As soon as the obsequies were over, Andre's tutor hastily assembled the
chief Hungarian lords, and it was decided in a council held in the
presence of the prince and with his consent, to send letters to his
mother, Elizabeth of Poland, and his brother, Louis of Hungary, to make
known to them the purport of Robert's will, and at the same time to
lodge a complaint at the court of Avignon against the conduct of the
princes and people of Naples in that they had proclaimed Joan alone
Queen of Naples, thus overlooking the rights of her husband, and further
to demand for him the pope's order for Andre's coronation. Friar Robert,
who had not only a profound knowledge of the court intrigues, but also
the experience of a philosopher and all a monk's cunning, told his pupil
that he ought to profit by the depression of spirit the king's death had
produced in Joan, and ought not to suffer her favourites to use this
time in influencing her by their seductive counsels.
But Joan's ability to receive consolation was quite as ready as her
grief had at first been impetuous; the sobs which seemed to be breaking
her heart ceased all at once; new thoughts, more gentle, less
lugubrious, took possession of the young queen's mind; the trace of
tears vanished, and a smile lit up her liquid eyes like the sun's ray
following on rain. This change, anxiously awaited, was soon observed by
Joan's chamberwoman: she stole to the queen's room, and falling on her
knees, in accents of flattery and affection, she offered her first
congratulations to her lovely mistress. Joan opened her arms and held
her in a long embrace, for Dona Cancha was far more to her than a
lady-in-waiting; she was the companion of infancy, the depositary of all
her secrets, the confidante of her most private thoughts. One had but to
glance at this young girl to understand the fascination she could
scarcely fail to exercise over the queen's mind. She had a frank and
smiling countenance, such as inspires confidence and captivates the mind
at first sight. Her face had an irresistible charm, with clear blue
eyes, warm golden hair, mouth bewitchingly turned up at the corners, and
delicate little chin. Wild, happy, light of heart, pleasure and love
were the breath of her being; her dainty refinement, her charming
inconstancies, all made her at sixteen as lovely as an angel, though at
heart she was corrupt. The whole court was at her feet, and Joan felt
more affection for her than for her own sister.
"Well, my dear Cancha," she murmured, with a sigh, "you find me very sad
and very unhappy!"
"And you find me, fair queen," replied the confidante, fixing an
admiring look on Joan,--"you find me just the opposite, very happy that
I can lay at your feet before anyone else the proof of the joy that the
people of Naples are at this moment feeling. Others perhaps may envy you
the crown that shines upon your brow, the throne which is one of the
noblest in the world, the shouts of this entire town that sound rather
like worship than homage; but I, madam, I envy you your lovely black
hair, your dazzling eyes, your more than mortal grace, which make every
man adore you."
"And yet you know, my Cancha, I am much to be pitied both as a queen and
as a woman: when one is fifteen a crown is heavy to wear, and I have not
the liberty of the meanest of my subjects--I mean in my affections; for
before I reached an age when I could think I was sacrificed to a man
whom I can never love."
"Yet, madam," replied Cancha in a more insinuating voice, "in this court
there is a young cavalier who might by virtue of respect, love, and
devotion have made you forget the claims of this foreigner, alike
unworthy to be our king and to be your husband."
The queen heaved a heavy sigh.
"When did you lose your skill to read my heart?" she cried. "Must I
actually tell you that this love is making me wretched? True, at the
very first this unsanctioned love was a keen joy: a new life seemed to
wake within my heart; I was drawn on, fascinated by the prayers, the
tears, and the despair of this man, by the opportunities that his mother
so easily granted, she whom I had always looked upon as my own mother; I
have loved him.... O my God, I am still so young, and my past is so
unhappy. At times strange thoughts come into my mind: I fancy he no
longer loves me, that he never did love me; I fancy he has been led on
by ambition, by self-interest, by some ignoble motive, and has only
feigned a feeling that he has never really felt. I feel myself a
coldness I cannot account for; in his presence I am constrained, I am
troubled by his look, his voice makes me tremble: I fear him; I would
sacrifice a year of my life could I never have listened to him."
