The Last Prince of the Mexican Empire

by C. M. Mayo

  The Child of Mexico.

  In the Tuileries, that last night before they left Paris, the Child of France said that he should like to visit Mexico.

  Charlotte took his hand and patted it. She said, “We should be very happy to have you visit our country.”

  His beautiful face broke into an enormous smile, and he puffed his little chest. “I should like to climb its tallest mountain!”

  Charlotte said, “The Pico de Orizaba is very tall, and you are very brave to think of it. One day I am sure you will.”

  Eugénie said, “Say good night, Louis.”

  “Good night,” the little boy said, with all the seriousness of a Siamese ambassador.

  Now . . . The Prince of Mexico is just as attractive a child—or more so, for he looks like a little Anglo-Saxon, golden haired and rosy-cheeked. (And he has healthy lungs, that’s for bloody sure.)

  Well, and has Bazaine not punched Juárez out of Chihuahua and right up to the U.S. border? One might as well claim that Juárez has abandoned Mexican territory—in which case Juárez could no more call himself “President of the Republic of Mexico” than President of—

  One sits bolt upright. One shall proclaim it, let it be printed in La Sociedad:“JUÁREZ FLEES TO THE UNITED STATES.” And, how about this morsel: “Juárez has set up his government in exile at . . .”

  Oh, what, what, what . . . Santa Fe! Ha, that’s better than a hundred warehouses packed to the rafters with gunpowder!

  Those scoundrely Juaristas lob lies, well, one can smack that same ball right back! And on top of it all, yes, then it makes perfect sense: Anyone found with a weapon shall be considered a bandit and may be shot. One shall sign that decree.

  But one is not bloody-minded. To kill or be killed?!

  However . . . What if . . . this decree were to soften up Juárez, make him see that there is nothing in it for him but to come to terms with one’s government? This brass-knuckled punch—or, an open-armed welcome for him and his sympathizers? To tame a beast, one must first feed it. One shall offer Juárez a nice, fat, polished apple. Why not—for, he is reputed to be a talented lawyer—the presidency of the Supreme Court?

  Ah ha! As ever, one has the wings to soar above mundane paradigms. Charlotte has always said, You are a man who was born to govern.

  And Charlotte, as ever, is right: one must tell Kuhacsevich, straightaway, to procure a child’s seat for the carriage.

  November 9, 1865

  HER MAJESTY, EN ROUTE TO YUCATAN

  At highway’s edge a burro lifts its head from a feast of hay. Through a stand of eucalyptus, sunlight splinters the tile roof of a stable. A broken wall, a broad yellow meadow, and Mexico City, distant shining domes, disappears.

  Like startled crows the days have flown off; already the year has plunged into an unusually chilly autumn. In a chocolate brown frock she has not worn since two winters ago in Vienna, her shoulders swaddled in a mink-trimmed cashmere shawl, coiffure snugly fitted with a black velvet cloche, and her face behind its veil, Her Majesty the Empress of Mexico—en route to Veracruz, from which port she shall depart for Yucatan—proceeds into the mountains over a highway that is badly rutted. It has not, evidently, been improved. These jolts could knock the teeth out of one’s head, and this pace, pour Dieu, would try the patience of a Saint Marina!

  Equally atrocious, communications have been flowing at the speed of cold treacle. Telegraph lines have been strung through these mountains and down over the hot lands all the way to the Gulf at Veracruz, but even when none has been cut, or a pole or two knocked down or bombed, messages can take hours longer to arrive than they should, because a number of the operators hold them up. On at least this one thing Her Majesty can agree with General Bazaine: a good number of them are Juaristas. They ought to be hauled out and shot. And then, the steamships from La Havana, New Orleans, New York—and the one from Saint Nazaire? The mailbags might as well be setting out across, as Max so aptly puts it, a lake of oblivion.

  Last night, the eve of her departure, she had received the Belgian consul’s wire from Veracruz (sent more than seven hours previously!) that the Manhattan had docked, and the New York Herald reports that King Leopold of the Belgians has fallen gravely ill. But of what? Is it his lungs? Kidney stones? The news is four weeks old. Perhaps by now, à la grace de Dieu, Papa has recovered and is at this moment at his desk in Brussels, working through his dispatch boxes. But for worry, she could not sleep, and this morning, her eyes aching with exhaustion, when she should have been thrilled to be setting off, she feels like a watch on a fob, swung this way, then that: Is Papa well? Is Papa dying?

