“I’ve come to fetch the Emperor,” said the officer, with an unprintable oath. “He’s going to be imprisoned in ‘Peter and Paul.’”
“You cannot remove the Emperor,” answered Kotzebue. “I am commandant here. I refuse to give up the Emperor at your orders.”
“Ah ... ah ... I knew it,” shouted the officer. “The Emperor has fled!... we were told so in Petrograd. Let’s search the Palace.”
Kotzebue almost came to blows with the man. “I tell you the Emperor is here ... I’ll prove it.” He then sent for Count Benckendorff and told him to ask the Emperor to pass through the corridor whilst the soldiers were looking. In a few moments the Emperor came slowly down the corridor ... the officer rushed threateningly towards him, but Kotzebue restrained him, saying, “Well, you——, now you’ve seen the Emperor. Go back to the Soviet, tell them he’s still here, and don’t come again on a fool’s errand.”
The Emperor now walked in the Park every day, and each time he returned greatly depressed at some fresh mark of disrespect. “But,” he said, “it’s very foolish to think that this behaviour can affect my soul—how petty of them to seek to humiliate me by calling me ‘Colonel’ ... after all, it’s a very worthy appellation.”
The Empress was a tragic figure, and, in her invariable Red Cross uniform, she symbolised Pity, in a world which knew not the meaning of the word. Every hour that I knew her, I loved her more.
One day, Kotzebue told me that Titi was ill; in fact, very ill, but I did not like to agitate the Empress until Kotzebue came to ask her to permit me to go with him and telephone from the basement of the Palace. She was greatly distressed to hear that her godson was ill, and equally concerned at not having been told before. “My poor girl, what you must have suffered!” she said.
Kotzebue and I descended into the basement: two soldiers guarded the telephone, and I was informed that I could only be allowed five minutes’ conversation.
“How is the child?” was my first question.
“Very ill, Madame,” answered my maid.