Joaquín’s face fell when he learned that his brother negotiated with the other side: he was stunned, ashamed. He was prepared to see others betray the imperialist cause, but not Salvador, the man who not long ago had traveled to Miramare to ask Maximilian in person to come to Mexico.
“I knew it,” he said when he saw him. “I knew our father was wrong to choose you.”
Salvador remained impassive.
“Take this safe-conduct,” Salvador said to him. “It gives you passage out of Querétaro and onboard a ship to leave the country. It’s all I can do.”
“I’d sooner be killed than flee my country.”
“Don’t be so proud, Joaquín. Save yourself and get out of Mexico.”
Joaquín examined him with predatory eyes.
“If our father knew about this, he would die.”
“Well, if you don’t want his death on your conscience, don’t say anything.”
“He’ll find out eventually. And you’ll kill him.”
“Nobody has to die, Joaquín. Not if you do as I say.”
“I swore loyalty to the empire, Salvador.”
“And I to Juárez.”
A thick silence fell between them. Neither wanted to say anything he’d regret. They weighed the impact of their words.
After a few seconds, Salvador insisted, “Take the safe-conduct.”
“No.”
They looked at each other. They both knew what the other was thinking without saying anything.
“Take it,” Salvador told him, “and one day you’ll be able to hold me responsible for my sins. But don’t let them execute you as a traitor to your country.”
“There’s only one traitor here, and it’s not me.”
“Take the safe-conduct, Joaquín. Do it for our mother.”
“Mother will understand if I die for my principles. If a European prince can die for Mexico, so can I.”
“You were always a fool.”
“You’re wrong,” he said. “I was always courageous.”
Before saying goodbye forever, Salvador held him by the lapels so that they were face-to-face. There were so many things he wanted to say, and yet, he couldn’t say anything. He wanted to tell Joaquín that he envied his strength of mind, his fortitude in the face of death. The sense of peace with which he took responsibility for his actions. But he just gave him the most pitiful look he’d ever given him and stuffed the safe-conduct into Joaquín’s breast pocket, then slapped him twice on the heart.
Salvador left the Convento de las Capuchinas heartbroken. He’d always known that his brother was as straight as an arrow. A man who could stare death in the face unruffled. A man unafraid of dying because he’d mastered the art of living. Salvador, on the other hand, felt that he still had a lot of life to live. A life of anguish and penitence, perhaps, but he wasn’t yet ready to depart.
He returned to the city hoping his brother had come to his senses. Perhaps he hadn’t been able to admit his fear to Salvador, but in the solitude of his cell he would reconsider. The Austrians who capitulated were allowed to leave without reprisals, and while his brother’s imperialist history did not give cause for much hope, he had the safe-conduct. It would save his life.
After Salvador left, Joaquín noticed a fellow prisoner crying bitterly over a worn photograph of a little girl.
“My daughter,” he said.
He explained that he’d never met her because he enrolled in the army before his wife gave birth. He kissed the photo as he prayed, preparing himself for death.
Joaquín approached and, resting a knee on the ground, he said, “With this, you’ll be able to go home.”
Then he gave him a pat on the shoulder and turned away.
The man, puzzled, examined the document. He couldn’t believe it: a safe-conduct signed by General Escobedo himself! He looked up to thank his benefactor but didn’t find him; he’d vanished as suddenly as he’d arrived. Thanking the heavens for the miracle, he stood and walked as quickly as he could in the opposite direction.
On July 8, 1867, a few hours after Salvador reached Mexico City to reassure his mother that his brother would soon be released, Joaquín was shot in the back in Plaza de Santo Domingo.
