“Are you all right, good man?”
The man, after a moment’s hesitation, showed him the bundle he was carrying. Maximilian peered down into the face of a newborn, pale in spite of his indigenous features, and breathing quite fast.
The man spoke.
“He’s just born.”
Maximilian opened his eyes wide, surprised.
“And where are you taking him, so far from his mother?”
“He was born in the hills. His mama cannot support or baptize him; she gave him to me to look after.”
“Dear me!” said Maximilian, crossing himself.
Then he asked the man if he could hold the child. He handed him over without hesitation. Maximilian felt compassion and tenderness for the newborn, but once the feeling faded, he thought that perhaps it had been an auspicious encounter: the problem of succession that had overshadowed the court could be resolved.
“I will adopt him,” he said. “Summon a wet nurse immediately, the best in the region,” he ordered. And with a look of astonishment, seeing that the emperor did not mean it in a figurative sense and was deadly serious, a footman went in search of one. “I will see to it that he’s baptized. His name will be Ferdinand Maximilian Charles Joseph; he shall be a prince.”
The woodcutter looked around with suspicion; he thought that he was dreaming or it was a joke. If the emperor wanted to help, he could just send money each month to cover the cost of the child, there was no need to adopt him. But Maximilian seemed to grow more enthusiastic as he warmed to the idea.
“You will care for him until he’s weaned, then you will bring him to the capital.”
“Yes, master,” the peasant replied, stunned by what had just happened.
Maximilian resumed the journey feeling content, having become the father of an indigenous child. A boy darker than Benito Juárez, but who would wear a crown like Napoleon’s.
Providence didn’t cooperate: two days later, the child died. A catafalque was covered with a purple velvet pall with a heraldic symbol in gold leaf on it. It was decorated with white candles that hid the black mourning ribbons, and the emperor was sent a telegram that said, The Indian prince has died. Send funds for the burial.
Maximilian screwed the paper up and threw it in the trash. How fleeting his delight had been; the boy was no use to him dead, so he declared that, though he would’ve been baptized as a prince, he would be buried as a commoner. The boy was interred like an ephemeral plant in soil that quickly forgot his grandiose name.
He didn’t tell Carlota about the incident. In his mind, the dead should be left to rest in peace. At any rate, there was no longer anything to tell, and he kept the story, along with many others, in his chest of unspeakable secrets.
But secrets are there to be told, and rumors soon began to spread, both in the squares and through the corridors of the imperial palace. At the market, on the avenues, in the stores, people whispered that Carlota was infertile and that, instead of disowning her, in his infinite mercy poor Maximilian was adopting little Indians. What started as a rumor was then confirmed by the press, and Carlota was again forced to learn to swallow the dishonor and shame.
Constanza was present when the empress read the story in a newspaper. She ran after her through the corridors.
“My lady!” she yelled, trying to stop her.
“Leave it, Constanza, leave me alone!”
She slammed the door behind her and shut herself in her bedchamber. But Constanza stayed at the door and listened to the usually demure empress kick the furniture, sob as she threw cushions, and pull on the curtains in rage, screaming for someone to do a favor for the empire, for her, and for the imbecile Maximilian, and have the courage to come and deflower her.
“I’ll show them who’s sterile here! I’ll show them!”
When Carlota had finished fighting with her ghosts, Constanza knocked on the door. Without waiting for an answer, she went in and found Carlota on the floor, curled up and staring blankly. She sat next to her, and the empress, as if she were ten years old again and had just been told that her mother was dead, allowed the weight of her head to fall into Constanza’s lap. The two of them remained there, in silence, until her heart stopped hurting. At least for the moment.
42
Just as Constanza was beginning to have doubts about her mission as a spy, the unexpected happened. She’d been waiting for months for someone to contact her. At first she’d been anxious, excited to be pushing the boundaries of the prohibited. She expected to have to encounter a stranger behind the bushes in the palace grounds, in the darkness of night, to pass on key information. But days passed, and the stranger never materialized in any form. Nothing. Weeks passed without anyone indicating to her through their actions or absence thereof that they were there for any reason other than to accompany and serve a foreign empress, to serve the country like a lamb to the slaughter. So much silence began to gnaw at her, doubt hung over her like a shadow, and she began to think it had been a ploy of her mother’s to coax her into the palace. At the same time, in the secret depths of her soul, she hoped that nobody would come forward to ask her for information on an empire that was beguiling her. As the intervention forces gained territory, pushing back Juárez’s troops to the north, slowly, Constanza’s loyalty also began its withdrawal. Perhaps, she told herself, her father was right, and Mexico needed the emperor and empress; Carlota was without doubt the woman she wanted to be, or at least part of her. But life put Constanza’s convictions to the test, and just at that moment, a Liberal appeared in the court, with such an effective disguise that even she, who was always on the alert, never suspected him. To her surprise, the person wasn’t a complete stranger. One day, her brother Salvador turned up at the palace in his best clothes, his charming beardless smile, and liberal ideals. Constanza received him as if there were nothing to it, without imagining for one instant that his visit was about to cast her into an abyss.
