The Empress: A novel

by Laura Martínez-Belli

  “Vicente, Mexico is not a nation of monarchists. Some old fossils—like the ones that visit us so much, in fact—pretend to be because they’ve lost power or wealth, but there’s nothing aristocratic about them.”

  With some effort, Vicente turned to her.

  Refugio went on.

  “And even if every man calling himself a monarchist joined forces, they wouldn’t be a fraction of the population. The rest, as you well know, would fight the monarchy with everything they had. And a foreigner! What an absurd idea.”

  Vicente exhaled. He wasn’t accustomed to being opposed.

  “At first, perhaps, but if we asked for support from Europe . . . If foreign troops came until the situation was stable . . .”

  “Are you suggesting a coup? I hear your voice but I don’t know who you are, Vicente. Did you forget the humiliation of seeing the gringo flag flying in Chapultepec? Don’t you remember you lost a leg fighting those who wanted to invade? You sacrificed your life, your youth; you sacrificed all of us, the children. Me. And now . . . now you want to invite them in?”

  “Times change.”

  “And evidently people change even more.”

  Silence.

  Refugio was burning like a lantern. To stifle the urge to slap him, she grabbed a pillow and pressed it against her chest.

  “All I ask is for you to support me in this, Refugio.”

  “You’re asking me to betray everything I believe in, which isn’t the same.”

  “It’s what you’ve always done, my dear.”

  Silence.

  When she swallowed, she tasted bile. Vicente knew exactly what to say to wound her. Really wound her. It was true: she might be liberal minded, but she lived like the most committed Conservative. She had married in church, she had never opposed the demands of her father or husband, she had raised a priest and two soldiers, and she kept her daughters at home sewing, while in the privacy of her thoughts she fought for a different world. Yes, she didn’t have the necessary nerve, and Vicente knew it as well as she did. She was guilty by default, for remaining silent out of inertia.

  Refugio slowly let out the breath she’d been holding.

  “Be honest with me, Chente, is this decision final? Is this what the meetings have been about these last few months?”

  “Yes.”

  Another silence.

  “I hope you can live with this burden on your conscience,” she finally said.

  “My conscience is clear,” he answered.

  Refugio lay back down. Now it was she who turned her back to her husband; she didn’t want him to see that she was on the verge of tears. And just as Vicente thought they’d be immersed in silence again for many days, he heard her pass judgment.

  “Whatever poor wretch they send, the day he no longer has the support of Europe, his head will roll.”

  Vicente lay on his back, staring at the ceiling. His wife’s words tormented him until dawn.

  12

  Another person, leagues from there, also couldn’t sleep. In his office, with his glasses on and head bowed, Benito Juárez was reading a letter the American government had sent him. As he had already assumed, they informed him that they couldn’t intervene in the event that Mexico went to war with a European power; they were already fighting their own civil war, and men were dropping like flies. However, they offered to pay Mexico’s foreign debt. Juárez settled into his seat and, in the comfort of solitude, undid the top button at his neck. As a lawyer, he was well aware that offers always came with strings attached.

  Juárez narrowed his already small eyes when he reached the line: We offer to settle the foreign debt on the condition that Mexico agrees to repay the sum within a period of six years, with interest.

  So far, so good. Juárez didn’t expect something for nothing. He continued reading and came to a passage that made him jump up and support his body’s weight on his knuckles. There they were: the strings.

  Holding the paper closer, he read again: In exchange, we require as a guarantee the public lands and mines of the territories of Baja California, Chihuahua, Sonora, and Sinaloa, which will be transferred as collateral to the United States when the six years have elapsed.

  Juárez took off his glasses and threw them on the desk.

  “The snakes,” he said to himself.

  He knew without a moment’s thought that he wouldn’t give in to this extortion. If the Americans expected Mexico to sell them its territory in lots, they would have to wait a very long time. He wiped his forehead with a handkerchief. He knew there was no other way out. He had to make a hard but inevitable decision. Mexico had no choice: wars had impoverished it, wounded it, but it still had its dignity.

