one. Yesterday she and I walked along the route taken by the carriage, checking her observations against the g-geography.’

‘And what did you discover?’ I asked, imagining Mademoiselle walking along the street, leaning on the armof her elegant escort, both of them serious and intent, united by the common cause, and meanwhile I was lying in bed like a useless block of wood.

‘Both times, after wandering around the side streets, the carriage came out onto Zubovsky Square. That is also confirmed by Emilie’s observations – at that point on the route she heard the sound of a large number of carriages and amurmur of voices.’

‘And after that?’

Mademoiselle looked round shamefacedly at Fandorin – this brief trusting glance made my heart ache once again – and said, as if she were making excuses for herself, ‘Monsieur Ziukin, yesterday I managed to remember eleven corners, and today thirteen.’ She screwed up her eyes and listed them hesitantly: ‘Twenty-two, left; forty-one, right; thirty-four, left; eighteen, right; ninety, left; fourteen, right; a hundred and forty-three, right; thirty-seven, right; twenty-five, right; a hundred and fifteen, right (and here, in the middle, at about the fiftieth turn of the wheels, the noise of the square); fifty-two, left; sixty, right; then right again, but I don’t remember how far. I tried very hard, but I lost track . . .’

I was astounded.

‘Good Lord, how did you manage to remember so many?’

‘Do not forget, my friend, that I am a teacher,’ she said with a gentle smile, and I blushed, uncertain as to howI should interpret that form of address and whether such familiarity was permissible in our relations.

‘But tomorrow it will all happen again, and you will lose track again,’ I said, assuming a stern air for the sake of good order. ‘The human memory, even the most highly developed, has its limits.’

I found the smile with which Fandorin greeted my remark most annoying. People smile in that way at the babbling of an innocent child.

‘Emilie will not have to remember everything from the very beginning. After Zubovksy Square, the carriage followed the same route both times, and the last corner that our scout definitely rememberedwas the junction of Obolensky Lane and Olsufievsky Lane. We do not know where the carriage went afterwards, but that spot has been identified with absolute certainty. From there to the final point is not very far – about ten or fifteen minutes.’

‘In fifteen minutes a carriage could travel a good ten versts in any direction,’ I remarked, piqued by Erast Petrovich’s arrogance. ‘Are you really planning to search such an immense area? Why, it’s larger than the whole of Vasilievsky Island!’

He smiled even more insufferably.

‘The coronation, Ziukin, is the day after tomorrow. And then we shall have to give Doctor Lind the Orlov and the game will be over. But tomorrow Emilie will set out again in a b-boarded-up carriage to pay the final instalment – some kind of tiara of yellow diamonds and opals.’

I could not repress a groan. The priceless tiara in the form of a garland of flowers. Why, that was the most important treasure of all in Her Majesty’s coffret!

‘Naturally, I have had to give the empress my word of honour that the tiara and all the trinkets that have gone before it will be returned safe and sound,’ Fandorin declared with quite incredible self-assurance. ‘Oh, and by the way, I believe I have not yet mentioned one rather important circumstance. Since Karnovich disrupted our Khitrovka operation like a bull charging into a china shop, the overall control of operations directed against Lind has been entrusted to me, and the head of the court police and the high police master of Moscow have been forbidden to interfere under penalty of prosecution.’

This was unheard of! An investigation on which, without any exaggeration, the fate of the tsarist dynasty depended had been entrusted to a private individual! It meant that at that moment Erast Petrovich Fandorin was the most important individual in the entire Russian state, and I suddenly saw him in a quite different light.

‘Emilie will start her count at the corner of Obolensky Lane and Olsufievsky Lane,’ he explained, no longer smiling but with a most serious expression on his face. ‘And then Mademoiselle, with her magnificent memory, will certainly not lose count.’

‘But, Your Honour, how will Mademoiselle know that she has reached the right corner?’

‘That is very simple, Ziukin, since I shall see the carriage that they put her in. Of course, I shall not follow it, but go directly to Olsufievsky Lane. When I see the carriage approaching, I shall ring a bell, and that will be the signal for Emilie.’

‘But will that not seem suspicious to the driver? Why would a respectably dressed gentleman like you suddenly ring a bell? Perhaps you could simply arrest this driver and let him tell you where Lind is hiding?’

