Joan of Naples.....................................................................................................................................................1

In the night of the 15th of January 1343, while the inhabitants of Naples lay wrapped in peaceful slumber,

they were suddenly awakened by the bells of the three hundred churches that this thrice blessed capital

contains. In the midst of the disturbance caused by so rude a call the first bought in the mind of all was that

the town was on fire, or that the army of some enemy had mysteriously landed under cover of night and could

put the citizens to the edge of the sword. But the doleful, intermittent sounds of all these fills, which disturbed

the silence at regular and distant intervals, were an invitation to the faithful pray for a passing soul, and it was

soon evident that no disaster threatened the town, but that the king alone was in danger.

Indeed, it had been plain for several days past that the greatest uneasiness prevailed in Castel Nuovo; the

officers of the crown were assembled regularly twice a day, and persons of importance, whose right it was to

make their way into the king's apartments, came out evidently bowed down with grief. But although the

king's death was regarded as a misfortune that nothing could avert, yet the whole town, on learning for certain

of the approach of his last hour, was affected with a sincere grief, easily understood when one learns that the

man about to die, after a reign of thirtythree years, eight months, and a few days, was Robert of Anjou, the

most wise, just, and glorious king who had ever sat on the throne of Sicily. And so he carried with him to the

Soldiers would speak with enthusiasm of the long wars he had waged with Frederic and Peter of Aragon,

against Henry VII and Louis of Bavaria; and felt their hearts beat high, remembering the glories of campaigns

in Lombardy and Tuscany; priests would gratefully extol his constant defence of the papacy against

Ghibelline attacks, and the founding of convents, hospitals, and churches throughout his kingdom; in the

world of letters he was regarded as the most learned king in Christendom; Petrarch, indeed, would receive the

poet's crown from no other hand, and had spent three consecutive days answering all the questions that

Robert had deigned to ask him on every topic of human knowledge. The men of law, astonished by the

wisdom of those laws which now enriched the Neapolitan code, had dubbed him the Solomon of their day;

the nobles applauded him for protecting their ancient privileges, and the people were eloquent of his

clemency, piety, and mildness. In a word, priests and soldiers, philosophers and poets, nobles and peasants,

trembled when they thought that the government was to fall into the hands of a foreigner and of a young girl,

recalling those words of Robert, who, as he followed in the funeral train of Charles, his only son, turned as he

reached the threshold of the church and sobbingly exclaimed to his barons about him, "This day the crown

Now that the bells were ringing for the dying moments of the good king, every mind was full of these

prophetic words: women prayed fervently to God; men from all parts of the town bent their steps towards the

royal palace to get the earliest and most authentic news, and after waiting some moments, passed in

exchanging sad reflections, were obliged to return as they had come, since nothing that went on in the privacy

of the family found its way outsidethe castle was plunged in complete darkness, the drawbridge was raised

Yet if our readers care to be present at the death of the nephew of Saint Louis and the grandson of Charles of

Anjou, we may conduct them into the chamber of the dying man. An alabaster lamp suspended from the

ceiling serves to light the vast and sombre room, with walls draped in black velvet sewn with golden

fleurdelys. Near the wall which faces the two entrance doors that at this moment are both shut close, there

stands beneath a brocaded canopy an ebony bed, supported on four twisted columns carved with symbolic

figures. The king, after a struggle with a violent paroxysm, has fallen swooning in the arms of his confessor

and his doctor, who each hold one of his dying hands, feeling his pulse anxiously and exchanging looks of

intelligence. At the foot of the bed stands a woman about fifty years of age, her hands clasped, her eyes raised

to heaven, in an attitude of resigned grief: this woman is the queen, No tears dim her eyes: her sunken cheek

has that waxen yellow tinge that one sees on the bodies of saints preserved by miracle. In her look is that

mingling of calm and suffering that points to a soul at once tried by sorrow and imbued with religion. After

the lapse of an hour, while no movement had disturbed the profound silence which reigned about the bed of

death, the king trembled slightly; opened his eyes, and endeavoured feebly to raise his head. They thanking

the physician and priest with a smile, who had both hastened to arrange his pillows, he begged the queen to

come near, and told her in a low voice that he would speak with her a moment alone. The doctor and

confessor retired, deeply bowing, and the king followed them with his eyes up to the moment when one of the

doors closed behind them. He passed his hand across his brow, as though seeking to collect his thoughts, and

"What I must say to you, Sancha, has no concern with those two good persons who were here a moment ago:

their task is ended. One has done all for my body that human science could teach him, and all that has come

of it is that my death is yet a little deferred; the other has now absolved me of all my sins, and assured me of

