Free Curse Not the King by Evelyn Anthony Page A

defeated Cossack. Unlike her ladies and the general populace, Natalie had no appetite for horrors and no wish to see the sufferings of the man who had so nearly dragged the great Catherine off her throne. But for once Paul would not yield. They could watch from a window in the palace, he said stubbornly, and there was no need for Natalie to sicken since his mother’s talent for well-timed mercy had changed the ferocious sentence of torture to one of simple execution. Not even to her would he admit that a doubt tormented him, born of rumours and uncertainty, the phantom of his own childish longing for a miracle to raise the dead. He wanted to see the man who claimed to be his father.
    They had put Pugachev into a great iron cage, and drew it slowly along the streets of Moscow, ringed by troops to keep the crowds at bay, and as he stood by the palace window Paul Petrovitch watched the procession pass under a thin cloud of gently falling snow.
    For some moments he looked on the prisoner, chained and exhibited like a wild beast: the man was a giant, black-bearded and swarthy, his clothing in rags; with both hands he steadied himself against the bars of the jolting, swaying cage, unable to shield himself from the showers of filth that rained in upon him from the hands of the howling mob. The same mob, as Paul thought grimly, who would have knelt to do him homage in the streets had fate given him the victory instead of Catherine.
    There was a moment when the eyes of the two men met, high above the heads of the crowd: the big Cossack, helpless now, but savage with pain and humiliation, stared into the face of an ugly young man, saw the fixed expression that none might read, the prominent brow and flattened nose, caught the brilliant flash of a great diamond in his cravat, and insensible to anything but the ordeal of his approaching death, looked on the Czarevitch whom his mad imposture had claimed as his son, with uncomprehending animal eyes, dark and wild with suffering.
    As the cage passed, Paul turned and slammed the window, to the great chagrin of his attendants, who wished to see the execution. It was not until he took Natalie in his arms when all had been dismissed, and kissed her with desperate tenderness, that the truth occurred to her.
    Pugachev was beaten. At that very moment his head had fallen, judging by the great shout which had gone up from the crowd outside. The Turkish war was over, the rebellion broken. Catherine was seated firmly on her throne and could afford to give the succession where she pleased.
    Paul’s threats availed him nothing any longer. Both he and Natalie were left at Catherine’s mercy.

4
    â€œIt’s the waiting, Paul, the dreadful waiting, day after day, pretending that nothing is wrong, listening for footsteps, seeing their eyes on us! I tell you it’s driving me mad!”
    They were alone in their suite in the Wooden Palace, alone to all appearances, though God knew who spied and eavesdropped in the crevices of that grim building.
    â€œI can’t bear it much longer, I really can’t.… I almost wish she’d have me arrested and get it over!”
    He tried to comfort her, lying and making light of their danger, blinded by love to the selfishness of that refrain in which the dominant note was always of fear for herself.
    â€œPlease, Natalie, try not to worry. It’s two months since Pugachev was executed and she’s made no move. That’s a good sign, my darling; it means she hesitates … I’ve told you she daren’t touch you without harming me, that is our safeguard!”
    â€œSafeguard! Oh, my God, Paul, you know that isn’t true! She hates you, you said so yourself and now she can do what she likes … Oh, the suspense! And this palace! This awful gloomy place—caged in here for weeks on end—spied on … I know we’re watched—my women watch me, I’ve caught them listening—and the Empress.