Rasputin's Revenge Read Online Free

Tsarkoye Selo, some fifteen kilometers south of the city, yet I was surprised when I was summoned there. I had assumed that state business would be conducted at court, but I was wrong.
    If my first impressions are correct, the very seat of Russian government is an icon-bedecked boudoir, decorated in various shades of mauve, a comfortable yet utterly hideous bedchamber reminiscent of little-used guest rooms in any number of British country estates.
    But I’m getting ahead of myself.
    A servant called at my room just after an upsetting breakfast of cold fish, onions, and tea. (Oh, for a fresh croissant dipped into a steaming bowl of cafe au lait!) The Czar had returned from military headquarters at Spala and would see me at my earliest convenience.
    We traveled by train—the railroad line is the oldest in the country—a short distance over swampland and then came to a small village station with a steeply sloping roof. There, surrounded by mounted Cossacks, our car was separated from the train and transferred to another track, which led to the Czar’s station.
    A double row of trees lined the wide boulevard that led to the two palaces. We passed the larger of the two, skirted a lovely lake, and approached the vine-covered Alexander Palace, an Italianate structure of some one hundred rooms. Even so late in the Fall, the smell of lilacs and fresh flowers from the Crimea made the Palace smell like a Summer garden.
    I was led through a huge circular hallway, then turned right into the Imperial apartments, which were hung with photographs of children’s bicycles! The “art” made a strange impression on me, as though I had entered a children’s world of make-believe.
    But I had no time to reflect on that feeling. At the door to the Czar’s private study, two huge black men in the flowing robes of Arabia stood watch, huge scimitars crossed between them. They further reinforced my sense of the unreal nature of things at court.
    In a moment I was being introduced to Nicholas II, Emperor and Autocrat of all the Russias; Czar of Moscow, Kiev, Vladimir, Novgorod, Kazan; Astrakan of Poland, of Siberia; Sovereign of the Circassian Princes; Lord of Turkestan; Heir of Norway; Duke of Schleswig Holstein, etc.—his various titles in my etiquette book cover fully half a page.
    In the flesh, Nicholas is less imposing. Short of stature, with the mildest and friendliest of expressions, and dressed in the uniform of acolonel in the Russian army (though he is its active Commander-in-Chief), he could be anyone. Certainly he projects no imperial aura.
    We sat on leather armchairs quite close to one another and he offered me a cigarette, which I declined. For his part, he smoked continuously during our interview.
    Thinking to heed Sukhomlinov’s advice, I didn’t plan to press my immediate objective, preferring to simply take the tenor of the man. I was not even able to do that. We’d barely finished exchanging pleasantries when a lady-in-waiting interrupted us. She whispered something to the Czar and, chuckling good-naturedly, he turned to me.
    “It seems there are no secrets, Monsieur Giraud. My wife, the Empress, has heard of your arrival and would like to meet you.”
    “Of course,” I answered, “I would be flattered.”
    He rose. “We’ll have to go to her. Now that I’m home, she’s taking a much-needed rest.” His faintly apologetic tone, filled with wry humor, impressed me. He might be Czar of Russia, but he was first a human being, a husband and father, and he had the courage to show it.
    We passed through a billiard room, across a corridor, and then through what looked to me to be the royal bedchamber. Beyond that, we entered the darkened mauve room I’ve earlier described. And on a mauve divan, covered to the waist with a blanket, reclined the Czarina Alexandra, Empress of Russia.
    “Good morning, Sunny,” the Czar said in English, leaning over and kissing her. “How are you feeling?”
    The scene was so intimate as