Curse Not the King (35 page)

Pahlen poured out some wine and handed it to his guests; he was smiling and confident, radiating cheerfulness.

“What news, Count?” Plato Zubov demanded impatiently.

“I have found the means of ruining our friend Rastopchine! Does that interest you?”

There was an excited chorus: “By God, Pahlen, how?”

Pahlen smiled and deliberately sipped his wine.

“He dislikes a member of the Foreign Office, young Nicholas Panin—he's one of us, gentlemen—Rastopchine believes he was trying to thwart his plans with this French upstart Bonaparte. So, not being a very scrupulous fellow, he has forged evidence of treason against him which he is going to present to the Czar!

“Not
real
evidence, thank God! Only of intriguing politically. Just enough to get him sent to Siberia and perhaps knouted.… But dishonesty doesn't pay—does it, gentlemen? Because when our Emperor, who is the soul of honour, hears about this despicable trick, it will be Rastopchine who goes to Siberia, not Panin, eh?”

Plato Zubov did not join in the uneasy laugh which followed.

“When are you going to tell him?”

“Immediately I return to the capital. He has already moved into the Michael Palace and the time has come when we must strike. At any moment Marie Feodorovna will be repudiated and forced into the Novo Diévichy, and Anna Gagarine will take her place. The arrest of the Grand Duke Alexander would follow in a matter of days; perhaps even mine with him, for the lady hates me, and she's not inclined to scruples any more than her friend Rastopchine. But once he's gone, she won't be able to protect the Czar!”

“Are you quite certain that we can trust the Grand Duke?” Plato interrupted. “I've no mind to do him a service and be sent to a fortress as a reward!”

“We can trust him,” Pahlen assured him. “His own life is in danger; we'll hold the power of Russia in our hands when this maniac is dead. Alexander is a weakling, believe me; he'd never dare to turn against us!”

It was then that Bennigsen, usually so stupid, made a wise remark.

“There's no such thing as a weak Czar.… The blood of Catherine Alexeievna and Paul Petrovitch runs in his veins, remember.”

“I am quite confident, Bennigsen. And if he should prove difficult, he has brothers and sisters.… What happened to the father could overtake the son.…”

“And our immediate plans, Count?” Zubov questioned.

“The disgrace of Rastopchine. Then we must all gather in Petersburg where we will decide the date on which our tyrant shall be removed.”

Plato Zubov looked up quickly.

“As the confidant of our late Empress, I must claim one point. The honour of killing her son is the privilege of my family.…”

Pahlen bowed.

“When the time comes, Russia's liberator shall be a Zubov! That is agreed, Prince Plato.”

The date of that meeting was the middle of February. And on the twentieth of that month Rastopchine received a furious order from Paul to retire in disgrace to his estates. All his posts were given to von Pahlen. He was not allowed to see the Czar, who was inflamed with anger at the disclosure made to him, and, with his going, only Anna Gagarine and the former valet, Koutaïssof, remained to stand between Paul and his murderers. But Koutaïssof was now ennobled, well rewarded by his master for his services, and himself involved with a demanding mistress, who persuaded him to keep aloof from all intrigues. Something was bound to happen to the Emperor, the lady argued, and Koutaïssof followed her advice by pretending not to see or hear. So that it came about exactly as von Pahlen had predicted.

Only Anna Gagarine was with her lover at the end.

The walls of the Michael Palace were still damp when they moved in. The Emperor's obsession to live in his new home discounted the pleas of his architects who begged him to delay, and panelling was laid over the damp stones, pictures hung and furnishings arranged until a mist of steaming vapour filled the rooms. Nothing deterred Paul, and he transferred his Court to the Michael Palace, taking the Empress Marie and the Grand Duke Alexander with him, and installing Anna Gagarine in a suite of rooms communicating with his own.

And it was there, in the unhealthy, fetid atmosphere of her magnificent apartments, that the servant who had been spying on von Pahlen came to Princess Gagarine and told her that the Count kept a list of names which he always carried with him and sometimes added to in private. The spy had been too terrified to steal the paper, but if the Princess could secure it, she would find evidence of treason.

