preserve

Suppose Shakespeare had been knocked on the head some dark night in Sir Thomas Lucy's preserves, the world would have wagged on better or worse, the pitcher gone to the well, the scythe to the corn, and the student to his book; and no one been any the wiser of the loss.

No one can argue with that—neither the Army Commander nor Zhilinsky nor even the Grand Duke. That is the Emperor’s preserve. The Emperor says France must be saved. We can only do his bidding.