The Empress: A novel

by Laura Martínez-Belli

  Bombelles turned around and left. Goffinet went after him, but as if by magic the man had disappeared; Goffinet searched from room to room until he found him. He was hiding in a cupboard, from which he made a final attempt to retain the empress.

  “You can’t take her! She’s insane!” he yelled.

  “You’re the one who’s lost his mind.”

  Then he grabbed him and, holding him by the lapels, lifted him up, making sure that Bombelles was left where he should’ve always been: cornered against the wall.

  Dr. Bolkens gave her a quick examination before leaving.

  “Well?” asked Marie Henriette.

  “In my opinion, the empress was poisoned before she left Mexico.”

  Marie Henriette crossed herself.

  “What kind of poison?”

  “I can’t be certain without a more exhaustive assessment, but it may have been some kind of jimsonweed.”

  “And what are its effects? Will she recover?”

  “It’s difficult to know. It depends on the dose and over what period she was given it. It seems it was administered to her in small doses. Had it been more, it would’ve killed her.”

  “Poor Charlotte,” Marie Henriette let out from deep down. “Thank you, Doctor, you may leave.”

  Carlota left the house in which she’d been held for the last few months with her soul in tatters, but enveloped in her sister-in-law’s kindness and strength. After the horrors to which she’d been subjected, she didn’t care where she was taken, provided it was far from there. She never imagined that Miramare could cause her to suffer so. When Maximilian showed her the plans for the castle and where the various trees would be planted, she’d genuinely thought that she would be happy there. That they would be happy. She’d arrived there a virgin and was leaving after giving birth to a bastard son who she would never see. What had they done with the child? She preferred not to think about it because, sure enough, each time her mind dared touch on it, she could feel her sanity slipping. It hurt too much. She preferred to think she was an orphan. Alone. There was nobody left in the world who loved her: not her father, or her grandmother, or Mathilde. And Maximilian? What had become of him? No one could tell her anything of his fate. What could’ve happened to him? By now, Napoleon would have withdrawn his troops . . . Why hadn’t he come for her? Although, on the other hand, why would he if even when they lived under the same roof they’d barely spoken? He’d left her at the mercy of his hound, Bombelles, who’d degraded her and tortured her as if there was some personal glory in it. Would she ever be able to trust anyone again? Carlota had all of these thoughts while staring out the window of the train from Trieste to Laeken. En route, Marie Henriette conversed with Carlota. Three-quarters of the time, she was as sane as anyone, then she seemed to be plunged into a silence in which only she could hear the voices. Then Marie Henriette could smell her fear. That’s what it was: fear of being taken back to Miramare. No matter how much her sister-in-law assured her it wouldn’t happen, Carlota was suspicious and chewed on a handkerchief. Then she would calm down and her usual intelligence would be restored to her eyes. In them, Marie Henriette could see all the torment the poor woman carried inside. Too much anguish for someone so young.

  Carlota let out a melancholic sigh of relief when she arrived at Tervuren Castle. By order of Marie Henriette, all signs of mourning had been removed to avoid upsetting Carlota’s delicate health, because what nobody had told her, nor did they intend to tell her, was that during her absence, Maximilian, her Max, her husband and archduke, had been shot by Juárez’s troops in Querétaro.

  48

  1865, Cuernavaca

  Cuernavaca, with its exquisite views, was often described as a paradise on earth. When they arrived there for the first time, the emperor and empress thought it picturesque, delightful, the perfect place for a summer residence, accommodations where they could be far from the court and where they could relax their etiquette. It would be their Petit Trianon, as Maximilian liked to say.