Fandorin sighed.

‘That is probably exactly what High Police Master Lasovsky would do. Lind must undoubtedly have foreseen such a possibility, but for some reason he is not at all afraid of it. I have certain ideas of my own on that matter, but I shall not go into them just now. As for the respectable gentleman, you really do insult me there. I think you have seen how remarkably well I can transformmyappearance. And I shall not only ring a bell, Ziukin, I shall shout as well.’

And suddenly he began yelling in a piercing nasal voice with a strong Tartar accent, miming as if he was shaking a bell: ‘Any old rags – kopeck a time! Rusty spoons and ladles! Old ripped pants and rags, rusty spoons and ladles! Your junk for my money!’

Mademoiselle laughed for the first time in those difficult days – at least, in my presence.

‘Now, Monsieur Ziukin, you rest and Erast and I will take a little stroll about Maiden’s Field, Pogodinskaya and Pliushchikha,’ she said, painstakingly enunciating the names of the Moscow streets, but the only word that I heard was Erast.

How could he be ‘Erast’ to her?

‘I am perfectly well,’ I assured them both, ‘and I would like to accompany you.’ Fandorin stood up and shook his head.

‘Masa will accompany us. I am afraid that he is still angry with you. And the time spent in the lock-up has probably not improved his mood at all.’

Of course, I did not simply lie there, but I had nothing to occupy myself with, for Somov had taken complete possession of all my responsibilities and, to do him justice, he was managing them quite well – at least I did not discover any serious omissions, although I checked on the condition of the rooms and the table-ware and the stables, and even the state of the door handles. There was nothing I had to do, apart from ordering the roses in Her Highness’s room to be replaced with anemones and having an empty bottle that had rolled under Lieutenant Endlung’s bed taken away.

So I had been relieved of my duties, beaten (deservedly, which was the most painful thing) and humiliated in front of Mademoiselle Declique, but what tormented me most of all was the nightmarish vision of Mikhail Georgievich languishing in a damp dungeon. Shock, coercion, physical torment, the prolonged effects of narcotics – all of these traumas, suffered at such a young age, would be certain to have dire consequences. It was terrifying to think how they might affect the grand duke’s character and psychological health. But it was still too early to be worrying about such things. First His Highness had to be freed from the clutches of the cruel Doctor Lind.

And I promised myself that I would forgive Fandorin everything if only he could save the child.

The members of our household returned early in the evening after attending the ceremony of the consecration of the State Banner in the Armoury Palace.

In the corridor Xenia Georgievna took hold of my sleeve and asked quietly: ‘Where is Erast Petrovich?’

Her Highness seemed willing to make me her confidant in her affaire de cœur², but I felt absolutely no desire to assume this ambivalent role.

‘Mr Fandorin has gone out with Mademoiselle Declique,’ I replied impassively, bowing and remaining bent as if I had forgotten to straighten up so that I would not have to meet the grand princess’s gaze.

Xenia Georgievna seemed quite unpleasantly surprised.

‘With Emilie? But why?’

‘It has to do with the plans to free Mikhail Georgievich,’ I said without going into details, wishing to end this conversation as soon as possible.

‘Ah, what an egotist I am!’ Tears sprang to the grand princess’s eyes. ‘I am horrid, horrid! Poor Mika! No, I think of him all the time, I was praying for him all night long.’ Suddenly she blushed and corrected herself. ‘Well, almost all night . . .’

These words, which could be construed in only one way, finally spoiled my mood completely, and I am afraid that during supper I was insufficiently attentive in my duties.

The mealwas a special one, arranged in honour of our English guests on the occasion of the birthday of the Queen of England, who is known in our Family simply as Granny and is genuinely respected and dearly loved. The last time I had seen ‘the grandmother of all Europe’ was in the spring in Nice, when Queen Victoria held a party for Xenia Georgievna and Prince Olaf. I thought that the Empress of India and ruler of the leading empire in theworld seemed very aged but still strong. Our court servants say that after the death of her husband for a long time she maintained a connection with one of her own servants, but looking at this admirable majestic individual it was quite impossible to believe in such a thing. In any case, there is always all sorts of gossip about royalty, but one should never give any credit to rumours until they have been officially confirmed. I, at least, do not encourage gossip about Her Britannic Majesty in my presence.