As Vicente had predicted, Salvador had been known and well received at Chapultepec as part of the group of notables that traveled to Miramare in search of the emperor. He had played an active role in the meetings, and despite his youth, he was beginning to earn the confidence of the foreigners in the court thanks to his command of French and German. Constanza often encountered him in the corridors as he was on his way to his meetings, and she was accompanying Carlota to hers, though they rarely had the chance to be together when the empress was dealing with matters of state. One Empress’s Monday, they finally found themselves together. It was one of the customs that Carlota, imitating Eugénie de Montijo, established in Mexico: one day a week, the palace was opened to her subjects, though not just anyone. Members of conservative Mexican society coveted these invitations and did everything possible to be taken into consideration. To Vicente’s great pride, the Murrietas were always on the list. They listened to music, they were fêted with hors d’oeuvres, and they could admire the view from the hall with spectacular views of the Valley of Mexico. Contemplating the view during such visits to the palace, José Zorrilla, a Spanish writer who’d been living in Mexico for a decade, said, He who has not seen Mexico from Chapultepec has not seen the earth from a balcony in paradise. That was enough for Maximilian to appoint him as director of the Grand Imperial Theater and reader of the court.
The most fortunate were invited to one of the plays performed within the National Palace, for the emperor was a staunch advocate of the need to nourish the mind with art. Salvador and Constanza sometimes met at these performances and, in spite of all the preconceptions they had, they enjoyed them. Constanza was usually unable to see the end of the ones she liked most, because the emperor always retired to sleep at nine o’clock, and the play was interrupted.
“We shall finish another day,” the monarch would say, excusing himself because his functions began at five o’clock in the morning.
One night, tired of being left in suspense, Constanza ran and, almost at the Zócalo, caught up with the director.
&
nbsp; “Sr. Zorrilla!” she yelled shamelessly.
The man turned around.
Embarrassed, she said, “If I may be so bold, it’s just I can’t wait another day to know how your play ends.”
The man smiled with pleasure.
“You like my Don Juan that much?”
“I adored it! I am eager to know the ending.”
“You will see it”—he bent toward her ear to give her the revelation—“as soon as the emperor doesn’t fall asleep before it is over!”
Then he winked at her.
In the dances, the Murrieta siblings spent some time in each other’s company, and even danced a song or two together, but Constanza always had the feeling that attending these functions made her brother uncomfortable; in that, he reminded her of Philippe. Unlike her eldest brother, Joaquín, who always tried to make his presence known in the court, Salvador kept a low profile, trying to be as unnoticed as possible, though this only increased the interest he aroused among the women. Salvador Murrieta’s name was on the lips of every lady in the court, who remarked how young, how intelligent, and how formal he seemed. Since he proved to be an impenetrable wall, they went out of their way to ask Constanza about him, and she endeavored to make excuses for him, telling them not to waste their energy, because his interests lay not in court but in armed conflict. And she believed it unquestioningly. Ever since they were young, her two elder brothers had been trained for the army, not for politics, and she’d never known them to court women. So, when he suddenly requested to have tea alone with her, it was unusual. Perhaps one of the ladies had managed to bore through his stone façade, and he was coming to see Constanza to pour his heart out to her. However, after consideration, this seemed puerile, and she let the idea go. Then she grew afraid that something might have happened to Clotilde or their parents. After that she felt guilty for not sparing a thought for Joaquín, knowing he was helping the Army of Intervention, fighting alongside the French. The idea that something bad could happen to Joaquín had never occurred to her: since she was a girl, she’d seen him as a demigod, one of those men whom bullets brushed past but who were never wounded, and now she had no interest in persuading herself otherwise.
Salvador turned up punctually to the appointment with his sister. She received him at the door to her rooms.
“I had to see you,” he said after kissing her on the cheek.
Constanza saw that Philippe was watching them from the end of the long corridor. She kissed her brother’s cheek and tried to discern the Belgian soldier’s reaction. She couldn’t see it, but when they went in and were alone, Philippe found himself frowning and experiencing a strange feeling.
“What is it?” Constanza said to her brother with a worried expression. “Is everyone all right at home?”
“Yes, yes, fine.”
Constanza breathed, easing the weight of her conscience.
“Even Clotilde?”
“Yes, as far as I know. She’s gone all winter without suffering a relapse.”
“Thank God. You frightened me with all the urgency to see me.”
Salvador stood, went to the door, and made sure nobody was lurking.
Then he asked her point-blank.
“Have you discovered anything that may be of use?”
Constanza bent her head, like a dog hearing a whistle.
“What did you say?”
Salvador approached and sat right in front of her. He fixed his dark eyes on his sister’s.
“It’s me, Constanza. I’m the messenger for the Liberales.”
She was struck by a mixture of emotions. On the one hand, she was relieved that the person she’d been waiting for was someone she already trusted, and on the other, she was terrified. It was true, she was there to spy. She’d promised to do something, and now she had to look the devil in the eyes. But it couldn’t be . . . Salvador? It had to be a joke. Disguising herself behind the discretion she’d learned over so many years, she chose her words carefully.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“You know perfectly well.”