These words seemed to touch the young confidante to the very depths of
her soul; a shade of sadness crossed her brow, her eyelids dropped, and
for some time she answered nothing, showing sorrow rather than surprise.
Then, lifting her head gently, she said, with visible embarrassment--
"I should never have dared to pass so severe a judgment upon a man whom
my sovereign lady has raised above other men by casting upon him a look
of kindness; but if Robert of Cabane has deserved the reproach of
inconstancy and ingratitude, if he has perjured himself like a coward,
he must indeed be the basest of all miserable beings, despising a
happiness which other men might have entreated of God the whole time of
their life and paid for through eternity. One man I know, who weeps both
night and day without hope or consolation, consumed by a slow and
painful malady, when one word might yet avail to save him, did it come
from the lips of my noble mistress."
"I will not hear another word," cried Joan, suddenly rising; "there
shall be no new cause for remorse in my life. Trouble has come upon me
through my loves, both lawful and criminal; alas! no longer will I try
to control my awful fate, I will bow my head without a murmur. I am the
queen, and I must yield myself up for the good of my subjects."
"Will you forbid me, madam," replied Dona Cancha in a kind, affectionate
tone--"will you forbid me to name Bertrand of Artois in your presence,
that unhappy man, with the beauty of an angel and the modesty of a girl?
Now that you are queen and have the life and death of your subjects in
your own keeping, will you feel no kindness towards an unfortunate one
whose only fault is to adore you, who strives with all his mind and
strength to bear a chance look of yours without dying of his joy?"
"I have struggled hard never to look on him," cried the queen, urged by
an impulse she was not strong enough to conquer: then, to efface the
impression that might well have been made on her friend's mind, she
added severely, "I forbid you to pronounce his name before me; and if he
should ever venture to complain, I bid you tell him from me that the
first time I even suspect the cause of his distress he will be banished
for ever from my presence."
"Ah, madam, dismiss me also; for I shall never be strong enough to do so
hard a bidding: the unhappy man who cannot awake in your heart so much
as a feeling of pity may now be struck down by yourself in your wrath,
for here he stands; he has heard your sentence, and come to die at your
feet."
The last words were spoken in a louder voice, so that they might be
heard from outside, and Bertrand of Artois came hurriedly into the room
and fell on his knees before the queen. For a long time past the young
lady-in-waiting had perceived that Robert of Cabane had, through his own
fault, lost the love of Joan; for his tyranny had indeed become more
unendurable to her than her husband's.
Dona Cancha had been quick enough to perceive that the eyes of her young
mistress were wont to rest with a kind of melancholy gentleness on
Bertrand, a young man of handsome appearance but with a sad and dreamy
expression; so when she made up her mind to speak in his interests, she
was persuaded that the queen already loved him. Still, a bright colour
overspread Joan's face, and her anger would have fallen on both culprits
alike, when in the next room a sound of steps was heard, and the voice
of the grand seneschal's widow in conversation with her son fell on the
ears of the three young people like a clap of thunder. Dona Cancha, pale
as death, stood trembling; Bertrand felt that he was lost--all the more
because his presence compromised the queen; Joan only, with that
wonderful presence of mind she was destined to preserve in the most
difficult crises of her future life, thrust the young man against the
carved back of her bed, and concealed him completely beneath the ample
curtain: she then signed to Cancha to go forward and meet the governess
and her son.
But before we conduct into the queen's room these two persons, whom our
readers may remember in Joan's train about the bed of King Robert, we
must relate the circumstances which had caused the family of the
Catanese to rise with incredible rapidity from the lowest class of the
people to the highest rank at court. When Dona Violante of Aragon, first
wife of Robert of Anjou, became the mother of Charles, who was later on
the Duke of Calabria, a nurse was sought for the infant among the most
handsome women of the people. After inspecting many women of equal merit
as regards beauty, youth and health, the princess's choice lighted on
Philippa, a young Catanese woman, the wife of a fisherman of Trapani,
and by condition a laundress. This young woman, as she washed her linen
on the bank of a stream, had dreamed strange dreams: she had fancied
herself summoned to court, wedded to a great personage, and receiving
the honours of a great lady. Thus when she was called to Castel Nuovo
her joy was great, for she felt that her dreams now began to be
realised. Philippa was installed at the court, and a few months after
she began to nurse the child the fisherman was dead and she was a widow.
