The Empress: A novel

by Laura Martínez-Belli

  Miramare was the final destination on a journey in search of a monarch that had begun a long time ago: years of searching had led them there, because the archduke Maximilian’s name had not been first on the short list. They were in Trieste thanks to the diplomatic work of some—those who had been whispering in the Spanish ears of Empress Eugénie de Montijo—and to the high ambitions of others. All the princes who’d been offered the empire declined. All except one: a man whose imagination was captured by the idea of being useful again, to himself, to his family. To Austria. A man ready to sacrifice himself, like Christ among the thieves on the cross. A man groomed to be a replacement for a throne that wouldn’t come to him by line of descent. A man naïve enough to believe that the hundreds of letters the Mexican notables delivered represented the sentiment of a people, a people publicly recognizing its inability to govern itself, a people out of their senses to the point of absurdity. They needed such a man, and Eugénie knew exactly who that man was.

  Leaving Mexico opened Salvador’s eyes. Being the astute observer he was, as soon as he set foot on foreign soil, he began to see things from a new perspective. Unlike the others, Salvador never missed an opportunity to get out and read newspapers and hear the views of ordinary people. That was how he learned that the Mexican delegation were known as Napoleon’s puppets; that the French people called their emperor the Little to differentiate him from the other, the Great, the true and genuine Napoleon that France had known. They said it was a habit of the Napoleons to make gifts of crowns. The throne that Maximilian was going to take up would be supported by French bayonets, but not the will of the majority of Mexicans. The Mexican Republic was being violated in one of the most bizarre historical events of the century, Salvador read to his shame. In his heart he knew—however much he had been instructed to the contrary—that what they wanted made no sense. He didn’t know whether any of the notables harbored the same doubts, for none of them could abide criticism, and it was unthinkable to cast doubt on the mission. Nobody spoke unless it was to rejoice at the anticipated empire: they dreamed of a noble, monarchical Mexico that would relive the past glories of great temples now converted into modern castles. Mexico would be Europeanized to come out from the shadow of the gringos, who were threatening to swallow them whole. The glories would return, and the sorrows would disappear. Culture, modernity, equality, the rule of law, and fraternity would embrace the eagle atop the prickly pear. Mexico’s greatness would be even greater in the empire; it was all for Mexico. And if at any time the tiniest shadow of doubt passed through the mind of any of these men, it quickly vanished with cries of Long live Mexico, long live the emperor!

  The notables weren’t the only ones deaf to criticism. Eugénie de Montijo, with tenacity and stubbornness, championed the idea of a Mexican empire more than any Conservative. She had adopted the idea when a Mexican diplomat remarked as if in passing at a bullfight in Bayonne how good it would be for Mexico to have a European monarch. From that moment on, she’d nurtured the thought that she could expand her dominions not only as empress but also as wife. Napoleon III was having an affair with an Italian, and Eugénie knew about these infidelities, but for each infraction, she took from her husband a part of his power, and this time it would be Mexico. Her intentions were commented on in the corridors of the Tuileries, not always in a complimentary way. That the French intervention had riled a few people on the American continent was evident; Abraham Lincoln himself turned his attention from the Civil War to write a warning to Napoleon:

  A foreign monarch installed on Mexican soil, in the presence of naval and military forces, is an insult to the republican form of governance, which is the most widespread on the American continent. The United States will offer support to its sister republic and in favor of the continent’s liberation from all European control, the defining characteristic of American history in the last century.

  Napoleon ignored Lincoln’s letter.

  One afternoon, while Eugénie was having tea with the United States ambassador in Paris, the American told her that the archduke would meet a tragic end.

  “As soon as the North wins the Civil War, the French will have to leave Mexican soil, and that is a fact.”

  Eugénie paused in the midst of taking a sip and held the cup away from her mouth. “Monsieur, I assure you that if Mexico weren’t so far away and my son were not so young, I would put him in charge of the French army so that he could write one of the most beautiful pages of history.”

  In a mocking voice, the ambassador added, “Then you can give thanks to God for both things, Your Majesty: that Mexico is so far away and that your son is still a child.”

  They didn’t part company on good terms, and it was the last time the ambassador was received at the Tuileries.

  22

  Philippe joined the first group of volunteers in the main square of the small city of Oudenaarde in the north of Belgium, between Brussels and Ghent. Of six hundred men, only forty were soldiers. Almost none had fought in a war, and they were unaccustomed to any kind of discipline. But Philippe, for the first time in his life, felt in control of his own destiny; until now it had always been someone else making decisions for him. Being responsible for his own actions frightened him a little, but his fear of making a mistake was overshadowed by the immense feeling of freedom.

