Odo, resolved to be patient, and
seeing that the subject was too large for her, tried to take it apart,
putting it before her bit by bit, and at such an angle that she should
catch her own reflection in it. He thought to take her by the Austrian
side, touching on the well-known antagonism between Vienna and Rome, on
the reforms of the Tuscan Grand-Duke, on the Emperor Joseph's open
defiance of the Church's feudal claims. But she scented a personal
application.
"My cousin the Emperor should be a priest himself," she shrugged, "for
he belongs to the preaching order. He never goes to France but he gives
the poor Queen such a scolding that her eyes are red for a week. Has
Joseph been trying to set our house in order?"
Discouraged, but more than ever bent on patience, he tried the chord of
vanity, of her love of popularity. The people called her the beautiful
Duchess--why not let history name her the great? But the mention of
history was unfortunate. It reminded her of her lesson-books, and of the
stupid Greeks and Romans, whose dates she could never recall. She hoped
she should never be anything so dull as an historical personage! And
besides, greatness was for the men--it was enough for a princess to be
virtuous. And she looked as edifying as her own epitaph.
He caught this up and tried to make her distinguish between the public
and the private virtues. But the word "responsibility" slipped from him
and he felt her stiffen. This was preaching, and she hated preaching
even more than history.
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