In arranging a supper in Granny’s honour, Georgii Alexandrovich wished to make up at least in part for the lack of attention paid to his English guests as a result of the misfortune that had befallen the Green House. The preparations had been supervised by Somov – all that remained for me to do was to check the table settings and the menu. Everything was impeccable.

The festivities fell flat, although Endlung tried as hard as he could, and even Georgii Alexandrovich behaved as a genuinely hospitable host ought to. But all efforts were in vain. Pavel Georgievich sat there with a glum face and did not even touch his food; he only drank wine. Xenia Georgievna seemed distracted; His Lordship and Mr Carr did not even look at each other and laughed somehow too loudly at the lieutenant’s jokes, as if they were deliberately pretending to be carefree and lighthearted. From time to time there were prolonged pauses, a sure sign of an unsuccessful evening.

It seemed to me that the shade of the unfortunate little prisoner was hovering over the table, although not a word was spoken about him. After all, the Englishmen had not officially been informed about what had happened – that would have meant the inevitable dissemination of the secret across the whole of Europe. As long as the subject was not touched upon, it did not exist. As men of honour, Lord Banville and Mr Carr would keep silent. And if they did say anything, it would only be in private, among their own circle. That, of course, would fuel rumours, but nothing more than that. And I have already spoken about rumours.

I stood behind Georgii Alexandrovich’s chair, giving signs to the servants if anything needed to be brought in or taken out. But my thoughts were far away. I was wondering how I could exculpate my unwitting debt of guilt to Mikhail Georgievich and whether there was some other way in which I could help to save him. And also – I will not attempt to dissemble – several times I recalled the trusting even admiring way in which Mademoiselle Declique had looked at Fandorin – Erast. I must admit that in picturing myself as Mikhail Georgievich’s rescuer, I imagined how she would look at me in the same way – perhaps with even greater admiration. Foolish, of course. Foolish and unworthy.

‘Why does it have to be me?’ Pavel Georgievich asked, lowering his voice. ‘You were the one who promised to take them to the opera today.’

‘I can’t,’ Georgii Alexandrovich replied just as quietly. ‘You will go.’

Just for an instant – evidently because my thoughts were occupied by extraneous matters – I imagined that I had begun to understand English, for the conversation at the table was naturally in that language, but then I realised that these remarks had been made in Russian.

Pavel Georgievich spoke in a jolly voice, with his lips stretched out into a smile, but his eyes were as spiteful as could be. His father regarded him with a perfectly benign air, but I noticed that the back of His Highness’s neck was turning crimson, and that certainly boded no good.

By this time Xenia Georgievna was no longer at the table – she had withdrawn, citing a slight migraine.

‘Is it because she has arrived?’ Pavel Georgievich asked, still smiling in the same way and looking at the Englishmen. ‘Are you going to see her at the Loskutnaya?’

‘None of your business, Paulie,’ said Georgii Alexandrovich, smacking his lips as he lit up a cigar. ‘You’re going to the opera.’

‘No!’ Pavel Georgievich exclaimed so loudly that the Englishmen actually started.

Endlung immediately began jabbering away in English. Georgii Alexandrovich laughed, added a few words and then, covering his son’s hand with his own immense fleshy palm in a paternal manner, rumbled: ‘Goto the opera or go to Vladivostok. And I’m not joking.’

‘I’ll go to Vladivostok; I’ll go to the devil if you like!’ Pavel Georgievich replied in a honeyed voice, and lovingly set his other hand on top of his father’s, so that from the outside this family scene must have appeared quite charming. ‘But you go to the opera yourself.’

The threat concerning Vladivostok was heard quite often in the Family. Every time Pavel Georgievich was involved in some escapade or provoked his parents’ displeasure in one way or another, Georgii Alexandrovich threatened to use his authority as admiral-general to send him to the Pacific Fleet, to serve the fatherland and settle down. So far, however, this had not happened.

After that they spoke exclusively in English, and my thoughts took a completely different direction.

I had an idea.

The point was that the meaning of the spat between Their Highnesses, which would hardly have been understandable even to someone who knew Russian, was absolutely clear to me.

Izabella Felitsianovna Snezhnevskaya had arrived and was staying at the Loskutnaya hotel.

There was someone who would help me!

