The Empress: A novel

by Laura Martínez-Belli

  It wouldn’t be the only quivering heart in the palace. Constanza believed that a force stronger than destiny was pushing him straight toward her.

  36

  1866, Rome

  “She’s gone mad,” Bombelles said to Philippe, the Count of Flanders and Carlota’s brother, whom he’d summoned to Rome.

  Philippe paced the room, dubious.

  “What do you mean she’s gone mad? It could be just a nervous breakdown.”

  “Excuse my frankness, but she’s utterly lost her mind. She thinks we’re all spies, that we want to poison her; she refuses food, she eats only walnuts and oranges because she peels them herself; she drinks water from the fountains . . .”

  “It can’t be,” Philippe said, frowning. “Carlota’s a brilliant woman and has always been in full control of her faculties. She never showed any signs of derangement.”

  “See for yourself, if you wish.”

  “Has Maximilian been informed?”

  “Dr. Bohuslavek is heading to Mexico right now to give him the news.”

  “He’s traveling all that way just for that?”

  “Well, sir, there is something else.”

  With a troubled expression, Philippe joined his hands behind his neck.

  Bombelles went on. “You see, the empress is expecting.”

  Philippe let his arms drop.

  “She’s pregnant?” There was a very short silence that the count quickly broke. “Then let’s not waste any more time. Take me to her.”

  Philippe doubted everything Bombelles had told him when he saw his sister. He had expected to find her in bed, sweating, with damp handkerchiefs on her forehead, but Carlota was beautiful when she received him. She was clean, tidy, well dressed—in black, as she had liked to dress since her beloved grandmother Maria Amalia died, but presentable and in good spirits. Seeing each other, they hugged.

  “Philippe, how I have missed you!”

  “Me too, dear Charlotte, me too.”

  “Sit down, please.”

  The siblings took a seat. For a few seconds, Philippe tried to detect some sign of confusion. Nothing. Then he noticed there was nothing to drink.

  “Will you not offer some tea to your brother?”

  Carlota’s smile vanished. She looked from side to side to check that they were alone.

  “Philippe, they’re trying to poison me. And you too, no doubt.”

  Philippe leaned on his elbows.

  Seeing his look of disbelief, Carlota persisted.

  “It’s true. They think I’m mad, but I’m not. I swear. I’m as sane as you are. They want to kill me.”

  Philippe began to worry.

  “What are you saying? Why do you think that? Have you felt unwell? Are you sick?”

  “All the time. Since I set sail for Saint-Nazaire. They’re weakening me. I know they are.”

  “And couldn’t there be another reason for your discomfort?” Philippe gestured at her bulging belly.

  Carlota stood up.

  “You know?”

  “It seems a lot of people do.”

  Carlota hugged herself.

  “Who knows? I told only Mathilde and Bohuslavek, for obvious reasons.”

  “And Max?”

  Carlota raised her eyebrows, concerned.

  “Oh, Philippe. I haven’t told Max.”

  “Why not?”

  Carlota swallowed with difficulty.

  “Because he would know it cannot be his.”

  Philippe sat back in his chair; Carlota huddled next to him.

  Then, remembering her other brother, she requested, “Don’t tell Leopold.”

  Philippe said nothing.

  That night he couldn’t sleep. Carlota didn’t seem insane, or incoherent. The idea that she was being poisoned was undoubtedly an eccentricity, but it might have been the result of what she’d endured in recent months. More than months . . . years! Going to Mexico had been foolish, as good as her intentions may have been. They’d been tricked, manipulated by Napoleon and Eugénie de Montijo, and his idiot of a brother-in-law had believed the Mexicans really wanted an emperor. The Mexicans had had emperors, Aztec ones. If anyone was mad here, it was Maximilian. Philippe’s poor sister was a woman in love with a weakling, nothing more. He mulled it over. And the child? What should they do with it? Without doubt, they should pass it off as a Habsburg. It had been done in every royal house since time immemorial; there was no reason to change now. He made a decision: he would give Frau Döblinger a couple of days off so he could observe Carlota up close. He needed to assess her true mental state.

  He spent two nights with Carlota, two nights in which he listened to her speak about many things. About Mexico, about Maximilian, and about the fear she felt.

  “God wants to punish me,” she said.

  The last straw was when Frau Döblinger returned from her break with a live chicken that she killed in Carlota’s room so she could eat it with confidence.

  He didn’t know what to think, or what to do.

  Just before leaving, Philippe saw a note that Carlota had received from the Holy Father; enclosed was the concordat that Carlota had presented to him in Rome, unsigned. Curious, Philippe opened the note.

  Your Majesty,

  I return to you the document you presented to me, and it would give me pleasure if you would keep the cup. In my prayers I beseech God to restore peace to your mind and free you of the suspicion that is causing you such unhappiness. I bless you with all my heart.

