Constanza fell silent. Neither of them spoke for a while. Then Constanza held her mother’s hands.
“But, Mother, how do you know this? How . . . ?”
Refugio took a deep breath. “A woman wears many disguises, dear, to defend an idea. To survive. Mine is that of a self-sacrificing wife. There are nuns, there are prostitutes, but we all choose what we want to be under the mask.”
“Are you telling me, Mother, that you’re a . . . Republican?”
“One of the truest,” she replied.
26
1866, Paris
Carlota’s black dress contrasted sharply with the pale gown Eugénie de Montijo wore when she visited that summer morning. Carlota was still in mourning for her grandmother, and even if she wasn’t obliged, black seemed the most appropriate color given the circumstances of her mission.
She couldn’t suppress her surprise when Eugénie arrived at the Grand Hotel escorted by two women dressed in pastels wearing wildflowers in their hair.
“What a pleasure to see you, dear. Allow me to introduce the Countess of Montebello and my good friend Madame Carette.”
“Enchantée,” they said in unison.
Carlota, ignoring protocol, said, “It seems inappropriate to me that you should arrive with friends as if I’d invited you to spend the day in the countryside, when you know that my visit is official state business.”
The atmosphere could’ve been cut with a knife. The women had never been treated with such directness. Eugénie de Montijo drew upon all her considerable diplomatic experience to defuse the situation.
“Of course, dear. Please don’t be upset. You see, I had hoped that you’d have that conversation with Napoleon in person.”
“That is what I hoped, too.”
The Countess of Montebello, feeling deeply uncomfortable, decided to withdraw.
“I see it would be better to take tea another time,” she said, turning to leave. But Eugénie stopped her with a severe look.
“Not at all, Countess. Sit down, please.”
The women looked at each other and then reluctantly sat down under the force of Eugénie’s severity.
Carlota decided to play by the same rules. If they wanted a fight, a fight is what they’d have.
“We need the French troops to stay in Mexico,” she said point-blank.
Eugénie, who also knew how to play the game, evaded the issue.
“We can see about that later. Now, how was the journey? I hope you’re comfortable in the hotel, this place is marvelous. I heard there was a small altercation at your reception in Saint-Nazaire . . .”
“Maximilian is still emperor, and he will not abdicate, if that is what you’d hoped. We need France to tell us where it stands.”
“All in good time, dear, all in good time. How is the food there? I’m sure you’ll be delighted to have a proper vol-au-vent.”
“Don’t insult my intelligence with banality. I demand to see Napoleon no later than tomorrow.”
“I’m afraid that won’t be possible, dear. You know Napoleon is indisposed.”
Carlota stood and did what she’d been wanting to do since Eugénie walked through the door; she was an empress, too, after all, and she demanded respect. At the top of her voice, she yelled, “If the emperor refuses to see me, I shall force my way in!”
The three women left the room in utter shock; they’d never had to suffer such rude behavior. A lady—not to mention a princess, the granddaughter of a king and queen, and cousin of the queen of England—never raised her voice, let alone issued threats.
“That woman has completely lost her mind, Highness,” Madame Carette said to Eugénie.
And the Countess of Montebello added, “She seemed unbalanced to me from the first moment. Did you see what she was wearing? I thought I’d suffocate just looking at her! In black from head to toe, as if in a convent, and in this August heat!”
Eugénie listened in silence. It was true: the Carlota who received them was a woman with her nerves in tatters. Eugénie knew what it was like to be under pressure, what it was like to have a nation turn against her; all of France had branded her ambitious and manipulative, and they considered her the cause of all of Napoleon’s ills. However, she’d learned to keep her emotions in check. She would never allow herself to shout as Carlota had just done.
“Leave it,” she said. “She’ll dig her own grave.”
