The Empire of Yearning

by Oakland Ross

  “You mean, on your own?” Bazaine raised his eyebrows.

  “I will take the advice of General Márquez, of course. But, yes, I shall command.”

  The emperor fished through his pockets. He produced his cigarette case and pried it open. Diego noticed his fingers were shaking.

  “The truth is,” he said, now with a cigarette quivering between his lips, “I have no direct experience of hostilities. But I was for various years commander of the Austrian navy.”

  Bazaine nodded, as if this made sense. “I take it you expect this war to be waged at sea?”

  “Of course not.”

  “I see,” said Bazaine. He paused. “And what does Your Majesty propose to use in lieu of troops?”

  Maximiliano smiled. “You may not have heard, but I have been promised an army of more than twenty-nine thousand men. Márquez himself told me so.”

  “Indeed?” said Bazaine. “Well, I wish you luck with them. I would counsel Your Majesty, however, that they will on occasion desire to be paid. It is a great defect of the modern soldier, I fear.”

  “Fear not,” said Maximiliano. “My confederates even now are raising a war chest of eleven million pesos.”

  “According to Márquez?”

  “According to Márquez—yes. In addition to the rank-and-file troops and a sound budget, I will have almost two thousand officers, very nearly six thousand horses, and eleven batteries of artillery.”

  Bazaine smiled. “I assume that General Márquez also outlined how he plans to perform this miracle?”

  The emperor did not respond at once. He peered at his cigarette, at its slow spiral of smoke, as though there might be something significant to take note of there. “Bazaine,” he said, “may I speak openly?”

  “Yes.”

  “I mean, in confidence.”

  “I hope Your Majesty has always felt free to confide in me.”

  The emperor slowly inhaled his cigarette, still gazing at Bazaine. His hands were shaking, and his complexion had turned pale. He leaned forward.

  “How did all this happen? This reversal of my fortunes? I have thought about it at great length, and I confess I do not understand. How could everything have gone so hopelessly, so unspeakably, wrong?”

  Bazaine closed his eyes and then opened them. He inched forward in his chair. “Your Majesty,” he said, “I hope you will forgive me for speaking plainly, but your situation is, in fact, remarkably simple. May I ask you a question?”

  “Of course.”

  “Very well. Here in Mexico, where is the locus of power to be found?”

  Maximiliano answered at once. “The throne. In a monarchy, power radiates from the throne.”

  “No,” said Bazaine. “That is not power. That is symbolism, the illusion of power. True power resides with him who has the most guns.”

  The emperor smiled. “Let me remind you that I have been promised an army of more than twenty-nine thousand. And a war chest of eleven million pesos.”

  “So you have. And perhaps you are right. Perhaps you will be provided these great gifts—although I doubt that you will ever set eyes upon anything of the sort. I think these are fictions. Mexicans, in my experience, enjoy the sound of words more than their meaning.” He examined the liver spots on the backs of his hands. He looked up. “But even if you did receive these thousands of troops, these millions of pesos, what of it? They would afford you nothing.”

  “What on earth do you mean?”

  “I mean that, in Mexico, the locus of power does not reside within this country’s borders.”

  “Where then? I suppose you are going to say Paris. Well, don’t bother.”

  “No, not Paris, although briefly it might have been so. That, however, has changed—and this explains Your Majesty’s reversal of fortune. The real seat of power lies to the north, in the United States of America. Once that country threw its weight against us, the game was over. Even if Your Majesty were able to count upon one hundred thousand troops—real troops, French troops, not some Mexican make-believe—the result would be the same. Your throne is lost. The Americans will take it away.” Bazaine shifted still closer to Maximiliano, until their faces were little more than a few centimetres apart. “Your Majesty, forgive me. But I urge you to consider your situation carefully. There is no shame in leaving Mexico. Go back to Europe, where you belong. Where we all belong.”