She went to Paul immediately.

“Araktchéief betrays me; then Rastopchine, and now you say you can prove Pahlen a traitor.…” he said at last. “Very well, Anna. Where is this evidence?”

“In his pocket. When he comes to you to-morrow, demand to see what papers he carries. If he refuses, force him, and see what you'll find! That's all I have to say.”

She put her arms round him and looked into his face, and her love for him softened her triumph. She kissed him tenderly, and he stroked her hair.

She said that Pahlen was a traitor. Since Rastopchine's fall he was almost ready to believe it; she had put the doubt into his mind and as he held her in his arms he promised her the test she asked.

“When he comes to-morrow morning, I will ask him, Anna … Anna, my darling.…”

When he had left her, as an added precaution he sent a letter recalling Alexei Araktchéief to Petersburg.

On March the ninth Pahlen went to the Czar's apartments to make his report as usual and receive orders for that day. He walked through the long corridors whistling softly, glancing at the patches of damp that discoloured the painted walls, and smiling to himself at his own thoughts, as he expressed a private wish that his victim might not die of pneumonia contracted in his unhealthy stronghold before Pahlen had time to see him killed.

So the Zubovs wished to commit the murder, he reflected. Well, let them! Far better that the actual blood should be on their hands rather than his, when the time came to proclaim Alexander.…

Not even his interception of the Czar's letter to Araktchdéief had disturbed him, for his new position as Postmaster General enabled him to suppress it. And before any enquiries could be made, Paul Petrovitch would be dead.…

When the Emperor received him, Pahlen knew at once that there was something wrong. But his own favour was so secure that the possibility of danger to himself never occurred to him.

Paul was sitting at his desk, and he regarded him with hard, unblinking eyes, the nerve in his cheek throbbing angrily; he did not acknowledge his Minister's bow but only stared at him, turning the great sapphire ring round and round on his finger.

Pahlen stood before him and waited, while his composure faded as the minutes ticked by audibly on the clock that stood on the Czar's desk, and still no word was spoken. He knew then that something indeed had gone very wrong, and that the ordeal by silence, which inspired so much terror in Paul's victims, was at last being applied to himself.

He shifted slightly, and cleared his throat, holding the Emperor's unwavering stare and reading the accusation in it, while the sweat seeped out over the palms of his hands.

“Pahlen.”

The Count's whole body stiffened at that tone.

“Yes, Sire.”

“You were here in 1762? When my father lost his throne?”

“Yes, Sire.” Pahlen's mouth dried up and he swallowed with difficulty.

Paul rested both hands Sat on the top of his desk and said levelly:

“Empty your pockets, Pahlen, and put the contents here for me to see.”

The Count's heart leapt in his breast and for a moment a deep, incriminating tide flooded his thick neck and spread over his face to the roots of his powdered hair. The fingers of his left hand strayed in the direction of his sword, while the temptation to fling himself upon Paul and murder him passed through his brain and was immediately discarded. For a single blind second, panic overwhelmed him, with the knowledge that his list of conspirators reposed in the breast pocket of his coat. Then the coolness and courage which had distinguished him in battle aided him in that moment of mortal danger. He had been betrayed; no excuses would avail him with his victim who had so suddenly become his judge. He dared not refuse, and he could not hope to hide that terrible document; instead he risked everything on absolute boldness.

“What is the matter, Sire? Of what am I suspected?”

“Of a conspiracy against my life,” the Czar said coldly, and for the first time Pahlen trembled. But his nerve held, and with incredible composure he bowed low. Then his flat, blue eyes looked squarely at his accuser and he answered.

“There
is
a conspiracy against you, Sire. I am a member of it. The list of those implicated is in my pocket.” And he put his hand into his coat and withdrew the paper on which his name, and that of everyone pledged to the assassination was inscribed.

Paul took the document from him and held it, unread, while he stared at the man who had just admitted so calmly the most dreaded of all crimes in an autocracy.

“Do you admit this, then?” he said hoarsely, and Pahlen nodded.

