Chapter 14 #2
“Shh.” She swallowed hard, letting him hold her as she was holding him. There was very little comfort to give, and little use in wishing life could be other than what it was.
Their tears were interrupted by a low moan that seemed to crack Antoinette’s heart as well as the ground beneath her feet. She whirled toward the bed, her eyes flying open.
Sophie’s body convulsed and seized dramatically, her tiny frame writhing against the bed as her eyes rolled and fluttered.
“No!” Antoinette cried, reaching for her baby. “No, no, Sophie, not again!”
Louis shot to his feet and flew to the door, calling for the doctors without any composure.
Antoinette sobbed as she tried to soothe Sophie, picking up a recently discarded cloth to dampen Sophie’s brow. “Please, please, don’t—”
Doctors raced into the room and crowded around Sophie, taking her pulse and checking her eyes and mouth as she continued to moan and shake.
Gasping and losing all remaining strength, Antoinette crumpled to the floor, cradling her head in her hands as she wailed her distress.
Strong arms pulled her back from the bed but did not pick her up. No, they wrapped around her from behind and pulled her into a broad chest that she knew too well.
Louis.
She grabbed his arms and held them there, sagging against him and letting her cries rip through the room as he rocked her, his mouth at her neck, his tears wetting her shoulder.
The doctors paid them little mind as they rapidly worked and discussed with each other. Ice was brought in to try to cool the child’s raging fever, and her weak coughing began to mingle with her moans.
“Blood,” one of the doctors suddenly said, making the others fall silent.
“No!” Antoinette cried from the floor. “Please, don’t bleed her again. Not yet, she cannot bear it.”
“Hush now, love,” Louis rasped, his voice hitching as his lips dusted her neck with his words. “Let them . . . let them . . .” But he could not finish.
The youngest doctor turned to face them, his expression one of concern. “No, Majesties.” He held out a handkerchief stained with bright red spots. “She is coughing blood.”
They all stared at the offending material, and Antoinette leaned further into Louis as realization set in. “No . . . No, not again . . .”
“I do not believe she has acute tuberculosis,” the doctor went on, his voice lowering, “but I think . . .” He looked over his shoulder at the other doctors, one of whom stepped back from Sophie and lowered his eyes. “I believe we may be nearing the end.”
Antoinette’s mouth opened, but neither sound nor breath escaped her. Everything in her body stilled, from her heart to her lungs to the very blood within her.
Nothing moved. Nothing lived. There was only a vacant numbness.
Only Louis’s arms around her existed. And they were crushing in their comfort.
“No,” Louis groaned, a trembling, raw sound that shook against her back.
“But . . .” Antoinette wet her lips, trying the word again. “But she . . . she cannot . . .”
Another doctor cleared his throat. “The convulsions have ceased.”
Louis and Antoinette gasped in unison.
“She is not gone,” the doctor rushed on, holding out a consoling hand. “But her breathing is much labored, much weaker.” He tilted his head, his smile weak. “Come, Majesties. Hold your daughter.”
Antoinette stared at the kindly man, feeling Louis drop his head to her shoulder as he sniffled. Then he moved, hoisting her up to her feet with him, his arms never leaving her.
Louis walked them both to the bed, the doctors stepping back to give them room.
Sophie was still—so still it was almost frightening compared with how she had been just moments before.
Only with intense focus could Antoinette notice the rise and fall of her tiny body with her poor breaths.
Her color had only worsened and weakened, as though life was visibly draining from her skin before their eyes.
A tear splashed onto Antoinette’s hands, but she dared not look away from her baby.
Tender fingers stroked her cheek before lips dusted there. “Come, my love. Sit with her.” Gently, Louis helped her onto the bed before scooping Sophie into his arms. “Sit back,” he whispered, gesturing for her to lean against the headboard.
Antoinette moved, watching as Louis held their girl, pressing his lips to her brow, his eyes closing fiercely as tears rolled down his cheeks.
Then he laid Sophie in her waiting arms, brushing her hair back and running a finger down her plump cheek. He started to move back, but Antoinette seized his hand.
“Sit with us,” she begged breathlessly, her eyes racing to memorize every feature of Sophie’s face. “I cannot do this alone.”
Louis squeezed her hand and turned, raising her up just enough to slide in behind her. Then his arms went around her as before, cradling both her and Sophie.
“Doctors?” Antoinette murmured. “Will one of you please see that the children are brought in? They . . . they must . . .”
She could not bring herself to say the words, could barely think them.
This could not be the end. They could not say . . .
Sophie could not . . .
