Carlota recognized the tone from the letters he wrote to her before they married. It was the voice of a romantic. The voice in which she had thought she recognized love. Poetry. Now, she realized it was the voice of a man only capable of loving muses, in love with unconsummated love; a man incapable of loving flesh and bone. At least, not her flesh, or her bones. Carlota observed him while he spoke. Maximilian was turning a locket ring she’d never noticed before around on his finger.
“What ring is that?”
“Oh. This,” he said, clearly trying to hide his agitation. “It’s her ring.”
“May I see it?” Carlota asked, ignoring the bitterness in her mouth.
He took it off, doubtful; she opened it. Carlota almost fainted when she saw that he kept hair there. Some of her hair.
They looked at each other without speaking. She returned the ring to him feeling somewhat repulsed and, speechless, she watched him put it back on like a loving widower.
“Would you visit her house with me?” he suddenly asked.
Carlota opened her eyes wide.
“Would you like me to?”
Maximilian nodded.
Carlota agreed, thinking it might be a way for him to face his demon; perhaps it would allow him to bury her once and for all.
The next day, Carlota visited the house and watched Maximilian fall to pieces in front of her, as fragile as a baby. She felt neither tenderness nor pity for this man: such behavior didn’t befit an archduke, or a Habsburg. And for a brief moment, she saw him with the same eyes as Franz Joseph.
Carlota slept alone again that night, without the hopes and dreams of a woman in love. A piece of her love had turned to hard, dry stone. It didn’t disappear; it remained there, in her, but dead. Without blood to warm it or desire to set it alight.
The next day she searched for Maximilian but was unable to find him until, finally, she learned from her ladies-in-waiting that her husband had continued the journey without her. It’s not possible, she thought. But it was. Maximilian’s cruelty came to light in the most abrupt fashion. How could such a wretch harbor so much romanticism and sentimentality? On what was supposed to be a honeymoon, he abandoned his wife on an island, but he didn’t give her free rein. Before she had recovered from the shock, a count and a baron arrived whom Maximilian had instructed to remain with Carlota until his return. She fired a barrage of questions at them.
“How could he just go? To Brazil! How long has he gone for?”
“We don’t know, my lady. The archduke didn’t tell us.”
“But how could he have embarked on the voyage alone?”
The men looked at each other for an instant before one spoke.
“That’s not entirely accurate . . . He left in the company of his friends, my lady.”
Carlota turned pale.
“What friends?”
The count cleared his throat before replying.
“Charles de Bombelles accompanies him, my lady.”
Carlota felt a stab of pain in her stomach; the look the baron tried to hide by looking at the ground didn’t go unnoticed.
“Who else?” asked Carlota.
The men were silent.
“Who else?” she yelled, already knowing the answer.
“Sebastian Schertzenlechner.”
He was always there, like a shadow. From the moment the Hungarian arrived to be the prince’s fencing teacher, Max had been bewitched by him. Franz Joseph warned Max that it was inappropriate to become close to servants, but he didn’t care, or at least not when it came to Sebastian. He took him to Lombardy. He took him to Miramare. And now he was taking him to Brazil. Like water that manages to bore a hole through rock, he’d wormed his way in little by little, slowly, almost imperceptibly. The familiarity infuriated Franz Joseph, but Max used it as the ace up his sleeve in a child’s game in which he made it clear that, even if the emperor ordered it, he wouldn’t hold back on his eccentricities, including the company he kept. He enjoyed provoking his brother, and at any rate Sebastian’s smile hypnotized him. Carlota was as repulsed as he was attracted by this character who’d seeped into their lives like dampness on walls. His friendship with Max always aroused a feeling of suspicion that she couldn’t fully comprehend. And now, all of a sudden, everything was clear. She felt like someone confessing in the open air, someone vulnerable. She finally understood why she felt such profound sorrow when she looked at him, a sadness so dense it prevented her from breathing. Maria Amélia of Braganza was a ghost; Schertzenlechner was real.
