The gentleman with the doggy sideburns can no longer be trusted. I refuse to deal with him. Today the prince’s governess, whom I saw in the park, must come to the meeting. So that the lady will not be encumbered with the burden of a heavy suitcase, this time please be so good as to make the next payment to me in the form of the sapphire bow collar made by the court jeweller of the Tsarina Elisaveta – in the opinion of my specialist this bauble is worth precisely a million roubles, or perhaps slightly more, but you will not cavil at petty trifles, surely?
Beginning from six o’clock this evening the governess, completely alone, must stroll along the Arbat and the streets around it, following any route that she wishes, but choosing the places that are less crowded. She will be approached.
Yours sincerely,
Doctor Lind
‘I am afraid that this is impossible,’ was the first thing I said.
‘B-but why?’ Fandorin asked.
‘The inventory of the crown jewels lists the neckband in the coffret2 of the ruling empress.’
‘And what of that?’
I simply sighed. How was he to know that for Her Majesty, so jealously protective of her somewhat ethereal status, the crown jewels held a special, rather morbid importance?
According to established ceremonial, the dowager empress was obliged to pass on the coffret to her successor immediately upon the new tsarina’s accession to the throne. However, Maria Feodorovna, being a connoisseur of the beautiful as well as a capricious and wilful individual – and also let us be quite frank, not overfond of her daughter-in-law – had not wished to be parted from the jewels and had forbidden her crowned son to pester her with conversations on the subject.
A painful situation had resulted in which His Majesty, being on the one hand a dutiful son and, on the other, a loving husband, found himself, as they say, caught between the devil and the deep blue sea, and did not know what to do. The confrontation had continued for many months and had only been ended very recently by an unexpectedly decisive move on the part of the young empress. When, following numerous hints and even direct demands, Maria Feodorovna sent her only a small part of the jewels, mostly emeralds, which she did not like, Alexandra Feodorovna announced to her husband that she regarded the wearing of jewellery as in bad taste and henceforth she would not wear any diamonds, sapphires, pearls, gold and other vain ornaments at any ceremonial occasions. And she referred to the Scriptures, where it is said: ‘A good name is better than great riches, and a good reputation is better than silver and gold.’ After this threat the empress-mother was obliged to part with her jewels after all and, as far as I was aware, Alexandra Feodorovna had brought the entire contents of the coffret to Moscow so that she could appear in all her splendour at the numerous balls, receptions and ceremonies.
I had to reach Georgii Alexandrovich urgently.
I had to delay a little while before running from Maria Feodorovna’s landau to the mounted group of grand dukes, for the procession had just entered the Triumphal Square and my manoeuvre would have been blatantly obvious. My watch already showed half past one. Time was running out.
A convenient opportunity presented itself when rockets went soaring up into the sky from the roof of a large building on the corner of Tverskaya Street, leaving trails of coloured smoke behind them. As if by command, the assembled members of the public jerked up their heads and started buzzing in rapturous delight, and I quickly cut across the open space and hid among the horses. In accordance with ceremonial, each of the horses on which Their Highnesses were sitting was being led by the bridle by one of the companions of the court. I saw Pavel Georgievich, wearing a weary, anxious expression on his bluish-green face; Endlung, sprightly and rosy-cheeked, was striding out beside him.
‘Afanasii,’ His Highness called to me in a pitiful voice. ‘I can’t go on. Get me some pickle water. I swear to God, I’m going to be sick . . .’
‘Hold on, Your Highness,’ I said. ‘The Kremlin is coming up soon.’
And I carried on squeezing my way through. A dignified gentleman squinted sideways at me in bewilderment. To judge from the red welts on his cuffs and the buttons with hunting horns on them, he must have been a master of hounds, but so many of those had appeared during the new reign that it was impossible to remember them all.
His Majesty’s three uncles made up the front row of the procession of grand dukes. I worked my way through to Georgii Alexandrovich’s sorrel Turkmen, took hold of its bridle (so that there were now two of us leading it – myself and the stall-master Count Anton Apollonovich Opraksin) and passed the note from Lind to His Highness without speaking.
When he saw the lock of hair, Georgii Alexandrovich’s face changed. He quickly ran his eye over the lines of writing, touched his spurs to the lean, muscular sides of his mount and began slowly overhauling the solitary figure of the sovereign. The count let go of the bridle in horror. And so did I.
There could be no doubt at all that a genuine storm would blow up in international politics. It was a certainty that today the coded telegrams would go flying to foreign courts and delegations: Admiral-General Georgii Alexandrovich demonstrates his special relationship with the tsar, and from now on can probably be regarded as the most influential individual in the Russian empire. So be it. There were more important things to deal with.
With his hands held proudly on his hips exactly like his nephew, His Highness approached the sovereign unhurriedly and rode on beside him, just half a length behind; the admiral-general’s portly figure made a far more majestic sight than the autocrat’s thin silhouette. From the twitching of His Highness’s magnificent moustache, I guessed that Georgii Alexandrovich was telling the emperor about the letter, without even turning his head. The tsar’s head quite clearly jerked to one side. Then his moustache, less magnificent than Georgii Alexandrovich’s, twitched in exactly the sameway, and the grand duke began gradually falling back, until he was level with his brothers again.
Since I was so close, I could hear Kirill Alexandrovich hiss furiously: ‘Tu es fou, Georgie, ou quoi?’3
I do not know if the people of Moscow noticed that when the procession entered Tverskaya Street the column began moving significantly more quickly, but in any case twenty minutes later the sovereign rode in through the Spassky Gate of the Kremlin and a quarter of an hour after that closed carriages drove away one after another from the porch of the Large Kremlin Palace. The individuals who were privy to the secret were hurrying to the Hermitage for an emergency meeting.
This time the visitors included our sovereign lady, whose decision would determine the outcome of the whole affair.
Since I had to arrange in haste for light hors d’œuvres, coffee, seltzer water and orangeade for Her Majesty (nothing so inflames the thirst and the appetite as a prolonged ceremonial procession), I missed the beginning of the discussion and had to reconstruct its course in retrospect, from what I heard the participants say.
For example, the delicate explanation to the tsarina concerning the sapphire neckband took place in my absence. When I came in, I found Her Majesty in an angry mood but already reconciled to the inevitable.
‘However, His Anointed Majesty has promised to me that this thing will quite definitely be returned to me entire and undamaged,’ our sovereign lady was saying to High Police Master Lasovsky just as I entered with the tray.