  Maximilian fell in love with a beautiful house in very poor condition, but whose garden captivated him at first sight. The trees growing there were tall and provided shade that the oldest gardens of Vienna would envy. The emperor thought of his garden at Miramare, no less beloved for being so far away, and he missed the woodland that he’d built inch by inch with so much care and so much of his wife’s money. He promised himself that he would make this place the haven he needed in the powder keg of his empire. Two weeks of every month, he went to inspect the work that was being carried out to restore the house, taking the opportunity to cleanse his palate with French wine and aged port, sometimes in excess. And just as he had turned Chapultepec Castle from the seat of the military school into a palace worthy of an emperor, he managed to rescue the Casa Borda from neglect.

  On the other side of the ocean, in a letter from Bazaine, Napoleon III received disheartening news about Mexico. Nothing was going as planned. The accumulation of bad news and social discontent was making him consider radical measures; he couldn’t allow the uncertainty to continue, let alone permit the financial burden to fall on France. He picked up a pen and wrote to the marshal to ask him to focus on preparing the French navy to evacuate the country. The Emperor Maximilian must understand that we can’t remain in Mexico forever, he wrote.

  “What are you writing to Bazaine, dear?” Eugénie asked from the table where she was playing cards.

  “Same as always. That a government that’s done nothing to become self-sufficient will be easily abandoned.”

  For Carlota, Cuernavaca also became her city of eternal spring. She rested there, strolled in the garden, read, sang at the piano, and even planted flowers, manual work that was forbidden to the nobility and that, if they did it every so often, was quite pleasing. She could understand why Maximilian liked being in proximity with nature so much. There she could relax, rest, and gather her strength before returning to Mexico City, or at least that was what she supposed until she met her.

  The gardener’s wife—a mere girl—was like a butterfly that fluttered around the garden, and when not among the trees, she was doing household chores, preparing food, making beds, gathering the fruit that fell ripe from the trees to make drinks or dishes; some members of the court had even seen her cooking with rose petals. She was always wearing a cotton dress that revealed dark shoulders with pronounced collarbones, so smooth and shiny that they looked like polished mahogany. She swayed in a way that seemed affected to Carlota, because she knew very well that a woman didn’t need to wiggle so much in order to walk. Princesses were taught to walk as straight as poles, without swaying their hips, but this young woman defied the norms of modesty in every way. She wore nothing on her feet, and when she thought nobody was looking, she inserted her toes into the earth to cool them, like trees with their roots. Carlota watched her discreetly with some suspicion, while also envying her freedom, but what she desired most was her smile. She wore it always, even when there was a trace of dissent in her eyes, though the difference between her submission and Carlota’s was that the girl wasn’t aware of hers. One day, Carlota decided to speak to her.

  “What’s your name, muchacha?” she asked in impeccable Spanish.

  “Concepción Sedano, señora.”

  Saying this, Concepción realized how long it had been since she’d invented herself a new name.

  “How old are you?”

  “Sixteen, señora.”

  Just a child, Carlota thought, but then remembered that she’d only been a year older when she married Maximilian. How young I was, she thought.

  “When you’re in my presence, I want you in shoes and covered with a shawl.”

  Concepción lowered her head.

  “Yes, señora.”

  “You may leave.”

  The girl glanced at the immensity around her. Where was she supposed to go? It was the first time someone had thrown her out of her garden, and her pride wobbled.

  Concepción observed
the emperor with the same interest with which he observed the hummingbirds. Compared with Nacho’s coarseness, he seemed a fragile creature. Ignacio had a stiff black moustache as if made of wire, while the emperor had spongy red whiskers like a cloud. The only similarity between them was the way they spoke to the plants, though when the emperor did so, Concepción couldn’t understand a single word; he spoke in a language that she’d never heard before, each word ending in um or ea, which she found funny. How could someone call those flowers poinsettias or Bellis perennis? In his expressions she sensed more admiration than affection, because he marveled at the colors of flowers and at the strange shapes of leaves that were as ordinary to her as a sunrise. But to the emperor, every specimen was a jewel worthy of study.

  One day, Concepción discovered she liked following him with her gaze as he walked among the plants.

