The Last Prince of the Mexican Empire

by C. M. Mayo

  They have sunk this low once before: when he learned that his betrothed, his beloved angel, Princess María Amelia de Braganza, had died in her mother’s arms on the island of Madeira. That solid-granite grief, pressing so heavily on one’s chest, one feels one cannot breathe!

  Poor Charlotte!

  A king who is about to forfeit his kingdom, is his sorrow but a pinch of salt compared to that of a bereaved husband?

  After Louis Napoleon’s brutal betrayal, Charlotte fell ill, of what, no one could say. One had assumed it was the Roman fever. The blow of blows came last week with Charlie’s telegram from Miramar. Herzfeld had some trouble deciphering it, or pretended to. He read it aloud, haltingly. Her Majesty’s . . . safe . . . arrival. Dr. Reidel called in, and . . . Dr. Reidel not having given up hope . . .

  “Dr. Reidel, do you know him?” Maximilian asked Dr. Basch.

  “He is the director of the Vienna Lunatic Asylum.”

  A block of ice in his stomach. It was as if he had been told she was dead— but she was not—and—ah!—still—he could go to her! A magnetic force seemed to pull him— to Charlotte! To Miramar! How he had neglected her, why had he not seen, of course, oh God, of course, intelligent as she was, a female brain was incapable of sustaining the strain of so much responsibility, and over the years she had weakened it with excessive reading, he should have recognized that, what had he been thinking to send her to Yucatan, then to Paris—Rome—oh! And her father had died and her beloved Grand-maman, and she was so heartbroken—she must have, oh, oh . . . What had he done? He had to go to her. At once! To their ivory castle by the sea, where he would take her in his arms, and away—away from cold, dark Europe, to the healing sun of Corfu.

  Or Patmos.

  Rajasthan. Tahiti. The Great Wall of China!

  Were she not well enough, they could stay close to home and, come spring, cruise up the Adriatic to Lacroma, their private island of pines and myrtle and, in the ruin of Richard the Lionhearted’s refuge, its peace broken only by the murmur of the sea and birdsong, cascades of the most fragrant roses . . .

  He longed with all his soul to go out upon the sea again, to cross that Lake of Oblivion.

  Maximilian ordered Dr. Basch to keep Princess Iturbide away. He decided he was going to go to Charlotte, damn the consequences, damn that woman’s shouting at poor Dr. Basch.

  After a sleepless night, however, a certain worry began to unravel his idea: But if he went to the empress, would his subjects believe this was his sole motive for the journey? Would they think their sovereign was abandoning them?

  Herzfeld, who had advocated abdication, allowed that, well, it could appear that way.

  “It certainly would appear that way,” Father Fischer said.

  Father Fischer: six solid feet of soutane, below which were Roman-made shoes with buckles and soles thick enough to withstand a walk the length of Mexico, up and down, forty times.

  His Majesty was not tempted by the devil of abdication?

  “No, no. Oh, no. That I would never do.”

  Maximilian had given Charlotte his word. But . . . if . . . she were no longer in her right mind?

  Or . . . perhaps he could leave Mexico, for a little while without signing any piece of paper . . . Was it not so that, before God, and before her father, and all their family, he had made a vow to honor and protect her?

  Maximilian asked Dr. Basch, “Will anyone believe that my going to Europe is only because of the empress’s illness?”

  Dr. Basch, apparently, did not yet feel confident enough in his place nor his experience to commit to an unequivocal answer. Maximilian talked and talked, in circles and then into knots.

  His health had broken down, he suffered night sweats, fevers, stabbing stomach pains, and those pains in the liver, too, and when Dr. Basch diagnosed him with malaria, Maximilian confided to Herzfeld, “I have decided to abdicate.”

  Herzfeld’s response was swift. “Very good, sir.”

  “You think it wise?”

  “Affirmative.”

  Herzfeld’s counsel was a lifesaver on these drowning seas. “My good man,” Maximilian said. “Your unbiased opinion. You really consider it wise?”

  “Louis Napoleon has not upheld his part of the bargain. He has broken the Treaty of Miramar. The military situation and the finances—”

  “But I have no future in Austria . . . Father Fischer maintains that—”

  “Get out now, sir, when you have the chance.”

