Happy Austria Marries
Hunyadi made a beeline for the woman at the very heart of the Milanese nobles: the Duchess of Belgioioso.
Cristina Trivulzio de Belgioioso. Or, as they called her, Italy's Joan of Arc—the virago herself.
From one of Italy's oldest and wealthiest families, the Trivulzio house. And during the '48 revolutions, she'd even funded her own rebel army out of her own pocket.
Her pale skin and enormous eyes were the stuff of muses for Italian artists.
As Hunyadi said something to her, she shot me a look dripping with undisguised contempt.
She'd humiliated me last time, but apparently couldn't stomach the same in return?
She strode right up to me and dropped into a curtsy.
"Rise, Duchess."
I snapped my fan shut and favored her with a smile.
"Your outfit today is truly impressive."
"…I had no idea Your Majesty took such an interest in Italian fashion."
"You should call it Lombard fashion, not Italian."
I pointed the tip of my fan at her black dress.
"Do you remember the final scene of Don Quixote from tonight's performance?"
"The tragic moment when the Knight of La Mancha loses his dreams and collapses."
"Tragic? Well… He wakes from his mad delusions—giants in windmills, armies in sheep flocks—and finally finds peaceful rest. Isn't that more like healing?"
The duchess bit her lip hard.
To her, Don Quixote's charge wasn't madness; it had to be noble courage against the empire.
"Your Majesty. What looks like a windmill to some might be a real giant to those who are awake. What if he wasn't mad—what if the world was too cowardly to bear his dreams?"
"Are we talking about the Knight of La Mancha, shivering under excommunication?"
Laughter erupted from the Austrian officers and Tuscan nobles at my words.
The rumors were rife among the nobles: after Vittorio Emanuele II's excommunication, he'd holed up in his palace, refusing to emerge.
"That's not courage—it's dereliction of duty to his people. Like in '48, are you planning to let innocent young men bleed again?"
Her volunteer army, funded from her own coffers. The crushing defeat. Her family's confiscated estates. But you got pardoned because you're a noblewoman.
"So, Duchess—is that mourning garb you're wearing a plea that no more reckless sacrifices like that will happen?"
All eyes were on us in that moment.
"Your Majesty, that's rather unkind. Duchess, would you honor me with a dance?"
Was Maximilian desperate to keep his appeasement policy from crumbling, or was he really that clueless? He wedged himself between us and offered her his hand.
Silly Maximilian. That's why he made such a comfortable friend, but this choice? Terrible.
"…Thank you, Your Highness."
She might've become a symbol of Italian resistance—a martyr, even.
As Maximilian led her onto the floor, Joseph muttered coldly.
"Waltzing with a traitor."
If only Maximilian could see that look in Joseph's eyes.
"Shall we dance too?"
"Gladly."
As my head cooled, certain things came into sharp focus.
Esterházy and Königseck staring at me icily… Their eyes screamed, Have you forgotten what we told you just months ago?
"…Why must you make me spell it out?"
I rested one hand on Joseph's shoulder, waiting for the music to start.
"Do as you please—that's your charm."
Right? Yeah. I'm the empress, after all!
I started to puff up proudly for Esterházy's benefit, then thought better of it.
Esterházy still scared me.
Joseph signaled the court orchestra, and the music began.
I surrendered to his lead, sneaking glances at Maximilian from the corner of my eye.
The noblewoman in black mourning weeds and the hopelessly kind archduke.
What were they talking about…?
"Focus on me."
I let out a disbelieving chuckle.
"Jealous?"
"You pay that fool too much mind."
"Me?"
No way.
"You don't think I come to Venice so often because of Maximilian, do you?"
"No."
His face said otherwise.
"Honestly, I prefer Hungary."
Good for farming, or whatever.
Mostly the weather.
"But if I'd gone to Hungary, would you have come like this?"
"…I would have."
"Liar."
"Liar? I abandoned a war for you."
When was that?
"You really don't remember?"
