'What happened to McLaughlin?' the titular counsellor asked, staring fixedly at Ganetsky with his cold blue eyes.
'I didn't see,' said the general with a shrug. 'I was busy. My God, but it was a fine mess. The Bashi-Bazouks reached our actual headquarters; I was lucky to get away with my life in my dress tunic'
The door opened and Sobolcv emerged on to the porch, with a red face and a special, unusual gleam in his eyes.
'On what shall we congratulate you, Mikhail Dmitrievich?' asked a general of Caucasian appearance in a Circassian coat with a gilded cartridge belt.
Everybody held their breath, but Sobolev was in no hurry to answer. He paused for effect, glancing round at all of them and winking gaily at Varya.
But she did not discover exactly how the emperor had honoured the hero of Plevna, because the dull, workaday features of Lavrenty Arkadievich Mizinov appeared behind the Olympian's shoulder. The chief gendarme of the empire beckoned with one finger to Fandorin and Varya. Her heart began to race.
As they were walking past Sobolev, he whispered quietly: 'Varvara Andreevna, I will wait for you without fail’
From the entrance hall they stepped straight into the aide-de-camp's room, where the duty general and two officers were sitting at a table. The emperor's personal apartments were on the right, his study was on the left.
'Answer questions loudly, clearly and fully,' Mizinov instructed them as they walked along. 'In detail, but without deviating from the subject.'
There were two people in the simple study furnished with portable items of Karelian birch. One was sitting in an armchair, the other standing with his back to the window. Varya naturally glanced first at the seated individual, but he was not Alexander; he was a wizened old man wearing gold-rimmed glasses, with an intelligent, thin-lipped face and eyes of ice that allowed nothing in: State Chancellor Prince Korchakov in person, exactly the way he looked in his portraits, except perhaps rather more delicate,- a legendary individual in his own way. Varya believed he had been minister of foreign affairs before she was even born. But most importantly of all, he had studied at the Lycee with the Poet. He was the one who was the 'Darling of fashion, friend of high society, observer of its dazzling ways' -though at the age of eighty the 'darling of fashion' put her more in mind of a different poem that was included in the grammar-school curriculum.
Which one of you, as feeble age advances,
Is doomed to meet our Lycee Day alone!
Ill-fated friend! To those new generations
A tedious guest, unwelcome and despised,
Calling to mind our former congregations,
With trembling hand shading his rheumy eyes . . .
The chancellor's hand really was trembling. He took a cambric handkerchief out of his pocket and blew his nose, which did not hinder him in the least from surveying first Varya and then Erast Petrovich in the most censorious manner; and, moreover, the legendary person's gaze lingered for a long moment on Fandorin.
Spellbound by the sight of the alumnus of the Tsarskoe Selo Lycee, Varya had entirely forgotten the most important individual present. Embarrassed, she turned towards the window, thought for a moment and then curtseyed - as they used to do at the grammar school when the headmistress entered the classroom.
Unlike Korchakov, His Majesty demonstrated distinctly more interest in her person than in Fandorin's. The famous Romanov eyes - piercing, mesmerising and distinctly slanted - gazed at her with fastidious severity. They see into your very soul, she thought - that's the expression-, and then she felt quite angry with herself for slipping into the slave mentality of ignorant prejudice. He was simply imitating the 'basilisk stare' that his father, may he lie uneasy in his grave, had been so proud of. And she began pointedly inspecting the man whose will governed the lives of eighty million subjects.
The first observation: why, he was really old! Swollen eyelids, sideburns, a moustache with curly ends and a pronounced sprinkling of grey, knotty, gouty fingers. But then, of course - next year he would be sixty. Almost as old as her grandmother.
The second observation: he didn't look as kind as the newspapers said he was. He seemed indifferent and weary. He'd seen everything in the world there was to see; nothing could surprise him, nothing could make him feel particularly happy.
The third observation, and the most interesting: despite his age and his imperial lineage, he was not indifferent to the female sex. Otherwise, why, Your Majesty, would you be running your eyes over my breasts and my waist like thatl It was obviously true what they said about him and Princess Dolgorukova, who was only half his age. Varya stopped being even slightly afraid of the Tsar-Liberator.
Their chief introduced them: 'Your Majesty, this is Titular Counsellor Fandorin, the one you have heard about. With him is his assistant, Miss Suvorova.'
The tsar did not say 'hello' or even nod. He concluded his inspection of Varya's figure without hurrying, then turned his head towards Erast Petrovich and said in a low voice modulated like an actor's: 'I remember, Azazel. And Sobolev was just telling me.'
He sat down at the desk and nodded to Mizinov. 'You begin. Mikhail Alexandrovich and I will listen.'
He might offer a lady a chair, even if he is an emperor, Varya thought disapprovingly, abandoning her final shred of belief in the monarchic principle.
'How much time do I have?' the general asked respectfully. 'I know, Your Majesty, how busy you are today. And the heroes of Plevna are waiting.'
'As much time as is needed. This is not merely a strategic matter, but a diplomatic one too,' the emperor rumbled and glanced at Korchakov with an affectionate smile. 'Mikhail Alexandrovich here has come from
Bucharest specially. Rattling his old bones in a carriage’
The prince stretched his mouth in a habitual manner to form a smile devoid of the slightest sign of merriment, and Varya remembered that the previous year the chancellor had suffered some kind of personal tragedy. Someone close to him had died - either his son or his grandson.
'Pray do not take this amiss, Lavrenty Arkadievich,' the chancellor said in a doleful voice, 'but I am having doubts. It all sounds rather too shady, even for Mr Disraeli. And the heroes can wait. Waiting for a decoration is quite the most pleasant of pastimes. So please let us hear what you have to say.'
Mizinov straightened up his shoulders smartly and turned - not to Fandorin, but to Varya: 'Miss Suvorova, please tell us in detail about both of your meetings with the correspondent of the Daily Post, Seamus McLaughlin - during the third storming of Plevna and on the eve of Osman-pasha's breakout.'
And so Varya told them.
It turned out that the tsar and the chancellor were both good listeners. Korchakov only interrupted her twice. The first time he asked: 'Which Count Zurov is that? Not Alexander Platonovich's son?'
The second time he asked: 'McLaughlin knew Ganetsky well then, if he referred to him by his first name and patronymic?'
But His Majesty slapped his palm on the table in irritation when Varya explained that many of the journalists had acquired their own informants in Plevna: 'You still haven't explained to me, Mizinov, how Osman managed to bunch his entire army together for a breakout and your scouts failed to inform you in time!'
The chief of gendarmes started and prepared to make his excuses, but Alexander gestured to stop him. 'Later. Continue, Suvorova.'