The Girl Who Fought Napoleon: A Novel of the Russian Empire by Linda Lafferty Page B

except for my dearest friends. Nor speak of democracy. You cannot comprehend how I have longed for a friend such as yourself.”
    “You cannot know how your words astonish me,” said Czartoryski, feeling the lifelong wall of hatred for all that was Russian crumbling. Or if not the entire wall—for that could never happen to a proud Pole—at least a fissure large enough for Alexander Pavlovich Romanov to extend his hand of friendship.
    “What Russia has done to Poland is despicable,” said Alexander. “Someday the Poles shall have their freedom if I become tsar of Russia.”
    “In that case,” said the Polish prince, the last stumbling block to friendship kicked away, “I think we will become fast friends, Grand Duke.”
    The two clasped hands, forming a bond that would last a lifetime.
    Adam Czartoryski would learn that his new friend had an open heart and a conscience that would not endure guilt and the suffering of humanity, be it the Poles, the serfs, or even his wife.
    These were Grand Duke Alexander’s good qualities. Prince Czartoryski would also learn the bad.

    As the years passed, Alexander found friends who shared his liberal consciousness. He invited Adam Czartoryski, Paul Stroganov, Victor Kochubey, and Prince Alexander Golitsen to join him in what they came to call the Committee of Friends. At the Winter Palace and the Tauride Palace, they drank champagne and cognac and dined on oysters and caviar at midnight. They talked late into the night. Together they pondered the question of liberating the serfs and making Russia a more democratic nation.
    The heat of the great ceramic stove chased away the cold of the northern night. Prince Czartoryski lurched to his feet, a glass of champagne in his fist, his black curls plastered flat against his forehead, his black eyes shining. “You, Alexander, will lead this empire into enlightenment! What Empress Catherine has initiated will be your legacy in the future.”
    He tipped up the crystal flute, finishing the champagne. Then he dashed the crystal glass to the floor.
    “Here, here!” chimed in the rest.
    The crash and tinkle of broken glass filled the room.
    A servant in a starched jacket scurried to sweep up the shards.
    Alexander looked at his friends, his eyes swimming with tears. He was warmed at Prince Czartoryski’s words and by the ceramic stove—and far too much champagne, vodka, and cognac.
    “And what of my father’s reign?” asked Alexander, the liquor capturing his tongue. He smiled at his indiscretion.
    Adam Czartoryski’s eyes narrowed. He knew Paul Romanov would do his homeland no favors.
    “We have understood that our empress intends the throne to be yours, not your father’s, after her death,” he said.
    Alexander glanced at the door. He leaned forward in his chair to whisper.
    “She has told me that she intends for me to be the next tsar, yes. But I think the empress believes she is immortal! She has not signed the manifesto she proposes, at least to my knowledge.”
    Adam Czartoryski exchanged looks with his comrades. His pale skin grew red, aggravated by liquor and temper.
    “But I am not disheartened, comrades,” said Alexander, wagging a finger unsteadily. “My friends! Perhaps . . . just perhaps the Imperial Court is not the place for me.”
    “What do you mean, Alexander?”
    “Why should I be obliged to be in society with people I would not have as servants? Sycophants, all of them. The Russian Court! I have a need to find peace and refuge from such machinations!”
    “But Alexander!” protested Pavel Stroganov, realizing the grand duke was quite serious. “We need you! You know the reforms that must be made.”
    Alexander smiled sadly at his friend, remembering when they were children playing St. George and the dragon in the gilded rooms of the Winter Palace.
    “I’ve been contemplating my future and the future of Russia. The Imperial Court is far too brilliant for my character. I am a colorless bird upstaged