Has it really been two years? Many times I have picked up my pen to continue, but laid it down again defeated by the events which have seemed both too swift and endless at once. When last I wrote we were preparing for the King's hunt, an episode which should have signaled much joy, but which proved misadventurous instead. I must out with the truth, no use in delaying. Thierry suffered a fall from his horse during the hunt, and though he seemed at first little injured with no apparent broken bones, he soon slipped into a sleep from which he could not be woken. Nine days into his endless sleep I inquired of the doctor on another matter and received the glad news that I was enceinte though I had little dared to hope for a child at that point.
Thierry lingered into August of that year before expiring as gracefully as he had lived. Our child soon followed only a few weeks later, dead before it could live. My mistress, the Princess Elisabeth, with great kindness and gentleness, released me to mourn and recover at my home in Saint-Saturnin, where I stayed for the better part of the last two years.
Grief knows no safe place, however. Word of Christine's death in Sweden in childbirth in early January of 1785 was followed swiftly by that of one of my aunt's, the apparent suicide of my mother's brother who did grieve her terribly, and then that of my sweet Reinette whom I found dead one October morning with little warning. I do not lie when I say that it was all I might do for some time thereafter to merely rise in the morning and live myself.
Meanwhile the royal family have had their own difficulties, with the Affair of the Necklace only recently subsiding in May of this year. The Queen is naturally acquitted of blame, but that does not stop the wagging tongues of Paris who continue to abuse her reputation most pitilessly. There is now, though, a second young Prince, Louis Charles, and the sweetest baby Princess, Sophie, the latter of whom was only born a month ago. I, being for the last three months back at Versailles, have had the great fortune of seeing this newest child of France myself thanks to the unending support of my benefactress, Madame Elisabeth. Though she cannot now offer me the position in her household which once I held, she continues to champion my cause ensuring that a small pension is mine owing to the death of the Marquis. I remain Comtesse in my own right, but the title of Marquise de Mercoeur will die with me or be forfeited upon my remarriage.
The possibility of remarriage is on my mind, as I am very nearly too old for childbearing unless it be quite soon. There is, I confess, a young Chevalier, eldest son and heir to an old and established House, who declares his affections daily and with whom I am not at all sorry to have become better acquainted. Tongues do wag at the prospect of our union, however, as he is 14 years my junior!
Even this little missive tires me, and my new puppy tugs at the hem of my dress urging me to play. I must go. I begin to hope again, but in my hope is such fear. Is it a friend or false-faced demon, I wonder.
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