“Of course, Majesty.”
She did not look up to see who departed, nor did the door close behind whoever left.
She was not going to waste precious time considering details.
“My beautiful girl,” she whispered as she held Sophie close, running a finger over her brow.
Then she began to hum one of Mozart’s pieces, low and slow in a quiet lullaby.
Were there lullabies for a life? Something to soothe her heart and soul, set her at rest, and take away her fears? A gentle lullaby to soften the impending blows and give her hope? That was the only thing fitting for this moment, and perhaps this moment with Mozart would do.
Her humming was rough and raw, practically feral in its depths, but so full of feeling and pain, so desperate to soothe her baby, that every note seemed weighted.
“Children, come say . . . come say good night to our Sophie,” Louis said, his voice choked and rough.
Antoinette looked at the door to see the children and their governess hovering. She tried to smile, but there would be no hiding the tears nor the grief.
Thérèse was already crying, knowing full well the truth of the situation.
“Is . . . is she going?” Louis-Joseph asked in a trembling voice as he approached.
“Sophie might be going to heaven soon.” Louis cleared his throat. “But she may also just sleep. We simply do not know.”
Louis-Joseph stepped forward and kissed Sophie on the head. “Good night, Sophie. Please, just be sleeping.”
Louis-Charles followed suit, not quite comprehending at his tender age what was taking place.
Thérèse was the last, her lower lip quivering as she reached them.
She took Sophie’s hand in hers, bringing it to her lips and locking her finger within the tiny palm.
“Good night, sister,” she said softly. “I will come see you in the morning.” She leaned forward and kissed her head. “Please still be here.”
The governess wiped at her streaming eyes and coughed. “Come, children. Bedtime.”
They somberly filed out of the room, leaving Antoinette and Louis alone with Sophie, though one of the doctors remained in the corner of the room.
Waiting.
“Louis,” Antoinette managed around a fresh wash of tears, gripping his hand beneath Sophie. “How can we . . . how do we . . . ?”
He kissed the side of her head, shushing her even as his breath hitched on his own tears. “Sing for her again, love.”
Nodding, Antoinette began again with Mozart, losing herself to the feeling of her daughter in her arms and her husband wrapped around her. There was no time, there was no sickness, there was no impending death.
There was only love. Peace. Comfort.
It was a beautiful, transcendent series of moments that would be branded upon her memory and upon her heart as long as she lived.
Sophie’s eyes fluttered, opening at last and gazing up at her with surprising clarity.
A wrenching sob tore from Antoinette’s chest as she brushed her hand along her daughter’s cheek. “Sophie, my love.”
Sophie’s tiny lips curved into a smile, her hand coming up to rest against Antoinette’s upon her cheek.
“Little one,” Louis whispered as his own hand came up to cradle the back of Sophie’s head.
For a moment, none of them breathed or moved.
Then Sophie’s smile softened, her eyes closed, and she released a long, rasping, weak breath.
And her body stilled.
The little hand upon Antoinette’s fell to the side.
There was no sound. No movement.
No breath.
“No . . .” Antoinette stared at her baby’s porcelain complexion, willing one more breath to pass the delicate lips.
None did.
“No, no, no, no, Sophie . . .”
Her lungs hitched a painful sob against her ribs, her arms shaking.
“Oh, God, don’t take her yet, not yet, no!”
Louis’s arms tightened as a pained moan rumbled through them both, his mouth resting in the crook of Antoinette’s neck.
“Sophie, love, please, no!” Antoinette whispered, her fingers tracing the young face, lips, chin, throat. “Come back.”
The doctor quietly stepped closer and took Sophie’s pulse while Antoinette began to rock.
Louis did not move from his place behind her, nor did he raise his face from her neck, now rapidly dampening from his tears.
“I am so sorry, Majesties,” the doctor said. “She is gone.”
Antoinette barely felt the tears upon her cheeks, though she could taste them when they hit her lips.
Her Sophie. Her sweet baby.
“My love,” she breathed, lifting Sophie’s body against her chest to hold her as she had done as a newborn. “My little love.”
“My condolences,” the doctor told them. “Perhaps . . . with her youth, it helps. In that you might not have been . . . overly attached yet.”
Antoinette shook her head, her eyes squeezing shut. “No. You are mistaken. You forget—she would have been my friend.”
More than her friend. Her sons belonged to France; that was their birthright. But her daughters . . .
They were truly hers.
And now one was lost.
She pressed her lips to Sophie’s head, then broke down in pained but silent sobs as Louis held them both tightly in his arms.