home > Preference > Pikul with a pen and sword. Valentin with a pikulper and a sword. Excerpt from the novel Pen and Sword

Pikul with a pen and sword. Valentin with a pikulper and a sword. Excerpt from the novel Pen and Sword

Publishing house website www.veche.ru

* * *

A chronicle novel from the history of secret diplomacy during the war, which was called the Seven Years' War; about the exploits and glory of the Russian troops who reached Berlin, the capital of the Electorate of Brandenburg; as well as a reliable story about the days and deeds of the noble Chevalier de Eon, who lived for 48 years as a man, and for 34 years was considered a woman, and in uniform and in lace managed to glorify himself, equally valiantly wielding a pen and a sword.

* * *

The people who don’t remember are bad

does not appreciate or love its history!

V. M. Vasnetsov

Let's start from the end

On the night of March 21, 1810, the French consul at the Court of St. James, Baron Seguier, was very lucky. He played in the house of Lady Pembroke-Montgomery, née Countess Vorontsova, feverishly placing bets on doubling.

It was already well after midnight when the footman, serving the players strong tea, handed Segya a tray on which lay a letter:

- Courier from the embassy. If you please, Baron.

Absorbed by the winnings, the consul hastily tore the envelope:

- Sorry, gentlemen. I won't detain you...

And suddenly he jumped up, throwing away his cards (and everyone noticed that the lucky Segye was playing without any trump cards at all).

- War? – the Russians looked at each other. - War again?

“No, no,” Segye consoled them, excited about something.

The frivolous beauty Ekaterina Bagration, who, having traveled all her life around Europe, had long forgotten both her husband and her fatherland, suddenly became capricious:

- Baron, you intrigue me, and I won’t be able to get back...

The consul glanced at the cards scattered in front of him:

- I beg your pardon, I have to leave you urgently.

Semyon Romanovich Vorontsov (father of the mistress of the house) asked the Frenchman casually, with the indifference of an old, seasoned diplomat:

“What happened, dear Segier?” Vorontsov paused. – If this is not a secret?.. – Another pause. – The secret of your obstinate emperor?

- Gentlemen! - announced the consul. - There is no secret... I just went to better world the maiden and gentleman Genevieve de Eon, who in her youth was the ambassador of Versailles to such high courts as St. Petersburg and St. James!

The players' faces fell.

“I’ve already forgotten about that slanderous old woman,” Lord Pembroke said in surprise, snorting. - Oh, how much fuss there was about this woman!..

The ambassador's cab, its wheels clattering on the stones, took Seguier to the deserted street of New Wilman; The duty constable raised the lantern, looking closely:

- Who goes? Please respond...

Segier slammed the lacquered cab door behind him.

- The consul of Napoleon, the emperor of all French, is coming!

The policeman helpfully illuminated the entrance of the house with a flashlight - black, like the sinkhole of a mine drift, long abandoned. On the flight of stairs, a stray cat shied away from under Segye’s feet. The shaky railings swayed over the darkness of the well.

On the landing of the upper floor, light suddenly splashed from the open doors.

“The consul has arrived,” announced the constable.

The royal surgeon, Sir Thomas Campeland, opened his bag and, rolling up his sleeves, pulled on long silk gloves.

“Great,” he said. – In the name of law and justice, we will begin the examination while the mortal body of the deceased still retains the warmth of her past life...

Baron Segier looked around. My God! He did not even know that the Maiden de Eon, that mysterious diplomat and forgotten writer of France, lived in such abject poverty. Almost bare walls, a cold fireplace, abandoned needlework on a hoop.

And everywhere - swords, swords, swords!..

Madame Coll, the deceased’s hanger-on, approached him.

- When did it happen? – the consul asked her in a whisper.

- Around midnight, monsieur.

“Papers,” Seguier hinted. – Papers... where?

Madame Coll nodded towards the corner. There lay a large bundle wrapped in bear skin, the king's seals hung to the floor and there was a smell of sealing wax. The British are ahead. “As always...” However, there was nothing surprising in this hasty inventory of property, because the London police had long suspected the deceased of minting counterfeit money...

- Attention! - declared Campeland. - I ask the witnesses, the prosecutor and the consul to come here... Closer, closer.

Segier stepped towards the slovenly bed on which lay a small but stately deceased woman with a yellow face. The old woman’s thin lips still retained a dying smile, and one of her eyes looked dully at the curious guests.

“Let’s begin,” said the surgeon.

- Wait, sir! – the prosecutor stopped him and turned to the witnesses. “Gentlemen,” he said, waving his hat, “I hope you are aware of the high official position that the deceased formerly occupied in this world.” Therefore, I ask you to pay close attention to the inspection procedure... Begin, sir!

“If you please,” answered Campeland, and the rags of blankets sewn from colored rags flew off the deceased; then the beggar's skirts flew up, revealing slender, muscular legs. - Look!..

And Baron Seguier picked up Madame Coll, who suddenly fainted.

“Everything is clear,” said the doctor, throwing off his gloves, “the deceased was never a woman... You can see for yourself: the great mockingbird Beaumarchais was fooled, and he (ha ha!) offered her his hand and heart in vain.”

Madame Coll barely regained consciousness.

- But I, gentlemen... I didn’t know anything. I swear!

Baron Segier was more confused than others:

– What should I write to the Emperor in Paris?

And, slamming the bag, Campeland smiled sadly:

– Describe what you saw, Mr. Consul...

At dawn, the artist sat down with his easel at de Eon’s deathbed, and a few days later London booksellers threw fresh prints of the engravings onto the shelves. These engravings were not entirely decent from the point of view of my contemporary, but then, at the very beginning of the last century, they eloquently convinced everyone that the Cavalier de Eon was a man. “And without any admixture of another sex!” – as stated in the official conclusion, certified by witnesses and a notary.

The mystery of the 18th century mystification of secret diplomacy seemed to be solved forever.

But it only seemed so.

And when the Napoleonic wars died down, humanity suddenly remembered again about the “Maiden de Eon.”

Dumas the father (still young, not yet a father) was also excited.

- The English are rogues! - Dumas said. -Who the hell is a man? And here we were led... Of course - a woman, and an innocent one at that, damn me! Could the author of Figaro, a great scoundrel himself, really be so mistaken? And the maiden de Eon, this fearless dragoon in a skirt, after all, gave her consent to marry him. Their first night would have been good if Beaumarchais had run into a man! No, friends, the English are notorious cheats, but we, the French, will not allow ourselves to be fooled. So what are we talking about?

* * *

The conversation will mainly focus on secret diplomacy.

Let the weapons rumble and the buskins of women's shoes knock; let the old-fashioned robes of state ladies crackle, drowning out the firing of muskets, and let the powder fly like a column from stupid wigs. Let be…

Dear friend and reader, let us take courage: the carriages have already arrived, and we have been waiting for a long time at Versailles.

Act one
Approaches

A curtain

It was a time of wars, heresy and philosophy...

When the borders of Europe, so confusing, defined their contours, barely similar to modern ones.

Germany did not yet exist as a single state, but Prussia existed, disturbing the world with the plans of its aggressions.

It was a strong power, and they were afraid of it.

The colonial wars have already begun.

England, having grown rich in trade, strengthened the traditions of its politics; Pitt Sr. ruled it, putting together the cumbersome British Empire like a ship.

Scientific treatises were read, debauchery was savored and guns thundered. Hundreds of people got rich by trading blacks, and then, being patrons of the arts, died in poverty, forgotten by everyone.

Smallpox raged in palaces and huts, disfiguring the faces of princesses and market women alike. Don't believe the airy charms of the portraits of the past - their originals were clumsy!

Pirates were made admirals and peers of England, and the unsociable knights of the Order of Malta waged a protracted war with the Algerian corsairs.

The Inquisition had not yet been destroyed; city squares were decorated with crucifixes and gallows; people were branded with a hot iron.

