“The empress is dealing with a reality. Hiding problems won’t make them disappear, Doña Manuelita.”
“Then send people of lower rank to attend to those inconveniences. An empress has no place there.”
“And where is her place, then?”
“Other, more elevated places, girl. She belongs to another social class. What stupid questions, Constanza. Get some rest and let’s hope the emperor returns soon.”
“Where did he go? Do you know?”
“They say he went to Querétaro, on reconnaissance.”
“And did he go with that man who always accompanies him?”
“It’s Baron Schertzenlechner, girl. You’d better start learning names.”
Like the rest of the court, each time his name was mentioned, Constanza sensed something sinister. She closed her eyes and settled into her pillow. Before falling asleep, she hoped the emperor wouldn’t return soon.
Just as the serpent seduced Eve by offering her knowledge, almost without realizing it, Constanza gradually fell in love with the apple that Carlota represented. Perhaps she could sink her teeth into it without being expelled from the earthly paradise; perhaps she could take a bite without betraying her mother’s trust. Perhaps . . . And so, giving herself the benefit of the doubt, every day, she learned from the empress’s energy, reasoning, and charm. She began to realize that Carlota did govern, or tried to, for the good of all and for the country. Could it be possible that red blood flowed through her royal veins? She was active, she disliked stagnation, and Constanza noticed how it exasperated her that Maximilian lived the contemplative life of a prince.
One day, driven by the desire she had always had to speak to a woman with responsibilities and ambitions, Constanza ventured to say more than protocol permitted.
“Your Majesty, I hope you’ll forgive me, but I wanted to say, with the utmost respect, that I admire the way you conduct yourself in the emperor’s absence.”
Carlota took a few seconds to grasp the compliment.
“It’s my duty, Constanza.”
“Yes, but, if I may, you enjoy your duty, Majesty.”
“I would command a navy if necessary.”
“Do you really think a woman could command an army, Majesty?”
“I could,” Carlota replied without embarrassment. “I have experience in war, seeing the one waged in this country.”
Constanza marveled at the confidence with which she spoke; there were no limits to her. Carlota recognized something in her lady’s face that she knew very well: a woman sick of being told what she could and couldn’t do.
“Do you think you might be able to negotiate with Juárez one day, Majesty?”
Carlota thought for a moment.
“Juárez and his people were born here and they’re democrats, but they will never be the founders of a Mexican power and a state that governs without partisan injustices.” After a pause, she added, “Mexico’s tragedy, Constanza, is that respect can only be gained through fear. And the emperor is impossible to fear.”
They both fell silent, one digesting what she’d just heard, the other wondering whether she’d said too much. However, buoyed by the pleasure of being able to speak honestly for the first time in months, Carlota continued. From the moment she’d met her, she’d known this young woman was different, that she thought differently. Constanza reminded her of her governess, the Countess of Hulst, not in age, but because of the confidence she inspired in her. It was nice to be able to say out loud what she only told her grandmother in letters.
“Your Majesty, if I may be so bold, are you not concerned you’ll be said to be overambitious?”
“Men aren’t ready to recognize a powerful woman. It frightens them and they’ll do everything necessary to prevent it. But know one thing: women do what is necessary when it matters.”
“Even a peasant woman?”
“Even in the fields, women contribute to the cultivation.”
Constanza had the impression the empress was thinking. And it was true, because suddenly she said, “In any case, with no children and nothing better to do, I don’t see why I shouldn’t be occupied with something useful. Like I said, it’s my duty.”
“And when you have children, Majesty?”
“When I have children . . .”
Constanza heard the empress’s voice crack. The conversation had hit a wall.
“. . . it will be up to God,” said Carlota, before asking Constanza to please leave her alone.
40
1867, Miramare
Carlota let out a cry from deep inside. After several hours, the empress finally gave birth to a seven-pound boy. Not being robust, she had a hard time delivering the child, but Mathilde didn’t move from her bedside for one moment. She was tired, too: her flushed and sweaty face beside the empress’s made plain the great effort involved in bringing the baby into the world.
