his prescriptions, be they medical or diplomatic? Lestocq had,
sometimes, provided medicines that seemed to be effective against
the mild complaints from which she suffered, but his political ex-
hortations fell flat. Elizabeth had stopped listening; she was
< 141 >
stony in her resentment. All that La Chétardie managed to secure,
with all his maneuvering, was the opportunity to have a private
audience with her. He went in with the intention of redeeming
himself with a few smooth words and charming smiles, but this
time he hit a wall of icy scorn. Elizabeth assured him that she in-
tended to cool Russia’s relations with Versailles, while preserving
her own regard and friendly feelings for a country that had shown
itself incapable of appreciating her favorable disposition towards
the French culture. La Chétardie withdrew, empty-handed and
heavy of heart.
The ambassador’s personal situation was further worsened,
at that very moment, by Frederick II’s abrupt about-face; he had
turned his back on France, and begun to get closer to Austria.
Now La Chétardie could no longer count on Mardefeld, the Prus-
sian ambassador, to support his efforts to conclude a pact be-
tween France and Russia. His cause was lost. . . or was it? He sud-
denly had the idea of giving the throne of Courland, that had been
freed up the previous year when Bühren was disgraced and exiled,
to someone who was close to France — specifically, to Maurice of
Saxony. And then one could go one step further — miracles are
always possible on the banks of the Neva, cradle of madmen and
poets! — and suggest that Saxony ask for Elizabeth’s hand. If, via
a French ambassador, the empress of Russia were to be married to
the most brilliant military chief in the service of France, all of yes-
terday’s minor affronts would evaporate like the morning dew. A
political alliance between the two states would be replicated in a
sentimental alliance that would make the union unassailable.
Such a marriage would represent an unprecedented triumph, for
the diplomat and for peace.
Resolving to bet everything on this last card, La Chétardie
went after Maurice of Saxony; he had entered Prague as a con-
queror, at the head of a French army, just a few months before.
< 142 >
Without revealing to him his precise plans, he urged Saxony to
come quickly to Russia where, he claimed, the tsarina would be
very happy to receive him. Enticed by this prestigious invitation,
Maurice of Saxony could not say no. He soon arrived in Moscow,
still glowing with his military successes. Elizabeth, who had long
since guessed what was behind this unexpected visit, had some
fun with this semi-gallant, semi-political rendezvous dreamt up
by the incorrigible French ambassador. Maurice of Saxony was a
handsome man and a fine talker; she was charmed by this belated
suitor that La Chétardie had pulled from his sleeve. They danced
together, and chatted for hours on end, in private; Elizabeth
strolled about town at his side, dressed in men’s clothes; watched
the “commemorative” fireworks with him, and sighed languor-
ously by the moonlit windows of the palace; but neither she nor
he expressed the least sentiment that might commit them for the
future. They allowed themselves to enjoy a pleasant game of flir-
tation, as a respite from their daily lives, both knowing that this
exchange of smiles, intimate looks and compliments would lead to
nothing. La Chétardie fanned the coals in vain; the fire would not
take. After a few weeks of playing at love, Maurice of Saxony left
Moscow to shape up his now sloppy and disorganized army,
which was rumored to be on the verge of evacuating Prague.
As he headed out to achieve his destiny as a great soldier in
the service of France, he wrote love letters to Elizabeth praising
her beauty, her majesty, and her grace, evoking one “particularly
successful” evening, a certain “white moiré gown,” a certain sup-
per where it was not the wine that was intoxicating, the night-
time ride around the Kremlin . . . She read the letters, melted, and
was a little bit saddened to find herself alone again after the exal-
tation of this artificial courtship. When Bestuzhev advised her to
enter into an alliance with England (a country that, in the opinion
of the empress, had the flaw of too often being hostile to Ver-
< 143 >
sailles’ policies), she replied that she would never be the enemy of
France, “for I am too much beholden!” Whom could she have had
in mind, in making a pronouncement that so exposed her intimate
feelings? Louis XV, whom she had never met, to whom she had
been promised in marriage only by chance and who so often had
betrayed her confidence? The crafty La Chétardie who, likewise,
was about to leave her? Her obscure governess, Mme. Latour, or
the part-time tutor, Mr. Rambour, who in her youth at Ismailovo
had taught her the subtleties of the French language? Or Maurice
of Saxony, who penned such beautiful love letters but whose
