Eugene P. Lyle

“And let us make a name.

”–Genesis.

The flame of lofty resolve burned with a high, present heat in Maximilian’s dreamy eyes. But the thing was not statesmanship. The danger dial pointed to some latest darling phantasy.

When the young prince–he was but thirty-three–descended from his carriage, he signed that the CortÈge should not form as yet. And instead of mounting the colonnade steps, he turned and mingled with his humble subjects. A pleased murmur arose among the Indians. “Que simpÁtico!” they breathed in little gasps of admiring awe.

The unusually tall and very fair young man, in the simplicity of black, with only the grand cross of St. Stephen about his neck, moved about among the ragged peons. Now and again he spoke to one and another, questioning earnestly. Anxious orderlies were quick to brush aside the touch of an elbow, but to those outside the circle, watching what he would do, he seemed alone with his people. And in thought, he really was. There was a great pity upon his face, and it was the more poignant because these timorous children could not comprehend the wretchedness which so appealed to him.

“And thou?” he demanded of an aged man whose tatters hung heavy in filth.

A look of poor simple craft came into the Indian’s face. “I, seÑor? MarÍa purÍsima, I am cursed of heaven. But the 132rich seÑor wishes to know–see!” and ere Monsieur Éloin could prevent, he bared a limb of rotting flesh. “If it were not for my leg, Your Mercy––”

“Animal,” snarled Éloin in his ear, “can’t you say ‘Your Majesty’?”

“Your–Majesty, or if I had children, I could make my debt–oh, grande, grande, twenty reales, maybe. And then, and then I should have a red and purple scrape, with a green eagle, like my nephew Felipe has.–He owes,” the man added in a kind of pride, “thirty reales, my nephew Felipe does.”

But his wiles failed. The rich seÑor turned toward the colonnade, his sailor’s easy swing giving way to a tread of determination. Also, the pure flame burned consumingly.

From the top of the steps, between files of dismounted Dragoons, Maximilian looked over the people, beyond, in some far away gaze of the spirit.

Jacqueline hid the golden gleam of her hair under the rebosa. “Silencium!” she whispered, laying a finger across her lips. “For now we’ll have the mountains to frisk, and the little hills to skip. In all the Orient there blooms no flower of eloquence like unto his.”

The monarch’s inspired look promised as much. “Mexicans,” he began. The peons huddled closer, their responsive natures quickened. His sonorous voice was electrical, despite an accent, despite the German over-gush of stammering when words could not keep pace with the vast idea. But the one word of address gave the peons a dignity they had never suspected.

“Mexicans: you have desired me. Acceding to the spontaneous expression of your wishes, I have come to your noble country–our dear patria–to watch over and direct your destinies. And with me came one who feels for you all the tenderness of a mother, who is your Empress and my August Spouse.”

“But not,” murmured the sententious lady of the rebosa, 133“august enough to appear before Him unless He sends for Her.”

Proceeding, the speaker solemnly told them of his divine right as a Hapsburg, as one of the CÆsars, and of his anointment by the Vicar of God at Rome, so that to God alone was he responsible. As a Mexican he gloried with them in their liberties, in the True Liberty he brought, for had not the Holy Father said to him, “Great are the rights of a people, but greater and more sacred are the rights of the Church?” Hence he burned with Heaven-given fire to lift them, his subjects, into the vanguard of Nineteenth Century Progress.

Here Maximilian paused mid cheers, and thinking on his next words, his delicate hand of a gentleman clenched.

“Mexicans,” he began again, now in the vibrant tone of an overpowering emotion. “I pray to fulfil the mission for which God has placed me here. There are six millions of you, a sober and industrious race. Cortez found you so, and you astounded him with your civilization. But the conditions that followed have enslaved you. Enslaved, I repeat, for you are bound by debt. Your hacendado master contrives that you cannot pay even his usurious interest. The food you eat, you must buy from him, at his prices, of the quality he prescribes. And if your debt be not sufficient, that is, if there seems a chance of your paying it off, then you must increase it to obtain your daily bread. Your very children are slaves at birth, since with their first birth they inherit your chains. And if you or your children run away, you or they may be brought back as runaway slaves. It is thus that I find you, Mexicans. And I find you awaiting a liberator, waiting vainly through the centuries. But now, at last, the reward of your suffering and your faith has come. In a word, which shall be formally recorded in the Journal Official, We this day decree––”

“I knew it,” exclaimed Jacqueline, “he always coins his inspirations.”