  Has he been poisoned?

  It was also yesterday—not until then!—that the mail that had come on the packet from Saint Nazaire ten days previously, finally arrived in Mexico City. Letters from Paris were dated mid-October; those from Vienna and Trieste as long ago as September 27—ancient history! And oh, would that among all that flurry of paper there had been one jot from Papa.

  Her face behind her veil flushing with shame, she thinks how deeply, how horribly wrong she was to have complained in any way about Papa’s letters. She had always found reading his handwriting a trial (“such scrawls, it might as well be Urdu,” she’d snipped to Max). That last letter had taken Max the better part of an hour to decipher. Back in August, Max had queried Papa, what would he think of paying agents in Washington to spread word of how splendidly things are going? Because to Max, and his minister of foreign affairs, it had seemed a capital idea to counter the Juaristas’ propaganda, which is prejudicing not a few members of the U.S. Congress against recognition of the empire, when that recognition would be so nourishing for the trade and investment that Mexico desperately needs. U.S. Secretary of State Seward, a New York lawyer with the nose and all the manners of a macaw, has been rattling his sabers with the “Monroe Doctrine,” an absurd assertion that the United States should hold sway over the whole of the Americas! Papa had answered Max, In America the only thing that counts is success. But then, Papa’s handwriting did look something like Urdu. After she had squinted at the letter a very long time, it seemed to her that Papa might have written, Everything else is poetry and a waste of money.

  But in yesterday’s mail, no word from Papa, and the only letters from family and friends were a nasty surprise. They were all in a twizzle about Max’s October 3rd Black Decree, that anyone found with a weapon can no longer be considered an “enemy combatant” and may be shot. Well, what is Max supposed to do, coddle terrorists? His October 3rd Decree was entirely justified, as Juárez had abandoned Mexico (anyway, it is credible to claim so, it will happen any moment now) and therefore, these people have no business bearing arms. Bandits and murderers, vermin, they should be shot! Max’s responsibility is to save lives. His October 3rd Decree was the only responsible course of action! This is the sad reality of necessity in Mexico. One has tried, one has truly tried to convey in one’s private correspondence the nature of the evils of this terrorism, which is so pernicious, so similar, really, to the kinds of things France itself has had to confront in the past. Alas, one’s talents are unworthy of the task. In his letter Uncle Joinville, who has a habit of reading liberal newspapers, wanted to know, what was this “atrocity,” as he called it, 450 so-called “bandits” shot by firing squad in Zacatecas? One is fond of Uncle Joinville, but that was an impertinence.

  And Grand-maman remains flustered about the honors Max conferred upon the Iturbide family back in September, and also, Grand-maman once again made a lot of hurtful criticism about, of all things, one’s having appeared “dripping in diamonds” and wearing “a sumptuous scarlet and gold robe” for the ceremonies on Max’s birthday. That was a thousand years ago, and had one not made it abundantly clear in one’s previous letter, that these were the same diadem and same cloak, that old mended thing, that one wore when one was vicereine of Lombardy-Venetia? The trouble is, Grand-maman is a touch forgetful sometimes. And she has never supported the Mexican project. Grand-p
ère’s abdication and their having to flee for their lives gave her too thin a skin. When they first arrived in England, Victoria invited them, but Grand-maman never could bring herself to go out on shoots, she was that rattled by the cracks of the guns. When the bagpipes start up, Grand-maman cringes and makes up excuses to go inside. Her sensitivities seem to have become more delicate over the years. Before sailing to Mexico, in Claremont, one had hoped, at the least, for encouraging words and glasses of champagne—but Grand-maman offered only tea. Grimly, she pleaded, “Don’t go, you mustn’t go.” She had scolded and argued, and in the end, she’d grabbed Maximilian’s sleeve. “They will assassinate you!” After they took their leave, as a cousin wrote, Grand-maman had had to be helped up the stairs; she had collapsed on the chaise on the landing, sobbing. That was really malicious of that cousin.