  Maximilian had been wandering around the garden for a while, beyond the trees and exposed to the sun; the crown of his pale head soon began to turn so red that it hurt just to look at it. He called for servants, but nobody came; without realizing it, he’d traveled some distance from the house. Suffering from a headache and sweating in a wholly inappropriate manner, he decided to breach the rules of decorum and go to the kitchen himself to request a remedy. When he walked in, Concepción was alone, preparing nopales; she was so surprised to see him enter her domain that she almost sliced her finger with the knife. No foreigner ever came into the kitchen unless it was to check that everything was impeccable, and they always sent the ladies or footmen, certainly not the emperor in person! Worried, Concepción looked at her bare feet and then from side to side, hoping the empress wouldn’t walk in after him, for she would earn a good scolding. Seeing that he was alone, she felt some relief, but only a little: this was very unusual.

  “Porr favorr . . . ,” he said with a strong German accent. “Something for the burn.”

  And then, as embarrassed as he’d ever been, he indicated the red patch on his head.

  Seeing the raw skin, Concepción pressed her lips together. It must have been very painful if he felt the need to speak to her in person. She’d burned herself before, though not from the sun—for her skin had always protected her from the onslaught of its rays—but from the stove; she knew what she had to do.

  She took a cotton cloth, soaked it in vinegar, and unceremoniously placed it on his head. Maximilian, his regal dignity wounded—he’d expected her to give him an ointment or cream that he could apply in the privacy of his room—tried to take it off, but without opening her mouth she let out a reptilian noise through her teeth.

  “Chss!”

  And she replaced the damp cloth, exerting gentle pressure with her hands on the imperial head.

  Like a small child whose mother was trying to make him take his medicine, the emperor surrendered, charmed by her interdental hissing sound. Because, even if the girl hadn’t spoken, the noise betrayed a vibrant voice full of life. Maximilian imagined a newly tuned musical instrument. A voice, he thought, full of exciting promises. The voice of a siren.

  They remained this way for a couple of seconds: him completely still, not daring to move, and her crowning him with a cloth. Maximilian tried to understand what had suddenly made him relax, and he couldn’t decide whether the peace he felt came from the relief of the cloth drawing the heat from his body, or from contemplating a woman in such close proximity. Normally he felt uncomfortable among women. Ever since he’d seen a painting of the naked slaves of Smyrna, being near them had unsettled him. But this girl was different. She had none of the malice of ladies of the court, who displayed an insipid and absurd flirtatiousness. Though she was very pretty, she didn’t seem to know it; Maximilian had never seen such black hair or such plump lips. A gust of wind carried past her to him, and Maximilian could smell her. She smelled different: she gave off different humors than European women. She didn’t smell sour, or of fresh onion or garlic, but of slowly kneaded maize.

  Concepción suspected that, if she touched the emperor, her fingers would sink into his white skin. The man seemed soft as masa, and she was tempted to pinch him to see if she could mold his flesh. She had never seen skin like his. She’d never seen a body unaccustomed to physical exercise and working the land. A body that had never known the pleasure of climbing a tree or crossing a river. A static body that longed to feel. She’d never seen a person who was almost transparent.

  After a time without exchanging a word, Maximilian took the girl’s hands in his and lowered them slowly, then he took the vinegary cloth and put it between their hands, pressing them together. They said nothing, but looked at each other. Not knowing the protocol and unsure what to do, Concepción quickly withdrew and left the room. Maximilian watched her walk away, and seeing her, he thought she moved like a butterfly. A butterfly that he didn’t have in his precious collection.