Meanwhile Raymond of Cabane, the major-domo of King Charles II's house,
had bought a negro from some corsairs, and having had him baptized by
his own name, had given him his liberty; afterwards observing that he
was able and intelligent, he had appointed him head cook in the king's
kitchen; and then he had gone away to the war. During the absence of his
patron the negro managed his own affairs at the court so cleverly, that
in a short time he was able to buy land, houses, farms, silver plate,
and horses, and could vie in riches with the best in the kingdom; and as
he constantly won higher favour in the royal family, he passed on from
the kitchen to the wardrobe. The Catanese had also deserved very well of
her employers, and as a reward for the care she had bestowed on the
child, the princess married her to the negro, and he, as a wedding gift,
was granted the title of knight.
From this day forward, Raymond of Cabane and Philippa the laundress rose
in the world so rapidly that they had no equal in influence at court.
After the death of Dona Violante, the Catanese became the intimate
friend of Dona Sandra, Robert's second wife, whom we introduced to our
readers at the beginning of this narrative. Charles, her foster son,
loved her as a mother, and she was the confidante of his two wives in
turn, especially of the second wife, Marie of Valois. And as the quondam
laundress had in the end learned all the manners and customs of the
court, she was chosen at the birth of Joan and her sister to be
governess and mistress over the young girls, and at this juncture
Raymond was created major-domo. Finally, Marie of Valois on her deathbed
commended the two young princesses to her care, begging her to look on
them as her own-daughters. Thus Philippa the Catanese, honoured in
future as foster mother of the heiress to the throne of Naples, had
power to nominate her husband grand seneschal, one of the seven most
important offices in the kingdom, and to obtain knighthood for her sons.
Raymond of Cabane was buried like a king in a marble tomb in the church
of the Holy Sacrament, and there was speedily joined by two of his sons.
The third, Robert, a youth of extraordinary strength and beauty, gave up
an ecclesiastical career, and was himself made major-domo, his two
sisters being married to the Count of Merlizzi and the Count of Morcone
respectively. This was now the state of affairs, and the influence of
the grand seneschal's widow seemed for ever established, when an
unexpected event suddenly occurred, causing such injury as might well
suffice to upset the edifice of her fortunes that had been raised stone
by stone patiently and slowly: this edifice was now undermined and
threatened to fall in a single day. It was the sudden apparition of
Friar Robert, who followed to the court of Rome his young pupil, who
from infancy had been Joan's destined husband, which thus shattered all
the designs of the Catanese and seriously menaced her future. The monk
had not been slow to understand that so long as she remained at the
court, Andre would be no more than the slave, possibly even the victim,
of his wife. Thus all Friar Robert's thoughts were obstinately
concentrated on a single end, that of getting rid of the Catanese or
neutralising her influence. The prince's tutor and the governess of the
heiress had but to exchange one glance, icy, penetrating, plain to read:
their looks met like lightning flashes of hatred and of vengeance. The
Catanese, who felt she was detected, lacked courage to fight this man in
the open, and so conceived the hope of strengthening her tottering
empire by the arts of corruption and debauchery. She instilled by
degrees into her pupil's mind the poison of vice, inflamed her youthful
imagination with precocious desires, sowed in her heart the seeds of an
unconquerable aversion for her husband, surrounded the poor child with
abandoned women, and especially attached to her the beautiful and
attractive Dona Cancha, who is branded by contemporary authors with the
name of a courtesan; then summed up all these lessons in infamy by
prostituting Joan to her own son. The poor girl, polluted by sin before
she knew what life was, threw her whole self into this first passion
with all the ardour of youth, and loved Robert of Cabane so violently,
so madly, that the Catanese congratulated herself on the success of her
infamy, believing that she held her prey so fast in her toils that her
victim would never attempt to escape them.
