"Then explain without circumlocution," said the queen, trying to conceal

the convulsive shudder that ran through her limbs.

"Listen, Joan," said Charles, taking his cousin’s hand and laying it

upon his heart: "can you feel that dagger?"

"I can," said Joan, and she turned pale.

"One word from you—and—"

"Yes?"

"To-morrow you will be free."

"A murder!" cried Joan, recoiling in horror: "then I was not deceived;

it is a murder that you have proposed."

"It is a necessity," said the duke calmly: "today I advise; later on you

will give your orders."

"Enough, wretch! I cannot tell if you are more cowardly or more rash:

cowardly, because you reveal a criminal plot feeling sure that I shall

never denounce you; rash, because in revealing it to me you cannot tell

what witnesses are near to hear it all."

"In any case, madam, since I have put myself in your hands, you must

perceive that I cannot leave you till I know if I must look upon myself

as your friend or as your enemy."

"Leave me," cried Joan, with a disdainful gesture; "you insult your

queen."

"You forget, my dear cousin, that some day I may very likely have a

claim to your kingdom."

"Do not force me to have you turned out of this room," said Joan,

advancing towards the door.

"Now do not get excited, my fair cousin; I am going: but at least

remember that I offered you my hand and you refused it. Remember what I

say at this solemn moment: to-day I am the guilty man; some day perhaps

I may be the judge."

He went away slowly, twice turning his head, repeating in the language

of signs his menacing prophecy. Joan hid her face in her hands, and for

a long time remained plunged in dismal reflections; then anger got the

better of all her other feelings, and she summoned Dona Cancha, bidding

her not to allow anybody to enter, on any pretext whatsoever.

This prohibition was not for the Count of Artois, for the reader will

remember that he was in the adjoining room.

CHAPTER III

Night fell, and from the Molo to the Mergellina, from the Capuano Castle

to the hill of St. Elmo, deep silence had succeeded the myriad sounds

that go up from the noisiest city in the world. Charles of Durazzo,

quickly walking away from the square of the Correggi, first casting one

last look of vengeance at the Castel Nuovo, plunged into the labyrinth

of dark streets that twist and turn, cross and recross one another, in

this ancient city, and after a quarter of an hour’s walking, that was

first slow, then very rapid, arrived at his ducal palace near the church

of San Giovanni al Mare. He gave certain instructions in a harsh,

peremptory tone to a page who took his sword and cloak. Then Charles

shut himself into his room, without going up to see his poor mother, who

was weeping, sad and solitary over her son’s ingratitude, and like every

other mother taking her revenge by praying God to bless him.

The Duke of Durazzo walked up and down his room several times like a

lion in a cage, counting the minutes in a fever of impatience, and was

on the point of summoning a servant and renewing his commands, when two

dull raps on the door informed him that the person he was waiting for

had arrived. He opened at once, and a man of about fifty, dressed in

black from head to foot, entered, humbly bowing, and carefully shut the

door behind him. Charles threw himself into an easy-chair, and gazing

fixedly at the man who stood before him, his eyes on the ground and his

arms crossed upon his breast in an attitude of the deepest respect and

blind obedience, he said slowly, as though weighing each word—

"Master Nicholas of Melazzo, have you any remembrance left of the

services I once rendered you?"

The man to whom these words were addressed trembled in every limb, as if

he heard the voice of Satan come to claim his soul; then lifting a look

of terror to his questioner’s face, he asked in a voice of gloom—

"What have I done, my lord, to deserve this reproach?"

"It is not a reproach: I ask a simple question."

"Can my lord doubt for a moment of my eternal gratitude? Can I forget

the favours your Excellency showed me? Even if I could so lose my reason

and my memory, are not my wife and son ever here to remind me that to

you we owe all our life, our honour, and our fortune? I was guilty of an

infamous act," said the notary, lowering his voice, "a crime that would

not only have brought upon my head the penalty of death, but which meant

the confiscation of my goods, the ruin of my family, poverty and shame

for my only son—that very son, sire, for whom I, miserable wretch, had

wished to ensure a brilliant future by means of my frightful crime: you

had in your hands the proofs of this!

"I have them still."

"And you will not ruin me, my lord," resumed the notary, trembling; "I

am at your feet, your Excellency; take my life and I will die in torment

without a murmur, but save my son since you have been so merciful as to

spare him till now; have pity on his mother; my lord, have pity!"

"Be assured," said Charles, signing to him to rise; "it is nothing to do

with your life; that will come later, perhaps. What I wish to ask of you

now is a much simpler, easier matter."

"My lord, I await your command."

"First," said the duke, in a voice of playful irony, "you must draw up a

formal contract of my marriage."

"At once, your Excellency."

"You are to write in the first article that my wife brings me as dowry

the county of Alba, the jurisdiction of Grati and Giordano, with all

castles, fiefs, and lands dependent thereto."

"But, my lord—" replied the poor notary, greatly embarrassed.

"Do you find any difficulty, Master Nicholas?"

"God forbid, your Excellency, but—"

"Well, what is it?"

"Because, if my lord will permit, because there is only one person in

Naples who possesses that dowry your Excellency mentions."

"And so?"

"And she," stammered the notary, embarrassed more and more, "—she is the

queen’s sister."

"And in the contract you will write the name of Marie of Anjou."

"But the young maiden," replied Nicholas timidly, "whom your Excellency

would marry is destined, I thought, under the will of our late king of

blessed memory, to become the wife of the King of Hungary or else of the

grandson of the King of France."

"Ah, I understand your surprise: you may learn from this that an uncle’s

intentions are not always the same as his nephew’s."

"In that case, sire, if I dared—if my lord would deign to give me

leave—if I had an opinion I might give, I would humbly entreat your

Excellency to reflect that this would mean the abduction of a minor."

"Since when did you learn to be scrupulous, Master Nicholas?"

These words were uttered with a glance so terrible that the poor notary

was crushed, and had hardly the strength to reply—

"In an hour the contract will be ready."

"Good: we agree as to the first point," continued Charles, resuming his

natural tone of voice. "You now will hear my second charge. You have

known the Duke of Calabria’s valet for the last two years pretty

intimately?"

"Tommaso Pace; why, he is my best friend."

"Excellent. Listen, and remember that on your discretion the safety or

ruin of your family depends. A plot will soon be on foot against the

queen’s husband; the conspirators no doubt will gain over Andre’s valet,

the man you call your best friend; never leave him for an instant, try

to be his shadow; day by day and hour by hour come to me and report the

progress of the plot, the names of the plotters."

"Is this all your Excellency’s command?"

"All."

The notary respectfully bowed, and withdrew to put the orders at once

into execution. Charles spent the rest of that night writing to his

uncle the Cardinal de Perigord, one of the most influential prelates at

the court of Avignon. He begged him before all things to use his

authority so as to prevent Pope Clement from signing the bull that would

sanction Andre’s coronation, and he ended his letter by earnestly

entreating his uncle to win the pope’s consent to his marriage with the

queen’s sister.

"We shall see, fair cousin," he said as he sealed his letter, "which of

us is best at understanding where our interest lies. You would not have

me as a friend, so you shall have me as an enemy. Sleep on in the arms

of your lover: I will wake you when the time comes. I shall be Duke of

Calabria perhaps some day, and that title, as you well know, belongs to

the heir to the throne."

The next day and on the following days a remarkable change took place in

the behaviour of Charles towards Andre: he showed him signs of great

friendliness, cleverly flattering his inclinations, and even persuading

Friar Robert that, far from feeling any hostility in the matter of

Andre’s coronation, his most earnest desire was that his uncle’s wishes

should be respected; and that, though he might have given the impression

of acting contrary to them, it had only been done with a view to

appeasing the populace, who in their first excitement might have been

stirred up to insurrection against the Hungarians. He declared with much

warmth that he heartily detested the people about the queen, whose

counsels tended to lead her astray, and he promised to join Friar Robert

in the endeavour to get rid of Joan’s favourites by all such means as

fortune might put at his disposal. Although the Dominican did not

believe in the least in the sincerity of his ally’s protestations, he

yet gladly welcomed the aid which might prove so useful to the prince’s

cause, and attributed the sudden change of front to some recent rupture

between Charles and his cousin, promising himself that he would make

capital out of his resentment. Be that as it might, Charles wormed

himself into Andre’s heart, and after a few days one of them could

hardly be seen without the other. If Andre went out hunting, his

greatest pleasure in life, Charles was eager to put his pack or his

falcons at his disposal; if Andre rode through the town, Charles was

always ambling by his side. He gave way to his whims, urged him to

extravagances, and inflamed his angry passions: in a word, he was the

good angel—or the bad one—who inspired his every thought and guided his

every action.

Joan soon understood this business, and as a fact had expected it. She

could have ruined Charles with a single word; but she scorned so base a

revenge, and treated him with utter contempt. Thus the court was split

into two factions: the Hungarians with Friar Robert at their head and

supported by Charles of Durazzo; on the other side all the nobility of

Naples, led by the Princes of Tarentum. Joan, influenced by the grand

seneschal’s widow and her two daughters, the Countesses of Terlizzi and

Morcone, and also by Dona Cancha and the Empress of Constantinople, took

the side of the Neapolitan party against the pretensions of her husband.

The partisans of the queen made it their first care to have her name

inscribed upon all public acts without adding Andre’s; but Joan, led by

an instinct of right and justice amid all the corruption of her court,

had only consented to this last after she had taken counsel with Andre

d’Isernia, a very learned lawyer of the day, respected as much for his

lofty character as for his great learning. The prince, annoyed at being

shut out in this way, began to act in a violent and despotic manner. On

his own authority he released prisoners; he showered favours upon

Hungarians, and gave especial honours and rich gifts to Giovanni Pipino,

Count of Altanuera, the enemy of all others most dreaded and detested by

the Neapolitan barons. Then the Counts of San Severino, Mileto, Terlizzi

and Balzo, Calanzaro and Sant’ Angelo, and most of the grandees,

exasperated by the haughty insolence of Andre’s favourite, which grew

every day more outrageous, decided that he must perish, and his master

with him, should he persist in attacking their privileges and defying

their anger.

Moreover, the women who were about Joan at the court egged her on, each

one urged by a private interest, in the pursuit of her fresh passion.

Poor Joan,—neglected by her husband and betrayed by Robert of Cabane—

gave way beneath the burden of duties beyond her strength to bear, and

fled for refuge to the arms of Bertrand of Artois, whose love she did

not even attempt to resist; for every feeling for religion and virtue

had been destroyed in her own set purpose, and her young inclinations

had been early bent towards vice, just as the bodies of wretched

children are bent and their bones broken by jugglers when they train

them. Bertrand himself felt an adoration for her surpassing ordinary

human passion. When he reached the summit of a happiness to which in his

wildest dreams he had never dared to aspire, the young count nearly lost

his reason. In vain had his father, Charles of Artois (who was Count of

Aire, a direct descendant of Philip the Bold, and one of the regents of

the kingdom), attempted by severe admonitions to stop him while yet on

the brink of the precipice: Bertrand would listen to nothing but his

love for Joan and his implacable hatred for all the queen’s enemies.

Many a time, at the close of day, as the breeze from Posilippo or

Sorrento coming from far away was playing in his hair, might Bertrand be

seen leaning from one of the casements of Castel Nuovo, pale and

motionless, gazing fixedly from his side of the square to where the Duke

of Calabria and the Duke of Durazzo came galloping home from their

evening ride side by side in a cloud of dust. Then the brows of the

young count were violently contracted, a savage, sinister look shone in

his blue eyes once so innocent, like lightning a thought of death and

vengeance flashed into his mind; he would all at once begin to tremble,

as a light hand was laid upon his shoulder; he would turn softly,

fearing lest the divine apparition should vanish to the skies; but there

beside him stood a young girl, with cheeks aflame and heaving breast,

with brilliant liquid eyes: she had come to tell how her past day had

been spent, and to offer her forehead for the kiss that should reward

her labours and unwilling absence. This woman, dictator of laws and

administrator of justice among grave magistrates and stern ministers,

was but fifteen years old; this man; who knew her griefs, and to avenge

them was meditating regicide, was not yet twenty: two children of earth,

the playthings of an awful destiny!

