"Very well. Perhaps he has made up his mind to stay. If so, we shall

make a horrible scene, cry treachery and perjury, and trounce your

nephew well. Let’s settle our score and be off."

They left the wine-shop, both rather the worse for the wine they had so

largely indulged in. They felt the need of the cool night air, so

instead of going down the rue Pavee they resolved to follow the rue

Saint-Andre-des-Arts as far as the Pont Saint-Michel, so as to reach the

mansion by a longer route.

At the very moment the commander got up to leave the tavern the

chevalier had run out of the mansion at the top of his speed. It was not

that he had entirely lost his courage, for had he found it impossible to

avoid his assailant it is probable that he would have regained the

audacity which had led him to draw his sword. But he was a novice in the

use of arms, had not reached full physical development, and felt that

the chances were so much against him that he would only have faced the

encounter if there were no possible way of escape. On leaving the house

he had turned quickly into the rue Git-le-Coeur; but on hearing the door

close behind his pursuer he disappeared down the narrow and crooked rue

de l’Hirondelle, hoping to throw the Duc de Vitry off the scent. The

duke, however, though for a moment in doubt, was guided by the sound of

the flying footsteps. The chevalier, still trying to send him off on a

false trail, turned to the right, and so regained the upper end of the

rue Saint-Andre, and ran along it as far as the church, the site of

which is occupied by the square of the same name to-day. Here he thought

he would be safe, for, as the church was being restored and enlarged,

heaps of stone stood all round the old pile. He glided in among these,

and twice heard Vitry searching quite close to him, and each time stood

on guard expecting an onslaught. This marching and counter-marching

lasted for some minutes; the chevalier began to hope he had escaped the

danger, and eagerly waited for the moment when the moon which had broken

through the clouds should again withdraw behind them, in order to steal

into some of the adjacent streets under cover of the darkness. Suddenly

a shadow rose before him and a threatening voice cried—

"Have I caught you at last, you coward?"

The danger in which the chevalier stood awoke in him a flickering

energy, a feverish courage, and he crossed blades with his assailant. A

strange combat ensued, of which the result was quite uncertain,

depending entirely on chance; for no science was of any avail on a

ground so rough that the combatants stumbled at every step, or struck

against immovable masses, which were one moment clearly lit up, and the

next in shadow. Steel clashed on steel, the feet of the adversaries

touched each other, several times the cloak of one was pierced by the

sword of the other, more than once the words "Die then!" rang out. But

each time the seemingly vanquished combatant sprang up unwounded, as

agile and as lithe and as quick as ever, while he in his turn pressed

the enemy home. There was neither truce nor pause, no clever feints nor

fencer’s tricks could be employed on either side; it was a mortal

combat, but chance, not skill, would deal the death-blow. Sometimes a

rapid pass encountered only empty air; sometimes blade crossed blade

above the wielders’ heads; sometimes the fencers lunged at each other’s

breast, and yet the blows glanced aside at the last moment and the

blades met in air once more. At last, however, one of the two, making a

pass to the right which left his breast unguarded, received a deep

wound. Uttering a loud cry, he recoiled a step or two, but, exhausted by

the effort, tripped and fell backward over a large stone, and lay there

motionless, his arms extended in the form of a cross.

The other turned and fled.

"Hark, de Jars!" said Jeannin, stopping, "There’s fighting going on

hereabouts; I hear the clash of swords."

Both listened intently.

"I hear nothing now."

"Hush! there it goes again. It’s by the church."

"What a dreadful cry!"

They ran at full speed towards the place whence it seemed to come, but

found only solitude, darkness, and silence. They looked in every

direction.

"I can’t see a living soul," said Jeannin, "and I very much fear that

the poor devil who gave that yell has mumbled his last prayer."

"I don’t know why I tremble so," replied de Jars; "that heart-rending

cry made me shiver from head to foot. Was it not something like the

chevalier’s voice?"

"The chevalier is with La Guerchi, and even if he had left her this

would not have been his way to rejoin us. Let us go on and leave the

dead in peace."

"Look, Jeannin! what is that in front of us?"

"On that stone? A man who has fallen!"

"Yes, and bathed in blood," exclaimed de Jars, who had darted to his

side. "Ah! it’s he! it’s he! Look, his eyes are closed, his hands cold!

My child he does not hear me! Oh, who has murdered him?"

He fell on his knees, and threw himself on the body with every mark of

the most violent despair.

"Come, come," said Jeannin, surprised at such an explosion of grief from

a man accustomed to duels, and who on several similar occasions had been

far from displaying much tenderness of heart, "collect yourself, and

don’t give way like a woman. Perhaps the wound is not mortal. Let us try

to stop the bleeding and call for help."

"No, no—"

"Are you mad?"

"Don’t call, for Heaven’s sake! The wound is here, near the heart. Your

handkerchief, Jeannin, to arrest the flow of blood. There—now help me to

lift him."

"What does that mean?" cried Jeannin, who had just laid his hand on the

chevalier. "I don’t know whether I’m awake or asleep! Why, it’s a—-"

"Be silent, on your life! I shall explain everything—but now be silent;

there is someone looking at us."

There was indeed a man wrapped in a mantle standing motionless some

steps away.

"What are you doing here?" asked de Jars.

"May I ask what you are doing, gentlemen?" retorted Maitre Quennebert,

in a calm and steady voice.

"Your curiosity may cost you dear, monsieur; we are not in the habit of

allowing our actions to be spied on."

"And I am not in the habit of running useless risks, most noble

cavaliers. You are, it is true, two against one; but," he added,

throwing back his cloak and grasping the hilts of a pair of pistols

tucked in his belt, "these will make us equal. You are mistaken as to my

intentions. I had no thought of playing the spy; it was chance alone

that led me here; and you must acknowledge that finding you in this

lonely spot, engaged as you are at this hour of the night, was quite

enough to awake the curiosity of a man as little disposed to provoke a

quarrel as to submit to threats."

"It was chance also that brought us here. We were crossing the square,

my friend and I, when we heard groans. We followed the sound, and found

this young gallant, who is a stranger to us, lying here, with a wound in

his breast."

As the moon at that moment gleamed doubtfully forth, Maitre Quennebert

bent for an instant over the body of the wounded man, and said:

"I know him more than you. But supposing someone were to come upon us

here, we might easily be taken for three assassins holding a

consultation over the corpse of our victim. What were you going to do?"

"Take him to a doctor. It would be inhuman to leave him here, and while

we are talking precious time is being lost."

"Do you belong to this neighbourhood?"

"No," said the treasurer.

"Neither do I," said Quennebert. "but I believe I have heard the name of

a surgeon who lives close by, in the rue Hauteville."

"I also know of one," interposed de Jars, "a very skilful man."

"You may command me."

"Gladly, monsieur; for he lives some distance from here."

"I am at your service."

De Jars and Jeannin raised the chevalier’s shoulders, and the stranger

supported his legs, and carrying their burden in this order, they set

off.

They walked slowly, looking about them carefully, a precaution rendered

necessary by the fact that the moon now rode in a cloudless sky. They

glided over the Pont Saint-Michel between the houses that lined both

sides, and, turning to the right, entered one of the narrow streets of

the Cite, and after many turnings, during which they met no one, they

stopped at the door of a house situated behind the Hotel-de-Ville.

"Many thanks, monsieur," said de Jars,—"many thanks; we need no further

help."

As the commander spoke, Maitre Quennebert let the feet of the chevalier

fall abruptly on the pavement, while de Jars and the treasurer still

supported his body, and, stepping back two paces, he drew his pistols

from his belt, and placing a finger on each trigger, said—

"Do not stir, messieurs, or you are dead men." Both, although encumbered

by their burden, laid their hands upon their swords.

"Not a movement, not a sound, or I shoot."

There was no reply to this argument, it being a convincing one even for

two duellists. The bravest man turns pale when he finds himself face to

face with sudden inevitable death, and he who threatened seemed to be

one who would, without hesitation, carry out his threats. There was

nothing for it but obedience, or a ball through them as they stood.

"What do you want with us, sir?" asked Jeannin.

Quennebert, without changing his attitude, replied—

"Commander de Jars, and you, Messire Jeannin de Castille, king’s

treasurer,—you see, my gentles, that besides the advantage of arms which

strike swiftly and surely, I have the further advantage of knowing who

you are, whilst I am myself unknown,—you will carry the wounded man into

this house, into which I will not enter, for I have nothing to do

within; but I shall remain here; to await your return. After you have

handed over the patient to the doctor, you will procure paper and

write—-now pay great attention—that on November 20th, 1658, about

midnight, you, aided by an unknown man, carried to this house, the

address of which you will give, a young man whom you call the Chevalier

de Moranges, and pass off as your nephew—"

"As he really is."

"Very well."

"But who told you—?"

"Let me go on: who had been wounded in a fight with swords on the same

night behind the church of Saint-Andre-des-Arts by the Duc de Vitry."

"The Duc de Vitry!—How do you know that?"

"No matter how, I know it for a fact. Having made this declaration, you

will add that the said Chevalier de Moranges is no other than

Josephine-Charlotte Boullenois, whom you, commander, abducted four

months ago from the convent of La Raquette, whom you have made your

mistress, and whom you conceal disguised as a man; then you will add

your signature. Is my information correct?"

De Jars and Jeannin were speechless with surprise for a few instants;

then the former stammered—

"Will you tell us who you are?"

"The devil in person, if you like. Well, will you do as I order?

Supposing that I am awkward enough not to kill you at two paces, do you

want me to ask you in broad daylight and aloud what I now ask at night

and in a whisper? And don’t think to put me off with a false

declaration, relying on my not being able to read it by the light of the

moon; don’t think either that you can take me by surprise when you hand

it me: you will bring it to me with your swords sheathed as now. If this

condition is not observed, I shall fire, and the noise will bring a

crowd about us. To-morrow I shall speak differently from to-day: I shall

proclaim the truth at all the street corners, in the squares, and under

the windows of the Louvre. It is hard, I know, for men of spirit to

yield to threats, but recollect that you are in my power and that there

is no disgrace in paying a ransom for a life that one cannot defend.

What do you say?"

In spite of his natural courage, Jeannin, who found himself involved in

an affair from which he had nothing to gain, and who was not at all

desirous of being suspected of having helped in an abduction, whispered

to the commander—

"Faith! I think our wisest course is to consent."

De Jars, however, before replying, wished to try if he could by any

chance throw his enemy off his guard for an instant, so as to take him

unawares. His hand still rested on the hilt of his sword, motionless,

but ready to draw.

"There is someone coming over yonder," he cried,—"do you hear?"

"You can’t catch me in that way," said Quennebert. "Even were there

anyone coming, I should not look round, and if you move your hand all is

over with you."

"Well," said Jeannin, "I surrender at discretion—not on my own account,

but out of regard for my friend and this woman. However, we are entitled

to some pledge of your silence. This statement that you demand, once

written,—you can ruin us tomorrow by its means."

"I don’t yet know what use I shall make of it, gentlemen. Make up your

minds, or you will have nothing but a dead body to place—in the doctor’s

hands. There is no escape for you."

For the first time the wounded man faintly groaned.

"I must save her!" cried de Jars,—"I yield."

"And I swear upon my honour that I will never try to get this woman out

of your hands, and that I will never interfere with your conquest.

Knock, gentlemen, and remain as long as may be necessary. I am patient.

Pray to God, if you will, that she may recover; my one desire is that

she may die."

They entered the house, and Quennebert, wrapping himself once more in

his mantle, walked up and down before it, stopping to listen from time

to time. In about two hours the commander and the treasurer came out

again, and handed him a written paper in the manner agreed on.

"I greatly fear that it will be a certificate of death," said de Jars.

"Heaven grant it, commander! Adieu, messieurs."

He then withdrew, walking backwards, keeping the two friends covered

with his pistols until he had placed a sufficient distance between

himself and them to be out of danger of an attack.

The two gentlemen on their part walked rapidly away, looking round from

time to time, and keeping their ears open. They were very much mortified

at having been forced to let a mere boor dictate to them, and anxious,

especially de Jars, as to the result of the wound.