And in Moscow they caught Vanka Cain, and he sang his mischievous songs, which later became “folk songs”.

Fortresses no longer had the same importance then - they learned to bypass them. But it was considered an honor to take the fortress by storm. The cities had the keys and handed them over to the winner on a satin pillow.

Men wore cocked hats under their elbows and powdered their heads. The powder came in different shades (even blue). There was a fashion for fakes - and the number of bowhead whales was mercilessly slaughtered for the sake of the ideal slimness of women's waists. Corsets raised the breasts of the beauties of that time, lightly and carelessly covered with flowers.

And in the Vosges Mountains the last bears lived out their lives.

The poor people of Europe were already eating potatoes, but in Russia the nobles were still feasting on them. Pigs served gourmets, trained to look for truffle nests. People sat down at the table with caution, for the art of poisoning had been brought to perfection.

Voltaire managed to glorify himself, and the fiery and honest Sumarokov soared in Russia. Rokotov and Levitsky began to try their brushes, but Antropov already seemed outdated.

Warlike Poland wore a patriotic kuntush, but had the Saxon Elector Augustus III on the throne.

Crimea - under the heel of the khans - was subject to the Porte, and in Bakhchisarai a fountain (not yet sung by anyone) flowed with tears.

And in the Zaporizhzhya Sich, the long-haired “knights” were rampaging.

Everyone recognized the English fleet as the strongest fleet.

Russian artillery was the best in the world even then.

Paris dictated its tastes, and fashions changed frequently.

Machiavelli was a reference book for politicians; and it was the height of secret diplomacy - kings and chancellors, intrigue and bribery.

Cloak and dagger! An open letter and a keyhole...

Brilliant start

The full name of this man was: “Charles-Genevieve-Louis-Auguste-Andre-Timothée de Eon et de Beaumont.” We will call him in short: “de Eon” (sometimes we will also call him “de Beaumont”, don’t let this confuse our reader). Among the set of Catholic names, there is only one name - Genevieve! - a purely girlish, fragrant name.

But it, this name, does not play any role in the fate of the person who left a mark in the history of our state.

It is said that de Eon's father was not entirely normal, and as a child de Eon was dressed up as a girl. There were rumors that he was a girl, but the father wanted to have a son, and then he was dressed in male attire. There is evidence that this masquerade lasted for a long time - in direct dependence on disputes about the inheritance: to receive the inheritance, a boy was needed, then a girl was suddenly needed. That is why, they say, de Eon felt great - when in skirts, when in a uniform. They say it's even worse...

But let’s not repeat all the rumors: the debate about this man has not stopped for two centuries. Let's try from afar, through the chaos of time and events, to discern not a legend, but a person!

Here he is, with wide open eyes, entering a world full of blooms and magical charms... How did it all begin?

* * *

A good friend of the family, Abbot Marcene, flogged the boy for the last time, and at this point the home education was considered complete.

- We gave you a name! – proudly straightening up, said the slender mother, née de Charenton.

So, goodbye, gardens of Tonnerre, ringing bells in the morning and tender roses... The thundering malpost, decorated with the red-faced sign of Saint Fiacre, drove de Eon to Paris, desperately dusting and scaring away fat turkeys along the way...

At the college, Cardinal Mazarin was not so lovingly flogged. And it was no longer the parent who paid for the section, but the king himself. Practice is a harsh thing, and it proved that rods have never prevented any of the nobles from growing and developing in accordance with their natural inclinations. I can’t vouch for ordinary Frenchmen here, but it is documented that the Kings of Louis from childhood simply gorged themselves on rods every day!

Little de Eon was playful and gifted, perfectly accepting everything that the abbots gave according to a strict schedule: anecdotes and prayers, soups and mustard, rods and vocabulary. Unnoticed by his mentors, he grew into a reckless beast. The last time he was whipped was when he wore a tiny earring in his ear - a sign of courage. The Jesuit threw away the rod and helped de Eon fasten his trousers.

- We did our job. - said the gentle padre. “And then, my layman, let even the Bastille itself take care of you!”

This brat's chest had already been pierced by sword thrusts in duels. But de Eon was not even twenty years old when he, as a virtuoso of the sword, was recognized as an honorary cavalier in the best fencing pavilion in the capital. He loved to read Moliere, and he said: “Fencing is the art of delivering blows without receiving them...” And de Eon wanted to live his whole life only striking others, without receiving a single blow in return...

With quick and light touches, shouting in victory, de Eon drove his opponent into a corner. Teased with a point. He fought off the enemy's weapons with strong batmans. Taunted in rapid flankades.

His mind was also sophisticated in chess. The royal page François Philidor (then he was a violinist under Maria Loschinskaya) came from Versailles to the Regence Café, a long-time refuge for chess players all over the world, hastily placing pieces with his long fingers.

“Chevalier,” he asked de Eon, “I expect from you harmony of mind and vivacity of imagination... Sit down!”

From the Collegium of Mazarin, the young man fluttered into the world with the title of “Doctor of Civil and Canon Law.” Proud of this title, like a rooster who has found a worm in the ground, the lawyer galloped to his fragrant homeland, where in the basement of every house, in the cramped quarters of old barrels, a pleasant and frivolous Chablis fermented.

The aged father suspiciously picked at the seals on the royal diploma with his finger.

“Well,” he said, “you got a kick in life, but... Where will you fly, my son?” Just in case, remember: it is better to say ten pleasant words to the king’s favorite than to write ten volumes. Live! But I... don’t know you.

However, his father soon died, and de Eon inherited 15,000 livres of income. This would be enough to send laundry for washing, if not to the colony of Saint-Domingue, then at least to Holland. However, de Eon could safely assure his relatives in front of witnesses that he had not spent a single sou on “half-beavers” (as the beauties of the demimonde were called then - long before Maupassant).

The high morality of the chevalier was bombarded with grapeshot of epigrams and ridicule. Such was the time: husbands were ashamed to love their wives, and wives, in order not to lose access to the court, were forced to take lovers.

Wine – yes, that’s a completely different matter! Our young lawyer loved the rampant knightly drunkenness. How beautiful are the tall cool bottles that rest in an uneasy sleep in his cellar.

Books - oh yes, of course! Without them, life is unthinkable and empty, like a monastic cell at sunset.

To elevate his spirit above the passions of the body - he devoted a lot of care to this and even once visited the anatomical theater.

“I see bones, piles of meat, sinews and fat,” de Eon was surprised. – But I don’t see a soul here... No, this is not for me!

In 1753, he published his book, “The Financial Position of France under Louis XIV and the Regency.” The first praises came in handy. The Parisian intendant, Berthier de Savigny, was just looking for a secretary from a good family - and de Eon took his place. It was a turbulent time for the quartermasters. Just recently, a crowd of hungry mothers surrounded the Dauphin’s carriage and shouted right in the face of the king’s son:

- Let them remove this whore Pompadour, who is depriving us of bread! Just let her appear before us...

The Parisian poor did not know that it was not Pompadour, but the king himself who was speculating in bread. France was starving, huddled near frozen hearths. Even noble ladies, in order to heat their ancestral castles, gave love at a strange rate: one night of love cost ten carts of firewood. France populated the colonies with convicts and whores who were snatched from the streets. Sometimes children and beggars were captured. Five rowers per oar, with a ringing and a groan, rowed the heavy royal galleys into the ocean, and delicate Bourbon lilies flowed on the ships' banners.

From Le Havre to Newfoundland, the seas shook with cannons as England took away its American colonies from France. War was not declared between the countries. But if the French met the British at sea, they saluted like this: with the whole side - a volley of hot cannonballs, and - saber in the teeth - forward! aboard!

France for the French then seemed like gray, ordinary bread, and distant Canada - like a sweet fairy-tale pie, and England had already grabbed this “pie” with the teeth of its grappling hooks...