A year passed by before Joan, conquered by her infatuation, conceived
the smallest suspicion of her lover's sincerity. He, more ambitious than
affectionate, found it easy to conceal his coldness under the cloak of a
brotherly intimacy, of blind submission, and of unswerving devotion;
perhaps he would have deceived his mistress for a longer time had not
Bertrand of Artois fallen madly in love with Joan. Suddenly the bandage
fell from the young girl's eyes; comparing the two with the natural
instinct of a woman beloved which never goes astray, she perceived that
Robert of Cabane loved her for his own sake, while Bertrand of Artois
would give his life to make her happy. A light fell upon her past: she
mentally recalled the circumstances that preceded and accompanied her
earliest love; and a shudder went through her at the thought that she
had been sacrificed to a cowardly seducer by the very woman she had
loved most in the world, whom she had called by the name of mother.
Joan drew back into herself, and wept bitterly. Wounded by a single blow
in all her affections, at first her grief absorbed her; then, roused to
sudden anger, she proudly raised her head, for now her love was changed
to scorn. Robert, amazed at her cold and haughty reception of him,
following on so great a love, was stung by jealousy and wounded pride.
He broke out into bitter reproach and violent recrimination, and,
letting fall the mask, once for all lost his place in Joan's heart.
His mother at last saw that it was time to interfere: she rebuked her
son, accusing him of upsetting all her plans by his clumsiness.
"As you have failed to conquer her by love," she said, "you must now
subdue her by fear. The secret of her honour is in our hands, and she
will never dare to rebel. She plainly loves Bertrand of Artois, whose
languishing eyes and humble sighs contrast in a striking manner with
your haughty indifference and your masterful ways. The mother of the
Princes of Tarentum, the Empress of Constantinople, will easily seize an
occasion of helping on the princess's love so as to alienate her more
and more from her husband: Cancha will be the go between, and sooner or
later we shall find Bertrand at Joan's feet. Then she will be able to
refuse us nothing."
While all this was going on, the old king died, and the Catanese, who
had unceasingly kept on the watch for the moment she had so plainly
foreseen, loudly called to her son, when she saw Bertrand slip into
Joan's apartment, saying as she drew him after her--
"Follow me, the queen is ours."
It was thus that she and her son came to be there. Joan, standing in the
middle of the chamber, pallid, her eyes fixed on the curtains of the
bed, concealed her agitation with a smile, and took one step forward
towards her governess, stooping to receive the kiss which the latter
bestowed upon her every morning. The Catanese embraced her with affected
cordiality, and turning, to her son, who had knelt upon one knee, said,
pointing to Robert--
"My fair queen, allow the humblest of your subjects to offer his sincere
congratulations and to lay his homage at your feet."
"Rise, Robert," said Joan, extending her hand kindly, and with no show
of bitterness. "We were brought up together, and I shall never forget
that in our childhood--I mean those happy days when we were both
innocent--I called you my brother."
"As you allow me, madam," said Robert, with an ironical smile, "I too
shall always remember the names you formerly gave me."
"And I," said the Catanese, "shall forget that I speak to the Queen of
Naples, in embracing once more my beloved daughter. Come, madam, away
with care: you have wept long enough; we have long respected your grief.
It is now time to show yourself to these good Neapolitans who bless
Heaven continually for granting them a queen so beautiful and good; it
is time that your favours fall upon the heads of your faithful subjects,
and my son, who surpasses all in his fidelity, comes first to ask a
favour of you, in order that he may serve you yet more zealously."
Joan cast on Robert a withering look, and, speaking to the Catanese,
said with a scornful air--
"You know, madam, I can refuse your son nothing."
"All he asks," continued the lady, "is a title which is his due, and
which he inherited from his father--the title of Grand Seneschal of the
Two Sicilies: I trust, my daughter, you will have no difficulty in
granting this."
"But I must consult the council of regency."
"The council will hasten to ratify the queen's wishes," replied Robert,
handing her the parchment with an imperious gesture: "you need only
speak to the Count of Artois."
And he cast a threatening glance at the curtain, which had slightly
moved.
"You are right," said the queen at once; and going up to a table she
signed the parchment with a trembling hand.
"Now, my daughter, I have come in the name of all the care I bestowed on
your infancy, of all the maternal love I have lavished on you, to
implore a favour that my family will remember for evermore."
