“But she will reject the marriage,” urged Wogan.

“The fool!” cried Maria Vittoria, and she laughed almost gaily.  “I will not budge an inch to persuade her to it.  Let her fancy what she will and weep over it!  I hate her; therefore she is out of my thought.”

Wogan was not blind to the inspiriting effect of his argument upon Maria Vittoria.  He had, however, foreseen it, and he continued imperturbably,—­

“No doubt you think me something of a fool, too, to advance so unlikely a plea.  But if her Highness rejects the marriage, who suffers?  Her Highness’s name is already widely praised for her endurance, her constancy.  If, after all, at the last moment she scornfully rejects that for which she has so stoutly ventured, whose name, whose cause, will suffer most?  It will be one more misfortune, one more disaster, to add to the crushing weight under which the King labours.  There will be ignominy; who will be dwarfed by it?  There will be laughter; whom will it souse?  There will be scandal; who will be splashed by it?  The Princess or the King?”

Maria Vittoria stood with her brows drawn together in a frown.  “I will not go,” she said after a pause.  “Never was there so presumptuous a request.  No, I will not.”

Wogan made his bow and retired.  But he was at the Caprara Palace again in the morning, and again he was admitted.  He noticed without regret that Maria Vittoria bore the traces of a restless night.

“What should I say if I went with you?” she asked.

“You would say why the King lingers in Spain.”

Maria Vittoria gave a startled look at Wogan.

“Do you know why?”

“You told me yesterday.”

“Not in words.”

“There are other ways of speech.”

That one smile of triumph had assured Wogan that the King’s delay was her doing and a condition of their parting.

“How will my story, though I told it, help?” asked Mlle. de Caprara.  Wogan had no doubts upon that score.  The story of the Chevalier and Maria Vittoria had a strong parallel in Clementina’s own history.  Circumstance and duty held them apart, as it held apart Clementina and Wogan himself.  In hearing Maria Vittoria’s story, Clementina would hear her own; she must be moved to sympathy with it; she would regard with her own generous eyes those who played unhappy parts in its development; she could have no word of censure, no opportunity for scorn.

“Tell the story,” said Wogan.  “I will warrant the result.”

“No, I will not go,” said she; and again Wogan left the house.  And again he came the next morning.

“Why should I go?” said Maria Vittoria, rebelliously.  “Say what you have said to me to her!  Speak to her of the ignominy which will befall the King!  Tell her how his cause will totter!  Why talk of this to me?  If she loves the King, your words will persuade her.  For on my life they have nearly persuaded me.”