Two months and a few days after the old king’s death, on the morning of

Friday the 28th of March of the same year, 1343, the widow of the grand

seneschal, Philippa, who, had already contrived to get forgiven for the

shameful trick she had used to secure all her son’s wishes, entered the

queen’s apartments, excited by a genuine fear, pale and distracted, the

bearer of news that spread terror and lamentation throughout the court:

Marie, the queen’s younger sister, had disappeared.

The gardens and outside courts had been searched for any trace of her;

every corner of the castle had been examined; the guards had been

threatened with torture, so as to drag the truth from them; no one had

seen anything of the princess, and nothing could be found that suggested

either flight or abduction. Joan, struck down by this new blow in the

midst of other troubles, was for a time utterly prostrated; then, when

she had recovered from her first surprise, she behaved as all people do

if despair takes the place of reason: she gave orders for what was

already done to be done again, she asked the same questions that could

only bring the same answers, and poured forth vain regrets and unjust

reproaches. The news spread through the town, causing the greatest

astonishment: there arose a great commotion in the castle, and the

members of the regency hastily assembled, while couriers were sent out

in every direction, charged to promise 12,000 ducats to whomsoever

should discover the place where the princess was concealed. Proceedings

were at once taken against the soldiers who were on guard at the

fortress at the time of the disappearance.

Bertrand of Artois drew the queen apart, telling her his suspicions,

which fell directly upon Charles of Durazzo; but Joan lost no time in

persuading him of the improbability of his hypothesis: first of all,

Charles had never once set his foot in Castel Nuovo since the day of his

stormy interview with the queen, but had made a point of always leaving

Andre by the bridge when he came to the town with him; besides, it had

never been noticed, even in the past, that the young duke had spoken to

Marie or exchanged looks with her: the result of all attainable evidence

was that no stranger had entered the castle the evening before except a

notary named Master Nicholas of Melazzo, an old person, half silly, half

fanatical, for whom Tommaso Pace, valet de chambre to the Duke of

Calabria, was ready to answer with his life. Bertrand yielded to the

queen’s reasoning, and day by day advanced new suggestions, each less

probable than the last, to draw his mistress on to feel a hope that he

was far from feeling himself.

But a month later, and precisely on the morning of Monday the 30th of

April, a strange and unexpected scene took place, an exhibition of

boldness transcending all calculations. The Neapolitan people were

stupefied in astonishment, and the grief of Joan and her friends was

changed to indignation. Just as the clock of San Giovanni struck twelve,

the gate of the magnificent palace of the Durazzo flung open its folding

doors, and there came forth to the sound of trumpets a double file of

cavaliers on richly caparisoned horses, with the duke’s arms on their

shields. They took up their station round the house to prevent the

people outside from disturbing a ceremony which was to take place before

the eyes of an immense crowd, assembled suddenly, as by a miracle, upon

the square. At the back of the court stood an altar, and upon the steps

lay two crimson velvet cushions embroidered with the fleur-de-lys of

France and the ducal crown. Charles came forward, clad in a dazzling

dress, and holding by the hand the queen’s sister, the Princess Marie,

at that time almost thirteen years of age. She knelt down timidly on one

of the cushions, and when Charles had done the same, the grand almoner

of the Duras house asked the young duke solemnly what was his intention

in appearing thus humbly before a minister of the Church. At these words

Master Nicholas of Melazzo took his place on the left of the altar, and

read in a firm, clear voice, first, the contract of marriage between

Charles and Marie, and then the apostolic letters from His Holiness the

sovereign pontiff, Clement VI, who in his own name removing all

obstacles that might impede the union, such as the age of the young

bride and the degrees of affinity between the two parties, authorised

his dearly beloved son Charles, Duke of Durazzo and Albania, to take in

marriage the most illustrious Marie of Anjou, sister of Joan, Queen of

Naples and Jerusalem, and bestowed his benediction on the pair.

The almoner then took the young girl’s hand, and placing it in that of

Charles, pronounced the prayers of the Church. Charles, turning half

round to the people, said in a loud voice—

"Before God and man, this woman is my wife."

"And this man is my husband," said Marie, trembling.

"Long live the Duke and Duchess of Durazzo!" cried the crowd, clapping

their hands. And the young pair, at once mounting two beautiful horses

and followed by their cavaliers and pages, solemnly paraded through the

town, and re-entered their palace to the sound of trumpets and cheering.

When this incredible news was brought to the queen, her first feeling

was joy at the recovery of her sister; and when Bertrand of Artois was

eager to head a band of barons and cavaliers and bent on falling upon

the cortege to punish the traitor, Joan put up her hand to stop him with

a very mournful look.

"Alas!" she said sadly, "it is too late. They are legally married, for

the head of the Church—who is moreover by my grandfather’s will the head

of our family—has granted his permission. I only pity my poor sister; I

pity her for becoming so young the prey of a wretched man who sacrifices

her to his own ambition, hoping by this marriage to establish a claim to

the throne. O God! what a strange fate oppresses the royal house of

Anjou! My father’s early death in the midst of his triumphs; my mother’s

so quickly after; my sister and I, the sole offspring of Charles I, both

before we are women grown fallen into the hands of cowardly men, who use

us but as the stepping-stones of their ambition!" Joan fell back

exhausted on her chair, a burning tear trembling on her eyelid.

"This is the second time," said Bertrand reproachfully, "that I have

drawn my sword to avenge an insult offered to you, the second time I

return it by your orders to the scabbard. But remember, Joan, the third

time will not find me so docile, and then it will not be Robert of

Cabane or Charles of Durazzo that I shall strike, but him who is the

cause of all your misfortunes."

"Have mercy, Bertrand! do not you also speak these words; whenever this

horrible thought takes hold of me, let me come to you: this threat of

bloodshed that is drummed into my ears, this sinister vision that haunts

my sight; let me come to you, beloved, and weep upon your bosom, beneath

your breath cool my burning fancies, from your eyes draw some little

courage to revive my perishing soul. Come, I am quite unhappy enough

without needing to poison the future by an endless remorse. Tell me

rather to forgive and to forget, speak not of hatred and revenge; show

me one ray of hope amid the darkness that surrounds me; hold up my

wavering feet, and push me not into the abyss."

Such altercations as this were repeated as often as any fresh wrong

arose from the side of Andre or his party; and in proportion as the

attacks made by Bertrand and his friends gained in vehemence—and we must

add, in justice—so did Joan’s objections weaken. The Hungarian rule, as

it became more and more arbitrary and unbearable, irritated men’s minds

to such a point that the people murmured in secret and the nobles

proclaimed aloud their discontent. Andre’s soldiers indulged in a

libertinage which would have been intolerable in a conquered city: they

were found everywhere brawling in the taverns or rolling about

disgustingly drunk in the gutters; and the prince, far from rebuking

such orgies, was accused of sharing them himself. His former tutor, who

ought to have felt bound to drag him away from so ignoble a mode of

life, rather strove to immerse him in degrading pleasures, so as to keep

him out of business matters; without suspecting it, he was hurrying on

the denouement of the terrible drama that was being acted behind the

scenes at Castel Nuovo. Robert’s widow, Dona Sancha of Aragon, the good

and sainted lady whom our readers may possibly have forgotten, as her

family had done, seeing that God’s anger was hanging over her house, and

that no counsels, no tears or prayers of hers could avail to arrest it,

after wearing mourning for her husband one whole year, according to her

promise, had taken the veil at the convent of Santa Maria delta Croce,

and deserted the court and its follies and passions, just as the

prophets of old, turning their back on some accursed city, would shake

the dust from off their sandals and depart. Sandra’s retreat was a sad

omen, and soon the family dissensions, long with difficulty suppressed,

sprang forth to open view; the storm that had been threatening from afar

broke suddenly over the town, and the thunderbolt was shortly to follow.

On the last day of August 1344, Joan rendered homage to Americ, Cardinal

of Saint Martin and legate of Clement VI, who looked upon the kingdom of

Naples as being a fief of the Church ever since the time when his

predecessors had presented it to Charles of Anjou, and overthrown and

excommunicated the house of Suabia. For this solemn ceremony the church

of Saint Clara was chosen, the burial-place of Neapolitan kings, and but

lately the tomb of the grandfather and father of the young queen, who

reposed to right and left of the high altar. Joan, clad in the royal

robe, with the crown upon her head, uttered her oath of fidelity between

the hands of the apostolic legate in the presence of her husband, who

stood behind her simply as a witness, just like the other princes of the

blood. Among the prelates with their pontifical insignia who formed the

brilliant following of the envoy, there stood the Archbishops of Pisa,

Bari, Capua, and Brindisi, and the reverend fathers Ugolino, Bishop of

Castella, and Philip, Bishop of Cavaillon, chancellor to the queen. All

the nobility of Naples and Hungary were present at this ceremony, which

debarred Andre from the throne in a fashion at once formal and striking.

Thus, when they left the church the excited feelings of both parties

made a crisis imminent, and such hostile glances, such threatening words

were exchanged, that the prince, finding himself too weak to contend

against his enemies, wrote the same evening to his mother, telling her

that he was about to leave a country where from his infancy upwards he

had experienced nothing but deceit and disaster.

Those who know a mother’s heart will easily guess that Elizabeth of

Poland was no sooner aware of the danger that threatened her son than

she travelled to Naples, arriving there before her coming was suspected.

Rumour spread abroad that the Queen of Hungary had come to take her son

away with her, and the unexpected event gave rise to strange comments:

the fever of excitement now blazed up in another direction. The Empress

of Constantinople, the Catanese, her two daughters, and all the

courtiers, whose calculations were upset by Andre’s departure, hurried

to honour the arrival of the Queen of Hungary by offering a very cordial

and respectful reception, with a view to showing her that, in the midst

of a court so attentive and devoted, any isolation or bitterness of

feeling on the young prince’s part must spring from his pride, from an

unwarrantable mistrust, and his naturally savage and untrained

character. Joan received her husband’s mother with so much proper

dignity in her behaviour that, in spite of preconceived notions,

Elizabeth could not help admiring the noble seriousness and earnest

feeling she saw in her daughter-in-law. To make the visit more pleasant

to an honoured guest, fetes and tournaments were given, the barons vying

with one another in display of wealth and luxury. The Empress of

Constantinople, the Catanese, Charles of Duras and his young wife, all

paid the utmost attention to the mother of the prince. Marie, who by

reason of her extreme youth and gentleness of character had no share in

any intrigues, was guided quite as much by her natural feeling as by her

husband’s orders when she offered to the Queen of Hungary those marks of

regard and affection that she might have felt for her own mother. In

spite, however, of these protestations of respect and love, Elizabeth of

Poland trembled for her son, and, obeying a maternal instinct, chose to

abide by her original intention, believing that she should never feel

safe until Andre was far away from a court in appearance so friendly but

in reality so treacherous. The person who seemed most disturbed by the

departure, and tried to hinder it by every means in his power, was Friar

Robert. Immersed in his political schemes, bending over his mysterious

plans with all the eagerness of a gambler who is on the point of

gaining, the Dominican, who thought himself on the eve of a tremendous

event, who by cunning, patience, and labour hoped to scatter his enemies

and to reign as absolute autocrat, now falling suddenly from the edifice

of his dream, stiffened himself by a mighty effort to stand and resist

the mother of his pupil. But fear cried too loud in the heart of

Elizabeth for all the reasonings of the monk to lull it to rest: to

every argument he advanced she simply said that while her son was not

king and had not entire unlimited power, it was imprudent to leave him

exposed to his enemies. The monk, seeing that all was indeed lost and

that he could not contend against the fears of this woman, asked only

the boon of three days’ grace, at the end of which time, should a reply

he was expecting have not arrived, he said he would not only give up his

opposition to Andre’s departure, but would follow himself, renouncing

for ever a scheme to which he had sacrificed everything.

Towards the end of the third day, as Elizabeth was definitely making her

preparations for departure, the monk entered radiant. Showing her a

letter which he had just hastily broken open, he cried triumphantly—

"God be praised, madam! I can at last give you incontestable proofs of

my active zeal and accurate foresight."

Andre’s mother, after rapidly running through the document, turned her

eyes on the monk with yet some traces of mistrust in her manner, not

venturing to give way to her sudden joy.