God's forgiveness, yet cannot keep from me those dread apparitions which in this terrible hour arise before

me. Twice have you seen me battling with a superhuman horror. My brow has been bathed in sweat, my

limbs rigid, my cries have been stifled by a hand of iron. Has God permitted the Evil Spirit to tempt me? Is

this remorse in phantom shape? These two conflicts I have suffered have so subdued my strength that I can

never endure a third. Listen then, my Sandra, for I have instructions to give you on which perhaps the safety

"My lord and my master," said the queen in the most gentle accents of submission, "I am ready to listen to

your orders; and should it be that God, in the hidden designs of His providence, has willed to call you to His

glory while we are plunged in grief, your last wishes shall be fulfilled here on earth most scrupulously and

exactly. But," she added, with all the solicitude of a timid soul, "pray suffer me to sprinkle drops of holy

water and banish the accursed one from this chamber, and let me offer up some part of that service of prayer

that you composed in honour of your sainted brother to implore God's protection in this hour when we can ill

Then opening a richly bound book, she read with fervent devotion certain verses of the office that Robert had

written in a very pure Latin for his brother Louis, Bishop of Toulouse, which was, in use in the Church as late

Soothed by the charm of the prayers he had himself composed, the king was near forgetting the object of the

interview he had so solemnly and eagerly demanded and letting himself lapse into a state of vague

melancholy, he murmured in a subdued voice, " Yes, yes, you are right; pray for me, for you too are a saint,

"Say not so, my lord," interrupted Dona Sancha; "you are the greatest, wisest, and most just king who has

"But the throne is usurped," replied Robert in a voice of gloom; "you know that the kingdom belonged to my

elder brother, Charles Martel; and since Charles was on the throne of Hungary, which he inherited from his

mother, the kingdom of Naples devolved by right upon his eldest son, Carobert, and not on me, who am the

third in rank of the family. And I have suffered myself to be crowned in my nephew's stead, though he was

the only lawfulking; I have put the younger branch in the place of the elder, and for thirtythree years I have

stifled the reproaches of my conscience. True, I have won battles, made laws, founded churches; but a single

word serves to give the lie to all the pompous titles showered upon me by the people's admiration, and this

one word rings out clearer in my ears than all the, flattery of courtiers, all the songs of poets, all the orations

"Be not unjust towards yourself, my lord, and bear in mind that if you did not abdicate in favour of the

rightful heir, it was because you wished to save the people from the worst misfortunes. Moreover," continued

the queen, with that air of profound conviction that an unanswerable argument inspires, "you have remained

king by the consent and authority of our Holy Father the sovereign pontiff, who disposes of the throne as a

"I have long quieted my scruples thus," replied the dying man, "and the pope's authority has kept me silent;

but whatever security one may pretend to feel in one's lifetime, there yet comes a dreadful solemn hour when

all illusions needs must vanish: this hour for me has come, and now I must appear before God, the one

"If His justice cannot fail, is not His mercy infinite?" pursued the queen, with the glow of sacred inspiration.

"Even if there were good reason for the fear that has shaken your soul, what fault could not be effaced by a

repentance so noble? Have you not repaired the wrong you may have done your nephew Carobert, by

bringing his younger son Andre to your kingdom and marrying him to Joan, your poor Charles's elder

"Alas!" cried Robert, with a deep sigh, "God is punishing me perhaps for thinking too late of this just

reparation. O my good and noble Sandra, you touch a chord which vibrates sadly in my heart, and you

anticipate the unhappy confidence I was about to make. I feel a gloomy presentimentand in the hour of

death presentiment is prophecythat the two sons of my nephew, Louis, who has been King of Hungary

since his father died, and Andre, whom I desired to make King of Naples, will prove the scourge of my

family. Ever since Andre set foot in our castle, a strange fatality has pursued and overturned my projects. I

had hoped that if Andre and Joan were brought up together a tender intimacy would arise between the two

children; and that the beauty of our skies, our civilisation, and the attractions of our court would end by

softening whatever rudeness there might be in the young Hungarian's character; but in spite of my efforts all

has tended to cause coldness, and even aversion, between the bridal pair. Joan, scarcely fifteen, is far ahead of

her age. Gifted with a brilliant and mobile mind, a noble and lofty character, a lively and glowing fancy, now

free and frolicsome as a child, now grave and proud as a queen, trustful and simple as a young girl, passionate

and sensitive as a woman, she presents the most striking contrast to Andre, who, after a stay of ten years at

our court, is wilder, more gloomy, more intractable than ever. His cold, regular features, impassive

countenance, and indifference to every pleasure that his wife appears to love, all this has raised between him

and Joan a barrier of indifference, even of antipathy. To the tenderest effusion his reply is no more than a

scornful smile or a frown, and he never seems happier than when on a pretext of the chase he can escape from

the court. These, then, are the two, man and wife, on whose heads my crown shall rest, who in a short space

will find themselves exposed to every passion whose dull growl is now heard below a deceptive calm, but

