The Empress: A novel

by Laura Martínez-Belli

  62

  Constanza didn’t accompany Carlota to Europe because, when she discovered what half the empire suspected, she didn’t have the courage to finish the job that had been given to her. How could she continue to poison her when she was expecting a child? She couldn’t. She wouldn’t. She would have needed colder blood and a lesser conscience to do that.

  She heard it straight from Juana, the young girl responsible for collecting the empress’s chamber pot and who was instructed to report on the imperial menstruation each month.

  “Are you sure?”

  “Completely.”

  Her blood froze. From that moment, a coldness entered Constanza’s body that made her age at once. She wrapped a shawl around her shoulders and felt the urge to warm her hands with her own breath. She trembled. She cursed the moment when she’d stoked the fire of Carlota’s affair with Van der Smissen. A pregnancy wasn’t something she had even considered. Somehow, she’d believed the stories about the empress being infertile, because even if she never slept with the emperor, she assumed that there was no smoke without fire. It was too late for regret. Perhaps the baby wouldn’t survive, Constanza thought. And each time this idea crossed her mind, she prayed that it would be so. As far as she was concerned, this was a thousand times better than the baby being born disabled by her actions.

  She avoided Carlota like the plague. She was terrified. She was afraid to look her in the eyes, and Carlota, like a dog sensing fear, smelled her, searched for her, pursued her. Constanza couldn’t escape or evade her. She had to face her demons.

  It was Carlota who confirmed what she already knew.

  “Your herbs worked, but not in the way I’d hoped.”

  Constanza felt her heart race.

  “I’m pregnant, Constanza.”

  “Congratulations, Majesty . . .”

  “Don’t congratulate me, for the love of God. You know this child has come at the worst possible time. It’s a bastard.”

  “But Majesty, no one has to know. Dynasties are full of bastards.”

  Saying this, Maximilian’s rumored illegitimacy slid across the room like a cloud’s shadow. Though it was never discussed, there had been murmurs about Sophie of Bavaria’s closeness to L’Aiglon—the Eaglet—as Napoleon Bonaparte’s legitimate son was known. And in fact, Carlota always suspected that Franz Joseph’s distrust of his brother came from the possibility of Maximilian claiming the French throne one day.

  But Carlota shook her head, and in a low voice to scare away the devils that tempted her she said, “Nonsense.” And then she repeated, “No one must know.”

  “Of course, Majesty; I’m incapable of sullying your honor.”

  “I’m not referring to the identity of the child’s father, Constanza. I mean no one must know I’m expecting.”

  “But, Your Majesty, with all due respect, and seeing as there is confidence between us, allow me to tell you that there are already rumors.”

  Constanza was rambling. Carlota looked at her with complete seriousness.

  “Rumors?”

  “Yes, Majesty,” she said, lowering her head. “People suspect.”

  “I see.”

  There was silence.

  “Well, not a word must come from our mouths. Let them talk. They can whisper all they want. We won’t give them the pleasure of confirming the rumors. Above all, we must safeguard the future of the empire. That’s our only concern. We’ll leave for Europe in a few days to speak to Napoleon III.”

  Constanza opened her eyes wide.

  “But it’s the rainy season, Majesty. It’s imprudent to travel in these conditions. The roads are dangerous, they’re rivers of mud . . .”

  “I know. It will be the greatest sacrifice I make for my new homeland.”

  “But it’s the worst time for yellow fever, Majesty. You’ll have to go through the infected area. And in your condition!”

  “Duty makes this sacrifice necessary, Constanza. That is precisely why I must leave now. I don’t want anyone to notice my condition. It would make me weak in the eyes of men. Men are like that; when they see a pregnant woman, they see a sick woman. I have no time to lose.”

  “But going does not guarantee that the troops will remain, Majesty. Ambassadors have had audiences with Napoleon and failed to make him change his mind.”

  “Precisely. He needs to speak to an empress. Where others failed, I shall succeed. There is nobody on the face of this earth who can say no to me.”

  “And will the emperor go, too?”