* * *

“The Bastille,” de Eon said to his friends, “is not a threat to me yet.” Notice how circumspect my necropolitan muse is! It does not disturb the living, hovering only over fresh graves.

On the death of the famous physicist Count Pageaud, Ons-en-Bray (from whom Peter I studied mechanics), he composed a funeral epitaph. And soon the young Duchess of Panthièvre died, and the lawyer sang in verse - again in divine Latin - her “fragrant” death.

De Eon lost nothing by extolling to the skies the merits of the loyal dead. In the salons of Paris they suddenly started talking about the gifted lawyer. Chanfort, Belle-Ile, Marmontel, La Harpe, Duclos and the Duke of Nivernois - this is the circle of his acquaintances. The blind Marquise Dudefant kissed de Eon's perfumed head, saying to him in front of everyone:

- Oh, my dear rag!.. - This was the height of refined affection, for even the king himself called his daughters crows, poops and mops...

Soon, having become proficient in salon chatter, de Eon published his “Political Discourses on the Administration of Ancient and Modern Nations” in two volumes. And he made the right decision: the position of censor of books on history and fiction was added to the position of secretary. Voltaire these days called de Eon “a bright mind”; he asked his acquaintances:

- Introduce me to this monster de Eon!

But history has not preserved evidence of whether their meeting took place. Probably not. They met, however, but much later, when the glory of the Cavalier de Eon was already flaunting in a lush heap of lace skirts.

But we know for sure that de Eon entered the house of Abbot Verny. He was a very bad poet and an even worse minister of France in charge of foreign affairs. But, as the women claimed, Verni was a very “haberdashery” lover. Here it is! From here, from Verny's house, the path led straight to the Bellevue Hotel, to the feet of the Marquise of Pompadour, whose red heels were chattering smartly.

* * *

Well, what else can you ask from a dashing Burgundian with an earring in his ear, a sword on his side, a talker, a drunkard and a brute?

Hey, the king of France himself behaved much more modestly at his age. And of course, the king did not write (or read) anything about the administration and finances of the peoples of antiquity!

Louis woke up

I don’t want to, but I have to. The very design of the thing and the course of history oblige us to this.

Let us sit, according to Shakespeare’s behest, on the ground covered with tender grass, pass a cup of wine around and tell strange stories about kings...

O kings, kings! Sorry, but we will disturb your shadows.

* * *

On this day, Louis XV woke up late and, without getting out of bed, habitually and listlessly spread his arms. The ever-sad Dauphin helped his father put on his shirt. With shaking fingers, the king felt the pea buttons. Prince Louis Conti, as overlord, slipped the king's leg into a slippery lilac stocking.

“The Chevalier de Vergennes,” he whispered, “has probably already arrived in Constantinople; Baron de Tott will raise the Tatars, and our emissaries will rebel, when necessary, in the Zaporozhye Sich.

– Yes, the Porte needs to be awakened so that the Crimean Khan again disturbs the Russian borders... Don’t give Russia peace!

Conti, squatting, took hold of the king's shoe. When Louis was put on his shoes, foreign diplomats who were at the court of Versailles were allowed into his bedroom.

There was no Russian among them, and this gave Versailles sad thoughts.

On the horizon of European diplomacy, the star of St. Petersburg was shining brighter and brighter, and France was more than once convinced that neglecting Russia was risky and unwise. But Versailles treated the Russians with hostility. Almost hostile...

“The sound of gold will wake up the dead,” Louis answered Prince Conti very late (and the diplomats began to whisper).

Mindlessly looking out the window, the king wiped his face and hands with a wet towel. In the next room of the Oeil de Boeuf, footmen clinked through the coffee utensils.

- And let's start the day! – Louis solemnly proclaimed.

The start of the day is usual. In the narrow passage, between the wall and the bed, the king knelt on a leather pillow; the old Book of Hours - since the time of Henry the Fourth - always lay open before the kings of France...

Conti held the towel discarded by the king and looked straight into the eyes of Count Starnberg, the ambassador of the Austrian Empress Maria Theresa, with whom Louis also had no friendship. Conti looked at the Austrian, but his thoughts were far, far away - to the north. Now Conti is only forty years old, the Russian Empress Elizaveta Petrovna is older (nearly fifty), but this does not mean anything.

“Would I be a bad husband? - Conti thought. - Or am I not fit to be Duke of Courland? Finally, I can command the Russian army..."

Louis, like Conti, is also fourty. But there was no trace left of the former handsome man he had been in his youth. The face became olive, almost gray. The king's breathing became foul from an imperfect stomach and frequent constipation. In addition, the king could not utter two words coherently in society. But he usually expressed these words (according to contemporaries) “in the vile language of cynicism and debauchery.”

Louis was still praying, and from the basements of Versailles, where the kitchens were located, a jubilant exclamation could be heard:

- Beef-and-ine of the king!

The diplomats, bowing, hurried to leave for Bellevue to pay their respects to Madame Pompadour (all except the Prussian ambassador, who was forbidden by King Frederick to humiliate himself in front of the courtesan).

- King's beef! - echoed throughout Versailles, and this exclamation quickly approached the royal chambers.

Led by the head waiter, there was a procession of cooks bringing Louis his first breakfast. Steam flowed from under the golden lids over the porcelain, and all the courtiers from afar took off their hats, bowing before the “king’s beef.”

Louis, moving his lips as he read, like a schoolboy learning to read and write, thoroughly familiarized himself with the menu.

“Oh, I completely forgot,” the king was upset, “those bastard physicians put me on a diet again...

Louis' diet breakfast opened with mashed potatoes and croutons; then a huge bowl of Parisian pigeon soup. The king sat with his back to the untidy bed; A wide window was open in front of him, and squarely trimmed trees could be seen in it. No branch will grow longer than the other - so the king's eye always glides calmly over the greenery.

Having torn the pheasant by the wings, Louis said:

– Russia has become dangerous. The Saxon Elector promises us support. The Poles are already in confederations - in case the Russians step beyond the Neman. Prussia is always with us - I am calm for my friend Friedrich: that’s who France can rely on!

Everyone had already left, only Prince Conti remained with the king.

“Your Majesty,” he replied, “do not guarantee Frederick’s friendship, for the Marquise of Pompadour would like to take revenge on the King of Prussia, who had the imprudence to write an epigram on her sublime charms.”

Louis continued about something else:

– I will not hide, brother, that it is desirable to extinguish the discord with Vienna, as required by the interests of the unity of the Catholic Church.

- But... England! Conti suggested.

And he brought lamb in garlic to the king. Having broken a dozen hard-boiled eggs, the prince deftly peeled them for his “much-loved one.”

“Speak, brother,” the king allowed him.

“It is known,” Conti answered clearly, “that the old St. James’s fox, Sir Williams, is leaving for St. Petersburg from London.” And they say that King George promised him a reward in gold if he asked Russia for soldiers to defend the Principality of Hanover...

“Unfortunately, England is invulnerable to us,” the king muttered.

“But the King of England is vulnerable!”

Louis nodded understandingly: the Electorate of Hanover, this family heritage of the kings of Britain, was located right next to France; England can be “vulnered” through the capture of Hanover. Moreover, the kings of England were more proud of the crown of the Electors of Hanover than the sparkling crown of the British.

“King George,” Conti finished his thought, “will undoubtedly want to purchase Russian soldiers in order to protect Hanover from our vengeful attacks.”

“Balance is necessary,” said the king, taking up the fatty ham with dill. – Europe can only be saved by balance!

“But the center of political balance,” Conti continued, “is moving across Europe, and now it is closer than ever to St. Petersburg, Russia is knocking on the doors of Europe not with its fingertips, but with its whole shoulder.” The world has become smaller, and everyone is becoming cramped. Elizabeth louder than anyone demands a place under the roof...

– What about St. Petersburg? – Louis asked absentmindedly.