  Pius IX

  Philippe folded the letter, put it back in its place, and unaware that the decision he was about to make would end his sister’s life, he decided to tell his elder brother. Despite everything, he was Leopold II, patriarch of the Belgians; he would know what to do.

  Leopold squirmed with pleasure. While Philippe, distressed, told him about their sister’s situation, he kneaded his hands, stroking the knuckles.

  “This is exactly what we needed; don’t you see?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Charlotte is incapable of administrating her funds, which, as we know, are considerable.”

  Philippe frowned so hard his eyebrows met.

  “What are you suggesting?”

  “From now on, we’ll control Charlotte’s money. There’s no reason a woman should manage such sums. You know I sent a draft law to the chambers to exclude women from inheritances; Charlotte will be granted a life annuity that may be canceled should she behave badly.”

  Philippe listened in horror as it became clear that all his brother cared about was appropriating Charlotte’s fortune.

  Leopold smiled openly as he calculated how immensely rich his sister’s madness had just made him. At last he would be able to seize the Congo.

  “In relation to her health . . . ,” Philippe intervened.

  Returning to the conversation, Leopold II said with absolute finality, “The insane are locked up, Philippe.”

  37

  1864, Mexico

  Constanza only had eyes for him. She watched him guarding Carlota day and night, and his seriousness captivated her. He wasn’t like the other inhabitants of the palace, obsessed with standing out and intent on making sure that everyone, from the chambermaid to the cook, knew their names. He seemed to prefer anonymity. She tried to do the same, but she was a dreadful actress. Despite her attempts to act natural, to appear disinterested, her thoughts always seemed to be in dissonance with her body. She said no when she wanted to say yes, smiled when she wanted to remain inscrutable, and her eyes moistened when she wanted to show indifference. Philippe drove her mad even though they’d spoken no more than the minimum required to bid each other a good morning or good night.

  Life in the palace swung between receptions and banquets. In the midst of the merrymaking, with all the patience with which she made bobbin lace, Constanza managed to obtain information from the lieutenants and senior officers on how the battles were being won and lost, and how Juárez’s guerrillas w
ere advancing or retreating, or attacking carriages and roads. Nobody was safe from the bandoleros, they told her. They danced, they ate, and they slept only to be woken the next morning by the sound of cannons. That was how life had been for as long as they could remember, under the constant threat of cannon fire and foreign invasions. She was beginning to wonder whether she would live long enough to know a Mexico at peace, silent, a Mexico that included everyone, though Comonfort had tried before Juárez, and had been sent into exile in the United States. Mexico didn’t know how to reach a consensus, and with this certainty, Constanza was as accustomed to the rumble of guns as she was the sound of thunder. Chapultepec Castle was watched over day and night by Van der Smissen’s men and by Frenchmen who regarded the Belgian colonel with distrust; he seemed arrogant and self-satisfied to them, but above all they knew he was surrounded by novices. Not even Mars himself could help him among so many incompetents. For all that, Constanza couldn’t get used to the fear palpable outside the palace. Though the city was only a short ride away, nobody dared travel without an escort. Inside, however, as if a spell protected them from reality, the fear vanished: Chapultepec became a medieval fortress surrounded by an enormous fairy-tale moat, where royalty reigned and enjoyed the approval of their subjects. Food and drink flowed, and the musicians played melodies that would have delighted the palaces of Vienna, like a magic music box that for a moment made everyone believe the empire was here to stay.

  Each week, dances were held with European sumptuousness. Before the dance began, the ladies gathered on one side of the great hall, and the gentlemen assembled on the other. If Constanza had met Elizabeth Bennet herself on one of those evenings, she wouldn’t have been in the least surprised: everyone there harbored pride and prejudice in equal measure, some because they felt part of the powerful elite, and the rest because of the endless judgments they made about the others. Constanza, since she spent most of her time assisting the empress in the preparations for each event, always made her appearance shortly before the monarchs, at around eight o’clock in the evening. The guests puffed out their chests pretentiously when they saw them descend the stairs, as if treading the same ground suddenly made them less provincial and more cosmopolitan. The Europe that had dazzled them with the beads they traded for gold blinded them once more with its splendor. Carlota would cross the great hall and position herself on the gentlemen’s side, while Maximilian did the same on the ladies’ side. Constanza knew that he would gladly have traded places with her. What she did have to admire was the talent the emperor had for speaking in public. There were things that nature had denied him, but not the gift of poise and being an extraordinary master of ceremonies. There were cheers, applause, appreciation, and bows. Then, each gentleman offered his arm to the lady in front of him, and each pair followed the court, like the rats following the piper of Hamelin; the music started and the celebration got underway. Manuelita had instructed the ladies well on the protocol: after two or three dances, they had to introduce their family members and husband, if they had one, and with the utmost courtesy and a natural manner, add, My house is at your disposal. The French were especially receptive to this offer, or least Constanza thought so from the way they smiled. All the women dressed in the Parisian style, and all of them, to some extent, spoke French. Many believed it was the official language of the court because Bazaine’s army had spread throughout the country’s streets imposing it, but in truth Maximilian was grateful when he was addressed in German. Constanza felt uncomfortable when everyone around her struck up rapid-fire conversations in which she barely understood the occasional oui or merci. She could speak a little, but not with the speed or ease with which these ladies—all of them Mexican through and through—seemed to transform into foreigners as soon as they saw a coat of arms. In her mind, the French were the ones who should have been speaking Spanish, and not the other way around.

