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!”

Dmitri refrained from further discussion on this wobbly ground. The proximity of Grabbe nonetheless perplexed him. He turned his thoughts over in his mind for a few moments before returning to the subject at hand—how to handle the presence of Jamal Eddin Shamil.

“To offend him without reason, shut him in upstairs, send him away, or in any way treat him as an enemy would be to diametrically oppose the education the emperor has chosen to give him and contravene His Majesty’s wishes. This boy now belongs to a better world, and that is the czar’s decision.”

His argument was a convincing one.

“Well then, have a second table set up, in your aunt’s dining room or the crimson salon or the blue one or the green one. Wherever you want, but way the devil away from here. The house is big enough. Organize festivities reserved for the children at the other end of the palace.”

“And who, among their young Imperial Highnesses and the little Serene Highnesses will you exile to ‘the other end’ of the palace, Uncle? The Georgian princesses can only be seated here in the banquet room, at your right and next to their mother. As for sending the grand dukes way the devil away, that would be a first of some magnitude. You’d beat all records in terms of snubs and humiliation.”

“So, as you tell it, the problem is insoluble? Really, really, really,” the count exploded, “your imam has caused me no end of trouble, down to the very seating plan for my dinner!”

Dmitri smothered a smile.

“For the seating plan, I fear that the only thing we can do is follow the rules and leave the rest up to God.”

Milyutin feigned all the more gaiety because he realized just how serious the situation was.

Sacha had pulled off a masterstroke inviting Jamal Eddin to the Kiselyevs’ and consequently presenting him to the higher spheres of the court. Here he was, the son of the “monster” who had cut off the hands, feet, and genitals of relatives of all the guests. The evening promised to be lively.

“Unless—Uncle, just a little while ago, you told young Count Buxhöwden that you had met his father in Bucharest, right?”

“I’ve known several Buxhöwdens in my life, his father, his brothers, his grandfather. All of them strapping lads, hot-heads, daredevils, and swashbucklers. But all had pure hearts and gallant souls. Why do you ask?”

“Because, from what Sacha tells me, the son is made of the same stuff. He’s the oldest and probably the only one of the little band who’s capable of measuring the consequences of a scandal for Jamal Eddin’s future.”

“The boy’s future, my dear, is scarcely my concern.”

“Nonetheless, I’ll warn Buxhöwden of the reactions his friend’s presence might provoke. So he can stick close to him, see to it that he stays as far away as possible from the officers, and keep an eye out for trouble.”

As for the potential trouble in question, Dmitri refrained from voicing his true concern. He did not admit that the sensitivity of the “Petersburg Caucasians” worried him less than that of the only real Cherkess at the soirée. The danger lay in the violence of Jamal Eddin’s feelings. What would he be able to endure as he listened to the conversation around the dinner table?

The violence of his feelings was one source of concern, but he also worried about the speed of his reactions.

Having experienced it before, Milyutin was already familiar with Jamal Eddin’s pride. And he knew that he was both quick to defend it and easily offended.

The things he was in danger of hearing about his people could not fail to hurt him. All that he held precious—his religion, his flesh and blood, his very honor—would be subject to attack.

As for the presence of General Grabbe under the same roof, how could Jamal Eddin behave with restraint and dignity toward the man who had betrayed him and had him kidnapped?

It was insoluble. The count was right.


The moment Dmitri heard the rustle of petticoats and skirts and crystalline feminine voices in the vestibule, he realized he had forgotten the most important thing—the presence of girls. With luck, the evening would not play out the way he had imagined. With luck, the party would be frivolous and gay. Jamal Eddin could not carry the weight of the world on his shoulders or single-handedly solve the tragic situation of his people. The time had come for the boy to be what he always should have been: a child who acted his own age, an adolescent lad just like all the others.

“Well, even the worst,” Dmitri thought to himself, scoffing at his own gloomy apprehension, “even the worst scenario is by no means a sure thing.”


First breach of propriety: Sacha and his band did not come downstairs to greet any of the guests. Although the count had given them permission to descend, the five cadets remained glued to the steps midway down the staircase until dinner. They probably found it more interesting to watch, unseen, as the girls took off their wraps in the vast antechamber, arranged their hair in the mirrors, and smoothed the wrinkles of their skirts with fans. Though the boys’ conduct would normally have been considered unacceptable, in this case, it was perfect. This way Jamal Eddin would not be introduced to the families. Dmitri had no intention whatsoever of reprimanding his little brother.

Perched on the steps, they whispered and giggled and exchanged witty comments in low voices. At fourteen, Nicholas Nicolaïevitch—Nicky—the elder of the two grand dukes, already had a reputation as a connoisseur of horses, dogs, and women. He and Buxhöwden agreed that small hands and tiny feet were absolutely ravishing. For once Sacha had not exaggerated when he bragged of the charms of the Georgian princesses (on whom, of course, he had never before laid eyes).

Sisters and cousins continued to arrive, representing different generations. George XII, the last king of Georgia, had had twenty children, and the eldest of his progeny were dowagers. They were dressed in their sumptuous national costume, with a headband worn like a crown and a long, diaphanous veil trailing down the back. Their dresses, hemmed just above the ankle, were richly embroidered. The ensemble recalled the chatelaines of the Middle Ages from Sir Walter Scott’s novels. They were too old-fashioned for the young people, who scarcely noticed them.

But the young ones were something else entirely. They wore crinolines of pink, blue, or white satin, in the latest Parisian style, with fresh flowers on their belts. They had large, dark eyes and long, lustrous black curls that framed their delicate features. With olive complexions, oval faces, and a similarly light step, the family resemblance was striking. According to the grand duke, ladies always fit into two entirely distinct categories. One group, His Highness pontificated, had a sort of languor about them, a faraway look of melancholy softness in the eyes. The others were intense and voluptuous, the incarnation of a promising sensuality.

Though Sacha did not understand all of these subtle distinctions, he did notice two girls his own age. Their governess was just helping them remove their wraps. Scarcely on the other side of childhood, they probably would not stay up for the ball and the midnight supper. But in their short, full-skirted dresses and their lace pantalets, they struck him as accessible, graceful, and worthy of conquest. Without informing anyone, he rushed down the steps, clicked his heels smartly, and presented himself as entertainment director of the junior class.