“If she loves the King!” said Wogan, quietly, and Maria Vittoria stared at him.  There was something she had not conjectured before.

“Oh, she does not love him!” she said in wonderment.  Her wonderment swiftly changed to contempt.  “The fool!  Let her go on her knees and pray for a modest heart.  There’s my message to her.  Who is she that she should not love him?” But it nevertheless altered a trifle pleasurably Maria Vittoria’s view of the position.  It was pain to her to contemplate the Chevalier’s marriage, a deep, gnawing, rancorous pain, but the pain was less, once she could believe he was to marry a woman who did not love him.  She despised the woman for her stupidity; none the less, that was the wife she would choose, if she must needs choose another than herself.  “I have a mind to see this fool-woman of yours,” she said doubtfully.  “Why does she not love the King?”

Wogan could have answered that she had never seen him.  He thought silence, however, was the more expressive.  The silence led Maria Vittoria to conjecture.

“Is there another picture at her heart?” she asked, and again Wogan was silent.  “Whose, then?  You will not tell me.”

It might have been something in Wogan’s attitude or face which revealed the truth to her; it might have been her recollection of what the King had said concerning Wogan’s enthusiasm; it might have been merely her woman’s instinct.  But she started and took a step towards Wogan.  Her eyes certainly softened.  “I will go with you to Bologna,” she said; and that afternoon with the smallest equipment she started from Rome.  Wogan had ridden alone from Bologna to Rome in four days; he had spent three days in Rome; he now took six days to return in company with Mlle. de Caprara and her few servants.  He thus arrived in Bologna on the eve of that day when he was to act as the King’s proxy in the marriage.

It was about four o’clock in the afternoon when the tiny cavalcade clattered through the Porta Castiglione.  Wogan led the way to the Pilgrim Inn, where he left Maria Vittoria, saying that he would return at nightfall.  He then went on foot to O’Toole’s lodging.  O’Toole, however, had no news for him.

“There has been no mysterious visitor,” said he.

“There will be one to-night,” answered Wogan.  “I shall need you.”

“I am ready,” said O’Toole.

The two friends walked back to the Pilgrim Inn.  They were joined by Maria Vittoria, and they then proceeded to the little house among the trees.  Outside the door in the garden wall Wogan posted O’Toole.

“Let no one pass,” said he, “till we return.”

He knocked on the door, and after a little delay—­for the night had fallen, and there was no longer a porter at the gate—­a little hatch was opened, and a servant inquired his business.

“I come with a message of the utmost importance,” said Wogan.  “I beg you to inform her Highness that the Chevalier Wogan prays for two words with her.”