Chapter 86
Chapter 86
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Translator: Wjin
Chapter: 086
Chapter Title: Model Dad
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“Ohhh! Finally! Finally, I’m getting a grandson! You rascal, Franz! My treasure Theresa! I knew you could do it!”
The moment word spread that Theresa was suffering from morning sickness, the Hofburg Palace shook as if an earthquake had struck—no exaggeration.
“Congratulations, Your Majesty!”
“Your Highness Theresa! May you deliver a healthy son!”
“Rest! Absolute rest is key!”
“Long live His Majesty the Emperor! Long live Their Highnesses Theresa and Franz!”
In a monarchy, it’s not just son-preference bias that makes males feel more reassuring than females.
In this era, infertility or failing to produce a son was seen as the woman’s fault first and foremost, and the risks of childbirth overwhelmingly fell on her.
Besides, while a woman could die in labor, a man never faced such danger.
Still, confirming the pregnancy meant they’d cleared one major hurdle, and at just twenty, Theresa had a bright future ahead.
Once the midwife, nurse, and doctor all concurred that pregnancy was highly likely, Charles VI’s excitement shot straight to the heavens.
To be precise, it wasn’t just Charles VI—the church jumped on the bandwagon too.
“From now on, every church will offer three days of continuous blessings, and the monasteries will hold Eucharistic adoration praying for Her Highness Theresa to bear a son!”
“The citizens’ guild will join in! On the day Her Highness Theresa delivers a son, wine prices will drop ten percent!”
My feelings watching all this could be summed up in one phrase.
‘Get a grip.’
“Your Highness Franz! What will you do once your son is born?”
“Have you already chosen a name, by chance?”
Other countries had it too, but German-speaking lands especially harbored a strong preference for boys.
And with Charles VI haunted lifelong by his failure to sire a son, expecting a grandson wasn’t unreasonable.
It had been exactly this atmosphere in my past life too, and reliving it now wasn’t exactly pleasant.
Just recall how heartbroken Theresa had been when she gave birth to a daughter amid all this.
The planned cannon salute fired only half its rounds, and the massive street festival was canceled outright.
At that point, it felt like she was being treated as a criminal for not producing a son.
Of course, being just her first birth, no one said it outright, but the palace air had reeked of disappointment— a memory still fresh as yesterday.
So someone had to set things straight.
“Hahaha! Keep up the good work, Franz. If you keep at it, won’t this empire get two or three sturdy heirs to prop it up? I’d have no regrets seeing just three grandsons.”
“Son or daughter, Theresa is the most precious. Her health and happiness come first.”
“Right, right. That’s how you love a wife—then the children will keep coming. Good attitude.”
Still, a son would be nice.
I brushed off Charles VI’s obvious hints, but Theresa couldn’t—she seemed bothered by the court’s mood.
One evening, alone together, she sipped lukewarm water instead of wine and suddenly asked,
“Do you think it’ll be a boy or a girl?”
“Girl.”
“Right? A boy would be ni—huh? What did you say?”
Her eyes went wide at my instant reply, no hesitation.
Then she chuckled, scooted close, and leaned against me.
“My husband’s the best. Saying that to ease my worries. But it’s fine—I can handle the truth.”
“No, that was the truth.”
Honestly, boy or girl—what did it matter?
For a first birth, Theresa’s health was all that counted.
But now that she was pregnant, our first child from my past life inevitably came to mind.
Maria Elisabeth.
Our firstborn, so precious she never seemed to tire the eyes.
Her agony at the Laxenburg hunting lodge, clutching her stomach before departing for heaven—that wound lingered eternally.
Even in an era of high infant mortality, no parent could shrug it off as “just how it is” when it’s their own story.
Elisabeth wasn’t the only one.
Carolina, Joseph, Gabriella too.
All those children, gone before they could bloom, buried deep in my heart without exception.
Maybe that’s why.
This couldn’t atone or anything—it bordered on self-satisfaction—but I was determined to raise this first child of ours into a fine adult, come hell or high water.
No reason it had to be a girl, but thinking a girl would be fine stemmed from our first having been one.
Theresa couldn’t know my inner thoughts, though, so she took my answer differently and laughed softly.
“Got it, got it. Still, the fuss lately is getting ridiculous. All that pressure—it’s bad for the mother, isn’t it?”
“Yeah. He’s carrying on like ‘dare fail to produce a son,’ and honestly, I wanna flick his forehead. If he weren’t the emperor...”
“Didn’t he say he no longer regretted not having a son? Total lie. Or maybe sons and grandsons don’t count the same?”
“Could be. He’s even inviting me to special masses now. Who knew he had so much free time.”
Praying desperately won’t bend the universe, and God won’t drop a boy on command.
That’s just prosperity gospel.
