shadow of britain

Chapter 659: British Jacobins

The snowflakes outside the car window hit the glass like scattered salt.

Yakovlev took out a silver snuff bottle from the inner pocket of his mink coat. The crisp sound of opening and closing was particularly clear in the enclosed space.

"I still remember that it was the winter of 1812 when I met your British observers in Borodino with Marshal Kutuzov." The old man suddenly spoke in pure French, twisting dark brown tobacco between his fingertips: "Those gentlemen in scarlet uniforms always like to write and draw on the edge of the battlefield, like a group of crows around carrion."

Arthur's knuckles tightened slightly in his deerskin gloves. The carriage was filled with the smell of ambergris and vodka mixed with a hint of gunpowder, which reminded him of the night in London in 1832.

The old nobleman's glasses shone coldly in the shadows, like the barrel of a gun aimed at his heart.

"Your son is a rare idealist." Arthur responded in Russian, emphasizing the word "ideal": "He has ideas and feelings, just like the oak tree in Pushkin's writing that refused to bow to the blizzard."

"Oak tree?" Yakovlev suddenly burst into hoarse laughter, as if he had heard some brilliant joke: "In Russia, only birch trees know when to bend. Nine years ago, a group of young nobles swore in front of the Winter Palace that they would be the Brutus of Russia. But what was the result? The unluckiest ones among them lost their heads, and the others were either in the Caucasus or in Siberia. And the luckiest one is the guy you mentioned who writes about oak trees every day."

Arthur avoided the question and tried to approach the issue from another direction: "I heard that you have a relationship with Napoleon?"

It was obvious that Yakovlev was quite proud of that experience. Although he didn't say it, he somehow responded to Arthur's question: "Why, are you also friends with Napoleon?"

"No, I was only 6 years old when Napoleon was defeated at Waterloo. I was not even a kid at that age. The only person of Napoleon's age who could attract his attention was probably his son, the King of Rome."

Yakovlev showed an expression of "I think so too", but Arthur's words changed his attitude in an instant.

Arthur began, "However, I do have some friendship with Napoleon's nephew, Louis Bonaparte."

"Louis Bonaparte?" Yakovlev thought for a moment. "Are you talking about Jerome's son, or..."

"He is not Jerome's son, but another brother of Napoleon, the son of the King of the Netherlands. His grandmother is Napoleon's ex-wife Josephine."

"Ah..." Yakovlev suddenly realized, "So it was him, the guy who brought his uncle's coffin back to Paris from St. Helena?"

Arthur pretended to be surprised and asked, "So you also know about this?"

Yakovlev poured snuff powder on the back of his hand, rubbed it gently with his thumb, and slowly inhaled: "I made a lot of friends in Paris back then, and I'm still in touch with them. Napoleon's burial in the Invalides is a big deal. It would be strange if they didn't tell me."

Arthur solemnly took out a pen and paper from his jacket pocket: "What is your impression of Napoleon?"

Yakovlev rubbed his nose and said, "Are you a fan of Napoleon?"

"Not really." Arthur opened his notebook. "But you may have heard that I am very interested in history and I am also a writer. To be honest, I am planning to write a book about the Napoleonic Wars."

"As expected of you, you are Darlamo's student." Yakovlev said as if it was a matter of course. "I knew you were a complete British Whig, a British Jacobin. Thank God, he made you born in England. If you were in Russia, you would probably be in the Caucasus instead of Moscow."

"So you know I'm English and it's no big deal to talk to me about Napoleon."

"Of course you can talk about Napoleon, but I have a condition." Yakovlev stared at Arthur, as if to make sure he was not lying: "I want you to promise me that you will stay away from my son in the future."

"Your son?" Arthur half-jokingly said, "But I heard that you are a bachelor, not married, and have no son."

"Young man, don't play tricks on me." Yakovlev said gloomily, "You know who I'm talking about. Besides, not being married doesn't mean you can't have children. The same is true for your idol Napoleon."

Arthur's eyes shone in the shadows. "When I was in Paris, I saw a document. When the Allied Forces entered Paris in 1814, Tsar Alexander I personally drew up a list of pardons. There was a special notice column in the pardon list. Since there was only one person in this column, I was quite impressed. If I remember correctly, the name was Ivan Alexeevich Yakovlev, which happens to be the same as yours."

