“What a splendid place! Don’t you think?” Maximilian went on, oblivious to his wife’s thoughts.
“Yes, yes, it is,” Carlota murmured.
“Beginning tomorrow, we’ll receive lessons in Spanish and Nahuatl. I’ve already given instructions to a Spanish priest, and—”
“Maximilian,” she broke in, “have you heard about the French army’s defeat in Puebla?”
“Oh. Yes, they informed me. But don’t worry: Napoleon assures me his plans haven’t changed.”
Carlota took a breath before saying, “Don’t you think we’re counting our chickens before they’ve hatched?”
Maximilian gave her a dry look. “Do you no longer desire Mexico’s throne for me?”
“It’s not a question of desire. We must be certain, because once we’ve embarked there’ll be no turning back.”
“Certainty? There is no certainty, Charlotte. You know as well as I do there will be resistance from Juárez, that’s to be expected, but in the end the empire will win. You’ll see.”
“Are you sure you wouldn’t prefer to remain in Miramare?”
The question wounded Maximilian’s pride.
“I’ve withdrawn, distancing myself from my brother. I believe he’s jealous of me; he envies the freedom of my travels . . . my liberal ideas scandalize him. Since he is sovereign, he’s pushed me aside. But I’m not sure I can die in the silence of Lokrum, no matter how glorious the island’s gardens are.”
Carlota pressed her lips together. Though she’d never admitted it to anyone, she was also horrified by the idea of contemplating the sea until she was seventy.
Maximilian continued. “And now, from nowhere, at my thirty years of age, the Mexican throne appears, giving me the opportunity to free myself once and for all from the snares and the oppression of a life without action, a life without purpose.”
Carlota held him by the hands. “Very well, my love,” she said. “Let’s not lose faith.”
Carlota left her husband to delve into his books on animals and lands as exotic as they were unfamiliar, while she devoted herself to reading about matters befitting their rank. She wanted to know about the nation she would be empress of. She immersed herself in volumes as thick as bricks on politics and economics. She drank in everything she found on Mexico’s history, from the Spanish conquest to independence. She studied conscientiously, in great detail, until her heart was filled with a profound respect for the Mexican people, and almost without realizing it, she began to feel something akin to love for their culture, their customs, their struggles. And she made her growing admiration for this far-off country occupy the space that Maximilian continued to leave empty in her heart.
17
Exiled on the British island of Guernsey, Victor Hugo was brimming with joy. He was proud, as if Ignacio Zaragoza, the general who led the Mexicans to victory, had been his own son. Any victory over the Second Empire was cause for celebration and hope for humanity. His rejection of Napoleon III exuded from his every pore, and he was in exile because, among other things, he’d baptized the emperor “Napoleon the Little.” That was what the monarch represented to him: a tiny being of negligible intelligence. But while there were people like the Poblanos, there was hope, he thought, jubilant. As bold as brass, letting out little exclamations that weren’t quite laughter but greatly resembled it, he began to write a letter.
A couple of months later, on one of the many afternoons when clear skies revealed the snowcapped volcanoes in the distance, Constanza’s mother handed her a book. Constanza sensed she was tense, trembling even.
“Mother, what is it?”
Refugio held Constanza’s gaze. There was emotion in her eyes, and it took her a moment to let go of the volume. Then she said, “Read all of it. And, for the love of God, don’t let your father see it.” Then she left.
Constanza frowned. How strange, she thought. For the first time since she was a child, she felt afraid receiving a prohibited book from her mother; or was it just foresight? They’d been doing this for years, and they’d never been discovered. There was no reason to be afraid now. Or was there? Of course she wouldn’t show it to her father! Had she ever slipped up and jeopardized this window to the world she had? Constanza read the title. It was a law book. She let out a breath of air that sent her bangs up for a moment. She turned it around and looked at the back cover. Nothing. At first glance, it was a boring book, but her mother had said Read all of it. She settled back against her cushion and opened it: a crumpled letter—a well-traveled letter—fell out. It was a letter that had been read many times by many people; this was evident because it had been handled, hugged, kissed, and it wasn’t a love letter. Constanza picked it up carefully and began to read.
People of Puebla,
You are right to believe that I am with you.
