Rebel Princess (37 page)

“And the succession, Madame?”

“As you hinted, my dear Nikita, we'll marry Paul to someone else before the year is out.”

She touched the dossier, and then rose to end the interview.

“I shall keep this for the moment. Now be good enough to send the Czarevitch to me; I think I'd better break this news to him myself. And Nikita———”

“Yes, Madame?”

“Have guards posted round the Grand Duchess's rooms. It may be necessary to protect her against the fury of my son.”

It never occurred to Catherine that he might not believe her. She was prepared for a fearful storm of anger, for violent reproaches, even tears, for in moments of great stress she knew that he was still boy enough to weep.

Instead, he stood before her as if petrified and flung the damning report on to her desk. Her invitation to sit down had been curtly refused; his only concession to the tremendous shock of the accusation was to steady himself with one hand against the back of the empty chair.

He regarded his mother in silence for a moment, his eyes blazing with rage, the nerve in his left cheek twitching violently.

“I don't believe one word of this,” he said harshly, and in spite of herself, Catherine started.

“Do you dare ignore the proof that I've given you? In God's name show yourself a man! Don't try to deny that Natalie's made a fool of you with one of your own suite, that she's abused your trust by adultery and deceit!”

Paul shook his head with bitter irony.

“No, Madame, my wife's not going to be ruined to gratify your whim or any other's. These lies haven't deceived me, nor the indignation you simulate so well. Must I remind you of my father, of Prince Gregory Orlov, or a certain M. Vassiltchikov, to convince you that I'm not impressed?”

Catherine stood up slowly, her face as pale as his own, and her mounting anger might have daunted many lesser men. But Paul only saw that his insults had struck home, and he smiled savagely, his heart pounding, a great wave of hatred and nurtured grievance rising in him. Even as he spoke, the old theme of his childhood wrongs repeated itself in his throbbing brain.

She had murdered his father and taken the throne which was his right; she and her adherents had neglected and slighted him, with the thought of final imprisonment always in their minds. Now she was trying to separate him from the only human creature he had ever loved, and with the aid of forged evidence she hoped to persuade him to sanction her plan.

If Catherine had judged him obstinate in the past, she little guessed the power of the resolve forming in his heart at that moment.

Instead she lost her temper, outraged by his allusions to herself.

“How dare you speak to me like that! Don't presume too far upon my gentleness with you. Even
you
are not beyond the reach of my justice. Take care lest I send you to join your bride in the Schüsselburg!”

Paul glared at her in fierce defiance, and a tinge of colour stained his sallow cheeks. He trembled, but the cause was reckless fury rather than fear.

“Ah, my mother. Would you murder me as you murdered Ivan?” he said quietly, and Catherine shrank back at these terrible words, catching at her gilded chair for support. It was a deadly thrust and the accusation stung her to bitter cruelty.

“You fool!” she spat at him. “Are you so blind to your own ugliness that you think any woman could love you, or feel anything for you but distaste? There's a mirror; look in it and look at yourself.… Then think of André Rasumovsky! So tall and handsome! Think and compare! You stand there prating of Natalie's virtue, when any numskull would realize that she despises you and only submits to you because she must! There's your proof, my son. There, read it again and then admit that every word of it is true!”

Paul's answer was to seize the dossier and rip it across; he almost threw the fragments at his mother as he leaned towards her, white faced and quivering with rage and pain.

“How you hate me,” he said hoarsely. “Is it because of all the wrongs you've done me? You taunt me with my hideousness, you say all women must see me with your eyes; that my wife must betray
me
as
you
betrayed my father, over and over again if rumour is to be believed … Well I say that you lie! You
lie,
Madame! What do you want me to do, divorce her, deliver her to you to punish? Ah, by God, if any man dares to lay a finger on her I'll murder him with my own hands!”

“Do you threaten me? I warn you, Paul, I warn you for your own sake …” Catherine interrupted, her voice trembling with fury.

He looked at her and laughed in fierce defiance.

