The hatch was closed, and the servant’s footsteps were heard to retreat.  Wogan’s anxieties had been increasing with every mile of that homeward journey.  On his ride to Rome he had been sensible of but one obstacle,—­the difficulty of persuading the real Vittoria to return with him.  But once that had been removed, others sprang to view, and each hour enlarged them.  There was but this one night, this one interview!  Upon the upshot of it depended whether a woman, destined by nature for a queen, should set her foot upon the throne-steps, whether a cause should suffer its worst of many eclipses, whether Europe should laugh or applaud.  These five minutes while he waited outside the door threw him into a fever.  “You will be friendly,” he implored Mlle. de Caprara.  “Oh, you cannot but be!  She must marry the King.  I plead for him, not the least bit in the world for her.  For his sake she must complete the work she has begun.  She is not obstinate; she has her pride as a woman should.  You will tell her just the truth,—­of the King’s loyalty and yours.  Hearts cannot be commanded.  Alas, mademoiselle, it is a hard world at the end of it.  It is mortised with the blood of broken hearts.  But duty, mademoiselle, duty, a consciousness of rectitude,—­these are very noble qualities.  It will be a high consolation, mademoiselle, one of these days, when the King sits upon his throne in England, to think that your self-sacrifice had set him there.”  And Mr. Wogan hopped like a bear on hot bricks, twittering irreproachable sentiments until the garden door was opened.

Beyond the door stretched a level space of grass intersected by a gravel path.  Along this path the servant led Wogan and his companion into the house.  There were lights in the windows on the upper floor, and a small lamp illuminated the hall.  But the lower rooms were dark.  The servant mounted the stairs, and opening the door of a little library, announced the Chevalier Wogan.  Wogan led his companion in by the hand.

“Your Highness,” said he, “I have the honour to present to you the Princess Maria Vittoria Caprara.”  He left the two women standing opposite to and measuring each other silently; he closed the door and went down stairs into the hall.  A door in the hall opened on to a small parlour, with windows giving on to the garden.  There once before Lady Featherstone and Harry Whittington had spoken of Wogan’s love for the Princess Clementina and speculated upon its consequences.  Now Wogan sat there alone in the dark, listening to the women’s voices overhead.  He had come to the end of his efforts and could only wait.  At all events, the women were talking, that was something; if he could only hear them weeping!  The sound of tears would have been very comforting to Wogan at that moment, but he only heard the low voices talking, talking.  He assured himself over and over again that this meeting could not fail of its due result.  That Maria Vittoria had exacted some promise which held his King in Spain he was now aware.  She would say what that promise was, the condition of their parting.  She had come prepared to say it—­and the thread of Wogan’s reasonings was abruptly cut.  It seemed to him that he heard something more than the night breeze through the trees,—­a sound of feet upon the gravel path, a whispering of voices.