The old nobleman suddenly stopped twisting the tobacco, and the lid of the snuff bottle made a crisp click. The carriage rolled over the icy road, and the carriage shook slightly. The light and shadow cast by the sun cut a gully of light and dark on his face: "Your memory is quite good. How did you see the list?"

Arthur brushed it off lightly: "You know, historians always have some privileges."

"But you are a natural philosopher, not a historian."

"But I don't think so. In this respect, I am like Mr. Faraday. Mr. Faraday was originally famous in the academic world as a chemist, but because of electromagnetic induction, everyone now thinks he is an electromagneticist and has forgotten his contributions in the field of chemistry."

Yakovlev thought over and over again, and finally compromised: "That was more than 20 years ago. The French invaded Moscow. My family and I were trapped in the city because we were slow to move and did not have time to escape before the French soldiers entered the city. However, although Napoleon occupied this place, he was not happy for long. Fires broke out in the city one after another. The fire burned the sky red, and even the Governor's Mansion became a sea of ​​fire.

In order to put out the fire, the French mobilized all the men in the city, and I was naturally among them. After completing my duties as fire chief, I met a group of Italian cavalry near the Convent of the Passion of Christ. I found their captain and told him in Italian about his family's situation. The Italian heard the familiar language of his motherland, so he promised to report my situation to Marshal Mortier, Duke of Trevitt.

"And so you met Napoleon?"

Yakovlev nodded and said, "Napoleon was in need of a messenger at the time. He wanted to send someone to Petersburg to deliver a message to the emperor, but he couldn't find someone that both parties could trust. I just met this condition."

Arthur asked with great interest: "What did he say to you at that time?"

"It began with some commonplace phrases, disconnected sentences and simple arguments. Then Napoleon began to revile Rostopchin for the fire, which he considered immoral and barbaric for setting fire to Moscow before evacuating it. Napoleon, as usual, tried to convince people that he was infinitely pacifist. He explained that his battlefield was in England, not in Russia, and boasted that he had sent troops to protect the orphanage and the Cathedral of the Assumption. He complained that our Emperor Alexander had been deceived by bad people and did not understand his peaceful intentions."

Arthur almost couldn't hold back his laughter when he heard this: "Napoleon, the Angel of Peace, this title really suits him better than the Emperor of France."

Yakovlev said sarcastically: "That's right, upright Hastings, this title also suits you."

Arthur scratched his nose. "Sorry, it's really rude to interrupt someone. Please continue." "I asked Napoleon to give me a pass so that my family and I could leave Moscow. Napoleon was very reluctant at first and said that he had ordered not to issue passes to anyone. But we all know that this is his usual negotiation method. When I tried my best to ask him, he pretended to think about it, and then proposed that if I helped him deliver a letter to St. Petersburg, he would let me and my family leave Moscow."

At this point, Yakovlev did not forget to tease Napoleon: "I still remember what was written on the envelope - to my brother Emperor Alexander."

Arthur quickly wrote down these words in his notebook, muttering: "It is common for brothers to kill each other, especially when fighting for family property. It is also human nature for Napoleon to do so."

Yakovlev stared at him. "It seems that you really have the ability to be a historian. At least judging from this sentence, you have the quality of a historian to confuse right and wrong."

Arthur closed his notebook. “This is also a basic quality for a diplomat.”

"That's right." Yakovlev nodded and said, "I hope my little Alexander can learn this from you rather than some bullshit liberal ideology."

"Everyone has their own aspirations. You can't force some things." Arthur smiled and replied, "Besides, you just told me to stay away from him."

"That is because you are a Whig; if you were a Tory I should be glad to have him in your company, for, apart from your pernicious liberalism, I must own you are a very remarkable man."

Arthur shrugged. "Perhaps you should tell that to the Fleet Street journalists. They'll all say I'm a royalist."

"You? Royalist?" Yakovlev thought Arthur was joking. "The British are indeed not resistant to cold. The weather is so warm today, but it doesn't prevent you from freezing."

Arthur did not explain much, he just spoke the truth: "Perhaps you should ask the Marquis of Bina or the Baron of Dantes in Petersburg and hear for yourself how I am regarded by these French royalists. If you have a pair of liberal eyes, even if His Majesty the Tsar stands in front of you, you will still think that he intends to put his head on the guillotine himself."