CHAPTER VII

On the day following this extraordinary series of adventures,

explanations between those who were mixed up in them, whether as actors

or spectators, were the order of the day. It was not till Maitre

Quennebert reached the house of the friend who had offered to put him up

for the night that it first dawned on him, that the interest which the

Chevalier de Moranges had awakened in his mind had made him utterly

forget the bag containing the twelve hundred livres which he owed to the

generosity of the widow. This money being necessary to him, he went back

to her early next morning. He found her hardly recovered from her

terrible fright. Her swoon had lasted far beyond the time when the

notary had left the house; and as Angelique, not daring to enter the

bewitched room, had taken refuge in the most distant corner of her

apartments, the feeble call of the widow was heard by no one. Receiving

no answer, Madame Rapally groped her way into the next room, and finding

that empty, buried herself beneath the bedclothes, and passed the rest

of the night dreaming of drawn swords, duels, and murders. As soon as it

was light she ventured into the mysterious room once more; without

calling her servants, and found the bag of crowns lying open on the

floor, with the coins scattered all around, the partition broken, and

the tapestry hanging from it in shreds. The widow was near fainting

again: she imagined at first she saw stains of blood everywhere, but a

closer inspection having somewhat reassured her, she began to pick up

the coins that had rolled to right and left, and was agreeably surprised

to find the tale complete. But how and why had Maitre Quennebert

abandoned them? What had become of him? She had got lost in the most

absurd suppositions and conjectures when the notary appeared.

Discovering from the first words she uttered that she was in complete

ignorance of all that had taken place, he explained to her that when the

interview between the chevalier and Mademoiselle de Guerchi had just at

the most interesting moment been so unceremoniously interrupted by the

arrival of the duke, he had become so absorbed in watching them that he

had not noticed that the partition was bending before the pressure of

his body, and that just as the duke drew his sword it suddenly gave way,

and he, Quennebert, being thus left without support, tumbled head

foremost into the next room, among a perfect chaos of overturned

furniture and lamps; that almost before he could rise he was forced to

draw in self-defence, and had to make his escape, defending himself

against both the duke and the chevalier; that they had pursued him so

hotly, that when he found himself free he was too far from the house and

the hour was too advanced to admit of his returning, Quennebert added

innumerable protestations of friendship, devotion, and gratitude, and,

furnished with his twelve hundred crowns, went away, leaving the widow

reassured as to his safety, but still shaken from her fright.

While the notary was thus soothing the widow, Angelique was exhausting

all the expedients her trade had taught her in the attempt to remove the

duke’s suspicions. She asserted she was the victim of an unforeseen

attack which nothing in her conduct had ever authorised. The young

Chevalier de Moranges had, gained admittance, she declared, under the

pretext that he brought her news from the duke, the one man who occupied

her thoughts, the sole object of her love. The chevalier had seen her

lover, he said, a few days before, and by cleverly appealing to things

back, he had led her to fear that the duke had grown tired of her, and

that a new conquest was the cause of his absence. She had not believed

these insinuations, although his long silence would have justified the

most mortifying suppositions, the most cruel doubts. At length the

chevalier had grown bolder, and had declared his passion for her;

whereupon she had risen and ordered him to leave her. Just at that

moment the duke had entered, and had taken the natural agitation and

confusion of the chevalier as signs of her guilt. Some explanation was

also necessary to account for the presence of the two other visitors of

whom he had been told below stairs. As he knew nothing at all about

them, the servant who admitted them never having seen either of them

before, she acknowledged that two gentlemen had called earlier in the

evening; that they had refused to send in their names, but as they had

said they had come to inquire about the duke, she suspected them of

having been in league with the chevalier in the attempt to ruin her

reputation, perhaps they had even promised to help him to carry her off,

but she knew nothing positive about them or their plans. The duke,

contrary to his wont, did not allow himself to be easily convinced by

these lame explanations, but unfortunately for him the lady knew how to

assume an attitude favourable to her purpose. She had been induced, she

said, with the simple confidence born of love, to listen to people who

had led her to suppose they could give her news of one so dear to her as

the duke. From this falsehood she proceeded to bitter reproaches:

instead of defending herself, she accused him of having left her a prey

to anxiety; she went so far as to imply that there must be some

foundation for the hints of the chevalier, until at last the duke,

although he was not guilty of the slightest infidelity, and had

excellent reasons to give in justification of his silence, was soon

reduced to a penitent mood, and changed his threats into entreaties for

forgiveness. As to the shriek he had heard, and which he was sure had

been uttered by the stranger who had forced his way into her room after

the departure of the others, she asserted that his ears must have

deceived him. Feeling that therein lay her best chance of making things

smooth, she exerted herself to convince him that there was no need for

other information than she could give, and did all she could to blot the

whole affair from his memory; and her success was such that at the end

of the interview the duke was more enamoured and more credulous than

ever, and believing he had done her wrong, he delivered himself up to

her, bound hand and foot. Two days later he installed his mistress in

another dwelling....

Madame Rapally also resolved to give up her rooms, and removed to a

house that belonged to her, on the Pont Saint-Michel.

The commander took the condition of Charlotte Boullenois very much to

heart. The physician under whose care he had placed her, after examining

her wounds, had not given much hope of her recovery. It was not that de

Jars was capable of a lasting love, but Charlotte was young and

possessed great beauty, and the romance and mystery surrounding their

connection gave it piquancy. Charlotte’s disguise, too, which enabled de

Jars to conceal his success and yet flaunt it in the face, as it were,

of public morality and curiosity, charmed him by its audacity, and above

all he was carried away by the bold and uncommon character of the girl,

who, not content with a prosaic intrigue, had trampled underfoot all

social prejudices and proprieties, and plunged at once into unmeasured

and unrestrained dissipation; the singular mingling in her nature of the

vices of both sexes; the unbridled licentiousness of the courtesan

coupled with the devotion of a man for horses, wine, and fencing; in

short, her eccentric character, as it would now be called, kept a

passion alive which would else have quickly died away in his blase

heart. Nothing would induce him to follow Jeannin’s advice to leave

Paris for at least a few weeks, although he shared Jeannin’s fear that

the statement they had been forced to give the stranger would bring them

into trouble. The treasurer, who had no love affair on hand, went off;

but the commander bravely held his ground, and at the end of five or six

days, during which no one disturbed him, began to think the only result

of the incident would be the anxiety it had caused him.

Every evening as soon as it was dark he betook himself to the doctor’s,

wrapped in his cloak, armed to the teeth, and his hat pulled down over

his eyes. For two days and nights, Charlotte, whom to avoid confusion we

shall continue to call the Chevalier de Moranges, hovered between life

and death. Her youth and the strength of her constitution enabled her at

last to overcome the fever, in spite of the want of skill of the surgeon

Perregaud.

Although de Jars was the only person who visited the chevalier, he was

not the only one who was anxious about the patient’s health. Maitre

Quennebert, or men engaged by him to watch, for he did not want to

attract attention, were always prowling about the neighbourhood, so that

he was kept well informed of everything that went on: The instructions

he gave to these agents were, that if a funeral should leave the house,

they were to find out the name of the deceased, and then to let him know

without delay. But all these precautions seemed quite useless: he always

received the same answer to all his questions, "We know nothing." So at

last he determined to address himself directly to the man who could give

him information on which he could rely.

One night the commander left the surgeon’s feeling more cheerful than

usual, for the chevalier had passed a good day, and there was every hope

that he was on the road to complete recovery. Hardly had de Jars gone

twenty paces when someone laid a hand on his shoulder. He turned and saw

a man whom, in the darkness, he did not recognise.

"Excuse me for detaining you, Commander de Jars," said Quennebert, "but

I have a word to say to you."

"Ali! so it’s you, sir," replied the commander. "Are you going at last

to give me the opportunity I was so anxious for?"

"I don’t understand."

"We are on more equal terms this time; to-day you don’t catch me

unprepared, almost without weapons, and if you are a man of honour you

will measure swords with me."

"Fight a duel with you! why, may I ask? You have never insulted me."

"A truce to pleasantry, sir; don’t make me regret that I have shown

myself more generous than you. I might have killed you just now had I

wished. I could have put my pistol to your breast and fired, or said to

you, ’Surrender at discretion!’ as you so lately said to me."

"And what use would that have been?"

"It would have made a secret safe that you ought never to have known."

"It would have been the most unfortunate thing for you that could have

happened, for if you had killed me the paper would have spoken. So! you

think that if you were to assassinate me you would only have to stoop

over my dead body and search my pockets, and, having found the

incriminating document, destroy it. You seem to have formed no very high

opinion of my intelligence and common sense. You of the upper classes

don’t need these qualities, the law is on, your side. But when a humble

individual like myself, a mere nobody, undertakes to investigate a piece

of business about which those in authority are not anxious to be

enlightened, precautions are necessary. It’s not enough for him to have

right on his side, he must, in order to secure his own safety, make good

use of his skill, courage, and knowledge. I have no desire to humiliate

you a second time, so I will say no more. The paper is in the hands of

my notary, and if a single day passes without his seeing me he has

orders to break the seal and make the contents public. So you see chance

is still on my side. But now that you are warned there is no need for me

to bluster. I am quite prepared to acknowledge your superior rank, and

if you insist upon it, to speak to you uncovered."

"What do you desire to know, sir?"

"How is the Chevalier de Moranges getting on?"

"Very badly, very badly."

"Take care, commander; don’t deceive me. One is so easily tempted to

believe what one hopes, and I hope so strongly that I dare not believe

what you say. I saw you coming out of the house, not at all with the air

of a man who had just heard bad news, (quite the contrary) you looked at

the sky, and rubbed your hands, and walked with a light, quick step,

that did not speak of grief."

"You’re a sharp observer, sir."

"I have already explained to you, sir, that when one of us belonging to

a class hardly better than serfs succeeds by chance or force of

character in getting out of the narrow bounds in which he was born, he

must keep both eyes and ears open. If I had doubted your word as you

have doubted mine on the merest suspicion, you would have said to your

servants, ’Chastise this rascal.’ But I am obliged to prove to you that

you did not tell me the truth. Now I am sure that the chevalier is out

of danger."

"If you were so well informed why did you ask me?"

"I only knew it by your asserting the contrary."

"What do you mean?" cried de Jars, who was growing restive under this

cold, satirical politeness.

"Do me justice, commander. The bit chafes, but yet you must acknowledge

that I have a light hand. For a full week you have been in my power.

Have I disturbed your quiet? Have I betrayed your secret? You know I

have not. And I shall continue to act in the same manner. I hope with

all my heart, however great would be your grief; that the chevalier may

die of his wound. I have not the same reasons for loving him that you

have, so much you can readily understand, even if I do not explain the

cause of my interest in his fate. But in such a matter hopes count for

nothing; they cannot make his temperature either rise or fall. I have

told you I have no wish to force the chevalier to resume his real name.

I may make use of the document and I may not, but if I am obliged to use

it I shall give you warning. Will you, in return, swear to me upon your

honour that you will keep me informed as to the fate of the chevalier,

whether you remain in Paris or whether you leave? But let this agreement

be a secret between us, and do not mention it to the so-called

Moranges."

"I have your oath, monsieur, that you will give me notice before you use

the document I have given you against me, have I? But what guarantee

have I that you will keep your word?"

"My course of action till to-day, and the fact that I have pledged you

my word of my own free will."

"I see, you hope not to have long to wait for the end."

"I hope not; but meantime a premature disclosure would do me as much

harm as you. I have not the slightest rancour against you, commander;

you have robbed me of no treasure; I have therefore no compensation to

demand. What you place such value on would be only a burden to me, as it

will be to you later on. All I want is, to know as soon as it is no

longer in your possession, whether it has been removed by the will of

God or by your own, I am right in thinking that to-day there is some

hope of the chevalier’s recovery, am I not?"

"Yes, Sir."

"Do you give me your promise that if ever he leave this house safe and

sound you will let me know?"

"I give you my promise."

"And if the result should be different, you will also send me word?"

"Certainly. But to whom shall I address my message?"

"I should have thought that since our first meeting you would have found

out all about me, and that to tell you my name would be superfluous. But

I have no reason to hide it: Maitre Quennebert, notary, Saint-Denis. I

will not detain you any longer now, commander; excuse a simple citizen

for dictating conditions to a noble such as you. For once chance has

been on my side although a score of times it has gone against me."

