Boots resting on the table, a cigar in his mouth, he motioned to the lieutenant, still standing at attention, to take a chair.
“At ease. Sit down. You’ve done your duty, and you have served me well.”
Duty. Service. At the Winter Palace, these words were sacred. Indeed, service and duty were the pillars of the throne. When Nicholas I spoke these two words, they were ennobling. In Mikhaïl Pavlovitch’s mouth, they sounded a bit like a parody.
Like the emperor, the grand duke’s great passion was the army. And like the emperor, he was capable of cruelty toward his soldiers, of being merciless and vicious when punishing any dereliction of discipline. Yet he was considered a good comrade, more proud of his rank than of his position. And even though he smoked and drank, collected mistresses, and had a fondness for salacious jokes, his puritanical family adored him—with the exception of his wife, who had spent her wedding night alone since he preferred the company of the girls and the squadron chiefs.
Nicholas I found his vulgarity shocking, but he still loved “Micky’s” gaiety, energy, and devotion. Fourteen years ago, when he had acceded to the throne, he had even appointed him to several major posts, including head of the council of education of the military schools, an organism of utmost importance to both of them.
Intelligent despite his boorish ways, capable of subtlety in the accomplishment of his task, Mikhaïl Pavlovitch was devoted to his work. He considered himself omniscient, perhaps in part because he studied his dossiers carefully too.
He was personally involved in the recruitment of students, presided over the commissions in charge of admissions, and decided himself who should be assigned to which post, based on birth, wealth, and the influential contacts of his future officers. As a matter of fact, it was in this context, as administrator of the Pages’ Corps and inspector general of the Cadet Corps, that Mikhaïl Pavlovitch had summoned Lieutenant Dmitri Alexeyevitch.
“Well, Milyutin, what’s new? Oh, by the way, before I forget, the emperor sends his thanks. The personal effects of your Montagnard arrived. Superb, this kinjal! How do those savages manage to find such splendid arms?”
“Their confiscation was very humiliating for the child, Your Imperial Highness.”
“What, did he think we’d let him keep them? So he could murder you? They’re amazing, they continue to take us for imbeciles. Does he at least like it at the cadets’?”
“We just arrived at the Corps Alexandrovsky this afternoon, Your Highness.”
“And you, how do you find the kid?”
“Better, Your Highness.”
The grand duke arched an eyebrow in question.
“Better?”
“He was wounded, quite seriously.”
The grand duke, who liked to think he knew everything, had not been aware of this detail.
“In a skirmish as we were leaving Akulgo,” Milyutin explained. “We were attacked as we were taking him to the fort at Temir-Khan-Chura, by his father and a few of his men. They tried to take him back. The child was wounded, his arm pierced straight through by a lance. A nasty wound. And the trip didn’t help it heal; it was long and difficult.”
“All the same, Kharkov, Rostov, those must have impressed the lad, to say nothing of Moscow.”
“He was delirious for several weeks. The fever cut him off from the world outside. In reality, that may be what saved him.”
“And now, is he happy?”
“I think he’s disoriented, Your Highness.”
Dmitri reflected and chose his words carefully before continuing.
“He’s completely overwhelmed.”
“But what do you think, can we make something of him? Is it worth the effort?”
“He’s intelligent, courageous, and proud. For the rest, I couldn’t say.”
“Have you been able to interrogate him? Find out any information that might interest us?”
“He is silent, obstinately silent. I think he has begun to understand a little Russian. But he has no desire to communicate and says nothing. He accepts nothing—not from me, anyway. Not even his food. My interpreter, one of the Muslims in the militia, is the only one so far who can get him to eat anything.”
“They’re all the same. They think they’ll be sullied by contact with us. Is he religious?”
“Even when he was very ill, he found a way to say his prayers five times a day.”
“You know what I think, Milyutin?”
The grand duke reflected for a moment, pulling on his cigar. He watched the smoke rings rise, took his boots off the table, and stretched his legs out beneath it.
“If we want to use these fanatics, we mustn’t try to convert them. On the contrary, they should be raised in their faith and never allowed to forget their mother tongue. I wrote Chernychev to tell him this. Have you read my letter?”
The grand duke alluded to a note he had written to Count Chernychev, Minister of War, on the sixteenth of that month.
“I have had the honor of reading it, Your Highness.”
“I informed him that the cadets’ school of Moscow, where he had planned on sending your Montagnard, was not the place for him at all. There is no mullah in Moscow to instruct him in the Koran, guide his theological studies, help him follow the rites of his religion. Whereas, here—”
Dmitri knew that the grand duke had ordered the transfer of the “rebel’s son” to the boarding school at Tsarskoye Sielo, an institution reserved for wards of the state where he would find other “Cherkesses.” The minister had simply approved the order and commanded the officer accompanying the child—himself—to continue their journey.
“I believe it is a wise decision, Your Highness. It will help him.”
“Help him what? To be of service to us? I should hope so! Has he asked any questions about what kind of future we have planned for him?”
“None at all.”
“Does he think we’re going to kill him? Is he afraid?”
“He has already seen the worst. He is not afraid.”
“Does he know what happened in his village, after Grabbe sent him out of the camp?”
“Your Highness’s orders were obeyed. He knows nothing. He doesn’t even know if his family is still alive.”
“Perfect.”
Milyutin refrained from expressing that, of all the acts he had been ordered to execute, the imposition of this blackout was by far the most painful. This absence of any explanation, this silence before the child’s obvious anxiety every time he heard his father’s name mentioned—the only emotion he could not control—was unbearable. He despised his own cruelty at leaving the boy to live in fear and doubt for four months. But the orders had been explicit and unequivocal. He was forbidden to tell the boy anything.
The grand duke stubbed out his cigar in the ashtray with little jabs.
“He’ll know what he wants to know soon enough. He is to attend New Year celebrations on Monday. The czar has reserved for himself the pleasure of giving him news. Until then, His Majesty wants him to be taken round to see everything here. And for him to take a good look. We’re going to show this savage what civilization is and how the true faithful celebrate the name of God.”
Mikhaïl Pavlovitch stood up. Dmitri stood at attention. The interview was over.
Petersburg was up before dawn. In the candlelit boudoirs of the English Quay, the barracks of Chpalernaïa Street, and the garrets of the imperial buildings, everyone donned their ceremonial costumes. The morning’s first event would take place at ten o’clock. That gave them just enough time to prepare, especially since, on New Year’s Day, the palace was open to everyone, just as it was on the czar’s saint’s day, December sixth, and the empress’s birthday, July first. Well, not to the little people, but open at least to prominent members of society. The lowest of the aristocracy, even those furthest from power, would be received. Nearly ten thousand visitors were expected.