by C. M. Mayo
Woe to the vanquished, wrote Countess Hulst, in a letter of such venom and cowardice, it sickened her. Countess Hulst, her governess, had been opposed to the Mexican project from its inception, but now—in refusing the honor of the medal of the Order of San Carlos, now, in such insulting tones, now even she—even Countess Hulst had succumbed to the sirens of the Demon:
I told you so, I told you that you should not accept the crown of Mexico. You accepted it, and now look at the price you are so rightfully paying. Do not tempt Providence any further: get out of that deadly undertaking now, while you still have your honor and there is not too much danger.
Fortified by indignation, Charlotte wrote to Max, the republic is as poor a mother as Protestantism, and the monarchy is humanity’s salvation. This was no time to lay down arms! Sovereignty is a treasure more precious than life itself.
She had come to Rome two days before her appointment with the Holy Father. The first thing she learned upon arriving at the Albergo di Roma was that Mexico’s consul, Galloti, whom she had been anxious to see had just left Mexico, returning to Rome, when he died onboard ship. His aide, a Mexican by the name of Velázquez de Leon, went on about how Galloti had so many times begged off Maximilian’s summons, for he was so afraid of the yellow fever.
More probably, Charlotte suspected, Galloti had been poisoned.
Next, she learned that the German painter who had given the imperial party their tour of the sights back in 1864 had died. Roman fever, the concierge said. She brooded on that. He, too, must have been poisoned, for he was the picture of health, and with what strong thighs he climbed the steps of the Coliseum and, in the Forum, leapt like a gazelle over those fallen columns. Italians were wizards with poison. A jealous rival—a pinch of arsenic stirred in his beer!
When Henry IV visited the Louvre, he would touch only eggs he had boiled and peeled himself. The Jewish doctor Lopes tried to poison Queen Elizabeth by smearing poison on the pommel of her saddle; he was hanged, drawn, and quartered. Isn’t it obvious, Prince Albert, Queen Victoria’s consort, was poisoned? He was a Saxe-Coburg, the English conspired against him. Or—ah—the Fenians, they did it. Lead, antimony, mandrake—an over-dose of tincture of laudanum, is that not what General Bazaine’s first wife, supposedly, killed herself with? But perhaps she was not a suicide! Strychnos Nux Vomica works lightning-fast, but its bitter taste must be masked by honey; its victim dies with her hands in claws and spine so arched that only the head and the heels touch the bed. The Borgias had their formulae: crushed glass, belladonna, wolfsbane. Cleopatra: snake venom. Socrates: hemlock. Livia poisoned Augustus; Tiberius poisoned Germanicus. Agrippina fed Claudius a dish of poison mushrooms. Napoleon Bonaparte was given gargantuan doses of arsenic, that is why his body did not decompose. Neither did Marie-Louise of Bourbon’s, and before she died, her fingernails fell off. Nero favored cherry laurel water, which contains cyanide. The signs of cyanide poisoning are anxiety, headache, drowsiness—check, check, check! (Her heart is pounding in her chest—)
Saint Peter was martyred in the Neronian gardens, at the foot of the Janiculum: Is not the Holy Father the successor of Saint Peter, first Apostle of the Son of God?
Her stomach makes another growl.
“Pater noster . . . Our father who art in Heaven . . . ,” she begins, but then, as if possessed, she jerks her head back. Suddenly, she’s on her feet again and swanning down the nave. It happens so quickly that Blasio scarcely has the chance to run ahead and open the door for her.
Her Majesty orders the coachman, “Il Vaticano. È urgente!”
Caray, the Vatican? Madame del Barrio does not dare ask what Her Majesty wants to see there. The carriage hurtles into the traffic; soon it clatters onto the bridge over the Tiber. In the nearing distance, the dome of Saint Peter’s gleams through molten sunlight. They have already—three days ago, when Her Majesty had her audience with the pope—been given an extensive tour of the Vatican’s museums. They had not seen the half of the Vatican, and still, it was more than a body could digest in a lifetime: the stupendous basilica with Bernini’s baldachino overlooking the crypt of Saint Peter, Michelangelo’s Pietà, all the gold, all the marble of all colors, the Sistine Chapel, Raphael’s frescos, gallery upon gallery of Egyptian gold, Greek amphorae, Etruscan and Roman mosaics, busts, statues, sarcophagi, untold chalices, urns, and silken robes embroidered in China, paintings by Titian, Da Vinci, more Raphaels, more Michelangelos, Adoration of the Magi by Pinturrichio, and in the library, maps, illuminated manuscripts, incunabula . . .