  Suddenly, the few soldiers who were there fell in to show their respect for the man who was approaching on horseback. Seeing him appear at a trot made everyone fall silent. A fresh-faced youth who had introduced himself to Philippe as Albert from Brussels said out loud, “It’s King Leopold!” and a soldier to his left slapped him on the back of the neck.

  “Idiot! That’s your commander.”

  They looked at the soldier with a puzzled expression as the commander stood staring at them in disbelief.

  “Let’s hope we never have to enter into combat,” Van der Smissen muttered to himself, realizing he was surrounded by fools.

  Someone was bold enough to ask, “Who is he?”

  “It’s Lieutenant Colonel Baron Alfred van der Smissen. You’d be wise not to forget,” someone behind him replied.

  As Van der Smissen dismounted, a military march began to play, and Philippe was filled with a patriotic, soldierly feeling. Everyone seemed to be infected with a sense of pride unknown to them before now. The lieutenant colonel began his inspection. He examined them one by one, and now and again exchanged a few words with them. The entire detachment was impeccably uniformed. There were all kinds of specimens. Van der Smissen’s expression was stern and—Philippe thought—also worried. He recognized the look. He’d seen it twice before: when Arthur left him forever at the carpenter’s workshop, and when Walton knew his secret had been discovered. Sure enough, Van der Smissen was a career soldier decorated for his achievements on the battlefield, and he’d never seen a battalion as ill prepared as this one. To make matters worse, their mission was on the other side of the world. He asked them what their trades were, and it confirmed his worst suspicions: his battalion, which Leopold I was sending to guard his beloved daughter, was made up of farmhands, tailors, barbers, carpenters, gardeners, a few students, a composer, two scribes, and a beggar.

  Trying to hide his displeasure, Van der Smissen issued his first order: “Board the boxcars; we leave for Angers.”

  Philippe was beside himself with joy. He’d always wanted to see the Loire region.

  Several hours after beginning the journey, his initial excitement waned. October wasn’t a warm month by any means, but unaccustomed to the stiff uniform, he could barely breathe. He would’ve given anything to be able to just take off his hat, but no one, not even the beggar, dared do so. Night was falling by the time they finally reached their destination, and all the discomforts of the journey were forgotten thanks to the welcome they received. People with Belgian flags and the coat of arms of Mexico were everywhere; Maximilian had arranged for them to be sent.

  A couple of days later, they set sail for Veracruz fr
om the port of Saint-Nazaire. As he boarded the ship, Philippe thought, like many of them did, that the hardest part was over: they’d been traveling for three days, and the men, undisciplined and inexperienced, were beginning to grow weary. How wrong they were; adversity and inclemency began to crush the spirits of even the bravest. Within a few weeks they were attacked by privateers. Those who survived the attack succumbed to typhus, and those who managed to escape the sickness were robbed in Martinique. While some of them held their hands on their heads and cursed the day they embarked on such an adventure, Philippe just marveled at the novelty of it all. With no wood to carve, he wrote. He traded his chisels for a pen and recorded everything that happened on board the Louisiana, the French steamship that transported them. They were also traveling with a French captain, a German prince, some creoles from the Caribbean, and a couple of Mexican families. Arriving at Cuba was a revelation for Philippe: he marveled at the smells of sugarcane, coffee, tobacco, and the copper that emerged in the form of red mountains among the foliage, defying nature. They’d been at sea for almost a month. They were close to their destination: Mexico. To the empress Charlotte. As night took over from day, Philippe closed his eyes to feel the wind on his suntanned skin, and he knew then, with the certainty with which faith emerges, that when he disembarked, it wouldn’t just be another country that he arrived at but a new beginning.

  Part Two

  23

  1862, Miramare Castle

  “Your brother can’t demand this of you,” Carlota said to Maximilian with a shocked expression.

  Maximilian said nothing and handed her the note that had arrived in the latest post, a clipping from an Austrian newspaper excerpting the speech the emperor, his brother Franz Joseph, had given at the opening of the Reichsrat. Impatient, anxious, Carlota skimmed over it: acceptance of the Mexican throne was subject to a family pact.

  “What family pact?” Carlota asked, fearing the worst.

  “Franz Joseph wants me to formally renounce all my privileges as a Habsburg.”

  “Even your dynastic rights?”

  “All of them, Charlotte.”

  “That’s unacceptable!”

  “It is. But I must sign the pact if I want to be emperor of Mexico.”

  There was a long silence. They both struggled with their thoughts, pacing the room. Carlota reread the clipping while Maximilian’s eyes wandered. After a few minutes, Carlota spoke.

  “You realize what that means, Max? They’re forcing you to burn your ships, like Cortés.”

  “You think I don’t know that?”

  There was another pause.

  “You must show it to the court jurists. I’m sure it will be ruled invalid.”

  “That doesn’t matter.”