134“––We this day decree your debts extinguished, and each and every peon in all our beautiful country–a free man!”

“Yet with not,” said Jacqueline, “a foot of land to be free on. But you know, messieurs, that Utopia is an asylum for the blind.”

“It’s a spider on his ceiling,” muttered Colonel Dupin, touching his own head significantly.

The emancipator’s face was beatific. He heard the peons acclaim him, as gradually they began to understand that there was to be no more unhappiness. But it was curious how far, far away the sweet music sounded, even when some belated “Viva el SeÑor Emperador!” cracked in ludicrous falsetto. For the poet-prince these human chords might have been the strings of a harp, softly touched. And as far away as posterity.

Jacqueline fell to clapping her hands noiselessly. “Oh, lÁ-lÁ,” she cried, “if we are not to have an epic flight from Monsieur Éloin!”

It was true in a degree. Five minutes of stupendous history making had just elapsed, and some graceful tribute was due. The royal favorite had foreseen the need, and he was prepared; but whether by borrowing or originating, it is impossible to say.

“‘Vous l’avez relevÉ; votre main souveraine L’a rendu d’un seul coup À la famille humaine. De ce premier bienfait, Sire, soyez content: L’Indien fera de vous MAXIMILIEN LE GRAND!’”

“Parbleu, why not?” demanded Jacqueline. “If only he were as great as his decrees, poor man!”

Maximilian by this time remembered that he must be somebody’s guest. “Who receives Us here?” he asked. But none of his court knew. Even Monsieur Éloin could only point to the administrador. “Why is your master not present?” inquired General Almonte. The administrador opened his mouth, and it stayed open. Colonel Dupin had promised to shoot him if he breathed a word of Don Anastasio being a prisoner.

135But someone whispered something to a person on the outskirts of the entourage, who passed it on to the very centre till it came to the ear of Col. Miguel Lopez of Her Majesty’s Dragoons. The someone who initiated the message was Don Tiburcio, the watchful herder over one golden goose. As a result, an aide rescued MurguÍa from the claws of the Tiger.

Maximilian looked the weazened old man over in disappointment. Here, then, was the lord of Moctezuma, an hacendado, and hence one of the heavy timbers for his empire building. Don Anastasio scraped awkwardly and craved many pardons for not being on hand to welcome His Majesty. Overcoming a curious aversion to the man, the emperor straightway invested him with the newly created order of Civil Merit, and Don Anastasio, without a peon to till his fields or to oil his machinery, quaked under the honor of a copper medal.

“And,” pursued the monarch, “We find a need of stout officials, for We have been grieved to learn of hacendados who secretly aid the prowling rebellious outlaws that infest our country.–And as We must have a prefect in this district of an integrity like your own, it pleases Us, dear caballero, to name you jefe polÍtico.”

The new jefe’s greenish eyes contracted in terror. He thought of the brigands whom magistrates were supposed to discourage, and he tried to frame excuses.

“Accept, you fool,” someone whispered. “Mexicans can’t refuse office–that’s decreed.” It was Don Tiburcio, his sombrero against his breast. To MurguÍa the Roman sword on the crown seemed more than ever emblematic of “Woe to the conquered.” In a veritable panic he accepted.

As it was fitting that this day of a people’s emancipation 136should be commemorated by public praise to Almighty God, the Lesser CortÈge formed, and careful of precedence, went to worship their Maker. The freedmen trooped after, waving jubilee branches.

The little church of the hacienda stood on a barren knoll, mid chaparral and graves. The curate’s white adobe adjoining was the only near habitation. A stone walk as wide as the church itself approached for a hundred yards, sloping up from a pasture below. The one tower opened on four sides for the better ease of the bell ringers. Its bright mosaic peak rose peaceful and still in the clear air.