  And so, from Chapultepec Castle, the orders went to Veracruz, where the imperial luggage was already being loaded on the ship, to prepare for Maximilian’s arrival—but then, like a bull that has been whistled at, Father Fischer came in with thunder:

  “If Herzfeld were not such a good friend of Your Majesty’s, I would suspect him of being in the pay of France.” How much blood had been shed for this holy enterprise, what catastrophic consequences would be unleashed, more blood on his hands, and the stain of dishonor!

  Maximilian, weakly: “But what honor is there in abandoning my helpless wife?”

  Father Fischer did not answer that. Smoothly switching gears: “Your Majesty’s grief over the empress’s illness is entirely understandable.” With priestly gentleness, he brought his hands together, fingertips to his lips. His eyes slid over to Dr. Basch. Dr. Basch looked at Professor Bilimek, the gentle botanist and Capuchin friar with whom, on many a butterfly-catching expedition, Maximilian had probed his spiritual concerns. Professor Bilimek had, more than once, when pressed, offered his opinion that the October 3rd Decree was unchristian, and that, in the current circumstance, Maximilian should abdicate. But now, under the wilting gaze of present company, the botanist, stroking a beard that had grown very white, stared at the mute oracle of his shoes.

  Maximilian twisted his ring. Everything had already been planned, the October 3rd Decree repealed, furnishings and papers put into crates. He felt like a prisoner who had been pardoned—and then at the gates, vistas before him, grabbed back by the collar.

  “I cannot remain here—I must—”

  Father Fischer interrupted, holding up both palms. “Orizaba.” He quoted Goethe, Über allen Gipfeln ist Ruh . . . Over all the mountaintops is peace. “Your Majesty is not well. Leave this climate. In Orizaba, Your Majesty can rest, and then—” Father Fischer rubbed his hands together—“with more information from Europe and the United States, Your Majesty can better see to the bottom of things.”

  No, Father Fischer went on, by no means should Herzfeld come along. Herzfeld must remain in Mexico City, for who better to take charge of critical tasks such as assuring the Austrian and Belgian volunteers that it is true that the empress is ill, and that these brave men have certainly not been abandoned?

  Father Fischer would hasten to Orizaba, to arrange for His Majesty’s reception there.

  Mexicalcingo. Ajotla.(For security reasons, initially, Maximilian was taking a very round-about and back route toward Orizaba.) Then Hacienda Socyapán, where, during a lengthy walk, Professor Bilimeck convinced Maximilian to stand firm in his decision—that is, to rescind the October 3rd Decree and, then, abdicate. But then Maximilian decided not to abdicate, at least not yet, for Hacienda Socyapán was, by no means, a sufficiently dignified venue for such an important act. And so, in limbo, back on the road to Orizaba, and on to another, tired, nondescript, hacienda.

  Broth, fragrant with sherry, arrives in a clay pot. Outside the dining-room window, the mist begins to lift. Already a slice of Wedgwood blue hangs above the hump of Popocatépetl.

  Long ago, with Charlie and Professor Bilimek, he had climbed it partway. He had wanted to see into the famous crater into which Cortez’s men had been lowered by means of ropes, that they might replenish their supply of sulphur. But Maximilian and his men did not have the heavy clothes and crampons. Nor time. There has never been enough time.

  Maximilian cocks his ear toward the music. “Donazetti?”

  Dr. Basch, just as the set ends: “Verdi, si
r.”

  Professor Bilimek slurps his soup.

  Etiquette dictates that no one speak in the presence of the sovereign until spoken to; therefore, in tautest silence, the three men butter their bread.

  On leaving Chapultepec, Maximilian’s mind had rocked like the carriage itself. Hoist sails, weigh anchor? Furl sails, drop anchor? To leave Mexico or not to leave Mexico—forever—or, temporarily, for Charlotte’s sake? That one was here in Mexico at all was for her sake. But her admonition rang in his ears: Emperors do not give themselves up! So long as there is an emperor, there is an empire, though he have but six feet of ground, for the empire is nothing without the emperor.

  Was he Sisyphus or Hercules, Tantalus or Icarus, or all of them, all at the same time? He felt himself living in a nightmare painted by Hieronymus Bosch.

