She called him [Jacques Armand] my child, and lavished tender est caresses upon him, still maintaining a deep silence respecting the affliction which constantly occupied her heart.
My longing for children was growing more and more intense. I had increased my little family of dogs, but although I loved them dearly they could not compensate me for my overwhelming desire to be a mother.
When my sister-in-law gave birth to a son I longed to be in her place.
When she called out in agony I wished that agony were mine. She lay exhausted yet somehow exalted-quite unlike the unattractive little creature I had known before this. The miracle had happened to her. She was a mother.
I heard her voice raised half hopefully half fearfully; and I could imagine her feelings when she received the answer.
“A little Prince, Madame …” —the words every Princess and Queen must wish to hear.
She answered: “My God! How happy I am! And how well I understood ! The child was well and healthy; the sound of his crying filled the apartment; it seemed the most magical sound in the world.
We left the apartment, I with my attendants, the chief of whom was the Princesse de Lamballe, my dear friend whom I had set up in place of Madame de Noailles. I grew fonder and fonder of my dear Lamballe every day and I did not know what I would do without her. I had now secured the services of Jeanne Louise Henriette Genet, the little lectrice
She was now Madame Campan, having married Monsieur Campan’s son. She was devoted and good and I did not know what I would do without her either, but of course she was not of the same rank as the Princesse, and had her re1e as one of my trusted attendants rather than a close friend who could accompany me to fetes and balls.
As we came out of the lying-in chamber and through the chateau we were met by a crowd of women from the Halles of Paris. It was the custom of the public to be present at the time of royal births, although it was only the Queen who must give birth publicly; at the births of lesser members of the royal family only the family need be present. But the fact that a royal child was being born was the nation’s concern, and although the people were not allowed to enter the Comtesse’s bedchamber they were in the chateau.
Thus as I walked through to my apartments, the Princesse de Lamballe beside me and Madame Campan a few paces behind, I found that the women from Les Halles were all about me. They looked at me with that frank curiosity to which I had grown accustomed. I tried hard not to wrinkle
my nose against the smell of fish—for these were the pois sardes, who above all the Paris traders were noted for their frankness of expression as they crowded about me, touching my clothes, my hands.
My hands fascinated them particularly: my fingers were so long and slender, the skin so soft and white, and of course they were aglitter with my beloved diamonds.
One woman thrust her face close to mine and, jerking her head towards the lying-in chamber, said: “You ought to be in there, Madame. You ought to be breeding heirs for France, not fondling your lady friends.”
I saw the Princesse flinch; and I believe my colour heightened a little, but I merely held my head high and tried to walk through the crowd.
“You should sleep with the King instead of dancing through the night and early morning.”
These women may have seen me riding home from the Opera at dawn when they were making their way to the markets.
Someone laughed.
“They say he can’t … is it true?”
The coarse laughter.
“You should see that he can, Madame. j This was becoming unbearable. The stench of these bodies, the insulting words which were growing more and more crude every moment!
Was it not enough that I had had to see my sister-in-law with her newly-born son in her arms? Must I now have to listen to coarse insults which I did not deserve?
Madame Campan was beside me. I saw her with calm dignity making a path, forcing a way through the crowd. My dearest Lamballe was not much use on such an occasion.
“The Queen is exhausted …” said Madame Campan.
The crude jest which followed that made me shudder; but I would have no more of it. After all, I was Queen of France. In my most regal manner I walked through that crowd of shouting women as though I could not see them, could not hear them, as though they did not exist. When I was in my apartment I heard their shouting behind me; I saw the tearful face of the Princesse, the calm one of Madame Campan.
I said: “Leave me … with Madame Campan.” And when the door shut on us I could restrain my sell no longer. I threw myself on to my bed and wept.
When I told my husband of the incident, he was saddened.
“It is so unfair … so unfair….” I stopped.
“Is it my fault?”
And seeing die stricken look on his face: “Is it our fault?”
He tried to comfort me and I whispered to him, “There is only one answer. The petite operation ” Yes,” he replied.
“Yes.”
I gripped his shoulders, my face alight with hope.
“You will …?”
“I will consider.”
I sighed. For so long he had been considering. It was nearly six years. What was he afraid of? The scalpel? Surely not. He was no coward. It was the indignity. The people would know;
they would speculate; they would watch. Even now, every time he came to my bedchamber they knew; they doubtless calculated the number of hours he spent there. It was this continual watchfulness which was ruining our lives. If only they would have left us alone I “You will.. you will see the doctors?”
He nodded. He wanted to give me all I asked; and I had made it clear that I wanted children above all things.
When he had left me I sat down and wrote to my mother:
“I have high hopes that I shall persuade the King to undergo that little operation which is all that is necessary.”
My mother wrote back that I must keep her informed, and I obeyed her.
I told her everything, but I do not think she could understand the effect this continuing situation was having on me. I was twenty; I was young, extremely healthy. It was not as though I lived the life of a normal virgin. There were these constant frustrating attempts which failed. I was restless and unhappy; I turned away from my husband and then towards him. He had seen the doctors; he had asked for all details of the necessary operation; he had examined the instruments which would have to be used, and bad come back to me.
I believe,” he said, ‘that in time this will right itself of its own accord.”
My heart sank. He could not face the operation. We were to go on in the old unsatisfactory way.
Every time he came to my apartments by way of the Oeil de Boeuf the crowds would be there watching him. The lampoons and chansons were increasing. We were no longer the young King and Queen who were going to create a Miracle and make France a land flowing with milk and honey; we had had the guerre des farines; we were an impotent young man and a frivolous young woman. The knowledge that while we were together those people were speculating on our actions disturbed us. We both began to dread these encounters. Yet we must do our duty. It was my idea that we should have a secret staircase built between the King’s bedchainber and mine so that he could visit me without anyone’s knowing when.
We did this and it comforted us, but the position was unchanged, and I knew it would be until he submitted to the petite operation.
I wrote to my mother:
“On the most unhappy point which troubles my dear mother, I am most unhappy to be unable to tell her anything new. This is certainly no fault of mine. I can only rely on patience and sweetness.”
But I was anxious for her to know that although my husband failed me in this one thing, in all other matters I had nothing of which to complain.