"O my God, my God!" the queen kept repeating in her grief: her arms fell by her side, like the arms of a

"Listen, Dona Sandra. I know that your heart has never clung to earthly vanities, and that you only wait till

God has called me to Himself to withdraw to the convent of Santa Maria delta Croce, founded by yourself in

the hope that you might there end your days. Far be it from me to dissuade you from your sacred vocation,

when I am myself descending into the tomb and am conscious of the nothingness of all human greatness.

Only grant me one year of widowhood before you pass on to your bridal with the Lord, one year in which

you will watch over Joan and her husband, to keep from them all the dangers that threaten. Already the

woman who was the seneschal's wife and her son have too much influence over our grand daughter; be

specially careful, and amid the many interests, intrigues, and temptations that will surround the young queen,

distrust particularly the affection of Bertrand d'Artois, the beauty of Louis of Tarentum; and the ambition of

The king paused, exhausted by the effort of speaking; then turning on his wife a supplicating glance and

"Once again I entreat you, leave not the court before a year has passed. Do you promise me?"

"And now," said Robert, whose face at these words took on a new animation, "call my confessor and the

physician and summon the family, for the hour is at hand, and soon I shall not have the strength to speak my

A few moments later the priest and the doctor reentered the room, their faces bathed, in tears. The king

thanked them warmly for their care of him in his last illness, and begged them help to dress him in the coarse

garb of a Franciscan monk, that God, as he said, seeing him die in poverty, humility, and penitence, might the

more easily grant him pardon. The confessor and doctor placed upon his naked feet the sandals worn by

mendicant friars, robed him in a Franciscan frock, and tied the rope about his waist. Stretched thus upon his

bed, his brow surmounted by his scanty locks, with his long white beard, and his hands crossed upon his

breast, the King of Naples looked like one of those aged anchorites who spend their lives in mortifying the

flesh, and whose souls, absorbed in heavenly contemplation, glide insensibly from out their last ecstasy into

eternal bliss. Some time he lay thus with closed eyes, putting up a silent prayer to God; then he bade them

light the spacious room as for a great solemnity, and gave a sign to the two persons who stood, one at the

head, the other at the foot of the bed. The two folding doors opened, and the whole of the royal family, with

the queen at their head and the chief barons following, took their places in silence around the dying king to

His eyes turned toward Joan, who stood next him on his right hand, with an indescribable look of tenderness

and grief. She was of a beauty so unusual and so marvellous, that her grandfather was fascinated by the

dazzling sight, and mistook her for an angel that God had sent to console him on his deathbed. The pure lines

of her fine profile, her great black liquid eyes, her noble brow uncovered, her hair shining like the raven's

wing, her delicate mouth, the whole effect of this beautiful face on the mind of those who beheld her was that

of a deep melancholy and sweetness, impressing itself once and for ever. Tall and slender, but without the

excessive thinness of some young girls, her movements had that careless supple grace that recall the waving

of a flower stalk in the breeze. But in spite of all these smiling and innocent graces one could yet discern in

Robert's heiress a will firm and resolute to brave every obstacle, and the dark rings that circled her fine eyes

plainly showed that her heart was already agitated by passions beyond her years.

Beside Joan stood her younger sister, Marie, who was twelve or thirteen years of age, the second daughter of

Charles, Duke of Calabria, who had died before her birth, and whose mother, Marie of Valois, had unhappily

been lost to her from her cradle. Exceedingly pretty and shy, she seemed distressed by such an assembly of

great personages, and quietly drew near to the widow of the grand seneschal, Philippa, surnamed the

Catanese, the princesses' governess, whom they honoured as a mother. Behind the princesses and beside this

lady stood her son, Robert of Cabane, a handsome young man, proud and upright, who with his left hand

played with his slight moustache while he secretly cast on Joan a glance of audacious boldness. The group

was completed by Dona Cancha, the young chamberwoman to the princesses, and by the Count of Terlizzi,

who exchanged with her many a furtive look and many an open smile. The second group was composed of

