The Last Prince of the Mexican Empire

by C. M. Mayo

  Bonaparte on Saint Helena. Louis-Philippe wasting away in Claremont. Portugal’s Dom Pedro. Uncle Ferdinand I, a simpleton respected by no one. Murat. Iturbide. None of these was a pretty story.

  But the Mexican Empire had sunk feet, torso, and shoulders into a quagmire. Chihuahua definitively lost, as were Matamoros, Mazatlán, Tampico— all the revenues from those customhouses either cut off or captured by the enemy, and the whole state of Guerrero in an uproar of banditry. The insurgents have been steadily gaining ground from the north, from the west, from the south. U.S. troops still poised at the border, Seward intrigues with Santa Anna, and meanwhile Señora Juárez has been fêted with a state dinner at the White House!

  And now, in an ultimatum that arrived in Mexico City on June 28, Louis Napoleon is not only withdrawing his troops, in reply to Maximilian’s protest and counterproposal, he heaps all blame upon Mexico! No new troops, no new money, and if French troops are to remain for any time at all, France must have complete control of the customhouses and one-half of all government revenues. Should this be refused, all French troops will immediately be embarked, the Treaty of Miramar null and void.

  These terms are not only an insult, they are impossible. A quarter of all revenues were already going to the English debt. And without French troops to contend with, how much longer can it be before the Yankees run their “stars and stripes” over the Imperial Palace? As for the Family Pact—well, Maximilian would take his chances that something could be arranged ex post facto. When the ship catches fire, you jump into the sea, or what?

  Two of Bazaine’s men helped him draw up a proclamation of abdication. But as Maximilian sat down at his desk to sign it, his soul tore in two. Abdication: the freedom his soul had yearned for and, in the same package, monstrous, galling failure. His stomach in his heart and his heart in his throat, he had, hesitatingly, picked up the quill. He was about to dip it into the ink, when he thought: No! No, it would not be right to do this without Charlotte as his witness. And he needed her now, more than he had ever needed anyone.

  Charlotte, summoned, did not even read the document. She grabbed the pen from his hand. “Abdication is excusable only in old men and idiots!” Hadn’t her father told them, what a grievous mistake for her grandfather Louis-Philippe to have abdicated? It was the ruin of his honor, the ruin of the dynasty, and a tragedy not only for France but for all of Europe! If cher Papa were alive, what would he say to this? He had died of something else, but if he hadn’t, this indeed would have killed him! What would her brother, Leopold, say to this, and Franz Joseph? And Queen Victoria? “Sovereignty is the most precious of all possessions. Emperors do not give themselves up! So long as there is an emperor, there is an empire, though he have but six feet of ground, for the empire is nothing without the emperor.”

  “But there is nothing left I can do.”

  She stared at him with such ferocity, he feared she was about to raise her voice, but instead, with a voice full of love, she said: “But there is something I can do.”

  She made her case with the passion of a Joan of Arc: Louis Napoleon was the victim of a massive conspiracy. Confronted by the true facts, presented by herself, in person, Louis Napoleon will recall Bazaine, he will maintain troops in Mexico, he will send more money—in sum, he will renew, with vigor, his devotion to the just and vital cause.

  Stunned, Maximilian said nothing.

  Charlotte shook a finger. “Louis Napoleon’s honor and the interests of France will demand it!”

  In the gale force of his wife’s will, Maximilian felt something in himself unmoor and begin to drift . . .

  “But,” he stammered, “it is dangerous in the extreme to travel this time of year.” There was yellow fever, and Campeche and Tabasco were beset with cholera.

  Charlotte answered stoutly, Had she not represented him in Yucatan?

  Maximilian twisted his hands. Nervously, he turned his rings around. The Totonac bowl of bonbons, the door, the inkpot, the clock, the drapes—his gaze found no place to rest. Suddenly he wanted Father Fischer, for his feelings had fallen into chaos. Honor: yes! He was not sure, however, should he trust himself to decide, should he allow his wife to undertake such a desperate mission? Was it valiant—or insane, trying to sail into a countervailing wind without a mast, without a rudder, a venture out over the Atlantic without coal? Father Fischer, however, had not yet returned from Rome. Ramírez, his foreign minister, would have offered a carefully considered opinion, honestly given—but on Bazaine’s insistence, he had been fired. There was their Belgian advisor, but whatever the circumstance, Monsieur Eloin took Charlotte’s views as his lodestar. Whom else?