  “He’s the head of the empire; he must remain here.” And then, reasserting herself with pride, she added, “But I am the neck of this empire, and I will turn it in the direction I choose!”

  Constanza looked up, struck by Carlota’s spirit. She could see fire in her eyes. Ambition. Power. And suddenly, her attitude changed completely. The light vanished, as if the force of the argument had sucked out all of her energy.

  “I feel weak . . . ,” she said.

  Constanza brought her a chair.

  “Sit down, Majesty.”

  “No, it’s not that; it’s as if I suddenly feel I’m going to lose my mind.” Carlota fixed her eyes on Constanza. “I’m afraid,” she said.

  Constanza tried to act natural, but couldn’t. She took her by the hands, squeezed them hard, and said, “Majesty, I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”

  “What is it, Constanza? What have you to be sorry for?”

  “For everything. I didn’t want to hurt you, my lady.”

  “With the herbs? We didn’t know that not even the herbs would arouse the emperor’s passion for me, Constanza. That’s not your fault.”

  Constanza felt the world bear down on her. She didn’t have the courage to confess.

  “Stop taking them, Majesty. Stop taking them.”

  “Why would I keep taking them? The deed has been done.”

  The deed has been done, Constanza repeated silently.

  It was true. Her work was done. The empress’s blood had been poisoned, but she wouldn’t allow it to continue until she was dead. God have mercy on her soul.

  “Get ready to leave with me, Constanza. I’ll need you by my side.”

  “Yes, Majesty.”

  She didn’t obey her. The next day, she decided to disappear. She told no one she was leaving. She was filled with uncertainty and doubt, but completely certain of one thing: she couldn’t do anything more to betray the empress. She was tempted to tell Philippe, but she knew that mail was intercepted and feared being exposed. Leaving the court under those circumstances would spell trouble for her family and for her, so she preferred to hide. That way, if they were asked, they could say in all honesty that they knew nothing of her whereabouts.

  By the time Constanza left, Carlota was beginning to lose herself in the passageways of paranoia. She believed she was being followed, that they were poisoning her. Everywhere she looked, she saw Napoleon’s spies, and kidnap and assassination attempts. Horrified, she recognized her own delirium and tried to regain her composure. She began to feel that she couldn’t withstand so many blows to her heart. All her loved ones were abandoning her. But Constanza’s desertion broke her heart. She ordered a search of the whole castle, and when she wasn’t found, fear gripped her spine. They’ve murdered her and gotten rid of the body, she thought. She begged them to find her most favored lady. She couldn’t have vanished. She asked Manuelita del Barrio over and over again if she knew anything, but nobody could say. Constanza had gone to her room as she did every night, and no one had seen her come out. Only a pair of shoes were missing; everything else was hanging in her closet. An idea took hold in Carlota’s mind, an idea that tormented her from that day until her last. Everyone who was dear to her had been erased and no longer existed. She would be the last to die.

  More alone than ever. Like the living dead: that was how she felt. And the one thing that could have become a reason for joy became a secret she wouldn’t be able to hide. She was pregnant. She was expec
ting a bastard. And however much she wanted to pass the child off as the emperor’s, she knew that no one would believe it. She’d barely seen Maximilian in recent months.

  It was better to remain silent. She didn’t want to distract herself with these thoughts now. The priority was to save what remained of the empire, which was crumbling like a sandcastle.

  Any movement in Chapultepec aroused suspicion of abdication. There were whispers. Conservative society lived with its heart in its mouth. Everything would change if the emperor abdicated. Everyone’s fate was hanging by a thread. The Republicans were advancing, regaining territory as quickly as the Army of Intervention was retreating. And Carlota knew the emperor well enough to be aware that, under pressure, the thought of abdicating would pass through his mind every five minutes. She couldn’t go to fight for the survival of the empire only for news to reach her in Europe that Maximilian had caved in. So, before leaving, she sat at her desk, took a deep breath, and knowing that what she was about to write would decide Maximilian’s fate, with full use of her faculties and a great sense of duty, she drafted a letter.

  One does not abdicate, the first line said.

