by Oakland Ross
As for Salm-Salm, he had restored himself to the emperor’s favour. True, his frenzied journey back to Mexico City had proved unsuccessful. He had meant to wrest control of Ángela and her son from Labastida and to formalize the boy’s adoption by the emperor and empress. In that, he had failed. But Maximiliano was grateful for the attempt and appointed him grand master of the imperial household. Among other lucrative duties, the prince was now responsible for approving the petitions filed by Mexicans seeking formal recognition of their claims to nobility. He was delighted, for here was a highly remunerative post. Most of the petitioners were more than willing to pay handsomely for a favourable response.
Meanwhile, Mexico’s internal war ground on in the hinterland, far from the occupied capital. The French were gaining ground, it seemed, and Juárez would soon have little option but to withdraw even further north. At this rate, he would soon find his back pressed against the border with Texas, where he would have no choice but to make a final stand. No reply had been received to the missives Maximiliano had dispatched. Maybe Juárez had received them or maybe he had not. In either case, the result was the same—exactly nothing.
By this time, it was well known that General Márquez had organized a private fighting force and that he and his men now marauded the coastal lands to the east, just as Baldemar had said. The Blue Butchers, as they were known, had their headquarters in Tampico on the torrid Gulf coast. From there, Márquez and his men terrorized the countryside. Their main goal, they claimed, was to protect the supply lines between Mexico City and the sea, but they mostly devoted themselves to savagery and mayhem.
CHAPTER 26
THE EMPEROR DREW TO a halt and frowned. “I confess there is a small risk of fire.”
Diego gazed down at a huge expanse of double-layered taffeta that sprawled across the pavilion to the west of Chapultepec Castle. He said, “Is fire involved?”
Three days had passed since Diego’s meeting with Baldemar. He had yet to make any preparations for his journey, the expedition to Washington, but he knew he could not put it off for long. Now it was late in the afternoon. In company with the emperor, he was strolling along the perimeter of a great swathe of stout grey fabric laid out upon a broad stone terrace. Fashioned at Maximiliano’s behest, the material stretched more than sixteen metres in diameter and was lined throughout with heavy construction paper. The device was meant to fly.
Diego, however, wished to speak of a different matter. He explained that a letter had just arrived from the Mexico City archbishopric. It seemed the papal nuncio, a certain Monseñor Meglia, was to depart Rome soon, en route to Mexico. “I suspect he is by now on his way.”
“Is he?” said Maximiliano. He glanced down at the reams of taffeta. “Well, of course, we are subject to the limits of available technology.”
“That is so,” said Diego, reflecting on the lack of an undersea telegraph cable linking Europe to the Americas. Then he realized Maximiliano was referring to the apparent imperfections of the aerial balloon unfurled at their feet—a Montgolfier balloon, he called it.
The emperor explained that there appeared to be no choice but to rely upon standard combustion as a means of propelling the device into the air. In Mexico, it was impossible to obtain a reliable supply of hydrogen gas. So, instead, the balloon would be filled with ordinary air heated by means of a wood fire contained in a suspended brazier. This was potentially hazardous, but one had to concede that hydrogen was also a volatile substance.
“I see,” said Diego. He paused before continuing. Formerly, he told the emperor, he had opposed entering into discussions with Labastida about Ángela and her son, for the archbishop would inevitably turn the conversation to the reform laws—and to his demands for their repeal. Nothing could be gained in such a debate. But now, with the imminent arrival of a direct emissary from Rome, maybe it would be wise to learn what exactly the Church proposed.
“Yes, yes,” said Maximiliano. He put his hand to his forehead, seemingly distracted. “I see your point. But perhaps we had better reflect on the subject for a while yet. I propose to take the matter under advisement.” He withdrew his cigarette case from a pocket of his loose cotton shirt, removed a cigarette, tapped it against the case, and set it between his lips. Soon, he resumed his stroll around the perimeter of the balloon.