  Maximilian realized, with a lurch in his stomach, that not one of his cabinet ministers, not one of the high-ranking clergy, and certainly not Princess Iturbide would approve of his even considering abdication. If he signed this proclamation of abdication, a document concocted in the office of General Bazaine, their respect would transmute, instantly, to contempt.

  Charlotte’s parting words still ring in his ears: “Faith, Max! Hold tight to your faith in God’s will!”

  Her entourage comprised Charlie Bombelles, Foreign Minister Castillo, General Uraga, young Dr. Bohuslavek, the chamberlain Don Felipe del Barrio and his wife, Herr and Frau von Kuhacsevich, and an army of maids and lackeys. It has been little more than twenty-four hours since their middle-of-the-night departure from Mexico City. Maximilian accompanied Charlotte twenty miles out, to the village of Ajotla. There, by the still dark highway, in the dull shadow of an agave, the air rent by the screams of roosters, he kissed her hands. He kissed her hair. For the first time in a very long time he held her in his arms. He could feel her bosom rising, falling with her breath. She lay her cheek on his shoulder. He loved her; he did. His arms emptied, limp by his sides, he sobbed like a little child. He could not look: he only heard the sounds of her shoes on the gravel, and then up the steps to her carriage. The door clicked shut. Dr. Semeleder and Grill, his valet, had to support him; they lifted him back into his carriage.

  Back in Chapultepec Castle, his feelings gone numb, her absence felt, at first, like a reprieve. Now it feels like what it is: an amputation.

  He has a terrible foreboding that he will never see Charlotte again. Nor Charlie, his companion from childhood. Nor the von Kuhacseviches. None of them. They will have sailed off the edge of the earth.

  “Good morning, Your Majesty.” Grill peels open the drapes.

  Maximilian can barely bring himself to open his eyes. The very air here is leeched. It is all so ugly. The water stains on the wall behind the crucifix. The smears on the windowpane. The bedraggled, over-soaked plants cluttering the terrace. No snowcapped volcanoes, no glittering vistas: dawn over the Valley of Anahuac is a horse blanket. One is sick of it, sick of it all, sick of being sick. Cramps, sweats, shivering, the most god-awful nightmares—one wakes into bone-deep fatigue.

  “Your robe, sir.”

  One inserts an arm. One inserts the other arm.

  Perhaps one should have signed that proclamation. No, Charlotte was right. As Tacitus said, For he who would have an empire, there is no middle ground: it is the heights or the precipice. So, it was no miscalculation to send her to Paris, it was genius!

  However, what if . . . ?

  General Almonte, now one’s ambassador to France: what Faustian bargains has he made? On his way to Paris in May, Almonte sojourned on the island of Saint Thomas. One had instructed Charlotte, first thing on arrival in Paris, after securing an emergency loan, to put it to Almonte directly: Did he meet with General Santa Anna?

  Oh, what a labyrinth one has sent her into.

  The robe’s belt is drawn tight and knotted around one’s waist.

  She cannot have gone far beyond the city of Puebla. Another chamberlain, Count del Valle, shall be sent racing after her this morning, with the last letters—one shall write to her with the most cheering words, first thing.

  Or, ought one to wire ahead, to Orizaba? Wait!


  They could go home together. They should: the Mexican Empire, eaten out from its core, cannot stand. Blood has been spilled for it, a tragedy, why compound it? One mustn’t spill more!

  To go or not to go? To abdicate or not to abdicate? And these are not the same question because one could go, as emperor, leaving a regency in place—

  The seraphim lightness of freedom: to fly to one’s own Miramar, spend the last, long, fig-and-honey days of August cruising the Adriatic . . . recuperating one’s health on the island of Lacroma . . . feasting on the perfume of roses . . . lulled by Charlotte’s mandolin, and the rush of the surf.