Aware of the implications of the news they’d just conveyed, the men requested permission to leave. Carlota, lips pressed together, nodded.
She waited on that island for Maximilian for three months. Three long months in which she learned how to be alone. A hundred days was enough to give her an idea of the kind of marriage she had. She frequently wanted to cry, but wouldn’t let herself. She held in every last tear. Much like when her mother died, grief made a prisoner of her, but she swore to herself she wouldn’t cry. Never again, not a single drop. A princess, she told herself, cried without tears.
24
It was 1863, and at Miramare, Carlota spent every day preparing for the mission she was about to undertake: in a few months’ time, she would be empress. She became active, she went riding to refine her figure, she bathed in the sea, and she went for long walks. The ladies of the court, tired from trying to keep up with her, sometimes asked, “Didn’t you tell us it’s better to cultivate the mind, Majesty?”
She answered with a smile, “Without energy, you turn to fluff.”
Though she would never dare say it in the confessional to Father Deschamps, she wanted to stay strong and firm in case Maximilian decided to lift her skirts one day.
At court, everyone talked about the Mexicans who’d visited Miramare to anoint the archduke as emperor of Mexico. The atmosphere was one of cautious joy in the corridors of the castle.
However, Carlota’s grandmother Queen Maria Amalia didn’t share their caution or their joy. In fact, she was very worried: Carlota was the apple of her eye, her most beloved grandchild. Since the death of Carlota’s mother, Queen Louise, whom Maria Amalia always called my angelic Louise, she had been devoted to her youngest grandchild, whom she considered fragile because she was a girl.
How the little one had missed her mother, and what a good queen her mother had been: both in Wallonia and Flanders, there wasn’t a single railway station, hospital, or restaurant that didn’t have her portrait on its walls. The Belgians called her the Good Queen, and that was exactly what she’d also been for Maria Amalia. Losing her so young was a tragedy: for the Belgians, for Leopold, and for Carlota. The void she left couldn’t be filled. Maria Amalia thought that was when Carlota discovered the loneliness of the soul. A void that could never be filled. She’d kept in touch with her granddaughter with letters: they had a postal relationship that was abundant, strong, and affectionate, which gave them both moments of peace and was based on a sincerity that meant they could discuss anything. However, this sincerity had faded since Carlota’s marriage to Maximilian. Queen Maria Amalia could feel it, she sensed that Carlota’s character had changed. She was more distant, in spite of her affection; more sorrowful, in spite of her smile; more alone, in spite of the company. And from the moment she received news of the Mexican throne, there’d been a knot in the Queen Mother’s stomach. In her view, it was a ridiculous thing to do, an act of folly, an eccentricity that only a fool would consider. She was shocked that her Charlotte, so upright and so educated, could have stumbled over such an enormous absurdity. However much she tried to dissuade her granddaughter, she always came up against a wall of justifications. The child, she knew, was very clever; even so, the queen decided she would use any means possible to make her see reason.
“Oh, child,” she said warmly. “I don’t understand where this longing for a crown comes from now, when you turned down the chance to depose Peter of Portugal because you didn’t want a thr
one.”
Carlota stood straight as she listened, like a tin soldier.
“True, but it’s one thing to seek a throne and another to refuse one.”
“I hoped for a better future for you, child.”
“But, Grandmother, Mexico is a beautiful country . . . and I feel we have a calling to reign. It’s like a religious calling.”
“The beauty of the country isn’t important, child, what matters is how stable its foundations are.”
“All thrones are unstable, Grandmother.”
Maria Amalia then tried a more personal angle.
“And the senselessness of giving up your dynastic rights?”
“Max hasn’t given up any of his succession rights. He is still third in line. All he’s done is given himself an occupation. Can you imagine the life we’d have if we stayed here? Building another house, designing another garden, and occasionally him going off on a long journey while I stay here . . .”