Andre, Joan's husband, and Friar Robert, tutor to, the young prince, who had come with him from Budapesth,

and never left him for a minute. Andre was at this time perhaps eighteen years old: at first sight one was

struck by the extreme regularity of his features, his handsome, noble face, and abundant fair hair; but among

all these Italian faces, with their vivid animation, his countenance lacked expression, his eyes seemed dull,

and something hard and icy in his looks revealed his wild character and foreign extraction. His tutor's portrait

Petrarch has drawn for us: crimson face, hair and beard red, figure short and crooked; proud in poverty, rich

and miserly; like a second ,Diogenes, with hideous and deformed limbs barely concealed beneath his friar's

In the third group stood the widow of Philip, Prince of Tarentum, the king's brother, honoured at the court of

Naples with the title of Empress of Constantinople, a style inherited by her as the granddaughter of Baldwin

II. Anyone accustomed to sound the depths of the human heart would at one glance have perceived that this

woman under her ghastly pallor concealed an implacable hatred, a venomous jealousy, and an alldevouring

ambition. She had her three sons about herRobert, Philip and Louis, the youngest. Had the king chosen out

from among his nephews the handsomest, bravest, and most generous, there can be no doubt that Louis of

Tarentum would have obtained the crown. At the age of twentythree he had already excelled the cavaliers of

most renown in feats of arms; honest, loyal, and brave, he no sooner conceived a project than he promptly

carried it out. His brow shone in that clear light which seems to, serve as a halo of success to natures so

privileged as his; his fine eyes, of a soft and velvety black, subdued the hearts of men who could not resist

their charm, and his caressing smile made conquest sweet. A child of destiny, he had but to use his will; some

power unknown, some beneficent fairy had watched over his birth, and undertaken to smooth away all

Near to him, but in the fourth group, his cousin Charles of Duras stood and scowled. His mother, Agnes, the

widow of the Duke of Durazzo and Albania, another of the king's brothers, looked upon him affrighted,

clutching to her breast her two younger sons, Ludovico, Count of Gravina, and Robert, Prince of Morea.

Charles, palefaced, with short hair and thick beard, was glancing with suspicion first at his dying uncle and

then at Joan and the little Marie, then again at his cousins, apparently so excited by tumultuous thoughts that

he could not stand still. His feverish uneasiness presented a marked contrast with the calm, dreamy face of

Bertrand d'Artois, who, giving precedence to his father Charles, approached the queen at the foot of the bed,

and so found himself face to face with Joan. The young man was so absorbed by the beauty of the princess

As soon as Joan and Andre; the Princes of Tarentum and Durazzo, the Counts of Artois, and (queen Sancha

had taken their places round the bed of death, forming a semicircle, as we have just described, the

vicechancellor passed through the rows of barons, who according to their rangy were following closely after

the princes of the blood; and bowing low before the king, unfolded a parchment sealed with the royal seal,

"Robert, by the grace of God King of Sicily and Jerusalem, Count of Provence, Forcalquier, and Piedmont,

Vicar of the Holy Roman Church, hereby nominates and declares his sole heiress in the kingdom of Sicily on

this side and the other side of the strait, as also in the counties of Provence, Forcalquier, and Piedmont, and in

all ,his other territories, Joan, Duchess of Calabria, elder daughter of the excellent lord Charles, Duke of

Moreover, he nominates and declares the honourable lady Marie, younger daughter of the late Duke of

Calabria, his heiress in the county of Alba and in the jurisdiction of the valley of Grati and the territory of

Giordano, with all their castles and dependencies; and orders that the lady thus named receive them in fief

direct from the aforesaid duchess and her heirs; on this condition, however, that if the duchess give and grant

to her illustrious sister or to her assigns the sum of 10,000 ounces of gold by way of compensation, the

county and jurisdiction aforesaidshall remain in the possession of the duchess and her heirs.

"Moreover, he wills and commands, for private and secret reasons, that the aforesaid lady Marie shall

contract a marriage with the very illustrious prince, Louis, reigning King of Hungary. And in case any

impediment should appear to this marriage by reason ofthe union said to be already arranged and signed

between the King of Hungary and the King of Bohemia and his daughter, our lord the king commands that

the illustrious lady Marie shall contract a marriage with the elder son of the mighty lord Don Juan, Duke of

At this point Charles of Durazzo gave Marie a singularly meaning look, which escaped the notice of all

present, their attention being absorbed by the reading of Robert's will. The young girl herself, from the

moment when she first heard her own name, had stood confused and thunderstruck, with scarlet cheeks, not

"Moreover, he has willed and commanded that the counties of Forcalquier and Provence shall in all

perpetuity be united to his kingdom, and shall form one sole and inseparable dominion, whether or not there

be several sons or daughters or any other reason of any kind for its partition, seeing that this union is of the

utmost importance for the security and common prosperity of the kingdom and counties aforesaid.

