The Last Great Dance on Earth by Sandra Gulland Page B

spa, I had only Mimi for company. My life has become so complex—now we require a carriage just for our trunks of ball gowns.
    July 8 (I think)—Toul, very hot.
    We have stopped for a few moments at an inn while the horses are changed and the wheels cooled—tempers cooled. The girls are lively, Signora Letizia disapproving, Colonel Rapp ill. I endure.
    July 10
—
Plombières-les-Bains.
    We’ve arrived, at last—the trip was harrowing. *
    July 13—Plombières-les-Bains.
    “Madame Bonaparte,” the spa doctor said, regarding me with rheumy eyes, “I, more than anyone, understand the delicate nature of this subject. When the reproductive powers are defective, few women have the courage to speak to a physician. It is evidence of your sincere wish to give your husband the fruit of your love that you have returned to Plombières. The condition can be rectified, but first you must tell me
everything.”
    “Everything?” Flushing, I recounted the efforts Bonaparte and I had made to produce a child—the periods of abstinence followed by periods of coital activity, the techniques Bonaparte had undertaken in order to expel slowly, the herbs I’d taken to increase my “receptivity.”
    “And yet nothing.” Dr. Martinet studied the thick file of papers. “From what your doctor in Paris indicates, there hasn’t been a show since …”
    “For over a year,” I admitted. And that merely a hint.
    “On your previous visit, we ruled out malformation of the canal. As well, the feminine characteristics are clearly in evidence.” He pushed his spectacles onto the bridge of his nose. “It’s therefore likely that a morbid condition of the blood is to blame.”
    I felt my cheeks becoming heated. Did he think I might have some shameful disease?
    “A chronic decline! When the blood has become bankrupt, there often follows a failure of the reproductive function, leading to derangement.” His spectacles magnified his eyes. “It is generally believed that an enfeebled uterus is the cause, but I am of the opinion that that organ is entirely dependent.”
    “Oh?” I said, confused.
    “The causes of a uterine decline are indolence, nutritional perversion or the taking of drastic medicines.”
    Did he suspect me of indolence? “I eat well,” I said, wondering what constituted nutritional perversion and whether Mimi’s rabbit-bone remedy might be considered a drastic medicine. Three knife-tips of bone shaved off the ankle of a rabbit shot on one of the first three Fridays in March were believed to stimulate the uterus. (But had failed to stimulate mine, alas.)
    “Of course you do, Madame Bonaparte!
In your
case, acute suppression of the menses was caused by a violent disturbance, suffered due to imprisonment during the Terror. Such derangement of the blood calls for
baths:
foot baths, sitz baths, even vapour baths are proven to be beneficial.”
    “I take baths daily, Dr. Martinet.” A practice Mimi considered ruinous.
    “And you’ve been ingesting the uterine tonic I prescribed?”
    “The viburnum? Dutifully.” I sat forward on the hard oak chair. “Dr. Martinet, may I ask you something?” I ventured hesitantly, clutching my fan. “I’m thirty-seven years old, as you know—far from young, admittedly, but not yet what one could call …” I paused, not knowing what word to use. “You once suggested it possible that I was in the turn of life.” * And if so, could I please turn back?
    July 17.
    When not taking the waters and all manner of remedies, I’m entirely occupied with delicate and time-consuming discussions sounding out the parents of prospective husbands for my lovely but persnickety daughter. There are a few excellent possibilities. I am hopeful.
    Sunday afternoon, July 26.
    “I don’t like him.” Hortense crossed her arms over her chest.
    “But Hortense,” I said, trying not to let my exasperation show, “Eugène even recommends him. Citoyen Robiquet is a gentleman, intelligent and well-educated.