WITHIN A WEEK, the emperor returned to Mexico City and promptly sent word to Diego proposing that they resume their normal schedule the next morning at shortly after four o’clock. Precisely at that hour, the bell rang in Diego’s apartment, as it always did when Maximiliano was at Chapultepec. He splashed water onto his face from the ceramic bowl on the dresser, smoothed back his hair, and stumbled out into the darkened, open-air corridor. A half moon peered down from the dark sky, and he shivered in the familiar early morning chill.
Even so, he still felt the heat rise at his collar when he thought of Ángela, of her treatment by the emperor. He stopped and gazed out at the shadowy view, took a deep breath, followed by another, trying to calm himself. Along the walkway below, the pineapple palms glimmered in the moonlight, as though fashioned of tarnished silver. The fronds shifted in the cool breeze. When he thought he was ready, he continued on his way to the emperor’s study. At the door, he knocked and then entered.
Maximiliano was pacing the floor in his dressing gown, silhouetted by candlelight, sipping a cup of hot chocolate. He stopped, and his face lit up, as if Diego’s arrival had taken him completely by surprise.
“Ah, Serrano. Good to see you.”
He seemed unusually excited, his high spirits evident from the staccato tone of his voice. By now, Diego thought he could gauge the state of the emperor’s mood with just a glance, and it seemed Maximiliano was bursting with news, with revelations he was eager to share. Diego half expected him to speak of Ángela, of the House of Forgetfulness, and of her mysterious disappearance. But if the emperor was distressed by recent events in Cuernavaca, he did not speak of them now.
Instead, he recounted the details of his journey through the Bajío, especially his visit to the town of Dolores, famous throughout Mexico as the birthplace of the country’s struggle for freedom from Spanish rule. It was there more than four decades earlier that the renegade priest Miguel Hidalgo first uttered el grito de la independencia—the cry of independence. Maximiliano was evidently galvanized by the tale. He said he had walked in Hidalgo’s footsteps. He had addressed a crowd from the same balcony where Hidalgo had appeared. He, too, had issued the cry of independence.
The emperor stopped his pacing and set down his cup of chocolate. He put back his head and shivered, as if reliving the sensations of that night.
“I’ve never known anything like it,” he said. “It was like an explosion. I don’t know how else to describe it.”
There was, of course, much work to be done that did not bear on the Bajío or on the emperor’s journey there, but he seemed to have trouble concentrating on anything else. He listened impatiently as Diego recounted his journey to Washington—a heavily censored version. When Diego was done, Maximiliano merely shrugged. He had been giving the matter much consideration, he said, and had concluded that it made little difference which side won the war now dividing the American states. He possessed a treaty—the Treaty of Miramar—that both he and Napoleon had signed. It provided firm guarantees of French support for the imperial cause in Mexico, without any reference whatsoever to events in other lands. What mattered was what happened in Mexico. And Mexico had a war of its own. That was the conflict that required his attention.
“Speaking of which,” he said, “I don’t suppose there has been any word as yet from Juárez?”
“No, Your Majesty.”
“We must keep up our hopes.” Maximiliano lit a cigarette. “Meanwhile, we have no choice but to fight on. I think it would be wise to summon Bazaine for an update on the state of battle. See to it, will you?”
“Yes, Your Majesty.”
“Now.” He clapped his hands. “Let us proceed to the mail.”
Among the morning’s correspondence was a letter that had arrived by diplomatic pouch from Franz Josef, Maximiliano’s older brother. The emperor’s manner changed at once. Diego could see the muscles tighten in his neck.
The emperor stubbed out his cigarette. “Read it,” he said.
Diego did as he was told. After the usual pleasantries, Franz Josef reminded his younger brother of an agreement they had both reached in private—specifically, that “Maxi” formally renounced his place in the line of succession to the Austrian Crown in exchange for Franz Josef’s approval of “this Mexican adventure,” as he described it.
The emperor’s expression darkened and he furrowed his brow, as if anticipating what would come next.
For reasons too complicated to explain, Franz Josef went on, he had lately found himself obliged to make this arrangement public—
“Make this arrangement what?” Suddenly the emperor buckled, splattering hot chocolate onto his robe and across the floor. He barely seemed to notice as he turned to Diego, livid. “Public?” he said. “An agreement that was reached in strict confidence? How dare he break my trust? My God, he goes too far.”
With Grill’s assistance, the emperor changed into a fresh dressing gown. He insisted that a reply be dispatched immediately, under diplomatic seal. It might still be possible to limit the harm caused by Franz Josef’s reckless presumption.
Diego had paper, a quill, and a pot of ink at the ready. “But is it true?” he said.
“Is what true?”
“That you renounced your place in the line of succession?”
“No,” said the emperor. “I mean, technically, yes. I had to. Franz Josef insisted upon it. A quid pro quo. In exchange, he supported my acceptance of the Mexican throne.”
“And you agreed?”
“In a way. It was in private, and I had no choice. What kind of agreement is that? Franz is grasping at straws.” He swore beneath his breath. “Ready your pen, Serrano. I mean to set that sheet of vellum on fire.”
“But, forgive me, Your Majesty.” Diego reached for a sheet of stationery. He knew he should let the matter drop. What difference did it make? But he was curious. Why was Maximiliano so tormented about losing the Austrian throne? Wasn’t one empire sufficient? Wasn’t he satisfied with Mexico? “Forgive me, Your Majesty,” he said, “but do you want to be the emperor of Austria?”
“That possibility will never arise.”
“Then what does it matter?”
