Lightning failed to tear apart the heavy black clouds. After thunder rumbled through the low-hanging sky, torrential rain came crashing down, pouring in sheets, as though Heaven itself were weeping for Mexico City's misfortune.
In the imperial palace, Maximilian I sat quietly without moving, as if he had entered a sage-like state—neither delighted by external gains nor saddened by personal losses. Everything outside seemed to have nothing to do with him.
"Your Majesty, hurry and leave! The enemy is about to encircle the city. If we wait any longer, it will be too late!"
The guard's anxious words pulled Maximilian I back to reality. This rain had come at just the right time, successfully delaying the rebels' advance.
Maximilian I shook his head. "There is no emperor of Mexico who runs away, Feren. I'll wait for them here. All of you, leave!"
Seeing that the tide had turned beyond recovery, Maximilian I did not make one final desperate gamble. Instead, he dismissed his followers and chose to face defeat alone.
This was undoubtedly the right choice. It allowed him to avoid the ugliness of human nature. If he had truly dragged everyone down into the grave with him, he would likely have experienced betrayal firsthand.
Apart from a handful of diehard loyalists, everyone else fled. Of course, those who remained were not necessarily loyal to the death. Many were simply too deeply tied to him; without the emperor's protection, they could only go into exile overseas.
Had they been following another emperor and filled their pockets well enough, going into exile would not have been so bad.
But following this one was different. Even when there were benefits to be had, very little actually reached their hands. Even if they wanted to flee now, they had to consider their finances.