69
Constanza tried to go as far as she could from the stench of death and betrayal. But the farther she went, the more she felt her conscience pursuing her. However much she turned it over in her mind, she knew what she had to do. The entourage of Mexicans that left with the empress for Europe never saw her again after they arrived at Miramare. They heard terrible stories about her madness. Desperate to know the truth, Constanza searched everywhere until she learned the whereabouts of Manuelita del Barrio, who’d decided to remain in those parts with her husband when they saw that the empire had been lost. Her letter in reply left Constanza speechless:
They didn’t let us see her again. The sinister Bombelles kept her in Miramare Castle, and though we were in Trieste, very nearby, they never allowed us to visit her. There were rumors that the empress was expecting. At our wits’ end, we decided to go to Spain, anguished by the disheartening news that reached us of our beautiful homeland.
There it was. That’s what had happened. Constanza knew it was true, and it was easy to imagine that they would hold the empress hostage until she gave birth to the child. To the bastard. God protect it from misfortune and wickedness.
Constanza knew deep down what she had to do. She knew it was madness. But deep inside, close to the calm that she supposed was her heart, something told her she couldn’t leave Carlota at the mercy of those men. If she wanted to be able to look in the mirror again without shame, there was no alternative. Her sacrifice would be her punishment. But she was afraid. She didn’t know exactly of what, but she knew that going in search of the empress would be an arduous journey, all the more after what Manuelita had told her. In Mexico, she was at home, she knew where to go, who to turn to—and who not to—when she needed help. Europe, on the other hand, was a parallel universe that was too far away. Could she survive there alone, without a husband? How would she embark on this adventure overseas, however selfless it was, without a protector? Joaquín was dead. Clotilde was intent on forgetting everything that had happened in order to carry on with life as quickly as possible. And her mother . . . her mother and father gave a silent sob that, while imperceptible, would last forever. She missed Philippe, but Philippe had gone for good, with so much rancor and venom in his words that Constanza preferred never to look him in the eyes again.
She was alone, but determined. She had to go. It might take years to achieve what she was setting out to do, but she didn’t care. She set herself a goal, and she would pursue it. Constanza never imagined that, while she sought her future, she would see everyone else’s lives pass her by.
Despite her delicate state of health, Clotilde married a good man who spoiled her, told her he loved her, kept her, and—despite almost killing her with each birth—gave her many children. Salvador was appointed to government roles once Juárez returned to seize the National Palace, and Agustín, Monsi, never became a bishop because he decided to leave for the sierra as a missionary.
Fifteen years after the execution on Las Campanas Hill, fifteen years after Joaquín’s death, Vicente died in his bed with sadness in his eyes, and Refugio learned to miss him.
The months passed this way, day by day, until years later, armed with a suitcase and equipped to become an excellent governess owing to her mastery of languages and finesse in the use of etiquette, having cut all of her ties, Constanza sailed from Veracruz in search of forgiveness.
When she arrived in Belgium, Constanza was in her late forties. The nineteenth century was nearly coming to an end, and the twentieth century would usher in a modernity that felt eccentric with its advances in science, technology, and medicine. The Lumière brothers were projecting their first movie, planes were furrowing the skies, and the modern era was about to celebrate its first Olympic Games. But when Constanza knocked
on the Bouchout Castle door, she was thinking of only one thing: at last she would settle her debt with God.
70
1895–1927, Bouchout Castle in Belgium
At Bouchout, time moved slowly. Constanza aged alongside Carlota at a snail’s pace, while outside the castle walls the world evolved by leaps and bounds. Airships flew overhead, families were seduced by the deafening sound of vacuum cleaners and washing machines that lightened the domestic burden, the telegraph was being supplanted by the telephone, and early internal combustion engines were powering Ford cars. And Carlota, who would have marveled at such inventions, was still watering flowers on her rug.
Marie Henriette continued to leave her self-imposed retirement in the town of Spa to visit her once a month, and together they allowed themselves to be swallowed in Bouchout’s belly. She brushed her hair, she accompanied her on her walks, and when the empress rested, she took the chance to speak with Constanza and hear about Carlota’s progress. Sometimes, she could see the lady’s eyes well up when she told her about the episodes of psychosis in which the empress broke things, smashed plates on the floor, and tore any papers she found to shreds.
