Far Flies the Eagle (22 page)

“It won't be quite the same as ruling Europe though. Tell me, Sire, is it true that he tried to commit suicide at Fontainebleau after the abdication? I heard some rumour of it.” Her voice was unnaturally even.

“I think so,” he said cautiously. “It was just a moment of despair. He had recovered his spirits by the next morning.”

She laughed a little. “He would. I can imagine him. Always the optimist, always convincing other people he could work miracles because he was so sure of it himself. And now it's over and the Bourbons are back. That's a pity, I think. They really asked for the guillotine—they were so stupid. Look down there, Sire. See the little fountain; don't you think it's pretty?”

“I think it's charming, Madame.”

She was standing close to him and he felt her shiver.

“It's cold for you. We should go in, or at least let me get you a wrap.”

“No, thank you, Sire. After all, this is my most elegant dress, worn in your honour. Why should I cover it up under some old shawl? Let's walk through here.”

The top of her curly head reached below the level of his shoulder, the diamonds in her head-dress sparkled in the moonlight as she turned.

Again they were silent until he said suddenly, “You said life was curious, Madame. Now I agree with you! In defeat Napoleon has more friends than he ever had in success; even you, Madame, whom he treated so shamefully. And I, the conqueror, find myself surrounded by people working against me!”

“Talleyrand, no doubt. He works against everyone; he's a horrible man. I really think his mind's as twisted as his foot. Who else, Sire?”

“The Austrians,” he answered.

“They must be afraid of you,” she said. “They were afraid of Napoleon, and now they're afraid of you because you've beaten him, I suppose. The hatred of mankind is the reward of greatness; I think he said something like that once; I certainly never thought of it myself!”

She smiled up at him, and impulsively he lifted the hand resting on his arm and kissed it. There was something unbearably moving in her loyalty to the man he had beaten. He saw that she was shivering.

“You are a very young man still, Sire,” she said gently. “And now the world is yours, as it was his.… I never understood why men cared so much about such things. But now I'm old enough to have regrets. I missed the greatest opportunity ever given to a woman. I was loved by the greatest man of his age and I was too stupid to appreciate it. I lost him and I deserved to; but I can never quite forgive myself. Ah, it
is
cold! We'd better turn back.”

“Madame,” he said urgently. “Let me offer you my protection. I would like to guarantee your allowance and also the Queen of Holland and her children. I don't like to think that His Majesty King Louis might not be generous. Please allow me.”

She smiled and nodded her head. “No wonder the French people look to you,” she said simply. “You're a very good man, Sire. Far, far better than the Emperor ever could be. He used to be furious over my extravagance. I'm heavily in debt again, I'm afraid.”

“Not from this moment,” Alexander said. “You will leave all those affairs to me, Madame, and don't worry about them. There's the house now, we haven't far to go. You should have let me get a wrap for you. I'm afraid you may catch cold.”

They walked indoors and sat with Hortense of Holland talking for some time. Josephine was herself again, smiling up at Alexander; the tinkling laugh, the pretty gestures had returned, there was no trace of the woman in the garden whose heart was bitter with grief and regret.

He rose at last and, bending, kissed her hand. He was surprised to find it icy cold.

She wished him good night, and her daughter curtsied to him, her eyes lowered; she had said very little during the evening. He was conducted to his suite and went to bed, to find his mind occupied with thoughts of Marie Naryshkin, of all sorts of women who had made love with him in the past. He was young, Josephine had said, and he was healthy and lonely again now that the strain of winning was passed. He turned in the big bed and lay still; his door had opened. He saw a woman standing on the threshold and couldn't recognize her; slowly he sat up. She came towards him, and he saw that under her long robe her legs were bare. She came to the edge and looked down at him. The pale face of Hortense Bonaparte softened as she smiled.

“Have I disturbed Your Majesty?” she whispered.

Alexander looked at her; the hand holding her robe together fell to her side and the covering parted.

“No, Madame,” he said softly.