  “Sovereignty is not something to be traded for a loan,” he told himself.

  He exhaled sharply. He had no choice but to break the Convention of London and cancel payment of the foreign debt. Mexico would officially declare itself bankrupt. Neither France nor the United Kingdom would see a single peso; not for now, at least. But there was something that concerned him: he was about to pull on the cat’s whiskers, and that cat was Napoleon III.

  13

  The aventure mexicaine had begun. The British and Spanish had decided to bring the tripartite alliance to an end. The British because they were waiting for a payment that, while distant, was at least not being refused; and the Spanish, seeing that France intended to invade, decided they’d rather watch the bullfight from behind the barrier. It would be a war between the French and Mexicans. Mexico and France. And nobody else.

  Juárez knew it. He had expected it from the outset, not only thanks to his astute political nose, but because he was well aware of the state of their finances, Mexico’s strategic position between two oceans, and Napoleon III’s colonialist aspirations. He sat at his desk and rested his elbows on the table. The weight of his head fell onto his hands for a few minutes; then he took a pen and paper and drafted a manifesto calling on Mexicans to defend their independence. He ruminated that rebel priest and leader of the Mexican War of Independence movement José María Morelos y Pavón would turn in his grave if he knew that a son of his was betraying the heroes that gave them their sovereignty and freedom not so long ago. Juan Nepomuceno Almonte—Morelos’s love child—was dishonoring his father’s memory by going to entreat Napoleon III to bring an emperor as foreign as he was blond back to Mexico. The word traitor escaped Juárez’s gritted teeth. But once he’d regained his concentration, he continued with his manifesto:

  I hope that you will prefer any manner of hardship or disaster to the humiliation and dishonor of losing our independence and consenting to foreigners seizing our institutions and interfering in our internal affairs.

  Juárez sat back in his chair. He liked using words like that: humiliation, dishonor. Who could have imagined when he was tending sheep in his village that he would one day write something like this? How far he’d come, and how high the price he’d paid. Power was terrible in this way: it took with the same intensity with which it gave. He stared blankly for a few seconds. He thought. He thought about so many things. It seemed absurd to him to have to issue such an appeal. He could understand the need to fight for political ideas and systems of governance, but having to ask Mexicans to have faith in the republic, in his republic and nation, was the last straw. He grimaced and picked up his pen again.

  Let us have faith in the justice of our cause, let us have faith in our efforts, and united we shall save Mexico’s independence, bringing victory not only for our country, but also for the principles of respect and the inviolability of future nations’ sovereignty.

  He carefully read what he had just written. Yes, he thought, it was just right. He signed the document.

  Juárez hadn’t met Maximilian, nor did he want to. He imagined him to be like any other blond-haired, bearded prince, inflated with power and a lust for conquest. He had some vague ideas, he’d heard rumors that he was a little delicate, and somewhat liberal, too. Something inside was t
elling him to establish some kind of contact with him, not out of politeness, but for political expedience. The moment the Austrian set foot on Mexican soil, he would have to kill him. An affront such as the one Maximilian was about to commit couldn’t be answered in any other way, even if Juárez was a man of the law. The law was his temple, and that included martial law. Always the law. Always in accordance with what was right. That was what had kept him going: the certainty of knowing that a man without laws is a barbarian, a caveman. And since he wasn’t, he knew he must act in good faith, without treachery or unfair advantage, that each step he took must represent firm progress toward maintaining sovereignty and justice. Justice, that was his favorite word. His second favorite was Margarita, the name of the woman who loved him for who he was, for nothing more than what he was when he was naked. It seemed impossible that a statesman like Maximilian couldn’t see the absurdity of his enterprise. What sane man, noble or otherwise, decides to cross the ocean to govern a land that doesn’t belong to him? Not even animals do that.

