The Empire of Yearning (23 page)

“H
E LIKES TO WEAR SAILOR CLOTHES
,” Beatríz said. “He goes about with a little frown on his face and with his hands on his hips. He stops and scrutinizes every object or person he comes across, as if he were on an official tour of inspection. He asks questions about everything.”

Diego and Beatríz were strolling through the zócalo of Cuernavaca, speaking in whispers. Diego had arrived the previous evening but had not yet spoken with the emperor, who was also in residence in the town.

Beatríz said she was now able to come and go at the House of Forgetfulness, where Ángela’s son was effectively a prisoner. In some ways, it was a benign form of incarceration, she said, not to mention luxurious. Those charged with the boy’s care—a governess and several other employees of the emperor—did not seem much concerned with secrecy, either. At first, they had taken far greater precautions, no doubt mindful of what had happened to the boy’s mother, spirited away as she had been without leaving a hint of her whereabouts. It was not something that would bear repeating. But, with the passage of time, they had become more relaxed. The governess took Agustín out on walks openly, with only a single armed guard to
watch over them. Deliveries of food, clothing, and other provisions were made without subterfuge of any kind. Beatríz found that she was able to visit as she pleased. It seemed to be taken for granted that Cuernavaca provided all the cover that was needed, a modest city hidden away in an intermontane basin a day’s journey from the capital. Who would take an inordinate interest in anything that happened here?

“Does the boy ask about his mother?” said Diego.

“Strangely, no.” Beatríz reached up and pushed back an errant lock of her hair. “He doesn’t seem entirely clear on what a mother is. But he often says his father is the king.”

“Does the emperor visit him?”

“No. Never.”

They strolled about the plaza a little longer, content not to speak at all, just glad to be again in each other’s company. Diego had already described his journey to the north, his meeting with the Mexican president. Eventually, they were obliged to part. Beatríz had errands to run, and Diego meant to return to the House of Borda by a roundabout route. He expected at any moment to be accosted by Baldemar, dressed in some outlandish disguise or other. By rights, such an encounter ought to have occurred already, and he wondered if something were wrong. Just in case, he stayed alert, carefully eyeing everyone he passed on the chance that one of them should turn out to be his old friend.

But Baldemar did not appear that morning, so Diego returned to the House of Borda, entering by the al fresco terrace. He flopped onto a wicker settee and rested his legs on a low table. He looked idly around. Before long, he heard Maximiliano’s voice.

“A damned good morning’s work …” the emperor was saying. He marched up onto the terrace, clad in sturdy leather boots, gabardine breeches, and a tweed jacket. He stopped and peered behind him at the brilliant morning light and iridescent foliage.

“
México, lindo y querido
,” he said. He sighed, turned, and then started. “Ah, Serrano. There you are. They told me you’d arrived. What brings you to fair Cuernavaca?”

Maximiliano crossed the terrace in the direction of a divan cater-corner to Diego’s seat, scattering clumps of half-dried mud in his wake. He collapsed onto the sofa, leaned back, and stretched out his legs, in their earth-encrusted boots. Before Diego could reply, the emperor looked up.

“Ah, here they are,” he said as Basch and Billimek trooped into view. He yawned and patted his pockets, searching for a cigarette. “Basch, how many species taken this day?”

“A half-dozen, Your Majesty.”

“Well then, what did I say? A good morning’s work all round.” He lit a cigarette, rubbed his jaw, stifled another yawn. He glanced at Diego once more. “You look tired,” he said.

Without waiting for a reply, Maximiliano kicked several more clumps of mud from his boots, climbed to his feet, and sauntered out into the garden, with its flowering vines, graceful wooden trellises, and topiary shrubs. Below him, the still waters of the artificial lake reflected the fine blue sky. The sunshine poured down, and the late-morning air was mild and sweet, redolent of flowers and wood smoke.

Doktor Basch shuffled over to Diego’s side. “I warn you,” he whispered, “His Majesty’s mood has been changeable of late. One moment, exuberant. The next … pouf!” He shook his head.

The emperor swanned back onto the terrace, his boots clicking against the tiles. “What’s that, Herr Doktor? Not gossiping about me again?” He laughed and drew upon his cigarette. “Hey,” he said in what was almost a shout, “does no one hereabouts have something a civilized man might eat? Hey! Hey!”

