Chapter 89
Chapter 89
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Translator: Wjin
Chapter: 089
Chapter Title: The Blessed Child
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What makes epidemics so terrifying is that they claim lives regardless of social status.
This smallpox outbreak was no different.
Among the nobles who had been living lavish lives in London and Paris, several lost beloved children, and even among those who survived, a significant number were left with horrific scars they would carry for life.
Especially in this era, death tolls weren't tallied swiftly, so the actual number of victims was undoubtedly higher.
The reported 2,000 deaths didn't mean exactly 2,000 had perished—it was safe to assume at least that many, if not more.
Normally, such information wasn't shared promptly, but this time was different.
This was the first smallpox epidemic since Austria had declared they'd found a way to eradicate it.
Naturally, intelligence networks embedded in every country prioritized investigating the scale of the smallpox damage and reporting back home.
And, as expected...
"37 people? Thirty-seven?"
"...Must be some mistake."
"They didn't mean 370?"
"No, sir. They double- and triple-checked, and even conducted their own investigations to confirm."
The rulers of various nations were stunned beyond belief upon hearing Austria's absurdly low casualty figures.
Countries that had been preparing variolation inoculations in line with the Papal Bull were somewhat relieved.
They were astonished by the results that far exceeded expectations, but it didn't mean their own choices had been wrong.
On the contrary, they begged Austria to send even more technicians as quickly as possible.
Honestly, at this point, money was no object.
What could be the problem with being forever freed from smallpox?
Above all, kings and nobles wanted to be the first to reap the benefits, making Austrian technicians worth their weight in gold.
The revenue from the variolation supply labs that Karl and Wertheimer had established in Rome skyrocketed accordingly.
"We want to send people as fast as possible, but demands are pouring in from all over the world. We'll staff up as quickly as we can, so please just wait a little longer!"
"Then at least tell us how our royal family can get inoculated sooner! My child is only three—if they catch smallpox, their life could be in danger!"
"If dispatching technicians is delayed, couldn't we just go to Vienna or Rome ourselves for the inoculation?"
The common folk could wait, but they and their families needed immunity as soon as possible.
This atmosphere rapidly spread through noble society, putting France—a Catholic nation that had stubbornly dismissed it as "Yeah, Franz is full of crap"—in an awkward position.
"Haa... tsk. Why must His Majesty be so stubbornly obstinate over nothing."
"Couldn't we just try this variolation thing ourselves?"
"The principle has been published, but what if we botch it and cause side effects? I want the safest method possible..."
They could've just accepted the Pope's endorsement, gritted their teeth, said "Thank you for His Holiness's grace," and taken in the Austrian technicians.
But with Louis XV's pigheadedness leaving them without smallpox immunity, the French nobles gleefully tore into their king.
Cardinal Fleury! You're the Prime Minister, but first and foremost a cardinal—please persuade His Majesty to heed the Church's will!"
"If this weren't a blessing from God Himself, how could it be so definitively effective? Refusing it invites divine punishment—heavenly retribution!"
"At this rate, we'll be the only Catholic nation with smallpox deaths. What a humiliation!"
"...I agree. Leave it to me; I'll take responsibility and convince His Majesty."
Fleury appealed to Louis XV that the nobles' anxiety was amplifying and they should bow their heads here just this once.
Louis XV wasn't a fool of a king, so he eventually decided to yield on this point.
He judged that pointless stubbornness could make it hard to secure noble support if war with Austria arose later.
At least France, being Catholic from the start, could claim a moral victory by saying they bowed to save the Pope's face.
The real problems were Britain and the Ottomans.
"Prime Minister! What are you going to do about this?!"
"Take responsibility!"
"Responsibility, my foot! We all happily trashed the Pope together, and now you're dumping it all on the Prime Minister? Isn't that too shameless?"
"The Church is formally protesting too. They preached in line with His Majesty's and Parliament's wishes—what are we supposed to do now?"
"His Majesty is expressing strong displeasure, saying he merely followed Parliament's lead."
This is maddening.
For this moment, glorious Great Britain's Prime Minister Robert Walpole felt an urge to wring the necks of every yammering MP over there.
If he'd said they didn't know the effects yet and to wait and see, they would've thrown a fit, claiming it looked like capitulating to Papal pressure.
Ridiculous.
"What's done is done—let's discuss what to do next before pointing fingers. Austria says they'll dispatch technicians if we ask. What should we reply?"
"First off, is that report of only 37 deaths from smallpox really true? Not fabricated?"
"We have to assume it's factual for now."
"Was it really smallpox? Not some other fever that just looked similar?"
"It's confirmed by our agents on the ground, and even Ambassador Robert vouches for it. No room for doubt."
No one had dared imagine such dramatic effectiveness.
Moreover, Franz clearly knew Britain had mocked them, yet he magnanimously extended a hand first.
With the situation like this, taking the hand was problematic, and refusing it even more so.
The former would make them the laughingstock now; the latter would flip public opinion against them as still clueless.
"Let's accept the technical support for now... How about rebranding it? Call it our own British method, distinct from the Papal one?"
"Good. That's the best we can do."
"Rephrase it in the most neutral terms possible and muddle through."
It was just covering their eyes and pretending, but publicly admitting they were wrong was out of the question.
