THE HISTORY OF MEXICO: The Spring That Betrayed an Emperor

There are a number of vivid Spanish sayings about the weather. One of the best known is “febrero loco, marzo otro poco”—February is crazy, and March just a little less so. Then comes April: “abril abrilero, siempre es traicionero”—April, always a traitor. Each speaks to instability, to sudden shifts and false promises. Yet these sayings take on a deeper resonance when set against a dramatic moment in Mexican history: the collapse of the Second Mexican Empire in the spring of 1867.

In 1864, Napoleon III established an empire in Mexico with the backing of conservatives who had long favored a monarchy. He selected Maximilian, the hapless Austrian archduke, persuading him that the Mexican people desired his rule. Maximilian, a naïve 32-year-old, and his young wife Charlotte (later known as Carlota) believed him.

On May 28, 1864, they arrived ready to begin their reign, but instead of a multitude cheering, they were greeted by a nearly empty port. It was a clear indication that they were not wanted. But there was no turning back—Maximilian I and Carlota began their reign.

Trouble soon followed. The conservatives who had brought him were eager to preserve the privileges of the elite and the Church, but Maximilian wanted reforms. He promoted education for all, including for Indigenous communities, sought to limit working hours, supported curbing clerical privileges, and endorsed freedom of thought and religion. These policies alienated the very people who had placed him on the throne. At the same time, Republican forces loyal to Benito Juárez continued their resistance, determined to restore the republic.

Juárez, having evaded capture, maintained an itinerant government, operating first from Veracruz and later from the north, near the United States border. Republican troops waged relentless guerrilla warfare, steadily weakening imperial control. By late 1866, Maximilian’s position had become precarious.

International pressures compounded his difficulties. With the end of the American Civil War, the United States signaled its readiness to oppose French intervention in Mexico. Unwilling to risk conflict, Napoleon III ordered the withdrawal of French troops in early 1867, leaving Maximilian dangerously exposed. Though he could have abdicated and returned to Europe, he chose to remain, guided by a sense of duty and honor, and a belief that he could regain his empire.

In late February 1867, Maximilian departed Chapultepec Castle and headed toward Querétaro, a defensible stronghold. As he approached the city in early March, he rode in wearing his commander’s uniform. During the descent into the city, his beloved white horse stumbled, throwing him to the ground—an incident many later saw as a dark omen.

The city of Queretaro with its famous aqueduct

Maximilian gathered roughly 9,000 troops and fortified key positions throughout Querétaro, including convents, major roadways, and the strategic heights of Cerro de las Campanas. Meanwhile, Republican forces under Mariano Escobedo, joined by other commanders such as General Porfirio Díaz, converged on the city. By mid-March, nearly 60,000 Republican troops had encircled Querétaro, cutting off supplies and water. The Siege of Querétaro had begun.

As March wore on, fighting intensified. Artillery bombardments became routine. Food and water shortages devastated civilians, disease spread rapidly, and morale among imperial troops plummeted. Maximilian himself fell ill with dysentery. Republican forces tightened their grip, pushing closer and increasing their bombardment. Hospitals overflowed with dead and wounded.

Still, Maximilian carried on, encouraging his troops and maintaining the rituals of empire. On April 10, he even marked the anniversary of his acceptance of the Mexican crown with a solemn ceremony. Yet by the end of the month, famine conditions were severe. Horses and mules were slaughtered for food, and the collapse of the imperial defense became inevitable.

Attempts to communicate with Europe failed. Messengers carrying Maximilian’s pleas for reinforcements were captured and executed, their bodies displayed with signs around their necks proclaiming: “Mail from the emperor.” The official imperial newspaper, El Diario del Imperio, reported as late as May 6 that: “The Empire is achieving its stability, and each day it progresses wonderfully along this path, for the good of Mexico and to the astonishment of the world.” One day later, the newspaper reports: “A thousand cheers, and the full devotion of all good Mexicans, to our undefeated and magnanimous emperor!” The contrast between rhetoric and reality could not have been sharper.

In the early hours of May 15, 1867, the end came. According to the most widely accepted account, Colonel Miguel López betrayed Maximilian and opened the city’s gates to Republican forces under the cover of darkness. Whether motivated by bribery, desperation, or a desire to spare lives remains uncertain. What is clear is that Republican troops flooded into the city, overwhelming the remaining defenders.

At dawn, General Escobedo telegraphed the governor of Michoacán: “I have the pleasure to inform you that [the city] has been occupied by our troops.” Final attempts were made to spirit Maximilian away, but by 8:00 a.m., it was over. Republican General Aureliano Rivera confronted the emperor: “Your Majesty, you are my prisoner.” Maximilian was brought before Escobedo, who accepted his surrender. As the emperor yielded his sword, Escobedo declared, “This sword belongs to the nation.” With that moment, the siege ended—and so too did Maximilian’s empire in Mexico.

The old sayings seem almost prophetic. Like the shifting skies of “febrero loco” and “marzo otro poco,” the fate of the empire changed with unsettling speed. And then came April—“siempre traicionero.” Whether in the form of dwindling support, false assurances, or the fateful opening of the gates, betrayal—real or perceived—sealed Maximilian’s fate. The empire, like the season, proved unpredictable and ultimately treacherous, a reminder that in both weather and history, what appears stable can change in an instant.

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*General Mariano Escobedo has a connection to San Miguel de Allende. A plaque on Mesones 71 states that he lived at that address in 1879.

**Much of the material for this article came from: “Maximiliano y Carlota, Memoria Presente,” by Martha Zamora