Chapter 1173: Russia's Historical Cycle
Zubov hurriedly leaned forward, acknowledging Count Ostermann with a respectful gesture.
"What on earth has made you so furious?" he inquired.
The Count waved his hands forcefully, though he lowered his voice a few notches.
"His Majesty has just decided to enter negotiations with the Persians regarding the division of Transcaucasia. He intends to trade that territory for continued Persian support in our expedition to India."
Zubov’s face darkened instantly. He pressed for more details: "Did you try to persuade His Majesty against this?"
"Of course! Count Kutaisov and General Arakcheyev were both pleading with him, but it was utterly useless. Some even received a taste of the whip for their efforts."
Zubov exchanged a look with Balek. After a few seconds of hesitation, both men turned in unison and strode out of the palace.
Kutaisov was the Tsar’s trusted confidant—if even his words carried no weight, then minor figures like them, who were already out of the Tsar's favor, had no business trying.
On October 26, 1797, a special envoy from Russia arrived in Ganja to open negotiations with the Persian Crown Prince, Abbas Mirza. By this time, the siege of Tbilisi had dragged on for nearly four months. Provisions within the city were almost exhausted, and its fall seemed imminent.
In a hunting ground on the southern outskirts of Saint Petersburg, servants chased a herd of deer with hounds in tow. The shouts of the men and the baying of the dogs soon faded into the distance.
Count Pahlen, the Governor of Saint Petersburg and head of the Secret Police, looked at the thin-haired, slightly pudgy young man beside him. He spoke in a low murmur.
"Your Highness, you have likely heard that Prince Eugene of Württemberg will be arriving in Saint Petersburg next week."
The Crown Prince, Alexander Pavlovich, stared at him, nodding with a touch of anxiety. "Yes, I’ve heard. Is there something specific you wish to tell me?"
"Your Highness, I have obtained reliable intelligence. His Majesty the Tsar places great importance on Prince Eugene."
"That is not surprising. He is indeed an exceptional youth."
Prince Eugene of Württemberg was the nephew of Empress Maria Feodorovna, and he was only ten years old.
Count Pahlen scanned their surroundings, his expression turning solemn. "Your Highness, I must tell you the truth. His Majesty has decided to betroth Princess Catherine to him."
He paused, adding weight to his next words: "And after that... he intends to name Prince Eugene as the new heir to the throne!"
Alexander’s eyes widened in shock. "That’s impossible! Why would Father..."
"Because you were raised at the side of Her late Majesty, Catherine II," Pahlen explained. "As you know, the Emperor rejects everything associated with your grandmother. You are caught in the crossfire of that resentment.
"Furthermore, the fact that Catherine II once intended to pass the throne directly to you is something the Emperor has never been able to forgive."
"How could Father do such a thing?!"
"He can, Your Highness," Pahlen said grimly. "Because he is the Tsar. He wields absolute power."
"You’re lying to me. This can't be true!"
"You must trust my intelligence network, Your Highness. I am absolutely certain of this."
Alexander watched with dread as a stag in the distance was driven into a corner by the hounds. It took a long time before he turned back, his voice trembling.
"I... I do not wish to be deposed... Tell me, what should I do?"
"In truth, everyone knows that you are the Tsar chosen by Her Majesty Catherine II," Pahlen said earnestly. "You are brave and wise—the hope God has bestowed upon Russia.
"From the marshals to the common soldiers, from the landowners to the serfs, everyone looks forward to the day of your coronation.
"The Emperor, however, has made a catastrophic mistake.
"To correct this error, there is only one way: he must be forced to abdicate early!"
Alexander looked frightened, waving his hands frantically. "No, how could that be possible?"
Count Pahlen pressed on: "Trust me, Your Highness. All of Russia desires this.
"In fact, I have already consulted with Count Zubov, General Bennigsen, Duke Yashvili, and General Argamakov.
"We will assist you in this endeavor, just as General Orlov once supported Her Majesty Catherine II!"
Alexander’s pupils contracted. He abruptly jerked his horse’s reins and galloped away, leaving behind only a single sentence:
"Do as you see fit. I heard nothing just now."
That afternoon, more than a dozen high-ranking ministers and military officers gathered at Count Pahlen's secret villa in the southern suburbs of Saint Petersburg.
"Our Emperor is throwing the last of the treasury’s gold into Afghanistan. It is a land where we are destined to reap nothing but loss," one general complained.
Zubov immediately chimed in. "It’s not just the treasury; it’s our own pockets. I’ve already 'donated' 10,000 rubles at His Majesty’s request, and yesterday the court sent word demanding another 6,000..."
"I was forced to give 15,000..."
"I gave 30,000!"
Duke Yashvili added, "I hear His Majesty prepares to hand over all the lands south of Tbilisi to the Persians."
"Oh, God!" Valerian Zubov roared, slamming his fist onto the table. "Our soldiers paid for that land with their lives!"
"He has no right to do this!"
"Exactly! This is an act of treason!"
After a round of bitter lamentations, the burly Nikolai Zubov—the eldest of the brothers—drained a large glass of spirits. He suddenly yanked up his shirt, revealing hideous scars across his back.
"That cursed man! I only had a few extra drinks because of the humiliation in Transcaucasia, and he had me lashed ten times!"
The room fell into a sudden silence. Calling the Tsar "cursed" was, after all, a capital offense.
However, Duke Yashvili stood up and began unbuttoning his own coat.
"Look at this! That fellow nearly broke my ribs!"
Hardly anyone present had escaped corporal punishment from Paul I. One by one, they began displaying their injuries, and their labels for the Tsar evolved from "that cursed man" to "that son of a bitch."
After his third glass of vodka, Nikolai Zubov wiped his mouth and bellowed, "I truly want to give that idiot a proper thrashing!"
"Yes, I do too!"
"And me!"
Count Pahlen suddenly spoke up, his voice cutting through the noise.
"Then do it!"
A dozen pairs of eyes instantly fixed on him.
"The Crown Prince has given his consent," Pahlen said, a cold smile curling his lips. "We will make that wretched man sign an abdication decree, and then we will see the Crown Prince crowned."
Duke Yashvili gasped. "You... are you serious?"
"Of course. Are you afraid?"
"I am not afraid! This is a right bestowed upon us by Peter the Great!" Yashvili retorted, puffing out his chest. "I am only concerned with... well, whether we can succeed."
In the last century of Russian history, Peter I, Elizabeth I, and Catherine II had all ascended the throne through coups. Now, it was their turn to help Alexander take his place.
Count Pahlen smiled thinly. "General Argamakov and General Sablukov will both assist us."
Argamakov was Paul I’s Chamberlain, and Sablukov was the commander of the Guards Corps tasked with protecting the palace.
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