De Jars made no reply except a nod, and walked away quickly, muttering

words of suppressed anger between his teeth at all the—humiliations to

which he had been obliged to submit so meekly.

"He’s as insolent as a varlet who has no fear of a larruping before his

eyes: how the rapscallion gloried in taking advantage of his position!

Taking-off his hat while putting his foot on my neck! If ever I can be

even with you, my worthy scrivener, you’ll pass a very bad quarter of an

hour, I can tell you."

Everyone has his own idea of what constitutes perfect honour. De Jars,

for instance, would have allowed himself to be cut up into little pieces

rather than have broken the promise he had given Quennebert a week ago,

because it was given in exchange for his life, and the slightest

paltering with his word under those circumstances would have been

dastardly. But the engagement into which he had just entered had in his

eyes no such moral sanction; he had not been forced into it by threats,

he had escaped by its means no serious danger, and therefore in regard

to it his conscience was much more accommodating. What he should best

have liked to do, would have been to have sought out the notary and

provoked him by insults to send him a challenge.

That a clown such as that could have any chance of leaving the ground

alive never entered his head. But willingly as he would have encompassed

his death in this manner, the knowledge that his secret would not die

with Quennebert restrained him, for when everything came out he felt

that the notary’s death would be regarded as an aggravation of his

original offence, and in spite of his rank he was not at all certain

that if he were put on his trial even now he would escape scot free,

much less if a new offence were added to the indictment. So, however

much he might chafe against the bit, he felt he must submit to the

bridle.

"By God!" said he, "I know what the clodhopper is after; and even if I

must suffer in consequence, I shall take good care that he cannot shake

off his bonds. Wait a bit! I can play the detective too, and be down on

him without letting him see the hand that deals the blows. It’ll be a

wonder if I can’t find a naked sword to suspend above his head."

However, while thus brooding over projects of vengeance, Commander de

Jars kept his word, and about a month after the interview above related

he sent word to Quennebert that the Chevalier de Moranges had left

Perregaud’s completely recovered from his wound. But the nearly fatal

result of the chevalier’s last prank seemed to have subdued his

adventurous spirit; he was no longer seen in public, and was soon

forgotten by all his acquaintances with the exception of Mademoiselle de

Guerchi. She faithfully treasured up the memory of his words of passion,

his looks of love, the warmth of his caresses, although at first she

struggled hard to chase his image from her heart. But as the Due de

Vitry assured her that he had killed him on the spot, she considered it

no breach of faith to think lovingly of the dead, and while she took the

goods so bounteously provided by her living lover, her gentlest

thoughts, her most enduring regrets, were given to one whom she never

hoped to see again.

CHAPTER VIII

With the reader’s permission, we must now jump over an interval of

rather more than a year, and bring upon the stage a person who, though

only of secondary importance, can no longer be left behind the scenes.

We have already said that the loves of Quennebert and Madame Rapally

were regarded with a jealous eye by a distant cousin of the lady’s late

husband. The love of this rejected suitor, whose name was Trumeau, was

no more sincere than the notary’s, nor were his motives more honourable.

Although his personal appearance was not such as to lead him to expect

that his path would be strewn with conquests, he considered that his

charms at least equalled those of his defunct relative; and it may be

said that in thus estimating them he did not lay himself—open to the

charge of overweening vanity. But however persistently he preened him

self before the widow, she vouchsafed him not one glance. Her heart was

filled with the love of his rival, and it is no easy thing to tear a

rooted passion out of a widow’s heart when that widow’s age is

forty-six, and she is silly enough to believe that the admiration she

feels is equalled by the admiration she inspires, as the unfortunate

Trumeau found to his cost. All his carefully prepared declarations of

love, all his skilful insinuations against Quennebert, brought him

nothing but scornful rebuffs. But Trumeau was nothing if not

persevering, and he could not habituate himself to the idea of seeing

the widow’s fortune pass into other hands than his own, so that every

baffled move only increased his determination to spoil his competitor’s

game. He was always on the watch for a chance to carry tales to the

widow, and so absorbed did he become in this fruitless pursuit, that he

grew yellower and more dried up from day to day, and to his jaundiced

eye the man who was at first simply his rival became his mortal enemy

and the object of his implacable hate, so that at length merely to get

the better of him, to outwit him, would, after so long-continued and

obstinate a struggle and so many defeats, have seemed to him too mild a

vengeance, too incomplete a victory.

Quennebert was well aware of the zeal with which the indefatigable

Trumeau sought to injure him. But he regarded the manoeuvres of his

rival with supreme unconcern, for he knew that he could at any time

sweep away the network of cunning machinations, underhand insinuations,

and malicious hints, which was spread around him, by allowing the widow

to confer on him the advantages she was so anxious to bestow. The goal,

he knew, was within his reach, but the problem he had to solve was how

to linger on the way thither, how to defer the triumphal moment, how to

keep hope alive in the fair one’s breast and yet delay its fruition. His

affairs were in a bad way. Day by day full possession of the fortune

thus dangled before his eyes, and fragments of which came to him

occasionally by way of loan, was becoming more and more indispensable,

and tantalising though it was, yet he dared not put out his hand to

seize it. His creditors dunned him relentlessly: one final reprieve had

been granted him, but that at an end, if he could not meet their

demands, it was all up with his career and reputation.

One morning in the beginning of February 1660, Trumeau called to see his

cousin. He had not been there for nearly a month, and Quennebert and the

widow had begun to think that, hopeless of success, he had retired from

the contest. But, far from that, his hatred had grown more intense than

ever, and having come upon the traces of an event in the past life of

his rival which if proved would be the ruin of that rival’s hopes, he

set himself to gather evidence. He now made his appearance with beaming

looks, which expressed a joy too great for words. He held in one hand a

small scroll tied with a ribbon. He found the widow alone, sitting in a

large easy-chair before the fire. She was reading for the twentieth time

a letter which Quenriebert had written her the evening before. To judge

by the happy and contented expression of the widow’s face, it must have

been couched in glowing terms. Trumeau guessed at once from whom the

missive came, but the sight of it, instead of irritating him, called

forth a smile.

"Ah! so it’s you, cousin?" said the widow, folding the precious paper

and slipping it into the bosom of her dress. "How do you do? It’s a long

time since I saw you, more than a fortnight, I think. Have you been

ill?"

"So you remarked my absence! That is very flattering, my dear cousin;

you do not often spoil me by such attentions. No, I have not been ill,

thank God, but I thought it better not to intrude upon you so often. A

friendly call now and then such as to-day’s is what you like, is it not?

By the way, tell me about your handsome suitor, Maitre Quennebert; how

is he getting along?"

"You look very knowing, Trumeau: have you heard of anything happening to

him?"

"No, and I should be exceedingly sorry to hear that anything unpleasant

had happened to him."

Now you are not saying what you think, you know you can’t bear him."

"Well, to speak the truth, I have no great reason to like him. If it

were not for him, I should perhaps have been happy to-day; my love might

have moved your heart. However, I have become resigned to my loss, and

since your choice has fallen on him,"—and here he sighed,—"well, all I

can say is, I hope you may never regret it."

"Many thanks for your goodwill, cousin; I am delighted to find you in

such a benevolent mood. You must not be vexed because I could not give

you the kind of love you wanted; the heart, you know, is not amenable to

reason."

"There is only one thing I should like to ask."

"What is it?"

"I mention it for your good more than for my own. If you want to be

happy, don’t let this handsome quill-driver get you entirely into his

hands. You are saying to yourself that because of my ill-success with

you I am trying to injure him; but what if I could prove that he does

not love you as much as he pretends—?"

"Come, come, control your naughty tongue! Are you going to begin

backbiting again? You are playing a mean part, Trumeau. I have never

hinted to Maitre Quennebert all the nasty little ways in which you have

tried to put a spoke in his wheel, for if he knew he would ask you to

prove your words, and then you would look very foolish.".

"Not at all, I swear to you. On the contrary, if I were to tell all I

know in his presence, it is not I who would be disconcerted. Oh! I am

weary of meeting with nothing from you but snubs, scorn, and abuse. You

think me a slanderer when I say, ’This gallant wooer of widows does not

love you for yourself but for your money-bags. He fools you by fine

promises, but as to marrying you—never, never!’"

"May I ask you to repeat that?" broke in Madame Rapally

"Oh! I know what I am saying. You will never be Madame Quennebert."

"Really?"

"Really."

"Jealousy has eaten away whatever brains you used to possess, Trumeau.

Since I saw you last, cousin, important changes have taken place: I was

just going to send you to-day an invitation to my wedding."

"To your wedding?"

"Yes; I am to be married to-morrow."

"To-morrow? To Quennebert?" stammered Trumeau.

"To Quennebert," repeated the widow in a tone of triumph.

"It’s not possible!" exclaimed Trumeau.

"It is so possible that you will see us united tomorrow. And for the

future I must beg of you to regard Quennebert no longer as a rival but

as my husband, whom to offend will be to offend me."

The tone in which these words were spoken no longer left room for doubt

as to the truth of the news. Trumeau looked down for a few moments, as

if reflecting deeply before definitely making up his mind. He twisted

the little roll of papers between his fingers, and seemed to be in doubt

whether to open it and give it to Madame Rapally to read or not. In the

end, however, he put it in his pocket, rose, and approaching his cousin,

said—

"I beg your pardon, this news completely changes my opinion. From the

moment Maitre Quennebert becomes your husband I shall not have a word to

say against him. My suspicions were unjust, I confess it frankly, and I

hope that in consideration of the motives which prompted me you will

forget the warmth of my attacks. I shall make no protestations, but

shall let the future show how sincere is my devotion to your interests."

Madame Rapally was too happy, too certain of being loved, not to pardon

easily. With the self-complacency and factitious generosity of a woman

who feels herself the object of two violent passions, she was so good as

to feel pity for the lover who was left out in the cold, and offered him

her hand. Trumeau kissed it with every outward mark of respect, while

his lips curled unseen in a smile of mockery. The cousins parted,

apparently the best of friends, and on the understanding that Trumeau

would be present at the nuptial benediction, which was to be given in a

church beyond the town hall, near the house in which the newly-married

couple were to live; the house on the Pont Saint-Michel having lately

been sold to great advantage.

"On my word," said Trumeau, as he went off, "it would have been a great

mistake to have spoken. I have got that wretch of a Quennebert into my

clutches at last; and there is nobody but himself to blame. He is taking

the plunge of his own free will, there is no need for me to shove him

off the precipice."

The ceremony took place next day. Quennebert conducted his interesting

bride to the altar, she hung with ornaments like the shrine of a saint,

and, beaming all over with smiles, looked so ridiculous that the

handsome bridegroom reddened to the roots of his hair with shame. Just

as they entered the church, a coffin, on which lay a sword, and which

was followed by a single mourner, who from his manners and dress seemed

to belong to the class of nobles, was carried in by the same door. The

wedding guests drew back to let the funeral pass on, the living giving

precedence to the dead. The solitary mourner glanced by chance at

Quennebert, and started as if the sight of him was painful.

"What an unlucky meeting!" murmured Madame Rapally; "it is sure to be a

bad omen."

"It’s sure to be the exact opposite," said Quennebert smiling.

The two ceremonies took place simultaneously in two adjoining chapels;

the funeral dirges which fell on the widow’s ear full of sinister

prediction seemed to have quite another meaning for Quennebert, for his

features lost their look of care, his wrinkles smoothed themselves out,

till the guests, among whom was Trumeau, who did not suspect the secret

of his relief from suspense, began to believe, despite their surprise,

that he was really rejoiced at obtaining legal possession of the

charming Madame Rapally.

As for her, she fleeted the daylight hours by anticipating the joyful

moment when she would have her husband all to herself. When night came,

hardly had she entered the nuptial chamber than she uttered a piercing

shriek. She had just found and read a paper left on the bed by Trumeau,

who before leaving had contrived to glide into the room unseen. Its

contents were of terrible import, so terrible that the new-made wife

fell unconscious to the ground.