– We have information about Russia only thanks to Madame Caravaque, the painter’s widow. Vice-Chancellor Mikhail Vorontsov, like the Empress’s favorite Ivan Shuvalov, is inclined towards an alliance with France. But the great chancellor Alexey Bestuzhev-Ryumin...

- What about bribing? Have you tried it? – the king perked up.

- There is no need to bribe Vorontsov: he is ours.

- And the great chancellor?

“Bestuzhev,” answered Conti, “has already collected bribes from the Viennese court and will now again take bribes from the English Ambassador Williams upon his arrival in St. Petersburg...

Louis was completely “exhausted” by the diet:

- These... vapers again! My friend, forgive your king...” His Majesty smiled languidly. – Continue: which of the French managed to penetrate the Russian court?

- Only to the painter Sampsua, Your Majesty. Alas, French art is obviously stronger than French politics if it seeps into this wild Russia like water into a Greek sponge.

-Who is this Sampsua? I know him?

“The son of a porter who served the Duke de Gevres.” Possessing the gift of a painter, Sampsua was awarded three sessions at court. In a conversation with him, Elizabeth regretted the break with Versailles.

“I hope Sampsua didn’t make a mistake with his answer?”

“He said that your royal majesty has a tender heart and responds to Elizabeth in complete reciprocity...

The ends of Louis's lips twitched in a drowsy smile - he had not yet forgotten that he had once been Elizabeth Petrovna's fiancé.

– What did Elizabeth answer? - asked the king.

“She answered only with a charming smile, which Sampsua reproduced in the miniature set in the snuff box.

A snuff box suddenly clicked in Prince Conti's hand, and on its inner lid - in an oval - the king saw the image of a beautiful plump woman who bashfully covered her bare breasts with a fan.

Louis rose heavily from the table:

- What to do? Nobody likes Russia, but all of Europe needs its services... So take care, prince, by sending a clever man to St. Petersburg. No, not a man, but the devil!

Having raised his sword, the king started to go to the door, but paused:

- An alliance with Russia is necessary to make it more convenient to act against Russia... From within Russia itself, and - to the detriment of Russia! I don’t like this country, about which we knew nothing for a long time, and when we found out, it suddenly became clear that this particular country was capable of disturbing the balance of all of Europe...

“The balance of Europe” was the point of Louis’s insanity. God forbid anyone touches this crystal egg! Balance is a dangerous thing, because there is always a hunter to upset it.

* * *

France then had a huge army, and there were no more unhappy people in the country than the people from the French barracks. They ate only bran bread, only one bed was allocated for four soldiers, and the uniform from the dead was inherited by the recruit. They were flogged, branded, hanged, drowned, and sent to the galleys. Legally, in France it was then believed that a soldier was criminal by the very essence of his difficult profession.

But how the officer corps sparkled! What kind of horses! What fine wines! What kind of mistresses!.. On the campaign, the French officer was accompanied by a convoy, and in it - toilets, sets, perfumes, monkeys, mirrors, theaters and so on.

Who commanded this army?

The question is essentially an idle one - Madame Pompadour’s whim decided everything...

Louis Caravaque is a French painter who worked in Russia from 1716 until his death in 1754. He left a lot of portraits royal family and Russian nobility; some of them are in the Russian Museum and the State Tretyakov Gallery. (Hereinafter, the author’s note.)

The bad people are those who do not remember, do not appreciate and do not love their history!
V. M. Vasnetsov

LET'S START FROM THE END

It was already well after midnight when the footman, serving the players strong tea, handed Segya a tray on which lay a letter:

Courier from the embassy. If you please, Baron. Absorbed by the winnings, the consul hastily tore the envelope:

Sorry, gentlemen. I won’t detain you... And suddenly he jumped up, throwing away his cards (and everyone noticed that the lucky Segye was playing without any trump cards at all).

War? - the Russians looked at each other. - War again?

No, no,” Segye consoled them, excited about something. The frivolous beauty Ekaterina Bagration, who, having traveled all her life around Europe, had long forgotten both her husband and her fatherland, suddenly became capricious:

Baron, you intrigue me, and I won’t be able to win back... The Consul glanced at the cards scattered in front of him:

I apologize, I have to leave you urgently. Semyon Romanovich Vorontsov (father of the mistress of the house) asked the Frenchman casually, with the indifference of an old, seasoned diplomat:

What happened, dear Segier?.. - Vorontsov paused. - If this is not a secret?.. - Another pause. - The secret of your obstinate emperor?

Gentlemen! - announced the consul. - There is no secret... The maiden and gentleman Genevieve de Eon, who in her youth was the ambassador of Versailles to such high courts as St. Petersburg and St. James, has just passed away to a better world!

The players' faces fell.

“I’ve already forgotten about this slanderous old woman,” Lord Pembroke was surprised, snorting. - Oh, how much fuss there was about this woman!..

The ambassador's cab, its wheels clattering on the stones, took Seguier to the deserted street of New Wilman; The duty constable raised the lantern, looking closely:

Who goes? Please respond...

Segier slammed the lacquered cab door behind him.

The consul of Napoleon, the emperor of all French, is coming!

On the landing of the upper floor, light suddenly splashed from the open doors.

The consul has arrived, the constable announced. The royal surgeon, Sir Thomas Campeland, opened his bag and, rolling up his sleeves, pulled on long silk gloves.

Great,” he said. - In the name of law and justice, we will begin the examination while the mortal body of the deceased still retains the warmth of her past life...

And everywhere - swords, swords, swords!..

Madame Coll, the deceased's hanger-on, approached him.

When did it happen? - the consul asked her in a whisper.

Around midnight, monsieur.

Papers,” Segier hinted. - Papers.., where? Madame Coll nodded towards the corner. There lay a large bundle wrapped in bear skin, the king's seals hung to the floor and there was a smell of sealing wax. The British are ahead. “As always...” However, there was nothing surprising in this hasty inventory of property, because the London police had long suspected the deceased of minting counterfeit money...

Attention! - proclaimed Campeland. - I ask the witnesses, the prosecutor and the consul to come here... Closer, closer.

Let’s begin,” said the surgeon.

Wait, sir! - the prosecutor stopped him and turned to the witnesses. “Gentlemen,” he said, waving his hat, “I hope you are aware of the high official position that the deceased formerly occupied in this world.” Therefore, I ask you to pay close attention to the inspection procedure... Begin, sir!

If you please,” answered Campeland, and the rags of blankets sewn from colored rags flew off the deceased; then the beggar's skirts flew up, revealing slender, muscular legs. - Look!..

And Baron Seguier picked up Madame Coll, who suddenly fainted.

Madame Coll regained consciousness with difficulty:

But, gentlemen... I didn’t know anything. I swear! Baron Segier was more confused than others:

What should I write to the Emperor in Paris?

And, slamming the bag, Campeland smiled sadly:

Describe what you saw, Mr. Consul...

At dawn, the artist sat down with his easel at de Eon’s deathbed, and a few days later London booksellers threw fresh prints of the engravings onto the shelves. These engravings were not entirely decent from the point of view of my contemporary, but then, at the very beginning of the last century, they eloquently convinced everyone that the Cavalier de Eon was a man. “And without any admixture of another sex!” - as stated the official conclusion, certified by witnesses and a notary. The mystery of the mystification of secret diplomacy of the 18th century seemed to be resolved forever.

But it only seemed so.

And when the Napoleonic wars died down, humanity suddenly remembered again about the “Maiden de Eon.”

Valentin Savvich Pikul

Feather and sword

The bad people are those who do not remember, do not appreciate and do not love their history!

V. M. Vasnetsov

Let's start from the end

It was already well after midnight when the footman, serving the players strong tea, handed Segya a tray on which lay a letter:

- Courier from the embassy. If you please, Baron.

Absorbed by the winnings, the consul hastily tore the envelope:

- Sorry, gentlemen. I won't detain you...

And suddenly he jumped up, throwing away his cards (and everyone noticed that the lucky Segye was playing without any trump cards at all).