  What if he were to arrive in Miramar to find that Dr. Reidel has already cured her? His journey would be for naught, and Mexico, in its sovereign’s absence, could be lost forever. Ludicrous he would be then—no longer a member of the House of Habsburg, he would have nothing, be nothing—a laughingstock, the Rigoletto of Europe!

  On the other hand, without the French, the treasury run dry, the Juaristas gaining strength by the day, Almonte conniving with Santa Anna, the empire is doomed.

  This swindle foisted upon him by Louis Napoleon, heir of Krampus!

  Bitter is the memory of that letter Louis Napoleon sent when Maximilian, not yet having affixed his signature to that accursed Family Pact, had decided to refuse the crown, and Louis Napoleon answered thus:

  What would you really think of me if, when Your Imperial Highness had already reached Mexico, I were suddenly to say that I can no longer fulfill the conditions to which I have set my signature?

  As a matter of principle, Maximilian refused to receive General Bazaine— but Bazaine’s man, Pierron, urged him to abdicate. Pierron said the same Bazaine had said, The Juaristas will not show you the mercy you have shown them.

  And how to forget that scene in Claremont with Charlotte’s Grand-maman when, as they were leaving, she gripped Charlotte’s hands, crying, “They will assassinate you!”

  In his childhood, the older ones often spoke of their aunt and cousin, Marie-Antoinette.

  The guillotine.

  A noose.

  An axe, a sword, a dagger, a barber’s razor.

  Poison.

  He’d had a presentiment, from the time he was a small boy, that his would not be a natural death.

  A firing squad: that was Iturbide’s fate.

  As for the Iturbides . . . What to do, what to do—each avenue of this maze sticky as a piece of tzictli. For to return the prince to his parents would annul the contract, and signal that the empire has no future, while to keep him . . . By what right take an innocent child to the possible abyss? How to steer between the Scylla of La Prima and the Charybdis of Doña Alicia and the other Iturbides? To satisfy the former would cause the latter to persist in their scandal, a scandal perhaps fatal to conservative support in Mexico, fatal to all hope for U.S. recognition. The parents have departed Paris for Washington. They continue to send letters, always the same drumbeat of a request: their child.

  One is not an ogre. But neither is one a doormat!

  What in the dither to do, with dignity, about the boy?

  It was beneath one’s dignity to consult a subordinate about a family matter. But, before leaving Chapultepec, one had spoken with Father Fischer about the question of U.S. recognition. It would be imperiled, would it not, by keeping the child of a U.S. citizen against that citizen’s will?

  “Your Majesty,” Father Fischer said, bringing out the rosary beads, “I resolutely advise deferring any decisions until reaching Orizaba.”

  Now, a waltz by Strauss. Dr. Basch tucks into the salad of citrus, cilantro, and sheep cheese.

  Professor Bilimek, discreetly, behind his fist, burps.

  Outside, in the gray, the filthy dog barks after its filthy sheep.

  And in that other morning on the highway nearing Río Frío, Maximilian awoke to the sharp air as in a trance. Wrapped in his cloak, his limbs feeling stiff as a mummy’s, his forehead damp with fever, he looked out at a forest clotted with such bluish light it seemed to him filled with spirits of the dead. He had just been dreaming of a butterfly frozen in the snow. He recognized the clearing by the road, where, only six months before, Baron d’Huart’s body had been laid out and covered with a blanket. A small cross marked it. And behind it, a shadow—of a rock?—seemed the very blood that had oozed, attracting flies, from the head wound.

  From a cliff, an eagle had winged low over the road and then the treetops.

  And as the imperial carriage clattered on toward Puebla, he felt he were traveling back in time, to the beginning, each turn in the road reminding him that what had appeared a harbinger of glory was, in reality, a milestone on the road to calamity. He had been failed by the French, in every way. At the inn in Ajotla, he crossed paths with Louis Napoleon’s emissary, General Castelnau, who was on his way to Mexico City to urge him to abdicate. Because this was what Louis Napoleon, that back-stabber, wanted him to do, Maximilian refused to receive Castelnau.

