William Le Queux - The Price of Power

“Hulloa, old Uncle Colin! Am I too small to be recognised?”

I turned quickly and confronted the pretty laughing girl of nineteen of whom I had been in search all the night – Her Imperial Highness the Grand Duchess Natalia Olga Nicolaievna.

Tall, slim, with a perfect figure, she was dressed in cream, a light simple gown which suited her youth and extreme beauty admirably. Across her dark, well-dressed hair she wore a narrow band of forget-me-nots; at her throat was a large single emerald of great value, suspended by a fine chain of platinum, a present from His Majesty, while on the edge of her low-cut corsage she wore a bow of pale-blue ribbon embroidered in silver with a Russian motto, and from it was suspended a medallion set with diamonds and bearing in the centre the enamelled figure of Saint Catherine – the exclusive Order of Saint Catherine bestowed upon the Grand Duchesses.

“How miserable you look, Uncle Colin!” exclaimed the dark-eyed girl before I could reply. “Whatever is the matter? Is the British Lion sick – or what?”

“I really must apologise to Your Imperial Highness,” I said, bowing. “I was quite unaware that I looked miserable. I surely could never look miserable in your presence.”

We both laughed, while standing erect and defiant, before me she held up a little ivory fan, threatening to chastise me with it.

“Well,” I said, “and so you are safely back again in Petersburg, after all your travels! Why, it’s surely eight weeks since we were at the ball at the Palace of your uncle, the Grand Duke Serge.”

“Where you danced with me. Do you remember how we laughed? You said some nasty sarcastic things, so I punished you. I told Captain Stoyanovitch and some of the others that you had flirted with me and kissed me. So there!”

I looked at her in stern reproach.

“Ah!” I said. “So that is the source of all those rumours – eh? You’re a very wicked girl,” I added, “even though you are a Grand Duchess.”

“Well, I suppose Grand Duchesses are in no way different to other girls – eh?” she pouted. “Sometimes I wish I were back again at school at Eastbourne. Ah! what grand times I used to have in those days – hockey and tennis and gym, and I was not compelled to perform all sorts of horrible, irksome etiquette, and be surrounded by this crowd of silly dressed-up apes. Why, Uncle Colin, these are not men – all these tight-uniformed popinjays at Court.”

“Hush, my child!” I said. “Hush! You will be overheard.”

“And I don’t care if I am. Surely a girl can speak out what she thinks!”

“In England, yes, in certain circumstances, but in Russia – and especially at Court – never!”

“Oh, you are so horribly old-fashioned, Uncle Colin. When shall I bring you up-to-date?” cried the petted and spoiled young lady, whose two distinctions were that she was one of the most beautiful girls in all Russia, and the favourite niece of the Tzar Alexander. She had nicknamed me “Uncle,” on account of my superior age, long ago.

“And you are utterly incorrigible,” I said, trying to assume an angry look.

“Ah! You’re going to lecture me!” she exclaimed with another pout. “I suppose I ought never to dance at all – eh? It’s wicked in your eyes, isn’t it? You are perhaps, one of those exemplary people that I heard so much of when in England – such an expressive name – the Kill-joys!”

“No, Your Highness,” I protested. “I really don’t think I’m a killjoy. If I were, I couldn’t very well be a diplomat. I – ”

“But all diplomats are trained liars,” she asserted with abrupt frankness. “The Emperor told me so only the other day. He said they were men one should never trust.”

“I admit that, without the lie artistique , diplomacy would really be non-existent,” I said, with a laugh. “But is not the whole political world everywhere in Europe a world of vain promise, intrigue and shame?”

“Just as our social world seems to me,” she admitted.

“Ah! Then you are beginning to realise the hollow unreality of the world about you – eh?” I said.

“Dear me!” she exclaimed, “you talk just like a bishop! I really don’t know what has come to my dear old Uncle Colin. You must be ill, or something. You never used to be like this,” she added, with a sigh and a well-feigned look of regret that was really most amusing, while at the same time she made eyes at me.

Truly, she was a most charming little madcap, this Imperial Grand Duchess – the most charming in all Europe, as the diplomatic circle had long ago agreed.

So she had taken revenge upon me for uttering words of wisdom by telling people that I had flirted with and kissed her! She herself was responsible for the chatter which had gone round, with many embellishments, concerning myself, and how deeply I was in love with her. I wondered if it had reached the Emperor’s ears?

I felt annoyed, I here confess. And yet so sweet and irresponsible was she, so intelligent and quick at repartee, that next moment I had forgiven her.

And I frankly told her so.

“My dear Uncle Colin, it would have been all the same,” she declared airily. “You shouldn’t have lectured me. I assure you I have had enough of that at home. Ever since I came back from England everybody seems to have conspired to tell me that I’m the most terrible girl in Russia. Father holds up his hands; why, I really don’t know.”

“Because you are so extremely unconventional,” I said. “A girl of the people can act just as she likes; but you are a Grand Duchess – and you can’t.”

“Bother my birth. That’s my misfortune. I wish I were a shopgirl, or a typist, or something. Then I should be free!” she exclaimed impatiently. “As it is, I can’t utter a word or move a little finger without the whole of Russia lifting up their hands in pious horror. I tell you, Uncle Colin,” she added, her fine, big, dark eyes fixed upon me, “I’m sick of it all. It is simply unbearable. Ah! how I wish I were back at dear old Southdene College. I hate Russia and all her works!”

“Hush!” I cried again. “You really must not say that. Remember your position – the niece of His Majesty.”

“I repeat it!” she cried in desperation, her well-formed little mouth set firmly. “And I don’t care who hears me – even if it’s Uncle Alexander himself!”

At Her Highness’s side I had strolled through the smaller salon and along the several great corridors to the splendid winter garden, on the opposite side of the palace. It was one of the smaller courtyards which had been covered in with glass and filled with high palms and tropical flowers ablaze with bloom. There, in that northern latitude, Asiatic and African plants flourished and flowered, with little electric lights cunningly concealed amid the leaves.

Several other couples were seated there, away from the whirl and glitter of the Court; but taking no notice, we halted at two wicker chairs set invitingly in a corner. Into one of these she flung herself with a little sigh, and, bowing, I took the other.

I sat and watched her. Her beauty was, indeed, exquisite. She had the long, tender, fluent lines of body and limb, the round waist, the deep chest and small bust, the sturdy throat of those ancient virgins that the greatest sculptors of the world worshipped and wrought into imperishable stone. She was not very tall, though she appeared so. It was something in pose and movement that did it. A beautiful soul looked from Her Highness’s beautiful eyes whenever she smiled upon me.

I found myself examining every line and turn and contour of the prettily-poised head. She was dark, with that lovely complexion like pure alabaster tinted with rose sometimes seen in Russian women. Her eyes, under the sweeping lashes, seemed capable of untold depths of tenderness. Hers was the perfect oval of a young face across whose innocent girlishness experience had written no line, passion cast no shadow.