- War? – the Russians looked at each other. - War again?

“No, no,” Segye consoled them, excited about something.

The frivolous beauty Ekaterina Bagration, who, having traveled all her life around Europe, had long forgotten both her husband and her fatherland, suddenly became capricious:

- Baron, you intrigue me, and I won’t be able to get back...

The consul glanced at the cards scattered in front of him:

- I beg your pardon, I have to leave you urgently.

Semyon Romanovich Vorontsov (father of the mistress of the house) asked the Frenchman casually, with the indifference of an old, seasoned diplomat:

“What happened, dear Segier?” Vorontsov paused. – If this is not a secret?.. – Another pause. – The secret of your obstinate emperor?

- Gentlemen! - announced the consul. - There is no secret... The maiden and gentleman Genevieve de Eon, who in her youth was the ambassador of Versailles to such high courts as St. Petersburg and St. James, has just passed away to a better world!

The players' faces fell.

“I’ve already forgotten about that slanderous old woman,” Lord Pembroke said in surprise, snorting. - Oh, how much fuss there was about this woman!..

The ambassador's cab, its wheels clattering on the stones, took Seguier to the deserted street of New Wilman; The duty constable raised the lantern, looking closely:

- Who goes? Please respond...

Segier slammed the lacquered cab door behind him.

- The consul of Napoleon, the emperor of all French, is coming!

On the landing of the upper floor, light suddenly splashed from the open doors.

“The consul has arrived,” announced the constable.

The royal surgeon, Sir Thomas Campeland, opened his bag and, rolling up his sleeves, pulled on long silk gloves.

“Great,” he said. – In the name of law and justice, we will begin the examination while the mortal body of the deceased still retains the warmth of her past life...

And everywhere - swords, swords, swords!..

Madame Coll, the deceased’s hanger-on, approached him.

- When did it happen? – the consul asked her in a whisper.

- Around midnight, monsieur.

“Papers,” Seguier hinted. – Papers... where?

- Attention! - declared Campeland. - I ask the witnesses, the prosecutor and the consul to come here... Closer, closer.

“Let’s begin,” said the surgeon.

“If you please,” answered Campeland, and the rags of blankets sewn from colored rags flew off the deceased; then the beggar's skirts flew up, revealing slender, muscular legs. - Look!..

And Baron Seguier picked up Madame Coll, who suddenly fainted.

Madame Coll regained consciousness with difficulty:

- But I, gentlemen... I didn’t know anything. I swear!

Baron Segier was more confused than others:

– What should I write to the Emperor in Paris?

And, slamming the bag, Campeland smiled sadly:

– Describe what you saw, Mr. Consul...

The mystery of the 18th century mystification of secret diplomacy seemed to be solved forever.

But it only seemed so.

And when the Napoleonic wars died down, humanity suddenly remembered again about the “Maiden de Eon.”

Dumas the father (still young, not yet a father) was also excited.

* * *

The conversation will mainly focus on secret diplomacy.

Dear friend and reader, let us take courage: the carriages have already arrived, and we have been waiting for a long time at Versailles.

Act one

Approaches

It was a time of wars, heresy and philosophy...

