“I can’t stand this heat with these dresses on, Manuelita. The embroidery’s digging into my neck.”
“Oh, be quiet, girl, and fan yourself. What I can’t stand is the dust.”
“Have you seen the empress? She’s traveling in a closed carriage and even then she looks like a miller’s wife!”
“Be quiet, girl!” Manuelita scolded her. And then, after looking at her again, she said, “Don’t we all look like that.”
Arriving in Orizaba, they were met with a gusty northerly wind that forced them to wait two days before continuing the journey. They stayed in the home of a Conservative family that had supported them from the moment the monarchs set foot in Mexico, the Bringases.
“Your Majesty! Welcome to our humble abode,” Sra. Bringas said when she received them.
Constanza looked around: the humble abode was a hacienda where horses could gallop, and anything from maize to coffee could be grown. But above all, what caught her attention was the familiarity with which the señora spoke to Carlota, as if they had been friends all their lives; it infuriated Manuelita, who tried without success to compete for the empress’s attention. But Carlota, much more relaxed than she had been in Chapultepec, barely noticed. She’d been wanting a change of scenery for a while, though she hadn’t admitted it to anybody.
Philippe noticed with some displeasure that Colonel Van der Smissen spent a lot of time with Carlota. They walked in the garden for long periods, and on occasion, out of the corner of his eye, he thought he saw the colonel take the empress’s hand; however, the movement was so fleeting that Philippe couldn’t be sure if he’d imagined it.
Constanza, however, was in no doubt. She was very aware that there was a spark between them, masked by the formality of their roles, but nonetheless a spark. Deep down, she fervently hoped Carlota would dare to love, or at least allow herself to be loved, by someone, for it was clear that if she waited for the emperor, she would grow old without experiencing any pleasures beyond contemplating the archduke’s portrait on the wall.
At Orizaba, they boarded a ship and began the crossing to the Yucatán Peninsula, which, in the words of the empress herself, proved to be the worst voyage of her life. And it must have been, because when she came out of her cabin, she looked like a poor sick bird. But with her feet on dry land, the sun on her face, and the innocence of the people she encountered, before long Carlota felt that it had been worth the journey. Compared to Mexico City, Mérida was beautiful, tranquil, peaceful. The people seemed so honest and kind that, moved, one afternoon she said to Constanza, “This place restores one’s faith in humankind.”
Carlota wasn’t there just to discover the virtues of those lands. She had secret instructions from Maximilian, who was aware of the separatist movement that had existed in the state since 1839; Carlota was there to promote the laws with which they would be compensated should they express their full support for the empire. There was talk of establishing a viceroyalty under the supervision of Almonte; they wanted to keep him busy away from the court. The reception that the people of Yucatán offered the imperial delegation worried Constanza. It was clear they were happy with the visit; people unhitched their horses from their carriages to ride alongside Carlota’s calash, greeting her with a shower of petals. They were grateful that a leader had finally come to them after being left so long on the margins. They threw flowers from the balconies, and the church bells rang as they passed.
Carlota was mesmerized. For the first time since she had arrived in Mexico, she felt like an empress. She visited churches, but when she saw the Mayan ruins of Uxmal, her wonder was such that she immediately gave instructions to create a museum there.
“I want part of the budget to be allotted to protect and preserve these ruins,” she said to one of her ministers. “And see to it also that laws are enacted to prevent pre-Hispanic artifacts from being exported.”
The reply to everything was “Yes, Your Majesty.”
She attended presentations at schools, where the children showered her with gifts, covered in seashells, that they had made themselves or that local artisans had crafted. She toured the south with a smile on her lips; from Sacalum to Calkiní—where they gave her palm-fiber hats—and in the villages, instead of choosing grand accommodations, she stayed in humble places that helped her connect with the people. She wore simple clothes, her only embellishment the flowers she wore on her head. In the eyes of many, including Philippe, she didn’t need anything else to look regal. She exuded a sense of peace, as if she were finally where she was meant to be.
