The Shadow of Great Britain Chapter 1468 - 234: British Jacobins

The snowflakes outside the train window were hitting the glass like scattered grains of salt.

Yakovlev pulled out a silver nose snuff bottle from the inner pocket of his mink coat, the crisp sound of it opening and closing was exceptionally clear in the enclosed space.

"I still rember, it was the winter of 1812, I was with Marshal Kutuzov at Borodino when we t your British observers," the old man suddenly spoke in flawless French, his fingers pinching the dark brown tobacco: "Those gentlen in scarlet uniforms always loved scribbling at the edge of the battlefield, like a flock of crows surrounding carrion."

Arthur slightly clenched his knuckles inside his deer leather gloves. The carriage was filled with the scent of ambergris and vodka, carrying a sowhat smoky sll, which reminded him of a night in London in 1832.

The old nobleman’s glasses glinted coldly in the shadows, like the barrel of a gun aid at his heart.

"Your son is a rare idealist," Arthur responded in Russian, deliberately emphasizing the word "ideal": "Thoughtful and passionate, like the oak in Pushkin’s work that refuses to bow to the blizzard."

"Oak?" Yakovlev suddenly burst into a hoarse laugh, as if he’d heard a most exquisite joke: "In Russia, only the birch knows when to bow. Nine years ago, a group of young nobles swore in front of the Winter Palace to be Russia’s Brutus. And the result? The unluckiest ones lost their heads, while the rest ended up in the Caucasus or Siberia. And the luckiest of them? That would be the man you ntioned, who writes about oaks every day."

Arthur avoided this topic, attempting a different approach: "I heard that you had connections with Napoleon?"

It was clear that Yakovlev was proud of that experience, although he didn’t say so, he was sohow caught by Arthur’s ploy: "Why, do you also have connections with Napoleon?"

"Not at all, when Napoleon was defeated at Waterloo I was only six years old, which is hardly old enough to be considered a lad. At that age, the only person who could attract Napoleon’s attention was probably his son, the King of Ro."

Yakovlev showed a ’I suppose so’ expression, but Arthur’s next words made him change his attitude.

Arthur said, "However, I do have so connection with Napoleon’s nephew, Louis Bonaparte."

"Louis Bonaparte?" Yakovlev pondered for a mont: "Are you talking about Jero’s son, or...?"

"Not Jero’s son, but another brother of Napoleon, the King of the Netherlands’ son, whose grandmother was Napoleon’s forr wife, Josephine."

"Ah..." Yakovlev suddenly realized: "So it’s him, the boy who ushered his uncle’s coffin back from Saint Helena Island to Paris?"

Arthur feigned surprise: "You know about this too?"

Yakovlev poured so of the snuff powder onto the back of his hand, gently rubbing it with his thumb, slowly inhaling: "I made many friends in Paris back in those days, and even now I’ve not lost touch with them. Napoleon being buried at the Paris Military Academy was quite an event; it’d be odd if they hadn’t told ."

Arthur seriously took out a notebook from his coat pocket: "What impressions do you have of Napoleon?"

Yakovlev rubbed his nose wings: "Are you a Napoleon admirer?"

"Not really," Arthur opened the notebook: "But you might have heard that I’m very interested in history, and moreover, I’m a writer. To be honest, I’m considering writing a work about the Napoleonic Wars lately."

"No wonder you’re a student of Dalhousie," Yakovlev had a ’no surprise there’ expression: "I always knew you were a dedicated British Whig Party mber, almost like the British Jacobins. Thank God you were born in Britain. If you were in Russia, you’d likely be in the Caucasus now, not Moscow."

"So you also know I’m British, talking to about Napoleon is no big deal."

"Of course, we can talk about Napoleon, but I have one condition." Yakovlev’s eyes were fixed on Arthur, as if trying to determine if he was lying: "I want you to promise that you’ll stay away from my son."

"Your son?" Arthur joked half-heartedly: "But I heard you’re a bachelor, unmarried and with no son."

"Young man, don’t try to trick ." Yakovlev said with a sullen face: "You know who I’m talking about. Besides, not being married doesn’t an one can’t have children, your idol Napoleon was the sa."

Arthur’s eyes showed a glimr in the shadows: "While I was in Paris, I once saw a docunt, when the coalition forces entered Paris in 1814, Tsar Alexander I personally drafted an amnesty list. There was a special concern column on this amnesty list, since this column only had one person, it left quite a deep impression on . If I rember correctly, the na was Ivan Alekseyevich Yakovlev, conveniently the sa as yours."

The old nobleman’s action of pinching the tobacco suddenly paused, the snuff bottle lid made a crisp clicking sound. The carriage rolled over the icy road surface, the cabin slightly swayed, the sunlight cast by the windows carved out trenches of shadow and light on his face: "Your mory is quite good, how did you see that list?"

Arthur brushed it off lightly: "You know, historians have certain privileges."

"But you’re a Natural Philosopher, not so historian."

"But I don’t think so. In this regard, I’m like Mr. Faraday. Mr. Faraday was originally famous in academia as a chemist, but just because of electromagnetic induction, everyone now considers him an electromagnetic scientist, forgetting his contributions in the field of chemistry."