  He sent for one of his trusted men and ordered him to travel to Miramare to meet the prince in question. The man wasn’t pleased with the request. Seeing the look on his face, Juárez explained.

  “If the Habsburg still comes here after what you’re going to tell him, it won’t be on my conscience, but on his.”

  “And what must I say exactly, Presidente?”

  “Show him the other side of the coin, of course. They have the man convinced Mexico will lay out a carpet of roses for him when he sets foot in Veracruz. We must tell him he’ll find only disdain and resistance.”

  “I see . . .”

  “We must tell him that the letters of support are a trick.”

  “But why warn him, Presidente? Why put him on the alert?”

  “Because that is what decent men do.” Then he added, “And so they can’t then say I didn’t warn them.”

  With a marked lack of enthusiasm, Juárez’s emissary set off for Trieste, where he was received weeks later by a bemused and incredulous Maximilian, suspicious of everything he said. Even if there was resistance at first, he was sure that, little by little, Mexico would soften. That was what everyone had told him. Even so, Juárez’s courtesy touched his soul, and so, honoring the nobility and benevolence with which he was endowed, Maximilian, with a smile that seemed inordinately stupid to the emissary, said, “Tell Juárez he shall by all means have a place in my cabinet.”

  14

  It was a cold spring. The air still carried winds that made shelter and blankets necessary to keep warm. But Juan Nepomuceno Almonte couldn’t have cared less about the freezing nights. He was a man who knew power didn’t exist in a vacuum. Since his arrival in Europe, he’d done nothing but conspire to install a Conservative government in Mexico, headed by a Catholic European prince. He was determined to destroy the fool Juárez, along with his republic and his reforms. Almonte incited; he changed sides at his convenience; he stirred up trouble at will. Nobody ever knew what he really thought, because he strung them all along—sometimes in French, sometimes in English, often in Spanish, but always seeming to protect interests. And his interests now hinged on the empire: an empire that, if everything went according to plan, he would do well from. Power. That’s what motivated him. He was beginning to feel the glory of being in power. When he spoke, kings listened; they received him in their palaces, they sat him alongside dignitaries and people of noble birth. And he began to imagine he wouldn’t spend the rest of his life as he had spent his youth, fighting on the battlefield, plagued with death and grief, but would rule from behind a desk in an office. Governing. That was the dream of his old age. He’d sown seeds in his favor, and expected to be regent of the empire until Maximilian and Carlota arrived in Mexico. Regent, he said to himself when he looked in the mirror. And vanity made the base of his neck tingle.

  Trusting his judgment, on one cold spring night, a French general came to him to ask him the best way to advance through the country after they left Veracruz and climbed the hazardous peaks of Acultzingo. Almonte offered enthusiastic encouragement.

  “You’ll have already done the hard part, and your army is the best in the world. All you have to do then is advance toward Mexico City, through Puebla, which will be child’s play.”

  “What makes you say that?”

  “Puebla is Conservative and Catholic. It’s hostile to Juárez. I’m certain you’ll be received with jubilation by the Poblanos. They may even shower you with flowers,” said Almonte, flashing a row of white teeth that contrasted with his dark skin.

  The French general smiled back at him, like someone infected by another’s yawn.

  Almonte went on. “At any rate, I’ve cleared the way for you. As you know, I’m making sure that the French army are welcomed in Mexico.”

  The general knew that the Mexicans weren’t receiving them with open arms; quite the opposite: they were a ferocious and battle-hardened people who, when they exhausted their ammunition, used stones against bayonets. The bucolic image that Almonte was peddling to them of Mexicans throwing flowers from balconies hadn’t materialized, not yet at least.

  Almonte sensed some suspicion in the Frenchman’s eyes. With complete serenity, the Mexican said to him, “You have nothing to worry about, General. Ne vous inquiétez pas. Puebla will be a walkover.”

