The Empire of Yearning (24 page)

O
N
B
AZAINE’S ADVICE
, Maximiliano summoned General Márquez to journey out to Cuernavaca. He meant to confer with him about the new prospects they both faced since Napoleon had gone back on his solemn word. When he arrived, the Tiger of Tacubaya was in a gruff, unruly mood, even for him. He was drunk from mid-morning until well past midnight, and the alcohol made him surly and mean.

He lumbered about the hallways and terraces, loudly proclaiming his contempt for all things Gallic. He cursed Napoleon most of all. He swore that Mexico didn’t need the French
maricones.
Good riddance to them all. He’d brought Captain Cajiga with him, too. The dark-eyed Spaniard kept his silence, but his guarded manner seemed every bit as sinister as Márquez’s ill-tempered bravado. The mood at the emperor’s residence had turned gloomy even before these two men showed up, but now it became positively funereal. The servants shuffled about the place, almost soundless, as if afraid of giving offence for the crime of drawing breath.

And still there was no sign of Baldemar.

Diego wondered what had become of his friend. Had he suffered a change
of heart? Had something gone wrong? Once a day or so, Beatríz ventured to the emperor’s secondary residence in order to ensure that all was well with the child there. Each time, she reported back to Diego that everything was as it had been. There had been no unusual visitors. Nothing out of the ordinary had occurred. For his part, the emperor spent much of his time in bed. Nerves, said Doktor Basch. He was suffering from stress and anxiety. He corresponded with Carlota daily, and Diego, of course, was privy to their communication. She was tempted to hurry out to Cuernavaca to be with her husband but wondered whether it was wise to abandon the capital, especially in these treacherous times. As soon as Max was feeling better, he should return to Mexico City. She prayed it would be soon.

Márquez continued to stalk about the mansion and its grounds, his swarthy face a riddle of scarlet veins, his eyes watery, his breath foul. Late one evening, Cajiga returned to the mansion, leaving his horse saddled and ready in the courtyard. He hurried inside and held a whispered conference with Márquez, who suddenly declared he could not abide the House of Borda another instant. He called for his own mount to be got ready and barged out into the night in company with Cajiga.

It was not until the two men had been gone an hour or more that Diego came to his senses. What an idiot he was. Of course he knew where they’d gone. He raced out to the stables, called for a groom to saddle his horse, and soon he was scrambling through the darkened streets of Cuernavaca toward the House of Forgetfulness. He would find Beatríz there. He knew it, and he was certain Márquez had known it as well. He dug his heels into his horse’s flanks. The road twisted to the right, and he drew the reins against her neck, guiding her through the turn and shifting his weight to the side. That instant, a shadow raced across the adobe wall bordering the street just ahead. His horse shied, and he was very nearly thrown from his seat. He heard a clatter of approaching hoofbeats and thought he saw another horse and rider fling themselves past him, galloping full out in the opposite direction.

He steadied his horse, and soon they were again careening through the twisting streets and the moonlit night. As for Márquez, he must have
been having Beatríz watched. That was why the man had stormed off on this night of all nights. He’d known exactly where she’d gone.

When Diego reached la Casa del Olvido, he found the place in chaos. The governess was slumped in a chair, sobbing into a handkerchief, her eyes red, her hair askew, her dress torn. Chairs had been knocked over. Clumps of earth littered the tiles. From the governess, who was still nearly hysterical, Diego was able to gather that the boy was gone, Beatríz was gone, and the two drunken men—they were gone, too. And another individual—a man disguised for some reason as a female nurse—that person was gone as well.

“They left together? All of them?” Diego tried not to raise his voice.

“No,” the governess said. “Not Beatríz.”

The girl had managed to break away from the two drunken men and had ridden off on her own. The woman bowed her head and again began to sob uncontrollably. An Indian maidservant stood behind her, reaching out at intervals to console her mistress by resting a hand on her shoulder.

Diego thanked them both and hurried back out to his horse. He swung himself into the saddle and set off. He was certain that it had been Beatríz whom he had passed on the way, the cloaked rider who had nearly unseated him. It turned out that he was right. At the House of Borda, he found her in the small house she shared with her mother and father. She was huddled by a fire, sipping a mug of tea. She had ridden straight back, in expectation of finding him here. She took a deep breath to calm herself and began to recount what had happened.