Quennebert, who, without a smile, was absorbed in reflections on the

happiness at last within his grasp, heard the noise from the next room,

and rushing in, picked up his wife. Catching sight of the paper, he also

uttered a cry of anger and astonishment, but in whatever circumstances

he found himself he was never long uncertain how to act. Placing Madame

Quennebert, still unconscious, on the bed, he called her maid, and,

having impressed on her that she was to take every care of her mistress,

and above all to tell her from him as soon as she came to herself that

there was no cause for alarm, he left the house at once. An hour later,

in spite of the efforts of the servants, he forced his way into the

presence of Commander de Jars. Holding out the fateful document to him,

he said:

"Speak openly, commander! Is it you who in revenge for your long

constraint have done this? I can hardly think so, for after what has

happened you know that I have nothing to fear any longer. Still, knowing

my secret and unable to do it in any other way, have you perchance taken

your revenge by an attempt to destroy my future happiness by sowing

dissension and disunion between me and my wife?"

The commander solemnly assured him that he had had no hand in bringing

about the discovery.

’Then if it’s not you, it must be a worthless being called Trumeau, who,

with the unerring instinct of jealousy, has run the truth to earth. But

he knows only half: I have never been either so much in love or so

stupid as to allow myself to be trapped. I have given you my promise to

be discreet and not to misuse my power, and as long as was compatible

with my own safety I have kept my word. But now you must see that I am

bound to defend myself, and to do that I shall be obliged to summon you

as a witness. So leave Paris tonight and seek out some safe retreat

where no one can find you, for to-morrow I shall speak. Of course if I

am quit for a woman’s tears, if no more difficult task lies before me

than to soothe a weeping wife, you can return immediately; but if, as is

too probable, the blow has been struck by the hand of a rival furious at

having been defeated, the matter will not so easily be cut short; the

arm of the law will be invoked, and then I must get my head out of the

noose which some fingers I know of are itching to draw tight."

"You are quite right, sir," answered the commander; "I fear that my

influence at court is not strong enough to enable me to brave the matter

out. Well, my success has cost me dear, but it has cured me for ever of

seeking out similar adventures. My preparations will not take long, and

to-morrow’s dawn will find me far from Paris."

Quennebert bowed and withdrew, returning home to console his Ariadne.

CHAPTER IX

The accusation hanging over the head of Maitre Quennebert was a very

serious one, threatening his life, if proved. But he was not uneasy; he

knew himself in possession of facts which would enable him to refute it

triumphantly.

The platonic love of Angelique de Guerchi for the handsome Chevalier de

Moranges had resulted, as we have seen, in no practical wrong to the Duc

de Vitry. After her reconciliation with her lover, brought about by the

eminently satisfactory explanations she was able to give of her conduct,

which we have already laid before our readers, she did not consider it

advisable to shut her heart to his pleadings much longer, and the

consequence was that at the end of a year she found herself in a

condition which it was necessary to conceal from everyone. To Angelique

herself, it is true, the position was not new, and she felt neither

grief nor shame, regarding the coming event as a means of making her

future more secure by forging a new link in the chain which bound the

duke to her. But he, sure that but for himself Angelique would never

have strayed from virtue’s path, could not endure the thought of her

losing her reputation and becoming an object for scandal to point her

finger at; so that Angelique, who could not well seem less careful of

her good name than he, was obliged to turn his song of woe into a duet,

and consent to certain measures being taken.

One evening, therefore, shortly before Maitre Quennebert’s marriage, the

fair lady set out, ostensibly on a journey which was to last a fortnight

or three weeks. In reality she only made a circle in a post-chaise round

Paris, which she re-entered at one of the barriers, where the duke

awaited her with a sedan-chair. In this she was carried to the very

house to which de Jars had brought his pretended nephew after the duel.

Angelique, who had to pay dearly for her errors, remained there only

twenty-four hours, and then left in her coffin, which was hidden in a

cellar under the palace of the Prince de Conde, the body being covered

with quicklime. Two days after this dreadful death, Commander de Jars

presented himself at the fatal house, and engaged a room in which he

installed the chevalier.

This house, which we are about to ask the reader to enter with us, stood

at the corner of the rue de la Tixeranderie and the rue Deux-Portes.

There was nothing in the exterior of it to distinguish it from any

other, unless perhaps two brass plates, one of which bore the words

MARIE LEROUX-CONSTANTIN, WIDOW, CERTIFIED MIDWIFE, and the other CLAUDE

PERREGAUD, SURGEON. These plates were affixed to the blank wall in the

rue de la Tixeranderie, the windows of the rooms on that side looking

into the courtyard. The house door, which opened directly on the first

steps of a narrow winding stair, was on the other side, just beyond the

low arcade under whose vaulted roof access was gained to that end of the

rue des Deux-Portes. This house, though dirty, mean, and out of repair,

received many wealthy visitors, whose brilliant equipages waited for

them in the neighbouring streets. Often in the night great ladies

crossed its threshold under assumed names and remained there for several

days, during which La Constantin and Claude Perregaud, by an infamous

use of their professional knowledge, restored their clients to an

outward appearance of honour, and enabled them to maintain their

reputation for virtue. The first and second floors contained a dozen

rooms in which these abominable mysteries were practised. The large

apartment, which served as waiting and consultation room, was oddly

furnished, being crowded with objects of strange and unfamiliar form. It

resembled at once the operating-room of a surgeon, the laboratory of a

chemist and alchemist, and the den of a sorcerer. There, mixed up

together in the greatest confusion, lay instruments of all sorts,

caldrons and retorts, as well as books containing the most absurd

ravings of the human mind. There were the twenty folio volumes of

Albertus Magnus; the works of his disciple, Thomas de Cantopre, of

Alchindus, of Averroes, of Avicenna, of Alchabitius, of David de

Plaine-Campy, called L’Edelphe, surgeon to Louis XIII and author of the

celebrated book The Morbific Hydra Exterminated by the Chemical

Hercules. Beside a bronze head, such as the monk Roger Bacon possessed,

which answered all the questions that were addressed to it and foretold

the future by means of a magic mirror and the combination of the rules

of perspective, lay an eggshell, the same which had been used by Caret,

as d’Aubigne tells us, when making men out of germs, mandrakes, and

crimson silk, over a slow fire. In the presses, which had sliding-doors

fastening with secret springs, stood Jars filled with noxious drugs, the

power of which was but too efficacious; in prominent positions, facing

each other, hung two portraits, one representing Hierophilos, a Greek

physician, and the other Agnodice his pupil, the first Athenian midwife.

For several years already La Constantin and Claude Perregaud had carried

on their criminal practices without interference. A number of persons

were of course in the secret, but their interests kept them silent, and

the two accomplices had at last persuaded themselves that they were

perfectly safe. One evening, however, Perregaud came home, his face

distorted by terror and trembling in every limb. He had been warned

while out that the suspicions of the authorities had been aroused in

regard to him and La Constantin. It seemed that some little time ago,

the Vicars-General had sent a deputation to the president of the chief

court of justice, having heard from their priests that in one year alone

six hundred women had avowed in the confessional that they had taken

drugs to prevent their having children. This had been sufficient to

arouse the vigilance of the police, who had set a watch on Perregaud’s

house, with the result that that very night a raid was to be made on it.

The two criminals took hasty counsel together, but, as usual under such

circumstances, arrived at no practical conclusions. It was only when the

danger was upon them that they recovered their presence of mind. In the

dead of night loud knocking at the street door was heard, followed by

the command to open in the name of the king.

"We can yet save ourselves!" exclaimed surgeon, with a sudden flash of

inspiration.

Rushing into the room where the pretended chevalier was lying, he called

out—

"The police are coming up! If they discover your sex you are lost, and

so am I. Do as I tell you."

At a sign from him, La Constantin went down and opened the door. While

the rooms on the first floor were being searched, Perregaud made with a

lancet a superficial incision in the chevalier’s right arm, which gave

very little pain, and bore a close resemblance to a sword-cut. Surgery

and medicine were at that time so inextricably involved, required such

apparatus, and bristled with such scientific absurdities, that no

astonishment was excited by the extraordinary collection of instruments

which loaded the tables and covered the floors below: even the titles of

certain treatises which there had been no time to destroy, awoke no

suspicion.

Fortunately for the surgeon and his accomplice, they had only one

patient—the chevalier—in their house when the descent was made. When the

chevalier’s room was reached, the first thing which the officers of the

law remarked were the hat, spurred boots, and sword of the patient.

Claude Perregaud hardly looked up as the room was invaded; he only made

a sign to those—who came in to be quiet, and went on dressing the wound.

Completely taken in, the officer in command merely asked the name of the

patient and the cause of the wound. La Constantin replied that it’ was

the young Chevalier de Moranges, nephew of Commander de Jars, who had

had an affair of honour that same night, and being sightly wounded had

been brought thither by his uncle hardly an hour before. These questions

and the apparently trustworthy replies elicited by them being duly taken

down, the uninvited visitors retired, having discovered nothing to

justify their visit.

All might have been well had there been nothing the matter but the wound

on the chevalier’s sword-arm. But at the moment when Perregaud gave it

to him the poisonous nostrums employed by La Constantin were already

working in his blood. Violent fever ensued, and in three days the

chevalier was dead. It was his funeral which had met Quennebert’s

wedding party at the church door.

Everything turned out as Quennebert had anticipated. Madame Quennebert,

furious at the deceit which had been practised on her, refused to listen

to her husband’s justification, and Trumeau, not letting the grass grow

under his feet, hastened the next day to launch an accusation of bigamy

against the notary; for the paper which had been found in the nuptial

camber was nothing less than an attested copy of a contract of marriage

concluded between Quennebert and Josephine-Charlotte Boullenois. It was

by the merest chance that Trumeau had come on the record of the

marriage, and he now challenged his rival to produce a certificate of

the death of his first wife. Charlotte Boullenois, after two years of

marriage, had demanded a deed of separation, which demand Quennebert had

opposed. While the case was going on she had retired to the convent of

La Raquette, where her intrigue with de Jars began. The commander easily

induced her to let herself be carried off by force. He then concealed

his conquest by causing her to adopt male attire, a mode of dress which

accorded marvellously well with her peculiar tastes and rather masculine

frame. At first Quennebert had instituted an active but fruitless search

for his missing wife, but soon became habituated to his state of

enforced single blessedness, enjoying to the full the liberty it brought

with it. But his business had thereby suffered, and once having made the

acquaintance of Madame Rapally, he cultivated it assiduously, knowing

her fortune would be sufficient to set him straight again with the

world, though he was obliged to exercise the utmost caution and reserve

in has intercourse with her, as she on her side displayed none of these

qualities. At last, however, matters came to such a pass that he must

either go to prison or run the risk of a second marriage. So he

reluctantly named a day for the ceremony, resolving to leave Paris with

Madame Rapally as soon as he had settled with his creditors.

In the short interval which ensued, and while Trumeau was hugging the

knowledge of the discovery he had made, a stroke of luck had brought the

pretended chevalier to La Constantin. As Quennebert had kept an eye on

de Jars and was acquainted with all his movements, he was aware of

everything that happened at Perregaud’s, and as Charlotte’s death

preceded his second marriage by one day, he knew that no serious

consequences would ensue from the legal proceedings taken against him.

He produced the declarations made by Mademoiselle de Guerchi and the

commander, and had the body exhumed. Extraordinary and improbable as his

defence appeared at first to be, the exhumation proved the truth of his

assertions. These revelations, however, drew the eye of justice again on

Perregaud and his partner in crime, and this time their guilt was

brought home to them. They were condemned by parliamentary decree to "be

hanged by the neck till they were dead, on a gallows erected for that

purpose at the cross roads of the Croix-du-Trahoir; their bodies to

remain there for twenty-four hours, then to be cut down and brought back

to Paris, where they were to be exposed on a gibbet," etc., etc.

It was proved that they had amassed immense fortunes in the exercise of

their infamous calling. The entries in the books seized at their house,

though sparse, would have led, if made public, to scandals, involving

many in high places; it was therefore judged best to limit the

accusation to the two deaths by blood-poisoning of Angelique de Querchi

and Charlotte Boullenois.