A servant was duly instructed to secure something along the lines of coffee and pastries. Count von Bombelles appeared from somewhere within the house. He arched his back and stretched his arms out to the sides. He and the emperor, along with Basch and Billimek, settled themselves around a long table. At their behest, Diego strolled over to join them.

Soon more cigarettes were produced, as well as pots of coffee and baskets of croissants. The Prince of Salm-Salm emerged onto the terrace,
yawning and running a hand through his dishevelled hair. It seemed that he had only just awakened. Another place was set at the table.

For a time, the mood was jovial. Maximiliano shared recollections with Basch and Billimek about their adventures that morning, yet another expedition in search of new specimens of botanical interest. The emperor insisted that he had made the greater part of their discoveries that morning. He lit another cigarette and announced that he would not decline a glass of Riesling, never mind the hour. The morning was too lovely to waste.

Riesling was served at once, and the emperor raised his glass.

“To Mexico,” he said. “To Mexico and the sun.” He raised his glass still higher and broke into laughter, the laughter of pure pleasure. “When the sun shines in Mexico,” he declared, “you think it will shine forever.”

He laughed again. He pressed the glass to his lips and drank. Before long, the flagon was empty. Another replaced it and was soon emptied, too. By now, the emperor had fallen quiet. He barely seemed to register what the others were saying. His head began to tilt to the side. Without warning, he pushed his chair from the table and stood up, gripping the chair back for balance.

“I will take my leave of the gentlemen,” he announced. With that, he walked woozily from the terrace and disappeared into the cool shadows within the house.

Basch shook his head. “Up and down,” he said. “Up and down.”

“It’s the laudanum you feed him,” said Salm-Salm. “It would knock out a horse.”

“Laudanum?” said Diego. He was unfamiliar with the term.

“A little opium, some alcohol,” explained Basch. “To calm his nerves. The emperor possesses a nervous disposition, as you know. He has lately suffered from bouts of anxiety. The laudanum seems to help.”

Before long, Bombelles excused himself from the table. One by one, the other men drifted off, until Diego found himself alone. He gazed out at the gardens, at the peacocks strutting across the shimmering grass and the topiary shrubs glinting, bright emerald, in the patchwork of light and
shadow. He lit a cheroot and watched the smoke curl upward, glimmering in the sunlight. He wondered where Baldemar was. How would he reveal himself? What would happen then?

That afternoon, Maximiliano led an excursion to a local school, where he delivered a brief discourse to the assembled students. He then presented each of the teachers with a medal. Later, the emperor and his entourage returned to the House of Borda and took tea al fresco on the terrace.

The emperor announced that he meant to enjoy his siesta outdoors and invited the others to join him in the garden. Only Diego and Basch took up the offer. Soon, Maximiliano was reclining upon a gaily embroidered hammock that swayed in the shade of a large gazebo overlooking the lagoon. He smoked cigarette after cigarette and leafed through a French magazine devoted to the latest innovations in balloon aeronautics. He still intended to fly.

Diego read a novel. Basch huddled at a refectory table, methodically coaxing a succession of dead butterflies from glass jars and mounting them on pins. It seemed to be painstaking work, at least to judge by his periodic grunts and sighs. Somewhere in the distance, a dove sang mournfully.

Diego drifted off to sleep—until, without warning, a commotion erupted across the lawns. He lurched upright, and his book sprawled across the gazebo’s tiled floor. He turned in his hammock and looked back toward the mansion, beyond the preening peacocks and the croquet hoops.

A guard of Zouaves trotted out onto the terrace in their scarlet kepis and short pantaloons. The Africans formed two rows and snapped to
attention. A military officer strode out onto the polished tiles, clutching a peaked cap at his side. It was Bazaine.

The French marshal paused at the edge of the terrace, no doubt to take stock of his surroundings. His eyes blinked slowly and his cheeks inflated and deflated. He descended the several steps and advanced across the grass. Basch was holding up a small white butterfly, impaled on a pin. By now, Diego was on his feet.

Bazaine stopped at the edge of the gazebo and lowered himself to one knee in what seemed to be an unusually deep bow. In that position, he waited as the emperor struggled to his feet.

“Your Majesty.” Bazaine stood upright. “I have news.”

“W
ELL, IT MUST BE
important if you have come in person.” The emperor slid his hands into the pockets of his cotton slacks and affected a casual pose, resting his weight against a wooden pillar. “So, then. What news do you bring?”