“Curiously, the only thing she leaves intact are the pictures of the emperor; goodness knows why,” Constanza said in a low voice.
“Maximilian,” Marie Henriette said. “Her eternal love will always be the archduke.”
Constanza gave an involuntary look of distaste.
Marie Henriette sensed that Constanza knew more than she let on, but she could also see that Carlota was at peace with her, so she never dug deeper. If there was history between them, they could keep their secret.
Carlota, though fat and gray, aged like the evergreen trees. And, one day, Marie Henriette, the sister-in-law she’d loved and hated in equal measure—though she’d all but forgotten by then—died, unable to keep up with her.
Carlota never asked about her. Perhaps the pain of knowing she was gone was just more grief to carry, though by now she’d learned to keep her lost ones present in her delirium. One of the privileges of madness.
A phonograph livened up the empress’s days with the records that, filled with enthusiasm, she carefully placed under the stylus again and again. Sometimes, the sound of airplanes cleaving through the sky drowned out the music. Carlota looked up in wonder: Maximilian would have been happy to see that mankind had managed to fly like the birds. He would have been happy flying over Miramare’s woods, or Chapultepec Hill. But where she saw magic, Constanza saw horror. Whenever aircraft flew overhead, everyone in the palace hid underground. They were fleeing the bombings; the Great War had broken out.
To prevent the castle from being invaded by troops, one day Constanza had a wooden plaque made, which she positioned at the entrance. The sign said:
THIS CASTLE IS THE PROPERTY OF THE BELGIAN CROWN. IT IS THE RESIDENCE OF THE EMPRESS OF MEXICO, SISTER-IN-LAW OF OUR ALLY, THE EMPEROR OF AUSTRIA-HUNGARY. GERMAN SOLDIERS MUST REFRAIN FROM INTRUDING IN THIS DWELLING.
Once the notice had been put up, Constanza crossed herself and prayed it would work. She must have prayed with true faith, because no soldiers dared disturb the empress Carlota’s rest, or, for that matter, any of the other inhabitants of the castle.
Oblivious to the world’s convulsions, Carlota lived. She grew fat, she went quiet, and she isolated herself. Constanza read to her, sang to her, and her skin came out in goose bumps when the empress asked her to play the Mexican anthem.
“I was married to a great sovereign,” she blurted out one day, point-blank.
Constanza made a futile effort to change the subject, but it was impossible. Hearing the anthem on the piano, the empress’s mind had been set in motion: a spinning top that turned and turned and wouldn’t stop. Mexico took hold of her, stoking the fire of her memories. She spoke of Napoleon III, of Maximilian, of Philippe. And when that happened, Constanza’s soul writhed in pain; the memory of Philippe tormented her like no other. Then it was Constanza who remembered the nights she spent with him. They could’ve been happy. If only they could cross oceans of time . . .
Carlota pulled Constanza from her trance.
“I miss my dragoons.”
“Your what?” asked Constanza.
“My Belgian dragoons. The Empress’s Dragoons.”
Silence.
Constanza never interrupted when Carlota spoke in this way, for she seemed saner than ever. The empress went on.
“Where’s my Alfred? I was married to him, did you know? He was a great sovereign.”
Constanza corrected her. “You must mean Maximilian, Majesty.” And in a barely audible voice, fearing she would wake a monster, she said, “But Alfred was your child’s father.”
“Yes. My Alfred. Yes. I had a little boy, did you know?”
“And where is this boy?”
“I don’t know. They stole him from me.”
Constanza turned pale. Carlota remembered. Somewhere in the passageways of her memory, they were all alive, latent. Constanza saw a tear trickle slowly from the empress’s eye.
And then she was plunged back into a silence that Constanza couldn’t pull her from.