  Bazaine, lyingjackal, presses you to abdicate so that he, serving himself with the big spoon, can take it all! Do you really imagine Louis Napoleon would give up Mexico? Bazaine and his wife and her family are behind this, they want Mexico to be a French Protectorate, another Algeria. They push you into a corner where it appears you have no choice but to abdicate—the one who has no choice is Louis Napoleon. In accepting this throne, we have renderedhim an unparalleled service. He owes us an enormous debt. I will lay it out plainly, the true situation. Have faith!

  One is the emperor. And an emperor, captain of his country, does not abandon ship. Through the storm—cresting, plunging, washed with spray— one grips the wheel. One stays the course.

  One . . . collapses into the chair.

  The beard. After the tossing and turning in the night, it’s a nest of tangles. Grill combs it out. Then, the mustache comb. Grill upturns the blue bottle of Zweigschein’s, rubs his palms together vigorously, then swipes his hands over the beard. The trimming scissors: snip a bit here, snip, a bit there. Once finished Grill carries the heavy mirror around to the back of one’s chair. With the hand mirror, one inspects the back of one’s head. One dislikes that curl at the nape, but one has not the strength to quibble. Gone are the days when one had the strength to attack the dispatch box before breakfast. One cannot even stomach breakfast.

  Grill brings the vest, shirt, and trousers, all folded over his arm.

  Oh, the siren call of sleep . . . one is weary, weary as the last mammoth staggering over the Siberian tundra . . . But if Charlotte is soldier enough to make that hellish journey, by God, one can haul one’s sack of bones to the office and write her a letter.

  Grill knots the tie at one’s neck.

  One stands, chest out, before the mirror. The frock coat.

  The boutonniere?

  Grill fastens it in.

  One does look all the part.

  In the office in the Imperial Palace: a bonbon, in contradiction to Dr. Semeleder’s orders, has gone down tolerably well. Out the open window, a hubbub of cries and whistles rises from the Plaza Mayor: mango-sellers, pulque-vendors, bank clerks, beggars . . . one’s subjects. How many weeks have gone by and one has not thought of it? That one’s palace stands upon the ruins of Montezuma’s. Montezuma, whose feathered shield adorns one’s office. Montezuma, who had welcomed Cortez as Quetzalcóatl, the feathered serpent-god returned, as was prophesied, from the east. Quetzalcóatl: giver of civilization, time, and the tracking of the stars. He came with magical animals—horses; he came with magical weapons—muskets and cannon. Montezuma’s shield was Cortez’s gift to his Caesar, Carlos I, king of Aragon, Castile, Naples, and Sicily, ruler of the Burgundian territories, and Holy Roman Emperor—from whom one is directly descended.

  Charlie, returning from his mission to Vienna, brought back Montezuma’s shield. For this one could almost forgive Franz Joseph. But why could Franz Joseph not also give up Montezuma’s headdress of jewels and quetzal feathers? One had specifically requested the headdress, together with the shield, at the outset. For Franz Joseph, it would have been a small concession—of the mountain of treasures he has in Vienna, that and a pfennig would not be missed. Wasn’t it obvious? It would have meant a great deal to bring Montezuma’s “crown” and shield back to Mexico—the symbolism of that, right at the beginning, would have been powerful. But no. The All-Highest would not grudge them. Everything for himself. Nothing for oneself. It is ever thus.

  The dispatch box. That bottomless trough of donkeywork.

  “Not now.”

  “Sorry, sorry, sir . . .” Blasio shuffles out, walking backward.

  Blasio, that stupid boy. How he had pleaded to go with the empress to Europe—as if it were a holiday. To play the flaneur on the boulevards of Paris! His chance to see the Louvre! He’ll be sent along soon enough.

  One clenches one’s fists. Cresting, plunging—grip that wheel. Get a grip. One takes it coolly. One takes up the quill. One sets it down again. One mops one’s brow. Mops one’s tears.