Earlier that evening, she said, a mysterious individual had arrived at la Casa del Olvido, someone dressed in a nurse’s robes—

“Wearing spectacles?” said Diego. “Green-tinted spectacles?”

She nodded. The woman—for the intruder had at first seemed to be a woman—announced that she had come on the emperor’s orders to take the boy away for medical treatment. The governess had become agitated, insisting that she had been told nothing of this. An argument broke out, and God knew how it would have ended had it not been interrupted by the arrival of two men, General Márquez and Captain Cajiga, both of
them drunk. On unsteady feet, they swaggered into the house—and the rest was bedlam.

Márquez had called out for Beatríz but instead had fallen upon the bespectacled nurse, whose ample black hair—a wig, it turned out—came loose in his hands.

What in the name of God was this?

The general stared at the dislodged tresses. He looked back at the so-called nurse, not yet comprehending. It was Captain Cajiga who seemed to size matters up. The Spaniard drew his revolving pistol from his gun belt and aimed it at the intruder.

“El Gordo de las Gafas,” he said.

It was Baldemar, of course. He tried to escape, but Cajiga shot him once, in the leg, and down he went. The gunshot seemed to restore Márquez to his senses. In short order, he and Cajiga bound Baldemar’s thumbs behind his back with a length of twine. Without explanation, they rousted the little boy, Agustín, from his bed. They carried the wailing youngster out into the night as the governess screamed and threw herself at them, beating on them helplessly with her clenched fists. They came back for Baldemar and took him off, too.

Everyone was screaming or shouting, said Beatríz. “I was screaming, too.”

She said the two men would have taken her as well, but she somehow managed to break free, scramble onto her horse, and gallop away. She needed help and could think only of Diego. And so she raced back to the House of Borda, passing him along the way. In her hurry, she had failed to recognize him when they passed in the street.

She looked up at him now. “Where have they taken Agustín? Where do you think?”

“The local garrison, probably,” he said.

“Will he be all right?”

“The boy? Yes, I think so. They won’t harm him.” Márquez would have nothing to gain by hurting the child. But what was he up to? The minister of war holding a three-year-old boy hostage?

Diego thanked Beatríz for all she’d done. He meant to find Maximiliano. Instead, he ran straight into Doktor Basch, who was emerging from
the emperor’s bedchamber. The physician declared that His Majesty had already retired for the night, distinctly unwell.

“But it’s urgent,” said Diego. “I must speak to him.”

“It’s no use,” said Basch. “The poor man is heavily sedated.”

That was that, then. What could Diego do now, alone? There was nothing to be done till morning. In his bedroom, Diego kicked off his boots and fell onto the bed, where he lay sleepless, cursing both Baldemar and himself. Why hadn’t the idiot sought his help? Either the question was unanswerable or else the answer was obvious. Maybe in the end Baldemar had doubted whether he could rely on his old friend and had decided to go ahead on his own.

The idiot.

Diego closed his eyes, trying to will sleep to come. But it was no use, and he passed the night awake, despising himself.

The emperor failed to appear at breakfast.

“Indisposed,” said Salm-Salm. He lit a cigarette, releasing a plume of smoke that he inhaled through his nostrils. “Coffee?”

“No, thanks. Not now. I have much to do.” Diego intended to retrieve his horse. Emboldened by the light of day, he planned to ride straight for the garrison and make an attempt, however futile, to rescue Baldemar. What else could he do?

“Going off to find your friend?” said Salm-Salm. He stifled a yawn. “El Gordo de las Gafas?”

“What do you know about it?”

“Oh, nothing. Or everything.” The prince raised his left hand above his head and snapped his fingers. “Bring coffee,” he called out. He lowered his voice. “We have to talk, you know.”

A servant appeared and filled both their cups. The coffee steamed in the cool morning air. The two men got up and walked side by side along the mown grass toward the artificial lake. Salm-Salm said he had already spoken to Márquez.

“Where? When?”

“This morning. Early. At the garrison. He is holding your friend.”

“I know.”

“I have, of course, taken the matter up with His Majesty.”

“What? Already? I thought he was unwell.”

“He was. He is. But he is the emperor. He must be kept informed.”

“And?”

