Russka - Edward Rutherfurd [293]
In deference to Voltaire, Diderot and the other French philosophers of the Enlightenment, only French was spoken in Turova’s house.
And one had to be careful what one said. It was amazing what the old woman could hear, and what she knew. She loved to catch people out. Indeed, after invoking the blessed name of Voltaire, her favourite phrase was a sharp: ‘Take care, monsieur. For I sleep with my eyes open.’ And it was never clear whether this was a figure of speech, or whether she meant it literally.
Now, however, still beaming, she tapped his arm lightly. ‘Do not go too far, mon cher Alexandre: I have special need of you tonight.’ He wondered what she was up to. ‘For the moment, however, you may go. Indeed, I see someone waiting for you.’
Alexander turned. And smiled.
Countess Turova’s house was a very large building with a heavy, classical portico between two wings. The basement rooms were almost on street level, and though many nobles let such places to fashionable merchants and shopkeepers, the countess did not, preferring to live in the house entirely alone with her servants.
With one exception. She allowed a widowed Frenchwoman, Madame de Ronville, to occupy a suite of rooms in the eastern wing. This suited the countess very well, for though this Frenchwoman was not a paid companion, she was dependent in that her charming quarters were let to her at a very low rent, and it was understood that she would be available when the countess wanted her company. ‘It’s so convenient for her to be near me,’ the countess was often pleased to say.
It was also quite convenient for Alexander Bobrov. For Madame de Ronville was his mistress.
Was there anyone more charming in St Petersburg? As he always did, he now felt that sudden tingle of almost adolescent excitement and joy in her presence, which was accompanied, usually, by a little trembling down his back. They had been lovers for ten years, and he never tired of her. She was almost fifty.
Adelaide de Ronville wore a pink silk dress, a little shorter than the countess’s, tightly gathered at the waist and opening out over a hoop skirt. The bodice was decorated with the appliqué silk flowers which the fashionable French called ‘indiscreet complaints’. Her hair, starched and powdered, was charmingly crowned with two little clusters of diamonds. As she stood quietly at his side, almost, but not quite touching him, he was aware of her slim, pale form concealed beneath. Now, her large blue eyes twinkling with amusement, she explained what was going on. ‘Her two stars for the evening have failed to arrive,’ she whispered. ‘Radishchev and the Princess Dashkova.’ She smiled. ‘She needs you to be the star – and her gladiator. Good luck!’
And now Alexander really had reason to smile. Nothing in the world could have been better. Now, he thought, I can please her so much she’ll want to leave me the lot!
There were probably no more brilliant figures in enlightened St Petersburg than those two. Princess Dashkova was almost a rival personage to Catherine herself, a fearless champion of liberty whom the empress had placed in charge of the Russian Academy. As for Radishchev, Alexander knew him quite well: he was already writing brilliant essays. How mortified the countess must be that they had failed to turn up. And what a chance for him.
For, despite all his efforts, Alexander was never quite sure that the old countess took him seriously. He had written articles which were widely praised. He had even, like Radishchev, contributed anonymous articles to journals on such daring subjects as democracy and the abolition of serfdom – subjects which, even in Catherine’s enlightened Russia, were still too radical to be discussed officially. He had shown her these articles and let her into the secret of their authorship; but even then, he did not really know if he had impressed her. Tonight would be his chance.
The role of gladiator, as Countess Turova