"Yes, madam," said the monk, raising his head, his plain features

lighted up by his glance of intelligence—"yes, madam, you will believe

your eyes, perhaps, though you would never believe my words: this is not

the dream of an active imagination, the hallucination of a credulous

mind, the prejudice of a limited intellect; it is a plan slowly

conceived, painfully worked out, my daily thought and my whole life’s

work. I have never ignored the fact that at the court of Avignon your

son had powerful enemies; but I knew also that on the very day I

undertook a certain solemn engagement in the prince’s name, an

engagement to withdraw those laws that had caused coldness between the

pope and Robert; who was in general so devoted to the Church, I knew

very well that my offer would never be rejected, and this argument of

mine I kept back for the last. See, madam, my calculations are correct;

your enemies are put to shame and your son is triumphant."

Then turning to Andre, who was just corning in and stood dumbfounded at

the threshold on hearing the last words, he added—

"Come, my son, our prayers are at last fulfilled: you are king."

"King!" repeated Andre, transfixed with joy, doubt, and amazement.

"King of Sicily and Jerusalem: yes, my lord; there is no need for you to

read this document that brings the joyful, unexpected news. You can see

it in your mother’s tears; she holds out her arms to press you to her

bosom; you can see it in the happiness of your old teacher; he falls on

his knees at your feet to salute you by this title, which he would have

paid for with his own blood had it been denied to you much longer."

"And yet," said Elizabeth, after a moment’s mournful reflection, "if I

obey my presentiments, your news will make no difference to our plans

for departure."

"Nay, mother," said Andre firmly, "you would not force me to quit the

country to the detriment of my honour. If I have made you feel some of

the bitterness and sorrow that have spoiled my own young days because of

my cowardly enemies, it is not from a poor spirit, but because I was

powerless, and knew it, to take any sort of striking vengeance for their

secret insults, their crafty injuries, their underhand intrigues. It was

not because my arm wanted strength, but because my head wanted a crown.

I might have put an end to some of these wretched beings, the least

dangerous maybe; but it would have been striking in the dark; the

ringleaders would have escaped, and I should never have really got to

the bottom of their infernal plots. So I have silently eaten out my own

heart in shame and indignation. Now that my sacred rights are recognised

by the Church, you will see, my mother, how these terrible barons, the

queen’s counsellors, the governors of the kingdom, will lower their

heads in the dust: for they are threatened with no sword and no

struggle; no peer of their own is he who speaks, but the king; it is by

him they are accused, by the law they shall be condemned, and shall

suffer on the scaffold."

"O my beloved son," cried the queen in tears, "I never doubted your

noble feelings or the justice of your claims; but when your life is in

danger, to what voice can I listen but the voice of fear? what can move

my counsels but the promptings of love?"

"Mother, believe me, if the hands and hearts alike of these cowards had

not trembled, you would have lost your son long ago."

"It is not violence that I fear, my son, it is treachery."

"My life, like every man’s, belongs to God, and the lowest of sbirri may

take it as I turn the corner of the street; but a king owes something to

his people."

The poor mother long tried to bend the resolution of Andre by reason and

entreaties; but when she had spoken her last word and shed her last

tear, she summoned Bertram de Baux, chief-justice of the kingdom, and

Marie, Duchess of Durazzo. Trusting in the old man’s wisdom and the

girl’s innocence, she commended her son to them in the tenderest and

most affecting words; then drawing from her own hand a ring richly

wrought, and taking the prince aside, she slipped it upon his finger,

saying in a voice that trembled with emotion as she pressed him to her

heart—

"My son, as you refuse to come with me, here is a wonderful talisman,

which I would not use before the last extremity. So long as you wear

this ring on your finger, neither sword nor poison will have power

against you."

"You see then, mother," said the prince, smiling, "with this protection

there is no reason at all to fear for my life."

"There are other dangers than sword or poison," sighed the queen.

"Be calm, mother: the best of all talismans is your prayer to God for

me: it is the tender thought of you that will keep me for ever in the

path of duty and justice; your maternal love will watch over me from

afar, and cover me like the wings of a guardian angel."

Elizabeth sobbed as she embraced her son, and when she left him she felt

her heart was breaking. At last she made up her mind to go, and was

escorted by the whole court, who had never changed towards her for a

moment in their chivalrous and respectful devotion. The poor mother,

pale, trembling, and faint, leaned heavily upon Andre’s arm, lest she

should fall. On the ship that was to take her for ever from her son, she

cast her arms for the last time about his neck, and there hung a long

time, speechless, tearless, and motionless; when the signal for

departure was given, her women took her in their arms half swooning.

Andre stood on the shore with the feeling of death at his heart: his

eyes were fixed upon the sail that carried ever farther from him the

only being he loved in the world. Suddenly he fancied he beheld

something white moving a long way off: his mother had recovered her

senses by a great effort, and had dragged herself up to the bridge to

give a last signal of farewell: the unhappy lady knew too well that she

would never see her son again.

At almost the same moment that Andre’s mother left the kingdom, the

former queen of Naples, Robert’s widow, Dona Sancha, breathed her last

sigh. She was buried in the convent of Santa Maria delta Croce, under

the name of Clara, which she had assumed on taking her vows as a nun, as

her epitaph tells us, as follows:

"Here lies, an example of great humility, the body of the sainted sister

Clara, of illustrious memory, otherwise Sancha, Queen of Sicily and

Jerusalem, widow of the most serene Robert, King of Jerusalem and

Sicily, who, after the death of the king her husband, when she had

completed a year of widowhood, exchanged goods temporary for goods

eternal. Adopting for the love of God a voluntary poverty, and

distributing her goods to the poor, she took upon her the rule of

obedience in this celebrated convent of Santa Croce, the work of her own

hands, in the year 1344, on the gist of January of the twelfth

indiction, where, living a life of holiness under the rule of the

blessed Francis, father of the poor, she ended her days religiously in

the year of our Lord 1345, on the 28th of July of the thirteenth

indiction. On the day following she was buried in this tomb."

The death of Dona Sancha served to hasten on the catastrophe which was

to stain the throne of Naples with blood: one might almost fancy that

God wished to spare this angel of love and resignation the sight of so

terrible a spectacle, that she offered herself as a propitiatory

sacrifice to redeem the crimes of her family.

CHAPTER IV

Eight days after the funeral of the old queen, Bertrand of Artois came

to Joan, distraught, dishevelled, in a state of agitation and confusion

impossible to describe.

Joan went quickly up to her lover, asking him with a look of fear to

explain the cause of his distress.

"I told you, madam," cried the young baron excitedly, "you will end by

ruining us all, as you will never take any advice from me."

"For God’s sake, Bertrand, speak plainly: what has happened? What advice

have I neglected?"

"Madam, your noble husband, Andre of Hungary, has just been made King of

Jerusalem and Sicily, and acknowledged by the court of Avignon, so

henceforth you will be no better than his slave."

"Count of Artois, you are dreaming."

"No, madam, I am not dreaming: I have this fact to prove the truth of my

words, that the pope’s ambassadors are arrived at Capua with the bull

for his coronation, and if they do not enter Castel Nuovo this very

evening, the delay is only to give the new king time to make his

preparations."

The queen bent her head as if a thunderbolt had fallen at her feet.

"When I told you before," said the count, with growing fury, "that we

ought to use force to make a stand against him, that we ought to break

the yoke of this infamous tyranny and get rid of the man before he had

the means of hurting you, you always drew back in childish fear, with a

woman’s cowardly hesitation."

Joan turned a tearful look upon her lover.

"God, my God!" she cried, clasping her hands in desperation, "am I to

hear for ever this awful cry of death! You too, Bertrand, you too say

the word, like Robert of Cabane, like Charles of Duras? Wretched man,

why would you raise this bloody spectre between us, to check with icy

hand our adulterous kisses? Enough of such crimes; if his wretched

ambition makes him long to reign, let him be king: what matters his

power to me, if he leaves me with your love?"

"It is not so sure that our love will last much longer."

"What is this, Bertrand? You rejoice in this merciless torture."

"I tell you, madam, that the King of Naples has a black flag ready, and

on the day of his coronation it will be carried before him."

"And you believe," said Joan, pale as a corpse in its shroud, "—you

believe that this flag is a threat?"

"Ay, and the threat begins to be put in execution."

The queen staggered, and leaned against a table to save herself from

falling.

"Tell me all," she cried in a choking voice; "fear not to shock me; see,

I am not trembling. O Bertrand, I entreat you!"

"The traitors have begun with the man you most esteemed, the wisest

counsellor of the crown, the best of magistrates, the noblest-hearted,

most rigidly virtuous——"

"Andrea of Isernia!"

"Madam, he is no more."

Joan uttered a cry, as though the noble old man had been slain before

her eyes: she respected him as a father; then, sinking back, she

remained profoundly silent.

"How did they kill him?" she asked at last, fixing her great eyes in

terror on the count.

"Yesterday evening, as he left this castle, on the way to his own home,

a man suddenly sprang out upon him before the Porta Petruccia: it was

one of Andre’s favourites, Conrad of Gottis chosen no doubt because he

had a grievance against the incorruptible magistrate on account of some

sentence passed against him, and the murder would therefore be put down

to motives of private revenge. The cowardly wretch gave a sign to two or

three companions, who surrounded the victim and robbed him of all means

of escape. The poor old man looked fixedly at his assassin, and asked

him what he wanted. ’I want you to lose your life at my hands, as I lost

my case at yours!’ cried the murderer, and leaving him no time to

answer, he ran him through with his sword. Then the rest fell upon the

poor man, who did not even try to call for help, and his body was

riddled with wounds and horribly mutilated, and then left bathed in its

blood."

"Terrible!" murmured the queen, covering her face.

"It was only their first effort; the proscription lists are already

full: Andre must needs have blood to celebrate his accession to the

throne of Naples. And do you know, Joan, whose name stands first in the

doomed list?"

"Whose?" cried the queen, shuddering from head to foot.

"Mine," said the count calmly.

"Yours!" cried Joan, drawing herself up to her full height; "are you to

be killed next! Oh, be careful, Andre; you have pronounced your own

death-sentence. Long have I turned aside the dagger pointing to your

breast, but you put an end to all my patience. Woe to you, Prince of

Hungary! the blood which you have spilt shall fall on your own head."

As she spoke she had lost her pallor; her lovely face was fired with

revenge, her eyes flashed lightning. This child of sixteen was terrible

to behold; she pressed her lover’s hand with convulsive tenderness, and

clung to him as if she would screen him with her own body.

"Your anger is awakened too late," said he gently and sadly; for at this

moment Joan seemed so lovely that he could reproach her with nothing.

"You do not know that his mother has left him a talisman preserving him

from sword and poison?"

"He will die," said Joan firmly; the smile that lighted up her face was

so unnatural that the count was dismayed, and dropped his eyes.

The next day the young Queen of Naples, lovelier, more smiling than

ever, sitting carelessly in a graceful attitude beside a window which

looked out on the magnificent view of the bay, was busy weaving a cord

of silk and gold. The sun had run nearly two-thirds of his fiery course,

and was gradually sinking his rays in the clear blue waters where

Posilippo’s head is reflected with its green and flowery crown. A warm,

balmy breeze that had passed over the orange trees of Sorrento and

Amalfi felt deliciously refreshing to the inhabitants of the capital,

who had succumbed to torpor in the enervating softness of the day. The

whole town was waking from a long siesta, breathing freely after a

sleepy interval; the Molo was covered with a crowd of eager people

dressed out in the brightest colours; the many cries of a festival,

joyous songs, love ditties sounded from all quarters of the vast

amphitheatre, which is one of the chief marvels of creation; they came

to the ears of Joan, and she listened as she bent over her work,

absorbed in deep thought. Suddenly, when she seemed most busily

occupied, the indefinable feeling of someone near at hand, and the touch

of something on her shoulder, made her start: she turned as though waked

from a dream by contact with a serpent, and perceived her husband,

magnificently dressed, carelessly leaning against the back of her chair.

For a long time past the prince had not come to his wife in this

familiar fashion, and to the queen the pretence of affection and

careless behaviour augured ill. Andre did not appear to notice the look

of hatred and terror that had escaped Joan in spite of herself, and

assuming the best expression of gentleness as that his straight hard

features could contrive to put on in such circumstances as these, he

smilingly asked—

"Why are you making this pretty cord, dear dutiful wife?"