  Dearly beloved angel:

  I have not the words to tell you, my angel, my star, how I have felt since you left, how my wounded heart suffers. All the joy of life has died in me; only duty keeps me on my feet. Nevertheless, our sacrifice is good, everyone sees it now, and they show me twice as much love and loyalty. All true friends have rushed to my side with great heart. Given that now I must not only perform the duties of father of the country, but also mother, yesterday I went to the evening promenade. Never have they greeted me so cordially and with such kindness. Throughout the city it is the same. From their carriages and balconies, they salute me. I have been deeply moved. They truly comprehend my immense sacrifice. Yesterday the excellent General Mejía was with me. He is more determined, loyal, and wise than ever. He has never lost his valor; to the contrary, he is a tower of strength.

  My sole diversion now is work. Yesterday I renewed the conferences on the legal code. The second volume should appear on the 16th of September. Yesterday we received Santa Anna’s famousproclamation, which is so foolish and so entertaining that I ordered it published today in its entirety and without commentary. You will receive a few copies.

  Del Valle can tell you many more details. I saw him yesterday andI told him how much I am counting on him to take care of you, my love. For the love of God, do not eat fruit, do not walk from one side to the other in the sun, and do not set foot on land in Havana nor in Saint Thomas. I could die of worry when you are ill! I press you to my wounded and suffering heart.

  Your forever loyal

  Max

  My cordial respects to your retinue.

  One calls for the dispatch box. The first thing, slap in the face, a letter from Angel de Iturbide. Blasio begins reading.

  “Once again I appeal to your venerable and noble sentiments, because my wife and I have suffered horribly from the moment we could no longer see our unfortunate child. We are—”

  “No, just the gist of it.”

  “Same as the last letter.”

  Those Iturbides, whining about everything. No one has been paid in Paris since the end of February. The Palatine Guard, including Charlie, and the Austrian and Belgian volunteers—none has been paid since May. These are men who would give their lives! And this ingrate expects special treatment? After sneaking into Washington, contriving to meet with Seward, and in Paris intriguing with the U.S. minister, he and his brothers ought to be shot for treason. “Unfortunate child”—ha! Unbelievable.

  One waves one’s hand. “File it with the others.” One presses one’s hand to one’s ribs, a spear of agony.

  Prior to the luncheon, one rendezvouses with Princess Iturbide. In accord with protocol, the princess, a person of the second rank, has been waiting for the sovereign in the Throne Room for a half hour prior to the appointed time—but she is as alert as a sentry.

  “Your Majesty.” Pressing a hand to her hip, she sinks into the deepest curtsey yet.

  One extends one’s hand for the kiss.

  One has been made aware that she has arranged, an expense out of her own pocket, to have masses said for the empress’s safe and successful journey. It is a lesson one learned, painfully, in the last days of one’s governorship of Lombardy-Venetia: when things become agitated, the wheat separates from the chaff, that is, the true friends, which are few, and the bonny weat
her friends, which are legion, reveal themselves by their deeds. La Prima, the cousin, as one calls Princess Iturbide, is a true friend. Father Fischer spoke of her with alpine esteem: that had been her entrée. After the deaths of Charlotte’s father and then, in March, of her Grand-maman, La Prima’s companionship was a great comfort to her. Whilst one was in Cuernavaca and touring the provinces, La Prima and Charlotte spent many an afternoon tête-à-tête. One would not have believed it if one had not witnessed it with one’s own blue eyes: when she said goodbye, Charlotte, in violation of all protocol, threw her arms around La Prima’s neck. She cried, Could I but save this poor unfortunate nation, I should then feel I have done a great work. La Prima answered, You already have and you are, God bless you. It pleases one to have La Prima and the little cousin back in their apartments. Alas, the reason for their return, the lack of guards to spare, was an unfortunate one.

  “You may rise.”

  They proceed to the Painting Gallery where, here and there, buckets have been positioned to catch the leaks. The rainy season began back in May; it pours nearly every afternoon at four and whenever else the Maker pleases.

  “Though not so heavily as last year.”

  “What troubles me is this air.”

  “Very miasmatic.”

  “It is colder than yesterday.”

  “If it weren’t so humid.”