"Moreover, he has decided and commanded that in case of the death of the Duchess Joanwhich God

avert!without lawful issue of her body, the most illustrious lord Andre, Duke of Calabria, her husband,

shall have the principality of Salerno, with the title fruits, revenues, and all the rights thereof, together with

"Moreover, he has decided and ordered that the Queen above all, and also the venerable father Don Philip of

Cabassole, Bishop of Cavaillon, vicechancellor of the kingdom of Sicily, and the magnificent lords Philip of

Sanguineto, seneschal of Provence, Godfrey of Marsan, Count of Squillace, admiral of the kingdom, and

Charles of Artois, Count of Aire, shall be governors, regents, and administrators of the aforesaid lord Andre

and the aforesaid ladies Joan and Marie, until such time as the duke, the duchess, and the very illustrious lady

When the vicechancellor had finished reading, the king sat up, and glancing round upon his fair and

"My children, you have heard my last wishes. I have bidden you all to my deathbed, that you may see how

the glory of the world passes away. Those whom men name the great ones of the earth have more duties to

perform, and after death more accounts to render: it is in this that their greatness lies. I have reigned

thirtythree years, and God before whom I am about to appear, God to whom my sighs have often arisen

during my long and painful life, God alone knows the thoughts that rend my heart in the hour of death. Soon

shall I be lying in the tomb, and all that remains of me in this world will live in the memory of those who

pray for me. But before I leave you for ever, you, oh, you who are twice my daughters, whom I have loved

with a double love, and you my nephews who have had from me all the care and affection of a father,

promise me to be ever united in heart and in wish, as indeed you are in my love. I have lived longer than your

fathers, I the eldest of all, and thus no doubt God has wished to tighten the bonds of your affection, to

accustom you to live in one family and to pay honour to one head. I have loved you all alike, as a father

should, without exception or preference. I have disposed of my throne according to the law of nature and the

inspiration of my conscience: Here are the heirs of the crown of Naples; you, Joan, and you, Andre, will

never forget the love and respect that are due between husband and wife, and mutually sworn by you at the

foot of the altar; and you, my nephews all; my barons, my officers, render homage to your lawful sovereigns;

Andre of Hungary, Louis of Tarentum, Charles of Durazzo, remember that you are brothers; woe to him who

shall imitate the perfidy of Cain! May his blood fall upon his own head, and may he be accursed by Heaven

as he is by the mouth of a dying man; and may the blessing of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit

descend upon that man whose heart is good, when the Lord of mercy shall call to my soul Himself!"

The king remained motionless, his arms raised, his eyes fixed on heaven, his cheeks extraordinarily bright,

while the princes, barons, and officers of the court proffered to Joan and her husband the oath of fidelity and

allegiance. When it was the turn of the Princes of Duras to advance, Charles disdainfully stalked past Andre,

and bending his knee before the princess, said in a loud voice, as he kissed her hand

All looks were turned fearfully towards the dying man, but the good king no longer heard. Seeing him fall

back rigid and motionless, Dona Sancha burst into sobs, and cried in a voice choked with tears

At the very same moment all the princes hurried from the room, and every passion hitherto suppressed in the

presence of the king now found its vent like a mighty torrent breaking through its banks.

"Long live Joan! "Robert of Cabane, Louis of Tarentum, and Bertrand of Artois were the first to exclaim,

while the prince's tutor, furiously breaking through the crowd and apostrophising the various members of the

council of regency, cried aloud in varying tones of passion, "Gentlemen, you have forgotten the king's wish

already; you must cry, 'Long live Andre!' too"; then, wedding example to precept, and himself making more

But there was no echo to his cry, and Charles of Durazzo, measuring the Dominican with a terrible look,

approached the queen, and taking her by the hand, slid back the curtains of the balcony, from which was seen

the square and the town of Naples. So far as the eye could reach there stretched an immense crowd,

illuminated by streams of light, and thousands of heads were turned upward towards Castel Nuovo to gather

any news that might be announced. Charles respectfully drawing back and indicating his fair cousin with his

"Long live Joan, (queen of Naples!" replied the people, with a single mighty cry that resounded through every

The events that on this night had followed each other with the rapidity of a dream had produced so deep an

impression on Joan's mind, that, agitated by a thousand different feelings, she retired to her own rooms, and

shutting herself up in her chamber, gave free vent to her grief. So long as the conflict of so many ambitions

waged about the tomb, the young queen, refusing every consolation that was offered her, wept bitterly for the

death of her grandfather, who had loved her to the point of weakness. The king was buried with all solemnity

in the church of Santa Chiara, which he had himself founded and dedicated to the Holy Sacrament, enriching

it with magnificent frescoes by Giotto and other precious relics, among which is shown still, behind the

tribune of the high altar, two columns of white marble taken from Solomon's temple. There still lies Robert,

represented on his tomb in the dress of a king and in a monk's frock, on the right of the monument to his son

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; far Dona

Cancha was far more to her than a ladyinwaiting; 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

"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 subjectsI 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

"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 selfinterest, 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

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.