Salm-Salm stopped, gestured with his cup of coffee. “Here is the bargain. The emperor proposes to pardon your friend. Yet again.”

“Just like that?”

“Not exactly. He’ll want something in return.”

Diego knew the answer without asking the question.

“By which I mean written authorization from Ángela Peralta permitting Their Majesties to adopt the child, her son, as their heir. The arrangement would be greatly to her advantage. She will receive the title of princess, ample visitation rights, and a sum of money—a large sum. The emperor is prepared to be generous.”

“The emperor is practically bankrupt, from what I’m told.”

“Exaggeration. His wife possesses ample reserves.”

“I see.” Even if it were so, would the empress devote a share of her riches to securing an heir? And would she do it now as the French armed forces withdrew? But why even ask? Diego could not imagine Ángela accepting money in return for renouncing her son. He said, “I’m sorry, but I think I should talk to His Majesty directly.”

“Of course. But first let me clarify one thing. You do know where the woman is?”

Diego realized this was the only card he had to play. “Yes. I know where she is.”

They found Maximiliano in his study, perched upon a dark leather
settee. He was sipping hot chocolate, nibbling Viennese biscuits, and perusing his volume devoted to the subject of courtly protocol. He wore a dressing gown over a white blouse and an ascot tie of royal blue. He seemed unexpectedly alert, even buoyant. The laudanum and a good night’s rest had evidently eased his nervous state.

“Ah, Diego,” he said. He smiled before seeming to remember himself. He adopted a neutral expression and spoke with a grave tone. “I take it Salm-Salm has outlined the lay of the land?”

“Yes, Your Majesty.”

“And you know the woman’s location?”

“Yes.”

“But you won’t tell us.”

“No.”

Maximiliano shook his head, disappointed. “I’m sorry it should be so. I considered us allies. I thought we had a relationship of trust.”

Diego said nothing.

The emperor shrugged. “Well, be that as it may, can you help us? Can you do what we require?”

“I can try.”

“That may not be good enough.” He frowned. “I have the document here. Salm-Salm?”

The prince withdrew an envelope from the pocket of his frock coat. He handed it to the emperor, who in turn offered it to Diego.

“Quickly as you can. The woman’s signature.”

“And in return?”

“I shall issue a pardon.” He sighed. “Again.”

“What of General Márquez? He has agreed to this?”

“Let me deal with Márquez.”

That was difficult to imagine, but Diego saw no other course. He accepted the envelope. He said he would return within a very few days. He nodded his head, turned, and left the chamber.

“Quickly,” Salm-Salm called after him. “If you please.”

T
HE JOURNEY TO
T
AXCO
lasted the better part of two days. Ángela received him in the main salon of the small presbytery. She was still thin, pale, given to fits of coughing, and beset by an abiding melancholy. She read the emperor’s letter and promptly began to weep. What woman would not shed tears if confronted by the sort of dilemma she faced—either the loss of a son or the death of a brother? It was an impossible choice.

“Even if I make a decision,” she said through her tears, “how can I be sure the emperor will keep his word?”

“You can’t,” said Diego, who had puzzled through these conundrums during his ride from Cuernavaca. “He could be lying. Or maybe Márquez is lying. Maybe Márquez will do whatever he wants, no matter what the emperor says.”

“The idiot,” said Ángela. “Why did he get himself into this? And why all by himself?” Again her shoulders began to heave.

Diego stood in the study. Ángela slumped at a small writing table, with the letter from Maximiliano unfolded in front of her. She knew its contents. She would be given the title of princess. She would be permitted
to come and go at Chapultepec Castle as she pleased and to visit her son frequently. She would be assured a large annuity for the rest of her days. These were irrelevant details, of course. The real choice before her was both simple and unbearably complex: her son or her brother.

Diego watched her, helpless, as she grappled with the question. There was little he or anyone could do. She had to find a way through this by herself. She clutched her forehead, weeping softly.

In the end, the cold truth became clear. She said there was only one choice she could make, only one decision she would ever be able to live with. She returned the emperor’s letter to Diego. Still crying, she asked to be excused.

At daybreak, Diego left Taxco and rode back to Cuernavaca. He felt as if the future were already withdrawing into the past, as if he could do nothing but watch its progress, like a man on the banks of a river as the waters flow away.