"To hang you with, my lord," replied the queen, with a smile.

Andre shrugged his shoulders, seeing in the threat so incredibly rash

nothing more than a pleasantry in rather bad taste. But when he saw that

Joan resumed her work, he tried to renew the conversation.

"I admit," he said, in a perfectly calm voice, "that my question is

quite unnecessary: from your eagerness to finish this handsome piece of

work, I ought to suspect that it is destined for some fine knight of

yours whom you propose to send on a dangerous enterprise wearing your

colours. If so, my fair queen, I claim to receive my orders from your

lips: appoint the time and place for the trial, and I am sure beforehand

of carrying off a prize that I shall dispute with all your adorers."

"That is not so certain," said Joan, "if you are as valiant in war as in

love." And she cast on her husband a look at once seductive and

scornful, beneath which the young man blushed up to his eyes.

"I hope," said Andre, repressing his feelings, "I hope soon to give you

such proofs of my affection that you will never doubt it again."

"And what makes you fancy that, my lord?"

"I would tell you, if you would listen seriously."

"I am listening."

"Well, it is a dream I had last night that gives me such confidence in

the future."

"A dream! You surely ought to explain that."

"I dreamed that there was a grand fete in the town: an immense crowd

filled the streets like an overflowing torrent, and the heavens were

ringing with their shouts of joy; the gloomy granite facades were hidden

by hangings of silk and festoons of flowers; the churches were decorated

as though for some grand ceremony. I was riding side by side with you."

Joan made a haughty movement: "Forgive me, madam, it was only a dream: I

was on your right, riding a fine white horse, magnificently caparisoned,

and the chief-justice of the kingdom carried before me a flag unfolded

in sign of honour. After riding in triumph through the main

thoroughfares of the city, we arrived, to the sound of trumpets and

clarions, at the royal church of Saint Clara, where your grandfather and

my uncle are buried, and there, before the high altar, the pope’s

ambassador laid your hand in mine and pronounced a long discourse, and

then on our two heads in turn placed the crown of Jerusalem and Sicily;

after which the nobles and the people shouted in one voice, ’Long live

the King and Queen of Naples!’ And I, wishing to perpetuate the memory

of so glorious a day, proceeded to create knights among the most zealous

in our court."

"And do you not remember the names of the chosen persons whom you judged

worthy of your royal favours?"

"Assuredly, madam: Bertrand, Count of Artois."

"Enough, my lord; I excuse you from naming the rest: I always supposed

you were loyal and generous, but you give me fresh proof of it by

showing favour to men whom I most honour and trust. I cannot tell if

your wishes are likely soon to be realised, but in any case feel sure of

my perpetual gratitude."

Joan’s voice did not betray the slightest emotion; her look had became

kind, and the sweetest smile was on her lips. But in her heart Andre’s

death was from that moment decided upon. The prince, too much

preoccupied with his own projects of vengeance, and too confident in his

all-powerful talisman and his personal valour, had no suspicion that his

plans could be anticipated. He conversed a long time with his wife in a

chatting, friendly way, trying to spy out her secret, and exposing his

own by his interrupted phrases and mysterious reserves. When he fancied

that every cloud of former resentment, even the lightest, had

disappeared from Joan’s brow, he begged her to go with her suite on a

magnificent hunting expedition that he was organising for the 20th of

August, adding that such a kindness on her part would be for him a sure

pledge of their reconciliation and complete forgetfulness of the past.

Joan promised with a charming grace, and the prince retired fully

satisfied with the interview, carrying with him the conviction that he

had only to threaten to strike a blow at the queen’s favourite to ensure

her obedience, perhaps even her love.

But on the eve of the 20th of August a strange and terrible scene was

being enacted in the basement storey of one of the lateral towers of

Castel Nuovo. Charles of Durazzo, who had never ceased to brood secretly

over his infernal plans, had been informed by the notary whom he had

charged to spy upon the conspirators, that on that particular evening

they were about to hold a decisive meeting, and therefore, wrapped in a

black cloak, he glided into the underground corridor and hid himself

behind a pillar, there to await the issue of the conference. After two

dreadful hours of suspense, every second marked out by the beating of

his heart, Charles fancied he heard the sound of a door very carefully

opened; the feeble ray of a lantern in the vault scarcely served to

dispel the darkness, but a man coming away from the wall approached him

walking like a living statue. Charles gave a slight cough, the sign

agreed upon. The man put out his light and hid away the dagger he had

drawn in case of a surprise.

"Is it you, Master Nicholas?" asked the duke in a low voice.

"It is I, my lord."

"What is it?"

"They have just fixed the prince’s death for tomorrow, on his way to the

hunt."

"Did you recognise every conspirator?"

"Every one, though their faces were masked; when they gave their vote

for death, I knew them by their voices."

"Could you point out to me who they are?"

"Yes, this very minute; they are going to pass along at the end of this

corridor. And see, here is Tommaso Pace walking in front of them to

light their way."

Indeed, a tall spectral figure, black from head to foot, his face

carefully hidden under a velvet mask, walked at the end of the corridor,

lamp in hand, and stopped at the first step of a staircase which led to

the upper floors. The conspirators advanced slowly, two by two, like a

procession of ghosts, appeared for one moment in the circle of light

made by the torch, and again disappeared into shadow.

"See, there are Charles and Bertrand of Artois," said the notary; "there

are the Counts of Terlizzi and Catanzaro; the grand admiral and grand

seneschal, Godfrey of Marsan, Count of Squillace, and Robert of Cabane,

Count of Eboli; the two women talking in a low voice with the eager

gesticulations are Catherine of Tarentum, Empress of Constantinople, and

Philippa the Catanese, the queen’s governess and chief lady; there is

Dona Cancha, chamberwoman and confidante of Joan; and there is the

Countess of Morcone."

The notary stopped on beholding a shadow alone, its head bowed, with

arms hanging loosely, choking back her sobs beneath a hood of black.

"Who is the woman who seems to drag herself so painfully along in their

train?" asked the duke, pressing his companion’s arm.

"That woman," said the notary, "is the queen." "Ah, now I see," thought

Charles, breathing freely, with the same sort of satisfaction that Satan

no doubt feels when a long coveted soul falls at length into his power.

"And now, my lord," continued Master Nicholas, when all had returned

once more into silence and darkness, "if you have bidden me spy on these

conspirators with a view to saving the young prince you are protecting

with love and vigilance, you must hurry forward, for to-morrow maybe it

will be too late."

"Follow me," cried the duke imperiously; "it is time you should know my

real intention, and then carry out my orders with scrupulous exactness."

With these words he drew him aside to a place opposite to where the

conspirators had just disappeared. The notary mechanically followed

through a labyrinth of dark corridors and secret staircases, quite at a

loss how to account for the sudden change that had come over his

master—crossing one of the ante-chambers in the castle, they came upon

Andre, who joyfully accosted them; grasping the hand of his cousin Duras

in his affectionate manner, he asked him in a pressing way that would

brook no refusal, "Will you be of our hunting party to-morrow, duke?"

"Excuse me, my lord," said Charles, bowing down to the ground; "it will

be impossible for me to go to-morrow, for my wife is very unwell; but I

entreat you to accept the best falcon I have."

And here he cast upon the notary a petrifying glance.

The morning of the 20th of August was fine and calm—the irony of nature

contrasting cruelly with the fate of mankind. From break of day masters

and valets, pages and knights, princes and courtiers, all were on foot;

cries of joy were heard on every side when the queen arrived on a

snow-white horse, at the head of the young and brilliant throng. Joan

was perhaps paler than usual, but that might be because she had been

obliged to rise very early. Andre, mounted on one of the most fiery of

all the steeds he had tamed, galloped beside his wife, noble and proud,

happy in his own powers, his youth, and the thousand gilded hopes that a

brilliant future seemed to offer. Never had the court of Naples shown so

brave an aspect: every feeling of distrust and hatred seemed entirely

forgotten; Friar Robert himself, suspicious as he was by nature, when he

saw the joyous cavalcade go by under his window, looked out with pride,

and stroking his beard, laughed at his own seriousness.

Andre’s intention was to spend several days hunting between Capua and

Aversa, and only to return to Naples when all was in readiness for his

coronation. Thus the first day they hunted round about Melito, and went

through two or three villages in the land of Labore. Towards evening the

court stopped at Aversa, with a view to passing the night there, and

since at that period there was no castle in the place worthy of

entertaining the queen with her husband and numerous court, the convent

of St. Peter’s at Majella was converted into a royal residence: this

convent had been built by Charles II in the year of our Lord 1309.

While the grand seneschal was giving orders for supper and the

preparation of a room for Andre and his wife, the prince, who during the

whole day had abandoned himself entirely to his favourite amusement,

went up on the terrace to enjoy the evening air, accompanied by the good

Isolda, his beloved nurse, who loved him more even than his mother, and

would not leave his side for a moment. Never had the prince appeared so

animated and happy: he was in ecstasies over the beauty of the country,

the clear air, the scent of the trees around; he besieged his nurse with

a thousand queries, never waiting for an answer; and they were indeed

long in coming, for poor Isolda was gazing upon him with that appearance

of fascination which makes a mother absent-minded when her child is

talking: Andre was eagerly telling her about a terrible boar he had

chased that morning across the woods, how it had lain foaming at his

feet, and Isolda interrupted him to say he had a grain of dust in his

eye. Then Andre was full of his plans for the future, and Isolda stroked

his fair hair, remarking that he must be feeling very tired. Then,

heeding nothing but his own joy and excitement, the young prince hurled

defiance at destiny, calling by all his gods on dangers to come forward,

so that he might have the chance of quelling them, and the poor nurse

exclaimed, in a flood of tears, "My child, you love me no longer."

Out of all patience with these constant interruptions, Andre scolded her

kindly enough, and mocked at her childish fears. Then, paying no

attention to a sort of melancholy that was coming over him, he bade her

tell him old tales of his childhood, and had a long talk about his

brother Louis, his absent mother, and tears were in his eyes when he

recalled her last farewell. Isolda listened joyfully, and answered all

he asked; but no fell presentiment shook her heart: the poor woman loved

Andre with all the strength of her soul; for him she would have given up

her life in this world and in the world to come; yet she was not his

mother.

When all was ready, Robert of Cabane came to tell the prince that the

queen awaited him; Andre cast one last look at the smiling fields

beneath the starry heavens, pressed his nurse’s hand to his lips and to

his heart, and followed the grand seneschal slowly and, it seemed, with

some regret. But soon the brilliant lights of the room, the wine that

circulated freely, the gay talk, the eager recitals of that day’s

exploits served to disperse the cloud of gloom that had for a moment

overspread the countenance of the prince. The queen alone, leaning on

the table with fixed eyes and lips that never moved, sat at this strange

feast pale and cold as a baleful ghost summoned from the tomb to disturb

the joy of the party. Andre, whose brain began to be affected by the

draughts of wine from Capri and Syracuse, was annoyed at his wife’s

look, and attributing it to contempt, filled a goblet to the brim and

presented it to the queen. Joan visibly trembled, her lips moved

convulsively; but the conspirators drowned in their noisy talk the

involuntary groan that escaped her. In the midst of a general uproar,

Robert of Cabane proposed that they should serve generous supplies of

the same wine drunk at the royal table to the Hungarian guards who were

keeping watch at the approaches to the convent, and this liberality

evoked frenzied applause. The shouting of the soldiers soon gave witness

to their gratitude for the unexpected gift, and mingled with the

hilarious toasts of the banqueters. To put the finishing touch to

Andre’s excitement, there were cries on every side of "Long live the

Queen! Long live His Majesty the King of Naples!"

