Rasputin's Revenge (5 page)

I thought Paleologue was getting a little carried away, perhaps out of some personal motive such as jealousy or the General’s influence with Alexandra. His little black eyes gleamed with intensity. I backed away a step and looked at him levelly.

“Those are strong accusations, Monsieur.”

The Ambassador seemed to retreat. He visibly softened, taking a long puff at his cigar. Holding the smoke in and closing his eyes, he finally exhaled a plume toward the ceiling, permitting himself an almost embarrassed smile. “Why don’t we sit down and talk for a moment? If you are going to have any success here at court, you must at the very least know whom to avoid.”

We moved to a small salon off the main entryway and sat on two of the burgundy-colored velvet stools that lined the wall. “I am afraid I have no patience left for that man, and I shouldn’t let it show so blatantly, but this is one topic where my diplomatic training deserts me. I’ve distrusted and disliked Sukhomlinov from the moment I met him. How did he get in touch with you?”

“He invited me to his office at the Winter Palace, He said he wanted to give me some advice to help my mission.”

Paleologue chuckled dryly. “Do nothing or, if you must do something, do it slowly,
n’est-ce pas?
”

“Exactement.”

“Well, as his old associate Sazonov told me, ‘It’s hard to get him to work, but to make him tell the truth is well-nigh impossible.’ ” He shook his head. “The man is so blatant he amazes me—he might as well wear a German uniform.”

“But what has he actually done?” I asked.

Paleologue straightened, his back against the wall. “What has he done?” He grimaced slightly. “Well, before the war, he amassed his own fortune by his mastery of the art of the expense account. He would go on troop inspection tours to Vladivostok—thirteen thousand kilometers round trip—for which he was compensated by the distance traveled, and never get off the train. He actually bragged to me about this. He also would only approve contracts to those who feathered his nest.

“But those are only the petty, personal things. I suppose they are common enough, especially here in Russia. More important, but still probably not criminal, is his legendary and colossal stupidity. He believed until hostilities actually erupted that this war would be a chivalrous affair, fought with sabers and bayonets, the infantry and cavalry charge. He wouldn’t hear of the word firepower—machine guns were unmanly. And the result? Even now Russian factories are only producing 35,000 rounds of ammunition per month, while the army needs an estimated 45,000 rounds per day. No wonder eight million of these poor people have already died in battle. How do you defend against a German advance when you have no bullets in your guns?”

He grew silent, puffing at his cigar. “And still we haven’t touched upon his treachery. He is a known confidant of German agents, doing everything in his power to convince the Czar to seek a separate peace.”
^*

“But does the Czar listen to him?”

The Ambassador sighed. “Old Vladimir has always been able to charm Nicholas with dinner prattle. And that is what policy seems to be based on lately—small talk, lip service to autocracy, and acceptance of Rasputin.”

“But why does the Czar …?”

He cut me off. “It’s Alexandra, not the Czar. Rasputin is the power …”

But he was not to finish. A gong sounded and servants appeared to usher us out of our salon and into the main dining hall for the entrance of Nicholas and Alexandra. Before he went to his assigned place, Paleologue shook my hand. “We will talk again tomorrow, but be careful. Trust no one. Nothing in St. Petersburg is as it seems.”

If, after my voyage here and my first few meals, I had begun to think that I would eat nothing but cabbage, fish and potatoes until I returned home, tonight proved me happily mistaken.

Although the Romanovs are known to be the least social and sophisticated of royal families, the buffet at tonight’s dinner could have come directly from the table of the Sun King himself.

As they began wheeling the trolleys from the kitchen, I forgot for a moment the court’s intrigues and my mission here, and found myself remembering with fondness my colleague Auguste Lupa. After our last case together in France, Lupa and I had stayed a while in communication. But then with the birth of our daughter and his probable involvement in other cases, we had lost touch. A brilliant chef in his own right, Lupa would have been a boon companion to share in this meal—no one I had ever met enjoyed eating as much as he did. And the food tonight would have delighted him.