Maria Amalia could sense both anguish and reproach; she went to her and took her hand maternally. Carlota continued in a low voice.
“I’ve seen little of life, Grandmother, but I want something to love. I need a broader horizon than I have now.”
“So. It’s not for Maximilian. It’s for you.”
“All I want is to lead an active, useful life, to do something good in the world. I want to love in greater circles.”
“But you can do that here, at Miramare.”
“Life at Miramare couldn’t be more boring,” she said without blinking.
“You’re only twenty-three . . . you don’t have to live your life in such a hurry. You haven’t missed anything in Mexico. There’s nothing for you to do there.”
“I’m aware of the dangers of this enterprise, believe me I am. But I also believe I have the strength to endure them, Grandmother.”
“Wouldn’t you be happier in Greece?”
“Are you suggesting Maximilian should take that throne instead of Mexico’s?”
Maria Amalia knew that Leopold I, her son, was worried about the course Carlota and Maximilian were taking and had been discussing with Franz Joseph the possibility of offering them the Greek throne. The Greek revolution the previous year had sent the royal couple into exile.
Carlota pressed her hands together in a pleading gesture.
“For the love of God, Grandmother, Maximilian would never accept King Otto’s crown knowing it had been offered to a dozen princes before him.”
“Mexico’s was also offered to others, my dear. The Infante Juan de Borbón y Braganza of Spain turned it down, as did his uncle Antonio.”
Carlota swallowed bitter saliva.
“But it’s not the same. In any case, Maximilian believes the Greek people to be wicked and deceitful. Mexicans are more noble.”
“You wouldn’t be succumbing to ambition, would you, child?”
“It’s not ambition, Grandmother. If a throne allows one to love the people one governs, then I must love thrones. But if this pleasure could be obtained with the most modest title, that would satisfy me.”
The queen leaned back in her chair with sadness, thinking to herself that intelligence was, sure enough, the cousin of pride.
While Carlota tried to hold back the tide with a broom, Maximilian dwelled on much more puerile matters. Under very little pressure, brilliant projects evaporated, leaving only a sediment made of fantasies. In his heart, he truly believed that governing a powder keg would happen by divine grace. Other matters excited him more: he imagined himself as a Roman emperor whose court would be remembered in years to come like Nero’s: for luxury, good taste, ostentation. He imagined himself appearing in the center of gigantic paintings hanging on the best walls in palaces on both sides of the ocean. When he closed his eyes, he thought about whom he would commission to paint his portrait, and he fell asleep thinking about what he would wear for the occasion. When he woke, he would draw sketches of possible coats of arms for his empire on white sheets of paper: crowned eagles on prickly pears, or plumes like the ones the ancient Aztec monarchs wore; the imperial cloaks; the green, white, and red tricolors. He went over and over the motto that would round off the coat of arms, until he finally decided it would be Religion, independence, and unity. Yes . . . that was it. And a scepter. He would need an imperial scepter. He searched for fabrics with which to upholster the imperial chairs. When he had finished coming up with decorative ideas, he took up pen and paper to set out the rules of protocol and etiquette, as well as the new medals and decorations that would be awarded on his arrival in Mexico. And his palatine guard! He mustn’t forget the royal guard. He wanted one like the pope’s, a sort of Swiss Guard, extravagant and well organized. How great his empire would be! How great.
And on one of many such afternoons, under pressure from his brother and the grandeur of his aspirations, he signed the family pact: he closed the doors on Europe in order to open them on Mexico, and he felt that this would suffice.
In Trieste, the emperor and empress were given a hero’s send-off. There were tears and good wishes amid the cheers while, waving, Carlota and Maximilian boarded the fifty-gun Novara, a three-mast frigate that hadn’t been designed for long voyages. A small craft loaded with coal escorted them in case the winds failed. There, confined by the sea, Maximilian had time to draw up the rules for the court’s honorary and ceremonial service. To Carlota, who questioned why he devoted so much time to trivial matters, he said, “What a stupid question! Mexican society is unaccustomed to the ceremonial protocol of a court. This document will be very useful.”