The orgy lasted far into the night: the pleasures of the next day were

discussed with enthusiasm, and Bertrand of Artois protested in a loud

voice that if they were so late now some would not rise early on the

morrow. Andre declared that, for his part, an hour or two’s rest would

be enough to get over his fatigue, and he eagerly protested that it

would be well for others to follow his example. The Count of Terlizzi

seemed to express some doubt as to the prince’s punctuality. Andre

insisted, and challenging all the barons present to see who would be up

first, he retired with the queen to the room that had been reserved for

them, where he very soon fell into a deep and heavy sleep. About two

o’clock in the morning, Tommaso Pace, the prince’s valet and first usher

of the royal apartments, knocked at his master’s door to rouse him for

the chase. At the first knock, all was silence; at the second, Joan, who

had not closed her eyes all night, moved as if to rouse her husband and

warn him of the threatened danger; but at the third knock the

unfortunate young man suddenly awoke, and hearing in the next room

sounds of laughter and whispering, fancied that they were making a joke

of his laziness, and jumped out of bed bareheaded, in nothing but his

shirt, his shoes half on and half off. He opened the door; and at this

point we translate literally the account of Domenico Gravina, a

historian of much esteem. As soon as the prince appeared, the

conspirators all at once fell upon him, to strangle him with their

hands; believing he could not die by poison or sword, because of the

charmed ring given him by his poor mother. But Andre was so strong and

active, that when he perceived the infamous treason he defended himself

with more than human strength, and with dreadful cries got free from his

murderers, his face all bloody, his fair hair pulled out in handfuls.

The unhappy young man tried to gain his own bedroom, so as to get some

weapon and valiantly resist the assassins; but as he reached the door,

Nicholas of Melazzo, putting his dagger like a bolt into the lock,

stopped his entrance. The prince, calling aloud the whole time and

imploring the protection of his friends, returned to the hall; but all

the doors were shut, and no one held out a helping hand; for the queen

was silent, showing no uneasiness about her husband’s death.

But the nurse Isolda, terrified by the shouting of her beloved son and

lord, leapt from her bed and went to the window, filling the house with

dreadful cries. The traitors, alarmed by the mighty uproar, although the

place was lonely and so far from the centre of the town that nobody

could have come to see what the noise was, were on the point of letting

their victim go, when Bertrand of Artois, who felt he was more guilty

than the others, seized the prince with hellish fury round the waist,

and after a desperate struggle got him down; then dragging him by the

hair of his head to a balcony which gave upon the garden, and pressing

one knee upon his chest, cried out to the others—

"Come here, barons: I have what we want to strangle him with."

And round his neck he passed a long cord of silk and gold, while the

wretched man struggled all he could. Bertrand quickly drew up the knot,

and the others threw the body over the parapet of the balcony, leaving

it hanging between earth and sky until death ensued. When the Count of

Terlizzi averted his eyes from the horrid spectacle, Robert of Cabane

cried out imperiously—

"What are you doing there? The cord is long enough for us all to hold:

we want not witnesses, we want accomplices!"

As soon as the last convulsive movements of the dying man had ceased,

they let the corpse drop the whole height of the three storeys, and

opening the doors of the hall, departed as though nothing had happened.

Isolda, when at last she contrived to get a light, rapidly ran to the

queen’s chamber, and finding the door shut on the inside, began to call

loudly on her Andre. There was no answer, though the queen was in the

room. The poor nurse, distracted, trembling, desperate, ran down all the

corridors, knocked at all the cells and woke the monks one by one,

begging them to help her look for the prince. The monks said that they

had indeed heard a noise, but thinking it was a quarrel between soldiers

drunken perhaps or mutinous, they had not thought it their business to

interfere. Isolda eagerly, entreated: the alarm spread through the

convent; the monks followed the nurse, who went on before with a torch.

She entered the garden, saw something white upon the grass, advanced

trembling, gave one piercing cry, and fell backward.

The wretched Andre was lying in his blood, a cord round his neck as

though he were a thief, his head crushed in by the height from which he

fell. Then two monks went upstairs to the queen’s room, and respectfully

knocking at the door, asked in sepulchral tones—

"Madam, what would you have us do with your husband’s corpse?"

And when the queen made no answer, they went down again slowly to the

garden, and kneeling one at the head, the other at the foot of the dead

man, they began to recite penitential psalms in a low voice. When they

had spent an hour in prayer, two other monks went up in the same way to

Joan’s chamber, repeating the same question and getting no answer,

whereupon they relieved the first two, and began themselves to pray.

Next a third couple went to the door of this inexorable room, and coming

away perturbed by their want of success, perceived that there was a

disturbance of people outside the convent, while vengeful cries were

heard amongst the indignant crowd. The groups became more and more

thronged, threatening voices were raised, a torrent of invaders

threatened the royal dwelling, when the queen’s guard appeared, lance in

readiness, and a litter closely shut, surrounded by the principal barons

of the court, passed through the crowd, which stood stupidly gazing.

Joan, wrapped in a black veil, went back to Castel Nuovo, amid her

escort; and nobody, say the historians, had the courage to say a word

about this terrible deed.

CHAPTER V

The terrible part that Charles of Durazzo was to play began as soon as

this crime was accomplished. The duke left the corpse two whole days

exposed to the wind and the rain, unburied and dishonoured, the corpse

of a man whom the pope had made King of Sicily and Jerusalem, so that

the indignation of the mob might be increased by the dreadful sight. On

the third he ordered it to be conveyed with the utmost pomp to the

cathedral of Naples, and assembling all the Hungarians around the

catafalque, he thus addressed them, in a voice of thunder:—

"Nobles and commoners, behold our king hanged like a dog by infamous

traitors. God will soon make known to us the names of all the guilty:

let those who desire that justice may be done hold up their hands and

swear against murderers bloody persecution, implacable hatred,

everlasting vengeance."

It was this one man’s cry that brought death and desolation to the

murderers’ hearts, and the people dispersed about the town, shrieking,

"Vengeance, vengeance!"

Divine justice, which knows naught of privilege and respects no crown,

struck Joan first of all in her love. When the two lovers first met,

both were seized alike with terror and disgust; they recoiled trembling,

the queen seeing in Bertrand her husband’s executioner, and he in her

the cause of his crime, possibly of his speedy punishment. Bertrand’s

looks were disordered, his cheeks hollow, his eyes encircled with black

rings, his mouth horribly distorted; his arm and forefinger extended

towards his accomplice, he seemed to behold a frightful vision rising

before him. The same cord he had used when he strangled Andre, he now

saw round the queen’s neck, so tight that it made its way into her

flesh: an invisible force, a Satanic impulse, urged him to strangle with

his own hands the woman he had loved so dearly, had at one time adored

on his knees. The count rushed out of the room with gestures of

desperation, muttering incoherent words; and as he shewed plain signs of

mental aberration, his father, Charles of Artois, took him away, and

they went that same evening to their palace of St. Agatha, and there

prepared a defence in case they should be attacked.

But Joan’s punishment, which was destined to be slow as well as

dreadful, to last thirty-seven years and end in a ghastly death, was now

only beginning. All the wretched beings who were stained with Andre’s

death came in turn to her to demand the price of blood. The Catanese and

her son, who held in their hands not only the queen’s honour but her

life, now became doubly greedy and exacting. Dona Cancha no longer put

any bridle on her licentiousness, and the Empress of Constantinople

ordered her niece to marry her eldest son, Robert, Prince of Tarentum.

Joan, consumed by remorse, full of indignation and shame at the arrogant

conduct of her subjects, dared scarcely lift her head, and stooped to

entreaties, only stipulating for a few days’ delay before giving her

answer: the empress consented, on condition that her son should come to

reside at Castel Nuovo, with permission to see the queen once a day.

Joan bowed her head in silence, and Robert of Tarentum was installed at

the castle.

Charles of Durazzo, who by the death of Andre had practically become the

head of the family, and, would, by the terms of his grandfather’s will,

inherit the kingdom by right of his wife Marie in the case of Joan’s

dying without lawful issue, sent to the queen two commands: first, that

she should not dream of contracting a new marriage without first

consulting him in the choice of a husband; secondly, that she should

invest him at once with the title of Duke of Calabria. To compel his

cousin to make these two concessions, he added that if she should be so

ill advised as to refuse either of them, he should hand over to justice

the proofs of the crime and the names of the murderers. Joan, bending

beneath the weight of this new difficulty, could think of no way to

avoid it; but Catherine, who alone was stout enough to fight this nephew

of hers, insisted that they must strike at the Duke of Durazzo in his

ambition and hopes, and tell him, to begin with—what was the fact—that

the queen was pregnant. If, in spite of this news, he persisted in his

plans, she would find some means or other, she said, of causing trouble

and discord in her nephew’s family, and wounding him in his most

intimate affections or closest interests, by publicly dishonouring him

through his wife or his mother.

Charles smiled coldly when his aunt came to tell him from the queen that

she was about to bring into the world an infant, Andre’s posthumous

child. What importance could a babe yet unborn possibly have—as a fact,

it lived only a few months—in the eyes of a man who with such admirable

coolness got rid of people who stood in his way, and that moreover by

the hand of his own enemies? He told the empress that the happy news she

had condescended to bring him in person, far from diminishing his

kindness towards his cousin, inspired him rather with more interest and

goodwill; that consequently he reiterated his suggestion, and renewed

his promise not to seek vengeance for his dear Andre, since in a certain

sense the crime was not complete should a child be destined to survive;

but in case of a refusal he declared himself inexorable. He cleverly

gave Catherine to understand that, as she had some interest herself in

the prince’s death, she ought for her own sake to persuade the queen to

stop legal proceedings.

The empress seemed to be deeply impressed by her nephew’s threatening

attitude, and promised to do her best to persuade the queen to grant all

he asked, on condition, however, that Charles should allow the necessary

time for carrying through so delicate a business. But Catherine profited

by this delay to think out her own plan of revenge, and ensure the means

of certain success. After starting several projects eagerly and then

regretfully abandoning them, she fixed upon an infernal and unheard-of

scheme, which the mind would refuse to believe but for the unanimous

testimony of historians. Poor Agnes of Duras, Charles’s mother, had for

some few days been suffering with an inexplicable weariness, a slow

painful malady with which her son’s restlessness and violence may have

had not a little to do. The empress resolved that the first effect of

her hatred was to fall upon this unhappy mother. She summoned the Count

of Terlizzi and Dona Cancha, his mistress, who by the queen’s orders had

been attending Agnes since her illness began. Catherine suggested to the

young chamberwoman, who was at that time with child, that she should

deceive the doctor by representing that certain signs of her own

condition really belonged to the sick woman, so that he, deceived by the

false indications, should be compelled to admit to Charles of Durazzo

that his mother was guilty and dishonoured. The Count of Terlizzi, who

ever since he had taken part in the regicide trembled in fear of

discovery, had nothing to oppose to the empress’s desire, and Dona

Cancha, whose head was as light as her heart was corrupt, seized with a

foolish gaiety on any chance of taking her revenge on the prudery of the

only princess of the blood who led a pure life at a court that was

renowned for its depravity. Once assured that her accomplices would be

prudent and obedient, Catherine began to spread abroad certain vague and

dubious but terribly serious rumours, only needing proof, and soon after

the cruel accusation was started it was repeated again and again in

confidence, until it reached the ears of Charles.

At this amazing revelation the duke was seized with a fit of trembling.

He sent instantly for the doctor, and asked imperiously what was the

cause of his mother’s malady. The doctor turned pale and stammered; but

when Charles grew threatening he admitted that he had certain grounds

for suspecting that the duchess was enceinte, but as he might easily

have been deceived the first time, he would make a second investigation

before pronouncing his opinion in so serious a matter. The next day, as

the doctor came out of the bedroom, the duke met him, and interrogating

him with an agonised gesture, could only judge by the silence that his

fears were too well confirmed. But the doctor, with excess of caution,

declared that he would make a third trial. Condemned criminals can

suffer no worse than Charles in the long hours that passed before that

fatal moment when he learned that his mother was indeed guilty. On the

third day the doctor stated on his soul and conscience that Agnes of

Durazzo was pregnant.

"Very good," said Charles, dismissing the doctor with no sign of

emotion.

That evening the duchess took a medicine ordered by the doctor; and

when, half an hour later, she was assailed with violent pains, the duke

was warned that perhaps other physicians ought to be consulted, as the

prescription of the ordinary doctor, instead of bringing about an

improvement in her state, had only made her worse.

Charles slowly went up to the duchess’s room, and sending away all the

people who were standing round her bed, on the pretext that they were

clumsy and made his mother worse, he shut the door, and they were alone.

Then poor Agnes, forgetting her internal agony when she saw her son,

pressed his hand tenderly and smiled through her tears.

Charles, pale beneath his bronzed complexion, his forehead moist with a

cold sweat, and his eyes horribly dilated, bent over the sick woman and

asked her gloomily—

"Are you a little better, mother?"