Madam Snezhnevskaya was the most intelligent woman I had ever met in my life, and in my time I had seen empresses and high-society lionesses and ruling queens.

Izabella Felitsianovna’s story is so fantastic and improbable that the like is probably not to be found in the whole of world history. Possibly some Madam Maintenon or Marquise de Pompadour might have achieved greater power at the zenith of their glory, but their position within the royal household could hardly have been more secure and enduring. Madam Snezhnevskaya, being, as I have already said, a most intelligentwoman, had made a truly great innovation in court practice: she had started an affair, not with a monarch or a grand duke, who alas are mortal or inconstant, but with the monarchy, which is immortal and eternal. At the age of twenty-eight Izabella Felitsianovna had earned the sobriquet of a ‘crown jewel’, and in fact she really did look like some precious decoration from the Imperial Diamond Room: petite, delicate, unutterably elegant, with a voice like crystal, golden hair and sapphire eyes. This little dancer, the youngest and most talented in all the ballet companies of St Petersburg, had been noticed by the deceased sovereign. In paying homage to the charms of this nymph, His Majesty discovered something more in Izabella Felitsianovna than the mere enchantment of beauty and freshness – he discovered intelligence, tact and the basic qualities of a faithful ally of the throne.

As a statesman and exemplary family man, the sovereign could not allow himself to become too obsessed with this magical debutante, and he took the wise step (one must presume, not without regret) of entrusting Madam Snezhnevskaya to the care of the tsarevich, whowas causing his august parent great concern with his excessive piety and a certain lack of polish. Izabella Felitsianovna bore the parting from His Majesty with courage and took her important state mission most responsibly, so that the heir to the throne soon changed for the better and even committed several follies (admittedly rather modest and not scandalous in nature), which finally reassured his father the tsar.

In appreciation of her services, Madam Snezhnevskaya received a marvellous palazzo on Bolshaya Dvoryanskaya Street, her own choice of parts at the Mariinsky Theatre and – most important of all – a special, in fact exclusive, position at court, which was the envy of many, many others. However, despite all this, she conducted herself modestly, did not abuse her influence and – almost unbelievably – did not acquire any serious enemies. It was known from reliable sources that the lovelorn tsarevich had offered to marry the beauty in secret, but she prudently declined, and when a tender friendship sprang up between the heir to the throne and Princess Alice she withdrew into the shadows, and in a touching scene of farewell with ‘dear Nicky’ she gave her blessing to that union. This action subsequently paid dividends, since it was genuinely appreciated by the new tsarina – yet another unprecedented phenomenon – and she began giving her former rival clear signs of favour. Especially when Izabella Felitsianovna, following a decent pause for grieving, entrusted her tender heart to Georgii Alexandrovich. To be quite honest, I think that in many ways Madam Snezhnevskaya gained more than she lost by this change. Georgii Alexandrovich is a distinguished man and a generous soul with a far more pleasant character than his nephew.

Oh, Izabella Felitsianovna was wisdom itself. One could tell her about anything. She understood how important the secrets of the royal family were, for she herself was their custodian. Snezhnevskaya would come up with something special, something that would not occur either to the slippery Colonel Karnovich or the redoubtable Kirill Alexandrovich, or even the artful Mr Fandorin himself.

Madam Snezhnevskaya had taken an entire wing in the Loskutnaya, which in itself was an adequate demonstration of this amazing woman’s status – just then, at the very height of the coronation celebrations, even the most ordinary hotel room cost five times as much as normal, and it was in any case impossible to find one.

There were numerous baskets of flowers standing in the hallway of the deluxe apartment and I heard the muted sounds of a grand piano coming from somewhere in the maze of rooms. I handed the maid a note and the playing stopped almost immediately. A minute later Izabella Felitsianovna herself came out to me. She was wearing a rich-pink dress of light silk that no other blonde could possibly have presumed to wear, but Snezhnevskaya in this attire did not look vulgar, she looked divine – I cannot find any other word for it. Once again I was astounded by her light porcelain beauty, that most precious kind of beauty, encountered so very rarely, which gives a face that should be familiar the power to take one’s breath away and strike one dumb.

‘Afanasii!’ she said with a smile, looking up atmebut managing in some miraculous manner to hold herself as if shewere standing on a pedestal, not on the ground. ‘Hello, my friend. Is it something from Georgie?’

