Angelopolis A Novel Page 0,38

had come to Russia from France at eighteen years of age and met my father, a stableman who cared for the horses of the tsar’s military regiment, the Yellow Cuirassier, soon after. My parents fell in love and married. They lived and worked in Tsarskoye Selo, where Nikolai and Alexandra took refuge from the more festive life of the royal court in St. Petersburg. The imperial family preferred to live a quiet, domestic existence, albeit one filled with luxuries that ordinary people could hardly imagine.

“My mother—who had been born and raised in Paris—taught the grand duchesses French. She once recounted her memory of assisting the girls with an introduction to the children of a high-ranking French diplomat. The meeting was unusual—the children of kings rarely met the children of diplomats—but whatever the reason for the introduction, my mother was summoned to the dining room and asked to stay near the grand duchesses, to assess their language skills and observe their manners. My mother remained with the duchesses, listening to them speak. She was impressed with the girls’ social graces, but she was even more taken by the treasures displayed throughout the room. Of particular interest were the jeweled Easter eggs given each year to the tsarina by her husband. Positioned in primary locations, they glittered in the sunlight, each one unique but retaining a uniform opulence. She could not have known at the time that in a number of years Nikolai would abdicate and their life at Tsarskoye Selo would end. Not in her wildest dreams would my mother have believed that a number of these eggs would end up in her care.”

Verlaine stole a look at Vera, wondering how all of this was striking her. It seemed that her dubious theories about Easter eggs and royal egg births could be supported by the tsarina’s collection. But Vera’s expression was as impassive as it had been upon his arrival at the Hermitage in the hours before dawn. Her feelings were stored away behind the cold pose of scholarly expertise.

Nadia didn’t appear to notice their reactions at all. She continued, her gaze focused upon something in the distance. “The revolution of 1917 and the murder of the royal family in the village of Ekaterinburg on July 17, 1918, turned my parents’ world upside down. In the brief window of time between the tsar’s abdication in March 1917 and the revolution in October and November of 1917, the tsarina, knowing that they were in danger, endeavored to hide some of her more precious treasures. The jewels stayed with the family until the end—indeed, when the family was gunned down, the bullets lodged themselves between diamonds and pearls—but the larger treasures stayed behind. My parents were simple people, hardworking and loyal to the Romanovs, qualities much admired by Alexandra. And so the tsarina entrusted the location of the hidden treasures to my parents.”

“But the palace at Tsarskoye Selo was pillaged,” Vera said, cutting Nadia off. “The royal treasures were confiscated by the revolutionaries and brought to warehouses, where they were photographed, cataloged, and often disassembled before being sold outside of Russia in an attempt to raise capital.”

“Unfortunately, you are correct,” Nadia said. “My parents were helpless to protect the tsar’s belongings, and so they took what they could carry and fled the country, traveling to Finland, where they remained in the service of a Russian in exile until the end of the First World War. Soon after they settled in Paris where, some years later, they opened an antique store called the Russia of Old.”

“They carried all of this?” Verlaine asked, gesturing to the clutter around them.

“Certainly not,” Nadia replied. “These objects have been acquired over a lifetime of collecting. But my parents did smuggle out a number of treasures. They risked much in doing so.”

Verlaine held up the jeweled egg that had brought them to Nadia. “This egg financed your parents’ life in France,” he said.

“Yes,” Nadia said. “The jeweled egg you hold in your hand and the rose-strawberry guilloche enameled Mauve Egg in the portrait—these are just two of the eight eggs my parents brought out of Russia in 1917. The other object was less flashy but no less valuable.” Nadia gestured to the album and then took it between her gnarled hands. “My parents originally believed it to be a remembrance album. These kinds of albums were fairly common in the late nineteenth and early twentieth centuries. Young women would press flowers received on special occasions, especially flowers from suitors—corsages,