"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

"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

"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

"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

"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

ladyinwaiting had perceived that Robert of Cabane had, through his own fault, lost the love of Joan;for

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 lostall 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

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 majordomo 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

>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 majordomo. Finally, Marie of Valois on her

deathbed commended the two young princesses to her care, begging her to look on them as her

owndaughters. 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

majordomo, 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

Joan drew back into herself, and weptbitterly. 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

His mother at last saw that it was time to interfere: she rebuked her son, accusing him of upsetting all her

"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

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

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

"My fair queen, allow the humblest of your subjects to offer his sincere congratulations and to ay his homage

"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 childhoodI mean those happy days when we were both

"As you allow me, madam," said Robert, with an ironical smile, "I too shall always remember the names you

"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 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

Joan cast on Robert a withering look, and, speaking to the Catanese, said with a scornful air

"All he asks," continued the lady, "is a title which is his due, and which he inherited from his fatherthe title

of Grand Seneschal of the Two Sicilies: I trust, my, daughter, you will have no difficulty in granting this."

"The council will hasten to ratify the queen's wishes," replied Robert, handing her the parchment with an

"You are right," said the queen at once; and going up to a table she signed the parchment with a trembling

"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,

"That has nothing to do with me, madam; the barons of this kingdom would revolt to a man if I were on my

"A laundress and a negro; you would say, madam?" said Robert, with a sneer. "Bertrand of Artois would be

"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

"Never!" cried Joan, turning pale. "Philippa end 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

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'sbreadth 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 reestablishing 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

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

fleurdelys and glittering with precious stones. His doublet of scarlet velvet and cap of the same showed

upby their own splendour the warm colouring of his skin, while his face seemed illumined by his black

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

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

"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

"You forget, Charles," said the queen, putting out her hand as though to check his words, "Andre is my

"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

"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

Joan shuddered as though a wound had been touched by an unkind hand; but hiding her emotion beneath an

"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

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

"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

"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

The Duke of Duras faintly smiled, and his countenance assumed a sinister, expression.

"Then explain without circumlocution," said the queen, trying to conceal the convulsive shudder that ran

"Listen, Joan," said Charles, taking his cousin's hand and laying it upon his heart: "can you feel that dagger?"

"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

"In any case, madam, since I have put myself in your hands, you must perceive that I cannot leave you till I

"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: today I am the guilty man; some day perhaps I

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,

This prohibition was not for the Count of Artois, for the reader will remember that he was in the adjoining

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

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 easychair, 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

"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

"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 sonthat very

son, sire, for whom I, miserable wretch, had wished to ensure a brilliant future by means of my frightful

"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

"Be assured," said Charles, signing to him to rise; "it is nothing to do with your life; that will come later,

"First," said the duke, in a voice of playful irony, "you must draw up a formal contract of my marriage."

"You are to write in the first article that my wife brings me as dowry the county of Alba, the jurisdiction of

"Because, if my lord will permit because there is only one person in Naples who possesses that dowry your

"And she," stammered the notary, embarrassed more and more,"she is the queen's sister."

"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

"Ah, I understand your surprise: you may learn from this that an uncle's intentions are not always the same as

"In that case, sire, if I daredif my lord would deign to give me leaveif I had an opinion I might give, I

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

These words were uttered with a glance so terrible that the poor notary was crushed, and had hardly the

"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

"Excellent. Listen, and remember that on your discretion the safety or ruin of your family depends. A plot

will soon be on foot gainst 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."