The emperor was in a changeable state. One day, he was determined to remain in Mexico come what may. The next day, he saw abdication as the only possible course. Then he changed his mind again. This was true in Cuernavaca, and it remained true on his return to Mexico City.

Bazaine counselled abdication. He presented himself before Maximiliano late one morning, several days after His Majesty’s return to the capital. The emperor recruited Diego to take notes, in spite of the rift that had opened between them. He told the French officer that he intended to stay in Mexico and fight on against the republicans. He planned to repair his relations with the country’s conservatives. What was more, he meant to command the imperial army himself.

“You mean, on your own?” Bazaine raised his eyebrows.

“I will take the advice of General Márquez, of course. But, yes, I shall command.”

The emperor fished through his pockets. He produced his cigarette case and pried it open. Diego noticed his fingers were shaking.

“The truth is,” he said, now with a cigarette quivering between his lips, “I have no direct experience of hostilities. But I was for various years commander of the Austrian navy.”

Bazaine nodded, as if this made sense. “I take it you expect this war to be waged at sea?”

“Of course not.”

“I see,” said Bazaine. He paused. “And what does Your Majesty propose to use in lieu of troops?”

Maximiliano smiled. “You may not have heard, but I have been promised an army of more than twenty-nine thousand men. Márquez himself told me so.”

“Indeed?” said Bazaine. “Well, I wish you luck with them. I would counsel Your Majesty, however, that they will on occasion desire to be paid. It is a great defect of the modern soldier, I fear.”

“Fear not,” said Maximiliano. “My confederates even now are raising a war chest of eleven million pesos.”

“According to Márquez?”

“According to Márquez—yes. In addition to the rank-and-file troops and a sound budget, I will have almost two thousand officers, very nearly six thousand horses, and eleven batteries of artillery.”

Bazaine smiled. “I assume that General Márquez also outlined how he plans to perform this miracle?”

The emperor did not respond at once. He peered at his cigarette, at its slow spiral of smoke, as though there might be something significant to take note of there. “Bazaine,” he said, “may I speak openly?”

“Yes.”

“I mean, in confidence.”

“I hope Your Majesty has always felt free to confide in me.”

The emperor slowly inhaled his cigarette, still gazing at Bazaine. His hands were shaking, and his complexion had turned pale. He leaned forward.

“How did all this happen? This reversal of my fortunes? I have thought about it at great length, and I confess I do not understand. How could everything have gone so hopelessly, so unspeakably, wrong?”

Bazaine closed his eyes and then opened them. He inched forward in his chair. “Your Majesty,” he said, “I hope you will forgive me for speaking plainly, but your situation is, in fact, remarkably simple. May I ask you a question?”

“Of course.”

“Very well. Here in Mexico, where is the locus of power to be found?”

Maximiliano answered at once. “The throne. In a monarchy, power radiates from the throne.”

“No,” said Bazaine. “That is not power. That is symbolism, the illusion of power. True power resides with him who has the most guns.”

The emperor smiled. “Let me remind you that I have been promised an army of more than twenty-nine thousand. And a war chest of eleven million pesos.”

“So you have. And perhaps you are right. Perhaps you will be provided these great gifts—although I doubt that you will ever set eyes upon anything of the sort. I think these are fictions. Mexicans, in my experience, enjoy the sound of words more than their meaning.” He examined the liver spots on the backs of his hands. He looked up. “But even if you did receive these thousands of troops, these millions of pesos, what of it? They would afford you nothing.”

“What on earth do you mean?”

“I mean that, in Mexico, the locus of power does not reside within this country’s borders.”

“Where then? I suppose you are going to say Paris. Well, don’t bother.”

“No, not Paris, although briefly it might have been so. That, however, has changed—and this explains Your Majesty’s reversal of fortune. The real seat of power lies to the north, in the United States of America.
Once that country threw its weight against us, the game was over. Even if Your Majesty were able to count upon one hundred thousand troops—real troops, French troops, not some Mexican make-believe—the result would be the same. Your throne is lost. The Americans will take it away.” Bazaine shifted still closer to Maximiliano, until their faces were little more than a few centimetres apart. “Your Majesty, forgive me. But I urge you to consider your situation carefully. There is no shame in leaving Mexico. Go back to Europe, where you belong. Where we all belong.”