Russka - Edward Rutherfurd [319]
What happened next took place so fast that Alexander never actually saw it. All he knew was that the little creature must have sprung – for suddenly the monkey was on his chest, its arms clasped round his neck, and its face, like that of a tiny old man, pressed close to his – and that the force of its landing was so unexpected that it made him topple and fall with a crash on to the marble floor.
The whole room burst out laughing. The monkey was still pressing its face to his, squealing excitedly, opening and closing its little mouth so that Alexander wondered if it was going to bite him. He struggled to get up, slipped and fell. The little creature was all over him again, tugging at his ears, pushing its nose against his. And above it all he could hear, almost squealing in mirth, Zubov’s voice.
‘He likes you, Bobrov! He loves you!’
And then, suddenly, silence. Alexander turned his head: legs in silk stockings, uniforms all around, and everything motionless. He looked up; and now he saw, standing in the centre of the room, a short, stout figure in a simple, pale silk robe, rather like a dressing gown.
It was Catherine.
Awkwardly, scarlet with humiliation and trying to straighten his clothes, he rose and bowed. The monkey had disappeared somewhere. He was conscious only of the circle of twenty or so courtiers watching him, and of the empress, whose face was like a mask.
So at last, after all, he had met her face to face. Humiliating though it all was, he looked at her with curiosity. This was the woman whose bed he had hoped to share.
Her face was still fine. The brow was noble. But her short, stout body looked coarser and flabbier than he had realized, and some of her teeth were clearly missing. Her golden autumn had shed nearly all its leaves, and she knew that nothing could disguise it. Alexander gazed at her, and did not envy Platon Zubov any more.
‘Who is he?’ The empress’s voice cut coldly, authoritatively, through the silence.
‘Alexander Prokofievich Bobrov,’ Zubov answered, and gave Alexander an encouraging smile. ‘He came to ask for an appointment,’ he added kindly.
Catherine looked at Alexander, apparently searching the large storehouse of her mind for scraps of information, saying nothing while she did so. She might be getting old, perhaps unwell, but her prominent, calm blue eyes were still rather alarming. For years Alexander had vowed that when they met he would astonish her: now, in her presence, after this ridiculous beginning, he was idiotically speechless. He felt himself growing hot. And then he saw a faint recognition in her eyes.
‘You are State Councillor Bobrov?’
He bowed. Perhaps Potemkin had spoken of him formerly and she remembered. She must, at least, be aware of his family’s ancient services. Was it possible that, after all, his hour had come? God knows I have deserved it, he thought. Then she spoke.
‘Aren’t you a relation of that tiresome and ridiculous Countess Turova?’
It was not a question. It was a cold, contemptuous accusation. At this signal of royal displeasure, it seemed to him that he could feel the whole room grow instantly cold towards him.
‘I am distantly related. I’m afraid she is rather absurd,’ he said lamely.
‘Quite. Now I know who you are.’
And with that she turned her back and began to walk out of the room. Just before the doorway, and without turning her head, she called: ‘Come, Platon.’ Then she swept out.
Zubov started after her quickly; from somewhere the monkey reappeared and loped along behind him. At the door, Zubov turned, gave a regretful little shrug to Alexander, and then suddenly grinned. ‘Oh, well, Alexander Prokofievich,’ he called out, ‘at least my monkey liked you! Goodbye.’ Then he was gone, and all the room was laughing.
It was over. He would never, as long as he lived, get any court favour. And why? Because the empress associated him with Countess Turova, and her stupid views.
My God, he thought, I might as well have kept on the right side of the old witch and her damned Voltaire.
Sadly, his head down, he left. He was broken.