Uh…
Joseph let out a short sigh.
"Our honeymoon. When you ran off to Buda."
Oh, right—that time.
It was what dragged us into the Russian alliance.
"I think I remember now."
"Thank you for choosing me then."
"It was the obvious thing to do."
"So no more jealousy. Max is just the empire's manager—but you… you're my master."
Oof… Cringe city.
It was cringe enough to kill me, but it was the perfect medicine for Joseph.
Just look at that unstoppable smile creeping up his face.
A simple emperor.
Not full-on pure love… but a pure-love emperor, sure.
"Sisi?"
"What?"
"You suddenly looked so glum."
Me? What nonsense.
"As if. I'm in a great mood today."
Unlike the last Milan tour—I'd gotten sweet revenge this time.
Now to win the subjects firmly to our side.
"This tour's packed because of the coronation, right?"
"…It has to be. We did one for Bohemia too."
Joseph donning the Iron Crown here in Milan was a declaration to the world: this land belongs to us Habsburgs.
Like Prussia proclaiming the German Empire at Versailles later on.
And besides.
"Is the legend of the Iron Crown true?"
"The one about melting down nails from Christ's cross?"
"Yeah."
"Even if it was false, time would have made it true."
…More pragmatic than romantic, surprisingly.
As Joseph opened his mouth to add more,
"Don't."
"Don't what?"
"Don't say something else cringey."
The music was winding down anyway. He glanced—against my advice—at Maximilian and asked,
"What do you think of nations?"
Well, they exist. Even illusions become real.
"We can't deny nations that have already formed."
And Habsburg culture is that of Catholicism's guardians, a multi-ethnic empire—a Vielvölkerstaat.
We can't abandon that identity. The moment we do, the Habsburg Empire ceases to exist.
"Habsburg culture is like a father with his children. It's our role as parents to care for each different child, right?"
Joseph stared at me blankly for a moment, then gripped my hand tighter.
"I see. With so many disobedient kids, the father's shoulders must ache."
"That's why happy Austria marries, no?"
My joke landed as the first piece ended.
We linked arms and headed to the edge of the floor. Joseph, beaming innocently at the returning Maximilian, saw his expression harden.
Joseph's patience so far was impressive. Without Mother-in-law and me, he'd have been fired long ago.
Liberal appeasement… Sounds great on paper.
But unlike Venice, Lombardy had gobbled up Maximilian's concessions, then deserted en masse to fight for Sardinia.
And now he's gleefully dancing with the ringleader who funded her own rebel army? In front of the emperor—his own brother?
Charlotte's face had gone deathly pale; she shook her head at her husband, but the oblivious archduke grinned like a puppy expecting praise.
I could see Joseph's lips press thin.
"Yosha."
I grabbed his arm quick and steered him to a corner of the ballroom.
"Just a moment. Please—let's catch our breath."
"…Let go."
"No."
Joseph's voice was flat, toneless. All the calmer—and scarier—for it.
"The coronation's right around the corner."
Firing or rebuking the viceroy now would backfire. The Milanese nobles would cheer that the Austrians were tearing into each other.
We had to leave that clueless Maximilian be, for now.
"Look at the vicereine. She's scrambling to cover for Max's blunder."
She'd realize by now that throwing more money around was hopeless.
Charlotte had sky-high pride. Watching her husband play the fool in front of his brother and sister-in-law—especially me, her rival—must be unbearable.
Joseph's cold gaze lingered briefly on the ashen-faced Charlotte.
He let out a short, deep sigh.
"…Idiot."
Less a curse, more a lament.
He squeezed his eyes shut, then open, reining in the urge to grab his brother's collar.
"Thank you, Yosha."
I stroked down his rigid forearm, trying to soothe the rage.
Then, in the distance, I spotted Charlotte yanking Maximilian's arm and dragging him toward the terrace.
Probably a spanking or a torrent of nagging incoming.
They'd sort themselves out.
I led Joseph out to a quiet balcony.