"Ah, I am in pain, in frightful pain, my poor Charles. I feel as though

I have molten lead in my veins. O my son, call your brothers, so that I

may give you all my blessing for the last time, for I cannot hold out

long against this pain. I am burning. Mercy! Call a doctor: I know I

have been poisoned."

Charles did not stir from the bedside.

"Water!" cried the dying woman in a broken voice,—"water! A doctor, a

confessor! My children—I want my children!"

And as the duke paid no heed, but stood moodily silent, the poor mother,

prostrated by pain, fancied that grief had robbed her son of all power

of speech or movement, and so, by a desperate effort, sat up, and

seizing him by the arm, cried with all the strength she could muster—

"Charles, my son, what is it? My poor boy, courage; it is nothing, I

hope. But quick, call for help, call a doctor. Ah, you have no idea of

what I suffer."

"Your doctor," said Charles slowly and coldly, each word piercing his

mother’s heart like a dagger,—"your doctor cannot come."

"Oh why?" asked Agnes, stupefied.

"Because no one ought to live who knows the secret of our shame."

"Unhappy man!" she cried, overwhelmed with, pain and terror, "you have

murdered him! Perhaps you have poisoned your mother too! Charles,

Charles, have mercy on your own soul!"

"It is your doing," said Charles, without show of emotion: "you have

driven me into crime and despair; you have caused my dishonour in this

world and my damnation in the next."

"What are you saying? My own Charles, have mercy! Do not let me die in

this horrible uncertainty; what fatal delusion is blinding you? Speak,

my son, speak: I am not feeling the poison now. What have I done? Of

what have I been accused?"

She looked with haggard eyes at her son: her maternal love still

struggled against the awful thought of matricide; at last, seeing that

Charles remained speechless in spite of her entreaties, she repeated,

with a piercing cry—

"Speak, in God’s name, speak before I die!"

"Mother, you are with child."

"What!" cried Agnes, with a loud cry, which broke her very heart. "O

God, forgive him! Charles, your mother forgives and blesses you in

death."

Charles fell upon her neck, desperately crying for help: he would now

have gladly saved her at the cost of his life, but it was too late. He

uttered one cry that came from his heart, and was found stretched out

upon his mother’s corpse.

Strange comments were made at the court on the death of the Duchess of

Durazzo and her doctor’s disappearance; but there was no doubt at all

that grief and gloom were furrowing wrinkles on Charles’s brow, which

was already sad enough. Catherine alone knew the terrible cause of her

nephew’s depression, for to her it was very plain that the duke at one

blow had killed his mother and her physician. But she had never expected

a reaction so sudden and violent in a man who shrank before no crime.

She had thought Charles capable of everything except remorse. His

gloomy, self absorbed silence seemed a bad augury for her plans. She had

desired to cause trouble for him in his own family, so that he might

have no time to oppose the marriage of her son with the queen; but she

had shot beyond her mark, and Charles, started thus on the terrible path

of crime, had now broken through the bonds of his holiest affections,

and gave himself up to his bad passions with feverish ardour and a

savage desire for revenge. Then Catherine had recourse to gentleness and

submission. She gave her son to understand that there was only one way

of obtaining the queen’s hand, and that was by flattering the ambition

of Charles and in some sort submitting himself to his patronage. Robert

of Tarentum understood this, and ceased making court to Joan, who

received his devotion with cool kindness, and attached himself closely

to Charles, paying him much the same sort of respect and deference that

he himself had affected for Andre, when the thought was first in his

mind of causing his ruin. But the Duke of Durazzo was by no means

deceived as to the devoted friendship shown towards him by the heir of

the house of Tarentum, and pretending to be deeply touched by the

unexpected change of feeling, he all the time kept a strict guard on

Robert’s actions.

An event outside all human foresight occurred to upset the calculations

of the two cousins. One day while they were out together on horseback,

as they often were since their pretended reconciliation, Louis of

Tarentum, Robert’s youngest brother, who had always felt for Joan a

chivalrous, innocent love,—a love which a young man of twenty is apt to

lock up in his heart as a secret treasure,—Louis, we say, who had held

aloof from the infamous family conspiracy and had not soiled his hands

with Andre’s blood, drawn on by an irrepressible passion, all at once

appeared at the gates of Castel Nuovo; and while his brother was wasting

precious hours in asking for a promise of marriage, had the bridge

raised and gave the soldiers strict orders to admit no one. Then, never

troubling himself about Charles’s anger or Robert’s jealousy, he hurried

to the queen’s room, and there, says Domenico Gravina, without any

preamble, the union was consummated.

On returning from his ride, Robert, astonished that the bridge was not

at once lowered for him, at first loudly called upon the soldiers on

guard at the fortress, threatening severe punishment for their

unpardonable negligence; but as the gates did not open and the soldiers

made no sign of fear or regret, he fell into a violent fit of rage, and

swore he would hang the wretches like dogs for hindering his return

home. But the Empress of Constantinople, terrified at the bloody quarrel

beginning between the two brothers, went alone and on foot to her son,

and making use of her maternal authority to beg him to master his

feelings, there in the presence of the crowd that had come up hastily to

witness the strange scene, she related in a low voice all that had

passed in his absence.

A roar as of a wounded tiger escaped from Robert’s breast: all but blind

with rage, he nearly trampled his mother under the feet of his horse,

which seemed to feel his master’s anger, and plunging violently,

breathed blood from his nostrils. When the prince had poured every

possible execration on his brother’s head, he turned and galloped away

from the accursed castle, flying to the Duke of Durazzo, whom he had

only just left, to tell him of this outrage and stir him to revenge.

Charles was talking carelessly with his young wife, who was but little

used to such tranquil conversation and expansiveness, when the Prince of

Tarentum, exhausted, out of breath, bathed in perspiration, came up with

his incredible tale. Charles made him say it twice over, so impossible

did Louis’s audacious enterprise appear to him. Then quickly changing

from doubt to fury, he struck his brow with his iron glove, saying that

as the queen defied him he would make her tremble even in her castle and

in her lover’s arms. He threw one withering look on Marie, who

interceded tearfully for her sister, and pressing Robert’s hand with

warmth, vowed that so long as he lived Louis should never be Joan’s

husband.

That same evening he shut himself up in his study, and wrote letters

whose effect soon appeared. A bull, dated June 2, 1346, was addressed to

Bertram de Baux, chief-justice of the kingdom of Sicily and Count of

Monte Scaglioso, with orders to make the most strict inquiries

concerning Andre’s murderers, whom the pope likewise laid under his

anathema, and to punish them with the utmost rigour of the law. But a

secret note was appended to the bull which was quite at variance with

the designs of Charles: the sovereign pontiff expressly bade the

chief-justice not to implicate the queen in the proceedings or the

princes of the blood, so as to avoid worse disturbances, reserving, as

supreme head of the Church and lord of the kingdom, the right of judging

them later on, as his wisdom might dictate.

For this imposing trial Bertram de Baux made great preparations. A

platform was erected in the great hall of tribunal, and all the officers

of the crown and great state dignitaries, and all the chief barons, had

a place behind the enclosure where the magistrates sat. Three days after

Clement VI’s bull had been published in the capital, the chief-justice

was ready for a public examination of two accused persons. The two

culprits who had first fallen into the hands of justice were, as one may

easily suppose, those whose condition was least exalted, whose lives

were least valuable, Tommaso Pace and Nicholas of Melazzo. They were led

before the tribunal to be first of all tortured, as the custom was. As

they approached the judges, the notary passing by Charles in the street

had time to say in a low voice—

"My lord, the time has come to give my life for you: I will do my duty;

I commend my wife and children to you."

Encouraged by a nod from his patron, he walked on firmly and

deliberately. The chief-justice, after establishing the identity of the

accused, gave them over to the executioner and his men to be tortured in

the public square, so that their sufferings might serve as a show and an

example to the crowd. But no sooner was Tommaso Pace tied to the rope,

when to the great disappointment of all he declared that he would

confess everything, and asked accordingly to be taken back before his

judges. At these words, the Count of Terlizzi, who was following every

movement of the two men with mortal anxiety, thought it was all over now

with him and his accomplices; and so, when Tommaso Pace was turning his

steps towards the great hall, led by two guards, his hands tied behind

his back, and followed by the notary, he contrived to take him into a

secluded house, and squeezing his throat with great force, made him thus

put his tongue out, whereupon he cut it off with a sharp razor.

The yells of the poor wretch so cruelly mutilated fell on the ears of

the Duke of Durazzo: he found his way into the room where the barbarous

act had been committed just as the Count of Terlizzi was coming out, and

approached the notary, who had been present at the dreadful spectacle

and had not given the least sign of fear or emotion. Master Nicholas,

thinking the same fate was in store for him, turned calmly to the duke,

saying with a sad smile—

"My lord, the precaution is useless; there is no need for you to cut out

my tongue, as the noble count has done to my poor companion. The last

scrap of my flesh may be torn off without one word being dragged from my

mouth. I have promised, my lord, and you have the life of my wife and

the future of my children as guarantee for my word."

"I do not ask for silence," said the duke solemnly; "you can free me

from all my enemies at once, and I order you to denounce them at the

tribunal."

The notary bowed his head with mournful resignation; then raising it in

affright, made one step up to the duke and murmured in a choking voice—

"And the queen?"

"No one would believe you if you ventured to denounce her; but when the

Catanese and her son, the Count of Terlizzi and his wife and her most

intimate friends, have been accused by you, when they fail to endure the

torture, and when they denounce her unanimously—"

"I see, my lord. You do not only want my life; you would have my soul

too. Very well; once more I commend to you my children."

With a deep sigh he walked up to the tribunal. The chief-justice asked

Tommaso Pace the usual questions, and a shudder of horror passed through

the assembly when they saw the poor wretch in desperation opening his

mouth, which streamed with blood. But surprise and terror reached their

height when Nicholas of Melazzo slowly and firmly gave a list of Andre’s

murderers, all except the queen and the princes of the blood, and went

on to give all details of the assassination.

Proceedings were at once taken for the arrest of the grand seneschal,

Robert of Cabane, and the Counts of Terlizzi and Morcone, who were

present and had not ventured to make any movement in self-defence. An

hour later, Philippa, her two daughters, and Dona Cancha joined them in

prison, after vainly imploring the queen’s protection. Charles and

Bertrand of Artois, shut up in their fortress of Saint Agatha, bade

defiance to justice, and several others, among them the Counts of Meleto

and Catanzaro, escaped by flight.

As soon as Master Nicholas said he had nothing further to confess, and

that he had spoken the whole truth and nothing but the truth, the

chief-justice pronounced sentence amid a profound silence; and without

delay Tommaso Pace and the notary were tied to the tails of two horses,

dragged through the chief streets of the town, and hanged in the market

place.

The other prisoners were thrown into a subterranean vault, to be

questioned and put to the torture on the following day. In the evening,

finding themselves in the same dungeon, they reproached one another,

each pretending he had been dragged into the crime by someone else. Then

Dona Cancha, whose strange character knew no inconsistencies, even face

to face with death and torture, drowned with a great burst of laughter

the lamentations of her companions, and joyously exclaimed—

"Look here, friends, why these bitter recriminations—this ill-mannered

raving? We have no excuses to make, and we are all equally guilty. I am

the youngest of all, and not the ugliest, by your leave, ladies, but if

I am condemned, at least I will die cheerfully. For I have never denied

myself any pleasure I could get in this world, and I can boast that much

will be forgiven me, for I have loved much: of that you, gentlemen, know

something. You, bad old man," she continued to the Count of Terlizzi,

"do you not remember lying by my side in the queen’s ante-chamber? Come,

no blushes before your noble family; confess, my lord, that I am with

child by your Excellency; and you know how we managed to make up the

story of poor Agnes of Durazzo and her pregnancy—God rest her soul! For

my part, I never supposed the joke would take such a serious turn all at

once. You know all this and much more; spare your lamentations, for, by

my word, they are getting very tiresome: let us prepare to die joyously,

as we have lived."

With these words she yawned slightly, and, lying down on the straw, fell

into a deep sleep, and dreamed as happy dreams as she had ever dreamed

in her life.