  Still, perhaps she could take advantage of her lack of language. Constanza had noticed that, on such occasions, Carlota’s Belgians, as the volunteer soldiers were now known, hid behind the pillars, watching. Some, to break the routine they’d been subjected to since their arrival in Mexico—a routine with scarce pleasures, as if they had enjoyed many before—even made use of their uniforms to mix with the guests and sneak a glass of champagne. They did it deliberately, hoping their lack of discipline would have them sent to the battlefield, to war, to the action they longed for instead of playing tin soldiers. However, the only one who aroused Constanza’s interest was her soldier. She had to find a way to speak to him. She was unaware that, keeping a distance, he was observing her, too, and how could he not. The woman walked by him under any pretext. He was familiar with this behavior: it wasn’t the first time a woman had tried to attract his attention; he’d seen it in taverns on both sides of the ocean. In Europe because his eyes were as tender as they were lustful; here because they were blue and adventurous. What surprised him was that it was a woman of the court encased in crinoline; he hadn’t found a way with them until now. And what was more, it wasn’t just any lady. This lady was one of the closest to the empress. Unsurprisingly, since he watched the empress like a hawk, he’d noticed how they took walks together and how much Carlota seemed to enjoy her company. This being so, he remained as stiff as a post, not daring to move a muscle. Any man knew when a woman was forbidden to him; he wasn’t prepared to get himself into such a mire. Nonetheless, that day, the lady looked different, beautiful. He wondered whether knowing she was prohibited was what was making her desirable; the fact was, she walked with a different confidence. Famke’s shadow slapped him in the face.

  While they were all dancing to “La Paloma,” Constanza left the group she was with and, after advancing with some difficulty through the middle of the hall, she reached the pillar where he was stationed.

  “Bonjour,” she said, putting on her best French accent.

  Astonished, he lowered his head.

  “Do you speak Spanish?” she said, slightly embarrassed.

  “A little,” he replied, indicating how much with his fingers.

  “Bien . . . Je veux apprendre le français. J’ai besoin d’un enseignant.”

  “A teacher?” Philippe remarked, pronouncing the r with his throat.

  “Oui. Yes. S’il vous plait. Please.”

  They were silent for a second. His mind was a flurry of thoughts as he tried to guess her intentions.

  “I’m a fast learner,” she said helpfully.

  So was that what it was? She needed someone to help her practice her French. For a moment, Philippe was suspicious. Something inside him told him he was a mouse, she was the cheese, and this castle was a gigantic mousetrap. At the same time, it wasn’t an unpleasant job, nothing unusual. He could also practice Spanish, and God knows he needed it.

  “L’Impératrice avait autorisé cela?”

  “Oui. Elle m’a donné la permission.”

  “You already speak quite well,” he said.

  She smiled, saying, “Come find me. Je m’appelle Constanza. Et vous?”

  “Philippe, mademoiselle. Philippe Petit.”

  “Enchantée,” Constanza said. For the first time since she’d been in the palace, she said it with complete and total sincerity.

  While she climbed the imperial stairs, she thought about how ridiculous she must have seemed, but the fact was she struggled to contain herself so that she didn’t turn around and, from the last step, yell to him, My house is at your disposal.

  38

  1866, Miramare Castle

  They decided to take her to Miramare. Carlota was becoming increasingly fearful and paranoid. She was convinced everyone was conspiring against her. They locked her in her bedroom for hours. From outside, they could hear her screams asking to be freed, until, exhausted, she cried and cursed.

  “God damn you, Napoleon! God damn all of you who dance to his tune. Don’t you see he wants to ruin me?”

  With Dr. Bohuslavek departed for Mexico, they entrusted her h
ealth to Dr. Riedel, a specialist in mental derangement and director of Vienna’s lunatic asylum. The first thing he did was to confine her to a small house in the garden. The windows were barred, the main door sealed, and the only exit led to the servants’ room, which had to be crossed to reach the parlor and dining room.

  “It’s for your safety,” Dr. Riedel told her.