“It's you who threaten, Madame! But this time you're powerless to make good your threats; I know how you hate me, I know what you'd like to do. You'd have me killed, as you killed my father, if only you were safe. But you're not safe! The people rebel, they rise against you in thousands! Harm Natalie, and you'll have to take me with her.… I dare you to arrest me! Follow your inclinations, my mother, shed my blood and separate me from my wife, for you'll have to do both I swear to you. Then take the consequences, for before God, you know that if you touch me now the people would tear down the palace walls about your ears!”

She sprang to her feet then, and all the tumult of terrible maternal loathing showed in her livid face and blazing eyes. Paul saw her fully for the first time in his life, saw the carefully cultivated mask of amiability fall to pieces, revealing the true nature of the woman, the greed and lust and fear which dwelt in her soul, warping and strangling the good qualities. He was too prejudiced to see that even in her rage she was majestic, and too much the child of her own courageous body to shrink from the consequences of that anger.

“Get out of my sight! Go, while you still have your life!” she shouted, and as she pointed to the door he turned his back on her and went without a word.

She almost fell into her chair, aware that tears of fury were running down her cheeks. She leant her elbows on the desk and covered her face with her shaking hands, ashamed because she wept, enraged by the loss of dignity and writhing at the memory of Paul's reference to the rebellion.

What he had said was true, and the knowledge ate into her mind like acid. Her people were restive, her kingdom riven by an impostor whose power was still unchecked. And her son, her ugly son whom she had cheated and despised, was as popular with the masses as she was hated.

“You'll live to regret this day.… By God, I promise you I'll make you pay for every word you've uttered. Only wait; wait until I've beaten Pugachev! Then I'll know how to deal with you.”

Once outside his mother's room Paul began to run, careless of the astonished stares of those who saw him, his heart pounding with dread, afraid that even while he stood before the Empress, Natalie had been arrested.

The sight of two guards posted outside the entrance to their joint suite seemed to justify his worst fears, and he halted abruptly. Instinctively one hand flew to his little court sword and snatched the slender jewelled weapon out of the scabbard.

He stepped close to the tall soldier of Catherine's household guard and brought the tip of the blade on a level with his breast. At that moment he felt an awful, crazed strength flooding into every nerve and sinew, and with it the impulse to plunge the glittering steel up to the hilt into the heart of the soldier who barred the way to his wife.

“Where is the Grand Duchess?”

The Russian guardsman looked into the dilated eyes of his Czarevitch and blinked as the point of the sword pricked his tunic. Paul felt the first sensation of human fear that he had ever inspired, and subconsciously the impression went deep. Over and above it lay his terror for the helpless Natalie.

“Answer me, you dog! What have they done with her?”

The sentry grunted and stepped back as the tip of the weapon pierced his uniform and scratched his flesh.

“She is inside, Imperial Highness,” he muttered.

“Out of my way, or I'll pin you to the doorpost.…”

For a second the soldier hesitated, faced with the prospect of a flogging for disobedience, or death at the hands of the Czarevitch. Relying on Catherine's leniency he chose his life and stood aside.

Paul flung the doors open and ran into the ante-rooms, calling her name. He found her in her bedroom. She stood in the centre of the magnificent room, surrounded by the luxuries he had provided, rooted to the ground with terror, one trembling hand straying to her lips.

Her ladies had been sent away, her servants dismissed, and within a few minutes soldiers had replaced the lackeys who did duty outside her doors. No one had explained these measures; her tears and hysterical entreaties had been left unanswered, while the conviction that her intrigue with André was discovered brought her to the verge of fainting with fear.

As Paul stood there in the doorway, looking at her with wild eyes, his chest heaving, the little court sword in his hand, Natalie knew that they had told him, and in her terror believed that he had come to kill her.

“Oh, my God,” she shrieked and fell on her knees, shielding her face with her hands.

Instantly Paul reached her. His sword clattered to the floor unheeded, and the shrinking Natalie found herself gathered into his arms. He held her closely, stroking her hair, soothing and comforting the distress he misinterpreted as the natural fear of innocence.

