DEPARTURE FROM MOSCOW — NEWS OF THE DEATH OF PAUL — PARTICULARS OF HIS ASSASSINATION — ET TU BRUTE? — PAUL'S PRESENTIMENTS OF PERIL — HIS SUCCESSOR NOT AN ACCOMPLICE IN THE CRIME — ALEXANDER I. A POPULAR MONARCH — AN ORDER FROM AN IMPERIAL CUSTOMER AND MODEL — FAREWELLS TO FRIENDS — AMONG THEM, CZAR AND CZARINA.

When I was sufficiently restored I announced my departure and made my adieus. Everything was done to induce me to stay. People offered to pay more for my portraits than I had received in St. Petersburg—to allow me all the time I required to finish them without fatiguing myself. I call to mind now, the very day prior to my leaving, while I was engaged in packing up on the ground floor of my house, there suddenly appeared before me, unannounced, a man of colossal stature in a white cloak, at whose sight I was nearly frightened to death. In Moscow one continually saw people banished to Siberia by Paul, and although but two French had been exiled—both authors of infamous libels against Russia—I forthwith judged this stranger to be an emissary of Paul. I breathed freely only when I heard him beseeching me not to leave Moscow, and begging me to do a large likeness of his whole family. Upon my refusal, which I made as polite as possible, the good gentleman asked me fervently at least to give my own portrait to the town. I acknowledge that this last request so touched my heart as to leave me an enduring regret that my affairs and the state of my health prevented me from complying.

Several persons who, I doubt not, were initiated into the revolutionary conspiracy under progress urged me to defer my departure for a few days, promising they would go to St. Petersburg with me. But in my complete ignorance of the plot, I persisted in starting—in which I made a great mistake. For by waiting a little I might have avoided the hardships I underwent on those abominable roads, again rendered well-nigh impracticable by a thaw.

It was on the 12th of March, 1801, when I was half-way between Moscow and St. Petersburg, that I heard the news of Paul's death. I found in front of the posthouse a number of couriers, who were about to spread the news in the different towns of the empire, and, since they took all the horses, I could obtain none for myself. I was obliged to remain in my carriage, which had been put by the roadside on the bank of a river; such a bitter wind was blowing that it froze me. Nevertheless, I was compelled to pass the night there. At last I contrived to hire some horses, and I reached St. Petersburg only at eight or nine on the morning of the following day.

I found that city in a delirium of joy; people were singing and dancing and kissing one another in the streets; acquaintances of mine ran up to my carriage and squeezed my hands, exclaiming "What a blessing!" They told me that the houses had been illuminated the evening before. In short, the death of the unhappy Prince gave rise to general rejoicings.

None of the particulars of the dreadful occurrence were secret from anybody, and I can aver that the accounts given me that day all agreed. Palhen, one of the conspirators, had taken every means to frighten Paul with a plot he alleged to have been hatched by the Empress and her children for the purpose of seizing the throne. Paul's habitually suspicious mind incited him only too strongly to credit these false confidences, which enraged him to the degree of ordering his wife and the Grand Dukes to be shut up in the fortress. Palhen declined to obey without the Emperor's signed authority. Paul gave his signature, and Palhen at once went to Alexander with the document. "You see," he said, "that your father is mad, and that you are all lost unless we forestall him by locking him up first." Alexander, though believing his life and his family's in jeopardy, did nothing but consent through silence to this idea, which seemed merely to propose putting a lunatic out of harm's way. But Palhen and his accomplices thought it necessary to go further. Five of the conspirators undertook the assassination, one of them being Plato Zuboff, a former pet of Catherine, whom Paul had loaded with favours after recalling him from exile. The five penetrated into Paul's sleeping apartment after he had gone to bed. The two guards at the door defended it valiantly, but their resistance was fruitless, and one of them was killed. At the sight of the infuriated men rushing in upon him, Paul rose from his couch. As he was very powerful he made a long fight against his murderers, who finally managed to strangle him in an armchair. The unhappy man's last words were, "You, too, Zuboff! I thought you were my friend!"