  Marie-Antoinette, that Habsburg relative from the time of powdered wigs, she may have shirked her responsibility to God, caring for nothing beyond card games and jewels, frivolous days away in her Petit Trianon. But Charlotte—Carlota—granddaughter of King Louis-Philippe of France, daughter of King Leopold of the Belgians, consort of the genius Maximilian, she is a modern sovereign, fully in her realm. Mexico: raw as meat. Every day, without fail, Carlota goes out among her subjects, touring orphanages, or a school, a hospital, a house for prostitutes rescued from the street, cripples, and yes, lepers. She has fanned away flies that would land on her gloves as thick as fur. She has eaten fiery-hot guisados of God-knows-what glopped onto tortillas. She is a nun to service! No peacock, no girl-child becharmed, as she may once have been, by baubles, flattery from flunkies, and cheers of “viva!” Without mercy, she has beaten down the snake heads of her vanity. Why cannot one’s intimates, and most of all Grand-maman, recognize that, on whichever side of the ocean, for pity’s sake, newspapers profit by entertaining their readers with manufactured novelty! It is to be expected that reporters will describe one’s robe, and each jewel, however many times they’ve seen them, as if they were newborn wonders.

  As for the honors Max conferred on the Iturbide family, she had already explained to Grand-maman (in precisely the words Max had approved) that it was nothing more than an act of justice to provide protection for the family of a dethroned emperor, who are, in any event, not of royal blood. An infant, Agustín, is being educated under Max’s supervision; an older cousin, Salvador, has been sent to the college at Sainte Barbe des Champs near Paris; the parents (who, after their many years in the United States, have, unfortunately, degenerated into gamblers and drunkards) will also go to Paris. A daughter of that emperor, a spinster, has agreed to serve as her little nephew’s governess. Aunt and nephew have been provided with apartments in the Imperial Residence, but this is merely temporary, until something suitable can be arranged for them in Mexico City. C’est tout dire, that’s all there is to say! But Grand-maman sends back questions, questions, a plague of questions. Do you have any idea how this appears? What is this really about?

  It is about the one thing Charlotte will never tell, not to Grand-maman. Not to anyone.

  She could be gotten rid of. This idea, which had been lapping, agitatedly, at the edge of her mind suddenly crystalized last spring, on the Hades-like day they visited the island of Martinique—first land after seventeen days crossing the Atlantic. She had expected things would be different now that she and Maximilian wore crowns. She had fought for his going to Mexico so valiantly because she was fighting for so much more than a crown. For these many years, Maximilian had avoided her. A monarchy required an heir, obviously. But on the crossing, Maximilian did not visit her cabin, not once. If she approached him, he turned to converse with someone else. When she touched his hand, he withdrew it. As soon as they were finished with work, he disappeared below to play billiards with his favorites, Bombelles and Schertzen-lechner. If she found him later on the deck, he made an excuse to go to the library; if she followed him there, he needed to go to his cabin and lie down and rest. She had not been able to forestall the abomination of his having to sign that Family Pact—but she had drafted a well-founded and eloquent protest, had she not? She was loyal, oh, she loved him valiantly, why, why was he so rejecting?

  Years ago, her older brother Leopold had warned her, Maxie is an odd fish, a Narcissus, an Icarus. But to Charlotte, not at all! When they first met, she thought Max the most romantic prince, so refined, so cultured and worldly, and—this made him stand far above the others—capable of the most profoundly noble sentiments. He was in mourning for his betrothed, their cousin Princess María Amelia de Braganza, daughter of Dom Pedro of Brazil. Delicate as a porcelain rose, she had died of consumption on the island of Madeira. Max wore a ring that encased a lock of her hair. He showed it to her: a curl as golden as an angel’s—for María Amelia was an angel, he said, and when God had called her, it was to her only rightful home. Max had made a solemn pledge never to remove this ring.

  “Not even when you bathe?”

  “Not even when I bathe.”

  This was a man who deserved total commitment. If he was viceroy of Lombardy-Venetia, she would go there and serve him. If he wanted to go botanizing in Brazil, well, her heart sighing, she would be his Penelope. She had wanted to join him in Brazil, but, as she had suffered from seasickness, by the time they reached Madeira, Max had determined to forbid her to continue on. He gently kissed her on the forehead, “It would be too risky for the mother of my children.”

  “But I could help you with your botanizing!”

  “Professor Bilimek will manage.”

  For Charlotte, those winter months on the island of Madeira were almost unbearably lonely. It often rained. In the mornings and evenings, fog drifted over the cliffs. Of course, she visited the grave of María Amelia. She went inside the house where María Amelia had died. She went into the bedroom. She sat on the edge of the bed. Every Sunday she went to mass where María Amelia had attended mass. And when she took the host upon her lips, Charlotte could not help thinking, this had also passed her lips. And so with Madeira’s wine, with the garlicky fishballs, with every spoonful of muscovado sugar stirred into her tea. The air, always, smelled of cold ocean. Black moods poisoned Charlotte’s days—but these, she chided herself, were the portion of a sinner whose felicity had been secured by the death of another.