“What is it, Mathilde?”
“A boy, Your Majesty.”
“Thank heavens it’s not a girl,” said Carlota.
The chambermaid placed the child on the empress’s belly. She observed it through tired eyes. A newborn. A baby born from her body, engendered by her. A son. Not an heir: a beautiful, healthy bastard who seemed to contain all the force of those nine months of madness. A survivor. Carlota had just kissed him on the forehead when Charles de Bombelles entered the room.
Without explanation, he snatched the boy from her arms, wrapped him in a cloak, and left with the same coldness with which he had entered.
Mathilde looked at the empress; Carlota looked at Mathilde. They both wore the same look of grief. Horror. Fear. They could each see it in the other woman’s eyes and feel it in their hearts. Carlota screamed through her tears.
“Where are you taking him?”
But Bombelles didn’t stop or even turn. Carlota’s jaw began to tremble.
“They’re going to kill him. They’re going to kill him. Mathilde! Mathilde, do something!”
Mathilde wanted to soothe the empress, but the truth was she, too, feared for the newborn. She ran after Bombelles and found him in the corridor, with the child still in his arms. Thank God, she thought. Then she found the voice she had quelled during all the months of imprisonment to confront this man.
“Give me the child.”
“I can’t. I have instructions.”
“From whom?”
“That doesn’t concern you.”
Mathilde could see the baby’s wrinkled little feet poking out from between Charles’s arms; he was crying like a kitten. Some start in the world, she thought. Torn from his mother’s arms at birth.
“Give the baby to me. He needs to feed.”
Bombelles looked at the chambermaid. The baby’s crying was beginning to set him on edge. He’d never held a newborn; that was for midwives. His coat was bloodstained.
“I can’t,” he repeated.
“Have you no heart?”
“It’s for the good of Austria.”
“What’re you talking about? Look, I’m nobody, I don’t know anything about political intrigues. Just let me see to the child. He’s cold. Can’t you see him trembling?”
“You’re right . . . ,” Bombelles said.
Mathilde stifled a sigh. And as she held out her arms to receive the little boy, Charles said, “You’re nobody.” And turning, he walked off with the child.
Mathilde implored him at the top of her voice:
“Don’t hurt him! I beg you! Don’t hurt him! Please!”
Bombelles didn’t answer.
Mathilde returned to the empress’s bed. She wasn’t crying, but her glazed eyes were threatening to overflow with tears. Seeing her walk in, Carlota knew she would never see her son again. Mathilde wrapped her enormous arms around the empress’s fragile body, telling her something that Carlota, deep down, was telling herself: “This, too, shall pass, it will pass, my child.”
“Oh, Mathilde . . . why? Why do they torture me like this?”
/> Carlota dissolved into tears with a long and heart-rending moan. Mathilde knew the pain would last forever, and she allowed her to cry until, exhausted, she fell asleep. Something in Mathilde Döblinger’s soul died, too, that day.
When the empress was finally asleep, after making sure she didn’t have a fever and was out of danger after the birth, Mathilde headed to the kitchen. Amalia was waiting for her with a dish of hot soup.
“Eat, Mathilde,” she said. “You’re about to faint.”
So tired she’d lost her appetite, Mathilde rested, almost sleeping, against the kitchen table. Amalia, taking pity on her, picked up a spoon and began to feed her, spoonful by spoonful.