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

"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

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 angelor the bad one who

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:

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

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 fleurdelys 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

The almoner then took the young girl's hand, and placing it in that of Charles, pronounced the prayers of the

"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

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 Churchwho is moreover

by my grandfather's will the head of our familyhas 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 steppingstones of their ambition!" Joan fell back exhausted on her chair, a burning tear trembling

"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,

"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

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 vehemenceand we must add, in

justiceso 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 burialplace 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

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 daughterin 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

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

"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

"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

"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 cowardlyenemies, 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,

"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

"Mother, believe me, if the hands and hearts alike of these cowards had not trembled, you would have lost

"My life, like every man's, belongs to God, and the lowest of sbirri may take it as I turn the corner of the

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, chiefjustice 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

"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 see then, mother," said the prince, smiling, "with this protection there is no reason at all to fear for my

"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

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 offeredherself as a propitiatory sacrifice to redeem the crimes of her family.

Eight days after the funeral of the old queen, Bertrand of Artois came to Joan, distraught, dishevelled, in a

Joan went quickly up to her lover, asking him with a look of fear to explain the cause of his distress.

"I told you, madam," cried the young baron excitedly, "you will end by ruining us all, as you will never take

"For God's sake, Bertrand, speak plainly: what has happened? What advice have I neglected?"

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

acknowledged by the court of Avignon, so henceforth you will be no better than his slave."

"No, madam, I am not dreaming: I have this fact to prove the truth of my words, that the pope's ambassadors

are arrived at Capua with the bull for his coronation, and if they do not enter Castel Nuovo this very evening,

"When I told you before," said the count, with growing fury, "that we ought to use force to make a stand

against him, that we ought to break the yoke of this infamous tyranny and get rid of the man before he had the

means of hurting you, you always drew back in childish fear, with a woman's cowardly hesitation."

"God, my God!" she cried, clasping her hands in desperation, "am I to hear for ever this awful cry of death!

You too, Bertrand, you too say the word, like Robert of Cabane, like Charles of Duras? Wretched man, why

would you raise this bloody spectre between us, to check with icy hand our adulterous kisses? Enough of

such crimes; if his wretched ambition makes him long to reign, let him be king: what matters his power to

"I tell you, madam, that the King of Naples has a black flag ready, and on the day of his coronation it will be

"And you believe," said Joan, pale as a corpse in its shroud,"you believe that this flag is a threat?"

"Tell me all," she cried in a choking voice; "fear not to shock me; see, I am not trembling. O Bertrand, I

"The traitors have begun with the man you most esteemed, the wisest counsellor of the crown, the best of

Joan uttered a cry, as though the noble old man had been slain before her eyes: she respected him as a father;

"How did they kill him?" she asked at last, fixing her great eyes in terror on the count.

"Yesterday evening, as he left this castle, on the way to his own home, a man suddenly sprang out upon him

before the Porta Petruccia: it was one of Andre's favourites, Conrad of Gottis chosen no doubt because he had

a grievance against the incorruptible magistrate on account of some sentence passed against him, and the

murder would therefore be put down to motives of private revenge. The cowardly wretch gave a sign to two

or three companions, who surrounded the victim and robbed him of all means of escape. The poor old man

looked fixedly,at his assassin, and asked him what he wanted. 'I want you to lose your life at my hands, as

I lost my case at yours!' cried the murderer; and leaving him no time to answer, he ran him through with his

sword. Then the rest fell upon the poor man, who did not even try to call for help, and his body was riddled

"It was only their first effort: the proscription lists are already full: Andre must needs have blood to celebrate

his accession to the throne of Naples. And do you know, Joan, whose name stands first in the doomed list?"

"Yours!" cried Joan, drawing herself up to her full height; "are you to be killed next! Oh, be careful, Andre;

you have pronounced your own deathsentence. Long have I turned aside the dagger pointing to your breast,

but you put an end to all my patience. Woe to you, Prince of Hungary! the blood which you have spilt shall

As she spoke she had lost her pallor: her lovely face was fired with revenge, her eyes flashed lightning. This

child of sixteen was terrible to behold: she pressed her lover's hand with convulsive tenderness, and clung to

"Your anger is awakened too late," said he gently and sadly; for at this moment Joan seemed so lovely that he

could reproach her with nothing. "You 'do not know that his mother has left him a talisman preserving him

"He will die," said Joan firmly: the smile that lighted up her face was so unnatural that the count was

