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"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.
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. |
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