During the night, Mathilde started getting stabs of pain in her stomach; she could barely sleep, writhing from the sharp pain that burned her insides. At first, she thought it must have been due to the stress of the situation. Too many emotions torn to shreds in her stomach. Too much anguish. Too much disgust at the baseness of human beings. Disbelief at what men were capable of doing. Her child, her Carlota, exploited by sinister minds. Her child, her Carlota, in the hands of people prepared to use her like a puppet. There was no doubt, Mathilde told herself, that evil made no exceptions for thrones or cradles. The perversity hidden in the walls of the Gartenhaus. And the boy. Good God, where was the child? Where? What had they done with him? The reigning silence was broken by the empress’s unbearable wails. The house seemed to be bewitched, for the walls sobbed, and not even Amalia Stöger, who normally shook the sheets and dusted with impetuous violence, dared tread heavily, for fear of awakening more misfortune.
The next morning, Mathilde headed with difficulty to the empress’s bedroom. Each step was an entire world of pain and anguish. But she knew she had to get there. She found Carlota pale, with purple lips and blue rings around her eyes. The poor woman was trembling in an endless shiver. Mathilde sat beside her on the bed. It wasn’t an empress lying there, but an abused woman. A woman from whom everything had been taken. There, in that bed, there was nothing. Breaking all the rules of protocol, Frau Döblinger lay beside her, in part because she wanted the empress to know she wasn’t alone, and in part because she couldn’t hold herself up. She heard Carlota whisper:
“I couldn’t even give him a name. Maybe it’s for the best.”
Mathilde wanted to offer encouragement, but when she opened her mouth, she could only groan with pain. Carlota seemed to come out of her trance for a moment.
“What is it, Mathilde?”
“Oh, I don’t feel well, my child.”
Carlota found strength where there was none to lift herself up on her elbows.
“Mathilde, look at me . . .”
Carlota examined her closely: she recognized the drab, greenish color, and then horror broke out in her soul.
“Mathilde, what’ve you eaten?”
“Same as always, child; what they give me in the kitchen.”
Carlota held her hands to her mouth.
“You must vomit, Mathilde. You must vomit! Don’t you see? They’ve poisoned you.”
Mathilde opened her eyes wide. No, for the love of God, not the paranoia, not now, she thought. Of all the alternatives she’d considered, poison had never occurred to her. But she felt so dreadful that, for a moment, a very brief moment, Frau Döblinger wondered.
“It can’t be, child. Who’d want to poison me?”
But the empress was talking to herself now.
“I know it. I know it. They’re going to kill us all. They’re going to kill us.”
Carlota began to yell at the top of her voice. A few seconds ago, she’d resembled a dying woman more than a madwoman, but paranoia had struck again like lightning. Carlota was frantic. She screamed. She kicked in her bed. Mathilde was afraid. She had given birth the day before, she could tear her innards, she told her, but Carlota didn’t listen. Charles de Bombelles burst into the room in the company of Dr. Riedel. They tied her to the bed and, with Carlota screaming incessantly, Charles slapped her.
“Get out! You’re upsetting the empress!” he yelled at Mathilde.
Frau Döblinger stood to leave the room. Everything was spinning; she was breathless. She looked at Carlota, held down by the men, and felt an immense urge to cry. She took two steps toward the door, then another two toward her chamber. She covered her eyes because she couldn’t bear to hear the screams. She felt lightheaded. Everything turned upside down. She was hot, very hot; hell was in her belly. With great effort, she reached her room, but as soon as she did, her legs failed and she fell to the floor. Mathilde didn’t have time to say goodbye to Carlota or anybody else, nor did she have time to write anything; she didn’t even have time to fear God. All she could do was call to Amalia Stöger a couple of times for help. Then, with terrible spasms, death struck her like a thunderbolt in the middle of a storm. Amalia Stöger, at the other end of the corridor, never heard Mathilde’s screams. She couldn’t: in the privacy of her rooms she was hanging from her nightdress.
It was done.
There were no witnesses to the birth. There were no witnesses to anything. There was no one left.
Days later, as Carlota called for Mathilde at all hours, they gave her the terrible news. One didn’t have to be very perceptive to realize what was happening. Carlota, with the strength of a martyr hearing her sentence, accepted that she was next on the list. It was the end. She had, in any case, no reason to continue living. Death was preferable to the void into which they had cast her. She had no one left. The loves of her life were dead: her father, her mother, her grandmother, and now Mathilde. And her Max? Maximilian was far away and, with the French troops in retreat, he would probably die, too. She might as well wait for him on the other side.