*JOAN OF NAPLES—1343-1382*

CHAPTER I

In the night of the 15th of January 1343, while the inhabitants of

Naples lay wrapped in peaceful slumber, they were suddenly awakened by

the bells of the three hundred churches that this thrice blessed capital

contains. In the midst of the disturbance caused by so rude a call the

first thought in the mind of all was that the town was on fire, or that

the army of some enemy had mysteriously landed under cover of night and

could put the citizens to the edge of the sword. But the doleful,

intermittent sounds of all these fills, which disturbed the silence at

regular and distant intervals, were an invitation to the faithful to

pray for a passing soul, and it was soon evident that no disaster

threatened the town, but that the king alone was in danger.

Indeed, it had been plain for several days past that the greatest

uneasiness prevailed in Castel Nuovo; the officers of the crown were

assembled regularly twice a day, and persons of importance, whose right

it was to make their way into the king’s apartments, came out evidently

bowed down with grief. But although the king’s death was regarded as a

misfortune that nothing could avert, yet the whole town, on learning for

certain of the approach of his last hour, was affected with a sincere

grief, easily understood when one learns that the man about to die,

after a reign of thirty-three years, eight months, and a few days, was

Robert of Anjou, the most wise, just, and glorious king who had ever sat

on the throne of Sicily. And so he carried with him to the tomb the

eulogies and regrets of all his subjects.

Soldiers would speak with enthusiasm of the long wars he had waged with

Frederic and Peter of Aragon, against Henry VII and Louis of Bavaria;

and felt their hearts beat high, remembering the glories of campaigns in

Lombardy and Tuscany; priests would gratefully extol his constant

defence of the papacy against Ghibelline attacks, and the founding of

convents, hospitals, and churches throughout his kingdom; in the world

of letters he was regarded as the most learned king in Christendom;

Petrarch, indeed, would receive the poet’s crown from no other hand, and

had spent three consecutive days answering all the questions that Robert

had deigned to ask him on every topic of human knowledge. The men of

law, astonished by the wisdom of those laws which now enriched the

Neapolitan code, had dubbed him the Solomon of their day; the nobles

applauded him for protecting their ancient privileges, and the people

were eloquent of his clemency, piety, and mildness. In a word, priests

and soldiers, philosophers and poets, nobles and peasants, trembled when

they thought that the government was to fall into the hands of a

foreigner and of a young girl, recalling those words of Robert, who, as

he followed in the funeral train of Charles, his only son, turned as he

reached the threshold of the church and sobbingly exclaimed to his

barons about him, "This day the crown has fallen from my head: alas for

me! alas for you!"

Now that the bells were ringing for the dying moments of the good king,

every mind was full of these prophetic words: women prayed fervently to

God; men from all parts of the town bent their steps towards the royal

palace to get the earliest and most authentic news, and after waiting

some moments, passed in exchanging sad reflections, were obliged to

return as they had come, since nothing that went on in the privacy of

the family found its way outside—the castle was plunged in complete

darkness, the drawbridge was raised as usual, and the guards were at

their post.

Yet if our readers care to be present at the death of the nephew of

Saint Louis and the grandson of Charles of Anjou, we may conduct them

into the chamber of the dying man. An alabaster lamp suspended from the

ceiling serves to light the vast and sombre room, with walls draped in

black velvet sewn with golden fleur-de-lys. Near the wall which faces

the two entrance doors that at this moment are both shut close, there

stands beneath a brocaded canopy an ebony bed, supported on four twisted

columns carved with symbolic figures. The king, after a struggle with a

violent paroxysm, has fallen swooning in the arms of his confessor and

his doctor, who each hold one of his dying hands, feeling his pulse

anxiously and exchanging looks of intelligence. At the foot of the bed

stands a woman about fifty years of age, her hands clasped, her eyes

raised to heaven, in an attitude of resigned grief: this woman is the

queen, No tears dim her eyes: her sunken cheek has that waxen yellow

tinge that one sees on the bodies of saints preserved by miracle. In her

look is that mingling of calm and suffering that points to a soul at

once tried by sorrow and imbued with religion. After the lapse of an

hour, while no movement had disturbed the profound silence which reigned

about the bed of death, the king trembled slightly; opened his eyes, and

endeavoured feebly to raise his head. Then thanking the physician and

priest with a smile, who had both hastened to arrange his pillows, he

begged the queen to come near, and told her in a low voice that he would

speak with her a moment alone. The doctor and confessor retired, deeply

bowing, and the king followed them with his eyes up to the moment when

one of the doors closed behind them. He passed his hand across his brow,

as though seeking to collect his thoughts, and rallying all his forces

for the supreme effort, pronounced these words:

"What I must say to you, Sancha, has no concern with those two good

persons who were here a moment ago: their task is ended. One has done

all for my body that human science could teach him, and all that has

come of it is that my death is yet a little deferred; the other has now

absolved me of all my sins, and assured me of God’s forgiveness, yet

cannot keep from me those dread apparitions which in this terrible hour

arise before me. Twice have you seen me battling with a superhuman

horror. My brow has been bathed in sweat, my limbs rigid, my cries have

been stifled by a hand of iron. Has God permitted the Evil Spirit to

tempt me? Is this remorse in phantom shape? These two conflicts I have

suffered have so subdued my strength that I can never endure a third.

Listen then, my Sancha, for I have instructions to give you on which

perhaps the safety of my soul depends."

"My lord and my master," said the queen in the most gentle accents of

submission, "I am ready to listen to your orders; and should it be that

God, in the hidden designs of His providence, has willed to call you to

His glory while we are plunged in grief, your last wishes shall be

fulfilled here on earth most scrupulously and exactly. But," she added,

with all the solicitude of a timid soul, "pray suffer me to sprinkle

drops of holy water and banish the accursed one from this chamber, and

let me offer up some part of that service of prayer that you composed in

honour of your sainted brother to implore God’s protection in this hour

when we can ill afford to lose it."

Then opening a richly bound book, she read with fervent devotion certain

verses of the office that Robert had written in a very pure Latin for

his brother Louis, Bishop of Toulouse, which was in use in the Church as

late as the time of the Council of Trent.

Soothed by the charm of the prayers he had himself composed, the king

was near forgetting the object of the interview he had so solemnly and

eagerly demanded and letting himself lapse into a state of vague

melancholy, he murmured in a subdued voice, "Yes, yes, you are right;

pray for me, for you too are a saint, and I am but a poor sinful man."

"Say not so, my lord," interrupted Dona Sancha; "you are the greatest,

wisest, and most just king who has ever sat upon the throne of Naples."

"But the throne is usurped," replied Robert in a voice of gloom; "you

know that the kingdom belonged to my elder brother, Charles Martel; and

since Charles was on the throne of Hungary, which he inherited from his

mother, the kingdom of Naples devolved by right upon his eldest son,

Carobert, and not on me, who am the third in rank of the family. And I

have suffered myself to be crowned in my nephew’s stead, though he was

the only lawful-king; I have put the younger branch in the place of the

elder, and for thirty-three years I have stifled the reproaches of my

conscience. True, I have won battles, made laws, founded churches; but a

single word serves to give the lie to all the pompous titles showered

upon me by the people’s admiration, and this one word rings out clearer

in my ears than all the flattery of courtiers, all the songs of poets,

all the orations of the crowd:—I am an usurper!"

"Be not unjust towards yourself, my lord, and bear in mind that if you

did not abdicate in favour of the rightful heir, it was because you

wished to save the people from the worst misfortunes. Moreover,"

continued the queen, with that air of profound conviction that an

unanswerable argument inspires, "you have remained king by the consent

and authority of our Holy Father the sovereign pontiff, who disposes of

the throne as a fief belonging to the Church."

"I have long quieted my scruples thus," replied the dying man, "and the

pope’s authority has kept me silent; but whatever security one may

pretend to feel in one’s lifetime, there yet comes a dreadful solemn

hour when all illusions needs must vanish: this hour for me has come,

and now I must appear before God, the one unfailing judge."

"If His justice cannot fail, is not His mercy infinite?" pursued the

queen, with the glow of sacred inspiration. "Even if there were good

reason for the fear that has shaken your soul, what fault could not be

effaced by a repentance so noble? Have you not repaired the wrong you

may have done your nephew Carobert, by bringing his younger son Andre to

your kingdom and marrying him to Joan, your poor Charles’s elder

daughter? Will not they inherit your crown?"

"Alas!" cried Robert, with a deep sigh, "God is punishing me perhaps for

thinking too late of this just reparation. O my good and noble Sandra,

you touch a chord which vibrates sadly in my heart, and you anticipate

the unhappy confidence I was about to make. I feel a gloomy

presentiment—and in the hour of death presentiment is prophecy—that the

two sons of my nephew, Louis, who has been King of Hungary since his

father died, and Andre, whom I desired to make King of Naples, will

prove the scourge of my family. Ever since Andre set foot in our castle,

a strange fatality has pursued and overturned my projects. I had hoped

that if Andre and Joan were brought up together a tender intimacy would

arise between the two children; and that the beauty of our skies, our

civilisation, and the attractions of our court would end by softening

whatever rudeness there might be in the young Hungarian’s character; but

in spite of my efforts all has tended to cause coldness, and even

aversion, between the bridal pair. Joan, scarcely fifteen, is far ahead

of her age. Gifted with a brilliant and mobile mind, a noble and lofty

character, a lively and glowing fancy, now free and frolicsome as a

child, now grave and proud as a queen, trustful and simple as a young

girl, passionate and sensitive as a woman, she presents the most

striking contrast to Andre, who, after a stay of ten years at our court,

is wilder, more gloomy, more intractable than ever. His cold, regular

features, impassive countenance, and indifference to every pleasure that

his wife appears to love, all this has raised between him and Joan a

barrier of indifference, even of antipathy. To the tenderest effusion

his reply is no more than a scornful smile or a frown, and he never

seems happier than when on a pretext of the chase he can escape from the

court. These, then, are the two, man and wife, on whose heads my crown

shall rest, who in a short space will find themselves exposed to every

passion whose dull growl is now heard below a deceptive calm, but which

only awaits the moment when I breathe my last, to burst forth upon

them."

"O my God, my God!" the queen kept repeating in her grief: her arms fell

by her side, like the arms of a statue weeping by a tomb.

"Listen, Dona Sandra. I know that your heart has never clung to earthly

vanities, and that you only wait till God has called me to Himself to

withdraw to the convent of Santa Maria delta Croce, founded by yourself

in the hope that you might there end your days. Far be it from me to

dissuade you from your sacred vocation, when I am myself descending into

the tomb and am conscious of the nothingness of all human greatness.

Only grant me one year of widowhood before you pass on to your bridal

with the Lord, one year in which you will watch over Joan and her

husband, to keep from them all the dangers that threaten. Already the

woman who was the seneschal’s wife and her son have too much influence

over our grand-daughter; be specially careful, and amid the many

interests, intrigues, and temptations that will surround the young

queen, distrust particularly the affection of Bertrand d’Artois, the

beauty of Louis of Tarentum; and the ambition of Charles of Durazzo."

The king paused, exhausted by the effort of speaking; then turning on

his wife a supplicating glance and extending his thin wasted hand, he

added in a scarcely audible voice:

"Once again I entreat you, leave not the court before a year has passed.

Do you promise me?"

"I promise, my lord."

"And now," said Robert, whose face at these words took on a new

animation, "call my confessor and the physician and summon the family,

for the hour is at hand, and soon I shall not have the strength to speak

my last words."

A few moments later the priest and the doctor re-entered the room, their

faces bathed, in tears. The king thanked them warmly for their care of

him in his last illness, and begged them help to dress him in the coarse

garb of a Franciscan monk, that God, as he said, seeing him die in

poverty, humility, and penitence, might the more easily grant him

pardon. The confessor and doctor placed upon his naked feet the sandals

worn by mendicant friars, robed him in a Franciscan frock, and tied the

rope about his waist. Stretched thus upon his bed, his brow surmounted

by his scanty locks, with his long white beard, and his hands crossed

upon his breast, the King of Naples looked like one of those aged

anchorites who spend their lives in mortifying the flesh, and whose

souls, absorbed in heavenly contemplation, glide insensibly from out

their last ecstasy into eternal bliss. Some time he lay thus with closed

eyes, putting up a silent prayer to God; then he bade them light the

spacious room as for a great solemnity, and gave a sign to the two

persons who stood, one at the head, the other at the foot of the bed.