‘No,’ I replied with a low bow. ‘I have secret business of state importance.’

The clever woman did not ask me a single question. She knew that Afanasii Ziukin would not use such a weighty phrase idly. She knitted her brows in concern for an instant and then beckoned me with her little hand.

I followed her through several communicating rooms to the boudoir. Izabella Felitsianovna closed the door, sat down on the bed, gestured for me to take a seat in an armchair and said just two words: ‘Tell me.’

I expounded the gist of the problem to her, without keeping anything back. My story took quite a long time, because so many events had occurred during the previous few days, but even so it was shorter than might have been expected, for Snezhnevskaya did not gasp or clutch at her heart, and she did not interrupt me even once – she only picked faster and faster at her collar with her elegant fingers.

‘Mikhail Georgievich is in mortal danger, and there is a terrible threat hanging over the entire house of Romanov,’ was how I concluded my extensive account, although I could have dispensed with the dramatic style because my listener had understood everything perfectly well anyway.

Izabella Felitsianovna said nothing for a long time, a very long time. Never had I seen an expression of such agitation on her doll-like face, not even when I took the tsarevich’s letters away from her on Georgii Alexandrovich’s instructions.

Unable to bear such a long pause, I asked: ‘Tell me, is there any solution to this?’

She raised her bright-blue eyes and looked at me sadly and – so I thought – with sympathy. But her voice was firm.

‘There is. Only one. To sacrifice the lesser for the sake of the greater.’

‘“The lesser” – is that His Highness?’ I asked and sobbed in a most shameful fashion.

‘Yes. And I assure you, Afanasii, that such a decision has already been taken, although no one speaks of it out loud. Knick-knacks from the coffret – very well, but no one will give this Doctor Lind the Orlov. Not for anything in the world. This Fandorin of yours is a clever man. The idea of “renting” is brilliant. Stretch things out until the coronation, and after that itwon’t matter any more.’

‘But . . . but that is monstrous!’ I could not help exclaiming.

‘Yes, from the ordinary human point of view, it is monstrous,’ she said and touched me affectionately on the shoulder. ‘Neither you nor I would behave like that with our children. Ah yes, you have no children, I believe?’ Snezhnevskaya sighed and then in her pure ringing voice she expressed an idea that I myself had pondered more than once. ‘To be born into a ruling house is a special destiny. One that brings immense privileges, but also requires the willingness to make immense sacrifices. A disgraceful scandal during the coronation is unacceptable. Under any circumstances whatever. To hand over one of the most important insignia of the empire to criminals is even less acceptable. But to sacrifice the life of one of the eighteen grand dukes is perfectly acceptable. Even Georgie understands that of course. What is a four-year-old boy compared with the fate of an entire dynasty?’

There was a clear hint of bitterness in these last words, but there was also genuine grandeur. The tears that sprang to my eyes did not go on to run down my cheeks. I do not know why, but I felt chastened.

There was a knock at the door, and the English nanny led in a pair of quite delightful twins who looked verymuch like Georgii Alexandrovich – ruddy-cheeked and strong-necked, with lively brown eyes.

‘Good night, Mummy,’ they babbled and ran to fling themselves on Izabella Felitsianovna’s neck.

It seemed to me that she hugged and kissed them rather more passionately than this everyday ritual required.

When the boys had been led away, Snezhnevskaya locked the door and said to me: ‘Afanasii, your eyes are soggy. Stop it immediately or I’ll turn weepy myself. It doesn’t happen to me very often, but once I start it will be a long time before I stop.’

‘I beg your pardon,’ I mumbled, fumbling in my pocket for a handkerchief, but my fingers were not responding very well.

Then she came up to me, took a little lacy handkerchief out of her cuff and dabbed my eyelashes – very cautiously, as if she were afraid of spoiling make-up.

Suddenly there was a knock at the door – loud and insistent.

‘Izabo! Open up, it’s me!’

‘Paulie!’ exclaimed Snezhnevskaya, throwing up her hands. ‘Youmust not meet. Itwould put the boy in an awkward position. In here, quickly!

‘Just a moment!’ she called. ‘I’ll just put my shoes on.’

