The Coronation by Boris Akunin Page B

to lose his head: without dropping his tray, he took two short steps towards the hollowand poured the broth onto the grenade! The fuse went out. The most remarkable thing is that His Majesty, engrossed in his snack, did not even notice this incident and was only surprised at how little broth there was in the cup that was served to him. Kommissarov was awarded a noble title for deflecting the would-be regicide Karakozov’s pistol, but Prokop Sviridovich ended up, as simple folk say, with twice nothing because none of the witnesses – the duty generals and aides-de-camp – bothered to explain anything to the tsar. They were ashamed that a butler had proved pluckier and more resolute than them, and Prokop Sviridovich was not one to boast of his achievements.
    However, this outstanding servant demonstrated even greater bravery on the front of intimate relations. You might say that he saved the peace and tranquillity of the imperial family. On one of the empress’s saint’s days His Majesty committed a serious blunder: as he took her present out of his pocket – it was a ring with a large sapphire in the form of a heart and the empress’s initials – he dropped another ring that was absolutely identical except that it bore the initials of the Princess Tverskaya.
    ‘What’s that, Sandy?’ the empress asked, peering short-sightedly at the small round shape that had gone tumbling across the carpet and taking her lorgnette out of her handbag.
    The sovereign was dumbstruck and had no idea what to say. But Prokop Sviridovich quickly bent down, picked up the ring and swallowed it on the spot, after which he politely explained: ‘I beg your pardon, Your Imperial Highness, I dropped one of my catarrh lozenges. I have been having terrible trouble with my stomach.’
    That’s the sort of man he was. The surgeon Pirogov himself cut the ring out of his stomach later.
    Itwas precisely Prokop Sviridovich’s example that inspired me last yearwhen, as I dare to think, I rescued Georgii Alexandrovich from an almost identical delicate situation involving a letter from the ballerina Snezhnevskaya. Thank God, paper is not sapphire, and so no surgical intervention was required.
    When I joined the honourable company, they were discussing the imminent festivities. Dormidont, who was clearly excited, and no wonder – he did not often have an opportunity to speak in such company – was telling the others something interesting about the sovereign. Foma Anikeevich and Luka Emelyanovich were listening benignly. The Japanese was drinking his tea from the saucer, puffing out his cheeks and goggling wildly. Mademoiselle was nodding politely, but I could see from her eyes that her thoughts were far away – I believe I have already mentioned that, for all her self-restraint, she did not have much control over the expression of her eyes. Mr Freyby was puffing away comfortably on his pipe and leafing through the pages of his book.
    ‘. . . toughen their characters,’ Dormidont was saying just as I walked into the servants’ parlour. When he saw me he sat up respectfully and continued: ‘They themselves are very superstitious, but they want to get the better of destiny, at any price. They deliberately arranged the arrival in Moscowfor an unlucky day, the festival of St Job the Long-Suffering, and the move from the city to the Kremlin for the thirteenth, although it could easily have been earlier. I think it’s all wrong – what point is there in tempting fate? You’ve seen for yourselves how Saint Job’s day turned out yesterday.’ And he gave me an eloquent glance, evidently feeling it was inappropriate to comment in greater detail on the disaster that had overtaken the Green Court.
    ‘What do you say to that, Luka Emelyanovich?’ Foma Anikeevich asked.
    Kirill Alexandrovich’s butler, a stolid and dignified man, thought for a moment and said: ‘Well now, strengthening the will is no bad thing for a monarch. His Majesty could do to have