  “It doesn’t?” Carlota asked, puzzled.

  “Franz Joseph wants to ruin me. He’s always wanted to, and this proves it. We have no future in Austria. They’ll never allow me to govern, as insignificant as the territory may be. I’ll rot in silence and oblivion. I might as well shut myself in my rooms and forget everything.”

  Carlota bowed her head. How could she have fallen in love with a man with so little character? Where was his courage? His desire to conquer the world? Had they ever been there, or had she imagined them? She tried to remember what had attracted her to this man. Perhaps it had been the disdain they both had for everyday life, their aspirations to reach the top. Spending their youth without doing anything had never been part of the plan. No matter how heavy the cross was, she’d always believed Maximilian would bear it. Why not confront Franz Joseph? If only she were a man . . . Given the chance, she would command a navy.

  Then, invested with the pride she possessed beneath her ample skirts, her voice broke through the uncertainty.

  “You will have an empire. That’s what Franz Joseph can’t bear. Sign it, Maximilian. Let us burn our ships.”

  Carlota sensed some sorrow and a slight air of disdain in her husband’s look, but she said nothing. She tried to put her arms around him, but he pushed her away, gently, without much fuss. He simply withdrew, taking a step back. With no one to receive her affection, Carlota hugged herself, crossing her arms over her chest.

  “How could you say such a thing? You want me to give up my homeland, the country of my first joys? Leave my golden cradle and break the sacred bond that ties me to it?” Maximilian said.

  “The truth of it is you’re afraid to learn that you only know how to dream, and not to actually govern. You don’t have the strength to fulfill the task that has been entrusted to you.”

  He stood gaping; she remained serene, with contempt in her eyes.

  Maximilian swallowed whatever he was going to say in disgust and left the room.

  Carlota remained pensive, tense, sad, and furious at the man she had married and who, much to her dismay, she was finally beginning to know.

  Maximilian withdrew to the summer house on the pretext of feeling unwell, and shut himself away there for three days.

  That was his way: when he disliked something, he walked away. He preferred to bury his head in the sand. It no longer surprised Carlota. She’d known it since Madeira, since the honeymoon that turned sour. She still felt the pain of it in her soul. It was when she finally understood. At first, she’d refused to admit the unthinkable, but little by little she had no choice but to accept the evidence, just as Joseph accepted Mary’s virginity. They hadn’t been married long, just a couple of years, and Carlota was still waiting for the magic to happen. Then, as if her prayers had been answered, Maximilian mentioned his desire to cross the Atlantic.

  “We’ll go to Brazil,” he said.

  With the excitement of the nineteen-year-old that she was, Carlota began to make preparations. They would set in at the beautiful port of Málaga, and from there they would sail for Algeciras, before heading to Gibraltar, and then Madeira. Carlota harbored fantasies of all kinds of marital complicities: conversations on deck, afternoon walks, exploring each other’s bodies in the evening. She knew that state marriages lacked romance, but not hers: hers had been a union between a prince and princess in love. They’d married two years ago, and the political intrigues and tense atmosphere to which they had been subjected had kept them apart, but this voyage would set things straight. Her woman’s body was ready to love. It had been for a long time.

  But Madeira tossed everything over a cliff. When they reached the island, it was as if Maximilian’s heart had dried up like a raisin. Carlota would approach him, and he would brush her aside. I can’t see you, he would say, leaving her heartbroken. Carlota had to ask among the court whether anyone knew what was happening. No one dared say anything, but she watched Maximilian sink into a deep depression until, one day, succumbing to her pressuring, a servant told her.

  “The archduke grieves for his first love.”

  “His first love?” asked Carlota.

  “The young Maria Amélia of Braganza, my lady. She died here, on Madeira.”

  “The daughter of Brazil’s late emperor?”

  “That’s right, my lady. The archduke was secretly betrothed to her for a year, but then she died of tuberculosis.”

  “When was this?” Carlota managed to ask.

  “Five years ago, my lady.”

  Carlota ordered him to leave. She needed to be alone.

  For the rest of the afternoon, she sat contemplating the scenery through the window, waiting for Maximilian to find her. Night fell again and she went to him. His eyes were red.

  “Why didn’t you tell me about her?” she asked.

  Maximilian didn’t have the courage to look his wife in the eyes, so he spoke to his shoes.

  “I thought I’d forgotten her. Stupid me.”

  Having to compete with a dead woman was all she needed. Carlota thought that perhaps this explained her husband’s lack of interest in her. She had to know.

  “Did you love her?”

  “I thought her life would bring tranquility and happiness to mine.”


  Carlota swallowed. Was that not what she was doing now? He went on.

  “She was a perfect creature who left this harsh world like an angel of pure light to return to heaven, her true home.”