One Wednesday at seven in the morning, Constanza rose punctually, washed, and headed to the empress’s rooms to help her dress. Carlota could barely see now because of the cataracts that covered her eyes, and the left side of her body was paralyzed.
When Constanza walked in, in a faltering voice, Carlota said, “Constance, could you do me the favor of closing the door a little so I may see my archduke?”
Constanza looked at the full-body portrait that hung in front of the empress’s bed: Maximilian, in his admiral’s uniform—the one he’d married her in—watched over her. The door half covered it. Constanza obeyed. As she did it, Carlota smiled.
“We could’ve been so happy, don’t you think, Constanza?”
Constanza went as white as paper. In the over thirty years she’d spent beside her, the empress had never called her by her Spanish name. And she knew then, with the clear vision of an oracle, that Carlota had always known who she was.
“Yes, Majesty,” she said. “You could’ve been happy.”
Carlota seemed to be fading. Constanza feared the worst.
“Majesty, look at me.”
But Carlota couldn’t open her eyes.
“Majesty, say something.”
But Carlota couldn’t speak.
Then the empress turned her empty eyes toward Constanza and held out her hand to be kissed.
“At last,” she said, “it’s all over.”
And then, Carlota, empress of Mexico, was no more.
Bouchout Castle opened its doors for the first time in decades so people could say goodbye to the empress. Some went out of curiosity, to see the madwoman who’d been shut away in the castle for half a century. Others went to pay tribute to the legend that this woman from another time was. Only one of them, just one, went with a grieving heart: an elderly man of some eighty years, with an elegant demeanor despite his age, whose face didn’t hide the profound sorrow that his visit brought him.
The empress’s body was dressed in lace, and she held a rosary in her hands. On her right wrist she wore a bracelet of green, white, and red stones, evoking other lands. The man approached the catafalque and took off his hat as a sign of respect.
Constanza, leaning against a pillar watching the people pass, recognized the head even from behind and despite the sparse gray hair. Slowly, as if fearing she would wake a ghost, she approached him. Her voice trembled when she said his name.
“Philippe?”
He turned around.
They recognized themselves as the people they had become: two sad, old souls, contemplating each other.
“Hello, Constanza.”
She smiled.
“You’ve aged,” she said out loud, releasing a thought that had been destined for silence.
Philippe shrugged. And then, as if time had eroded their resentment, they embraced
in commiseration not only for Carlota’s death but for an entire life wasted.
Constanza cried silent tears that she’d been holding in her throat for too long—many years—while he, with a trembling mouth, kissed her head of gray hair. They stayed like that for a long while. They talked for the rest of the wake, watching the faces of curious visitors pass in front of the empress’s body. And like when they had spent the afternoons conversing between French lessons, little by little, as if their souls had recognized that the rancor had vanished and their mutual trust survived, they talked with the ease of times past. He told her that, after Mexico, he returned to Belgium, where he married and had two sons, now men. He told her that he never stopped thinking about the unfortunate Carlota, and that he’d tried to follow the trail of the son who was taken from her.
“He lived?”
“Yes. Bombelles didn’t have the heart to kill him.”
“So, where is he? Who is he?”
“He’s a French soldier. General Weygand is his name. The accountant who raised him denied knowing the mother’s name, which is hard to believe, and works for a financier who is a friend of King Leopold.”
“It can’t be.”
“He’s a great military commander. As far as I know, he served in the war, and he’s the director of the Center for Higher Military Studies. All of his studies were funded by the Belgian Crown,” Philippe said, winking.
“But . . . does he know he could be Carlota’s son?”
“Only rumors. He heard a French officer—a certain De Gaulle—say something.”
“De Gaulle?”
“Yes. Apparently in a conversation among officers someone said the intervention in Mexico had achieved nothing for France, and De Gaulle interrupted and said, ‘It gave us Weygand.’”
“But in that case, he must know where he comes from.”
The Empress: A novel Page 35