  For the next few days, Carlota broke cover. Wearing diamonds, she went on her own to a thanksgiving service at the cathedral; she did it to quell the rumors that, facing defeat, she’d sent all of her jewels back to Europe. After the ceremony, some women in her court said goodbye to her with tear-soaked faces. Though the empress hadn’t announced her plan to leave, Chapultepec was abuzz with speculation. Preparations were already underway and it was just a matter of time before it was public knowledge. The empress would leave, and the emperor would probably follow her.

  In early July, Carlota left with a small retinue to save the unsavable.

  In Constanza’s absence, Manuelita del Barrio took her place, pleased to be able to go to Europe and relieved to escape the uncertainty of Mexico.

  Meanwhile, somewhere, Constanza was trying to forgive herself. What a mistake it had been to take sides without first being sure. So many preconceived ideas. She felt dirty, treacherous. Not toward the country but toward herself. She needed to atone for her guilt but didn’t know how. She needed to speak to her brothers. She needed to face her mother.

  When Constanza appeared at the family home with red eyes, she never imagined she would run straight into a much thinner, grubbier Philippe, who had been waiting for her hopelessly every afternoon. Seeing each other, they were unable to recognize the Constanza and Philippe from before. It had been so long, and at the same time not so long. But by then, Carlota was drinking water from every fountain in Europe.

  63

  Philippe didn’t have to be a psychic to see that Constanza was being crushed under the weight of her conscience.

  “What’re you doing here?” she asked as soon as she saw him.

  “Nice way to greet someone who could have been dead.”

  “Go away, Philippe.”

  “Why, Constanza? What’s going on? What did you do?”

  Constanza’s eyes trembled like water drops.

  “I can’t tell you.”

  “Please, Constanza. Why aren’t you with the empress?” He looked around; they were exposed. They had to go inside the house; they were in danger: her for being a deserter, him for being an imperialist. Nobody was safe.

  “All right,” she said. “Come with me.”

  Constanza knocked on the door and Petra peered out. Seeing her, she let out a cry.

  “Mary, Mother of God! Señorita Constanza!”

  And she opened the door. They went into the parlor feeling like intruders. Philippe could see that Constanza was nervous and hoping not to encounter any members of the family, at least not for now.

  “Petra, don’t tell anyone I’m here.”

  “But, señorita . . . your mother will be pleased to see you. You have them all very worried.”

  “Please, Petra.”

  The girl, incapable of going against the wishes of the children of the house, agreed.

  Constanza took Philippe by the hand and led him to the library. She closed the door so that they were in semidarkness and there, in silence, she held him. And then, in a fit of maternal concern, she scolded him.

  “Have you lost your mind, Philippe? What’re you doing here? I heard that Van der Smissen’s regiment had embarked for Belgium. If anyone sees you here . . . Why didn’t you leave?”

  “I didn’t want to go without you.”

  Constanza narrowed her eyes.

  “You stayed for me?”

  “Did I do the right thing?” he replied with another question.

  “You’re mad.”

  For a brief moment, the complicity that they’d had took hold of their hearts again, and Constanza felt how much she had missed Philippe. She wanted to bury herself in his chest and stay there forever. She wanted to start over, to go to a place where there were no wars or imperialists or Republicans. A place where they could just be two people discovering each other, without flags or colors.

  Then suddenly, the spell was broken. Philippe adopted a tone unfamiliar to her and even to himself until then.

  “Clotilde told me you can’t be trusted. That I shouldn’t trust you. Why did she say that, Constanza?”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “You know very well. Please, don’t make me beg. I’ve been waiting for weeks for you. No one knows anything about you. The empress left for France without you. The Republicans are hard on our heels. Who are you hiding from? Who’s looking for you?”

  Constanza knew she was escaping from herself.

  “Nobody’s pursuing me. The Juaristas wouldn’t dare lay a hand on me.”

  “Don’t be naïve, Constanza.”

  “I’m not,” she said.

  Philippe sharpened his words, fearing the worst.

  “And why would you not be a target for the Juaristas?”

