That meant a gratifying number of nobles and ladies, statesmen and grandees, all needing accommodation and entertainment at what better establishment than the Hotel Tilze?
His ransack of the champagne and fine wines, caviar and foie gras from far and wide was paying off handsomely as notables gathered for the greatest spectacle of the age. In the dining salon before him were the cream of the nobility of central Europe, generals and ambassadors. If he could maintain standards, there was a fortune to be made.
The maitre d’hotel surveyed the busy scene again. In yet another stroke of luck, he’d been able to procure the services of a first-class head waiter, Meyen, a Polish Jew recently fled from Konigsberg. He was a born professional, working the tables with attention and poise that was neither intrusive nor fawning. When this affair was over, he would most certainly see to it that Meyen found a secure position at the hotel.
‘Do you recommend the duck at all, my dear Meyen?’
‘If your ladyship craves adventure,’ the head waiter answered, with a roguish smile. This was the flirtatious Helga, Countess of Hesse-Darmstadt. He happened to know she was in an affair with General Gulstorff, sitting opposite, who had managed with desperate heroism to extricate himself and his cavalry from the field after Friedland.
Meyen leaned past her to align the silver cutlery to perfection and heard them resume their conversation in German.
‘When can we get away, Hans? It’s been so long.’
‘Not now. There’s a dispatch due, telling us whether we give ground on Hanover or not.’
He looked up suddenly at Meyen who returned a glassy smile of incomprehension and went on with his rearranging.
‘This whole thing is a catastrophe from start to finish. I swear that if Bonaparte asks for the crown we’ll have to give it him.’
Interesting.
Meyen withdrew with every expression of politeness and threaded through the room, ignoring other diners with practised ease to arrive at the table of Marshal Kuril, the Russian soldier who had arrived too late to make any difference to the crushing of the remnants of Tsar Alexander’s imperial ambitions. The occupants were sunk in the deepest gloom, and Kuril’s wife sat rigidly, letting her husband mutter on at his loyal adjutant.
Meyen carefully took position behind the marshal, order pad and polite smile at the ready. In their dejection he wasn’t noticed and his expatriate Russian was quite adequate to catch the drift of what was being said: it was the considered opinion of Kuril that if Alexander failed in his confrontation with Napoleon he would most certainly suffer assassination, like his father, Tsar Paul.
It was a rich haul he was getting from this concentration of the highest as they feverishly discussed the fateful meeting to come. His paymaster would no doubt be accordingly grateful.
Chapter 25
The muffled sound of a military band ceased. French soldiers with gleaming sabres lined the main street as jingling cavalry with glittering breast-plates passed down it, a brave and shocking sight. On the other bank, stolid lines of Russian soldiers spread out and a column of Cossack cavalry, resplendent in red with fierce black moustaches, took up their positions.
There was no doubt now that this day would be touched by history. In the precise centre of the river was a pavilion on a broad raft, gorgeously emblazoned with pennons and every detail of chivalry, signifying that this meeting of emperors would take place on impeccably neutral territory.
The stage was set: let the drama begin.
Meyen, careful to hang back a little, joined the throng that jostled at the windows of the hotel, trying to get a glimpse from the high balcony of the epochal meeting.
On the French side there was a swirl in the crowd – a carriage! It could only be …
The man who had set the world ablaze, who had wrested for himself an emperor’s crown and who now stood astride the continent, like a colossus, was handed down, bowing this way and that to the gathered nobles of a dozen countries. In white breeches and waistcoat, a dark coat with the splash of gold epaulettes, a single light-blue sash and knee-length black military boots, there was no mistaking Emperor Napoleon Bonaparte.
Opposite, a train of brilliantly clad figures began to form up and the procession slowly wound down to the riverside.
‘The Tsar!’ gasped a lady behind her fan.
It was indeed the Emperor and Autocrat of all the Russias, of Moscow, Kiev, Vladimir, Lord and Grand Duke of Nizhny Novgorod, Sovereign of Chernigov, the Tsar Alexander I, and until three weeks ago an implacable enemy.
Boats arrived at each bank and the principals were rowed out to the pavilion. Simultaneously they stepped into it by opposite portals. The hangings were drawn firmly across and all functionaries retreated in their respective boats, leaving the two leaders in solitary splendour.
It had happened. Behind the rich drapery the world was in the process of being dismantled.
After an hour the entertainment palled, then someone noticed a lone figure in glittering court dress pacing up and down on the bank, lost and forlorn.
‘Who’s that?’ Meyen asked innocently, although he knew full well.
‘You’d never credit the sight!’ the Duchess Izvolsky gushed. ‘It’s Friedrich Wilhelm himself, poor man!’
The King of Prussia, excluded from the meeting that would decide if his country could continue to exist after this day, or perhaps should be shared out among the great powers as so recently Poland had been, now a forgotten relic of past ages.
Late in the afternoon the principals emerged. They were seen to embrace before they took boat and urgent speculation began.
That evening was one of gaiety and tension, pomp and formality as everyone flocked to the greatest and most glittering ball ever seen – but not a whisper emerged of what had transpired on the raft.
It was an extraordinary night. Conquerors and the conquered mixed with the utmost refinement; nobles of ancient houses fearing for their very existence received the most elegant of bows; and at the banquet Napoleon Bonaparte sat next to Tsar Alexander while exchanging platitudes with the King of Prussia.
Meyen had been engaged to attend at the banquet and he wasted no time in adding to his store of rumour, opinion and fact. He slipped in and out of the breathtaking melee, imperturbable, unctuous, attentive – and invisible.
Mere archdukes were spurned for princes, generals for marshals, while all eyes were continually turning to the high table where Napoleon Bonaparte himself was on show to all the world at his greatest and most glittering triumph.
The next day Bonaparte went riding with the Tsar before resuming deliberations on the raft.
There seemed little doubt that the two emperors had reached an understanding, and that the Tsar had not been confronted with impossible demands as a prelude to a catastrophic resuming of the war. The presumption was that a dividing process must be under way. What would be the result?
It was said that the beautiful Queen Louise of Prussia had come to intercede personally with Emperor Bonaparte, but had been coldly scorned. It was further rumoured that the cynical and ambiguous Talleyrand, foreign minister of the French Empire, had been refused attendance by his master after objecting to the scale of his demands.
Three more days passed. Then, quite abruptly, the proceedings concluded. Each emperor retired to his side of the river and all Tilsit waited in unbearable tension.
A little after midnight all was resolved.
Ink still wet from the printers, a bill was distributed, the treaties and expressions of resolve made public.
Meyen snatched one and scanned it.
What he saw made him act immediately. With gold coin, he secured a private carriage and headed urgently for the north.
Chapter 26
Memel, East Prussia