The next morning’s mail included a lengthy communication from Napoleon in Paris. The emperor cringed. There was no one in the world he resented more deeply than Napoleon, unless it was his own older brother, Franz Josef, who had inherited their father’s title and ruled the Austrian Empire. But, apart from his older sibling, it was Napoleon who most set his teeth on edge. Maximiliano put down his hot chocolate and settled into the padded leather chair at his desk, steeling himself. It was just past six o’clock in the morning.
“All right,” he said. “Read it to me, please.”
Diego did so. The emperor of France, Napoleon III, conveyed his most cordial respects to Maximilian and the empress of Mexico and wished them every—
“Yes, yes. But what does he say? What does he want?”
Diego scanned the contents of the letter. “Money,” he said. “To be blunt.”
“Dear God.” The emperor rubbed his eyes. “Go on.”
In short, Napoleon desired that Maximilian commence at once to reimburse France for the maintenance of the troops fighting in Mexico under the command of Maréchal Achille Bazaine. Furthermore, he wished to receive a schedule of repayment for the many long-standing debts that Mexico had incurred over the years and that were still owed to a host of French creditors. He requested that a precise timetable be submitted at once, setting out dates and other particulars. He made specific reference to the Jecker bonds, which Diego knew were a larcenous obligation incurred not by Juárez but by the conservative regime that predated him. This act of extortion was infamous in Mexico. Diego reminded the emperor of the details. The Swiss banking house of Jecker had paid out one million pesos but on the most usurious of terms. So far, the accrued interest amounted to more than fifteen million pesos, all still outstanding. It was well known that the Duke of Morny—Napoleon’s bastard half-brother—had purchased a large interest in the contract. No doubt this circumstance played a role in Napoleon’s demand.
“No doubt.” Maximiliano sighed. “I call it an outrage.”
Diego agreed. It seemed France had invaded Mexico for no other purpose than to collect bills, all hopelessly unpayable. By any reasonable definition, the country was bankrupt.
The emperor cupped his chin in his hands. “What else does he say?”
Diego found his place, then hesitated. This was awkward. The ensuing portion of the letter turned to matters of a more intimate nature. Diego was unsure how to proceed.
“Read on,” said the emperor. He closed his eyes. “What does he say?”
Diego read on. Napoleon expressed his dismay at news he had lately received concerning expenses being incurred by the emperor for his personal comfort—the refurbishment of certain residences, for example, in particular a domicile being renovated at great expense in a place called Cuernavaca, not to mention the rumoured installation of an opulent and unnecessary new boulevard somewhere near the Mexican capital. He further complained of reports concerning the many banquets, balls, and other entertainments that were being held at the Imperial Palace in Mexico City. This profligacy seemed inappropriate in wartime and most especially in consideration of the territory’s pressing obligations to Paris. He requested a prompt and specific reply.
“Dear God,” said Maximiliano. He reached for his hot chocolate and drained the cup. “Where does he hear these tales? Does the man have a spy posted among us?”
“I don’t know,” said Diego, who in fact thought it extremely likely. He even had an idea who the agent of French imperialism might be, but he did not like to say so. These days, the Prince of Salm-Salm was once again in the emperor’s good graces.
Maximiliano shook his head. “Pay up, pay up. It’s all
very well for Napoleon to say. But this country is at war. Outside the capital, chaos reigns.”
Maximiliano was working himself into a rage. “How dare the man speak of money!” he said. “At such a time! We have other challenges to contend with—this plague of disunity, the question of succession, the conflict with the Church. Does the man not know that I rise at four o’clock in the morning? This castle was a shambles till I got my hands on it. And the House of Borda? In Cuernavaca? You saw the place. And the road? It’s not a road. It’s a monument. It will make Mexicans proud. Does he not realize any of this?”
For a time, Maximiliano remained ramrod straight in his chair, silent and distracted. Eventually, he let out a sigh. The letter deserved a response, but just now he was unsure what the response should be. “Let us leave the reply for another day.”
“Very well, Your Majesty.” Diego folded the letter and placed it in the document box.
The next epistle was yet another in the almost daily missives they received from the archbishop, who was yet again demanding an audience with His Majesty. Such a meeting was particularly urgent, the prelate insisted, in order to prepare for the imminent arrival of the papal nuncio, a prospect he had raised in his previous correspondence a day earlier.