Valentin PIKUL
FEATHER AND SWEEP
Announcement
From the history of secret diplomacy during the war, which was called the Seven Years' War; about the exploits and glory of the Russian troops who reached Berlin, the capital of the Electorate of Brandenburg; as well as a reliable story about the days and deeds of the noble Chevalier de Eon, who lived for 48 years as a man, and for 34 years was considered a woman, and in uniform and in lace managed to glorify himself, equally valiantly wielding a pen and a sword
The bad people are those who do not remember, do not appreciate and do not love their history!
V. M. Vasnetsov
LET'S START FROM THE END
On the night of March 21, 1810, the French consul at the Court of St. James, Baron Seguier, was very lucky. He played in the house of Lady Pembroke-Montgomery, née Countess Vorontsova, feverishly placing bets on doubling.
It was already well after midnight when the footman, serving the players strong tea, handed Segya a tray on which lay a letter:
- Courier from the embassy. If you please, Baron. Absorbed by the winnings, the consul hastily tore the envelope:
- Sorry, gentlemen. I won’t detain you... And suddenly he jumped up, throwing away his cards (and everyone noticed that the lucky Segye was playing without any trump cards at all).
- War? - the Russians looked at each other. - War again?
“No, no,” Segye consoled them, excited about something. The frivolous beauty Ekaterina Bagration, who, having traveled all her life around Europe, had long forgotten both her husband and her fatherland, suddenly became capricious:
- Baron, you intrigue me, and I won’t be able to get back... The Consul glanced at the cards scattered in front of him:
- I apologize, I have to urgently leave you. Semyon Romanovich Vorontsov (father of the mistress of the house) asked the Frenchman casually, with the indifference of an old, seasoned diplomat:
“What happened, dear Segier?” Vorontsov paused. - If this is not a secret?.. - Another pause. - The secret of your obstinate emperor?
- Gentlemen! - announced the consul. - There is no secret... The maiden and gentleman Genevieve de Eon, who in her youth was the ambassador of Versailles to such high courts as St. Petersburg and St. James, has just passed away to a better world!
The players' faces fell.
“I’ve already forgotten about this slanderous old woman,” Lord Pembroke was surprised, snorting. - Oh, how much fuss there was about this woman!..
The ambassador's cab, its wheels clattering on the stones, took Seguier to the deserted street of New Wilman; The duty constable raised the lantern, looking closely:
- Who goes? Please respond...
Segier slammed the lacquered cab door behind him.
- The consul of Napoleon, the emperor of all French, is coming!
The policeman helpfully illuminated the entrance of the house with a flashlight - black, like the sinkhole of a mine drift, long abandoned. On the flight of stairs, a stray cat shied away from under Segye’s feet. The shaky railings swayed over the darkness of the well.
On the landing of the upper floor, light suddenly splashed from the open doors.
“The consul has arrived,” announced the constable. The royal surgeon, Sir Thomas Campeland, opened his bag and, rolling up his sleeves, pulled on long silk gloves.
“Great,” he said. - In the name of law and justice, we will begin the examination while the mortal body of the deceased still retains the warmth of her past life...
Baron Segier looked around. My God! He did not even know that the Maiden de Eon, that mysterious diplomat and forgotten writer of France, lived in such abject poverty. Almost bare walls, a cold fireplace, abandoned needlework on a hoop.
And everywhere - swords, swords, swords!..
Madame Coll, the deceased's hanger-on, approached him.
- When did it happen? - the consul asked her in a whisper.
- Around midnight, monsieur.
“Papers,” Seguier hinted. - Papers.., where? Madame Coll nodded towards the corner. There lay a large bundle wrapped in bear skin, the king's seals hung to the floor and there was a smell of sealing wax. The British are ahead. “As always...” However, there was nothing surprising in this hasty inventory of property, because the London police had long suspected the deceased of minting counterfeit money...
- Attention! - proclaimed Campeland. - I ask the witnesses, the prosecutor and the consul to come here... Closer, closer.
Segier stepped towards the slovenly bed on which lay a small but stately deceased woman with a yellow face. The old woman’s thin lips still retained a dying smile, and one of her eyes looked dully at the curious guests.
“Let’s begin,” said the surgeon.
- Wait, sir! - the prosecutor stopped him and turned to the witnesses. Gentlemen,” he said, waving his hat, “I hope you are aware of the high official position that the deceased formerly occupied in this world.” Therefore, I ask you to pay close attention to the inspection procedure... Begin, sir!
“If you please,” replied Campeland, and the rags of blankets sewn from colored rags flew off the deceased; then the beggar's skirts flew up, revealing slender, muscular legs. - Look!..
And Baron Seguier picked up Madame Coll, who suddenly fainted.
“Everything is clear,” said the doctor, throwing off his gloves, “the deceased was never a woman... You can see for yourself: the great mockingbird Beaumarchais was fooled, and he (ha ha!) offered her his hand and heart in vain.”
Madame Coll regained consciousness with difficulty:
- But, gentlemen... I didn’t know anything. I swear! Baron Segier was more confused than others:
- What should I write to the emperor in Paris?
And, slamming the bag, Campeland smiled sadly:
- Describe what you saw, Mr. Consul...
At dawn, the artist sat down with his easel at de Eon’s deathbed, and a few days later London booksellers threw fresh prints of the engravings onto the shelves. These engravings were not entirely decent from the point of view of my contemporary, but then, at the very beginning of the last century, they eloquently convinced everyone that the Cavalier de Eon was a man. “And without any admixture of another sex!” - as stated the official conclusion, certified by witnesses and a notary. The mystery of the mystification of secret diplomacy of the 18th century seemed to be resolved forever.
But it only seemed so.
And when the Napoleonic wars died down, humanity suddenly remembered again about the “Maiden de Eon.”
Dumas the father (still young, not yet a father) was also excited. - The English are rogues! Dumas said. - Who the hell is a man? And here we were led... Of course - a woman, and an innocent one at that, damn me! Could the author of Figaro, a great scoundrel himself, really be so mistaken? And the maiden de Eon, this fearless dragoon in a skirt, after all, gave her consent to marry him. Their first night would have been good if Beaumarchais had run into a man! No, friends, the English are notorious cheats, but we, the French, will not allow ourselves to be fooled. So what are we talking about?
***
The conversation will mainly focus on secret diplomacy. Let the weapons rumble and the buskins of women's shoes knock; let the old-fashioned rabbis of the state ladies crackle, drowning out the firing of muskets, and let the powder fly like a column from the stupid wigs. Let be...
Dear friend and reader, let us take courage: the carriages have already arrived, and we have been waiting for a long time at Versailles.
ACT ONE
APPROACHES
A CURTAIN
It was a time of wars, heresy and philosophy...
When the borders of Europe, so confusing, defined their contours, barely similar to modern ones.
Germany did not yet exist as a single state, but Prussia existed, disturbing the world with the plans of its aggressions.
It was a strong power, and they were afraid of it.
The colonial wars have already begun.
England, having grown rich in trade, strengthened the traditions of its politics; Pitt Sr. ruled it, putting together the cumbersome British Empire like a ship.
Scientific treatises were read, debauchery was savored and guns thundered. Hundreds of people got rich by trading blacks, and then, being patrons of the arts, died in poverty, forgotten by everyone.
Smallpox raged in palaces and huts, disfiguring the faces of princesses and market women alike. Don't believe the airy charms of the portraits of the past - their originals were clumsy!
Pirates were made admirals and peers of England, and the unsociable knights of the Order of Malta waged a protracted war with the Algerian corsairs.
The Inquisition had not yet been destroyed; city squares were decorated with crucifixes and gallows; people were branded with a hot iron.
And in Moscow they caught Vanka Cain, and he sang his mischievous songs, which later became “folk songs”.
Fortresses no longer had the same importance then - they learned to bypass them. But it was considered an honor to take the fortress by storm. The cities had the keys and handed them over to the winner on a satin pillow.
Men wore cocked hats under their elbows and powdered their heads. The powder came in different shades (even blue). There was a fashion for fakes - and the number of bowhead whales was mercilessly slaughtered for the sake of the ideal slimness of women's waists. Corsets raised the breasts of the beauties of that time, lightly and carelessly covered with flowers.
And in the Vosges Mountains the last bears lived out their lives.
The poor people of Europe were already eating potatoes, but in Russia the nobles were still feasting on them. Pigs served gourmets, trained to look for truffle nests. People sat down at the table with caution, for the art of poisoning had been brought to perfection.
Voltaire managed to glorify himself, and the fiery and honest Sumarokov soared in Russia. Rokotov and Levitsky began to try their brushes, but Antropov already seemed outdated.
Duke Biron was in exile, and the crown of the Duchy of Courland was considered - supposedly! - free.
Warlike Poland wore a patriotic kuntush, but had the Saxon Elector Augustus III on the throne.
Crimea - under the heel of the khans - was subject to the Porte, and in Bakhchisarai a fountain (not yet sung by anyone) exuded tears.
And in the Zaporozhye Sich the shaggy “knights” were rampaging.
Everyone recognized the English fleet as the strongest fleet.
Russian artillery was the best in the world even then.
Paris dictated its tastes, and fashions changed frequently.
Machiavelli was a reference book for politicians; and it was the height of secret diplomacy - kings and chancellors, intrigue and bribery.
Cloak and dagger! Opened letter and keyhole...
BRILLIANT BEGINNING
The full name of this man was: "Charles-Genevieve-Louis-Auguste-Andre-Timothée de Eon et de Beaumont." We will call him in short: “de Eon” (sometimes we will also call him “de Beaumont”, don’t let this confuse our reader). Among the set of Catholic names, there is only one name - Genevieve! - the name is purely girlish, fragrant.
But it, this name, does not play any role in the fate of the person who left a mark in the history of our state.
It is said that de Eon's father was not entirely normal, and as a child de Eon was dressed up as a girl. There were rumors that he was a girl, but the father wanted to have a son, and then he was dressed in male attire. There is evidence that this masquerade lasted for a long time - in direct dependence on disputes about the inheritance: to receive the inheritance, a boy was needed, then a girl was suddenly needed. That is why, they say, de Eon felt great both in skirts and in a uniform. They say it's even worse...
But let’s not repeat all the rumors: the debate about this man has not stopped for two centuries. Let's try from afar, through the chaos of time and events, to discern not a legend, but a person!
Here he is, with wide open eyes, entering a world full of blooms and magical charms... How did it all begin?
***
A good friend of the family, Abbot Marcene, flogged the boy for the last time, and at this point the home education was considered complete.
- We gave you a name!
- proudly straightened up, said the slender mother, nee de Charenton.
So, goodbye to the gardens of Tonnerre, the ringing of bells in the morning and tender roses... The thundering malpost, decorated with the red-faced sign of St. Fiacre, drove de Eon to Paris, desperately dusting and scaring away fat turkeys along the way...
At the college, Cardinal Mazarin was not so lovingly flogged. And it was no longer the parent who paid for the section, but the king himself. Practice is a harsh thing, and it proved that rods have never prevented any of the nobles from growing and developing in accordance with their natural inclinations. I can’t vouch for ordinary Frenchmen here, but it is documented that the Kings of Louis from childhood simply gorged themselves on rods every day!
Little de Eon was playful and gifted, perfectly accepting everything that the abbots gave according to a strict schedule: anecdotes and prayers, soups and mustard, rods and vocabulary.
Unnoticed by his mentors, he grew into a reckless beast. The last time he was whipped was when he wore a tiny earring in his ear - a sign of courage. The Jesuit threw away the rod and helped de Eon fasten his trousers.
“We have done our job,” said the gentle padre. - And then, my layman, let even the Bastille itself take care of you!
This brat's chest had already been pierced by sword thrusts in duels. But de Eon was not even twenty years old when he, as a virtuoso of the sword, was recognized as an honorary cavalier in the best fencing pavilion in the capital. He loved to read Moliere, and he said: “Fencing is the art of delivering blows without receiving them...” And de Eon wanted to live his whole life only striking others, without receiving a single blow in return...