The Emperor and suite arranged themselves within, and the Inditos gaped stolidly outside, to hear the Te Deum for their broken shackles. At the most solemn moment, the Grand Chaplain availed himself of his exclusive privilege, which was to present the Gospel to the royal lips. Assisting him in the general service was the hacienda curate. This curate, obscurely found in the Huasteca wilds and yet not a Mexican, was a large sleek man whose paunch bulged repulsively under the priestly surplice. His flabby jowls hung down, and gave his head the shape of a pea, in the top of which were the eyes set close together. They were restless fawning little eyes and they roved constantly. But more than aught else, they were adventurous; two bright, glowing beads of adventure. From the folds of dull yellow flesh they peered forth at the august worshipers. They hovered first over the Emperor before his cushioned prie-dieu. Then, in hungry search, they began to roam. They lingered with General Almonte for a moment, but darted on, unsatisfied. They fluttered yet longer over Miguel Lopez, the gorgeously uniformed colonel of Dragoons, and left him only reluctantly. But when they lighted on Monsieur Éloin, they gleamed. There was no longer uncertainty. They laid bare the man as the print of a mass-book, and found him profitable reading. After that, the 137adventurous orbs returned to their larger prey, the Emperor, and gorging themselves, scintillated more adventurously than ever.

And such a feast as the unconscious Hapsburg afforded the ghoul of a priest! It was a loathsome surgery; greedy fingers trembling on the knife, the victim’s soul flayed, each nerve of a vanity, or tendon of an ambition, or full-throbbing vein of hope, each and all lifted one by one from the clotted mass and scrutinized exultantly. There was not a feature but held a revelation as sure as vivisection. The high, broad forehead of a gentle poet was often shaded by a dreamy melancholy, but never once did it furrow in either craft or cruelty. In that the priest knew his man for a devout mystic, knew him for a child confidingly looking to a Destiny to inspire his every footstep. Then there was the beard. It was too great a wealth of whisker, its satin, glossy flow of too dandified a precision. The delicate finger tips stroked it softly, affectionately, to the left; then softly, affectionately to the right; and always dreamily. But the most shameless traitor of all was the lower lip. It was the Hapsburg lower lip, heavy and thick and sensuous, and ill-fated. Hanging partly open under the silken drooping moustache, it revealed the spoiled child of royalty, who mistakes obstinacy for decision, and changes whims with despotic petulance. Maximilian believed in his star. But a lower lip is more potent than predestination. He need only have leaned close to his mirror. Then he might have seen what the priest saw so clearly.

Maximilian paused on coming out. The freedmen were just rising from their knees among the thorns and stones. Then it occurred to the liberator that their participation in the rejoicing was not exactly, ah–conspicuous. “Would you not think it well, father,” said he to the Grand Chaplain, “that these poor people partake of the holy communion on this day that has been so eventful for them? If you approve, let it be ordered that––”

138“But Sire––”

Maximilian turned quickly, a pleased smile on his lips. The interruption came in his own tongue, in German. And he who had spoken was a German. It was the hacienda curate. His voice was soft, and purring with deference. He wished to say, with permission, that the holy sacrament for the Inditos was out of the question; scarcely one of them had been baptized.

“Not baptized!” Maximilian exclaimed. “And this, is this fulfilling your sacred obligations?”

The curate bowed his head. He had found them thus, when he first came, a few weeks ago.

“And you came––”

“From Durango, sire, where as secretary I served His SeÑorÍa IlustrÍsimo, the Bishop of the state.” But, as he meekly explained, he had sought the Lord’s service among the Huastecans. Pastors were said to be needed, yet never had he imagined––He stopped short, in naÏve embarrassment.

Maximilian appreciated his delicacy in not wishing to reflect on the Huasteca bishop. But from others he learned that neither baptism nor other spiritual office had been performed in the community for years and years, and that the bishop resided in the capitol, because among his flock he had neither comforts nor a befitting state.

“But why,” Maximilian demanded sternly, “have you not put to use the few weeks you have been here?”

The curate’s small eyes leaped to adventure. But he lowered them hastily, and folded his hands over his rounded soutane. He had heard that His Majesty might come, he said, and he had presumed so far as to hope that His Majesty might deign to act as godfather for the poor Indians, and so he had waited.

Nothing could have pleased Maximilian more, and he looked at the good priest with an awakening favor. “Then 139let it be this afternoon,” he commanded. “I will stand their sponsor.”

“––Before God, who will bless Your Majesty,” murmured the priest.

And to be brief, let it be recorded that they were baptized by the hundred, with hurried pomp–“pompes À incendie,” as the godfather himself described it.