It seems that chance had contributed in every way to the success of the plot. A regiment of soldiers had been brought to surround the palace, and the Colonel, far from being in the counsels of the conspirators, fully believed that an attempt upon the Emperor's life was to be frustrated. A portion of the regiment went through the garden to post themselves under Paul's window. Unfortunately, the marching of the soldiers did not awaken him; nor did the noise of a flock of crows, which were in the habit of sleeping on the roof, and which burst out cawing. Had it been otherwise, the ill-fated ruler would have had time to reach a secret staircase next to his room, by which he could have descended to that of one Mme. Narischkin, in whom he had full confidence. Having got thus far, nothing would have been easier for him than to make off in a little boat always moored on the canal beside the palace. Besides, the distrust he harboured against his wife had caused him to double-lock the door dividing his apartments from the Empress's. When he tried to escape through that door it was too late, the assassins having taken the precaution to withdraw the key. To crown all, Kutaisoff, his faithful valet, the very day the murder was committed received a letter revealing the conspiracy; but this man had for some time been neglecting most of his duties, and did not open his letters punctually. Kutaisoff left the letter disclosing the conspiracy on the table. On opening the missive next day the unhappy man fell into such a desperate state that he nearly died of it. The same was the case with the Colonel who had placed his troops about the palace. This young officer, Talesin by name, learning of the crime that had been perpetrated, felt such grief at his deception that he went home with a raging fever, which nearly put an end to him. I believe, in fact, that he did not long survive the blow, all innocent that he was. But what I am sure of is that Alexander I. went to see him every day during his illness, and interdicted some firing exercises too near the patient's house.

Although the various impediments I have mentioned might have interfered with Paul's killing, it must be concluded that the contrivers of the scheme never doubted its issue. For all St. Petersburg knew that on the night of the event a handsome young man in the plot named S——ky drew out his watch at midnight among a passably large company, saying: "It must all be over by this time." Paul was dead, indeed; his body was forthwith embalmed, and for six weeks he lay on a bed of state, his face uncovered and showing scarcely a trace of decay, owing to the fact that it was plastered with rouge. The Empress Maria, his widow, went to kneel in prayer every day at the bed. She took her two youngest sons, Nicholas and Michael, such small children that Nicholas one day asked her, "Why is papa always asleep?"

The trick employed to make Alexander I. consent to his father's deposal—for he took no other view of the case—was a fact vouched for to me by Count Strogonoff, one of the wisest and most upright men I have ever known, and the best informed of all as to happenings at the Russian court. He doubted the less how easy it had been to induce Paul to sign the order for his wife's and children's imprisonment, as he was aware by what fearful suspicions the mind of that poor Prince was haunted. The very evening before the assassination there was a grand court concert, at which the whole royal family was present. During a moment's private conversation with Count Strogonoff, the Emperor said to him: "No doubt you think me the happiest of men, my friend. At last I am living in this palace of St. Michael, which I have had built and finely fitted out according to my own tastes. I have my family about me here for the first time. My wife is still good looking, my eldest son is handsome, too, and my daughters are charming. There they are, all of them, opposite me; but when I look at them I see my murderers in them all." Count Strogonoff exclaimed, recoiling, horror-struck: "Some one is lying to Your Majesty! This is an infamous slander!" Paul stared at him with haggard eyes, and then, pressing his hand, declared, "What I have just told you is the truth."

I am firmly persuaded that Alexander knew nothing of the attempt to be made upon his father's life. If all the facts I was acquainted with at the time were not enough, I have conviction from proof afforded by that Prince's well-known character. Alexander I. had a noble, magnanimous heart; not only was he always God-fearing, but he was so honest that even in politics was he never known to resort to guile or deceit. Very well, then—on hearing that Paul was no more his despair was so intense that no one who went near him could doubt his innocence of the murder. The wiliest of men could not have summoned up all the tears he shed. In the first hours of his grief he refused to be Emperor, and I know for certain that his wife Elisabeth threw herself on her knees before him, imploring him to take the reins of government. He then went to his mother, the Empress, who called to him as soon as she set eyes upon him from afar: "Go away! Go away! I see you all covered with your father's blood!" Alexander raised his tearful eyes to Heaven and said, in accents coming from the soul, "I take God to witness, mother, that I did not order this awful crime to be done!" These few words bore such a thorough stamp of truth that the Empress consented to listen to him, and when she learned how the conspirators had cheated her son in the carrying out of their enterprise, she fell at his feet with, "Then I bow to my Emperor!" Alexander lifted her up, knelt before her in turn, took her in his arms and bestowed every mark of respect and affection upon her. Nor did he ever give the lie to this affection. So long as he lived never did the Emperor Alexander refuse his mother anything, and his respect toward her was so great that he insisted on maintaining all the honours of court etiquette for her. Thus she always took precedence before the Empress Elisabeth.