  49

  Constanza knew Carlota was leaving for Yucatán because Philippe told her one afternoon while he was teaching her the passé composé. Between lessons, Philippe—who wasn’t usually talkative—tried to strike up conversations with Constanza. It was subtle at first, asking her about her parents. While surprised, she replied without going into detail. Then she asked him about his childhood, and he told her of the cave and Mr. Walton. And eventually, having reached a tacit confidentiality agreement, they became accustomed to these moments of intimacy when they felt they could speak freely. Constanza did so with the full intention of obtaining information on the Belgian troops and the colonel, though she rarely managed to. Philippe liked to ask her about more mundane things, such as how she felt being a lady of the court; he asked her about her life outside Chapultepec, and seemed genuinely curious. She gradually gave in, like dough that has been allowed to stand for long enough; however, she had her reservations. She took care not to say too much or reveal her vulnerabilities, which in her mind were quite numerous. Nonetheless, she liked sharing herself with Philippe. After all, that was what she’d wanted from the day she laid eyes on him. She listened to him speak with his foreign accent, and her heart laughed. If he’d spoken to her on the day they met like he did now, she would’ve fallen at his feet; but just as water turns to ice, since she realized she was at court not to love a man but to defend her country, Constanza had turned cold at incredible speed. At night, she locked herself in her room on the first floor of Chapultepec and, instead of dreaming about how to seduce a lover, she invented codes to send hidden messages to her brother.

  Philippe, on the other hand, arrived in bed and, when he closed his eyes, dreamed of an amalgam of women who, like witches or sorceresses, changed form with each kiss, from one woman to another. He kissed Constanza, he kissed Carlota, he kissed Famke, and he made love to them all with the same vigor.

  “Yucatán? That will be a very long journey!” she said when Philippe asked her if she knew about the expedition the empress was about to embark on.

  “It’s for reconnaissance. You know, to explore her dominions.”

  “Will the emperor go?”

  “No. He’ll stay here, for a change.”

  They looked at each other, trying not to give anything away.

  “I suppose I’ll be accompanying her.”

  “I will, too.”

  “You will?”

  “Colonel Van der Smissen will be going. And I don’t think he’ll go alone.”

  Eureka, thought Constanza.

  “Why isn’t the emperor going?”

  “I believe he wants to take care of the finances. The coffers are not as full as they should be. From what I hear, he wants to speak to the new minister who just arrived from France.”

  “Ah, yes. Langlais.”

  “That’s him.”

  “And how do you know all this?”

  “Have you heard what they say about the walls having ears?”

  “Yes,” said Constanza with a half smile.

  “Well, everyone here treats me like a wall.”

  They certainly do! thought Con
stanza.

  Despite the fact that such a journey would be extremely dangerous as well as exhausting, she was delighted at the idea of traveling around the republic—as she secretly called it—if a man like Philippe was part of the expedition.

  Philippe didn’t realize that Constanza was feigning ignorance to encourage him to talk. She knew a lot more than the Belgian suspected: for instance, that Maximilian was delighted to send the empress away for at least fifty days. The emperor was beginning to hear comments about what a good governor she was, and he often came off worse in the comparisons. He was proud that, on his command, Carlota was no longer allowed to appear before the council of ministers without being summoned, nor could she enter Maximilian’s office without his express invitation. The emperor was colder than ever toward her. Though Carlota pretended not to care, Constanza noticed that she now rode alone more than usual, as if deciding to distance herself from a court where, increasingly, she was hamstrung. She also knew—because Salvador had told her—that under the law, the Juarista government’s tenure had ended in October 1865, and Benito Juárez, going against the constitution and with several Liberales opposing him, had been reelected. Maximilian saw a crack in President Juárez’s questionable legitimacy, and he wasn’t prepared to let such an opportunity pass by.

  He certainly wouldn’t leave the city in such a situation. He preferred to send the empress away and enjoy his solitude in more pleasant company.

  Carlota and her entourage, made up of her closest ladies-in-waiting, Manuelita and Constanza; a couple of ministers; Van der Smissen and Philippe; and a detachment of Belgian soldiers; plus a few members of the court such as a chaplain and a physician, left for Yucatán early one November morning. Five carriages headed toward Veracruz through mud and calamities that made them fear the worst; some of them ran off the road and had to be rescued, fortunately without casualties. Constanza struggled with the temperatures and complained bitterly.