  CHAPTER 46

  THE IMPERIAL AUTHORITIES HANGED Baldemar Peralta in Mexico City on May 15, 1866. The execution was carried out summarily, without trial. In his guise as the priest named Father Fischer, Salm-Salm was permitted to view the body prior to its interment, and he reported to Diego later that it was not an agreeable sight. The man had obviously been made to endure great suffering before being put to the noose. By the time they killed him, he was probably already dead.

  Diego didn’t wait to hear any more. His mind could not contain the idea of Baldemar’s death. He stormed out into the marble hallways of Chapultepec Castle, Salm-Salm trailing behind him. He meant to confront the emperor. Where in God’s name was he? He wasn’t in his study or in his bedchambers. He had not gone out for a morning hack. Diego finally found him where he had least expected—in the newly inaugurated nursery. It was a makeshift facility assembled on short notice to accommodate the little Agustín, all of three years old. Ángela had signed away her rights to the child in the expectation of saving her brother. Now her brother was dead, and she had lost her son. Diego had known it might end this way. But what else could Ángela or anyone else have done?

  He stormed into the nursery and would have barged straight past the boy but something stopped him. Agustín was Baldemar’s nephew, after all, and here he was, a round-faced child with a strangely grave demeanour. He tottered about in a sailor suit, hands poised on his hips, inspecting things. Wobbling in the middle of the nursery, the boy peered up at Diego.

  “You have just one hand,” the child said. “Where is your other hand? Is it hiding?”

  The emperor watched. He was seated in a large chair with scrolled legs and a high back. There were dark patches under his eyes. “Ah, Serrano …” he said.

  Diego glanced at the child again and then returned his gaze to the emperor. “They hanged Baldemar,” he said, spitting out the words. “Last night, they hanged him. Did you authorize that?”

  “Why are you angry?” said the boy.

  “I can explain,” said Maximiliano. “I—”

  “Please, Your Majesty.” This was Salm-Salm. “Not here, I think. The child.”

  “Let us go to my study.” Maximiliano rose and led the way.

  “Where are you going?” said the boy. “May I come too?”

  He lurched after them, but the governess intervened, scooping Agustín into her arms and carrying him toward a large window overlooking the interior courtyard.

  In his study, the emperor collapsed at his desk, let out a long sigh, and began to stroke his beard. He called out for coffee, then turned toward Diego. “Carlota won’t so much as look at the boy,” he said. “Ill-gotten gains—that’s what she says.”

  “Your Majesty,” said Diego. He struggled to control his voice, but it was impossible. He realized he was stammering. His shoulders trembled. He felt as if his head would burst. “Baldemar Peralta is dead. You promised he would live. This was our agreement. You lied to me. You—”

  “It’s all connected,” said Salm-Salm. He lit a cigarette and blew out the match.

  “I’m sorry?”

  “Everything. It’s all connected. You’ll see.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “It’s true what you say. His Majesty lied to you about your friend. Isn’t that right, Max?”

  The emperor stared at Salm-Salm, apparently not expecting such candour. Then he sighed again and nodded. “Yes, it’s true. I had no choice.”

  “No choice?”

  “There was never any hope of gaining a pardon for this fellow, your friend,” said Salm-Salm. �
�D’you think for a moment that Márquez would hear of it? Besides, he had the emperor’s permission to do as he wished.”

  Diego realized his fist was clenched. He wanted to hit someone. “What are you talking about?”

  “The decree. Max signed the decree. It permits summary execution of anyone suspected of armed activity on behalf of the liberals. You might consider the implications for yourself. Call it free advice.” Salm-Salm sat down, slid back in his seat. “I would think about it, if I were you.”

  “Felix told me about your journey to Texas—you know, to seek out Juárez,” said the emperor. He stirred sugar into his coffee. “It had nothing to do with making peace. You were lying to me.”

  It seemed to Diego that they had all been lying to each other right from the start. He turned to the emperor. “You signed Márquez’s decree? Why, for God’s sake?”