“I’ve rarely seen enthusiasm as sincere as I have seen today,” she would say in her speeches. “You’ve given me your hearts; now receive mine.”
Despite that, people whispered behind her back. If Carlota had been able to hear, she would have shuddered with rage at some of the ladies whispering, Poor girl, so young, so lovely, yet barren; God gives and God takes away, because as you can see, she has everything in life, but she can’t have children; I wouldn’t trade places with her for anything in the world, I’d rather have my family, and endless other expressions of pity based on the rumors. And why wouldn’t they believe it, if the emperor had been forced to adopt Iturbide’s grandchildren to ensure heirs to the throne?
Carlota, unaware of the gossip, carried out her duties with the utmost diplomacy, not just because she was educated and trained to do so, but because the truth was, she hadn’t been so happy in a long time. She felt useful again, of value. The wheels of her life were turning again, driving her forward. She didn’t stop for a moment. She was in and out of the carriage, traveling with barely time to rest, but Carlota was grateful for the activity after months of the political immobility to which Maximilian had subjected her.
But there is a limit to everything.
And it was betrayal that drove her to that limit.
Constanza, always at her side, thought the time had come to take the bull by the horns. Seeing how Carlota had been received in Yucatán made her think the empire was gaining ground. She had to do something. For Mexico. For Juárez. Her brother, Modesto, her mother . . . they were right. The empire, however good its intentions were, was madness. It couldn’t go on.
One day when Carlota’s face was the picture of exhaustion, Constanza took the opportunity to sow some seeds.
“Your Majesty, you should rest a little.”
“I can’t, Constanza.”
“Of course you can, Majesty—”
“I can’t!” yelled Carlota. And then, realizing she’d lost her decorum, she tried to explain herself. As she did so, Constanza could see the same ghosts that haunted Chapultepec emerge. “I’m a childless woman. I have nothing else to do.”
In a low voice, Constanza said, “Don’t be so hard on yourself, Majesty, you will have a child one day. The emperor—”
“The emperor is busy in Cuernavaca,” Carlota cut in. “He always succumbs there. He succumbed there yesterday, and he will succumb there tomorrow.”
Constanza didn’t understand.
“Pardon, Majesty?”
Carlota did not answer, she simply lowered her head, as humiliated as a fighting bull about to receive the coup de grâce.
“Max doesn’t love me. He doesn’t desire me. He prefers the flesh of a common servant woman to my regal hands. She’s very pretty.”
Constanza fell silent, incapable of saying anything. She knew the pain of deceit was like no other pain. She had noticed that the emperor was spending a great deal of time in Cuernavaca, where he often went to escape affairs of state. So the empress had good reason, she thought, to be taciturn, and to take long walks with Colonel Van der Smissen by the lake. Good reason, also, to cry.
After a pause, Carlota went on.
“So . . . how could I give the emperor children?”
They both knew exactly what she meant. How, if Carlota had never been with a man?
Then, with remorse in her throat, Constanza plucked up her courage and heard herself sayi
ng something unthinkable to an apostolic Roman Catholic empress.
“Your Majesty, in Mexico . . . in Mexico we have remedies for your problem.”
“Remedies?”
“Unorthodox ones, Majesty.”
Carlota opened her eyes wide.
“You mean witchcraft?”
“Some might call it that. I prefer to call it white magic.”
“White magic?”
Constanza decided to see it through.
“Yes, Majesty. Don’t look at me like that, nothing diabolical . . . Just herbalism with a little faith.”
“Constanza,” Carlota said very seriously, “I don’t need herbs; what I need is a man to lift my skirts.” Carlota’s expression was very sad. She’d never felt so humiliated before. But she had opened up her heart, and now she didn’t want to close it. “Is there a man who will love me one day, Constanza?”
And Constanza, sensing that Providence was serving her the opportunity on a silver plate, said, “The herbs I have help with that, too, Your Majesty.”
And as they sat in silence trying to read each other’s thoughts, Van der Smissen knocked on the door and asked to come in.
“What is it, Colonel?” Carlota asked with a frown.