Alone now, Carlota knew she had gone too far, but it was too late. She didn’t know what in God’s name was happening, why she was losing her temper so easily. Was it a symptom of the pregnancy? Why didn’t anyone understand her anguish? She wanted what was best for Mexico. France and Belgium were distant cousins to her now. Only two years had passed, but the country that flowed through her veins was on the other side of the ocean. She’d learned to love it, to understand it. She felt Mexican. She needed to return with good news, and instead everyone seemed to treat her as if she were hysterical, volatile, ambitious, and self-centered.
To add insult to injury, she was carrying a bastard child and didn’t know how to hide it. How easy it would be to say the child was Max’s. How easy it would be to announce that the Mexican throne had an heir. Why not? Better an heir with half-royal blood than no heir at all. Perhaps she should say it was Max’s child and be done with it. Her head was spinning. She was exhausted, she needed to rest. She lay on the bed and let her drowsiness take away all the pain and anguish for a few hours.
The next day, Carlota went to see the emperor; ill-mannered or not, Napoleon had agreed to receive her. Though the news pleased her, she cursed the fact that she couldn’t postpone the visit. That morning, she’d awoken feeling extraordinarily unwell. She’d barely slept because of the dizziness and nausea; she woke up vomiting. Every smell disgusted her. The chambermaid came to clean the room and found the empress curled up on the floor, vomiting into her chamber pot. It was a pitiful sight. Frau Döblinger came as soon as she was informed. Mathilde was a source of great comfort and support. She spoke in a soft, unhurried voice; hearing her, Carlota often recalled her mother: had she been alive, this was how she would’ve spoken to her. In private—only ever in private—Mathilde spoke warm words, such as Don’t worry, my child; you’ll feel better soon, my child. During the first trimester, she gave her lemons to suck to ward off the sickness. Carlota allowed herself to be cocooned by her.
“Oh, Mathilde, what would I do without you!”
“You’d be just as brave, my child,” she said while stroking her hair. “Now enough crying, you’ll upset the little one.”
Carlota looked at her with sad eyes.
“Nobody must know of my condition, Mathilde. Not yet. This child couldn’t have arrived at a worse time.”
“I shall be as silent as the grave, my child.”
And then, gently, she helped her dress.
In the carriage, Carlota was a bundle of nerves. She wrung her mantilla between her fingers, not caring if she ruined it. She was frightened to death. She had to appear before Napoleon exhibiting the dignity of the rank that had been invested in her just two years ago, but inside she was trembling like a crème caramel. She wound the mantilla around a finger until it stopped the blood flow; when the digit felt numb, she unwound the fabric and began to bite it. As they approached the château, Carlota noticed that, for the first time since her return, she would be received as the empress that she was. A guard of honor flanked her path.
After a formal welcome, they led the empress to Napoleon III’s study. It was on the ground floor, and to Carlota it seemed a gloomy, cheerless place. She had to contain her shock when she saw the emperor looking much older than she’d imagined. By all accounts, Napoleon the Little was very unwell.
“Don’t allow my appearance to deceive you, Charlotte. I still have the strength to refute any argument,” he said.
“Your Highness, I’m sorry to see you suffering,” she said. And then, perhaps thinking of her Maximilian, who’d also been afflicted by delica
te health, she added, “We’ve all suffered a great deal.”
“Yes, well, you haven’t traveled all this way to discuss my health, have you?”
“No, Your Highness, as I’m sure you’re aware.”
“With great regret, I can do nothing for your empire. I must do what’s best for France.”
“But you swore to support us to the end. It was only two years ago you signed the Peace of Vienna. You had plans to build a nation; we can still save it.”
“It is unsustainable, Charlotte. War with Prussia could be on the horizon; we need all our troops on the continent.”
“If you withdraw the troops, Mexico will descend into anarchy. God knows what will become of us. We have paid you for them.”
Carlota then showed him a series of letters setting out the financial and military details. She knew them by heart: she’d studied them backward and forward during the crossing. And in any case, even if she hadn’t done so, she was acquainted with every detail, every decision. While Maximilian explored the hidden corners of his empire, Carlota was left in charge, conducting the country’s affairs from Chapultepec. While Maximilian devoted himself to writing political theory, she governed. Until her subjects, tired of being told what to do by a woman, even if she was an empress, asked Maximilian to give her tasks more in keeping with her sex, such as charitable work. But no: Carlota knew what governing was. If only I had been a man, she thought. If only . . .