  “Why? Because Márquez insisted. It was his price for turning over the boy.”

  He didn’t need to say more. Diego understood perfectly well. The emperor was afraid of Márquez. It had been true ever since that evening in the billiards room when the general had humiliated him in public. Perhaps it had been true even before that night.

  “A necessary evil,” said Salm-Salm. “These lies. All this subterfuge. They’re all a necessary evil. In a better world, it might be different. But this is the world we have. This is the way we live.”

  “Not Baldemar Peralta. Not now.”

  Salm-Salm grimaced and inclined his head, acknowledging what was patently true. Not Baldemar Peralta. Not now.

  Diego waited, his breath still short, his heart still thudding in his chest. Then he turned and left the room. He made straight for the nursery, not entirely sure what he meant to do. He could not leave the boy there. But already several guards had been posted at the entrance. They would not let him pass. He made for his own chambers and packed what little he would need. In the stables, a groom saddled his horse and led her out into the courtyard. Diego swung up into the saddle and rode toward the gate. Once there, he halted and raised his only hand, ready to slam it against the wooden portal, hard as he could. But something made him stop. It wasn’t worth it. He took up the reins again, kicked his heels, and cantered away from Chapultepec Castle, back to Mexico City and his lodgings near La Ciudadela. He expected never to look upon Maximiliano again. That debt was paid.

  CHAPTER 47

  “THE EMPRESS CALLED FOR YOU.” The new porter stood in the doorway of Diego’s lodgings. “She was here not half an hour ago.”

  It was still early in the day, and Diego had just returned from a morning outing to visit Ángela. She had recently returned to the capital, for there was no reason to remain in hiding any longer. She had lost everything. What Diego hoped was that Maximiliano would quash the adoption and return the child to its mother, but he had seen no sign of that. Now the empress? Why would she seek him out here? He glowered at the porter. “You’re sure?”

  “She left a message.” The porter put back his shoulders and cleared his throat. “The empress extends her respects and wishes to inform don Diego Serrano that she will return at half past ten o’clock of the morning.”

  The man proffered a note left by the empress, along with a small bundle of other letters that had arrived in that morning’s post.

  Diego took the mail and gave the man a coin. He entered his lodgings and closed the door, then wandered over to his writing table. His mail contained a letter, badly weathered and soiled, that bore the letterhead of a U.S. newspaper, the Boston Journal. Diego tore it open, and out spilled a newspaper clipping and a handwritten note. It was from J.S. Bartlett, the customs agent and journalist in Franklin, Texas. Both the clipping and the letter contained news that the president of the United States, Abraham Lincoln, had been shot on the night of April the fourteenth during a theatrical performance. He died the following day. Bartlett expressed the view that this event, though of historic and tragic significance in his country, was unlikely to have much effect on events in Mexico. As before, the French would leave. The death of a president could not change that. Diego knew little of American presidents. Mainly, he marvelled at the speed with which the letter had travelled.

  Diego reached for the next letter. He broke the wax seal and pulled the envelope open. He slid the missive out and saw that it was from Beatríz—fully three pages, bursting with ideas, impressions, and opinions. She wrote at length about the monarch butterflies that fluttered among the trees in the garden each morning. In the fall, they arrived. And in the spring, they departed. Where did they go? How long and how arduous was their journey? They seemed such fragile creatures. And yet was this not the way of life—that the most fragile among us were the ones most obliged to be strong? Halfway through reading the letter, Diego rose from his seat and wandered over to the casement window. He pushed the jalousies outward, letting the afternoon light flood the room.