“The carriage is ready to take us to the gala dinner, Your Majesty.”
“Thank you. We’ll be right there.”
When Van der Smissen left, Constanza noticed a look of melancholy in Carlota’s face.
“You know,” she said to Constanza, “he reminds me of my father.”
And then she stood and gave the order to set off.
They arrived in Mérida, where the city’s dignitaries were hosting a dinner in their honor. Given how happy the journey had been and the countless expressions of affection from the people, Carlota thought it would be full of Yucatecan figures. But once again, as at La Scala in Milan, she found that the event was attended by not even half of those invited.
Van der Smissen sat to Carlota’s right and could see displeasure and a certain nervousness in her, as if all her joy had suddenly vanished again.
“They probably didn’t receive the invitation in time,” Van der Smissen said in an attempt to comfort her.
In answer, Carlota gave him a sad look. She picked up her glass, but before putting it to her lips, she hesitated: terror struck her in the face.
“What is it, Majesty?”
For a fraction of a second, Van der Smissen thought he saw terror in her eyes, as if she’d just seen the devil.
“What’s the matter, Carlota?” he said less formally.
And hearing her name, the crazed look faded.
“It’s nothing, Alfred,” she said. “I must be tired.”
And she drank.
It was true, she was exhausted. They’d been traveling for weeks, and despite her youth, the journey was taking its toll. She slept poorly, and after tasting dishes she was unaccustomed to—such as relleno negro or dulce de zapote—she was beginning to suffer from stomach pains. In place of innards, she felt like she had snakes writhing inside her. To escape her worries, she distracted herself by saying extremely long prayers in which she asked for strength of spirit and body. But she was weak. She thought of Maximilian, of the fact that he also suffered from constant diarrhea and severe stomach cramps, and felt for him. If he feels like this all the time, she thought, I don’t know how he can take two steps forward. But just as he found strength in his weakness, she would, too.
Van der Smissen started to worry about the empress’s health. Though she never shirked her religious obligations, he’d never seen her behave so devoutly: now she prayed almost obsessively. She spoke a lot about God and about the devil. He thought Carlota needed to rest before she had a nervous breakdown. But every dawn the empress washed, dressed, and rushed out to begin her day. The most important thing was duty, just as her father had taught her.
It wasn’t just Van der Smissen who worried about her. Philippe watched her from the shadows, silent. Despite how happy and excited she seemed when she attended the official ceremonies, he feared something bad was about to happen to her. He felt again the anguish he’d felt as a child, when his little brother, Noah, had begun to cough up blood in the cave. He had to do something. Carlota wasn’t well. She seemed increasingly absent, as if the light in her eyes was suddenly going out and plunging her into darkness.
“You must get word to the emperor,” a worried Philippe said to Constanza after the dinner.
“Are you insane?”
“The empress needs rest, Constanza, they’re killing her with all this work. The pace has been frantic for weeks. She’ll never let up of her own accord.”
“And since when have you been so concerned about the empress’s health?”
“Since always. It’s my duty.”
“Your duty . . .”
Philippe stopped himself from looking at the ground in an effort to hold her gaze, but it was too late. Constanza knew then that Philippe had feelings for the empress. He was an open book. What a fool! How had she not seen it before? Philippe had just bared himself in front of her without realizing it. Nonetheless, Constanza gave nothing away.
“And how do you expect me to reach the emperor?”
Philippe hesitated. Seeing how close Carlota was to her ladies, he’d presumed they also had direct access to Maximilian.
“I can’t communicate with him,” she said. “Someone more trusted has to tell him.” And then Constanza tipped over the first domino. “Get the colonel to do it.”
“Van der Smissen?”
“Who else? Haven’t you noticed how he looks at her? And what’s more . . . how she looks at him?”
Philippe felt a stab in his stomach.
“Yes, I’ve noticed,” he said, swallowing his pride. “But you tell him.”
“And why would he listen to me?”
“Because you always get what you want.”
Constanza suppressed a smile.
“I’ll see what I can do.”
