insisted that she would give birth to an archduke. He lost by the birth
of the Princess, and had executed in porcelain a figure with one knee bent
on the earth, and presenting tablets, upon which the following lines by
Metastasio were engraved:

I lose by your fair daughter's birth
Who prophesied a son;
But if she share her mother's worth,
Why, all the world has won!

The Queen was fond of talking of the first years of her youth. Her
father, the Emperor Francis, had made a deep impression upon her heart;
she lost him when she was scarcely seven years old. One of those
circumstances which fix themselves strongly in the memories of children
frequently recalled his last caresses to her. The Emperor was setting out
for Innspruck; he had already left his palace, when he ordered a gentleman
to fetch the Archduchess Marie Antoinette, and bring her to his carriage.
When she came, he stretched out his arms to receive her, and said, after
having pressed her to his bosom, "I wanted to embrace this child once
more." The Emperor died suddenly during the journey, and never saw his
beloved daughter again.

The Queen often spoke of her mother, and with profound respect, but she
based all her schemes for the education of her children on the essentials
which had been neglected in her own. Maria Theresa, who inspired awe by
her great qualities, taught the Archduchesses to fear and respect rather
than to love her; at least I observed this in the Queen's feelings towards
her august mother. She therefore never desired to place between her own
children and herself that distance which had existed in the imperial
family. She cited a fatal consequence of it, which had made such a