“It would be more useful if you wrote to Benito Juárez,” she retorted.
Maximilian tensed. He didn’t like hearing that name. Nonetheless, he nodded.
“Yes, undoubtedly. Undoubtedly.”
“We’d better prepare for the worst and hope for the best,” she said, before leaving him alone again, in his paper empire.
25
Leagues away, Juan Nepomuceno Almonte waited. Acting as imperial regent, he had already announced in the press that, on the arrival of the monarchs, titles would be conferred. There would be Mexican barons, dukes, counts, and marquises. Good day, Marquise, women said to themselves in the mirror. If I may, Countess, others imagined. And like schoolgirls writing their would-be married names in their diary, they blushed at the sound of their names preceded with a title. In the Murrieta house, the servants rushed back and forth, searching closets for medals that for so long had been nothing more than things to dust. Vicente, thrilled at the idea of being named a noble, told Refugio to organize a welcome dance for their distinguished guests. One day, some grandiose ladies, stuffed into their dresses in the French way—at least according to them—came to ask for Refugio’s help and connections to organize a collection.
“We want to give the empress a solid silver dressing table,” they explained.
“What a wonderful idea!” Clotilde exclaimed before being overcome by a coughing fit.
Refugio smiled at them, sensing Constanza’s inquisitive gaze through the parlor. When the women left, Constanza recriminated.
“It’s one thing feigning ignorance, Mother, and quite another to go along with such idiocy.”
“I know, darling, I know. It makes my blood boil! But what else can I do?”
Constanza wanted to shake her. “Stop receiving them! Tell them you’re indisposed! Refuse!”
“I can’t do that, darling.”
“Then don’t come to me every night talking about how the Juaristas are right, when we eat, drink, and breathe empire in this house.”
Constanza couldn’t understand why her mother refused to stand up for her beliefs; she thought to herself that if she had ever known how to, she’d forgotten.
“Constanza, I have to tell you something. Sit down,” she said, patting the armchair to indicate she should join her. Constanza obeyed. “Your father wants you to join the imperial court.”
“What did you say, Mamá?”
�
��You heard.”
“But that’s . . . No, Mamá, don’t do this to me. I couldn’t. It would be obvious immediately that I didn’t want to be there. Don’t ask me to do this.”
Refugio took her daughter’s hands, but Constanza snatched them away. If anyone had been watching, Refugio would’ve had to slap her to keep up appearances. But they were alone, so she allowed her daughter to rebel in this way. It was what she’d wanted to do when Vicente had told her. Deep down, Refugio felt as if she were sending her children to be sacrificed, as if time were an imperfect machine and, imbued with the spirit of ancient beliefs, it was throwing her best offspring into the lava of a volcano.
“Send Clotilde,” Constanza begged. “She’s docile, she’ll fit in perfectly in that absurd court.”
“She can’t go, Constanza. Her health is fragile, and they don’t want sickly people in the court.”
“I’d sooner enter a convent.”
“That’s not for you, Constanza. You know it as well as I do.”
“What difference is there between cloistering myself and fanning myself until I die of boredom?”
Refugio, glancing around the room, took a chance and whispered in her ear.
“For appearances that’s what you’ll do, yes, but your work will be much more than that. They need you, Constanza. They need you more than you know.”
“Who does?” Constanza asked with disgust.
Refugio spoke softly, her eyes fixed on her daughter’s. Constanza had to bring her ear closer to her mother’s mouth.
“The Juaristas, darling.”
Constanza didn’t understand.
“Yes, darling, the Juaristas need you: they need someone in the court, and no one would suspect a Murrieta. No one will suspect you.”
“They want me to be a spy?”
“An informant. Someone to share reliable information about what happens in the palace. What you see. What you hear. What people say.”
“And to whom will I be passing on this information?”
“When the time comes, you’ll be told.”
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