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.