  When Max returned from Brazil, bronzed and muscled, she threw herself into his arms, her face wet with tears of happiness. That night, overcome, she said, “Please, for me, take off that ring.” There was enough light in the bedroom to see that he had begun to twist and pull at it; finally, it came loose, revealing a white circle of skin. But then a peculiar look stole over his face. He pushed the ring back down.

  “Never,” he said, and he turned his back. He curled up small.

  “Forgive me.” When she touched him, he flinched as if stung. She lay in the dark as still as a corpse, listening to his ragged breathing.

  She said again, “Forgive me.” She touched his shoulder. “Max?”

  He got up, sweeping his robe around him, and left the bedroom.

  That was in 1860; since then, it seemed that a bed shared with her was to him as a bed of scorpions.

  Because she had not made that voyage to Brazil, Charlotte’s first experience of the tropics was Martinique, when they first disembarked at Fort-de-France, to take on coal and provisions for the rest of their journey to Mexico. She had smelled the tropics long before she could make out the buildings and wharves of the so-called petit Paris of the Windward Isles: a perfume of sugar and rotting vegetables, at once alluring and repellent. The town’s central plaza was banked by thickets filled with so many chattering birds that guano carpeted the pavement. There was nothing to do but walk on it. In the middle of that plaza stood a marble statue of Martinique’s most famous native, the Empress Josephine. A widow with two grown children, she had aided the little Corsican artillery officer in his meteoric rise, but soon after he made himself emperor, as Josephine was too old to provide sons for his dynasty,
he divorced her.

  The governor’s wife, a mite of a woman in a muslin turban, prattled on about this statue, the only artwork of note on the entire island. Although an army of Negroes went on fanning the party with palm fronds, the air, a Turkish bath, was maddening: Charlotte could feel it cooking her brain. Heat shimmered up from the pavement. The statue, though pocked and splotched with tropical fungus, was almost too bright to look at. The men, scarcely interested, scowled at it and mopped their brows. Monsieur Eloin worked his handkerchief around the inside of his collar. Beneath his floppy yellow hat, Professor Bilimek’s cheeks burned an alarming red. Frau von Kuhacsevich held her arms out, the better to take the breeze from the fans. The little plot of earth that surrounded its pedestal had been freshly planted with roses, but already the sun had burnt them. Several hung in clumps; brownish petals littered the dirt. As all the world knew, Josephine, née Rose Tascher of Martinique’s Trois-Ilets Plantation, had been beautiful, the toast of Paris, despite her blackened teeth. But as an empress who could not bear her emperor sons, she had known what was coming. She had gone around telling everyone she was going to be poisoned.

  The governor’s wife said, “You wouldn’t believe the slanderous things people say about Josephine, even today on this island.”

  Bombelles gave a wicked chuckle.

  The marble face, whose blind eyes were impenetrable with shadow, faced the water. The sea drummed in. It insisted: Divorce or poison. Divorce orpoison. Charlotte—Carlota—her sense of herself so uncertain—squeezed her eyes shut, trying to push those words out of her head. But they had found purchase.

  In the distance, clouds cast shapes over the sierra. Agave, cornfields, a roadside chapel with its cross knocked askew. In the carriage Carlota adjusts her cashmere shawl and squeezes her eyes shut. It is so vexing, so very much more than one had imagined, to be unable to see one’s family, to kiss dear Grand-maman’s papery cheeks, to take her hands in one’s own—and Papa? Cher Papa. Carlota’s eyes brim with tears. Her two ladies-in-waiting, Señora Plowes de Pacheco and Señorita Varela, cannot see her face through the veil; Carlota therefore allows the tears to slide down her cheeks. Two, then three, splash hot on her wrist. The voice in her mind hisses: For all that is at stake, yourpissy personal problems are insignificant. Why must one be a glutton for this putrid self-pity! Putrid, putrid, you glutton, you stinking sinner. She must stop: Stop it. Mortify the flesh. Sliding a hand into her sleeve, she probes for the softest part of her arm and pinches, hard. She swallows a sob, which she imagines is camouflaged by the violent rocking of the carriage.