What more could Her Majesty possibly want to see?
And that had not been Carlota’s first visit to the Vatican. Often she spoke of her confirmation, when the pope first gave her the benediction, as he did again, three years ago, on her departure for Mexico. As she had told Madame del Barrio, taking communion from the Holy Father’s hand was one of the most moving experiences of her life. In Saint Peter’s, what had impressed her (more than the great art) were the confessionals, their little signs—“Italiano”; “Français”; “English”; “Español.” That Christians of all the world could come here, to the True Home of the True Church, it was sublime consolation. To speak of it, her eyes had filled with tears.
Perhaps Her Majesty wants to confess?
Her Majesty puts her head out the window. She cries to the driver, “Not that entrance! I am going to see the pope!”
Horrified, Madame del Barrio says, “But Your Majesty is not dressed for an audience with the pope!”
“You forget, Manuelita, it is the emperors who make the rules of etiquette. They themselves are above them.”
After this smoldering rebuke, Madame del Barrio falls silent.
In her impeccable Italian, Carlota instructs the driver, “Take my secretary back to the hotel. You need not return for me.”
Madame del Barrio follows Carlota past the Swiss Guards, into the residential compound, and up the steps. The pope’s secretary emerges. Blinking with surprise, he bows to Her Majesty.
“I must see the Holy Father.”
“That is impossible. His Holiness is having his breakfast.”
“I do not care. Tell him I am here.”
In a moment, the pope’s secretary ushers Her Majesty in; Madame del Barrio, cringing with embarrassment, watches the door to the pope’s private chamber click shut.
The pope extends his hand for the empress of Mexico to kiss his ring—but she’s collapsed at his feet, sobbing, her lips upon his slipper!
“Per piacere . . . Please, please help me, Father, I beg you! Louis Napoleon is trying to assassinate me!”
“What—assassinate—you?”
“Louis Napoleon has sent his spies, vipers nest in my own household, the von Kuhacseviches, and the doctor, and Vázquez de Leon and Count del Valle!”
“Vázquez del Leon and Count del Valle? What are you saying?”
“They are in Satan’s pay.”
“No, these are good men, your loyal subjects—”
“Tutti, tutti . . . All, all of them have been bribed . . . I beg you, Father, give me asylum! Inside the Vatican, it is the only place I can be safe!”
“Inside—?”
Again she kisses his slipper. “Permit me to sleep at your feet.”
“No, no—”
“Give me a bedroom then!”
Never has a woman, not even a nun, slept beneath the roof of the Vatican. “Impossible!”
“Then I shall sleep in the corridor! I would sleep on the floor, oh Father . . .” she heaves with sobs, “Oh, Father, I am so afraid . . . The poison . . .”
The pope looks up to see the undisguised disgust on his secretary’s face, but being a man of gentle nature and genuine good heart, the pope wonders, could it be? In centuries past, a pope or two has been poisoned, is this not so? He has to shift his weight; Her Majesty is clinging to his ankles. “There, there.” He pats the top of her head. But his nascent credulity, a fine, fattening montgolfier, all of a sudden deflates: she�
�s jumped up and stuck her fingers into his cup of chocolate. She licks her fingers.
“I am starving! Everything they give me is poisoned!”
“Well, my goodness, well! I’ll have them bring you a cup of chocolate.”
“No! I will only drink out of Your Holiness’s cup; if they know it is for me, it will be poisoned.”
“In that case, by all means—”
She tips back his cup, gulping it to the dregs. She then licks the inner lip of it. Her pupils seem dilated; there is a strange light in her eyes. She rushes to his desk and snatches up the silver goblet.
“Father, give me this so that I may drink without being poisoned.”