  This morning, in this hacienda outside Puebla, at the break of dawn, Maximilian had summoned Dr. Basch. On the edge of his camp bed, weakly, for he had hardly slept, Maximilian put his elbows on his knees and his head in his hands.

  In Veracruz, the Novara, its hold packed with his archive, his furnishings, his treasures, was waiting for him to board. But in Orizaba, Father Fischer . . . Oh, God.

  Dr. Basch took his wrist, to check his pulse.

  Maximilian’s voice dwindled to a whisper. “Should the empress die, I would have no heart to fight.”

  Dr. Basch said only, “Elevate your feet, sir.”

  His head on the pillow again, Maximilian let out a ragged breath. “Whatever happens, I want no more blood shed on my account.”

  Dr. Basch merely nodded.

  “But . . . a captain does not abandon ship.”

  “There are many metaphors, sir.”

  When he woke, with a surge of energy, Maximilian wrote two letters: the first, to Doña Alicia de Iturbide; the second, to Princess Iturbide.

  Madam:

  The repeated instances in which you and your husband have addressed to me, directly and indirectly, requesting that I return your son Agustín, and thereby annul the contract that you and other members of your family, of your own free will, signed with me last year, have obliged me, finally, to instruct Princess Iturbide to deliver him to his closest relative, Don JoséMalo, that you may give him your final instructions.

  In fulfilling the repeated requests by yourself, your husband, and others of your family members, I hereby cede all responsibility for having violated the contract, which was made for the exclusive benefit of your son and your family, to you, who have broken it.

  With my best wishes for your happiness, Yours Truly,

  Maximilian

  My dear cousin,

  The repeated instances in which our dear Agustíns parent’s and elder uncle have unceasingly requested that I return their child and, in consequence, annul the contract which they entered into of their own free and spontaneous will, have obliged me, finally, after a long struggle in my own mind, to send a letter today to Señora Doña Alicia de Iturbide, advising her that her son shall be in the custody of his uncle, Don José Malo, so that the parents can make arrangements to claim him to their own perfect satisfaction.

  I beg you, therefore, to deliver him and all of his belongings, to Señor Malo.

  I know the profound sentiments this directive will cause you and that this sacrifice is no less for you than it has been for me. However, both convenience and the fear that the parents and uncles may cause yet greater scandals, has made this sacrifice imperative.

  I very sincerely share your understandable sorrow and I assure you that the conduct of other members of your family in no way changes the very affectionate
feelings of friendship on both my part and that of the Empress.

  Receive the assurances of esteem and benevolence of yours truly, your cousin,

  Maximilian

  Sealed with the imperial stamps, the two envelopes were turned over to the courier—the first, for Veracruz and ultimately Washington, D.C.; the second, for Mexico City.

  A weight, not all of it, but a terrible piece of it, had lifted from his heart.

  He had no idea where he might find himself a month from now—in Miramar, with Charlotte; in the Hofburg with his family; in Mexico City, or some other Mexican town, in a general’s uniform with saber, and a pistol in his hands.

  The late morning sun was smiling and so, with Professor Bilimek, he went off for three blessed hours of botanizing. They visited a waterfall. The botanist filled every one of his little jars. They spoke of nothing but birds and beetles, butterflies and ferns.

  Strauss. On the other side of the dining room’s barred window, crows congregate along the fence. Then, again, from the patio, Chopin. A Kasbah-like sunset burnishes the back wall, behind Dr. Basch.

  Broiled tongue, and potatoes sauteed with chopped maguey flowers.

  The sheep bleat. The dog barks. Clacking sounds, as the three men, heads bowed, cut their meat.

  In that patio, Sawerthal brought down his baton. The Hussars folded their music stands and their instruments into their cases; in another moment, the patio was empty but for a few scattered blossoms of bougainvillea. The last to cross it were the cornetist and a violinist. The cornetist, buttoning his jacket, for the air had turned cool, accidentally bumped the violinist with his case.

  “Beg your pardon,” he said.

  “Don’t mention it,” said the other.

  They both owed fantastic sums to a certain Weissbrunn, one of those who had been left behind to defend the capital. Perhaps they would never see him again. Or perhaps they would.

  “Are you game for cards?” said the one.