“But what does a battlefield in the Napoleonic wars have to do with the war of ambush Shamil is waging?” Dmitri flushed with anger and slapped his knee, emphasizing each word with indignation. “Except perhaps that in Napoleon’s time, the Russians were defending their own liberty, their own territory against the invader. Whereas now, we’ve taken on the opposite role.”
The count uncrossed his legs and furiously crushed out his cigar, then hurled the contents of the ashtray into the fire in the hearth.
“I strongly suggest that you refrain from writing this sort of thing in your book, my dear. You risk finding the climate in Siberia much harsher than that of your much vaunted Caucasus.”
Genuinely sorry to have provoked the ire of the man he owed so much, the young man calmed down before continuing.
“But Count Vorontsov is moving too quickly, Uncle, and the czar is urging him on. He operates at double time. When he orders his entire army to plunge into the Chechen forest without taking the time to cut down even a single tree or clear out a single thicket, he’s committing an error that not even the most humble veteran of the Chechen regiments would be guilty of. He would know there are Montagnards hiding behind every tree trunk. He would be prepared for the barricades at every path, set to trap the middle of a column between several heaps of branches and isolate our soldiers in small groups—with men ready to decimate our troops once they are helpless to advance, retreat, or defend themselves. All that would be obvious.
“As for the horrors of the spectacle the imam regales us with, those of us who have managed to force our way through the obstacles and survive, they’re included in every report. Barbarities that make your blood run cold, a foretaste of what awaits us. The heads of our comrades planted among the branches, their mutilated bodies—hands, feet, and genitals chopped off—draped over the barricades, their bloody remains that must be removed before we can advance. I don’t want to upset you with such visions, Uncle. But I must tell you that just last month, Shamil massacred four thousand Russians. In three days.”
“That fanatic is a monster!”
“Indeed, that’s what he’s becoming.”
“What do you mean, what he’s becoming? It’s what he’s always been. For the past twenty years, he’s spread carnage and death.”
“For the past twenty years, he’s been fighting for the survival of his people. But now he wants something else.”
The count shrugged his shoulders.
“Of course, gold.”
“No, his son.”
“The kid you brought back?”
“The child I kidnapped. Shamil will do anything to obtain his return. He’s ready to murder, blackmail, even take hostages to exchange.”
“A wide-ranging program,” said the count with bitter irony.
Another thunderous commotion from upstairs shook the room, and the fifty candles of the ceiling light went out.
“Now they’ve gone too far up there! This is the last time I let these vandals come here, they’ve got some nerve! Go see what the hell Sacha is doing and tell him what I think of his behavior. As for the imam’s son, all you have to do is give him back. We don’t need the offspring of monsters and madmen here.”
Dmitri had scarcely reached the top of the stairs before Sacha threw himself into his arms. As he glanced at the other “vandals” standing on the landing, he immediately recognized the tall, slender figure of Jamal Eddin Shamil.
Milyutin was so taken aback that it did not occur to him to mask his surprise and emotion.
Jamal Eddin greeted him with a nod that the captain acknowledged. Standing stock still, they exchanged a long look of mutual anxiety and curiosity. Both felt a catch in their throats as memories of the past flashed through their minds.
Of the two, the younger one seemed the least troubled. He had been waiting for this encounter, wishing for it and seeking the opportunity to make it happen. He knew that Sacha’s brother had returned from the Caucasus. It was this that had motivated him to accept this invitation, not his friends’ excited chatter about getting away from the school, dancing with real partners, and finally, finally, meeting some girls. If only he could approach the captain to ask him about what was happening in Dagestan and Chechnya. His knowledge of his father’s triumphs was limited to rumors circulating in the Cherkess dormitory, all of them contradictory, ambiguous, and deformed by the pacifieds’ mistrust of the growing power of the imam. Would Dmitri Alexeyevitch be willing to give him some real news?
Despite his impatience, Jamal Eddin did not move and asked no questions. The boy hadn’t changed in that respect, Milyutin thought. With his characteristic reserve, this blend of restraint and assurance, he waited politely for the captain to speak. He kept the same distance from his former jailer as before, but this time his expression was devoid of all aggression and scorn.
The captain even thought he saw a certain softness, a hint of kindness, in the boy’s serious face.
In five years, the “hostage” had changed. He had become a sleek adolescent, extremely elegant in his red and green cadet’s uniform, cap in hand, saber at his side. A Russian aristocrat of the First Cadet Corps of Petersburg. He seemed only slightly less crazy than the two grand dukes, Count Buxhöwden, and the youngest of the Milyutins, who were racing up and down the corridor, doing handstands and myriad other acrobatic antics.
Dmitri hadn’t time to pursue his reflections further. The crystal of the torchères vibrated, and he heard a heavy step behind him.
The count had emerged from the wing that served as his apartment and approached the little group. He had come to pay his respects to the emperor’s sons and to thank them for honoring his home. It was also an opportunity for the others to be presented to him.
“This Muslim can’t sit at this table with our guests!”
Kiselyev paced between the columns of one of the two rotundas on either side of the white banquet room.
The horseshoe-shaped table was set for two hundred, the candles of the three overhanging chandeliers not yet lit. On the immaculate tablecloths, a long line of silver candelabra shimmered in the mirrors, reflecting into infinity the image of the fine china plates, the gold-rimmed crystal carafes, the goblets and flutes.
“Do you hear me, Dmitri?” the count stormed. “He will stay upstairs. I do not want him to come down here. I forbid him to appear. His presence here would be an insult to the men who have fought in the Caucasus, an affront to the memory of those who died there.”
When standing before the boy in question, Kiselyev had shown more skill at dissimulating his sentiments than his nephew. Old courtier that he was, he had masked his surprise and dismay.
However, his fury was all the more violent upon his return to the ground floor, disrupting the hostess’s final preparations.
“Just to make sure, have him taken back to the Cadet Corps immediately. As for your brother, he has no idea what he’s in for. He hasn’t seen the likes of the caning that’s in store for him. I’ll have him whipped publicly here, this evening. How dare he invite this rebel to mingle with my guests?”
“This rebel, Uncle, is the classmate of the grand dukes and a ward of the emperor.”
“The emperor is magnanimous. But we, Dmitri Alexeyevitch, we cannot welcome him here, among us. I have told you, and I will repeat once again, that it would be a slap in the face, an unacceptable humiliation for the victor of Akulgo.”
Milyutin was petrified with horror at the allusion. “You have invited General Grabbe? This evening? Whatever possessed you?”
His uncle sensed his disapproval and swept it aside.
“You wanted the Caucasus? I give you the Caucasus, my boy!”