This woman was Napoleon's stepdaughter, once married to his brother Louis. They said she had been in love with Napoleon himself for years and was bitterly jealous of her own mother. This was the ultimate triumph. He smiled at her and held out his hand.

On May 28th Josephine, Empress of the French, died of the chill she had caught while walking in the gardens with the Czar. It was a fitting end for a woman whose career had been feckless and indiscreet; the gossips repeated it, adding details to the story, while Alexander was in Paris and the ex-Queen of Holland tried to put her mother's riotous affairs in order. She was as cold and silent then as she had been the night of Alexander's visit; when she heard the rumours that Josephine had betrayed Napoleon with his enemy, she only smiled. It was her own idea to go to his room. When she heard he had already promised money and protection to the household she burst out laughing. But it was worth it. Neither of them would ever forget that night; it was her revenge and his triumph, the revenge for the years she had loved Napoleon Bonaparte while he was fawning on her mother, and for her miserable marriage with a man she had detested. It was viler still, because she imagined Josephine to have designs on the Russian Emperor, and she meant to thwart her mother and get there first. It was worth it. Even if Josephine, dying of pneumonia a few days afterwards, looked at her as if she knew.

“Do you realize,” the Grand Duchess Catherine said,” that we've hardly had a moment alone until now?”

Alexander smiled. “It's fortunate we're both good sailors and Frederick William isn't! I wonder what London will be like?”

“I'm longing to see it. They say it's black with fogs all the time.” She leant over the rail of the ship which was carrying them to England on the State visit, and looked down at the dark water.

It was a still night, the Channel seas were calm, and brother and sister stood on deck, relieved of the King of Prussia's presence by a heavier motion of the ship.

The Prince Regent of England had invited Alexander, his sister and the King of Prussia to come to England before the Peace Congress opened in Vienna.

“I must admit,” Catherine said, “I've never seen anyone more ridiculous than King Louis. And that Court! God's death, they might all have been embalmed since 1792! And I don't love them for their ingratitude to you.…”

“They're impossible,” Alexander said angrily. “Apart from their insolence to me, which I shall never forgive, they're doing everything to antagonize the French people and infuriate the army already. We put that blockhead on the throne and now I suppose we'll have to keep him there. By God, it's as well Bonaparte's safe in Elba and the Austrians are guarding his son!”

“I heard the boy was delicate,” Catherine said. “And the last thing Marie-Louise wants is to leave Austria and be Regent. No, they're safe enough as long as Napoleon's well guarded. Personally, I think he should have been put to death.”

“In Russia, yes,” Alexander answered, “but not in Europe. In Europe they have their own ways; we're only savages, my sister!” He spoke with bitterness.

“That was the attitude of that damned Bourbon who never fired a shot to get his throne; and Metternich, ah, how he hates me for making Louis King—and Talleyrand. A superior, treacherous snake. We fought Napoleon, we poured out our life-blood, destroyed Moscow, burnt our countryside, we chased him across Europe, and so did the Prussians. Oh, I could be relied on in war! But the peace is different. We might have some legitimate claims to make, and you can't have barbarians encroaching on Europe! But if they think they're going to deny me at the Congress, they're mistaken. The only one I trust is Friedrich Wilhelm.”

“He's a fool,” Catherine said contemptuously. “What of the English?”

He frowned. “I don't know yet. At least they struggled as hard as we did to beat France. They're ruthless people—look at their power! Bonaparte always said they were his one enemy, that as long as they remained he could never have peace. Or conquer the world, which is what he meant by peace. I don't know about England either … wait till we get to London. Oh, thank God for the fresh air. I felt I was stifling at times in the last few weeks!”

Catherine pinned back a wisp of hair which the breeze had blown across her face and smiled; the smile was mocking and reflected in the tilted eyes as she looked up at her brother.

“Success hasn't improved your temper,” she remarked. “You're becoming quite the autocrat, my dear brother. I see that famous smile that used to irritate me so much less and less these days. God's death, at times you even frighten me! Don't be surprised our fond allies are not so fond of you now that the war is won. They're afraid of you.”