Napoleon III started to talk about Mexico as if he knew it. Carlota listened in astonishment, aware that this man, for all his reasoning and arguments, didn’t have the first idea what Mexico was. For him, Mexico was a place on a map, nothing more. As the conversation became heated, Napoleon seemed subdued. He was weak, tired, physically spent. And while, in her pettiest moments, Carlota was glad to know that this traitor would die in pain, soaked in his own urine, she couldn’t help but feel some sorrow at the inexorable passing of time.
Napoleon, weary, his eyes watering, raised his voice.
“Understand, there’s nothing I can do!”
Carlota felt her cheeks burn.
“How could you claim such a thing! What do you mean nothing? As the head of an empire of thirty million souls with supremacy in Europe, you have vast resources, you enjoy the most generous credit in the world, with victorious armies always at the ready. Can Your Majesty not do anything for the Mexican Empire?”
They were behind closed doors, but outside, alternating voices could be heard, interrupting each other in an unintelligible echo. Carlota waved the letters he’d signed when he feared Maximilian wouldn’t accept the Mexican throne, letters full of promises now broken.
“What happened to the word of the man who wrote these letters? Maximilian accepted the throne because it was your will.”
Napoleon, agitated, back against the wall, ventured to say, “Lady Charlotte, you would be advised to stop insisting, or I shall be forced to make you stop.”
Carlota went wide-eyed.
“Are you threatening me?”
“I would be incapable of such an act,” he said in his defense. “All I’m saying is that it would be a great shame if you had to abandon the Mexican cause for which you fight so hard because of some setback. It has come to my attention that you are not in the best health. What’s more, you’re a long way from your empire.”
For the first time since she walked into the room, Carlota hesitated. She didn’t know how to interpret his words. Were they a threat? Did he know of her condition? What did he mean by a setback? They both fell silent.
All at once, a footman burst in with a pitcher of orange juice.
“Ah, at last!” said the emperor. “I’ve been waiting some time.”
“Forgive me, Your Majesty,” the footman replied with his head bowed.
The interruption unsettled Carlota. She disliked being distracted in the middle of an argument. It was a tactic she’d seen a thousand times in the palace: when someone wanted to change the subject or make an adversary lose the thread of an argument, a servant always interrupted with refreshments. It was a classic ploy, and Napoleon was using it against her now. The heat was stifling, and drops of condensation slid down the icy glass pitcher.
“Drink a little, it will do you good,” Napoleon invited her.
Carlota watched the emperor himself, having dismissed the footman, pour her a glass. He did not pour a second.
“Drink.”
It wasn’t a request. It was an order. Carlota swallowed dry saliva and shook her head.
“No, thank you.”
Napoleon frowned.
“Drink. It will do you good.”
“Thank you, I am not thirsty,” she lied; her throat was raw from talking. The cool drink tempted her like the devil tempted Christ in the desert, but something in Napoleon’s manner made her suspicious. Why was he so insistent that she should drink while he did not? Something froze inside Carlota. He’s trying to poison me. Doubtful, Carlota picked up the glass. Napoleon seemed on edge. She held the glass to her mouth but didn’t let a drop pass her lips. It couldn’t be true. Poison? Me? The thought that they might try to assassinate her made her furious, but it wouldn’t be unusual: she wouldn’t have been the first nor the last noble to be poisoned for political reasons. As a child, she’d seen that her father wouldn’t touch his meals until they’d been approved by a taster. It was a trick older than time. Gathering her composure, she returned to the reason for her visit.
“Let us resume the matter at hand, Your Highness.”
“You are the most foolish woman I know, Charlotte.”
She took it as a compliment. Napoleon, exhausted and aching, put an end to the conversation.