They held each other’s gaze. Salvador had never seen her like this: it was as if she were made of glass and he could see right through her. Suddenly she felt defenseless. It was hopeless: she couldn’t lie to Salvador. Though she had been able to operate for months without being discovered, she’d never deceived anybody.
“But . . . how do you know? How?”
“I asked Mamá to involve you. It was my idea.”
“It was you? How? Since when?”
“Since my return from Miramare. After I arrived back in Mexico, I approached the Liberales to offer my help. They accepted.”
Constanza stood up. The wolf had just taken off the sheep’s clothing, and she still didn’t believe it. Salvador was an upright man, incapable of lying; his father had entrusted him with momentous tasks, he’d placed all his trust in him, how was it possible that, all of a sudden, he was double-crossing him?
“Who else is involved in this?”
“Just you and me. If Joaquín finds out, he’ll have us both shot, believe me, and let’s not even mention our father.”
Hearing this, Constanza came out in goose bumps, as if she had dived into icy water. A gelid sensation ran down her back.
“And Clotilde?”
Salvador shook his head.
“She doesn’t know anything. Nor should she ever.”
Constanza approached the door nervously. Now it was she who assured herself that there was no one listening. He waited. Constanza rubbed her hands together as if trying to polish them while she paced the room. She thought. She was beginning to understand that she was playing with fire. She sipped some water and sat down again. He held her hands and sat close to her to speak in a low voice.
“The first time’s the hardest . . . you’ll get used to it. But I have something to tell you: if you’re afraid, don’t do it.”
Constanza took a deep breath. She felt a slight surge of pride.
“I’m not afraid.”
“Good,” he said, and he began questioning her in a whisper. “So tell me, what’ve you found out?”
“Well . . . the empress and emperor don’t sleep together.”
“Everyone knows that. Tell me about strategies.”
Constanza thought quickly.
“It seems the emperor wants to build a railway.”
“From where to where?”
“From Veracruz to the capital, with a branch line to Puebla. The other day I heard the empress say they wanted to create the Imperial Mexican Railway Company with the help of a British company. The idea is to connect the north to the south.”
“Hmm . . .” murmured Salvador. “That would complicate things, but it would take time.” Then he asked, “Do you know anything about Van der Smissen?”
Constanza was surprised.
“The colonel?”
“Yes.”
“Not much. It appears he doesn’t get on well with Bazaine, but he’s very discreet. Sometimes he walks with the empress in the gardens. When they’re together, she cries.”
“Cries?”
“She sheds a tear or two. I think it’s homesickness.”
Salvador appeared deep in thought.
“Interesting. You must get close to that colonel.”
“And how can I do that?”
“That’s your business, little sister.”
Constanza reflected. Why of all the people in court was her brother interested in Colonel Van der Smissen? Was she missing something? True, she’d observed some complicity between the colonel and the empress, but she attributed that to the fact that they both spoke the same language, that they were Belgians, and that he was there under the instructions of Leopold I, Carlota’s father. She wouldn’t dare suggest they were friends, but undoubtedly Carlota didn’t trust many people in that court of sharks. She trusted Constanza.
Salvador pulled her from her thoughts.
“We hav
e to be very careful. I didn’t come sooner to allow you to familiarize yourself with the court, but this is serious, Constanza. Our lives and Mexico’s future are at stake. Take great care.”
She nodded.
“We won’t be able to see each other like this again. You’ll have to find another way to get information to me.”
They parted with an embrace that united them in collusion and in a sense of apprehension they had never shared until then. When he said goodbye, Salvador gave her one piece of advice:
“Watch out for Bombelles,” he said.
43
Auguste Goffinet walked full speed through the Castle of Laeken’s corridors. The king of the Belgians had summoned him with urgency; it was something important. He’d been the minister plenipotentiary of the Belgian Crown for years, and he’d become Leopold’s right-hand man. The honor of being his left-hand man fell, no less, to his identical twin brother, Baron Constant Goffinet. When the Goffinet brothers’ machinery was set in motion, it shook the foundations. Leopold II never had more-devoted servants: they liked money as much as the king, but they liked power even more. They enjoyed the privilege of having the king’s ear, and everything that Leopold wanted, they translated perfectly into the necessary legal or financial arguments.
Before reaching the king’s office, Goffinet sent a footman to announce him, and he was allowed to enter immediately. Leopold II was waiting for him with an anxious smile.
“My dear Auguste,” he said.
“Your Majesty,” Goffinet replied, clicking his heels together in a military fashion.
“Listen, Auguste, we have a problem that, with your help, I trust we can turn into an opportunity.”
“Tell me, Majesty.”
Leopold, who never beat around the bush, went straight to the heart of the matter.
“As you well know, when my poor sister Carlota married Maximilian of Habsburg, her fortune amounted to one million eight hundred thousand guilders.”
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