by Oakland Ross
“Damn that man,” she said. She meant Napoleon. “I knew he could not be trusted. I said as much to Max at the outset. My father did as well. But there was no choice. What else could we do? Nothing.”
It wasn’t true. There was much they could have done. They could have remained on the Dalmatian shores and never set foot anywhere in Mexico. The Europeans were not wanted here. But what was the point in belabouring this any longer? Surely their future was manifest now. They must leave. Diego listened as the empress railed on about the deceitfulness of men. The chaotic scenery of Mexico City rattled past them, the bright, incongruous showers of bougainvillea, the pools of fetid water, the carriages and donkey carts, the earnest vendors, the mournful pordioseros, as the beggars were called on account of their guttural chant. Por Dios. Por Dios, señor …
The imperial carriage looped back and forth through the streets, up one avenue, down another. Evidently, the empress had no particular destination in mind. She glared out the window for a time, then turned and looked at him.
“Max means to abdicate,” she said.
This caught Diego by surprise. “I thought Márquez was raising an army. Twenty-nine thousand men, I think.”
“Márquez is a liar and a murderer.” She shook her head. “He won’t stand by us, not in the end. We need Napoleon on our side. I am determined to achieve it.”
Diego recalled a previous conversation with Carlota in which she had assessed her situation and that of her husband in the most realistic of terms. They would have to leave Mexico. Their reign was at an end. Somehow, her mind had changed.
“I shall go to Paris. I shall speak to Napoleon. Reason shall prevail. But, meanwhile, Max must remain here to keep our throne secure.”
In a low voice, quivering with conviction, she told Diego that she could not bear the prospect of abdication. She would rather die. Yes, die. Diego listened to her words but also to the tremor in her voice. It was impossible to doubt what she said, even though he could not truly understand it. Her conviction was something outside his own experience, a need he could not fathom. A throne was a necessity to her, it seemed, like water or air to him. At the same time, he sensed a manic quality in her voice, and he wondered—not for the first time—if she were entirely sane. He had heard her outbursts before and had thought them evidence of a high-spirited personality, nothing more. Now this intensity of hers seemed less than stable, almost like madness.
She said, “You must help me.”
“How?”
“By talking to Max. He’ll listen to you.”
“I don’t think he will.”
“Nonsense. He respects you. He finds you sagacious. He thinks you are possessed of some native Mexican wisdom. You were his first true Mexican friend, you know. He imagines the soil speaks through you.” She gave a short, bitter laugh. “It might be madness, but he will listen to you.”
Diego turned and stared out the window. “I owe him nothing.”
“Perhaps not. But—”
“For a time, I did,” he said. He was thinking of Baldemar, but that was done now. Baldemar was in his grave, and the debt was void. “For a time, I thought I owed your husband everything. I don’t think so anymore. Besides, I am sure His Majesty can make up his own mind. I—”
“His Majesty,” she broke in, “can do no such thing. I must face the truth. His Majesty is a weak and shallow man. He means well but only because he believes that by meaning well he will make others like him better. Beyond this, he has no fixed principles. He will always do as others wish.”
Her words were harsh, but Diego appreciated their truth. It might be that the man possessed other, more admirable qualities—he did possess them and in abundance—but they did not matter now.
The empress continued. “I am convinced that I can have this decision revoked, this withdrawal of France’s troops. It will not be easy, but I am sure that Napoleon will relent once the case is put to him directly. But first I must persuade Max to remain behind as emperor. For that, I require your help. I—”
“What about Agustín?”
“Agustín?”
“Ángela’s son.”