The two folding doors opened, and the whole of the royal family, with

the queen at their head and the chief barons following, took their

places in silence around the dying king to hear his last wishes.

His eyes turned toward Joan, who stood next him on his right hand, with

an indescribable look of tenderness and grief. She was of a beauty so

unusual and so marvellous, that her grandfather was fascinated by the

dazzling sight, and mistook her for an angel that God had sent to

console him on his deathbed. The pure lines of her fine profile, her

great black liquid eyes, her noble brow uncovered, her hair shining like

the raven’s wing, her delicate mouth, the whole effect of this beautiful

face on the mind of those who beheld her was that of a deep melancholy

and sweetness, impressing itself once and for ever. Tall and slender,

but without the excessive thinness of some young girls, her movements

had that careless supple grace that recall the waving of a flower stalk

in the breeze. But in spite of all these smiling and innocent graces one

could yet discern in Robert’s heiress a will firm and resolute to brave

every obstacle, and the dark rings that circled her fine eyes plainly

showed that her heart was already agitated by passions beyond her years.

Beside Joan stood her younger sister, Marie, who was twelve or thirteen

years of age, the second daughter of Charles, Duke of Calabria, who had

died before her birth, and whose mother, Marie of Valois, had unhappily

been lost to her from her cradle. Exceedingly pretty and shy, she seemed

distressed by such an assembly of great personages, and quietly drew

near to the widow of the grand seneschal, Philippa, surnamed the

Catanese, the princesses’ governess, whom they honoured as a mother.

Behind the princesses and beside this lady stood her son, Robert of

Cabane, a handsome young man, proud and upright, who with his left hand

played with his slight moustache while he secretly cast on Joan a glance

of audacious boldness. The group was completed by Dona Cancha, the young

chamberwoman to the princesses, and by the Count of Terlizzi, who

exchanged with her many a furtive look and many an open smile. The

second group was composed of Andre, Joan’s husband, and Friar Robert,

tutor to the young prince, who had come with him from Budapesth, and

never left him for a minute. Andre was at this time perhaps eighteen

years old: at first sight one was struck by the extreme regularity of

his features, his handsome, noble face, and abundant fair hair; but

among all these Italian faces, with their vivid animation, his

countenance lacked expression, his eyes seemed dull, and something hard

and icy in his looks revealed his wild character and foreign extraction.

His tutor’s portrait Petrarch has drawn for us: crimson face, hair and

beard red, figure short and crooked; proud in poverty, rich and miserly;

like a second Diogenes, with hideous and deformed limbs barely concealed

beneath his friar’s frock.

In the third group stood the widow of Philip, Prince of Tarentum, the

king’s brother, honoured at the court of Naples with the title of

Empress of Constantinople, a style inherited by her as the granddaughter

of Baldwin II. Anyone accustomed to sound the depths of the human heart

would at one glance have perceived that this woman under her ghastly

pallor concealed an implacable hatred, a venomous jealousy, and an

all-devouring ambition. She had her three sons about her—Robert, Philip,

and Louis, the youngest. Had the king chosen out from among his nephews

the handsomest, bravest, and most generous, there can be no doubt that

Louis of Tarentum would have obtained the crown. At the age of

twenty-three he had already excelled the cavaliers of most renown in

feats of arms; honest, loyal, and brave, he no sooner conceived a

project than he promptly carried it out. His brow shone in that clear

light which seems to serve as a halo of success to natures so privileged

as his; his fine eyes, of a soft and velvety black, subdued the hearts

of men who could not resist their charm, and his caressing smile made

conquest sweet. A child of destiny, he had but to use his will; some

power unknown, some beneficent fairy had watched over his birth, and

undertaken to smooth away all obstacles, gratify all desires.

Near to him, but in the fourth group, his cousin Charles of Duras stood

and scowled. His mother, Agnes, the widow of the Duke of Durazzo and

Albania, another of the king’s brothers, looked upon him affrighted,

clutching to her breast her two younger sons, Ludovico, Count of

Gravina, and Robert, Prince of Morea. Charles, pale-faced, with short

hair and thick beard, was glancing with suspicion first at his dying

uncle and then at Joan and the little Marie, then again at his cousins,

apparently so excited by tumultuous thoughts that he could not stand

still. His feverish uneasiness presented a marked contrast with the

calm, dreamy face of Bertrand d’Artois, who, giving precedence to his

father Charles, approached the queen at the foot of the bed, and so

found himself face to face with Joan. The young man was so absorbed by

the beauty of the princess that he seemed to see nothing else in the

room.

As soon as Joan and Andre, the Princes of Tarentum and Durazzo, the

Counts of Artois, and Queen Sancha had taken their places round the bed

of death, forming a semicircle, as we have just described, the

vice-chancellor passed through the rows of barons, who according to

their rank were following closely after the princes of the blood; and

bowing low before the king, unfolded a parchment sealed with the royal

seal, and read in a solemn voice, amid a profound silence:

"Robert, by the grace of God King of Sicily and Jerusalem, Count of

Provence, Forcalquier, and Piedmont, Vicar of the Holy Roman Church,

hereby nominates and declares his sole heiress in the kingdom of Sicily

on this side and the other side of the strait, as also in the counties

of Provence, Forcalquier, and Piedmont, and in all his other

territories, Joan, Duchess of Calabria, elder daughter of the excellent

lord Charles, Duke of Calabria, of illustrious memory.

"Moreover, he nominates and declares the honourable lady Marie, younger

daughter of the late Duke of Calabria, his heiress in the county of Alba

and in the jurisdiction of the valley of Grati and the territory of

Giordano, with all their castles and dependencies; and orders that the

lady thus named receive them in fief direct from the aforesaid duchess

and her heirs; on this condition, however, that if the duchess give and

grant to her illustrious sister or to her assigns the sum of 10,000

ounces of gold by way of compensation, the county and jurisdiction

aforesaid—shall remain in the possession of the duchess and her heirs.

"Moreover, he wills and commands, for private and secret reasons, that

the aforesaid lady Marie shall contract a marriage with the very

illustrious prince, Louis, reigning King of Hungary. And in case any

impediment should appear to this marriage by reason of the union said to

be already arranged and signed between the King of Hungary and the King

of Bohemia and his daughter, our lord the king commands that the

illustrious lady Marie shall contract a marriage with the elder son of

the mighty lord Don Juan, Duke of Normandy, himself the elder son of the

reigning King of France."

At this point Charles of Durazzo gave Marie a singularly meaning look,

which escaped the notice of all present, their attention being absorbed

by the reading of Robert’s will. The young girl herself, from the moment

when she first heard her own name, had stood confused and thunderstruck,

with scarlet cheeks, not daring to raise her eyes.

The vice-chancellor continued:

"Moreover, he has willed and commanded that the counties of Forcalquier

and Provence shall in all perpetuity be united to his kingdom, and shall

form one sole and inseparable dominion, whether or not there be several

sons or daughters or any other reason of any kind for its partition,

seeing that this union is of the utmost importance for the security and

common prosperity of the kingdom and counties aforesaid.

"Moreover, he has decided and commanded that in case of the death of the

Duchess Joan—which God avert!—without lawful issue of her body, the most

illustrious lord Andre, Duke of Calabria, her husband, shall have the

principality of Salerno, with the title, fruits, revenues, and all the

rights thereof, together with the revenue of 2000 ounces of gold for

maintenance.

"Moreover, he has decided and ordered that the Queen above all, and also

the venerable father Don Philip of Cabassole, Bishop of Cavaillon,

vice-chancellor of the kingdom of Sicily, and the magnificent lords

Philip of Sanguineto, seneschal of Provence, Godfrey of Marsan, Count of

Squillace, admiral of the kingdom, and Charles of Artois, Count of Aire,

shall be governors, regents, and administrators of the aforesaid lord

Andre and the aforesaid ladies Joan and Marie, until such time as the

duke, the duchess, and the very illustrious lady Marie shall have

attained their twenty-fifth year," etc. etc.

When the vice-chancellor had finished reading, the king sat up, and

glancing round upon his fair and numerous family, thus spoke:

"My children, you have heard my last wishes. I have bidden you all to my

deathbed, that you may see how the glory of the world passes away. Those

whom men name the great ones of the earth have more duties to perform,

and after death more accounts to render: it is in this that their

greatness lies. I have reigned thirty-three years, and God before whom I

am about to appear, God to whom my sighs have often arisen during my

long and painful life, God alone knows the thoughts that rend my heart

in the hour of death. Soon shall I be lying in the tomb, and all that

remains of me in this world will live in the memory of those who pray

for me. But before I leave you for ever, you, oh, you who are twice my

daughters, whom I have loved with a double love, and you my nephews who

have had from me all the care and affection of a father, promise me to

be ever united in heart and in wish, as indeed you are in my love. I

have lived longer than your fathers, I the eldest of all, and thus no

doubt God has wished to tighten the bonds of your affection, to accustom

you to live in one family and to pay honour to one head. I have loved

you all alike, as a father should, without exception or preference. I

have disposed of my throne according to the law of nature and the

inspiration of my conscience: Here are the heirs of the crown of Naples;

you, Joan, and you, Andre, will never forget the love and respect that

are due between husband and wife, and mutually sworn by you at the foot

of the altar; and you, my nephews all; my barons, my officers, render

homage to your lawful sovereigns; Andre of Hungary, Louis of Tarentum,

Charles of Durazzo, remember that you are brothers; woe to him who shall

imitate the perfidy of Cain! May his blood fall upon his own head, and

may he be accursed by Heaven as he is by the mouth of a dying man; and

may the blessing of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit descend

upon that man whose heart is good, when the Lord of mercy shall call to

my soul Himself!"

The king remained motionless, his arms raised, his eyes fixed on heaven,

his cheeks extraordinarily bright, while the princes, barons, and

officers of the court proffered to Joan and her husband the oath of

fidelity and allegiance. When it was the turn of the Princes of Duras to

advance, Charles disdainfully stalked past Andre, and bending his knee

before the princess, said in a loud voice, as he kissed her hand—

"To you, my queen, I pay my homage."

All looks were turned fearfully towards the dying man, but the good king

no longer heard. Seeing him fall back rigid and motionless, Dona Sancha

burst into sobs, and cried in a voice choked with tears—

"The king is dead; let us pray for his soul."

At the very same moment all the princes hurried from the room, and every

passion hitherto suppressed in the presence of the king now found its

vent like a mighty torrent breaking through its banks.

"Long live Joan!" Robert of Cabane, Louis of Tarentum, and Bertrand of

Artois were the first to exclaim, while the prince’s tutor, furiously

breaking through the crowd and apostrophising the various members of the

council of regency, cried aloud in varying tones of passion, "Gentlemen,

you have forgotten the king’s wish already; you must cry, ’Long live

Andre!’ too;" then, wedding example to precept, and himself making more

noise than all the barons together, he cried in a voice of thunder—

"Long live the King of Naples!"

But there was no echo to his cry, and Charles of Durazzo, measuring the

Dominican with a terrible look, approached the queen, and taking her by

the hand, slid back the curtains of the balcony, from which was seen the

square and the town of Naples. So far as the eye could reach there

stretched an immense crowd, illuminated by streams of light, and

thousands of heads were turned upward towards Castel Nuovo to gather any

news that might be announced. Charles respectfully drawing back and

indicating his fair cousin with his hand, cried out—

"People of Naples, the King is dead: long live the Queen!"

"Long live Joan, Queen of Naples!" replied the people, with a single

mighty cry that resounded through every quarter of the town.

The events that on this night had followed each other with the rapidity

of a dream had produced so deep an impression on Joan’s mind, that,

agitated by a thousand different feelings, she retired to her own rooms,

and shutting herself up in her chamber, gave free vent to her grief. So

long as the conflict of so many ambitions waged about the tomb, the

young queen, refusing every consolation that was offered her, wept

bitterly for the death of her grandfather, who had loved her to the

point of weakness. The king was buried with all solemnity in the church

of Santa Chiara, which he had himself founded and dedicated to the Holy

Sacrament, enriching it with magnificent frescoes by Giotto and other

precious relics, among which is shown still, behind the tribune of the

high altar, two columns of white marble taken from Solomon’s temple.

There still lies Robert, represented on his tomb in the dress of a king

and in a monk’s frock, on the right of the monument to his son Charles,

the Duke of Calabria.