If this world’s God truly wanted health, He’d balance the sex ratio perfectly.
“Anyway, Theresa, don’t let idiots sway you—focus on your health. I’ve already instructed the maids, so no worries, but personal effort matters too. You get me?”
“Yeah. Thanks for caring. But it’s weird—you’re so calm. Like you’ve fathered kids with other women before?”
“If I panic, you’ll panic too.”
I bluffed shamelessly, but truth was, this was just my seventeenth go-round.
First time, I’d freaked out at her slightest cough—calling doctors, pacing, total mess.
“Anyway, we’ll do this ten more times easy, so no need to overdo it. Boy or girl, doesn’t matter. Have ten or more, and four or five’ll be boys for sure, right?”
“...You’re planning over ten before even the first?”
“Of course!”
Ten kids meant roughly a decade pregnant—normal folk would call it a throwaway line.
But I knew better.
Theresa, when she committed, she delivered.
Sixteen pregnancies and births in my past life—she was fertility incarnate.
Considering that, health worries might be overkill.
I’d admired her back then, but with 21st-century hindsight? Pure awe.
Three kids made you a patriot; sixteen?
Even in a fertile era, that was legendary.
Over twenty straight years of childbearing.
Her indifference to gender probably sprang from ironclad confidence she could have more anytime.
“Still, early pregnancy means absolute rest—don’t forget. Follow what I wrote down to the letter. Got it?”
I’d mandated three key measures for the mother-to-be.
-For clean hydration, boil all drinking water once and cool it. Place one silver spoon in the jug to curb bacterial growth.
-Include iron- and folate-rich foods in every meal, even small amounts.
-Rotate bedding and furs regularly to block fleas and ticks.
Some were already standard, but by modern standards, hygiene lagged—so I took charge.
This was mother and fetus health, after all.
Fuss over this, not the baby’s sex.
She watched me fluff pillows and air the room with a fond smile, then smacked her palm as if remembering something.
“Oh, right—you’ve been heading to the lab more lately? Because of that rifle upgrade you showed me?”
“No. That’s mostly done; I just check progress occasionally now. This is a whole different project.”
“Huh? You’ve got so much on your plate already—why now? Don’t make life harder for yourself.”
“Because it has to be now.”
Various practical hurdles had delayed it before, but no more excuses.
What disease always tops the top five causes of infant death in 18th-century royalty?
Many contenders, but smallpox never missed the list.
So for our soon-to-be child’s birth gift, few blessings rivaled eradicating smallpox.
This was the best a father could do.
◇◇◇◆◇◇◇ How horrific and terrifying smallpox is requires no elaboration—lips would just ache repeating it.
Unbelievably contagious, often life-threatening for children, the worst infectious scourge.
Even survivors bore pockmarked faces forever, making it a symbol of dread by mere existence.
No cure, not even the vaccine concept, meant zero prevention in this era—fueling the terror.
King or commoner, noble or peasant—struck down equally, or scarred indelibly if they lived.
Yet paradoxically, preventing this killer disease was ridiculously simple.
Once infected, survivors gained immunity, never catching it twice.
Oddly, just suffering mild cowpox granted the same smallpox immunity.
In plain terms: endure a mere blister rash, and you’re smallpox-proof for life.
Well-managed, cowpox could even spread artificially—so without true vaccines, prevention was a breeze.
Yet despite knowing this, I’d postponed cowpox rollout for several reasons.
First, current tech couldn’t refrigerate; cowpox lymph lost potency after two days.
Glycerin in corked glass vials stretched it to a week, but prepping each one was laborious.
Worse, injecting cow-derived pus repulsed viscerally—no way around it.
Divine revelation or Franz’s genius insight wouldn’t convince anyone.
Racking my brain might yield ideas, but wars with France and the Ottomans left no bandwidth.
Theresa’s pregnancy changed that—sleep be damned, cowpox had to happen now.
Three of my past-life children lost young to smallpox.
“Y-Your Highness! Even so, injecting this into your body...”
“Why? Haven’t we verified it’s harmless?”
“Still, unknown side effects could...”
“I’ll vaccinate my child next year, so naturally, I lead by example.”
“Y-You’re really pushing this through?”
I silently injected the self-made cowpox lymph.
This moment would echo through history.
Refuse it yourself? Fine. But block my kids’ smallpox vaccine? Never.
“Announce it officially: Franz Stefan has conquered smallpox.”
I’d prepped a heartwarming tale to slash initial resistance.
-I could’ve patented this for riches, but Franz Stefan created cowpox for his unborn child, so he’ll distribute it free.
This gift, from our soon-to-arrive child, saves all smallpox sufferers.
How touching.
Praise and blessings worth far more than coins would pour in.
Thus, as Theresa’s belly swelled, word spread across Vienna: Franz Stefan had triumphed over smallpox.