wishes of the nation that the expected child should prove an heir to the throne; and he consequently feared that, should it not be so, the disappointment might produce an injurious effect on the mother’s health; or, should their hopes be realized, that the excessive joy might be equally dangerous.  With a desire, therefore, to avoid exposing her to either shock in the first moments of weakness, he forbade any announcement of the sex of the child being made to any one but himself.  The instant that the child was born, he hastened to the bedside to judge for himself whether she could bear the news.  Presently she came to herself; and it seemed to her that the general silence indicated that she had become the mother of a second daughter.  But she desired to be assured of the fact.  “See,” said she to Louis, “how reasonable I am.  I ask no questions.[2]” And Louis, who from joy was scarcely able to contain himself, seeing her freedom from agitation, thought he might safely reveal to her the whole extent of their happiness.  He called out, so as to be heard by the Princess de Guimenee, who still held the post of governess to the royal children, and who had already exhibited the child to the witnesses in the antechamber, and was now awaiting his summons at the open door, “My lord the dauphin begs to be admitted.”  The Princess de Guimenee brought “my lord the dauphin” to his mother’s arms, and for a few minutes the small company in the room gazed in respectful silence while the father and mother mingled tears of joy with broken words of thanksgiving.

Yet even in this moment of exultation Marie Antoinette could not forget her first-born, nor the feelings which had made her rejoice at the birth of a daughter, who still had, as it were, no rival in her eyes, because no rival claim to her own could be set up with respect to a princess.  She kissed the long-wished-for infant over and over again; pressed him fondly to her heart; and then, after she had perused each feature with anxious scrutiny, and pointed out some resemblances, such as mothers see, to his father, “Take him,” said she, to Madame de Guimenee; “he belongs to the State; but my daughter is still mine.[3]”

Presently the chamber was cleared; and in a few minutes the glad tidings were carried to every corner of the palace and town of Versailles, and, as speedily as expresses could gallop, to the anxious city of Paris.  By a somewhat whimsical coincidence, the Count de Stedingk, who, from having been one of the intended hunting-party, had been admitted into the antechamber, rushing down-stairs in his haste to spread the intelligence, met the Countess de Provence on the staircase.  “It is a dauphin, madame,” he cried; “what a happy event!” The countess made him no reply.  Nor did she or her husband pretend to disguise their mortification.  The Count d’Artois was a little less open in the display of his discontent, which was, however, sufficiently notorious.  But, with these exceptions, all France, or at least all France sufficiently near the court to feel any personal interest in its concerns, was unanimous in its exultation.