CHAPTER II

As soon as the obsequies were over, Andre’s tutor hastily assembled the

chief Hungarian lords, and it was decided in a council held in the

presence of the prince and with his consent, to send letters to his

mother, Elizabeth of Poland, and his brother, Louis of Hungary, to make

known to them the purport of Robert’s will, and at the same time to

lodge a complaint at the court of Avignon against the conduct of the

princes and people of Naples in that they had proclaimed Joan alone

Queen of Naples, thus overlooking the rights of her husband, and further

to demand for him the pope’s order for Andre’s coronation. Friar Robert,

who had not only a profound knowledge of the court intrigues, but also

the experience of a philosopher and all a monk’s cunning, told his pupil

that he ought to profit by the depression of spirit the king’s death had

produced in Joan, and ought not to suffer her favourites to use this

time in influencing her by their seductive counsels.

But Joan’s ability to receive consolation was quite as ready as her

grief had at first been impetuous; the sobs which seemed to be breaking

her heart ceased all at once; new thoughts, more gentle, less

lugubrious, took possession of the young queen’s mind; the trace of

tears vanished, and a smile lit up her liquid eyes like the sun’s ray

following on rain. This change, anxiously awaited, was soon observed by

Joan’s chamberwoman: she stole to the queen’s room, and falling on her

knees, in accents of flattery and affection, she offered her first

congratulations to her lovely mistress. Joan opened her arms and held

her in a long embrace, for Dona Cancha was far more to her than a

lady-in-waiting; she was the companion of infancy, the depositary of all

her secrets, the confidante of her most private thoughts. One had but to

glance at this young girl to understand the fascination she could

scarcely fail to exercise over the queen’s mind. She had a frank and

smiling countenance, such as inspires confidence and captivates the mind

at first sight. Her face had an irresistible charm, with clear blue

eyes, warm golden hair, mouth bewitchingly turned up at the corners, and

delicate little chin. Wild, happy, light of heart, pleasure and love

were the breath of her being; her dainty refinement, her charming

inconstancies, all made her at sixteen as lovely as an angel, though at

heart she was corrupt. The whole court was at her feet, and Joan felt

more affection for her than for her own sister.

"Well, my dear Cancha," she murmured, with a sigh, "you find me very sad

and very unhappy!"

"And you find me, fair queen," replied the confidante, fixing an

admiring look on Joan,—"you find me just the opposite, very happy that I

can lay at your feet before anyone else the proof of the joy that the

people of Naples are at this moment feeling. Others perhaps may envy you

the crown that shines upon your brow, the throne which is one of the

noblest in the world, the shouts of this entire town that sound rather

like worship than homage; but I, madam, I envy you your lovely black

hair, your dazzling eyes, your more than mortal grace, which make every

man adore you."

"And yet you know, my Cancha, I am much to be pitied both as a queen and

as a woman: when one is fifteen a crown is heavy to wear, and I have not

the liberty of the meanest of my subjects—I mean in my affections; for

before I reached an age when I could think I was sacrificed to a man

whom I can never love."

"Yet, madam," replied Cancha in a more insinuating voice, "in this court

there is a young cavalier who might by virtue of respect, love, and

devotion have made you forget the claims of this foreigner, alike

unworthy to be our king and to be your husband."

The queen heaved a heavy sigh.

"When did you lose your skill to read my heart?" she cried. "Must I

actually tell you that this love is making me wretched? True, at the

very first this unsanctioned love was a keen joy: a new life seemed to

wake within my heart; I was drawn on, fascinated by the prayers, the

tears, and the despair of this man, by the opportunities that his mother

so easily granted, she whom I had always looked upon as my own mother; I

have loved him.... O my God, I am still so young, and my past is so

unhappy. At times strange thoughts come into my mind: I fancy he no

longer loves me, that he never did love me; I fancy he has been led on

by ambition, by self-interest, by some ignoble motive, and has only

feigned a feeling that he has never really felt. I feel myself a

coldness I cannot account for; in his presence I am constrained, I am

troubled by his look, his voice makes me tremble: I fear him; I would

sacrifice a year of my life could I never have listened to him."

These words seemed to touch the young confidante to the very depths of

her soul; a shade of sadness crossed her brow, her eyelids dropped, and

for some time she answered nothing, showing sorrow rather than surprise.

Then, lifting her head gently, she said, with visible embarrassment—

"I should never have dared to pass so severe a judgment upon a man whom

my sovereign lady has raised above other men by casting upon him a look

of kindness; but if Robert of Cabane has deserved the reproach of

inconstancy and ingratitude, if he has perjured himself like a coward,

he must indeed be the basest of all miserable beings, despising a

happiness which other men might have entreated of God the whole time of

their life and paid for through eternity. One man I know, who weeps both

night and day without hope or consolation, consumed by a slow and

painful malady, when one word might yet avail to save him, did it come

from the lips of my noble mistress."

"I will not hear another word," cried Joan, suddenly rising; "there

shall be no new cause for remorse in my life. Trouble has come upon me

through my loves, both lawful and criminal; alas! no longer will I try

to control my awful fate, I will bow my head without a murmur. I am the

queen, and I must yield myself up for the good of my subjects."

"Will you forbid me, madam," replied Dona Cancha in a kind, affectionate

tone—"will you forbid me to name Bertrand of Artois in your presence,

that unhappy man, with the beauty of an angel and the modesty of a girl?

Now that you are queen and have the life and death of your subjects in

your own keeping, will you feel no kindness towards an unfortunate one

whose only fault is to adore you, who strives with all his mind and

strength to bear a chance look of yours without dying of his joy?"

"I have struggled hard never to look on him," cried the queen, urged by

an impulse she was not strong enough to conquer: then, to efface the

impression that might well have been made on her friend’s mind, she

added severely, "I forbid you to pronounce his name before me; and if he

should ever venture to complain, I bid you tell him from me that the

first time I even suspect the cause of his distress he will be banished

for ever from my presence."

"Ah, madam, dismiss me also; for I shall never be strong enough to do so

hard a bidding: the unhappy man who cannot awake in your heart so much

as a feeling of pity may now be struck down by yourself in your wrath,

for here he stands; he has heard your sentence, and come to die at your

feet."

The last words were spoken in a louder voice, so that they might be

heard from outside, and Bertrand of Artois came hurriedly into the room

and fell on his knees before the queen. For a long time past the young

lady-in-waiting had perceived that Robert of Cabane had, through his own

fault, lost the love of Joan; for his tyranny had indeed become more

unendurable to her than her husband’s.

Dona Cancha had been quick enough to perceive that the eyes of her young

mistress were wont to rest with a kind of melancholy gentleness on

Bertrand, a young man of handsome appearance but with a sad and dreamy

expression; so when she made up her mind to speak in his interests, she

was persuaded that the queen already loved him. Still, a bright colour

overspread Joan’s face, and her anger would have fallen on both culprits

alike, when in the next room a sound of steps was heard, and the voice

of the grand seneschal’s widow in conversation with her son fell on the

ears of the three young people like a clap of thunder. Dona Cancha, pale

as death, stood trembling; Bertrand felt that he was lost—all the more

because his presence compromised the queen; Joan only, with that

wonderful presence of mind she was destined to preserve in the most

difficult crises of her future life, thrust the young man against the

carved back of her bed, and concealed him completely beneath the ample

curtain: she then signed to Cancha to go forward and meet the governess

and her son.

But before we conduct into the queen’s room these two persons, whom our

readers may remember in Joan’s train about the bed of King Robert, we

must relate the circumstances which had caused the family of the

Catanese to rise with incredible rapidity from the lowest class of the

people to the highest rank at court. When Dona Violante of Aragon, first

wife of Robert of Anjou, became the mother of Charles, who was later on

the Duke of Calabria, a nurse was sought for the infant among the most

handsome women of the people. After inspecting many women of equal merit

as regards beauty, youth and health, the princess’s choice lighted on

Philippa, a young Catanese woman, the wife of a fisherman of Trapani,

and by condition a laundress. This young woman, as she washed her linen

on the bank of a stream, had dreamed strange dreams: she had fancied

herself summoned to court, wedded to a great personage, and receiving

the honours of a great lady. Thus when she was called to Castel Nuovo

her joy was great, for she felt that her dreams now began to be

realised. Philippa was installed at the court, and a few months after

she began to nurse the child the fisherman was dead and she was a widow.

Meanwhile Raymond of Cabane, the major-domo of King Charles II’s house,

had bought a negro from some corsairs, and having had him baptized by

his own name, had given him his liberty; afterwards observing that he

was able and intelligent, he had appointed him head cook in the king’s

kitchen; and then he had gone away to the war. During the absence of his

patron the negro managed his own affairs at the court so cleverly, that

in a short time he was able to buy land, houses, farms, silver plate,

and horses, and could vie in riches with the best in the kingdom; and as

he constantly won higher favour in the royal family, he passed on from

the kitchen to the wardrobe. The Catanese had also deserved very well of

her employers, and as a reward for the care she had bestowed on the

child, the princess married her to the negro, and he, as a wedding gift,

was granted the title of knight.

From this day forward, Raymond of Cabane and Philippa the laundress rose

in the world so rapidly that they had no equal in influence at court.

After the death of Dona Violante, the Catanese became the intimate

friend of Dona Sandra, Robert’s second wife, whom we introduced to our

readers at the beginning of this narrative. Charles, her foster son,

loved her as a mother, and she was the confidante of his two wives in

turn, especially of the second wife, Marie of Valois. And as the quondam

laundress had in the end learned all the manners and customs of the

court, she was chosen at the birth of Joan and her sister to be

governess and mistress over the young girls, and at this juncture

Raymond was created major-domo. Finally, Marie of Valois on her deathbed

commended the two young princesses to her care, begging her to look on

them as her own-daughters. Thus Philippa the Catanese, honoured in

future as foster mother of the heiress to the throne of Naples, had

power to nominate her husband grand seneschal, one of the seven most

important offices in the kingdom, and to obtain knighthood for her sons.

Raymond of Cabane was buried like a king in a marble tomb in the church

of the Holy Sacrament, and there was speedily joined by two of his sons.

The third, Robert, a youth of extraordinary strength and beauty, gave up

an ecclesiastical career, and was himself made major-domo, his two

sisters being married to the Count of Merlizzi and the Count of Morcone

respectively. This was now the state of affairs, and the influence of

the grand seneschal’s widow seemed for ever established, when an

unexpected event suddenly occurred, causing such injury as might well

suffice to upset the edifice of her fortunes that had been raised stone

by stone patiently and slowly: this edifice was now undermined and

threatened to fall in a single day. It was the sudden apparition of

Friar Robert, who followed to the court of Rome his young pupil, who

from infancy had been Joan’s destined husband, which thus shattered all

the designs of the Catanese and seriously menaced her future. The monk

had not been slow to understand that so long as she remained at the

court, Andre would be no more than the slave, possibly even the victim,

of his wife. Thus all Friar Robert’s thoughts were obstinately

concentrated on a single end, that of getting rid of the Catanese or

neutralising her influence. The prince’s tutor and the governess of the

heiress had but to exchange one glance, icy, penetrating, plain to read:

their looks met like lightning flashes of hatred and of vengeance. The

Catanese, who felt she was detected, lacked courage to fight this man in

the open, and so conceived the hope of strengthening her tottering

empire by the arts of corruption and debauchery. She instilled by

degrees into her pupil’s mind the poison of vice, inflamed her youthful

imagination with precocious desires, sowed in her heart the seeds of an

unconquerable aversion for her husband, surrounded the poor child with

abandoned women, and especially attached to her the beautiful and

attractive Dona Cancha, who is branded by contemporary authors with the

name of a courtesan; then summed up all these lessons in infamy by

prostituting Joan to her own son. The poor girl, polluted by sin before

she knew what life was, threw her whole self into this first passion

with all the ardour of youth, and loved Robert of Cabane so violently,

so madly, that the Catanese congratulated herself on the success of her

infamy, believing that she held her prey so fast in her toils that her

victim would never attempt to escape them.