The foie gras was not from Strasbourg, but was excellent nonetheless. The caviar, Beluga, was the best I’d ever had, served up in obscenely large silver goblets with lemon, grated onion and hard-boiled eggs. We had Perrier-Jouët Brut ‘74 with these courses, and drank several toasts to Nicholas and to victory.

After the toasts, the waiters brought plates of trout and sturgeon, sorbets, then a richly fragrant, clear amber turtle soup. There was another ice, then suckling pig with horseradish (a special treat for Nicholas), racks of venison and boar, filet steak, pheasant and quail. For red wines, we could choose between the Grand Echezeaux ‘87 or Margaux ‘93, though for whites there was only Meursault ‘06—the only indication of shortages caused by three years of war.

Dinner went on, with its usual banter, for over three hours, with the Czar and Empress making the rounds of the tables, each one of which had a setting for them as they moved among the guests.

The courses continued—some noodle dish with sour cream and strips of beef, thickened fish veloutes, mounds of truffled eggs, mushrooms, fat white asparagus and flawless green petite pois. And then the coup de graces—fresh framboise from the Crimea for dessert, served chantilly with a Chateau d’Yquem ‘74. Lupa would have been in heaven.

At midnight, Alexandra appeared at my side, and reminded me of the party to which she’d invited me at Anna Vyroubova’s after the dinner. I had forgotten all about it or, more honestly, could not believe that anyone would be attending it at this hour. After such a meal, I’d been looking for the earliest opportunity to excuse myself and come back to my room to sleep. But one does not refuse an invitation from an empress, so I ordered three successive demitasses of Italian coffee and bolted down the burning liquid. A few minutes later, Nicholas and Alexandra left the dining room, signaling the end of the evening.

I put on my coat and walked out alone into the now truly bitter night. Turning off the tree-lined boulevard, I followed a bridle path for several hundred meters until I came to a small white house set back into a stand of trees.

The moon had set. The only light in the blackness of the night came through the frosted windows of the house, across which figures moved like puppets in a shadow play.

The coffee had done its work. I was no longer tired.

There could not have been a greater contrast between the dinner I’d just attended and the soiree at Anna Vyroubova’s. The hostess herself set the tone. She was an enormous, potato white woman dressed in a flowing white dress. Something like a nuh’s wimple covered her head. Her lips were thick and red, her face, under the pasty complexion, blotched. A thoroughly unattractive person, she can only walk with the aid of crutches, though I don’t know whether it’s because of her weight or some accident or illness.

She was gracious enough in greeting me, though I was somewhat surprised that she spoke Russian—fortunately my command of that language is reasonable—and we moved from the lobby, where I had my coat taken by one of the Arabian Guard, to a large sitting room that was already crowded. A table along one wall groaned under the weight of two samovars and thirty cakes. A fire blazed in the hearth, servants moved to and fro dispensing tea and sugar—the room itself was decorated with the
same overstuffed furniture as the Empress’s mauve bedchamber, and the walls were similarly covered with religious portraits and icons.

Through the tobacco smoke, I noticed that most of the guests had congregated in one corner of the room, and someone was holding forth from that quarter, though the crowd blocked my vision.

The woman Vyroubova asked me if I’d like some tea or Madeira, and I took a glass of the wine. The Empress hadn’t yet made her appearance—if indeed she was coming—and while I waited for her arrival, I moved back against a wall and surveyed the scene.

Many of the sixty or so guests had, like myself, just come from the dinner, so there was a smattering of uniforms and formal gowns. For the rest, and it was the majority, dress was simple—in fact, it shocked me that people would dress so informally in the expected presence of the Empress. The men, of course, wore ties, but some had removed their dinner jackets, and several of the woman appeared to be no more than peasants, in ill-fitting dresses of minimal design.

I must mention one exception to all of the above. While I was taking in my surroundings, I noticed a woman standing pensively by the hearth, her arm resting casually on the mantel. Even now as I write I can see her clearly. She wore neither the crinolined fluff of the society women nor the flaxen bedsheets of the peasants, but a lovely silk or taffeta flowing dress of light blue and pink floral print. Though modest in style, it managed to show off her slim yet womanly figure to great advantage.