On the morrow from break of day there was an immense crowd on the sea

front. During the night an enormous palisade had been put up to keep the

people away far enough for them to see the accused without hearing

anything. Charles of Durazzo, at the head of a brilliant cortege of

knights and pages, mounted on a magnificent horse, all in black, as a

sign of mourning, waited near the enclosure. Ferocious joy shone in his

eyes as the accused made their way through the crowd, two by two, their

wrists tied with ropes; for the duke every minute expected to hear the

queen’s name spoken. But the chief-justice, a man of experience, had

prevented indiscretion of any kind by fixing a hook in the tongue of

each one. The poor creatures were tortured on a ship, so that nobody

should hear the terrible confessions their sufferings dragged from them.

But Joan, in spite of the wrongs that most of the conspirators had done

her, felt a renewal of pity for the woman she had once respected as a

mother, for her childish companions and her friends, and possibly also

some remains of love for Robert of Cabane, and sent two messengers to

beg Bertram de Baux to show mercy to the culprits. But the chief-justice

seized these men and had them tortured; and on their confession that

they also were implicated in Andre’s murder, he condemned them to the

same punishment as the others. Dona Cancha alone, by reason of her

situation, escaped the torture, and her sentence was deferred till the

day of her confinement.

As this beautiful girl was returning to prison, with many a smile for

all the handsomest cavaliers she could see in the crowd, she gave a sign

to Charles of Durazzo as she neared him to come forward, and since her

tongue had not been pierced (for the same reason) with an iron

instrument, she said some words to him a while in a low voice.

Charles turned fearfully pale, and putting his hand to his sword, cried—

"Wretched woman!"

"You forget, my lord, I am under the protection of the law."

"My mother!—oh, my poor mother!" murmured Charles in a choked voice, and

he fell backward.

The next morning the people were beforehand with the executioner, loudly

demanding their prey. All the national troops and mercenaries that the

judicial authorities could command were echelonned in the streets,

opposing a sort of dam to the torrent of the raging crowd. The sudden

insatiable cruelty that too often degrades human nature had awaked in

the populace: all heads were turned with hatred and frenzy; all

imaginations inflamed with the passion for revenge; groups of men and

women, roaring like wild beasts, threatened to knock down the walls of

the prison, if the condemned were not handed over to them to take to the

place of punishment: a great murmur arose, continuous, ever the same,

like the growling of thunder: the queen’s heart was petrified with

terror.

But, in spite of the desire of Bertram de Baux to satisfy the popular

wish, the preparations for the solemn execution were not completed till

midday, when the sun’s rays fell scorchingly upon the town. There went

up a mighty cry from ten thousand palpitating breasts when a report

first ran through the crowd that the prisoners were about to appear.

There was a moment of silence, and the prison doors rolled slowly back

on their hinges with a rusty, grating noise. A triple row of horsemen,

with lowered visor and lance in rest, started the procession, and amid

yells and curses the condemned prisoners came out one by one, each tied

upon a cart, gagged and naked to the waist, in charge of two

executioners, whose orders were to torture them the whole length of

their way. On the first cart was the former laundress of Catana,

afterwards wife of the grand seneschal and governess to the queen,

Philippa of Cabane: the two executioners at right and left of her

scourged her with such fury that the blood spurting up from the wounds

left a long track in all the streets passed by the cortege.

Immediately following their mother on separate carts came the Countesses

of Terlizzi and Morcone, the elder no more than eighteen years of age.

The two sisters were so marvellously beautiful that in the crowd a

murmur of surprise was heard, and greedy eyes were fixed upon their

naked trembling shoulders. But the men charged to torture them gazed

with ferocious smiles upon their forms of seductive beauty, and, armed

with sharp knives, cut off pieces of their flesh with a deliberate

enjoyment and threw them out to the crowd, who eagerly struggled to get

them, signing to the executioners to show which part of the victims’

bodies they preferred.

Robert of Cabane, the grand seneschal, the Counts of Terlizzi and

Morcone, Raymond Pace, brother of the old valet who had been executed

the day before, and many more, were dragged on similar carts, and both

scourged with ropes and slashed with knives; their flesh was torn out

with red-hot pincers, and flung upon brazen chafing-dishes. No cry of

pain was heard from the grand seneschal, he never stirred once in his

frightful agony; yet the torturers put such fury into their work that

the poor wretch was dead before the goal was reached.

In the centre of the square of Saint Eligius an immense stake was set

up: there the prisoners were taken, and what was left of their mutilated

bodies was thrown into the flames. The Count of Terlizzi and the grand

seneschal’s widow were still alive, and two tears of blood ran down the

cheeks of the miserable mother as she saw her son’s corpse and the

palpitating remains of her two daughters cast upon the fire—they by

their stifled cries showed that they had not ceased to suffer. But

suddenly a fearful noise overpowered the groans of the victims; the

enclosure was broken and overturned by the mob. Like madmen, they rushed

at the burning pile,—armed with sabres, axes, and knives, and snatching

the bodies dead or alive from the flames, tore them to pieces, carrying

off the bones to make whistles or handles for their daggers as a

souvenir of this horrible day.

CHAPTER VI

The spectacle of this frightful punishment did not satisfy the revenge

of Charles of Durazzo. Seconded by the chief-justice, he daily brought

about fresh executions, till Andre’s death came to be no more than a

pretext for the legal murder of all who opposed his projects. But Louis

of Tarentum, who had won Joan’s heart, and was eagerly trying to get the

necessary dispensation for legalising the marriage, from this time

forward took as a personal insult every act of the high court of justice

which was performed against his will and against the queen’s

prerogative: he armed all his adherents, increasing their number by all

the adventurers he could get together, and so put on foot a strong

enough force to support his own party and resist his cousin. Naples was

thus split up into hostile camps, ready to come to blows on the smallest

pretext, whose daily skirmishes, moreover, were always followed by some

scene of pillage or death.

But Louis had need of money both to pay his mercenaries and to hold his

own against the Duke of Durazzo and his own brother Robert, and one day

he discovered that the queen’s coffers were empty. Joan was wretched and

desperate, and her lover, though generous and brave and anxious to

reassure her so far as he could, did not very clearly see how to

extricate himself from such a difficult situation. But his mother

Catherine, whose ambition was satisfied in seeing one of her sons, no

matter which, attain to the throne of Naples, came unexpectedly to their

aid, promising solemnly that it would only take her a few days to be

able to lay at her niece’s feet a treasure richer than anything she had

ever dreamed of, queen as she was.

The empress then took half her son’s troops, made for Saint Agatha, and

besieged the fortress where Charles and Bertrand of Artois had taken

refuge when they fled from justice. The old count, astonished at the

sight of this woman, who had been the very soul of the conspiracy, and

not in the least understanding her arrival as an enemy, sent out to ask

the intention of this display of military force. To which Catherine

replied in words which we translate literally:

"My friends, tell Charles, our faithful friend, that we desire to speak

with him privately and alone concerning a matter equally interesting to

us both, and he is not to be alarmed at our arriving in the guise of an

enemy, for this we have done designedly, as we shall explain in the

course of our interview. We know he is confined to bed by the gout, and

therefore feel no surprise at his not coming out to meet us. Have the

goodness to salute him on our part and reassure him, telling him that we

desire to come in, if such is his good pleasure, with our intimate

counsellor, Nicholas Acciajuoli, and ten soldiers only, to speak with

him concerning an important matter that cannot be entrusted to

go-betweens."

Entirely reassured by these frank, friendly explanations, Charles of

Artois sent out his son Bertrand to the empress to receive her with the

respect due to her rank and high position at the court of Naples.

Catherine went promptly to the castle with many signs of joy, and

inquiring after the count’s health and expressing her affection, as soon

as they were alone, she mysteriously lowered her voice and explained

that the object of her visit was to consult a man of tried experience on

the affairs of Naples, and to beg his active cooperation in the queen’s

favour. As, however, she was not pressed for time, she could wait at

Saint Agatha for the count’s recovery to hear his views and tell him of

the march of events since he left the court. She succeeded so well in

gaining the old man’s confidence and banishing his suspicions, that he

begged her to honour them with her presence as long as she was able, and

little by little received all her men within the walls. This was what

Catherine was waiting for: on the very day when her army was installed

at Saint Agatha, she suddenly entered the count’s room, followed by four

soldiers, and seizing the old man by the throat, exclaimed wrathfully—

"Miserable traitor, you will not escape from our hands before you have

received the punishment you deserve. In the meanwhile, show me where

your treasure is hidden, if you would not have me throw your body out to

feed the crows that are swooping around these dungeons."

The count, half choking, the dagger at his breast, did not even attempt

to call for help; he fell on his knees, begging the empress to save at

least the life of his son, who was not yet well from the terrible attack

of melancholia that had shaken his reason ever since the catastrophe.

Then he painfully dragged himself to the place where he had hidden his

treasure, and pointing with his finger, cried—

"Take all; take my life; but spare my son."

Catherine could not contain herself for joy when she saw spread out at

her feet exquisite and incredibly valuable cups, caskets of pearls,

diamonds and rubies of marvellous value, coffers full of gold ingots,

and all the wonders of Asia that surpass the wildest imagination. But

when the old man, trembling, begged for the liberty of his son as the

price of his fortune and his own life, the empress resumed her cold,

pitiless manner, and harshly replied—

"I have already given orders for your son to be brought here; but

prepare for an eternal farewell, for he is to be taken to the fortress

of Melfi, and you in all probability will end your days beneath the

castle of Saint Agatha."

The grief of the poor count at this violent separation was so great,

that a few days later he was found dead in his dungeon, his lips covered

with a bloody froth, his hands gnawed in despair. Bertrand did not long

survive him. He actually lost his reason when he heard of his father’s

death, and hanged himself on the prison grating. Thus did the murderers

of Andre destroy one another, like venomous animals shut up in the same

cage.

Catherine of Tarentum, carrying off the treasure she had so gained,

arrived at the court of Naples, proud of her triumph and contemplating

vast schemes. But new troubles had come about in her absence. Charles of

Durazzo, for the last time desiring the queen to give him the duchy of

Calabria, a title which had always belonged to the heir presumptive, and

angered by her refusal, had written to Louis of Hungary, inviting him to

take possession of the kingdom, and promising to help in the enterprise

with all his own forces, and to give up the principal authors of his

brother’s death, who till now had escaped justice.

The King of Hungary eagerly accepted these offers, and got ready an army

to avenge Andre’s death and proceed to the conquest of Naples. The tears

of his mother Elizabeth and the advice of Friar Robert, the old

minister, who had fled to Buda, confirmed him in his projects of

vengeance. He had already lodged a bitter complaint at the court of

Avignon that, while the inferior assassins had been punished, she who

was above all others guilty had been shamefully let off scot free, and

though still stained with her husband’s blood, continued to live a life

of debauchery and adultery. The pope replied soothingly that, so far as

it depended upon him, he would not be found slow to give satisfaction to

a lawful grievance; but the accusation ought to be properly formulated

and supported by proof; that no doubt Joan’s conduct during and after

her husband’s death was blamable; but His Majesty must consider that the

Church of Rome, which before all things seeks truth and justice, always

proceeds with the utmost circumspection, and in so grave a matter more

especially must not judge by appearances only.

Joan, frightened by the preparations for war, sent ambassadors to the

Florentine Republic, to assert her innocence of the crime imputed to her

by public opinion, and did not hesitate to send excuses even to the

Hungarian court; but Andre’s brother replied in a letter laconic and

threatening:—

"Your former disorderly life, the arrogation to yourself of exclusive

power, your neglect to punish your husband’s murderers, your marriage to

another husband, moreover your own excuses, are all sufficient proofs

that you were an accomplice in the murder."

Catherine would not be put out of heart by the King of Hungary’s

threats, and looking at the position of the queen and her son with a

coolness that was never deceived, she was convinced that there was no

other means of safety except a reconciliation with Charles, their mortal

foe, which could only be brought about by giving him all he wanted. It

was one of two things: either he would help them to repulse the King of

Hungary, and later on they would pay the cost when the dangers were less

pressing, or he would be beaten himself, and thus they would at least

have the pleasure of drawing him down with them in their own

destruction.