It is not France that wages war on you. It is the empire.
I am with you; you and I are fighting against the empire. You in your country, I in exile. Fight, battle, be terrible, and, if you believe that my name may serve you, make use of it. Aim bullets of freedom at that man’s head. Brave men of Mexico, resist.
Victor Hugo
Who could have told Refugio that, just a year after Constanza read that letter, French troops would lay siege to Puebla? The French counterattack was to be expected, but nobody could have imagined its ferocity. It was a while before Refugio came to terms with the fact that Joaquín, her firstborn, would be on the front line when it happened. A siege. The worst experience in a war, but among the most effective strategies. A military blockade to the death. This time, to avoid overconfidence again, the invading troops numbered thirty-five thousand men, and they were joined by the Mexican Conservatives. The city couldn’t have been more desolate: there was no way in or out of Puebla. It became a coffin from which nothing escaped alive. It was surrounded by 176 cannons, a wall of death that smelled of gunpowder. General Zaragoza, who had fought bravely the previous May, was gone, and it wasn’t combat that killed him, but typhoid fever. An undignified death for such a valiant man. Others took his place, but despite their willingness, there was nothing anyone could do in the face of such an overwhelming force. If every man in Zacapoaxtla had fought, they still wouldn’t have been able to stop the French. As Puebla became a war zone, it wasn’t the bullets that claimed most lives. For sixty-two days, every living creature inside the city experienced the horror of a siege. There was no food, no water. People died of hunger and thirst. The bodies, piled on top of one another, carpeted the streets, and the survivors learned to avert their eyes, in an attempt to make their hearts believe they would live to bury them when it was all over. Starving, they began eating any animal they could find, even domestic ones, and before long there wasn’t a single pet left because, sensing their fate, they ran away if someone came near them. The military commanders had to accept that it wasn’t the French they were losing to, but hunger. With no other solution, the only way to survive was to surrender.
One by one, the French captured the generals, who handed themselves over with their arms in the air. Despite the defeat, the men made an enormous effort to preserve their dignity before a haughty, clear-eyed French marshal; had he been Mexican, they would have considered him a man to follow, but he was the Frenchest of Frenchmen. His name was Achille Bazaine, and nobody had yet found his weak spot.
“Name?” he asked.
“General Porfirio Díaz,” the prisoner replied.
They held each other’s gaze. Díaz, not caring whether the Frenchman understood him, said, “Hunger finished us off.”
Bazaine looked closely at him. Something told him he must remember this man, defeated and surrendering. Pretending he didn’t understand, he continued.
“Name?” he asked the next man.
“Mariano Escobedo,” the man replied.
Thus, one by one, man by man, victory for one side and defeat for the other were decided. One battle does not a war make, they told themselves, disheartened. Puebla could r
esist no longer and surrendered.
Juárez withdrew, knowing that twelve thousand could not succeed against the invading army.
“We fall back because of the strength of the enemy, not because we are going to make any kind of compromise,” he said on the gallop.
His men had anguish in their eyes, and so without stopping, Juárez, to fill them—and himself—with hope, yelled, “Justice is on our side. Walk on!”
His wife, Margarita, pregnant, also undertook the retreat. They moved slowly to the north, where, for the next three years, they established a temporary presidency while they waited for a more favorable moment.
“Favorable for what?” Margarita asked him one night.
“Why, for revenge, of course.”
18
1866, France
They finally reached the port of Saint-Nazaire on August 8, 1866. Carlota had expected to be received by a court befitting of her rank. Instead, there were just two people waiting for the ship. Carlota took a deep breath and, hiding the immense disappointment that threatened to make her lose her footing, she slowly descended. To her surprise, she saw that the flag flying to welcome her was not green, white, and red, but red, white, and red. Apparently, a member of the port’s citizens’ council had recently traveled to Peru and bought a flag there, and in the absence of a Mexican flag, the port authority had hoisted it as an alternative. They’ll never notice the difference, they thought, unaware of Carlota’s patriotic soul and pride.
As soon as she saw it, the empress cried out. “What despicable act is this!” she yelled.
The mayor, who had arrived at the disembarkation, began to stammer nervously. “Forgive us, Your Majesty, our town is barely born. But we will endeavor to serve you as you deserve.”