So on that day, Carlota became lost in the dense darkness of utter despair. She preferred to keep her eyes closed, for when she opened them, she could only contemplate the void. She preferred to lose herself in an imaginary world where pain was bearable because it was imagined and where absences became presences at will.
Madness kissed her on the lips with its moist tongue.
41
1864, Mexico
Everyone in court knew the emperor and empress didn’t sleep together, whether in Puebla or in Chapultepec Castle. Constanza knew it firsthand.
It was not difficult to see. Each morning the chambermaids went in to dress the empress, and they could see that she’d spent the night like a vestal. And while descendants were essential in order to guarantee the continuation of the empire, the sovereigns, despite their youth and their seven years of marriage, had no children. The chamber pots were changed every day, and those doing so saw that the empress menstruated on time each month. Constanza, ever on the alert, observed how Juana, the youngest servant, would sneak out of the bedchamber. Taking care not to be seen, after walking around the fireplaces a couple of times, she would approach the laundry room, where a member of the Austrian or, who knows, maybe the French court would be waiting for her. Constanza narrowed her eyes and pricked up her ears, but the conversation was always the same.
“Any news?”
“No, sir. She’s still not expecting.”
“Thank you, Juana. See you next month.”
And after a slight curtsy, the young girl headed back to her work.
Every month it was the same. The empress’s condition was no longer an intimate matter but a matter of state. A great deal was at stake, many economic and political commitments, and Constanza wondered how the miracle would be worked if the emperor never visited Carlota’s room, and she never visited his, for that matter.
Monarchs were taught to put up with infidelities with the elegance with which they lifted a teacup. Everyone knew that the most passionate love affairs never took place in the royal bedchambers, and romantic adventures in one chamber or another—whether a secret room, a side room or a back room—were far from infrequent. Sharing a bed and room was therefore a tremendous inconvenience, as well as an unnecessary chore. It was be
tter if the burden of duty borne with stoicism during the day was lifted at night, allowing the married couple to writhe in peace with whomever they pleased. To some extent, everyone had let their hair down with a member of the court; naked, they were all the same. Carlota hadn’t expected that, no matter what she tried, Maximilian wouldn’t touch her. In her most private desires, she sometimes found herself wanting to learn that her husband had a lover, anyone that had a nest like her own between her legs, a honeypot he wished to drink from. But no: not even under a decree that obliged them to produce an heir within three years did Maximilian make the effort. Why wouldn’t he meet his political obligations and ensure the succession to the throne? Did she repulse him so much?
Carlota couldn’t find an explanation for it. In his letters he called her angel of my heart, star of my life, lady of my desire. She was neither his lady nor did she arouse his desire. It turned Carlota’s stomach. His words weren’t worth the paper they were written on. Lies. Like when she wrote to her grandmother about how happy she was, how blessed she had been, as fortunate as anyone on the face of the earth. A mountain of lies repeated a thousand times not to deceive everyone else but to persuade oneself. Because instead of saying three Lord’s Prayers and consummating the marriage, Maximilian would sooner do anything else. He’d take any opportunity that presented itself to do something foolish rather than stick his cock in his wife.
Constanza listened in astonishment one day when she found Carlota, the empress, curled up in a ball on the floor of her bedchamber, pulling her hair and beating her chest. That was when she understood that she wasn’t a fortunate woman, quite the contrary. While Constanza stroked her hair as if she were a baby, sobbing, humiliated, Carlota told her that, on his return from Querétaro, Maximilian had encountered a woodcutter from Huimilpan carrying something in his arms with a worried look on his face. Seeing him, the emperor stopped the caravan to speak to him.
The Empress: A novel Page 18