The Duchess, who soon entered, received Odo with the flighty good-nature of a roving mind; but as her deep-blue gaze met his her colour rose, her eyes lingered on his face, and she invited him to a seat at her side.  Maria Clementina was of Austrian descent, and something in her free and noble port and the smiling arrogance of her manner recalled the aspect of her distant kinswoman, the young Queen of France.  She plied Odo with a hundred questions, interrupting his answers with a playful abruptness, and to all appearances more engaged by his person than his discourse.

“Have you seen my son?” she asked.  “I remember you a little boy scarce bigger than Ferrante, whom your mother brought to kiss my hand in the very year of my marriage.  Yes—­and you pinched my toy spaniel, sir, and I was so angry with you that I got up and turned my back on the company—­do you remember?  But how should you, being such a child at the time?  Ah, cousin how old you make me feel!  I would to God my son looked as you did then; but the Duke is killing him with his nostrums.  The child was healthy enough when he was born; but what with novenas and touching of relics and animal magnetism and electrical treatment, there’s not a bone in his little body but the saints and the surgeons are fighting over its possession.  Have you read ‘Emile,’ cousin, by the new French author—­I forget his name?  Well, I would have the child brought up like ‘Emile,’ allowed to run wild in the country and grow up sturdy and hard as a little peasant.  But what heresies am I talking!  The book is on the Index, I believe, and if my director knew I had it in my library I should be set up in the stocks in the market-place and all my court-gowns burnt at the Church door as a warning against the danger of importing the new fashions from France!—­I hope you hunt, cousin?” she cried suddenly. “’Tis my chief diversion and one I would have my friends enjoy with me.  His Highness has lately seen fit to cut down my stables, so that I have scarce forty saddle-horses to my name, and the greater part but sorry nags at that; yet I can still find a mount for any friend that will ride with me and I hope to see you among the number if the Duke can spare you now and then from mass and benediction.  His Highness complains that I am always surrounded by the same company; but is it my fault if there are not twenty persons at court that can survive a day in the saddle and a night at cards?  Have you seen the Belverde, my mistress of the robes?  She follows the hunt in a litter, cousin, and tells her beads at the death!  I hope you like cards too, cousin, for I would have all my weaknesses shared by my friends, that they may be the less disposed to criticise them.”