With quick and light touches, shouting in victory, de Eon drove his opponent into a corner. Teased with a point. He fought off the enemy's weapons with strong batmans. Taunted in rapid flankades.
His mind was also sophisticated in chess. The royal page François Philidor (then he was a violinist under Maria Leszczynska) came from Versailles to the Regence Café, an old refuge of chess players all over the world, hastily placing pieces with his long fingers.
“Chevalier,” he asked de Eon, “I expect from you harmony of mind and vivacity of imagination... Sit down!”
From the Mazarin Collegium the young man fluttered into the world with the title of “Doctor of Civil and Canon Law.” Proud of this title, like a rooster who has found a worm in the ground, the lawyer galloped to his fragrant homeland, where in the basement of every house, in the cramped quarters of old barrels, a pleasant and frivolous Chablis fermented.
The aged father suspiciously picked at the seals on the royal diploma with his finger.
“Well,” he said, “you got a kick in life, but... Where will you fly, my son?” Just in case, remember: it is better to say ten pleasant words to the king’s favorite than to write ten volumes. Live! But I... don't know you.
However, his father soon died, and de Eon inherited 15,000 livres of income. This would be enough to send laundry for washing, if not to the colony of Saint-Domingue, then at least to Holland. However, de Eon could safely assure his relatives in front of witnesses that he had not spent a single sou on “half-beavers” (as the beauties of the demimonde were called then - long before Maupassant).
The high morality of the chevalier was bombarded with grapeshot of epigrams and ridicule. Such was the time: husbands were ashamed to love their wives, and wives, in order not to lose access to the court, were forced to take lovers.
Wine - yes, that's a completely different matter! Our young lawyer loved the rampant knightly drunkenness. How beautiful are the tall, cool bottles that rest in an uneasy sleep in his cellar.
Books - oh yes, of course! Without them, life is unthinkable and empty, like a monastic cell at sunset.
To elevate his spirit above the passions of the body - he devoted a lot of care to this and even once visited the anatomical theater.
“I see bones, piles of meat, sinews and fat,” de Eon was surprised. - But I don’t see a soul here... No, that’s not for me!
In 1753, he published his book, “The Financial Position of France under Louis XIV and the Regency Period.” The first praises came in handy. The Parisian intendant, Berthier de Savigny, was just looking for a secretary from a good family - and de Eon took his place. It was a turbulent time for the quartermasters. Just recently, a crowd of hungry mothers surrounded the Dauphin’s carriage and shouted right in the face of the king’s son:
- Let them remove this whore Pompadour, who is depriving us of bread! Just let her appear before us...
The Parisian poor did not know that it was not Pompadour, but the king himself who was speculating in bread. France was starving, huddled near frozen hearths. Even noble ladies, in order to heat their ancestral castles, gave love at a strange rate: one night of love cost ten carts of firewood. France populated the colonies with convicts and whores who were snatched from the streets. Sometimes they grabbed children and beggars. Five rowers per oar, with a ringing and a groan, rowed the heavy royal galleys into the ocean, and delicate Bourbon lilies flowed on the ships' banners.
From Le Havre to Newfoundland, the seas shook with cannons as England took away its American colonies from France. War was not declared between the countries. But if the French met the British at sea, they saluted like this: the whole side - a volley of hot cannonballs, and - saber in the teeth - forward! aboard!
For the French, France then seemed like gray, ordinary bread, and distant Canada - like a sweet fairy-tale pie, and England had already grabbed this “pie” with the teeth of its grappling hooks...
***
“The Bastille,” de Eon said to his friends, “is not a threat to me yet.” Notice how circumspect my necropolitan muse is! It does not disturb the living, hovering only over fresh graves.
For the death of the famous physicist Count Pageau d'Onsan-Bray (from whom Peter I studied mechanics), he composed a funeral epitaph. And soon the young Duchess of Panthièvre died, and the lawyer sang in verse - again in divine Latin - her "fragrant" death.
De Eon lost nothing by extolling to the skies the merits of the loyal dead. In the salons of Paris they suddenly started talking about the gifted lawyer. Chanfort, Belle-Ile, Marmontel, La Harpe, Duclos and the Duke of Nivernois - this is the circle of his acquaintances. The blind Marquise Dudefant kissed de Eon's perfumed head, saying to him in front of everyone:
- Oh, my dear rag!.. - This was the height of refined affection, for even the king himself called his daughters crows, poops and mops...
Soon, having become proficient in salon chatter, de Eon published his “Political Discourses on the Administration of Ancient and Modern Nations” in two volumes. And he made the right decision: the position of censor of books on history and fiction was added to the position of secretary. Voltaire these days called de Eon a “bright mind”; he asked his acquaintances:
- Introduce me to this monster... But history has not preserved evidence of whether their meeting took place. Probably not. They met, however, but much later, when the glory of the Cavalier de Eon was already flaunting in a lush heap of lace skirts.
But we know for sure that de Eon entered the house of Abbot Bernie. He was a very bad poet and an even worse minister of France in charge of foreign affairs. But, as the women claimed, Bernie was a very “haberdashery” lover. Here it is! From here, from Bernie's house, the path led straight to the Bellevue Hotel, to the feet of the Marquise of Pompadour, whose red heels were chattering smartly.
***
Well, what else can you ask from a dashing Burgundian with an earring in his ear, a sword on his side, a talker, a drunkard and a brute?
Hey, the king of France himself behaved much more modestly at his age. And of course the king did not write (or read) anything about the administration and finances of the peoples of antiquity!
LOUIS WOKE UP
I don’t want to, but I have to. The very design of the thing and the course of history oblige us to this.
Let us sit, according to Shakespeare’s behest, on the ground covered with tender grass, pass a cup of wine around and tell strange stories about kings...
O kings, kings! Sorry, but we will disturb your shadows.
***
On this day, Louis XV woke up late and, without getting out of bed, habitually and listlessly spread his arms. The ever-sad Dauphin helped his father put on his shirt. With shaking fingers, the king felt the pea buttons. Prince Louis Conti, as overlord, slipped the king's leg into a slippery lilac stocking.
“The Chevalier de Vergennes,” he whispered, “has probably already arrived in Constantinople; Baron de Tott will raise the Tatars, and our emissaries will rebel, when necessary, in the Zaporozhye Sich.
- Yes, the Porte needs to be awakened so that the Crimean Khan again disturbs the Russian borders... Don't give Russia peace!
Conti, squatting, took hold of the king's shoe. When Louis was put on his shoes, foreign diplomats who were at the court of Versailles were allowed into his bedroom.
There was no Russian among them, and this gave Versailles sad thoughts.
On the horizon of European diplomacy, the star of St. Petersburg was shining brighter and brighter, and France was more than once convinced that neglecting Russia was risky and unwise. But Versailles treated the Russians with hostility. Almost hostile...
“The ringing of gold will wake up the dead,” Louis answered Prince Conti very late (and the diplomats began to whisper).
Mindlessly looking out the window, the king wiped his face and hands with a wet towel. In the next room of the Oeil de Boeuf, footmen clinked through the coffee utensils.
- And let's start the day! - Louis solemnly proclaimed.
The beginning of the day is usual. In the narrow passage, between the wall and the bed, the king knelt on a leather pillow; the old Book of Hours - since the time of Henry the Fourth - always lay open before the kings of France...
Conti held the towel discarded by the king and looked straight into the eyes of Count Starnberg, the ambassador of the Austrian Empress Maria Theresa, with whom Louis also had no friendship. Conti looked at the Austrian, but his thoughts were far, far away - to the north. Now Conti is only forty years old, the Russian Empress Elizaveta Petrovna is older (nearing fifty), but this does not mean anything.
“Would I be a bad husband?” Conti thought. “Or am I not fit to be the Duke of Courland? Finally, I can command the Russian army...”
Louis, like Conti, is also fourty. But there was no trace left of the former handsome man he had been in his youth. The face became olive, almost gray. The king's breathing became foul from an imperfect stomach and frequent constipation. In addition, the king could not utter two words coherently in society. But he usually expressed these words (according to contemporaries) “in the vile language of cynicism and debauchery.”
Louis was still praying, and from the basements of Versailles, where the kitchens were located, a jubilant exclamation could be heard:
- Beef-and-ine of the king!
The diplomats, bowing, hurried to leave for Bellevue to pay their respects to Madame Pompadour (all except the Prussian ambassador, who was forbidden by King Frederick to humiliate himself in front of the courtesan).
- The king's beef! - resounded throughout Versailles, and this exclamation quickly approached the royal chambers.
Led by the head waiter, there was a procession of cooks bringing Louis his first breakfast. Steam flowed from under the golden lids over the porcelain, and all the courtiers from afar took off their hats, bowing before the “king’s beef.”
Louis, moving his lips as he read, like a schoolboy learning to read and write, thoroughly familiarized himself with the menu.
“Oh, I completely forgot,” the king was upset, “those bastard physicians put me on a diet again...
Louis' diet breakfast opened with mashed potatoes and croutons; then a huge plate of Parisian pigeon soup. The king sat with his back to the untidy bed; A wide window was open in front of him, and squarely trimmed trees could be seen in it. No branch will grow longer than the other - so the king's eye always glides calmly over the greenery.
Having torn the pheasant by the wings, Louis said:
. - Russia has become dangerous. The Saxon Elector promises us support. The Poles are already in confederations - in case the Russians step beyond the Neman. Prussia is always with us - I am calm for my friend Frederick: that’s who France can rely on!
Everyone had already left, only Prince Conti remained with the king.
“Your Majesty,” he replied, “do not guarantee Frederick’s friendship, for the Marquise of Pompadour would like to take revenge on the King of Prussia, who had the imprudence to write an epigram on her sublime charms.”
Louis continued about something else:
- I will not hide, brother, that it is desirable to extinguish the discord with Vienna, as required by the interests of the unity of the Catholic Church.
- But... England! - suggested Conti.
And he brought lamb in garlic to the king. Having broken a dozen hard-boiled eggs, the prince deftly peeled them for his “much-loved one.”
“Speak, brother,” the king allowed him.
“It is known,” Conti answered clearly, “that the old St. James’s fox, Sir William, is leaving for St. Petersburg from London.” And they say that King George promised him a reward in gold if he asked Russia for soldiers to defend the Principality of Hanover...
“Unfortunately, England is invulnerable to us,” the king muttered.
- But the king of England is vulnerable!
Louis nodded understandingly: the Electorate of Hanover, this family heritage of the kings of Britain, was located right next to France; England can be “vulnered” through the capture of Hanover.
“King George,” Conti finished his thought, “will undoubtedly want to purchase Russian soldiers in order to protect Hanover from our vengeful attacks.”
“Balance is necessary,” said the king, taking up the fatty ham with dill. - Europe can only be saved by balance!
“But the center of political balance,” Conti continued, “is moving across Europe, and now it is closer than ever to St. Petersburg, Russia is knocking on the doors of Europe not with its fingertips, but with its whole shoulder.” The world has become smaller, and everyone is becoming cramped. Elizabeth louder than anyone else demands a place under the roof...
- What about St. Petersburg? - Louis asked absentmindedly.
- We have information about Russia only thanks to Madame Caravaque, the painter’s widow<Луи Каравакк - французский живописец, работавший в России с 1716 года до смерти своей в 1754 году. Оставил немало портретов царской семьи и русской знати; некоторые из них находятся в Русском музее и Государственной Третьяковской галерее. (Здесь и далее примеч. автора.)>. Vice-Chancellor Mikhail Vorontsov, like the Empress’s favorite Ivan Shuvalov, is inclined towards an alliance with France. But the great chancellor Alexei Bestuzhev-Ryumin...
- What about bribing? Have you tried it? - the king perked up - there is no need to bribe Vorontsov: he is ours.
- And the great chancellor?
“Bestuzhev,” answered Conti, “has already collected bribes from the Viennese court and will now again take bribes from the English Ambassador Williams upon his arrival in St. Petersburg...