Carlota was unable to hide her indignation. “Mr. Mayor, I am grateful to you, but how is it that the prefect isn’t here to welcome us? The troops have not presented arms, and so the Mexican court will pass through your city unescorted. Take us immediately to the train.”
Juan Nepomuceno Almonte and his wife, the only members of the foreign service who’d come to welcome the empress, alarmed at her unceremonious fury, interceded in a low voice. “Forgive us, Your Majesty . . . It appears they don’t know the diplomatic protocol.”
“Outrageous! Outrageous!” And then, looking at the Peruvian flag, she murmured, “I know more about China than these people know about Mexico.”
Carlota calmed herself, certain that God was testing her. Humility, Charlotte, humility. She looked around, with a mixture of rage and sorrow, for the other members of the welcome party: nobody except a couple of imperialists had come to receive her. She was alone. It appeared that would be the constant in her life. Though she was always surrounded by people, she was beginning to recognize the worst loneliness of all: the one felt in company. She had only herself. There was no one else.
She was in Europe and, nonetheless, she didn’t feel at home. Since her arrival in Mexico, she’d known she would die in those warm lands full of vegetation and the sounds of wildlife. She had Mexico under her skin, in her heart, and for the first time in her life, she thought she’d found somewhere not just to arrive, but also to return to. Mexico was far away now. Very far away. But she would return. Soon.
“We’ll depart for Paris as soon as possible,” she said to Almonte.
On the train, Carlota learned from Almonte that Austria had just lost the Battle of Königgrätz. The defeat was terrible not only for Austria but also for France, for now a war with Prussia seemed closer.
“How many dead?” asked Carlota.
“Thirty-five thousand, Your Majesty.”
Thirty-five thousand, she repeated silently to herself. As many as they had sent to Mexico. After a few seconds of reflection, the empress spoke. “Napoleon is going to need all his troops back. This is going to be harder than I thought, and I already knew it would be hard.”
“Indeed, Your Majesty. What’s more, you should know that Napoleon’s health has deteriorated. Just a few days ago, he returned from his treatment at the thermal waters of Vichy. He goes there often.”
“I wasn’t aware of his delicate health.”
“And not only that: the atmosphere at the Tuileries is tense. People are blaming Empress Eugénie for making France go to war, Your Majesty.”
Carlota nodded. Eugénie de Montijo was an ambitious woman who’d always known how to whisper in her husband’s ear to inflame his imperialist instincts. Carlota could feel it in her bones. It had been Eugénie who’d suggested Maximilian of Habsburg, archduke of Austria, as a possible emperor of Mexico when the Assembly of Notables turned to France in search of a European prince; Napoleon had sworn then that he would always be by their side, supporting them. Not even three years had passed since this ultimately unfulfilled promise had been made.
“Don Juan, send a telegram to the French emperor informing him that I shall arrive in Paris tomorrow and that I’ve been entrusted with a special mission by Emperor Maximilian. I request an urgent audience.”
“I will do that, Your Majesty.”
Receiving the telegram, Eugénie de Montijo ran to her husband’s bedchamber.
“Charlotte is in Paris.”
“Charlotte of Belgium?”
“Of course. Who else?”
“I suppose they tired of sending emissaries who never make it past the waiting room.”
“I told you, Louis. Now you’ll have to receive her. She’s an empress.”
Napoleon lay back on his canopy bed. He looked ill and seemed to have aged.
“How can I avoid receiving her? We’re on the verge of collapse, and the last thing I need is a battle with a hysterical woman demanding help that anyone can see I can’t give.”
Eugénie, who always supported her husband, gave him an idea. “Send her a telegram telling her you’re indisposed.”
Napoleon reflected for a moment. Then he ordered, “Do it.”
Carlota received the telegram with the refusal the next day. Unfolding the piece of paper, she read:
Just received telegram from Your Majesty. I have returned from Vichy unwell and must remain in bed, impossible for me to receive you. If Your Majesty goes to Belgium first, it will give me time to recover.
Napoleon
Carlota crumpled the paper into a ball as she grunted in disgust.
“Belgium! I have no intention of going there. What for? To visit Leopold and Philippe, when Mexico hangs by a thread?”