The empress’s shoulders slumped, and she put up her hands in a gesture of helplessness. She shook her head. “I have tried. But Max is adamant on this question.” She sighed. “But, very well, I shall try to persuade him. I will persuade him.” She turned back to Diego, fixed her attention squarely upon him, summoning every last gram of her authority. “This, then, will be our bargain. I shall see to the child. You must see to Max. If you tell him to stay, it will be as if all Mexico had told him to do so. You have my word that he will receive you. He will listen to you. I implore you to help. I …”
Carlota’s voice trailed off, and what happened next was almost beyond Diego’s comprehension. The empress fumbled with the ties on the curtains, and the velvet fabric fell shut. A grey darkness filled the carriage. The empress pressed close against him. The scent of her cologne rose, drifted on the currents of her body’s heat, swelled around him. Her décolletage suddenly released, and her bosom spilled against his chest. Her arms ventured around him, grasping, reaching. Her lips sought his. One of her hands probed below his waist, searched for him there.
For a moment, he felt himself surrendering to this bewildering seduction. He was in a dream, his blood suddenly racing despite himself. And then the sensation stopped. He owed this woman nothing, and he would owe her nothing. He pushed her away, reached up and pounded with his fist on the ceiling of the carriage. “¡Pare, chofer! ¡Pare!”
Nothing happened, and so he pounded on the ceiling again.
The coach tottered to a halt. Diego turned back to the empress, who was huddled in a corner of the carriage, her face barely discernible in the half-darkness.
“Your Majesty …” he began. But he could think of nothing further to say, and so he said nothing. He pushed open the carriage door and clambered out into the blinding midday light.
He found himself on the cobbles of some unknown street in some unfamiliar section of the city, and he watched as the black carriage creaked into motion and rattled away, kicking up waves of coppery dust. The conveyance was flanked by the half-dozen hussars on their tall European mounts, three to each side. They cantered away in unison, and he watched them go. A woman’s hand emerged from the window of the carriage grasping a hat that then sailed through the vivid morning light. The hat spun on the currents of the air and gradually descended until it came to a rest beside a mound of litter. Diego waited until the carriage was gone and the dust had cleared, and then he walked over to his hat. He reached down and picked it up, slapped it against his pant leg, and set it on his head.
He realized now that he would indeed seek out the emperor a last time. If he had influence, as Carlota said, then he would use it—but not as she had proposed. He turned the opposite way the carriage had taken and began to walk in what he thought was the direction of his home.
CHAPTER 49
DIEGO APPROACHED THE EMPEROR, who was observing the view from Chapultepec Castle, as if rehearsing the role of a general in command of his troops. He had a leather case looped to his waist belt to contain a spyglass. Just now, however, he had the instrument out and was peering through it. He did not have the appearance of a man who was about to abandon the country and decamp for Europe.
That was why Diego had come, to use whatever influence he still possessed to persuade the emperor to leave for his own good and for Mexico’s. Maximiliano was standing on the same balcony from which in former times he had liked to survey the construction of el Paseo de la Emperatriz, the great boulevard that would connect the castle to Mexico City. The work was still unfinished, and God knew whether it would ever be resumed. Maximiliano lowered his telescope and gazed unaided to the south, where the broad cobbled terrace was crammed with soldiers and tents. The castle’s grounds had been converted into a garrison.
“Ah, Serrano,” he said. He holstered the spyglass and greeted his guest in the Mexican fashion, with
an abrazo—a cold and stiff embrace in this case.
A week had passed since Diego’s encounter with the empress. He wasted little time on pleasantries. He told Maximiliano that it was not too late for him to abandon Mexico. The liberals under Juárez were certain to triumph. If His Majesty accepted his fate, the war would end sooner, with fewer lives lost and much suffering averted. Besides, if he remained and were to be taken prisoner, he would certainly be put to death.
“On what grounds?”
Diego squinted in the highland sun. It shocked him that the man, even now, so misunderstood the nature of war, the darkness of it. He tried to explain. In the eyes of liberals, the emperor’s chief crime—apart from simply having come to this country—was the decree authorizing the summary dispatch of those who fought on the republican side. Already hundreds of men, perhaps thousands, had been put to death on the authority of this law. They included Baldemar Peralta. Among liberals, the edict was known as the Black Decree. It would not be forgiven, and Maximiliano would be held responsible.