Her chestnut hair was gathered at her neck into a soft bun, and wisps of it had escaped the coiffeur’s comb and hung charmingly at her temples. In profile, her face was an ivory cameo, with a proud chin and dainty nose. With that sense people have when they are being watched, she turned toward me and smiled shyly, then looked down and back toward the fire.

I mention this woman only because she was so completely out of the cast of the rest. That feeling of unreality that I had experienced in a number of settings here dissipated as I gazed at her beautiful face with its clean lines and untroubled brow. If someone so innocent yet so vital could exist here in the court, perhaps there was still hope for the Czar’s entourage and for all of Russia.

I had almost made up my mind to go over and speak to her when the doorbell rang and Vyroubova shuffled past. In seconds, Alexandra Fodorovna was standing next to me in the doorway to the salon. Gradually, as the presence of the Empress was felt, the talk in the room died down. Soon the knot of debaters at the far end of the room had all turned and bowed—all except one figure who now loomed above the
group, smiling at the Empress as though (forgive me the thought) she were his lover arriving at a tryst.

Rasputin!

I will never forget that first vision of him—the crowd actually parted before him as he came toward Alexandra—dressed in a bright blue satin shirt, open halfway down his chest. On his feet were heavy peasant boots, into which he had tucked his pants. His unkempt black hair is parted in the middle and hangs to his shoulders. The dark beard is also long and full yet matted, as though he doesn’t wash it. In physique, he seems a peasant—strong shoulders, thick hands and neck. His nose is broad though his cheeks are hollow.

But what struck me the most were his eyes. A pale, unearthly blue or blue-gray, they seemed to dart wildly until they alighted on something, and then their intensity could be frightening.

After greeting Alexandra with a kiss on the hand and the word, “
Matuska
,” or mother, he fixed those eyes on me. I think the Empress must have said something to introduce us, but I really have no memory of it. One moment I was standing there, looking at Rasputin, trying to form an objective opinion of the man, and the next thing I knew, he had taken my hand in both of his, and was looking deeply into my eyes.

I cannot describe clearly what I felt, but suddenly it was as though I were floating somewhere high above the crowded room, with Rasputin at my side explaining the world as though through his own eyes. How long he held me in this manner I couldn’t say—it mustn’t have been for too long—but I had to force myself finally to break away from the trance.

It was an unsettling and unique experience that gave me an immediate insight into this man’s power over the Royal Family. Yet, strangely, I felt nothing sinister. It may have been excessively intimate, but I could see where his inclusion of one into his world could, under the right circumstances, be comforting.

Whether that sort of comfort is appropriate between an Empress and a peasant is a question I will not try to resolve.

In any event, when the bond between us had been broken, he smiled at me, showing a mouthful of dirty teeth, and spoke to the Empress again. “The Frenchman?”

“Yes, Gregory, the one you saw.”

“Alyosha will be pleased. I am pleased.”

Rasputin then escorted Alexandra, taking her arm, to a settee, where he sat at her feet as she reclined. The scene was really too cloying for my tastes and I went to the refreshment table while most of the rest of the crowd gathered around the royal couch.

I was searching for something less sweet and stronger than Madeira when a voice came from behind me.

“Almost had you, didn’t he?”

I turned to face a uniformed Commissar around my own age, with a ruddy complexion and black hair. He spoke French but in that loud, bluff style I was beginning to associate with all Russians. “Boris Minsky,” he said, shaking my hand and nearly breaking my fingers with his grip. “Your first meeting with our holy Gregory?”

I nodded.

“What do you think? The greatest man in Russia? In the world, perhaps?”

“You don’t like him?” I asked.

For a response, Minsky actually spit on the carpet, wiping it in with his boot. He reached into his tunic and pulled out a flask, which he uncorked and drank from. “Would you like something to drink?” he asked. He looked witheringly at the table. “Tea and Madeira! And only Madeira because Rasputin likes it.”

I held out my glass and Minsky half-filled it with vodka. “Is he so bad?” I asked.

Minsky pointed back to where Rasputin and Alexandra sat. The monk was starting to speak more forcefully, addressing not only the Empress but the group gathered around them.