20TH OF MARCH.—THE ACCOUCHEMENT OF THE EMPRESS.
20th.—After dinner one of us observed to the Emperor that he had been less solitary, less quiet, that day twelve-month at the same hour. “I was sitting down to table at the Tuileries,” said the Emperor. “I had found it difficult to get thither: the dangers I went through in that attempt were at least equal to those of a battle.” In fact he had been seized, on his arrival, by thousands of officers and citizens; one party had snatched him from another; he had been carried to the palace, and, amidst a tumult like that of a mob about to tear a man to pieces, instead of the orderly and respectful attendance of a multitude intent on shewing their veneration for an individual. But we ought to look at the sentiment and intention in this case: it was enthusiasm, and love, carried to a pitch that resembled rage or madness.
The Emperor added that in all probability more than one person in Europe would talk of him that evening; and that, in spite of all observation, many a bottle would be emptied on his account.
The conversation then turned on the King of Rome; that day was the anniversary of his birth; the Emperor reckoned that he must be five years old. He then spoke of the accouchement of the Empress, and seemed to take some pleasure in boasting that he had proved himself, on that occasion, as good a husband as any in the world. He assisted the Empress to walk about all night. We who were of the household knew something of the matter; we had all been called together at the palace at ten in the evening; we passed the night there; and the cries of the Empress sometimes reached our ears. Towards morning the accoucheur having told the Emperor that the pains had ceased, and that the labour might yet be tedious, the Emperor went to the bath, and sent us away, desiring us, however, not to go from home. The Emperor had not been long in the bath, when the pains came on again; and the accoucheur ran to him, almost out of his wits, saying he was the most unfortunate of men; that out of a thousand labours in Paris there was not one more difficult. The Emperor, dressing himself again as fast as he could, encouraged him, saying that a man who understood his business ought never to lose his presence of mind; that there was nothing in this case that he ought to be uneasy about; that he had only to fancy he was delivering a citizen’s wife of the Rue Saint-Denis: that nature had but one law; that he was sure he would act for the best; and, above all, that he need not fear any reproach. It was then represented to the Emperor that there was great danger either for the mother or the child. “If the mother lives,” said he, without hesitation, "I shall have another child. Act in this case as if you were attending the birth of a cobbler’s son."