He remembered the Empress Josephine saying the same thing, that night in the gardens at Malmaison. They were afraid of him. Afraid of his power.

“I only want Russia's due,” he said angrily. “I want peace for the world. God gave me the victory; I know that. I know He wants me to secure the peace.”

Catherine didn't answer. It was there again. ‘God wants me … God gave me …' His simmering anger, his insistence that God was guiding him, that the men who resisted him were resisting the Almighty.

She glanced at him quickly, at the set expression, the lines cut into his forehead and at each corner of his mouth. There was a time during the war of 1812 when she had wondered if her brother were going mad, a time when he did nothing but pray and invoke the God he had never believed in before. He had lived a life of chastity after years of indulgence, but that phase had passed now, and she was sure the religious mania had gone with it.

Every gossip in Europe was whispering that the Czar had slept with Josephine at Malmaison—it was affirmed even more strongly that he had slept with her daughter Hortense as well. Catherine listened and laughed and thought cynically that he had become himself again.

But he hadn't; the sexual lapses hadn't changed him; he seemed able to ignore them and resume his rôle of prophet and arbiter as soon as they were over.

“If you could match Bonaparte, you'll match Talleyrand and Metternich,” she said. “I wonder how he's enjoying Elba.”

“They says he's content,” Alexander said gloomily. “Some of his Old Guards followed him into exile, he's organized the whole island like a military camp. The reports say he's well and in excellent spirits, and I tell you Catherine, more people love that man now he's defeated than are grateful to me.”

She shrugged. “Bah!” she said. “Twelve months from now he'll be forgotten as if he were dead. Let's go below and rest now. I want to look well before these English. Is it true the Prince Regent's mistresses are always old enough to be his mother?”

“I've been told so. We'll see soon and so shall they. They will see that a Czar and a Grand Duchess of Russia are a match for any Royal family in the world. I want you to look beautiful, Catherine. Wear Grandmother's rubies at the reception in London! Wear your most elegant dress!”

“Oh, I shall do you credit, Alexander,” she promised. “I've no doubt they think it odd you brought me with you instead of Elizabeth.”

“Their opinion doesn't interest me,” he said stonily. “I do what I please. I'm allowing Elizabeth to come to Vienna for the Congress.”

Catherine said nothing. She knew what had been said about them in Paris; no doubt London would form the same opinion. Her thwarted ambition derived a fierce pleasure from the scandal her trip with Alexander was causing. He had never let her have power on her own account, but sharing his was almost as good.

She lifted his hand and kissed it, and he bent and kissed her cheek.

“With your permission, I'll go below,” she said.

“I'll follow in a few minutes. Go and rest, my sister.”

When she had gone he leant against the ship's rail, staring out to sea.

Alexander hated London. He hated the Prince Regent and the members of the English Court, and his dislike was brought to the point of explosion by his sister. Catherine made enemies everywhere as soon as she arrived; the gloss of the State visit was tarnished by her outrageous conduct to the Regent's mistress, the middle-aged Lady Hertford, her sweeping arrogance and her unguarded tongue. She thought London small, ugly and ridiculous compared to the splendours of St. Petersburg and the great Czarist Palaces; she though the English cold and condescending to someone as important as her brother, and the English ladies timid and plain compared to herself; she disliked Castlereagh and went out of her way to insult Metternich, who was also visiting London at that time. And she aired her opinions everywhere she went. Together brother and sister went through the round of Balls and Banquets arranged in their honour, causing comment by their intimate manner with each other and offence by their disregard of protocol. The Regent was polite to the Czar, but he conveyed the same impressions as King Louis of France; he considered the Russian a barbarian whom he was obliged to entertain, and Alexander sensed it with increasing fury. He towered over the fat little Prince, taller by a head than most of the English courtiers, trying to hide his anger under the charm which had once been so famous. As far as the younger and prettier English ladies were concerned, he was successful, but politically, the visit was a failure. His rage redoubled at the sight of Metternich, always the polished courtier, making himself popular at the expense of the Czar and the Grand Duchess.