A souvenir of a visit to the shrine of Our Lady of Loreto, it is such a large and heavy goblet he has never used it for drinking. To his astonishment—and at this point, he hadn’t thought he could be astonished any further—with her teeth, Her Majesty tears off one tie of her bonnet and, knotting the ribbon around the neck of the goblet, thus secures it to her belt.
“Now, Father, I want to discuss Mexico.” She plants herself on a sofa.
This is the opportunity for his secretary to slip out and alert Cardinal Antonelli.
“Yes?” the pope says smoothly, easing back into his chair.
She begins a breathless ramble on the province of Yucatan, San Luis Potosí, the archbishop of Mexico—a farrago of nonsense, accusation, and natural history, but then she interrupts herself: “What is the most effective antidote to poison?”
“The rosary and prayer, my child.”
She asks him again. His answer does not deviate.
The Demon has given this madwoman the tentacles of an octopus. Not until nearly midday, thanks to Cardinal Antonelli’s behind-the-scenes orchestration, is the pope finally able to give her the slip. Her lady, being closely questioned, had informed Cardinal Antonelli that the empress is an aficionada of illuminated manuscripts. The pope, therefore, led Her Mexican Majesty into the library and, just as he slid open the drawer of a cabinet and took out one to show her, very quietly, in came the cardinal and Madame del Barrio.
“Father, this is as beautiful as anything by Memling.”
“Bright colors, yes,” agreed the pope.
“The script is Gothic.”
“Yes, my child, it is . . .”
With chocolate-stained fingers, she turned another page of the thirteenth-century treasure. “Ah! The story of the good shepherd . . .”
“Look at the little sheep,” the pope said, “how finely drawn they are.”
“Their hooves, their tiny ears . . .”
“Very nice . . . a very nice story. . . . I should like to sit here and listen to you read it,” he said. “Would you do that for me?”
“Sit here?”
“Yes. Sit here and read me the story.”
When, after a little while, Her Majesty looked up and did not see the Holy Father, she became agitated, but Madame del Barrio, feigning an exaggerated interest in the manuscript, managed to calm her. This part of the library was the first of the Paoline rooms. They had been in here the other day, admiring the ceiling frescos and the many paintings commemorating the Donations made by European sovereigns: The Donation by Emperor Constantine I to Pope Sylvester I; The Emperor Ludwig I, the Pius, confirms to Pasquale I the Donations Made by His Ancestors; and more: Otto I the Great; Otto IV of Wittelsbach; Frederick II; Rodolfo I; and last, Henry VII, the legate of Albert I of Habsburg, King of the Romans confirms the rights of the Holy See to Pope Boniface VIII.
She insisted on reciting the complete title of each painting. Only then could she be induced to proceed, very hesitantly, clutching tightly to Madame del Barrio’s arm, into the second of the Paoline rooms. Here, again, the frescos of angels and commemorations of the ancient donations, and the elaborately inlaid poplar cabinets with the coat of arms of the Borghese: crowned eagle and winged dragon. This library, a wonder of this world, contained the proceedings of the trial of Galileo, the absolution of the Knights of Templar, the—
Her Majesty interrupted. Was that door there not to the stairway to the Tower of the Winds, the Vatican’s astronomical observatory? Because the other day, they had not seen that.
It was closed, Cardinal Antonelli said.
Why was it closed?
It was being used as a bedroom.
“Ah, I could sleep there!”
Smoothly, Cardinal Antonelli suggested a tour of the Vatican gardens; Her Majesty accepted. And thus was she ushered out of the building.
For Mexico, alas, the pope could do nothing. The Vatican would not, nay, could not presume to pressure Louis Napoleon when it was his bayonets preventing the loss of Rome to the Italian patriots. Nor could the Vatican take any step whatsoever in regards to Mexico without the support of its clergy, which had not been forthcoming. While the Mexican Republic had confiscated church property, neither had Maximilian’s imperial government reinstated it. Furthermore, neither had Maximilian respected the Catholic as the One True Faith. He had been encouraging Protestants to immigrate from Europe and the Confederacy. It was said that both his personal physician and one of his closest advisors were Jews. It was also rumored—widely retailed in Vienna—that, when he was viceroy, in Milan, secretly, Maximilian had been inducted into the Freemasons.