Meanwhile she opened the door of a large mirror-fronted wardrobe and shoved me inside, prodding me with her sharp little fist.

The interior of the dark and rather spacious oak wardrobe smelled of lavender and eau de cologne. I turned round cautiously, made myself as comfortable as possible and tried not to thinkwhat an embarrassing situationwould result ifmypresence were to be discovered. But a moment later I heard something that made me forget all about my embarrassment.

‘I adore you!’ Pavel Georgievich exclaimed. ‘How very lovely you are, Izabo! I think about you every day!’

‘Stop that! Paulie, you are simply insane! I told you, it was a mistake that will never be repeated. And you gavemeyourword.’

Oh Lord! I clutched at my heart, and the movement set the dresses rustling.

‘You swore that we would be like brother and sister!’ Izabella Felitsianovna declared, raising her voice – evidently in order to mask the incongruous noises from the wardrobe. ‘And anyway your father telephoned. He should be here at any minute.’

‘I rather think not!’ Pavel Georgievich declared triumphantly. ‘He has gone to the opera with the Englishmen. No one will bother us. Izabo, what do you want him for? He’s married, but I’m free. He’s twenty years older than you!’

‘And I’m seven years older than you. That’s a lot more for a woman than twenty years is for a man,’ Snezhnevskaya replied.

I deduced from the rustling of silk that Pavel Georgievich was trying to put his arms round her and she was resisting his embraces.

‘You are like Thumbelina,’ he said passionately. ‘You will always be my tiny little girl . . .’

She gave a short laugh: ‘Oh yes, a little lapdog – a puppy to the end of its days.’

There was another knock at the door, even more insistent than the previous one.

‘My lady, Georgii Alexandrovich is here!’ the maid’s frightened voice announced.

‘How can that be?’ Pavel Georgievich cried in alarm. ‘What about the opera? Well, that’s it. Now he really will send me to Vladivostok! Oh Lord, what shall I do?’

‘Into the wardrobe,’ Izabella Felitsianovna declared decisively. ‘Quickly! No, not the left door, the right one!’

Somewhere very close to me a door squeaked and I heard agitated breathing about three paces away, beyond the multiple layers of dresses. Thank God my brain was unable to keep up with events, otherwise I should probably have simply fainted away.

‘Well, at last!’ I heard Snezhnevskaya exclaim joyfully. ‘I had already given up hope! Why promise and then make me wait like this?’

There was the sound of a prolonged kiss and beyond the dresses Pavel Georgievich gnashed his teeth.

‘I was supposed to go to the opera, but I escaped. That scoundrel Paulie . . . Give him it in the neck, I will . . . Here, I had to come here . . . I have to . . .’

‘Not straight away, not straight away . . . Let’s have a glass of champagne – it’s already waiting in the drawing room . . .’

‘To hell with champagne. I’m all on fire. Bellochka, it’s been hell being without you. Oh, if you only knew! But later, later . . . Unbutton this damn collar!’

‘No, this is insufferable!’ a voice in the wardrobe said in a breathless whisper.

‘You’re crazy . . . Yourwhole family’s crazy . . . Youwere saying something about Paulie?’

‘The boy’s got completely out of hand! That’s it. I’ve decided to send him to the Pacific. You know, I believe he’s rather taken a fancy to you. The little whippersnapper. I know I can trust you completely, but bear in mind that he picked up a nasty disease on the voyage—’

The wardrobe swayed and a door slammed.

‘He’s lying!’ Pavel Georgievich howled. ‘I’m cured! Ah, the scoundrel!’

‘Wha-a-at!’ Georgii Alexandrovich roared in a terrible voice. ‘How dare you . . . How dare you . . . dare?’

Horrified, I opened my door a crack and saw something I could not possibly have imagined even in the most appalling nightmare: Their Highnesses had grabbed each other’s throats, and Pavel Georgievich was kicking at his father’s ankles, while Georgii Alexandrovich was twisting his son’s ear.

Izabella Felitsianovna tried to come between the two men, but the admiral-general caught the little ballerina a glancing blow with his elbow, and she was sent flying back towards the bed.

‘Afanasii!’ Snezhnevskaya shouted imperiously. ‘They’re killing each other!’

I jumped out of the wardrobe, prepared to accept the blows of both parties, but that proved unnecessary because Their Highnesses senior and junior gaped at me wide-eyed, and the battle came to a natural end.