“Don't weep, my beloved. Don't cry like that. It breaks my heart to see you suffer. You're safe, Natalie. No one shall harm you.…”

Natalie Alexeievna clung to him, and made up in instinct for what she lacked in brain, by keeping silent, aware that by some miracle Paul was promising her his protection, and that her only hope of safety lay in his stumbling words of love and reassurance.

“What have I done? They sent soldiers, dismissed my servants.… I found myself a prisoner as soon as you went to the Empress.…”

The Czarevitch picked her up and laid her gently on the great canopied bed.

“It was a plot to separate us, my darling. My mother invented a foul accusation and tried to persuade me to repudiate you!”

Natalie's eyes widened with terror at his words. Repudiation … Divorce, she had heard what that could mean.…

“Oh, no! No … Paul, you're not going to listen to her … you can't believe her.…”

“My darling Natalie, how can you doubt me? I tore her false evidence in pieces before her face; I warned her I'd resist a separation from you with my life! Stop trembling, I beg you, there's nothing to fear.… I'll protect you, my dearest love.…”

He put fond arms around her and comforted her like a child, until she pushed him away in her anxiety.

“But what did she say when you defied her? What did she say I'd done? Please, Paul, tell me …”

“She was angry,” he admitted, determined to soften the account and allay her fears. “But it will pass.…”

Natalie sat on the bed, one hand held tightly in his, and as he spoke her eyes glanced away from him, unable to bear that loving gaze, afraid that the admission of her guilt would creep into her expression.

Paul watched her for a moment, the explanation dying on his lips, and quite suddenly he doubted.

The memory of that sheaf of papers, of the revolting, detailed evidence, so utterly damning if it were true, the vision of the man they had named as her lover, handsome, carefree André Rasumovsky, all these returned to his mind, and the blind, passionate force of his belief in her wavered. Doubt pierced him with the impact of physical pain; for an instant his ugly face contorted. He watched her closely, and then under that unblinking scrutiny she paled and tried to turn away. At that moment the gentle, trusting dupe had vanished; instead he held her wrists in a tight grip and there was an expression in his prominent blue eyes that she had never seen before.

He hurt her and she wished to cry, to take refuge in the tears that always unmanned him, but this time she knew that something more was needed. For a second, Catherine faded from her mind; her greatest peril lay with Paul, the peril that looked at her out of that ugly face and made it alien.

“They showed me evidence,” he said slowly, and he held her so that she was forced to look at him. “Rasumovsky was named as your lover. For the past six months. Tell me, Natalie Alexeievna, tell me this is not true. Swear to me that you have been faithful.… I wait,” he added quietly, and Natalie froze with fear.

Desperation aided her then; instinctive mortal terror for herself and the man she loved gave her the strength and the talent to cloak her lies with the appearance of truth.

She slipped down and knelt at his feet. Humbly she lifted his hand and kissed it, and her answer came without a falter.

“Before God I deny it. I have loved only you, Paul Petrovitch, and no one else. Now deliver me to my enemies if you do not believe me.…” Then she leant her head against his knee and burst into a flood of tears.

Her word was sufficient, that and his own longing to have his doubts dispelled. He begged her to forgive him for having questioned her at all, and in a passion of relief Natalie did so, until the knowledge that victory over Paul was not enough forced more tears from her.

“What will the Empress do to me? Oh, my God, I know what will happen, I've heard of those dreadful convents where State prisoners are kept.… Paul, Paul, you must save me!” she cried, clinging to him, her delicate features distorted with terror, but though he soothed and promised impossibilities to allay her fears, he could not comfort her.

“Don't think of such things,” he implored, almost weeping himself in the face of her anguish. “You've nothing to fear, I tell you, they can do nothing without my consent.…”

No qualm of suspicion troubled his mind when she rested her head on his shoulder and whispered that he must protect André Rasumovsky since he, too, was innocent.