“But that was all Márquez’s doing. He drafted the thing. It was his idea. I had nothing to do with it.”
“Your Majesty signed the document,” said Diego. “Or have I misunderstood?”
The emperor rested both elbows on the chest-high stone balustrade. “It’s all moot anyway, as I will not be taken prisoner. We shall fight, and we shall win. Look.” He waved toward the rows of tents assembled on the terrace below, the bustle of men and horses. “My army grows by the day.”
Diego shook his head. It was well known that three liberal armies were already advancing on the capital. The French had withdrawn, and the Americans were rearming Mexico’s liberals—clandestinely, but with a real effect. If the emperor meant to fight, it would be better to leave the capital now, while there was still time. The city was badly situated and impossible to defend. He said so.
“Perhaps,” said the emperor. “But I await the return of the French troops to our side. Most of them are still in Mexico, you know. They’re camped out in Veracruz. Before long, their orders will change. The empress has already departed for France. She will explain the truth, and Napoleon will reverse himself. We have only to hold on till then.”
“She has already left?”
“Yes. Three days ago. With luck, she has already put Veracruz in her wake.”
“And the boy? Agustín? Surely now you will give him back to his mother?”
“Out of the question. The papers have all been signed. He shall be emperor one day. I’ve been more than fair. The woman is set for life.”
Diego did not give up. Ángela would not accept as much as a claco in compensation, he said. She must have her child. But the emperor refused to listen. He turned to observe the activity below. It seemed something was bothering him and, after a while, he spoke.
“Old friend …” He removed his hat and reached up with his free hand to worry at his brow. “What you just said about the question of execution …”
“Yes?”
“Surely Juárez would never approve such a thing. He and I are of a single mind. We hold the same beliefs. It is absurd that we are even at war. He would never countenance my death.”
Diego closed his eyes for several moments and then opened them again. He said, “Yes, Your Majesty. He would.”
“He might send me back to Europe at worst.”
Diego’s throat felt dry. He swallowed with difficulty and debated what to say. “Your Majesty,” he said, “please consider your situation carefully. I have said all that I can.” He turned and took his leave of the emperor of Mexico.
The main force of the imperial army departed Mexico City several days later, on a cool February morning, and Diego watched the retreat. He had found room on the terrace of the Monte de Piedad, which stood across the vast plaza from the Imperial Palace. The emperor rode at the column’s head alongside Márquez. The procession included a large wooden cart pulled by a single draft horse, and Diego thought he could identify its contents—large folds of taffeta, much roping, and a boxy wicker basket large enough to contain two or three men. It was the emperor’s balloon.
Meanwhile, the imperial army stretched out behind its leaders, consisting of some nine thousand men, mainly infantry, but with a complement of cavalry and artillery. This small, ill-equipped corps fell far short of the force Márquez had promised to raise, and Diego wondered how long it could survive. It was known that the emperor’s army was bound for Querétaro, to the north, where they would dig in and make a stand for as long as they could, hoping the French would rejoin them in time, once Napoleon had changed his mind.
The procession also included members of the emperor’s private entourage. Diego could make out his valet and his chef, both mounted upon stout, shaggy ponies. Bombelles and a guard of hussars flanked their commander. Salm-Salm, easily identifiable by his wide-brimmed scarlet hat, rode not far behind. The loyal Doktor Basch slouched along atop a slowpoke bay horse with a sway back. Nearly all of the other European courtiers had remained behind, to potter about the hallways and the empty salons of Chapultepec Castle, though they too were on the brink of flight. Almost all the furniture and luxuries had been sold to raise money for the imperial army. The rest had been looted by their Mexican servants.
Diego lit a cigarette with his one good hand, rested his weight against the low wall that bordered the azotea, and watched the emperor and his army withdraw from Mexico City.
