The luncheon was not protracted. The Tsar only ever drank two glasses of wine at lunchtime, even on his birthday, and the Tsarina was almost entirely teetotal. The conversation was mainly dominated by the presents the Tsar had received – a cage of songbirds from the Yusupovs and a delightful Fabergé box from Alix. There was much made of the recent Peasants’ Ball held at the Vladimirs’, where the ballroom had been redecorated to resemble a cottage, real cows had wandered around and the servants had been dressed in tunics and loose-fitting breeches as they had handed out the drinks. It had been lauded as one of the top five parties they had ever held – and they’d held many. The Tsarina expressed great regret that she had been unable to attend what had obviously been such a marvellous and much-praised event.
The three courses started off with hors d’oeuvres of caviar, smoked goose and pickled herring, followed by the famous suckling pig and horseradish and then fruit and cheese. The waiters, with their soft-soled shoes, were discreet and efficient and, as soon as the last plates were removed, the Tsar lit a cigarette, indicating that the rest of the party were allowed to follow.
Coffee and birthday cake, with port wine and Allasch kummel, were taken standing up in the Maple Drawing Room, which, although full of Fabergé-framed photographs and trinkets, was still awaiting renovation.
‘How long are you here for? Is Felix enjoying his new posting in Moscow? We must come and see you now that you are here?’ Peter suggested to Zinaida Yusupova as she sipped a cup of strong coffee.
Her delicate features formed a small smile. ‘Yes, that would be nice,’ she lied. ‘Be sure to bring your charming wife.’
‘She is so busy these days – I hardly see much of her myself,’ joked Peter. ‘She is always here!’
‘So I gather,’ laughed Zinaida. ‘It’s quite the little group!’
‘If you will excuse me?’ said Militza as she walked across the room towards the Empress who was engaged in conversation with Sophie Buxhoeveden. With a surefooted directness, she went straight to the Tsarina’s side. ‘I have some good news.’ Her voice was hushed so that only Alix could hear. Alix’s face lit up.
‘Meet me in the Mauve Boudoir in five minutes,’ she whispered, before turning back towards the baroness and looking out of the window. ‘Aren’t the flowers so beautiful at this time of year?’
Militza found herself waiting a full fifteen minutes for Alix to extricate herself from the party. She sat on the chaise longue in the corner of the room, furnished entirely by Maple & Co of London, in the Empress’s favourite colour, pale purple. From the Chinese bowls to the furniture, to the striped Parisian silk wallpaper, it was all mauve. The only exception was the cream-coloured enamelled upright Becker piano.
‘I am sorry,’ declared Alix as she burst through the door. ‘Felix Yusupov would not let me go. He kept fingering that giant moustache of his, talking about some dull military parade he saw in Moscow.’
‘I have found someone!’ Militza declared immediately, leaping off the chaise. ‘Someone so powerful, so clever, so brilliant. He lives between two worlds and he has power, real power…’
‘Does he believe in God?’
‘He was sent from God. He is the answer to your prayers, all our prayers… to all Russia’s prayers!’
‘When?’ asked Alix.
‘Now. He is here.’
‘In St Petersburg?’
Militza nodded. Alix fell upon her, enthusiastically kissing her cheeks. ‘Thank you!’ she said, kissing her hands, her forehead. ‘Thank you, thank you. I knew you’d find him. I knew you’d find The One. I knew you would not let me down.’ The Tsarina pulled Militza closer and embraced her tightly.
‘Don’t worry, my darling,’ soothed Militza, her soft cheek caressing the Tsarina’s. ‘Help is on its way.’
10
16 June 1900, Znamenka, Peterhof
Militza recalled how she spent all that morning briefing Philippe. Not that the Tsarina’s desire for a son was a secret any more; there had been mutterings in the foreign press, even The New York Times, and it was by now, frankly, all the salons of St Petersburg could gossip about, that, and her persistent bouts of back pain, her reclusiveness, plus her inability to attend any event at court without looking visibly bored, completely withdrawn, or leaving early.
So both Militza and Stana who sat, side by side, on the buttoned sofa in her Red Salon felt no discomfiture in enthusiastically sharing Alexandra’s innermost secrets.
To say that Militza wanted to believe all of Philippe’s glittering recommendations was an understatement.
She remembered feeling this man had been sent to her by Spirit; she had seen his face at night as she stared between two mirrors, chanting her mantras and burning her herbs, he’d appeared to her with his beatific smile and his healing hands, crossing himself and assuring her that all would be well. He was exactly who she had been waiting for: a mystic from Lyon, who had been feted in the fashionable drawing rooms of Paris. What higher recommendation was there?
And here he was. Just as she’d hoped, he was finely dressed, with clean, manicured fingers and he neither screeched, nor vomited, nor stank of the slums of St Petersburg. He was shorter and more rotund than she’d anticipated; however, he could mix easily at court and, naturally, spoke excellent French and was far more palatable to the Tsarina’s refined sensibilities. In short, he wasn’t Russian and frankly, that was a relief.
So Militza was not only relieved as they retired to the salon after their light luncheon, she was bristling with optimism. And her sister? Well, Stana appeared to be already in his thrall. Her dark eyes were shining and her lips could not help but smile.
The footman just managed to announce the arrival of the Tsarina before she burst into the room, her white chiffon skirts rustling.
‘You’re here!’ she declared, directly addressing Maître Philippe, who was so shocked at the speed of her arrival, he didn’t know whether to leap out of his seat, or bow, or both.
‘Your Imperial Majesty,’ he said, standing to attention before bending deferentially low.
‘Your Imperial Majesty, please may I present Monsieur Philippe Nizier-Vachot?’ said Militza. ‘A truly holy man.’
‘Impératrice…’ He bowed again. His southern French accent grated slightly.
‘How was your journey? How long have you been here? Tell me,’ Alix paused, looking a little wistful, ‘how is Paris? Cannes? Did you meet in Cannes?’
‘Not meet, but Count Muravyov-Amursky could talk of nothing else,’ Militza acknowledged. ‘We were having luncheon on La Croisette when he told me so many stories about Maître Philippe’s abundant gifts, his ability to cure so many varied ailments, it was imperative he came here to St Petersburg. Countess Ignatiev invited him.’
She sat down, her white skirts spread out over the divan, her back straight, her pale eyes catching the afternoon sun; Militza had not seen Alix this engaged, or this excited in months. It was clear that she too felt the power of Philippe, he was most certainly the man to answer both hers and the nation’s prayers.
‘Dear lady,’ began Philippe, smoothing down his thick lengthy moustache, ‘tell me your problems, for I am here to help.’
The pot of tea had long since turned cold by the time the Tsarina had finished talking. Philippe was now more intimate with her thoughts and fears than perhaps even the Tsar himself. As Alix left, Militza could not believe quite how wonderfully well the first meeting had gone. Maybe she and her sister had been a little indiscreet in telling him so many of the Tsarina’s secrets? Maybe they had revealed rather too much? But the result was so marvellously above their expectations. What did it matter that they might have betrayed a few too many confidences? Everything was going to be fine from now on.