The queen recoiled one step, crimson with astonishment and rage; but
before she could find words to reply, the lady continued in a voice that
betrayed no feeling--
"I request you to make my son Count of Eboli."
"That has nothing to do with me, madam; the barons of this kingdom would
revolt to a man if I were on my own authority to exalt to one of the
first dignities the son of a---"
"A laundress and a negro; you would say, madam?" said Robert, with a
sneer. "Bertrand of Artois would be annoyed perhaps if I had a title
like his."
He advanced a step towards the bed, his hand upon the hilt of his sword.
"Have mercy, Robert!" cried the queen, checking him: "I will do all you
ask."
And she signed the parchment naming him Count of Eboli.
"And now," Robert went on impudently, "to show that my new title is not
illusory, while you are busy about signing documents, let me have the
privilege of taking part in the councils of the crown: make a
declaration that, subject to your good pleasure, my mother and I are to
have a deliberative voice in the council whenever an important matter is
under discussion."
"Never!" cried Joan, turning pale. "Philippa and Robert, you abuse my
weakness and treat your queen shamefully. In the last few days I have
wept and suffered continually, overcome by a terrible grief; I have no
strength to turn to business now. Leave me, I beg: I feel my strength
gives way."
"What, my daughter," cried the Catanese hypocritically, "are you feeling
unwell? Come and lie down at once." And hurrying to the bed, she took
hold of the curtain that concealed the Count of Artois.
The queen uttered a piercing cry, and threw herself before Philippa with
the fury of a lioness. "Stop!" she cried in a choking voice; "take the
privilege you ask, and now, if you value your own life, leave me."
The Catanese and her son departed instantly, not even waiting to reply,
for they had got all they wanted; while Joan, trembling, ran desperately
up to Bertrand, who had angrily drawn his dagger, and would have fallen
upon the two favourites to take vengeance for the insults they had
offered to the queen; but he was very soon disarmed by the lovely
shining eyes raised to him in supplication, the two arms cast about him,
and the tears shed by Joan: he fell at her feet and kissed them
rapturously, with no thought of seeking excuse for his presence, with no
word of love, for it was as if they had loved always: he lavished the
tenderest caresses on her, dried her tears, and pressed his trembling
lips upon her lovely head. Joan began to forget her anger, her vows, and
her repentance: soothed by the music of her lover's speech, she returned
uncomprehending monosyllables: her heart beat till it felt like
breaking, and once more she was falling beneath love's resistless spell,
when a new interruption occurred, shaking her roughly out of her
ecstasy; but this time the young count was able to pass quietly and
calmly into a room adjoining, and Joan prepared to receive her
importunate visitor with severe and frigid dignity.
The individual who arrived at so inopportune a moment was little
calculated to smooth Joan's ruffled brow, being Charles, the eldest son
of the Durazzo family. After he had introduced his fair cousin to the
people as their only legitimate sovereign, he had sought on various
occasions to obtain an interview with her, which in all probability
would be decisive. Charles was one of those men who to gain their end
recoil at nothing; devoured by raging ambition and accustomed from his
earliest years to conceal his most ardent desires beneath a mask of
careless indifference, he marched ever onward, plot succeeding plot,
towards the object he was bent upon securing, and never deviated one
hair's-breadth from the path he had marked out, but only acted with
double prudence after each victory, and with double courage after each
defeat. His cheek grew pale with joy; when he hated most, he smiled; in
all the emotions of his life, however strong, he was inscrutable. He had
sworn to sit on the throne of Naples, and long had believed himself the
rightful heir, as being nearest of kin to Robert of all his nephews. To
him the hand of Joan would have been given, had not the old king in his
latter days conceived the plan of bringing Andre from Hungary and
re-establishing the elder branch in his person, though that had long
since been forgotten. But his resolution had never for a moment been
weakened by the arrival of Andre in the kingdom, or by the profound
indifference wherewith Joan, preoccupied with other passion, had always
received the advances of her cousin Charles of Durazzo. Neither the love
of a woman nor the life of a man was of any account to him when a crown
was weighed in the other scale of the balance.