Paul's death occasioned none of the upheavals which too often follow upon the departure of a ruler. All those who had participated in his favour continued to keep the emoluments they owed to his patronage. His valet Kutaisoff, that barber whom he made so rich, whom he had decorated with the highest orders in Russia, remained peacefully in the enjoyment of his master's benefactions. If there was no change in the lot of Paul's friends, it was otherwise with his victims. Exiles were called back, and their property was restored to them; justice was done to all who had been sacrificed to caprices without number. In fact, a golden era began for Russia. It was impossible to deny this at witnessing the love, the regard and the enthusiasm of the Russians for their new Emperor. That enthusiasm was so strong that all esteemed it the greatest thing to have seen, to have met Alexander. If he went walking in the Summer Garden of an evening, or if he passed along the streets of St. Petersburg, the crowd would press about him and call down blessings upon him, while he, the most benevolent of princes, would answer all these demonstrations with perfect graciousness. I was unable to go to Moscow for his coronation, but some people who were there told me that nothing was ever more moving or more beautiful. The transports of popular gladness vented themselves all over the city and in the church. When Alexander placed the diamond crown on the Empress Elisabeth's head, radiant with beauty, they formed such a lovely pair as to evoke unbounded acclaim.

In the midst of the universal elation I was myself fortunate enough to meet the Emperor on one of the St. Petersburg quays a few days after my arrival. He was on horseback, and although Paul's regulations had of course been abolished, I had my carriage stopped for the pleasure of seeing Alexander pass. He rode up to me at once, asked me how I liked Moscow, and whether the roads had given me any trouble. I replied that I regretted having been unable to stay long enough in that glorious city to see all its splendours; as for the roads, I acknowledged they were abominable. He agreed with me, saying he hoped to have them mended. Then, after paying me a thousand compliments, he left me. Next day Count Strogonoff came to me on the Emperor's behalf, with a command to paint him at half length, and also on horseback. No sooner was this news spread than numbers of court people rushed to my house, asking for a copy of either portrait, they cared not which, so long as they had one of Alexander. At any other time of my life this would have been an opportunity to make a fortune, but alas! my physical condition, to say nothing of the mental sufferings still besetting me, prohibited me from taking advantage of it. Feeling unfit to work at a full-length picture, I did a pastel bust-portrait of the Emperor, and one of the Empress; these I intended to enlarge at Dresden or Berlin, in case I should be obliged to leave St. Petersburg. It was not long, in fact, before my ailments became unbearable; the doctor I consulted ordered me to take the waters at Carlsbad.

I cannot describe the regrets I experienced at leaving St. Petersburg, where I had spent such happy years. It was not without an aching heart that I bade my daughter good-by, bitter though it was to see her estranged from me, to see her completely under the thumb of a clique headed by the vile governess whom I would accuse of everything evil. A few days prior to my departure my son-in-law remarked that he did not conceive how I could quit St. Petersburg at the moment most favourable to my fortune. "You will admit," I answered, "that my heart must be very sick. The reason you can easily guess."

Other separations I likewise found most painful. The Princesses Kurakin and Dolgoruki, that excellent Count Strogonoff, who had given me so many proofs of friendship—that was what I regretted far more than the fortune I was renouncing. I remember how the dear Count came to see me as soon as he heard I was going. He was so perturbed that he walked up and down the studio where I was painting, muttering to himself, "No, no; she won't go away; it is impossible!" My daughter, who was present, thought he was turning mad. To all the kindly proffered demonstrations of attachment I could not answer except by a promise to return to St. Petersburg. And such was then my firm intention.

When I had quite decided to depart I asked for an audience with the Empress, which was immediately granted, and on presenting myself I found the Emperor there, too. I testified my liveliest and sincerest regrets to Their Majesties, telling them my health compelled me to take the waters at Carlsbad, recommended to me for stoppages. To this the Emperor affably replied: "Do not go so far in search of a remedy. I will give you the Empress's horse, and after riding it for some time you will be cured." I thanked the Emperor a hundred times for the offer, but confessed that I did not know how to ride. "Well," he resumed, "I will give you a riding-master to take you out." I cannot say how touched I was by such kindness, and on taking leave of Their Majesties I sought in vain for terms strong enough to express my gratitude.

A few days after this interview I met the Empress walking in the Summer Garden. I was with my daughter and M. de RiviÈre. Her Majesty stepped up to me, saying: "Do not leave us, I beg of you, Mme. Lebrun. Remain here and take care of your health. I cannot bear to have you go." I assured her it was my desire and my purpose to return to St. Petersburg for the pleasure of seeing her again. God knows I spoke the truth, but I have, none the less, often been assailed with the fear that my refusal to stay in Russia may have appeared as ingratitude to Their Majesties, and that they may not have quite forgiven me.

On crossing the Russian border I burst into tears. I wanted to retrace my journey, and I vowed I would come back to those who had for so long heaped tokens of friendship and devotion upon me, and whose memory is ever in my heart. But one must believe in fate, for I never again saw the country which I still look upon as a second motherland.