  “Because I . . . because I’m . . . a Murrieta.”

  “All the more reason!”

  “Philippe, you don’t know anything!”

  “Expliquez-moi!”

  Constanza paced in circles. All of a sudden, she looked at him with a strange expression, as if he were a horse injured in battle and she had to put him down. She was about to deal the final blow.

  “Philippe, I . . .”

  He had the severe expression of a Romanesque Christ.

  “I . . .”

  “Yes?”

  “I did something bad. Very bad. To the empress.”

  “What did you do, Constanza?” he asked, unsure whether he wanted to know the answer.

  “I . . . I . . .”

  “What?” he said impatiently.

  “I poisoned the empress!”

  There it was; she’d said it.

  Constanza blew out, letting the air out like a pricked balloon. She felt lighter. Meanwhile, a ton of truth fell on Philippe.

  “No. You wouldn’t be capable . . .”

  “I did it. In cold blood. For months. Every night, I gave her an herb tea to poison her. In time, I no longer had to give it to her, she made it for herself. She thought it would help her win the emperor’s heart.”

  Philippe slumped into an armchair.

  “I didn’t want to kill her, I swear, Philippe . . . I never let her take large quantities. Sometimes, when I saw it was too much, I watered it down. I didn’t want to kill her, I swear,” she repeated.

  “But why?” Philippe asked in an attempt to organize his thoughts.

  “I’m a spy for Juárez.” Hearing herself, Constanza felt like a fake. A Judas kissing the empress before handing her over. “My father doesn’t know,” she then said in a childlike way, as if Philippe cared.

  He looked at her with disdain.

  “Who else knows?”

  “A few people. I can’t tell you who.”

  Constanza went to Philippe to grab his hand, but he shook her off. He didn’t want to see her, let alone feel her. She
disgusted him. He could’ve strangled her. How had she been able to fool everyone? How could he have been drawn to her? And what about the empress? Thank the heavens, the poison hadn’t worked.

  “What herb was it?”

  “A poisonous one. You don’t know it.”

  “I want to know its name.”

  Constanza hesitated.

  “Tolguacha,” she answered.

  “What’s that?”

  “A plant. Similar to jimsonweed.”

  Philippe turned pale. Constanza’s nightmare became all too real.

  “Constanza, in low doses jimsonweed doesn’t kill, but it makes you go mad; it causes hallucinations, it affects the mind.”

  “I know,” she said, and she felt her voice crack in her throat.

  “May God forgive you for what you’ve done, because I can’t,” he said, standing up.

  “Where are you going?”

  “Far away from here.”

  “Take me with you,” she begged. “Don’t leave me.”

  Philippe stopped at the door. Slowly, he turned around until he was facing her.

  “Constanza,” he said, “be grateful I’m not dragging you in front of the emperor, but that will be the only consideration I have for you. From now on, I’ll hate you for as long as I live.”

  Constanza didn’t know where the torrent of fury came from deep inside her, but she raised a hand and slapped him. The rage disappeared as soon as she saw Philippe’s reddened face looking at her with contempt.

  The memory of Philippe’s slapped face would remain with her until she died.

  And Philippe left with his soul as poisoned as his beloved empress’s.

  Part Four

  64

  1895, Bouchout Castle in Belgium

  One afternoon when the wind polished the sky, a new lady-in-waiting arrived at Bouchout Castle. She was younger than the empress, but her sad expression made her look older than she was. Madame Moreau interviewed her, her advanced age now requiring her to be cared for instead of being the caregiver. Julie Doyen, the chambermaid, was also glad to see reinforcements arrive to help with Carlota’s care. Though she was docile, she needed to be watched over day and night. And as the empress herself said before she lost her sanity, nobody she cared about would outlive her. Carlota, like the Angel of Death, buried everyone. Madame Moreau and Julie Doyen often feared they would be next, but the years went by and, though they had aged, they still lived. They had sympathy for the girls who entered into Carlota’s service, for they couldn’t help but think that their lives would end in the coming years; Carlota had a terrible gift for sucking the energy from them.