  15

  The walkover became a journey through hell. The French found neither flowers nor cheers when they reached Puebla. The weather didn’t welcome them, either: for five hours they had to fight against four thousand men in rain of biblical proportions. It was May 5, 1862, and Almonte, for the first time in years, felt as if the ground under his feet was soft, slippery mud.

  In Paris, the rivers of ink reporting on the campaign were comparable only to the rivers of blood spilled on Atlixco. The papers reported that the Mexican informants had sent the French to their deaths, and they were branded spies or backstabbers; with such allies they didn’t need enemies. The French had been told that the Mexican army was disorganized, naïve, and inexperienced, but they were beginning to believe their grasp on Mexico was as weak as their knowledge of it. The streets reflected the tension that prevailed in the palace. Eugénie de Montijo bit her cuticles when nobody was watching. Napoleon III was furious; he’d rarely been so furious. They couldn’t afford to have lost such a decisive battle, and only four contingents had fought against the French army: it was a humiliation. The court was unhappy, but they hid beneath a veil of tranquility while they sipped tea. Napoleon wandered about in a gloomy state and seemed to be in constant contemplation. Feasts and hunts were canceled. And the entourage, as if infected with the monarch’s sorrow, wandered with heads hanging, speaking in low voices. All Napoleon could do was sit at his desk and remove and replace his wedding ring as if it burned.

  One afternoon, Almonte, ashamed and afraid, visited Eugénie de Montijo. He was nervous, prepared for a verbal lashing. He had all the answers ready. He’d recriminated himself in silence for his foolishness, but who could have imagined that the Poblanos would stand up to the finest army in the world! Because that was what the French were . . . Or was he wrong? Either way, there was nothing he could do now. He appeared before her calm on the outside but terrified within. He’d invested too much energy, too many years, in the empire project to lose it all because of a few thousand plucky rebels. No sooner did he see the empress than he felt a pounding in his chest. He waited for a long time for her to make a complaint, an indirect one, perhaps, but nothing came. Almonte broke the silence.

  “Your Majesty, I understand you are upset at the Battle of Puebla.”

  To which Eugénie only replied, “These things happen in war.”

  “I assumed we would easily—”

  “Wars aren’t won on assumptions, Almonte. I hope you have learned your lesson.”

  “Of course, Your Majesty.”

  16

  In Miramare, uncertainty and unease were in the air. Carlota paced the room, shocked a
nd anxious. The news from France was disheartening. The army that was meant to pave the way to their imperial throne, the army that guaranteed their investiture, had just suffered a crushing defeat. Carlota didn’t know what to think. The Italians resisting them from the shadows tormented her, and she prayed they wouldn’t encounter the same situation thousands of leagues away. Not more disdain. Not more. Maximilian must be suffering the same agony, she thought. Agitated and tired of brooding alone, she went to her husband’s study: after all, a burden shared weighed less, or at least, she’d heard her grandmother say something like that. She found him reading with keen interest.

  “Am I interrupting?”

  Maximilian roused from his trance and invited her in.

  “Oh! Come in, Charlotte, you must see this,” he said.

  She went closer to read over his shoulder. She thought he might have been rereading the letters of support, the ones Mexican diplomats sent by the sack load, conveying the goodwill and express desire of the people of Mexico to have an emperor. Those messages filled them with such hope in times of doubt. But no: as she approached, she saw that he was reading a book about Mexico’s flora and fauna. Surprised and touched, Carlota wanted to say something, but she wanted to choose her words carefully. He spoke before she did.

  “It’s fascinating how many animals go to Mexico to complete their reproductive cycles. See?” he said, pointing at an illustration. For an instant, Carlota wished that Mexico’s influence, if there were such a thing, would have the same effect on her that it had on animals. Perhaps some Aztec god favored maternity in some miraculous way, beyond human understanding? Was there a scientific reason why nature converged in that part of the world to bless species and their progeny? Perhaps, she dreamed, in Mexico she would become a mother. And then, shaking her head and feeling deep sorrow, she forced herself to forget these heretical thoughts of false gods.