There was not yet a concordat with Mexico. It had both surprised Cardinal Antonelli and embarrassed him before the pontiff that the empress of Mexico had come to Rome at all. But the Vatican did care, and profoundly, about the health of its relations with the ruling families of Austria, France, and the many other Catholic principalities to which this disturbed young woman was related by blood. Cardinal Antonelli had already sent word to the Belgian ambassador; the king would need to have a family member take custody of his sister. Count Bombelles and a certain Dr. Jilek, the cardinal ascertained, had been summoned from Trieste yesterday, but it would be a few days until these people could be expected in Rome. A madwoman in the Vatican! He would have a better idea what to do with a greased pig. For now, Cardinal Antonelli would have to rely on two Roman alienists, a white-bearded professor and his well-muscled colleague, to whom the cardinal lent priests’ garb and presented to Her Mexican Majesty as “Papal Chamberlains.”
The alienists bowed deeply before her.
In the gardens, she dipped the pope’s goblet into a fountain and drank from it. They all—Cardinal Antonelli, Madame del Barrio, and the two “Papal Chamberlains”—behaved as if this were normal. Cardinal Antonelli’s purpose was to induce her to return to the Albergo di Roma, peaceably and immediately. It was imperative that the Vatican wash its hands, as it were, of responsibility for what was an appalling and unprecedented scandal. In the garden Carlota went into ecstasies over the statue of a fawn; she had to discuss the manner of pruning a certain topiary—she would not budge from the gardens. As it was well into the afternoon, Cardinal Antonelli, seeing no decent alternative, invited the women to lunch. Carlota ate heartily, but only from the plate of her lady.
A hot meal of soup, pasta, and roast lamb seemed to have lulled her, and Cardinal Antonelli was now able to convince her, that, as he had, in accord with her wishes, arranged the arrest of her Viennese doctor, and others in her retinue, she should go back to the Albergo di Roma.
Outside, the same carriage and coachman that had brought her were waiting. In a thistley tone she said to the coachman, “I told you not to wait for me.”
“I personally recalled him for you,” Cardinal Antonelli said. “He is the best driver in Rome.”
“Is he?”
“He is famous. No one drives a carriage more expertly, more safely.” Antonelli bowed. “Madame, he is entirely at your disposal.”
Carlota climbed inside with her lady. But before the guard could secure the latch, Carlota reemerged. The pope’s goblet, still tied to her waist, banged against the edge of the door.
She addressed the cardinal. “I will not have to see the ones who want to kill me?”
“Your
Highness is very safe.”
“I will not see traitors nor thieves nor liars?”
“You will not.”
“No poisoners?”
“None.”
“You are sure, all the conspirators are gone?”
He cleared his throat. “Absolutely all.”
She turned around. But after one hesitant step up, she stopped. “My chamberlain, Count del Valle, has been arrested also?”
“Yes, Your Highness.”
“They are all gone?”
“All gone.”
She climbed back inside. But then—the door popped open—she climbed back out.
“What about my servant, Mathilde Doblinger?”
“According to your wishes, Madame, she has also been arrested.”
“And the von Kuhacseviches?”
“Yes.”
The cardinal inclined his head with solemnity.
At the foot of the marble steps, the cardinal waited. His obsidian eyes narrowed. He wanted to be certain that that carriage would not be coming back. Only when the vehicle, gaining speed, had passed out of earshot did he turn, and quickly, so that his scarlet robes billowed out. With his characteristic energy, he took the stairs. His footsteps were perfectly regular, like the beating of a drum.
When Charlotte arrived at the Albergo di Roma, no hacks waited outside at the curb. The sidewalk had been cleared of its flower-sellers, touts, shoe-shine boys, and beggars.
“Where are the porters?” she asked her lady.
“I do not know, Your Majesty,” Madame del Barrio replied.
“They had to arrest them also?”
Madame del Barrio stammered, “Yes—I suppose.”
In the lobby, beneath the sign that said TUTTE LA COMODITÀ MODERNA, a hastily folded newspaper had been abandoned on a sofa; a tea service and half-eaten plates of cake covered a table.
“And the concierge?”