Yakovlev was skeptical. "Although I don't know the Marquis of Bina and the Baron of Dantes, I have a good relationship with Count Cansonna. He served in the Russian army as a French exile and participated in the battle with Napoleon as a Russian lieutenant general. His son is currently in Moscow. If you were lying to me before, I advise you to take back what you said."

Arthur was afraid that he would not verify it. "As you said, Arthur Hastings has always been upright. I am not the kind of person who talks nonsense."

"Master!" The driver suddenly tightened the reins, and the four Don horses neighed and raised their front hooves.

Through the frosted car window, you can see black smoke rising from the direction of Neglinnaya Street, and flames licking the spire of St. Nicholas's bell tower.

Arthur's fingers subconsciously clasped the Colt revolver at his waist, and the silver-plated handle reflected a cold light under his coat.

Yakovlev looked at the fire outside the window, and in a trance he remembered the Moscow fire in 1812: "Take a detour! Take Arbat Street!"

Arthur narrowed his eyes slightly as he noticed figures in grey coats swaying around the fire scene. Moscow police were dispersing the crowd.

As the carriage turned onto Tverskoi Avenue, three black carriages whizzed past them.

"Stop!" Yakovlev shouted suddenly. Before the servant in the bearskin cloak stopped the carriage, the old nobleman had already jumped into the snow.

In front of the mansion, the butler was pacing back and forth, holding his gold-rimmed tricorn hat. The emblem on the brim of the hat was covered with mud and snow, as if it had just been picked up from the ground.

When he saw Yakovlev coming, he staggered and fell to his knees on the snow.

"Master, the young master..." The butler's voice was torn to pieces by the north wind.

Arthur stepped slowly from the carriage, his moccasins crunching over the icy cobblestones.

He bent down and picked up the gold-plated pocket watch that was half-hidden in the snow. On the watch chain hung an emerald pendant engraved with the Herzen family coat of arms.

When the British gentleman pushed open the watch cover with his thumb, he found that the hour hand stopped at 3:17 - exactly the time they were leaving the court.

"General Volkov brought people here personally." The butler handed over a letter with wax stamped on it from the Military Police Headquarters, trembling. "They said they want you to help investigate the case..."

The old nobleman raised his cane and smashed the alabaster statue on the porch. The flying fragments almost cut the back of his hand. "What did you say?"

Yakovlev's walking stick dug heavily into the snow, the carved silver handle gleaming coldly in the twilight.

Outside the cast iron fence of Herzen's residence not far away, six gendarmes were throwing boxes of documents onto a carriage, and the parchments fluttered in the cold wind like dying white doves.

"Stop!" Yakovlev's mink coat dragged deep grooves in the snow. He shouted in German with a Berlin accent: "Who gave you the right to search private houses?"

The lieutenant of the military police turned around slowly. He raised the document with the double-headed eagle wax stamped on it, almost poking the nose of the old nobleman: "By order of Count Benkendorf, the head of the Third Bureau, search the secret hideout of the Herzen-Ogarev group."

Arthur's deerskin boots rolled silently over the ice ridges, and his eyes swept over the scattered documents - bundles of "Moscow Telegram", "History of the French Revolution", and "Catastrophic Changes on the Surface of the Earth" were all thrown on the snow.

"Secret lair?" Arthur suddenly interrupted in a pure Petersburg accent. "I thought your young people discussing Saint-Simonianism was like English gentlemen discussing the weather. Is this a crime?"

The lieutenant's pupils suddenly contracted. He recognized the ribbon ring of the Order of Anna on Arthur's collar, but he still straightened his neck and raised his chin: "My internal affairs do not require outsiders to interfere, sir. But you..."

Before he could finish his words, the sound of glass breaking was heard on the second floor of the mansion.

Through the broken bay window, he could see two gendarmes using their rifle butts to smash open a cherry wood bookcase. Although he couldn't see clearly what books they took out of the bookcase, Arthur clearly remembered that there was a gold-stamped copy of "The Social Contract" and "Memoirs of a Decembrist" in the bookcase.

(End of this chapter)