“He chose her as your wife?”

“If only I had had time to summon him back!”

“He chose her—­Charles Wogan.  How I hate him!”

“I sent him to make the choice.”

“And he might have gone no step beyond Bologna.  There was I not a mile distant ready to his hand!  But I was too mean, too despicable—­”

“Maria, hush!” And the troubled voice in which he spoke rang with so much pain that she was at once contrite with remorse.

“My lord, I hurt you, so you see how I am proven mean.  Give me your hand and laugh to me; laugh with your heart and eyes and lips.  I am jealous of your pain.  I am a woman.  I would have it all, gather it all into my bosom, and cherish each sharp stab like a flower my lover gives to me.  I am glad of them.  They are flowers that will not wither.  Add a kiss, sweetheart, the sharpest stab, and so the chief flower, the very rose of flowers.  There, that is well,” and she rose from her knees and turned away.  So she stood for a little, and when she turned again she wore upon her face the smile which she had bidden rise in his.

“Would we were free!” cried the Chevalier.

“But since we are not, let us show brave faces to the world and hide our hearts.  I do wish you all happiness.  But you will go to Spain.  There’s a friend’s hand in warrant of the wish.”

She held out a hand which clasped his firmly without so much as a tremor.

“Good-night, my friend,” said she.  “Speak those same words to me, and no word more.  I am tired with the day’s doings.  I have need of sleep, oh, great need of it!”

The Chevalier read plainly the overwhelming strain her counterfeit of friendliness put upon her.  He dared not prolong it.  Even as he looked at her, her lips quivered and her eyes swam.

“Good-night, my friend,” said he.

She conducted him along a wide gallery to the great staircase where her lackeys waited.  Then he bowed to her and she curtsied low to him, but no word was spoken by either.  This little comedy must needs be played in pantomime lest the actors should spoil it with a show of broken hearts.

Maria Vittoria went back to the room.  She could have hindered Wogan if she had had the mind.  She had the time to betray him; she knew of his purpose.  But the thought of betrayal never so much as entered her thoughts.

She hated him, she hated Clementina, but she was loyal to her King.  She sat alone in her palace, her chin propped upon her hands, and in a little in her wide unblinking eyes the tears gathered again and rolled down her cheeks and on her hands.  She wept silently and without a movement, like a statue weeping.

The Chevalier found Whittington waiting for him, but the candle in his lantern had burned out.

“I have kept you here a wearisome long time,” he said with an effort.  It was not easy for him to speak upon an indifferent matter.