It was already well after midnight when the footman, serving the players strong tea, handed Segya a tray on which lay a letter:

- Courier from the embassy. If you please, Baron.

Absorbed by the winnings, the consul hastily tore the envelope:

- Sorry, gentlemen. I won't detain you...

And suddenly he jumped up, throwing away his cards (and everyone noticed that the lucky Segye was playing without any trump cards at all).

- War? – the Russians looked at each other. - War again?

“No, no,” Segye consoled them, excited about something.

The frivolous beauty Ekaterina Bagration, who, having traveled all her life around Europe, had long forgotten both her husband and her fatherland, suddenly became capricious:

- Baron, you intrigue me, and I won’t be able to get back...

The consul glanced at the cards scattered in front of him:

- I beg your pardon, I have to leave you urgently.

Semyon Romanovich Vorontsov (father of the mistress of the house) asked the Frenchman casually, with the indifference of an old, seasoned diplomat:

“What happened, dear Segier?” Vorontsov paused. – If this is not a secret?.. – Another pause. – The secret of your obstinate emperor?

The players' faces fell.

“I’ve already forgotten about that slanderous old woman,” Lord Pembroke said in surprise, snorting. - Oh, how much fuss there was about this woman!..

The ambassador's cab, its wheels clattering on the stones, took Seguier to the deserted street of New Wilman; The duty constable raised the lantern, looking closely:

- Who goes? Please respond...

Segier slammed the lacquered cab door behind him.

- The consul of Napoleon, the emperor of all French, is coming!

On the landing of the upper floor, light suddenly splashed from the open doors.

“The consul has arrived,” announced the constable.

The royal surgeon, Sir Thomas Campeland, opened his bag and, rolling up his sleeves, pulled on long silk gloves.

“Great,” he said. – In the name of law and justice, we will begin the examination while the mortal body of the deceased still retains the warmth of her past life...

And everywhere - swords, swords, swords!..

Madame Coll, the deceased’s hanger-on, approached him.

- When did it happen? – the consul asked her in a whisper.

- Around midnight, monsieur.

“Papers,” Seguier hinted. – Papers... where?

- Attention! - declared Campeland. - I ask the witnesses, the prosecutor and the consul to come here... Closer, closer.

“Let’s begin,” said the surgeon.

“If you please,” answered Campeland, and the rags of blankets sewn from colored rags flew off the deceased; then the beggar's skirts flew up, revealing slender, muscular legs. - Look!..

And Baron Seguier picked up Madame Coll, who suddenly fainted.

Madame Coll regained consciousness with difficulty:

- But I, gentlemen... I didn’t know anything. I swear!

Baron Segier was more confused than others:

– What should I write to the Emperor in Paris?

And, slamming the bag, Campeland smiled sadly:

– Describe what you saw, Mr. Consul...

The mystery of the 18th century mystification of secret diplomacy seemed to be solved forever.

But it only seemed so.

And when the Napoleonic wars died down, humanity suddenly remembered again about the “Maiden de Eon.”

Dumas the father (still young, not yet a father) was also excited.

The conversation will mainly focus on secret diplomacy.

Dear friend and reader, let us take courage: the carriages have already arrived, and we have been waiting for a long time at Versailles.

Act one

Approaches

It was a time of wars, heresy and philosophy...

When the borders of Europe, so confusing, defined their contours, barely similar to modern ones.

Germany did not yet exist as a single state, but Prussia existed, disturbing the world with the plans of its aggressions.

It was a strong power, and they were afraid of it.

The colonial wars have already begun.

England, having grown rich in trade, strengthened the traditions of its politics; Pitt Sr. ruled it, putting together the cumbersome British Empire like a ship.

Scientific treatises were read, debauchery was savored and guns thundered. Hundreds of people got rich by trading blacks, and then, being patrons of the arts, died in poverty, forgotten by everyone.

Smallpox raged in palaces and huts, disfiguring the faces of princesses and market women alike. Don't believe the airy charms of the portraits of the past - their originals were clumsy!

Pirates were made admirals and peers of England, and the unsociable knights of the Order of Malta waged a protracted war with the Algerian corsairs.

The Inquisition had not yet been destroyed; city squares were decorated with crucifixes and gallows; people were branded with a hot iron.

And in Moscow they caught Vanka Cain, and he sang his mischievous songs, which later became “folk songs”.

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