Philippe didn’t have to try hard to persuade Constanza. It was the moment she’d been waiting for; at last, she’d found a way to approach the colonel. And that was a stroke of luck.
Nor did Constanza have to try hard to persuade the colonel. When she requested an audience with him, he’d already sent a letter to the capital to ask the emperor to catch up with the empress in San Martín Texmelucan. She entered a temporary office where the colonel had arranged an austere pecan desk, a small bookshelf, and a pair of chairs; when she sat, Constanza smelled damp earth in the air.
“Thank you for your information, Constance, but I notified the emperor a couple of days ago.”
“Oh!” said Constanza. “So you agree it would be imprudent to subject the empress to more exertion.”
“You’d have to be blind not to see it.”
“Forgive me for being so bold as to trouble you with this, Colonel. You understand that I’m concerned about the empress. I presumed I could come to you.”
“Mais oui. You did the right thing, mademoiselle.”
“And if you will permit me an indiscreet question . . . Why will the emperor meet her in San Martín? Are we not returning to Mexico City?”
“Evidently not. We’ll cross Lake Chalco and from there we’ll travel to Xochimilco before heading to Cuernavaca.”
“Cuernavaca?”
“The emperor has decided to rest there. There’s a house with a beautiful garden. It’s what the empress needs now, given the circumstances.” And then, almost without being aware of it, he heard himself thinking out loud. “Poor Carlota,” he murmured. He looked at Constanza, who observed cautiously with an expressionless face. But she thought the same.
Van der Smissen took two steps to the little table that functioned as a bar and poured himself a glass of port.
“Voulez-vous?” he said, offering her a glass.
“Non, merci, monsieur,” she replied.
Though she was the picture of discretion, Constanza hadn
’t missed anything. Her heart raced. She hadn’t thought the conversation with the colonel would prove so fruitful; she decided to squeeze a little harder. She could tell when somebody wanted to talk, and the colonel was hopping like a pumpkin seed on a hot plate.
“What is most concerning, Colonel, the empress’s health or the state of the country?”
Van der Smissen tugged on his moustache and took a sip of his port.
“All of it, mademoiselle, all of it. The French marshal says everything is going well, but Juárez remains at large.”
Thank God, thought Constanza. “Then there’s no reason to be alarmed.”
“Nonsense!” he yelled. “The war seems to be indefinite, there are guerrilla attacks daily, but Bazaine claims he’s pacifying the country . . .”
He looked at his half-empty glass. Constanza hurried to pour him more port.
“But the emperor is gaining more control over the situation,” she suggested.
“What he has is more palaces and theaters,” the colonel said with disdain. “If he can’t survive by his own means, this empire won’t survive. Some empire . . . sustained at bayonet point. This is suicide.”
Constanza knew Van der Smissen would regret this conversation the next day. She decided to change the subject.
“The empress is a remarkable sovereign,” she was bold enough to say.
He gave her a serious look. He knew she was referring not to the monarch but to the woman.
“Yes. Yes, she is,” he said.
“And she feels very alone.”
Van der Smissen’s gaze turned so severe that Constanza blushed.
“You may leave now, mademoiselle.”
Walking backward to avoid turning away from him, Constanza left the room.
50
It was Concepción who seduced the emperor, not the other way around. He wouldn’t have known what to do, but she took it upon herself to be the nest where the poor bird could seek refuge. Not even Maximilian himself was aware of it until Concepción had lured him in. It wasn’t that the emperor was virility on legs. He had many defects: he had bad teeth, his breath stank owing to various digestive problems, he had almost no hair on his head—which he tried to make up for with his copious beard—and he was old enough to be her father. But there was something about him that aroused Concepción’s curiosity; for the first time in her life, she sensed she could be with a gentle man, a man who wouldn’t hurt her when he penetrated her. She would be the one who set the rhythm, she would take the lead. And the idea of the soft love of a gentleman instead of the rough love of a crude gardener—a tender, nonviolent love—was a powerful aphrodisiac.
The Empress: A novel Page 24