With mighty Great Britain in that position, the Ottomans weren't much different.
They went further, twisting facts by claiming it was all Austrian disinformation and that over 1,500 had actually died.
Meanwhile, they sent agents to ferret out how to mass-inoculate variolation.
Lie upon lie.
If exposed, it'd be utter humiliation, but they had no better options.
Emboldened by this triumph, the Papacy issued yet another shocking proclamation.
📜 PAPAL DECREE 📜 [We recognize Franz Stefan's achievements as a miracle from God. Should he heed the Lord's call in the future, we shall initiate the process of beatification.] Canon law prevented promising canonization posthumously as a saint, but this was tantamount to such a pledge.
Initiating beatification meant registering him as a saint candidate.
The snowball that started with eradicating disease was rolling bigger and faster than anticipated.
◇◇◇◆◇◇◇ Being recognized as a posthumous saint was an immense blessing and honor for any Catholic.
What if one heard while still alive that they'd be registered as a saint candidate?
"Every churchgoer in the world would revere you."
"No, that's too much. If I were clergy, I'd drop to my knees here and shout hallelujah and amen, but I'm a politician."
"True, it's a cumbersome title."
Being considered for posthumous sainthood meant every future action would be judged by saintly standards.
Your Holiness, I get you're pleased, but isn't this overkill?
Still, on second thought, it wasn't entirely detrimental to me.
Speaking through the Habsburg court, I issued an official response to the Vatican.
[This is no miracle I wrought; such an honor is too much for me to bear. All this is a gift from the Lord for the child soon to be born to me. I can only pray that the child's future be filled with blessings.] The God-sent miracle was for our child, not me.
With this official stance nailed down, even the Pope wouldn't push saint candidacy on me anymore.
Of course, calling me Saint Emperor Franz after death would be welcome, but I had no desire for such shackles in life.
But that's that, and this is this.
The mere fact of saint candidacy talk for a living person elevated my standing in the Empire sky-high.
Bonus: The busybodies speculating on the baby's gender in Theresa's womb vanished overnight.
The bishops themselves raised the issue gravely.
"Prayers for a son are fine, but if Her Highness births a daughter after this, the rites themselves could be deemed irreverent, defying God's will."
"I concur. The one in Her Highness's womb is a gift akin to the miracle that saved the world from smallpox's plague. Son or daughter—what does it matter?"
"You're right. Prayers for a male heir end today."
This reached Charles VI directly, and with such compelling theological logic, even he couldn't object.
After all, who would say "Still, a daughter would be disappointing" when their own bloodline was treated as a divine miracle?
Even Charles VI risked being labeled a senile emperor.
Soon after Vienna was swept in festival-like fervor...
The bells of St. Stephen's Cathedral, rousing the city at dawn, rang longer than usual.
The tacit signal that Theresa had gone into labor.
In one corner of the market square, merchants with young children opened a free communal kitchen of their own accord, while in the imperial chapel, the archbishop began Mass beside a commemorative silver coin stamped with a cow's face.
I prayed fervently at the front, hoping only for Theresa's safe delivery.
"Hoo..."
This was my seventeenth time awaiting my wife's labor, yet tension gripped me all the same in this moment.
How many hours had passed?
As murmurs grew outside, I sprang up and rushed to her room with the archbishop.
By now, the court physician would have confirmed the baby's sex, and the secretary was likely drafting the official birth announcement with the time.
As everyone outside the delivery room gripped their hands and eyed the emperor nervously...
"Nata Principissa! (A princess is born!) Nata Principissa!"
The chamberlain—tasked with witnessing the entire birth—proclaimed it thunderously twice.
"Nata Principissa!"
The chief court valet, receiving the child from him, shouted it again, then stepped out to the balcony to announce to the musicians and guards in the square below: a princess had been born.
The déjà vu was vivid, like reliving the memory of our firstborn years ago.
That time, the room had frozen awkwardly, weighing on me too—but not this time.
Charles VI blinked with faint regret for a moment, then laughed heartily and turned to the archbishop.
"Well, well, it seems God gifted us an era free of smallpox instead of a grandson. I had a feeling it'd be something like this."
"Yes, Your Majesty. The Church's official view is that this is a blessing bestowed upon Your Majesty and Her Highness."
Boom-boom-boom!
As cannon salutes heralded the new royal birth, all assembled nobles bowed toward the emperor and me.
"The first generation free from smallpox is born on this glorious day! Congratulations, Your Majesty!"
"Congratulations!"
Yes. This is the Austria that is right.
About 20 minutes later, the moment the midwife permitted male entry, I hurried into the room.
By Austrian court protocol, a father's first embrace lasts barely three minutes—but those were the most precious three minutes in the world to me.
Maria Elisabeth.
My angel, who left this world too young for anyone to even realize everyone at court had wanted a son, not a daughter.
If our first child was a girl, I'd name her this—I'd vowed it to Theresa even before she conceived.
Taking the bundled infant carefully from the midwife, I made the sign of the cross on her forehead and greeted her.
"Nice to meet you, Elisabeth. I'm your daddy."
This time... no matter what, I'll protect you until you grow into an adult.
It was a promise to the princess born under Austria's greatest blessing—and the first child I'd met in this world.