“It … I … There is a principle here, a principle of confidence and trust. Take down my words.”
And Diego complied, scribbling as the emperor fulminated. Later, he affixed Maximiliano’s seal to the letter and had it placed in a secure diplomatic container. He dispatched the epistle to Veracruz by means of a special messenger under a guard of hussars. But what did it mean? Why did Maximiliano care whether he occupied a place in the Austrian line of succession? He was the emperor of Mexico. What more did he need?
That evening, Maximiliano encountered his wife for the first time since his return from Cuernavaca. They met formally in the Red Room, amid the scarlet paper, the oriental vases, the delicate wooden furniture. Carlota greeted her husband coolly. She cleared her throat. He cleared his. She smoothed the folds of her skirt and asked him about his travels. Had they gone well? He replied that they had. He felt he had learned much and looked forward to learning more.
“I am glad to hear it,” she said. She declared that she was troubled by their present circumstances. These past several weeks, which she had spent in a position of responsibility at Chapultepec, had only deepened her concerns.
“Yes,” said Maximiliano. He gazed indulgently at his wife.
“We face many grave threats,” she said. “With the passage of time they grow only more dangerous. We rule a country we do not control. The treasury is bankrupt. We are beholden to Napoleon for our army. We have few allies within Mexico and even fewer outside. The Church opposes us, and now it seems the landowners do as well.”
She said she had received angry reports from diverse sources concerning events that had taken place during the emperor’s excursion in the Bajío. Was it true, for example, that he had given a speech in a town called Dolores, honouring the father of Mexico’s independence?
“Hidalgo?” said the emperor. “You know, I believe I did. He is considered a great hero.”
“Or a rabble-rouser and murderer. He massacred hundreds in Guanajuato.”
“So say the conservatives.”
“It was the conservatives who brought us here. We must build bridges.”
“Bridges?” Maximiliano pounded his armrest with his fist. “Bridges? We have built bridges. Dear God, I have lost track of the balls, the banquets, and the galas at which our sole purpose has been the befriending of these bloody conservatives. We have bestowed titles of nobility upon practically every petitioner in the land. And what do we have to show?” With his cigarette, Maximiliano drew a large zero in the air. “All for nothing. They still oppose us. The Mexican conservative will never be satisfied until he again possesses every jot and tittle of wealth and power in Mexico. You might as well establish cordial relations with a den of bears. God in heaven, you would think the Enlightenment had never occurred. You would think Victor Hugo had never taken up a pen. Mention Charles Darwin, and the oafs stare back at you, blank as donkeys. I don’t mind that they’re stupid. What I can’t stand is the pride they take in their stupidity. You know, my dear, I do not regard myself as the emperor of a few rich land owners who care for nothing in the world but their precious titles of nobility. I am the emperor of all Mexicans. This is the year 1865. This is the modern world.”
Maximiliano fell silent. At first, Diego marvelled at the power and conviction of his words—not just their sound but their meaning, too. He wished he had said these very words himself. He then began to wonder if, just possibly, he had. Something wasn’t quite right. It took him a few moments to recall what it was. In fact, he had heard this speech before, almost word for word. These were almost the exact sentiments Ángela had expressed to him that day, a year earlier, when he had visited her in the Hospital de Jesús Nazareno. He realized that Maximiliano was only repeating what Ángela must have said to him on some other occasion, the same thoughts she had expressed to Diego and no doubt to others.
The empress heard her husband out. When he was done, she nodded her head. “I agree, my dove. But we have to forge alliances, at least for the present, at least until we have consolidated our position. We must cooperate with many different interests.”
“I hope you don’t count Labastida and his bishops among them.”
Carlota frowned. “As you know, an emissary is still on his way from Rome. Perhaps he will prove more amenable to reason than Labastida.”
“A cactus would prove more amenable to reason than Labastida.”
Carlota produced a thin smile. “That may be so. Nonetheless, if we must deal with cacti, then we must equip ourselves with gloves. We require alliances. The survival of the throne depends upon it.”
“They are holding us to ransom, you know—the Church, Labastida, all of them. They’ve got that boy, the son of … you know. Peralta.”
Diego winced. The man spoke as if Ángela were a complete stranger to him. He thought how easy it is to lie and remembered the countless lies he himself had told.
“Well,” said Carlota. “We shall simply have to await the arrival of this Meglia.” She eased forward toward her husband. “Max?” she said. “Are you listening to me?”
The emperor was peering at the ceiling. “I have heard from Franz Josef,” he said.
“What news does he send?”
“Alarming news. He has publicly declared that I have renounced my right of succession to the Austrian throne.”
“But I thought you had. Otherwise, you would not have received his permission to serve as emperor in Mexico.”
Maximiliano fidgeted with an unlit cigarette. “It is one thing to reach an agreement in private, quite another for all the world to hear of it.”
“Well, I don’t see that it matters now what the world does. Do you want to be the emperor of Austria?”
“Of course not. It’s the principle. Franz Josef has no right to betray a private arrangement arrived at in confidence.”
“I see.” Carlota let a few moments pass in silence. “What do you propose to do?”
“Oh, it’s already done.”
Maximiliano explained that he had composed a protest that very morning. Two months would pass before he could hope to receive a reply, but he was prepared to wait. The truth was that he and his brother were both emperors now, and Franz Josef could not abide the fact.
“As for me, I am feeling worn out.” Maximiliano stood up. He bid Carlota a good night and nodded at Diego. “Tomorrow morning?” he said. “At the usual hour? We have much to do.”
He turned and left the room.