In a few minutes, the imperial forces had all but vanished from sight, receding toward the city’s northern gates. A smattering of onlookers descended from the rooftops surrounding the Zócalo, and Diego joined them. The streets below soon bustled once again with beggars and pariah dogs, itinerant vendors, and sturdy Mexican coaches. It was as if the emperor and his army had never passed this way, as if these past few years had never happened, as if Maximiliano had never reigned at all.
CHAPTER 50
LIFE IS RARELY AS simple as anyone expects, and Diego’s rupture with Maximiliano was no different. He had thought he would be glad to be quit of the man. He had thought it would be a relief to take one side and renounce the other, to throw in his lot with the forces that backed Juárez and furthered the cause of progress and reform. And he was right. It was a relief.
But it was also more complicated than that. He found that he missed Maximiliano—not the monarch or the sovereign or the politician, but the man himself. He missed their early mornings at Chapultepec, when it almost seemed they ruled the world, just two men in a candle-lit study considering petitions and proposals, offers and counter-offers that came from every part of Mexico and all corners of the globe. During those sessions, Maximiliano was for the most part the epitome of sobriety, and yet he would sometimes lower his guard and perform hilarious imitations of Carlota’s father, the King of Belgium, or of his own older brother, the despised Franz Josef, or even of Labastida, the archbishop.
Diego missed their morning rides together out to the canals of Xochimilco, their breakfasts alone on a small private patio at Chapultepec, their carriage journeys into the city. He recalled that night in Coyoacán when Maximiliano had gone among the common folk and, like them, had raced back and forth amid the whoosh and collision of rockets. He remembered the sensations that had almost overwhelmed him that first time they’d met, on that long-ago afternoon by the porte cochère at the Imperial Palace. From the outset, Maximiliano had treated him not as an equal—far from that—but as a respected confederate, no less deserving of respect than any other man. It was impossible for him to think of Maximiliano without fondness, despite all that had occurred.
Diego could readily imagine the horrors that were unfolding now. The siege of Querétaro had begun soon after the emperor’s arrival there. Almost at once, reports began to trickle back to the capital concerning the worsening conditions in that highland city. After decades of almost ceaseless war, Mexicans knew perfectly well what a siege entailed. It would not be long before the imperial army would run out of
conventional sustenance, and so the long, dismal slide would begin. At first, men would slaughter their horses and sup upon their bones. When the horses were nearly gone, it would be time to butcher the mules. Still later, dogs would be put to the knife. Standards of hygiene would decline, slowly at first and then disastrously. The liberal armies that now surrounded the city would stop up the aqueducts with corpses. Maladies would flourish. Inevitably, the townspeople would suffer alongside the emperor’s army. Children would lose their fingernails to malnutrition, their skin would peel away in large flakes, their hair would turn orange. Then they would go blind.
But Diego knew the war was being waged not by siege alone. The republican side had mounted artillery batteries on the city’s outskirts and pounded the centre of Querétaro daily, from first light till dark. Regular skirmishes broke out between the two sides, with no decisive result. This standoff had dragged on for days at first and now for weeks. Diego knew the republicans could have unleashed an all-out assault upon the city, but that would be a perilous enterprise, costly in lives—and, worse, it might fail. By contrast, a siege was all but assured of eventual success, but it was a cruel and demonic enterprise, exacting a terrible price not only from the enemy but also from the innocent.
Diego knew of a third option. The republicans could decapitate the enemy by seizing its leaders, by taking Maximiliano and General Márquez prisoner or else by killing them in battle. But it seemed they were unsure of the exact whereabouts of Maximiliano or Márquez, or their officers. Lacking that intelligence, the republicans pressed on with their siege. Either the enemy would surrender or he would starve.
Diego could imagine the conditions by now prevailing in Querétaro—the disease, the hunger, the stench. Matters would only grow worse. Tens of thousands more would have to die before this war would end. It was Beatríz who finally persuaded him to act. On a morning early in May, she appeared at his lodgings near La Ciudadela. She had journeyed from Cuernavaca in order to tell him what he already knew but had been trying not to face. He did not want to be the one to take this measure, but he was left with no choice.