“I have known a plot to murder you existed for some months, Sire. The only way I could uncover it and save you was to join in it myself!”

“Merciful God in Heaven! Pahlen, Pahlen, why didn't you tell me?”

Paul had risen and he came round the desk, twisting the paper in his fingers, his disfigured face convulsed with emotion. He struck his fist against his forehead and repeated his words in a voice that shook with incredulity and horror.

“Why did you bide this? Don't you know what I might have done to you if you hadn't explained? … By God's death, Pahlen, I cannot look at you, I am so filled with shame!”

There was a ghastly moment when the Count suddenly wanted to laugh, to stand and rock back on his heels with laughter, as he listened to the Czar of Russia begging his forgiveness, turning from him with tears in his eyes because he had suspected him unjustly.…

But the fact that Paul still held the list sobered his unbalanced sense of humour, and he decided once again what course he was to take. He went down on his knee to Paul and kissed his hand, bending his head as if some most unpleasant duty weighed upon him.

“I've had that list for weeks, Sire, and for weeks I've been adding to it. It is complete, but I couldn't bring myself to show it to you, and thereby break your heart!”

“My heart is broken, Pahlen.… I am beyond all pain from human treachery. What are you trying to tell me?”

“Sire. Open it and read.”

He watched the Emperor as he unfolded the paper and saw that his eyes focused upon the top of the written column and remained there, reading and re-reading several times.

“My wife and my eldest son.… They head the conspiracy against me.… My wife and my son.…”

He turned and sat down slowly, and this time he read every name; Princes, Generals, members of the Diplomatic Corps, men he had trusted as well as those he had at times punished and forgotten. There were sixty persons listed on that crumpled piece of paper. At last he put it down and motioned Pahlen to sit beside him. His colour was livid, and his eyes were almost glazed in their expression.

“What were they going to do, Pahlen?”

“Murder you, Sire, and put the Grand Duke Alexander on the throne. They intend to act before you divorce Marie Feodorovna. The time was set for after Easter. I was supposed to guide them to your apartments where they would kill you.”

“Very well, Pahlen, my friend. We will anticipate them. They shall die
before
Easter, and you shall choose what you want out of the wealth and estates of them all.… That should make you a very rich man, my dear Pahlen, as well as a very loyal one.… My personal reward to you will come later. Now be so good as to sit down at my desk if you please, and write out an order for the arrest and execution of Marie Feodorovna, and another order for the arrest and execution of my son Alexander.”

For some moments there was silence, except for the steady scratching of Pahlen's quill as he formed the words of the warrant.

“That the former Empress Marie Feodorovna, being proven and judged a traitor, shall, by the order of His Imperial Majesty Paul the First, Czar and Autocrat of all the Russias, be conveyed to the Schüsselburg Fortress and there be put to death for her crimes against the person of His Imperial Majesty.…”

“Anna was right,” Paul muttered, “she warned me, she begged me to do this long ago.… She was right about them all, all except you, Pahlen! But how could she know …?”

The Count listened as he wrote, pausing to dip his pen deep into the golden inkwell so that the name of Alexander Pavlovitch, Grand Duke and Czarevitch of Russia, stood out black against the paper as he traced an order similar to that relating to the Empress.

“I have finished, Sire. May I make a suggestion?”

Raising his head Paul looked at him and nodded; it surprised Pahlen to see that he was smiling and that the expression was more terrifying than any conventional sign of rage.

“Say nothing of this to anyone, Sire. Not even to Princess Gagarine; unless you tell her that you are satisfied with my loyalty and that in a few days all Russia will have tangible proof. But don't tell her of these warrants, or of the other warrants for the rest of the traitors which I shall prepare immediately. No one must escape, Sire, and if word of your intention towards the former Empress and her son gets out, the conspirators will scatter and some may escape punishment.… Will you trust me with this, Sire, as you have already trusted me with so much, and let me make sure of arresting them all at the right moment?”

“How long will you need, Pahlen?”

“Three days, Sire. In three days there will not be a man or woman on this list at liberty. Beginning with the two names at the top.”