“Perhaps Your Majesty had best sit down.”

“Oh?” Maximiliano padded across the gazebo in his patent-leather shoes. He retrieved a cigarette from a humidor set upon a low wooden table. He pressed the cigarette between his lips and blinked at the officer. “That has an ominous ring.”

Maximiliano settled himself onto a long, low settee. He looked up at the Frenchman. “Please, Bazaine, and you, Serrano—please,
siéntense.
Sit down. Basch—join us.” He glanced over at the Indian attendant who stood nearby, his expression perfectly blank. “Wine,” said the emperor. “White wine.”

Bazaine took a seat across from the emperor. He said nothing at first, merely waited as the wine was produced, decanted, poured. The tension seemed to be contagious, and it soon infected everyone—except
Bazaine. It was the emperor who broke the silence. He raised his fluted glass and declared a toast in honour yet again of the French officer, soon to be married.

“But,” said Maximiliano, “I do not imagine it is matrimony that has brought you here.”

“No, Your Majesty, I fear not.”

“I must say, Bazaine, I’m confounded by your presence.” The emperor reached forward and tapped a length of cigarette ash into a glass tray. He gave a nervous laugh. “I was under the impression you had a war to fight.”

“That is so.” The officer nodded. “It is for that very reason, Your Majesty, that I have come to Cuernavaca.”

“Good Lord. Don’t tell me we’ve won.”

“No, Your Majesty. I—”

“A joke, Bazaine. I was joking.”

“Ah.”

“Go on. Say what you have come to say.”

As the Frenchman delivered his news, Maximiliano remained completely still, with his cigarette held aloft. He preserved this attitude for the duration of Bazaine’s presentation. The only change in his posture was a noticeable trembling of his right arm, an involuntary motion that gradually grew more pronounced as Bazaine continued to elucidate the new circumstances prevailing in Mexico.

When the Frenchman was done, Maximiliano remained quite still. “
Withdraw?
” he said. “Napoleon means to
withdraw
his troops?”

“Yes, Your Majesty.”

“All of them?”

Bazaine blinked. He shifted in his seat. “I am merely transmitting a message, Your Majesty. It was the Baron de Saillard who brought the news from Paris. He is in Mexico City, preparing for his return. Based on the information he conveyed to me, Napoleon means to withdraw the entirety of his army from Mexico within a year. The baron was most precise.”

The emperor seemed to be examining the clay tiles at his feet. After a time, he addressed Bazaine. His expression was briefly hopeful. “Within a year? All French troops to be withdrawn within a year? You know, that still leaves us—”

“Your Majesty, forgive me. Yes, the troops are to be withdrawn within a year. But their removal is to begin at once. It—”

“At once!”

“Yes, Your Majesty. My men are even now being recalled from the field, for assembly in the capital. From there, they will proceed to Veracruz.”

“What? All this, before I was even informed?”

“I am sorry, Your Majesty. I take my orders from Paris, you see. I had no choice but to begin preparations.”

Maximiliano reached for his glass. His face had gone starkly white, and a small blue vein throbbed at his right temple. The glass shook in his hand.

“But I have a treaty. The Treaty of Miramar. It is unequivocal on this point. French troops are to remain in Mexico until 1873 at least. That is seven years away.”

Bazaine nodded and sipped his wine. “That, too, was my understanding, Your Majesty. But circumstances change. I confess that for some time I have been expecting to receive an order along these lines.”

“On what grounds?”

“The situation in the United States of America. The situation in Europe. As Your Majesty is no doubt aware, the armies of Prussia have lately inflicted an unexpected military defeat upon Austria. By the way, my condolences to your older brother.” Bazaine gave an arch smile. “I imagine Napoleon must be concerned about that as well. Might France be next? Besides, I am made to understand that public opinion in my country has lately turned against the presence of our troops in Mexico. It is said the imperial government here is profligate with its finances. So, you see, a great deal has changed.” Bazaine set down his glass. “Perhaps Your Majesty might prefer to take the matter up with Napoleon himself.”

“I already have. The treaty, I tell you. It was Napoleon who signed it. He signed the damned thing.”

Neither Basch nor Diego uttered a word.

“I see,” said Bazaine. He ran his tongue over his upper lip, and his features assumed a pensive cast, as if he were carefully considering what the emperor had just said. Then he shrugged. “Well, I’m sure Napoleon signs a great many things.”