  He settled himself in his customary place of contemplation, the window’s deep sill, a vantage point that provided a clear view of the street. He returned his attention to Beatríz’s letter. She wrote that she had heard of Baldemar’s death, and she wished to console her friend for his loss. She knew he must be grieving deeply and wanted him to know she would do whatever was in her power to ease his suffering. But she worried that there was little she could do. Sad to say, some sorrows had to be faced alone. Still, she longed to offer him what little comfort she could. At the same time, she wondered what had become of little Agustín—to whom she had become greatly attached—and urged Diego to send her news. Finally, she declared that she had lately taken up the card game known as conquian and suggested he consider doing the same. She found it an excellent means of escape from worry and trouble. Maybe, one day, the two of them would play.

  Diego read these lines and then reshuffled the leaves in order to read them again. Just then, he heard a commotion in the street—the empress’s return. He didn’t wait for her carriage to appear. Instead, he slid the letter into the side pocket of his jacket. He climbed to his feet, fetched his hat, and made his way outdoors, where sundry pedestrians were picking their way through the ruts and puddles that littered the avenue.

  The empress’s carriage—an elegant black coach-and-four bearing the imperial crest on its sides—swayed on the cobbles, and a quartet of horses pawed and shifted in their traces. One of the liveried coachmen sprang down to open the carriage door. The empress emerged, blinking in the morning sunshine, like a bejewelled butterfly, wings outspread. A small guard of hussars reined their horses into formation around the carriage.

  One might have thought that Carlota’s arrival would arouse some flurry of excitement on the street. But no one other than Diego seemed to take much interest in the spectacle at all.

  “You there,” she called out. She poked at the air with her parasol. “That’s right. You.”

  A youngish man in a small bowler hat halted, turned, and looked at the empress with an almost bemused expression.

  “Yes. You.” Carlota stepped down onto the broken and uneven cobbles and advanced a pace or two. “Do you not recognize your monarch? Do you not know who I am?”

  The man said nothing.

  “Have you no tongue? Are you mute? Do you not understand plain Spanish when it is spoken to you? Are you human or beast? Speak, man. Answer me.”

  The man nodded. “Spanish—yes. I speak Spanish.”

  “Then reply to a question when it is put to you. Do you, or do you not, know who I am?”

  “You are Mamá Carlota …” He hesitated. This disparaging term was in common usage now. “I mean, the Empress Carlota.”

  “So you do know.” Carlota raised her parasol against the sun’s rays and snapped it open. She set it upon her shoulder and stepped toward the man. “And are the gentlemen of this country in the habit of wearing their hats in the presence of empresses?”

  The man reached up and briefly tipped his hat in Carlota’s direction. “Begging your pardon,” he said. He turned and saunte
red away, leaving the empress speechless in his wake.

  Diego watched him go. If the empress was offended, he didn’t much care. Since Baldemar’s death, it was as if the scales had fallen from his eyes. These Europeans—all of them—were an affront to Mexico. It didn’t matter which side they took, or professed to take, whether conservative or liberal. They had no place here. Mexico must find its own way. Now when he looked in a mirror—saw the darkness of his skin—he was unashamed. He was proud. He was Mexican, no less than Benito Juárez or Beatríz Sedano or Baldemar Peralta.

  Still, here was the empress, and he wondered what she could possibly want with him, after all that had happened. He stepped out of the shadows and into the morning light.

  CHAPTER 48

  “DAMNED IMPERTINENCE.” The empress glared out the carriage window. “Damned bloody impertinence.”

  She and Diego were seated side by side, riding in the passenger compartment of her conveyance as it lurched along the rain-gouged street and the heaving cobbles. He said nothing. He simply waited while the woman recovered her composure. First she coughed into a silk handkerchief. Then she took several deep breaths. Finally, she said she was aghast at this news concerning the withdrawal of Napoleon’s troops. One might have expected it, a bare-faced betrayal, but that was little preparation for the shock when it came.

  Diego nodded but did not speak. It had been several weeks since the withdrawal had begun, and still it seemed Chapultepec Castle was in a turmoil. Some courtiers had already fled, others were on the brink of fleeing, while still others were biding their time, waiting to see which way their fortunes tended.