The emperor moaned out loud. “I give up,” he said. “I surrender. Very well then. Let there be a meeting with the archbishop. But you attend to it, Serrano. You talk to him.”
His Majesty rose and wandered into his bedchamber. Diego tidied the papers that were now overflowing the desk. That done, he would compose a reply to the archbishop. But what on earth was he supposed to say?
CHAPTER 27
“YOU HAVE READ THIS, Your Excellency?” Diego produced a recent edition of L’Ère nouvelle, a gazette published in Mexico City in French. This issue contained news of the exploits of Baldemar Peralta, along with certain veiled but unflattering references to the Church. The article did not specifically mention Ángela Peralta or her son, but anyone conversant with events in Mexico City could draw the connection. He held the journal out to Labastida.
The prelate merely glanced at it before tossing the pages into the air. “Yes, yes,” he said. “I have read the article you mean.”
The leaves pulled loose from one another, fluttering away in the wake of the archbishop’s carriage, an English-built landau with a remarkably advanced suspension system. Diego felt as if he were careening through the streets of the capital on the back of an immense cat. His stomach roiled at each elongated twist or turn.
It was a Sunday evening. As was customary at this time of the week, many of the capital’s most distinguished residents were out on the promenade. They paraded back and forth in their carriages along the Paseo de Bucareli. “Ah, look there.” The archbishop’s ruddy, moon-shaped face lit up. He raised his right arm to salute a carriage advancing from the opposite direction. “Why yes. It’s the Marqués de Vivanco. Look, he’s waving at us. How very fine. You know, his carriage is not worth half the value of this one, yet you can see for yourself how proudly he behaves. Do you know his wife, the marquesa?” He scrunched up his face, as if swallowing something rancid.
The marquis and his wife continued to wave gaily as the two carriages floated past one another. Like most of the other vehicles tottering back and forth, these two were open to the air. More than a few of the conveyances bore an elaborate and freshly painted coat of arms on their polished side panels. The newly minted peers of the realm flaunted their status to all, but mainly to each other.
The spectacle made Diego feel ill, but the archbishop was delighted. He waved to them all. The women were in full toilette, their elaborate coiffures bedecked with jewels and secured by mantillas of imported lace to protect the careful arrangement of their hair.
“I take it,” said the archbishop, “that you wish to revisit the subject of the opera singer and her son.”
Diego was about to reply, but Labastida held up a pink and fleshy hand.
“You will forgive me if I begin.”
“Very well.”
In his arch diction, Labastida declared that he had other matters to attend to that were far more urgent than the fate of any individual woman, with or without a son.
“I speak of the reform laws in particular,” he said.
Before Diego could intervene, the prelate resumed his presentation. He said that any lasting agreement between the two sides—the palace and the Church—must await the arrival of Monseñor Meglia, the papal nuncio. In the meantime, he believed it was possible to anticipate the general outlines of an accord. All Church properties stolen by the previous liberal government must be returned. As for the cemeteries, they too must be restored to Church control, along with the registry of births and deaths and the performance of marriage services. All religious holidays were again to be officially observed. The schools were to be operated by the Church once again. Roman Catholicism must once more be declared the official and exclusive religion of the country. All heretical cults were to be banned.
“I see,” said Diego. “But I am not here to discuss relations between Church and state.”
“Nor am I,” said Labastida. “That will be undertaken by Monseñor Meglia. All in good time.”
“In the meantime, I would like to inquire as to the well-being of Ángela Peralta. And her son.”
“I thought as much,” said the archbishop. “Well, since you ask, I can confidently say that both are in excellent health physically and spiritually. The woman in particular is a shimmering model of piety. If only there were more like her.”
“Where are they?”
“They are quite secure.”
“But where?”
The archbishop said that, unfortunately, he was not at liberty to say.
“I see,” said Diego. “You are not concerned that many Mexicans oppose you?”
“Rabble. Extremists. I discount them.”
