The incident was not mentioned again. However, Philippe decided to avail the Tsar of a small golden bell that would magically ring if an evil person were ever to approach him. Its sound was only audible to Maître Philippe himself, but the Tsar insisted on taking it with him wherever he went, and with the political situation as it was, with increasing unrest in the countryside, one could never be too careful.
The other thing Militza recalled from that period was Maître Philippe’s magic hat which, when he wore it, would not only make him invisible but also those who travelled with him. Although she could not personally vouch for the efficacy of the cap, for the only time she bore witness to it was when she spotted her sister out in a carriage with the Monsieur, his hat firmly in place.
‘I saw you out driving with Maître Philippe this afternoon,’ she mentioned to her sister, later that evening over a glass of tea on the veranda.
Stana looked rather puzzled. ‘But that is impossible?’
‘It is?’
‘Maître Philippe was wearing his magic hat, so neither of us was visible at all.’ Militza raised her eyebrows. ‘He told me so himself.’
‘How strange,’ said Militza.
‘Impossible,’ confirmed Stana.
‘I must have been mistaken,’ her sister replied.
However, not one of Militza’s growing concerns about Philippe and his practices mattered much because one afternoon in October, as they were playing bezique in her Mauve Boudoir at Tsarskoye Selo, listening to little Olga learning to play the piano, Alix tentatively declared to Militza that she was with child again at last.
Over the next few months, excitement in the court grew as the Tsarina disappeared from view, removing her corset and putting on her customary dark velvet loose-fitting gowns, declining all dinner invitations and refusing even to go to Grand Duchess Vladimir’s pre-Christmas Bazaar. The Tsar himself was abuzz with energy and the news spread at speed across the empire. Letters of congratulations arrived from some of the farthest estates and Militza’s mother sent a short telegram welcoming the good news. The sisters were delighted. Their trust in Philippe had been vindicated, but no one was more delighted than the Countess Ignatiev, whose Black Salon was now so glamorously popular that anyone who had ever been to Dr Badmaev’s apothecary was clamouring for an invitation. For if the Tsar and his wife were embracing the black arts with seemingly magical results, then what better way to try and ingratiate oneself with the increasingly isolated couple than to follow suit?
At the Palm Ball the following year, the Tsarina’s good news was now visible for all her intimate circle to see, and Militza and Stana’s position at court was unassailable. Resplendent in their couture dresses, their arrival at the annual intimate gathering for five hundred of the most powerful and connected, on the arms of their respective husbands, caused a parting of the crowds.
The Grand Duchess Vladimir was one of the first to approach. With a flutter of ostrich feathers and lace she was at her most friendly and beguiling best. She picked up a Sobranie cigarette from a crystal case, removed the band stamped with a double-headed eagle and waited for a footman to light it.
‘Wonderful evening, don’t you think?’ She smiled, exhaling a plume of grey-blue smoke and waving her fan in a futile attempt to ward off the claustrophobic heat of the ballroom. ‘Your friend from Lyon not here?’
‘Alas, no. He has more important things to do than attend parties,’ declared Stana, with a tilt of her chin as she surveyed the Malachite Hall.
‘How foolish of me! A man of his talents, he must be off healing the sick somewhere…’ She cleared her throat. ‘Tell me, will you be in Moscow this Easter?’
‘I am not sure,’ replied Militza, acknowledging the half-bowed head of Baroness Buxhoeveden.
‘It depends on the Empress,’ added Stana, doing the same.
‘Of course,’ concurred Maria Pavlovna.
‘Being so heavy with child she may not want to travel,’ continued Stana.
‘Indeed,’ agreed Maria Pavlovna swiftly. ‘We all know how difficult it is for her to carry.’
‘Do we?’ asked Militza, turning back and fixing her with a dark stare.
‘Some of us, obviously, are privy to much more than others, but her discomfort is well known.’ The Grand Duchess continued, hesitating a little, ‘Well known in general, but to her exclusive intimates, I am sure there are many other secrets.’
The woman began to blush, much to Militza’s pleasure. ‘Yes,’ she confirmed with a small, self-satisfied smile. ‘There are many other secrets.’
‘May I?’ interrupted the tall elegant figure of Nikolai Nikolayevich, as he bowed his head and clicked his heels together, offering his hand to Stana. ‘I know how well you dance the polonaise.’
She glanced briefly across towards George who seemed to be engaging the attentions of a young tittering female over a glass of champagne. She exhaled furiously; why not? Imperiously she took Nikolai Nikolayevich’s hand – and along with it the attention of the room. Why was she, a married woman, dancing so intimately with her brother-in-law? And as they danced through the hall, holding hands and bending their knees, the younger girls in their fresh white frocks, out at a dance for the very first time, could do little but stand to one side and stare, letting the more glamorous, powerful and distinctly more fascinating couple through. In fact, the only person to turn their face away in a moment of overt irritation was the Dowager Empress, Maria Fyodorovna, who had long since given up being remotely cordial to either sister. Ever since she’d heard of the séances and the table-tipping evenings at Znamenka she had ceased to accept their visiting cards or invitations to afternoon tea at Annunciation Square.
‘Congratulations,’ came the whispered, tobacco-tinged tones of Count Yusupov in Militza’s ear. The cold hatred in his voice was enough to freeze the steppes of Siberia but Militza stood her ground, sipped her champagne and instead of turning to face him, she continued to look ahead and smiled rigidly at the glittering swirl of dancers. ‘I hear you have made it into the bedchamber itself. Collecting the morning pot, or so I am told.’ He paused. ‘How very befitting.’
‘Believe what you wish,’ she replied curtly, maintaining her gaze on the dance floor.
‘And your friend? Or “Our Friend” as I gather he is now known, remains in the bedchamber all night, I hear? I suspect that special invisible hat of his must come in useful, during the moment critique!’ He chuckled.
‘Well, the Tsarina is with child,’ she hissed, turning at last to face him.
‘I didn’t think pregnancy was the problem. Just the lack of heir.’
‘This time I know it will be a boy.’
He smiled. ‘You know? Or you pray? Or, more accurately, chant and dance with your Devil, burning your herbs, crossing your little fingers and hoping to triumph? Because if it is not a boy, if you and your friend fail, then what? Where will your little Black Circle of mystics, miracle workers and gurus be then? If we have to welcome yet another girl? A Tsar with four daughters? How useless is that? But then, one only needs to ask your father, he’d know all about it.’
‘It’s a fool who underestimates the power of a woman.’ Militza turned back to face the dancers and took another sip of her champagne. She was determined not to let this puffed-up, florid dog of a man ruin her triumphant evening.
‘Perhaps,’ he replied. ‘But it is also a fool who puts all her trust in a hairdresser from Lyon.’
‘He’s a doctor.’
‘He’s been arrested five times in France for practising without a licence.’
‘He can cure syphilis.’
‘With what?’
‘Psychic fluids and astral forces.’