During the whole time that the queen had remained invisible, Charles had
hung about her apartments, and now came into her presence with
respectful eagerness to inquire for his cousin's health. The young duke
had been at pains to set off his noble features and elegant figure by a
magnificent dress covered with golden fleur-de-lys and glittering with
precious stones. His doublet of scarlet velvet and cap of the same
showed up, by their own splendour, the warm colouring of his skin, while
his face seemed illumined by his black eyes that shone keen as an
eagle's.
Charles spoke long with his cousin of the people's enthusiasm on her
accession and of the brilliant destiny before her; he drew a hasty but
truthful sketch of the state of the kingdom; and while he lavished
praises on the queen's wisdom, he cleverly pointed out what reforms were
most urgently needed by the country; he contrived to put so much warmth,
yet so much reserve, into his speech that he destroyed the disagreeable
impression his arrival had produced. In spite of the irregularities of
her youth and the depravity brought about by her wretched education,
Joan's nature impelled her to noble action: when the welfare of her
subjects was concerned, she rose above the limitations of her age and
sex, and, forgetting her strange position, listened to the Duke of
Durazzo with the liveliest interest and the kindliest attention. He then
hazarded allusions to the dangers that beset a young queen, spoke
vaguely of the difficulty in distinguishing between true devotion and
cowardly complaisance or interested attachment; he spoke of the
ingratitude of many who had been loaded with benefits, and had been most
completely trusted. Joan, who had just learned the truth of his words by
sad experience, replied with a sigh, and after a moment's silence
added--
"May God, whom I call to witness for the loyalty and uprightness of my
intentions, may God unmask all traitors and show me my true friends! I
know that the burden laid upon me is heavy, and I presume not on my
strength, but I trust that the tried experience of those counsellors to
whom my uncle entrusted me, the support of my family, and your warm and
sincere friendship above all, my dear cousin, will help me to accomplish
my duty."
"My sincerest prayer is that you may succeed, my fair cousin, and I will
not darken with doubts and fears a time that ought to be given up to
joy; I will not mingle with the shouts of gladness that rise on all
sides to proclaim you queen, any vain regrets over that blind fortune
which has placed beside the woman whom we all alike adore, whose single
glance would make a man more blest than the angels, a foreigner unworthy
of your love and unworthy of your throne."
"You forget, Charles," said the queen, putting out her hand as though to
check his words, "Andre is my husband, and it was my grandfather's will
that he should reign with me."
"Never!" cried the duke indignantly; "he King of Naples! Nay, dream that
the town is shaken to its very foundations, that the people rise as one
man, that our church bells sound a new Sicilian vespers, before the
people of Naples will endure the rule of a handful of wild Hungarian
drunkards, a deformed canting monk, a prince detested by them even as
you are beloved!"
"But why is Andre blamed? What has he done?"
"What has he done? Why is he blamed, madam? The people blame him as
stupid, coarse, a savage; the nobles blame him for ignoring their
privileges and openly supporting men of obscure birth; and I,
madam,"--here he lowered his voice, "I blame him for making you
unhappy."
Joan shuddered as though a wound had been touched by an unkind hand; but
hiding her emotion beneath an appearance of calm, she replied in a voice
of perfect indifference--
"You must be dreaming, Charles; who has given you leave to suppose I am
unhappy?"
"Do not try to excuse him, my dear cousin," replied Charles eagerly;
"you will injure yourself without saving him."
The queen looked fixedly at her cousin, as though she would read him
through and through and find out the meaning of his words; but as she
could not give credence to the horrible thought that crossed her mind,
she assumed a complete confidence in her cousin's friendship, with a
view to discovering his plans, and said carelessly--
"Well, Charles, suppose I am not happy, what remedy could you offer me
that I might escape my lot?"
"You ask me that, my dear cousin? Are not all remedies good when you
suffer, and when you wish for revenge?"
"One must fly to those means that are possible. Andre will not readily
give up his pretensions: he has a party of his own, and in case of open
rupture his brother the King of Hungary may declare war upon us, and
bring ruin and desolation upon our kingdom."
The Duke of Duras faintly smiled, and his countenance assumed a sinister
expression.
"You do not understand me," he said.
"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.