Labastida turned away, and a gust of wind nearly dislodged the purple skullcap pinned in place at the back of his head. He reached up to keep it from flying off, and immediately a smile lit his large, round face.
“Look there,” he said. He raised his other hand in a magisterial wave. “It is Sánchez Navarro. How delightful to see him.” In a low voice he added, “Poor man. I hear he has offered immense sums in bribes in order to earn a position for his wife at court, so far to no avail.” He grimaced. “The woman’s a peasant, you know—thoroughly ill-bred. Her father was in trade, I believe. Between you and me, I regard their marriage as an abomination. I have it on excellent authority that she was with child at the time of the nuptials. Scandalous.”
He waved again and made a sign of the cross as the carriage swayed past, stirring up thin coils of dust along the rutted breadth of the Paseo de Bucareli. Slowly, dusk settled over Mexico City, and the stream of carretelas and conveyances gradually thinned until the only creatures remaining on the boulevard were the barefoot vendor women, the lepers, the beggars, and the pariah dogs snuffling through the gutters and the dark.
The next morning, Maximiliano announced that he meant to absent himself from Mexico City for a number of weeks in order to become better acquainted with other parts of his realm. He proposed a tour of the Bajío, the lofty, fertile valley that unfolded to the north of the capital. More or less peaceful, the region was said to contain a great deal of historical interest. The emperor tightened the sash of his dressing gown and plucked a biscuit from the silver plate on his desk. He said he expected to be away for the better part of a month.
“But the papal nuncio,” said Diego. “He will certainly arrive during that time.”
Maximiliano frowned, as if he had not thought of this difficulty till now. He bit the biscuit in half. “Hmm. That does pose a dilemma.”
Diego decided it was time to announce his own plans. He, too, would be absent for no little while.
“Absent? Where?”
“Washington, District of Columbia.”
“Whatever for?”
Diego had prepared an answer. To ascertain the fortunes of war in that immense territory, fortunes that would bear directly upon events in Mexico. If the southern states were to prove victorious—or at least if they were able to avoid outright defeat—then it was probable that Maximiliano and the Confederacy could make an alliance that would serve both sides. If, however, the north were to win, then it was difficult to think that Washington would look kindly upon a French military presence in Mexico.
“Your Majesty is undoubtedly aware of the Monroe Doctrine of 1823—”
“Declaring the Americas off limits to interference by European powers. Of course.” Maximiliano brushed a smattering of sugar from his lips. “You know, I am inclined to agree with you. I will provide you with a letter of introduction, of course. And God speed.”
“Thank you. And the papal nuncio?”
The emperor frowned. He reached for a document, seemingly at random, and briefly perused its contents. His face lit up. “I know.” He glanced at Diego. “Why not leave the papal nuncio to Charlotte?”
“To the empress?”
“Yes.” The emperor sat back and smiled. “Why, it’s perfect. They won’t possibly be expecting that. Inconceivable.”
And Diego had to agree. Inconceivable was exactly what it was.
That night, Diego sprawled in his bed, unable to sleep, wondering what species of creature he had become. In a certain light, he was in the same predicament as General Márquez. Both of them were trapped in a contradiction that offered no way out. The Tiger of Tacubaya had a grudge against Baldemar that could be avenged only through murder, but he also owed Baldemar his life, which ought to have made murder unthinkable. Meanwhile, Diego was bound to both Baldemar and the emperor. Baldemar had saved his life, but the emperor had saved Baldemar’s. As a result, he was under an obligation to them both. So far, he’d managed to sustain this contradiction, but how much longer could it hold? Now he was to depart for Washington, supposedly as an emissary of the emperor but with no intention of acting on Maximiliano’s behalf. One day, he was a monarchist, the next day, republican. It was as if the man named Diego Serrano did not really exist at all or as if he existed in multiple versions, like a chameleon—a chameleon that, in this case, had kicked off his bedcovers and kept rolling from side to side in his bed, trying to find a position that was halfway amenable to sleep. But, on this night at least, no such position seemed to exist, and so he kept tossing in his bed, worrying and fretting and doubting himself.