Carlota was speaking to herself aloud so that she could hear her own voice. She needed to reassert herself.
“In any case, what have my brothers done for me now that France has turned its back on us? Nothing! I shall not move from here!”
Almonte had reserved an entire floor for them at the Grand Hotel to distract the empress from the fact that she wouldn’t be received at the Tuileries. Carlota installed herself in a large, comfortable room that smelled of flowers and summer. A general and a count came to pay their respects.
“I hope you are comfortable in the room, Your Majesty.”
Carlota attempted a smile in response to the courtesy. The men, faced with her silence, added, “Empress Eugénie will call on you when you are ready to receive her.”
Something in Carlota’s heart darkened. She understood the language of protocol; she had grown up hearing it. These words could only mean that Napoleon was refusing to meet her in person. She knew when her intelligence had been insulted.
“I shall receive the empress immediately, so you may summon her.”
The men, uncomfortable, agreed to her request with a nod.
“And tell her that I intend to remain in the city until I have completed the mission entrusted to me. Not a day longer. I have no family here, and nobody who cares about Mexico.”
When she was left alone, Carlota burst into tears. She didn’t allow any of her attendants to enter her bedchamber, despite their attempts to console her, for her sobs could be heard through the door.
19
1862, Mexico City
While Europe marveled at Les Misérables—Victor Hugo’s novel that, they said, was an authentic portrayal of French society—on the other side of the ocean, Vicente Murrieta was struggling with his own ideas on law, politics, justice, and religion, deciding which pawn to move first in his particular game of chess. His hand was unsteady. And it wasn’t a trivial matter, for the piece he was about to move was one of his own sons.
Since he and the other Conservatives had begun to execute the plan to install a European monarch in Mexico, not a moment passed in which he wasn’t pondering the issue. The way the negotiations were going in Vienna, it appeared it would be the brother of Franz Joseph of Austria, Maximilian of Habsburg. The Murrietas had to be present at a historic moment like this: one of his eldest sons, Joaquín or Salvador, must be among the Mexicans who would travel to Europe in search of the prince. Neither Joaquín nor Salvador would be surprised, for they were also present in the meetings behind closed doors, and from a young age they’d been instructed in military and diplomatic arts. Being part of an imperial army excited them; it was what they had been prepared for, and they would be ready when the moment came. They had been ready for a long time. But Vicente had more ambitious plans. He wanted one of them to be considered for the Assembly of Notables, which would not only travel to Europe, but also speak to the future emperor in person.
He knew he couldn’t send both sons on this assignment. He had to choose one. Like in chess, he couldn’t move a single piece without establishing why and what for. A bad decision could lead to ruin. Each move, as insignificant as it might seem, must lead toward an objective that might only become clear several moves later. Who would he send? Why? What for? His sons, though both well prepared and highly intelligent, were very different. Each had his talents, but sometimes, under certain circumstances, virtues could become defects. Joaquín was the firstborn and therefore first in the decision-making line. In his father’s absence, Joaquín would be head of the household; that had been instilled in him since he was a child. At some point in the—God willing—distant future, he would take up the role of patriarch. He would be responsible for his mother and sisters in the event that his father—may God preserve him for many years—left this world before his sisters had found husbands. Joaquín had carried this responsibility since his head appeared between his mother’s legs and he emerged as the first male child. He’d been brought up in the image of Vicente, for better or worse. Everything he knew, he’d learned from his father, from the way he gave orders to the servants, to the manner in which he joked over a drink; he was his replica without the walking stick. Reaching adulthood, he even seemed to speak with the same tone of voice. He had been a good student, a good son, and a good soldier. He was, Refugio might say, the son that every mother would like to have, and perhaps it was the combination of Vicente’s toughness and her humanity that resulted in such a fine man, a mixture of severity and kindness in equal measure. As a child, he never acted out, never answered back, and always fulfilled his obligations and duties willingly. Later, he became a handsome young man, athletic and devout, affectionate with his sisters, and disinterested in women. As a man, before going into combat, he wrote tender letters to his family giving them courage in the event that they lost him and hope that he would return, and when it came to it, he fought the enemy with conviction and bravery, with a great love of life and without fear of death.
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