“I shall consult my ministers again before giving you a final answer. That’s all I can promise you.”
“My thanks, Your Highness.” She put the glass down on the silver tray.
Carlota walked to her carriage as quickly as she could; she wanted to run but knew it would be unseemly. The heat and her fury had flushed her cheeks as red as ripe tomatoes, and her glazed eyes suggested an imminent cascade of tears. She climbed into the carriage; inside, two ladies-in-waiting looked at her with sorrowful expressions.
“Well, Majesty?” they asked when they saw her.
Carlota, frustrated, confused, frightened, exhausted, threw herself into the arms of one of them and began to sob inconsolably.
“I did everything humanly possible; I did everything humanly possible . . . ,” she said over and over again.
27
1864, Veracruz
When Philippe arrived, his first thought was that Mexico was a country of great contrasts. The Pico de Orizaba greeted him from the distance, covered in mist and snow. He’d never seen such mountains in Belgium, he thought to himself. The view played tricks on the senses, because though the mountains were snowcapped, it was hot and humid. It was like being trapped between two worlds. Mexico was exactly that: two worlds coexisting in a single land. One could go from paradise to hell within a league’s distance. Within a single day, one could experience the four seasons: it could pour in the morning and suffocate with the heat of an oven in the afternoon. They walked through a desert, and then, passing through a valley, they suddenly found themselves amid verdant landscapes covered in flowers and trees abundant with exotic fruits. Aridness and luxuriance coexisted like angels with demons.
Philippe hadn’t seen much of the world, but as they approached Veracruz, he heard someone say it resembled the Holy Land. A bald, gray-eyed man corrected the speaker.
“Don’t be an idiot! In the Orient the buildings have domes and minarets, and here the houses have flat roofs.”
Looking up, Philippe saw hundreds of strange black-headed birds gliding above them menacingly; some of the men seemed alarmed by this animal they’d never seen before.
“They’re zopilotes,” said one of the sons of the Mexican family traveling with them. “Vultures. Scavengers.”
One of the soldiers picked u
p a stone and aimed at the bird flying over his head. The boy called out to him.
“Don’t! The fine for killing a zopilote is twenty-five pesos.”
“A fine for killing a scavenger bird?” the soldier asked in disbelief.
“They clean the garbage from the streets,” the boy replied with a smile.
It was as though everyone had been given new eyes. They opened them wide, engrossed and amazed. They were going to spend six years here, and to some of them it suddenly seemed like an eternity.
Philippe, despite his excitement, went carefully. Walton’s words still echoed in his memory, warning of diseases and other dangers. And though he marveled at the nature, he was aware that they weren’t safe, at least they wouldn’t be until they reached the city. The port was unsanitary, the air carried the scent of rotting waste, and the zopilotes seemed to be everywhere in anticipation of death. Within a few days, Philippe confirmed that he’d been right to be afraid: a dozen men fell sick with yellow fever, others began to vomit blood. Within a couple of weeks, he watched young men die with fevers and in pain; like him, they’d traveled in search of adventure, but for them it had come to a tragic end.
Philippe promised himself that he would follow all the hygiene measures they’d been taught onboard the ship, and which, with the insolence of youth, he had previously decided to ignore. They mustn’t overuse their strength of mind, which, in the words of the physician, was always weak in tropical climates. They had to avoid physical love, muscular exertion, and excesses of the voice. Philippe scowled: he missed physical love, but having seen the working women in the port, that guideline wouldn’t be too hard to follow, at least for the time being. Of all the instructions, the one he liked most—though he wasn’t sure how it would help him avoid yellow fever—was taking an afternoon nap.
His favorite time was the night. He liked it more than the day. He could feel the cool wind bringing the scent of the sea to flush the stench from the coast. But he mostly loved it because he’d never in his life seen so many stars in the sky. He sat on a bench in the square and, lulled by the darkness, listened to the waves breaking against the city walls. The darker the night, the more beautiful the stars, and that, somehow, kept alive his hope.
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