The agreement was made in the gardens of Castel Nuovo, whither Charles

had repaired on the invitation of the queen and her aunt. To her cousin

of Durazzo Joan accorded the title so much desired of Duke of Calabria,

and Charles, feeling that he was hereby made heir to the kingdom,

marched at once on Aquila, which town already was flying the Hungarian

colours. The wretched man did not foresee that he was going straight to

his destruction.

When the Empress of Constantinople saw this man, whom she hated above

all others, depart in joy, she looked contemptuously upon him, divining

by a woman’s instinct that mischief would befall him; then, having no

further mischief to do, no further treachery on earth, no further

revenge to satisfy, she all at once succumbed to some unknown malady,

and died suddenly, without uttering a cry or exciting a single regret.

But the King of Hungary, who had crossed Italy with a formidable army,

now entered the kingdom from the side of Aquila: on his way he had

everywhere received marks of interest and sympathy; and Alberto and

Mertino delta Scala, lords of Verona, had given him three hundred horse

to prove that all their goodwill was with him in his enterprise. The

news of the arrival of the Hungarians threw the court into a state of

confusion impossible to describe. They had hoped that the king would be

stopped by the pope’s legate, who had come to Foligno to forbid him, in

the name of the Holy Father, and on pain of excommunication to proceed

any further without his consent; but Louis of Hungary replied to the

pope’s legate that, once master of Naples, he should consider himself a

feudatory of the Church, but till then he had no obligations except to

God and his own conscience. Thus the avenging army fell like a

thunderbolt upon the heart of the kingdom, before there was any thought

of taking serious measures for defence. There was only one plan

possible: the queen assembled the barons who were most strongly attached

to her, made them swear homage and fidelity to Louis of Tarentum, whom

she presented to them as her husband, and then leaving with many tears

her most faithful subjects, she embarked secretly, in the middle of the

night, on a ship of Provence, and made for Marseilles. Louis of

Tarentum, following the prompting of his adventure-loving character,

left Naples at the head of three thousand horse and a considerable

number of foot, and took up his post on the banks of the Voltorno, there

to contest the enemy’s passage; but the King of Hungary foresaw the

stratagem, and while his adversary was waiting for him at Capua, he

arrived at Beneventum by the mountains of Alife and Morcone, and on the

same day received Neapolitan envoys: they in a magnificent display of

eloquence congratulated him on his entrance, offered the keys of the

town, and swore obedience to him as being the legitimate successor of

Charles of Anjou. The news of the surrender of Naples soon reached the

queen’s camp, and all the princes of the blood and the generals left

Louis of Tarentum and took refuge in the capital. Resistance was

impossible. Louis, accompanied by his counsellor, Nicholas Acciajuoli,

went to Naples on the same evening on which his relatives quitted the

town to get away from the enemy. Every hope of safety was vanishing as

the hours passed by; his brothers and cousins begged him to go at once,

so as not to draw down upon the town the king’s vengeance, but unluckily

there was no ship in the harbour that was ready to set sail. The terror

of the princes was at its height; but Louis, trusting in his luck,

started with the brave Acciajuoli in an unseaworthy boat, and ordering

four sailors to row with all their might, in a few minutes disappeared,

leaving his family in a great state of anxiety till they learned that he

had reached Pisa, whither he had gone to join the queen in Provence.

Charles of Durazzo and Robert of Tarentum, who were the eldest

respectively of the two branches of the royal family, after hastily

consulting, decided to soften the Hungarian monarch’s wrath by a

complete submission. Leaving their young brothers at Naples, they

accordingly set off for Aversa, where the king was. Louis received them

with every mark of friendship, and asked with much interest why their

brothers were not with them. The princes replied that their young

brothers had stayed at Naples to prepare a worthy reception for His

Majesty. Louis thanked them for their kind intentions, but begged them

to invite the young princes now, saying that it would be infinitely more

pleasant to enter Naples with all his family, and that he was most

anxious to see his cousins. Charles and Robert, to please the king, sent

equerries to bid their brothers come to Aversa; but Louis of Durazzo,

the eldest of the boys, with many tears begged the others not to obey,

and sent a message that he was prevented by a violent headache from

leaving Naples. So puerile an excuse could not fail to annoy Charles,

and the same day he compelled the unfortunate boys to appear before the

king, sending a formal order which admitted of no delay. Louis of

Hungary embraced them warmly one after the other, asked them several

questions in an affectionate way, kept them to supper, and only let them

go quite late at night.

When the Duke of Durazzo reached his room, Lello of Aquila and the Count

of Fondi slipped mysteriously to the side of his bed, and making sure

that no one could hear, told him that the king in a council held that

morning had decided to kill him and to imprison the other princes.

Charles heard them out, but incredulously: suspecting treachery, he

dryly replied that he had too much confidence in his cousin’s loyalty to

believe such a black calumny. Lello insisted, begging him in the name of

his dearest friends to listen; but the duke was impatient, and harshly

ordered him to depart.

The next day there was the same kindness on the king’s part, the same

affection shown to the children, the same invitation to supper. The

banquet was magnificent; the room was brilliantly lighted, and the

reflections were dazzling: vessels of gold shone on the table; the

intoxicating perfume of flowers filled the air; wine foamed in the

goblets and flowed from the flagons in ruby streams; conversation,

excited and discursive, was heard on every side; all faces beamed with

joy.

Charles of Durazzo sat opposite the king, at a separate table among his

brothers. Little by little his look grew fixed, his brow pensive. He was

fancying that Andre might have supped in this very hall on the eve of

his tragic end, and he thought how all concerned in that death had

either died in torment or were now languishing in prison; the queen, an

exile and a fugitive, was begging pity from strangers: he alone was

free. The thought made him tremble; but admiring his own cleverness in

pursuing his infernal schemes, and putting away his sad looks, he smiled

again with an expression of indefinable pride. The madman at this moment

was scoffing at the justice of God. But Lello of Aquila, who was waiting

at the table, bent down, whispering gloomily—

"Unhappy duke, why did you refuse to believe me? Fly, while there is yet

time."

Charles, angered by the man’s obstinacy, threatened that if he were such

a fool as to say any more, he would repeat every word aloud.

"I have done my duty," murmured Lello, bowing his head; "now it must

happen as God wills."

As he left off speaking, the king rose, and as the duke went up to take

his leave, his face suddenly changed, and he cried in an awful voice—

"Traitor! At length you are in my hands, and you shall die as you

deserve; but before you are handed over to the executioner, confess with

your own lips your deeds of treachery towards our royal majesty: so

shall we need no other witness to condemn you to a punishment

proportioned to your crimes. Between our two selves, Duke of Durazzo,

tell me first why, by your infamous manoeuvring, you aided your uncle,

the Cardinal of Perigord, to hinder the coronation of my brother, and so

led him on, since he had no royal prerogative of his own, to his

miserable end? Oh, make no attempt to deny it. Here is the letter sealed

with your seal; in secret you wrote it, but it accuses you in public.

Then why, after bringing us hither to avenge our brother’s death, of

which you beyond all doubt were the cause,—why did you suddenly turn to

the queen’s party and march against our town of Aquila, daring to raise

an army against our faithful subjects? You hoped, traitor, to make use

of us as a footstool to mount the throne withal, as soon as you were

free from every other rival. Then you would but have awaited our

departure to kill the viceroy we should have left in our place, and so

seize the kingdom. But this time your foresight has been at fault. There

is yet another crime worse than all the rest, a crime of high treason,

which I shall remorselessly punish. You carried off the bride that our

ancestor King Robert designed for me, as you knew, by his will. Answer,

wretch what excuse can you make for the rape of the Princess Marie?"

Anger had so changed Louis’s voice that the last words sounded like the

roar of a wild beast: his eyes glittered with a feverish light, his lips

were pale and trembling. Charles and his brothers fell upon their knees,

frozen by mortal terror, and the unhappy duke twice tried to speak, but

his teeth were chattering so violently that he could not articulate a

single word. At last, casting his eyes about him and seeing his poor

brothers, innocent and ruined by his fault, he regained some sort of

courage, and said—

"My lord, you look upon me with a terrible countenance that makes me

tremble. But on my knees I entreat you, have mercy on me if I have done

wrong, for God is my witness that I did not call you to this kingdom

with any criminal intention: I have always desired, and still desire,

your supremacy in all the sincerity of my soul. Some treacherous

counsellors, I am certain, have contrived to draw down your hatred upon

me. If it is true, as you say, that I went with an armed force to Aquila

I was compelled by Queen Joan, and I could not do otherwise; but as soon

as I heard of your arrival at Fermo I took my troops away again. I hope

for the love of Christ I may obtain your mercy and pardon, by reason of

my former services and constant loyalty. But as I see you are now angry

with me, I say no more waiting for your fury to pass over. Once again,

my lord, have pity upon us, since we are in the hands of your Majesty."

The king turned away his head, and retired slowly, confiding the

prisoners to the care of Stephen Vayvoda and the Count of Zornic, who

guarded them during the night in a room adjoining the king’s chamber.

The next day Louis held another meeting of his council, and ordered that

Charles should have his throat cut on the very spot where poor Andre had

been hanged. He then sent the other princes of the blood, loaded with

chains, to Hungary, where they were long kept prisoners. Charles, quite

thunderstruck by such an unexpected blow, overwhelmed by the thought of

his past crimes, trembled like a coward face to face with death, and

seemed completely crushed. Bowed, upon his knees, his face half hidden

in his hands, from time to time convulsive sobs escaped him, as he tried

to fix the thoughts that chased each other through his mind like the

shapes of a monstrous dream. Night was in his soul, but every now and

then light flashed across the darkness, and over the gloomy background

of his despair passed gilded figures fleeing from him with smiles of

mockery. In his ears buzzed voices from the other world; he saw a long

procession of ghosts, like the conspirators whom Nicholas of Melazzo had

pointed out in the vaults of Castel Nuovo. But these phantoms each held

his head in his hand, and shaking it by the hair, bespattered him with

drops of blood. Some brandished whips, some knives: each threatened

Charles with his instrument of torture. Pursued by the nocturnal train,

the hapless man opened his mouth for one mighty cry, but his breath was

gone, and it died upon his lips. Then he beheld his mother stretching

out her arms from afar, and he fancied that if he could but reach her he

would be safe. But at each step the path grew more and more narrow,

pieces of his flesh were torn off by the approaching walls; at last,

breathless, naked and bleeding, he reached his goal; but his mother

glided farther away, and it was all to begin over again. The phantoms

pursued him, grinning and screaming in his ears:—

"Cursed be he who slayeth his mother!"

Charles was roused from these horrors by the cries of his brothers, who

had come to embrace him for the last time before embarking. The duke in

a low voice asked their pardon, and then fell back into his state of

despair. The children were dragged away, begging to be allowed to share

their brother’s fate, and crying for death as an alleviation of their

woes. At length they were separated, but the sound of their lamentation

sounded long in the heart of the condemned man. After a few moments, two

soldiers and two equerries came to tell the duke that his hour had come.

Charles followed them, unresisting, to the fatal balcony where Andre had

been hanged. He was there asked if he desired to confess, and when he

said yes, they brought a monk from the sane convent where the terrible

scene had been enacted: he listened to the confession of all his sins,

and granted him absolution. The duke at once rose and walked to the

place where Andre had been thrown down for the cord to be put round his

neck, and there, kneeling again, he asked his executioners—

"Friends, in pity tell me, is there any hope for my life?"

And when they answered no, Charles exclaimed:

"Then carry out your instructions."

At these words, one of the equerries plunged his sword into his breast,

and the other cut his head off with a knife, and his corpse was thrown

over the balcony into the garden where Andre’s body had lain for three

days unburied.

CHAPTER VII

The King of Hungary, his black flag ever borne before him, started for

Naples, refusing all offered honours, and rejecting the canopy beneath

which he was to make his entry, not even stopping to give audience to

the chief citizens or to receive the acclamations of the crowd. Armed at

all points, he made for Castel Nuovo, leaving behind him dismay and

fear. His first act on entering the city was to order Dona Cancha to be

burnt, her punishment having been deferred by reason of her pregnancy.

Like the others, she was drawn on a cart to the square of St. Eligius,

and there consigned to the flames. The young creature, whose suffering

had not impaired her beauty, was dressed as for a festival, and laughing

like a mad thing up to the last moment, mocked at her executioners and

threw kisses to the crowd.