A year passed by before Joan, conquered by her infatuation, conceived

the smallest suspicion of her lover’s sincerity. He, more ambitious than

affectionate, found it easy to conceal his coldness under the cloak of a

brotherly intimacy, of blind submission, and of unswerving devotion;

perhaps he would have deceived his mistress for a longer time had not

Bertrand of Artois fallen madly in love with Joan. Suddenly the bandage

fell from the young girl’s eyes; comparing the two with the natural

instinct of a woman beloved which never goes astray, she perceived that

Robert of Cabane loved her for his own sake, while Bertrand of Artois

would give his life to make her happy. A light fell upon her past: she

mentally recalled the circumstances that preceded and accompanied her

earliest love; and a shudder went through her at the thought that she

had been sacrificed to a cowardly seducer by the very woman she had

loved most in the world, whom she had called by the name of mother.

Joan drew back into herself, and wept bitterly. Wounded by a single blow

in all her affections, at first her grief absorbed her; then, roused to

sudden anger, she proudly raised her head, for now her love was changed

to scorn. Robert, amazed at her cold and haughty reception of him,

following on so great a love, was stung by jealousy and wounded pride.

He broke out into bitter reproach and violent recrimination, and,

letting fall the mask, once for all lost his place in Joan’s heart.

His mother at last saw that it was time to interfere: she rebuked her

son, accusing him of upsetting all her plans by his clumsiness.

"As you have failed to conquer her by love," she said, "you must now

subdue her by fear. The secret of her honour is in our hands, and she

will never dare to rebel. She plainly loves Bertrand of Artois, whose

languishing eyes and humble sighs contrast in a striking manner with

your haughty indifference and your masterful ways. The mother of the

Princes of Tarentum, the Empress of Constantinople, will easily seize an

occasion of helping on the princess’s love so as to alienate her more

and more from her husband: Cancha will be the go between, and sooner or

later we shall find Bertrand at Joan’s feet. Then she will be able to

refuse us nothing."

While all this was going on, the old king died, and the Catanese, who

had unceasingly kept on the watch for the moment she had so plainly

foreseen, loudly called to her son, when she saw Bertrand slip into

Joan’s apartment, saying as she drew him after her—

"Follow me, the queen is ours."

It was thus that she and her son came to be there. Joan, standing in the

middle of the chamber, pallid, her eyes fixed on the curtains of the

bed, concealed her agitation with a smile, and took one step forward

towards her governess, stooping to receive the kiss which the latter

bestowed upon her every morning. The Catanese embraced her with affected

cordiality, and turning, to her son, who had knelt upon one knee, said,

pointing to Robert—

"My fair queen, allow the humblest of your subjects to offer his sincere

congratulations and to lay his homage at your feet."

"Rise, Robert," said Joan, extending her hand kindly, and with no show

of bitterness. "We were brought up together, and I shall never forget

that in our childhood—I mean those happy days when we were both

innocent—I called you my brother."

"As you allow me, madam," said Robert, with an ironical smile, "I too

shall always remember the names you formerly gave me."

"And I," said the Catanese, "shall forget that I speak to the Queen of

Naples, in embracing once more my beloved daughter. Come, madam, away

with care: you have wept long enough; we have long respected your grief.

It is now time to show yourself to these good Neapolitans who bless

Heaven continually for granting them a queen so beautiful and good; it

is time that your favours fall upon the heads of your faithful subjects,

and my son, who surpasses all in his fidelity, comes first to ask a

favour of you, in order that he may serve you yet more zealously."

Joan cast on Robert a withering look, and, speaking to the Catanese,

said with a scornful air—

"You know, madam, I can refuse your son nothing."

"All he asks," continued the lady, "is a title which is his due, and

which he inherited from his father—the title of Grand Seneschal of the

Two Sicilies: I trust, my daughter, you will have no difficulty in

granting this."

"But I must consult the council of regency."

"The council will hasten to ratify the queen’s wishes," replied Robert,

handing her the parchment with an imperious gesture: "you need only

speak to the Count of Artois."

And he cast a threatening glance at the curtain, which had slightly

moved.

"You are right," said the queen at once; and going up to a table she

signed the parchment with a trembling hand.

"Now, my daughter, I have come in the name of all the care I bestowed on

your infancy, of all the maternal love I have lavished on you, to

implore a favour that my family will remember for evermore."

The queen recoiled one step, crimson with astonishment and rage; but

before she could find words to reply, the lady continued in a voice that

betrayed no feeling—

"I request you to make my son Count of Eboli."

"That has nothing to do with me, madam; the barons of this kingdom would

revolt to a man if I were on my own authority to exalt to one of the

first dignities the son of a—-"

"A laundress and a negro; you would say, madam?" said Robert, with a

sneer. "Bertrand of Artois would be annoyed perhaps if I had a title

like his."

He advanced a step towards the bed, his hand upon the hilt of his sword.

"Have mercy, Robert!" cried the queen, checking him: "I will do all you

ask."

And she signed the parchment naming him Count of Eboli.

"And now," Robert went on impudently, "to show that my new title is not

illusory, while you are busy about signing documents, let me have the

privilege of taking part in the councils of the crown: make a

declaration that, subject to your good pleasure, my mother and I are to

have a deliberative voice in the council whenever an important matter is

under discussion."

"Never!" cried Joan, turning pale. "Philippa and Robert, you abuse my

weakness and treat your queen shamefully. In the last few days I have

wept and suffered continually, overcome by a terrible grief; I have no

strength to turn to business now. Leave me, I beg: I feel my strength

gives way."

"What, my daughter," cried the Catanese hypocritically, "are you feeling

unwell? Come and lie down at once." And hurrying to the bed, she took

hold of the curtain that concealed the Count of Artois.

The queen uttered a piercing cry, and threw herself before Philippa with

the fury of a lioness. "Stop!" she cried in a choking voice; "take the

privilege you ask, and now, if you value your own life, leave me."

The Catanese and her son departed instantly, not even waiting to reply,

for they had got all they wanted; while Joan, trembling, ran desperately

up to Bertrand, who had angrily drawn his dagger, and would have fallen

upon the two favourites to take vengeance for the insults they had

offered to the queen; but he was very soon disarmed by the lovely

shining eyes raised to him in supplication, the two arms cast about him,

and the tears shed by Joan: he fell at her feet and kissed them

rapturously, with no thought of seeking excuse for his presence, with no

word of love, for it was as if they had loved always: he lavished the

tenderest caresses on her, dried her tears, and pressed his trembling

lips upon her lovely head. Joan began to forget her anger, her vows, and

her repentance: soothed by the music of her lover’s speech, she returned

uncomprehending monosyllables: her heart beat till it felt like

breaking, and once more she was falling beneath love’s resistless spell,

when a new interruption occurred, shaking her roughly out of her

ecstasy; but this time the young count was able to pass quietly and

calmly into a room adjoining, and Joan prepared to receive her

importunate visitor with severe and frigid dignity.

The individual who arrived at so inopportune a moment was little

calculated to smooth Joan’s ruffled brow, being Charles, the eldest son

of the Durazzo family. After he had introduced his fair cousin to the

people as their only legitimate sovereign, he had sought on various

occasions to obtain an interview with her, which in all probability

would be decisive. Charles was one of those men who to gain their end

recoil at nothing; devoured by raging ambition and accustomed from his

earliest years to conceal his most ardent desires beneath a mask of

careless indifference, he marched ever onward, plot succeeding plot,

towards the object he was bent upon securing, and never deviated one

hair’s-breadth from the path he had marked out, but only acted with

double prudence after each victory, and with double courage after each

defeat. His cheek grew pale with joy; when he hated most, he smiled; in

all the emotions of his life, however strong, he was inscrutable. He had

sworn to sit on the throne of Naples, and long had believed himself the

rightful heir, as being nearest of kin to Robert of all his nephews. To

him the hand of Joan would have been given, had not the old king in his

latter days conceived the plan of bringing Andre from Hungary and

re-establishing the elder branch in his person, though that had long

since been forgotten. But his resolution had never for a moment been

weakened by the arrival of Andre in the kingdom, or by the profound

indifference wherewith Joan, preoccupied with other passion, had always

received the advances of her cousin Charles of Durazzo. Neither the love

of a woman nor the life of a man was of any account to him when a crown

was weighed in the other scale of the balance.

During the whole time that the queen had remained invisible, Charles had

hung about her apartments, and now came into her presence with

respectful eagerness to inquire for his cousin’s health. The young duke

had been at pains to set off his noble features and elegant figure by a

magnificent dress covered with golden fleur-de-lys and glittering with

precious stones. His doublet of scarlet velvet and cap of the same

showed up, by their own splendour, the warm colouring of his skin, while

his face seemed illumined by his black eyes that shone keen as an

eagle’s.

Charles spoke long with his cousin of the people’s enthusiasm on her

accession and of the brilliant destiny before her; he drew a hasty but

truthful sketch of the state of the kingdom; and while he lavished

praises on the queen’s wisdom, he cleverly pointed out what reforms were

most urgently needed by the country; he contrived to put so much warmth,

yet so much reserve, into his speech that he destroyed the disagreeable

impression his arrival had produced. In spite of the irregularities of

her youth and the depravity brought about by her wretched education,

Joan’s nature impelled her to noble action: when the welfare of her

subjects was concerned, she rose above the limitations of her age and

sex, and, forgetting her strange position, listened to the Duke of

Durazzo with the liveliest interest and the kindliest attention. He then

hazarded allusions to the dangers that beset a young queen, spoke

vaguely of the difficulty in distinguishing between true devotion and

cowardly complaisance or interested attachment; he spoke of the

ingratitude of many who had been loaded with benefits, and had been most

completely trusted. Joan, who had just learned the truth of his words by

sad experience, replied with a sigh, and after a moment’s silence added—

"May God, whom I call to witness for the loyalty and uprightness of my

intentions, may God unmask all traitors and show me my true friends! I

know that the burden laid upon me is heavy, and I presume not on my

strength, but I trust that the tried experience of those counsellors to

whom my uncle entrusted me, the support of my family, and your warm and

sincere friendship above all, my dear cousin, will help me to accomplish

my duty."

"My sincerest prayer is that you may succeed, my fair cousin, and I will

not darken with doubts and fears a time that ought to be given up to

joy; I will not mingle with the shouts of gladness that rise on all

sides to proclaim you queen, any vain regrets over that blind fortune

which has placed beside the woman whom we all alike adore, whose single

glance would make a man more blest than the angels, a foreigner unworthy

of your love and unworthy of your throne."

"You forget, Charles," said the queen, putting out her hand as though to

check his words, "Andre is my husband, and it was my grandfather’s will

that he should reign with me."

"Never!" cried the duke indignantly; "he King of Naples! Nay, dream that

the town is shaken to its very foundations, that the people rise as one

man, that our church bells sound a new Sicilian vespers, before the

people of Naples will endure the rule of a handful of wild Hungarian

drunkards, a deformed canting monk, a prince detested by them even as

you are beloved!"

"But why is Andre blamed? What has he done?"

"What has he done? Why is he blamed, madam? The people blame him as

stupid, coarse, a savage; the nobles blame him for ignoring their

privileges and openly supporting men of obscure birth; and I,

madam,"—here he lowered his voice, "I blame him for making you unhappy."

Joan shuddered as though a wound had been touched by an unkind hand; but

hiding her emotion beneath an appearance of calm, she replied in a voice

of perfect indifference—

"You must be dreaming, Charles; who has given you leave to suppose I am

unhappy?"

"Do not try to excuse him, my dear cousin," replied Charles eagerly;

"you will injure yourself without saving him."

The queen looked fixedly at her cousin, as though she would read him

through and through and find out the meaning of his words; but as she

could not give credence to the horrible thought that crossed her mind,

she assumed a complete confidence in her cousin’s friendship, with a

view to discovering his plans, and said carelessly—

"Well, Charles, suppose I am not happy, what remedy could you offer me

that I might escape my lot?"

"You ask me that, my dear cousin? Are not all remedies good when you

suffer, and when you wish for revenge?"

"One must fly to those means that are possible. Andre will not readily

give up his pretensions: he has a party of his own, and in case of open

rupture his brother the King of Hungary may declare war upon us, and

bring ruin and desolation upon our kingdom."

The Duke of Duras faintly smiled, and his countenance assumed a sinister

expression.

"You do not understand me," he said.