I caught a quick glimpse of my reflection in a pier glass and shuddered. Tousled hair, dishevelled sideburns, and there was something pink clinging to my shoulder – either a slip or a pair of pantaloons. In my state of abject confusion, I grabbed the shameful item and stuffed it into my pocket.

‘Will . . . er . . . will there be any instructions?’ I babbled.

Their Highnesses exchanged glances, both looking as if a tapestry or bas-relief on the wall had suddenly started talking. But in any case the threat of infanticide or patricide was clearly over, and Iwas astounded yet again by Izabella Felitsianovna’s presence of mind and acuity of wit.

Their Highnesseswere apparently struck by the same thought, because they said almost exactly the same thing simultaneously.

‘Well, Bella, you are a most amazing woman,’ Georgii Alexandrovich boomed.

And Pavel Georgievich chanted in a bewildered tenor: ‘Izabo, I shall never understand you . . .’

‘Your Highnesses,’ I blurted out, realisingwhat a blasphemous misconception the grand dukes were labouring under. ‘It’s not at all . . . I have not . . .’

Without listening to what I was trying to say, Pavel Georgievich turned to Snezhnevskaya and exclaimed in a tone of childish resentment: ‘So he – he – can, and I can’t?’

I was struck completely dumb, with no idea at all of how to resolve this terrible situation.

‘Afanasii,’ Izabella Felitsianovna said firmly, ‘go to the dining room and bring some cognac. And don’t forget to slice a lemon.’

I rushed to carry out this instruction with a feeling of quite inexpressible relief and, to be quite honest, I was in no great hurry to get back. When I finally entered the room, carrying a tray, the picture that met my eyes was quite different: the ballerina was standing, with Their Highnesses sitting on pouffes on each side of her. I was rather inaptly reminded of a performance of Chinizelli’s circus which Mademoiselle and I had attended with Mikhail Georgievich the previous Easter. We had seen roaring lions sitting on low pedestals while a brave slim female lion-tamer strolled around between them, clutching a massive whip in her hand. The similarity was heightened by the fact that the heads of all three of them – Snezhnevskaya standing and the great dukes sitting – were on the same level.

‘. . . I love you both,’ I heard and halted in the doorway, because this was clearly not the moment to come barging in with the cognac. ‘You are both very dear to me – you, Georgie, and you, Paulie. And you love each other too, do you not? Is there anything in the world more precious than loving devotion and affection for one’s kin? We are no vulgar bourgeois. Why hate when you can love? Why quarrel when you can be friends? Paulie is not going off to Vladivostok – we would miss him wretchedly, and he would miss us. And we will arrange everything excellently. Paulie, when are you on duty at the Guards company?’

‘On Tuesdays and Fridays,’ Pavel Georgievich replied, batting his eyelids.

‘And you, Georgie, when are the meetings at the ministry and the State Council?’

Georgii Alexandrovich replied with a rather dull-witted (I beg your pardon, but I cannot find any better definition) expression on his face: ‘On Mondays and Thursdays. Why?’

‘See how convenient it all is!’ Snezhnevskaya exclaimed delightedly. ‘So everything’s arranged! You, Georgie, will come to see me on Tuesday and Friday. And you, Paulie, will come on Monday and Thursday. And we will all love each other very, very much. And we won’t quarrel at all, because there is nothing to quarrel about.’

‘Doyou love him in the sameway as you love me?’ the admiral-general asked stubbornly.

‘Yes, because he is your son. He is so very much like you.’

‘But . . . what about Afanasii?’ Pavel Georgievich asked, looking round at me in bemusement.

Izabella Felitsianovna’s eyes glinted, and I suddenly sensed that she did not find this terrible, impossible, monstrous scene in the least bit arduous.

‘And Afanasii too.’ On my word of honour, she winked at me. But that is impossible – I must have imagined it – or else it was a nervous tic in the corner of her eye. ‘But not in the same way. He is not a Romanov, after all, and I have a strange destiny. I can only love the men of that family.’

And this last sentence sounded perfectly serious, as if Snezhnevskaya had just that moment made a remarkable and possibly not very happy discovery.

¹Thank God! He has recovered consciousness. You were right.

²Affair of the heart.