Boris Akunin - The Coronation

Mademoiselle’s presencewas most opportune, since she knew English and managed the responsibilities of an interpreter perfectly.

In order to make a start on the conversation, I asked the Englishman: ‘Have you beenworking as a butler for a long time?’

He answered with a very shortword, and Mademoiselle translated: ‘Yes.’

‘There is no need for you to be concerned; the things have been unpacked and no difficulties arose,’ I said with a distinct hint of reproach, since Mr Freyby had taken no part at all in the unpacking, having sat in the carriage with his book to the very end of this important procedure.

‘I know,’ was the answer.

My curiosity was aroused – the Englishman’s phlegmatic manner seemed to convey either a quite amazing indolence that exceeded all conceivable bounds, or the supreme chic of the butler’s artistry. After all, he had not stirred a finger, and yet the things had been unloaded, unpacked, hung, and they were all in the right place!

‘Have you looked into His Lordship’s and Mr Carr’s accommodation yet?’ I asked, knowing perfectly well that since the moment he arrived Mr Freyby had not set foot outside his own room.

‘No need,’ he replied in English, and Mademoiselle translated equally succinctly into French: ‘ Pas besoin. ’

In the time that Mademoiselle had spent in our house I had been able to study her, and I could tell from the gleam in her eyes that she found the Englishman intriguing. Naturally, she knewhowto control her curiosity, as a first-class governess accustomed to working in the finest houses of Europe should (before us, for instance, she had educated the son of the King of Portugal and had brought the most excellent references with her from Lisbon). But the Gallic temperament would sometimes break through, and when Mademoiselle Declique felt enthusiastic, amused or angry about something, bright little sparks lit up in her eyes. I would not have hired an individual with such a dangerous peculiarity as a servant, because those little sparks are a sure sign that still waters run deep, as the common folk say. But governesses, maids and tutors are not my concern – they come under the competence of the court steward, Metlitsky – and so I was able to admire the aforementioned sparks without the slightest anxiety.

And on this occasion Mademoiselle, dissatisfied with the modest role of interpreter, could not resist asking (first in English and then, for me, in French): ‘But how do you know that everything is in good order?’

At this point Mr Freyby uttered his first rather long phrase: ‘I can see that Mr Ziukin knows his job. And in Berlin, where the things were packed, they were packed by a man who also knows his job.’

As if rewarding himself for the exhausting effort of producing such an extensive utterance, the butler took out a pipe and lit it, after first gesturing to ask the lady’s permission. And I realised that I was apparently dealing with an absolutely exceptional butler, such as I had never encountered before in all my thirty years of service.

Shortly after six Xenia Georgievna declared that shewas bored of being stuck inside and we – Her Highness, Mikhail Georgievich, Mademoiselle Declique and I – set out for a drive. I ordered the closed carriage to be brought, because the day had turned out overcast and windy, and after lunch a fine drizzle had started to fall.

We drove out along the broad highway to the elevated spot known as the Sparrow Hills, in order to take a look at Moscow from above, but owing to the grey shroud of rain we saw very little, only the broad semicircle of the valley with low clouds hanging above it like steam, for all the world like a tureen full of steaming broth.

As we were driving back, the sky brightened a little for the first time that day, and so we let the carriage go and set off on foot from the Kaluga Gate across the park. Their Highnesses walked ahead with Xenia Georgievna leading Mikhail Georgievich by the hand, so that he would not run off the path into the wet bushes, while Mademoiselle and I hung back slightly.

It was three months since His Highness had stopped having little accidents, and he had just reached four, at which age the Georgieviches are transferred from the care of an English nanny to the tutelage of a French governess, are no longer dressed in girls’ frocks, and moved on from pantaloons to short trousers. His Highness found the change of attire to his liking, and he and the Frenchwoman got on quite excellently. Imust confess that at first I had found Mademoiselle Declique’s manners too free – for instance, encouragement in the form of kisses and punishment in the form of slaps, as well as noisy romping in the nursery – but as time passed I came to realise that there was a deliberate pedagogical method involved. In any case, after a month His Highness was already babbling away in French and loved singing little songs in that language, and in general he had becomemuch more cheerful and free in his behaviour.

Recently I had noticed that I was glancing into the nursery much more frequently than before, and probably more frequently than was necessary. This discovery gave me cause for serious thought, and since it has always been my rule to be honest with myself in all things, I was rather quick to work out the reason: apparently I enjoyed Mademoiselle Declique’s company.

I am accustomed to regard anything that is enjoyable with caution, because enjoyment goes hand in hand with relaxation, and from relaxation it is only one step to negligence and serious, even irreparable lapses in one’s work. And so for some time I stopped visiting the nursery altogether (apart, naturally, from those instances when my duties required it) and became very cool with Mademoiselle Declique. But this did not last for long. She herself approached me and requested me with irreproachable politeness to assist her in improving her mastery of the Russian language – nothing special, simply to talk about various subjects with her in Russian from time to time and correct her crudest errors. Let me repeat that the request was framed so politely that a refusal would have appeared unjustifiably rude.

Thatwas the beginning of our custom of daily conversations – on perfectly neutral and, naturally, respectable subjects. Mademoiselle learned Russian quite amazingly quickly and already knew a very large number of words. Of course, her speech was grammatically incorrect, but this had its own charm which I was not always able to resist.

On this occasion also, as we strolled along the allée in the Neskuchny Park, wewere speaking Russian. This time, however, the conversation was rather brief and uncomfortable. The problem was that Mademoiselle had been late in coming out for the drive and we had had to wait for her in the carriage for an entire thirty seconds (I was keeping track of the time with my Swiss chronometer). In the presence of Their Highnesses I restrained myself, but nowthatwewere speaking tête-à-tête , I felt it necessary to issue a slight reprimand. I did not like reproving Mademoiselle, but my duty required me to do it. Nobody dares to keep members of the royal family waiting, not even for half a minute.

‘It is not at all difficult always to be on time,’ I said, pronouncing every word slowly so that she would understand. ‘One merely has to live fifteen minutes ahead of things. Let us suppose you have an appointment with someone at three o’clock, then youmust arrive at a quarter to. Or, say, in order to arrive at some place on time, you need to leave the house at two, then youmust leave at a quarter to two. For a start I would advise you to simply to set your watch forward by fifteen minutes, until you become accustomed to it, and then punctuality will become a habit.’

What I had said was both practical and rational, but Mademoiselle Declique’s reply was impertinent.