The next day the young Queen of Naples, lovelier, more smiling than ever, sitting carelessly in a graceful

attitude beside a window which looked out on the magnificent view of the bay, was busy weaving a cord of

silk and gold. The sun had run nearly twothirds of his fiery course, and was gradually sinking his rays in the

clear blue waters where Posilippo's head is reflected with its green and flowery crown. A warm, balmy breeze

that had passed over the orange trees of Sorrento and Amalfi felt deliciously refreshing to the inhabitants of

the capital, who had succumbed to torpor in the enervating softness of the day. The whole town was waking

from a long siesta, breathing freely after a sleepy interval: the Molo was covered with a crowd of eager

people dressed out in the brightest colours; the many cries of a festival, joyous songs, love ditties sounded

from all quarters of the vast amphitheatre, which is one of the chief marvels of creation: they came to the ears

of Joan, and she listened as she bent over her work, absorbed in deep thought. Suddenly, when she seemed

most busily occupied, the indefinable feeling of someone near at hand, and the touch of something on her

shoulder, made her start: she turned as though waked from a dream by contact with a serpent, and perceived

her husband, magnificently dressed, carelessly leaning against the back of her chair. For a long time past the

prince had not come to his wife in this familiar fashion, and to the queen the pretence of affection and

careless behaviour augured ill. Andre did not appear to notice the look of hatred and terror that had escaped

Joan in spite of herself, and assuming the best expression of gentleness as that his straight hard features could

Andre shrugged his shoulders, seeing in the threat so incredibly rash nothing more than a pleasantry in rather

bad taste. But when he saw that Joan resumed her work, he tried to renew the conversation.

"I admit," he said, in a perfectly calm voice, "that my question is quite unnecessary: from your eagerness to

finish this handsome piece of work, I ought to suspect that it is destined for some fine knight of yours whom

you propose to send on a dangerous enterprise wearing your colours. If so, my fair queen, I claim to receive

my orders from your lips: appoint the time and place for the trial, and I am sure beforehand of carrying off a

"That is not so certain," said Joan, "if you are as valiant in war as in love." And she cast on her husband a

look at once seductive and scornful, beneath which the young man blushed up to his eyes.

"I hope," said Andre, repressing his feelings,"I hope soon to give you such proofs of my affection that you

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

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

torrent, and the heavens were ringing with their shouts of joy; the gloomy granite facades were hidden by

hangings of silk and festoons of flowers, the churches were decorated as though for some grand ceremony. I

was riding side by side with you." Joan made a haughty movement: "Forgive me, madam, it was only a

dream: I was on your right, riding a fine white horse, magnificently caparisoned, and the chiefjustice of the

kingdom carried before me a flag unfolded in sign of honour. After riding in triumph through the main

thoroughfares of the city, we arrived, to the sound of trumpets and clarions, at the royal church of Saint Clara,

where your grandfather and my uncle are buried, and there, before the high altar, the pope's ambassador laid

your hand in mine and pronounced a long discourse, and then on our two heads in turn placed the crown of

Jerusalem and Sicily; after which the nobles and the people shouted in one voice, 'Long live the King and

Queen of Naples!' And I, wishing to perpetuate the memory of so glorious a day, proceeded to create knights

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

"Enough, my lord; I excuse you from naming the rest: I always supposed you were loyal and generous, but

you give me fresh proof of it by showing favour to men whom I most honour and trust. I cannot tell if your

wishes are likely soon to be realised, but in any case feel sure of my perpetual gratitude."

Joan's voice did not betray the slightest emotion; her look had became kind, and the sweetest smile was on

her lips. But in her heart Andre's death was from that moment decided upon. The prince, too much

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

personal valour, had no suspicion that his plans could be anticipated. He conversed a long time with his wife

in a chatting, friendly way, trying to spy out her secret, and exposing his own by his interrupted phrases and

mysterious reserves. When he fancied that every cloud of former resentment, even the lightest, had

disappeared from Joan's brow, he begged her to go with her suite on a magnificent hunting expedition that he

was organising for the 20th of August, adding that such a kindness on her part would be for him a sure pledge

of their reconciliation and complete forgetfulness of the past. Joan promised with a charming grace, and the

prince retired fully satisfied with the interview, carrying with him the conviction that he had only to threaten

to strike a blow at the queen's favourite to ensure her obedience, perhaps even her love.

But on the eve of the 20th of August a strange and terrible scene was being enacted in the basement storey of

one of the lateral towers of Castel Nuovo. Charles of Durazzo, who had never ceased to brood secretly over

his infernal plans, had been informed by the notary whom he had charged to spy upon the conspirators, that

on that particular evening they were about to hold a decisive meeting, and therefore, wrapped in a black

cloak, he glided into the underground corridor and hid himself behind a pillar, there to await the issue of the

conference. After two dreadful hours of suspense, every second marked out by the beating of his heart,

Charles fancied he heard the sound of a door very carefully opened; the feeble ray of a lantern in the vault

scarcely served to dispel the darkness, but a man coining away from the wall approached him walking like a

living statue. Charles gave a slight cough, the sign agreed upon. The man put out hid light and hid away the

"Every one, though their faces were masked; when they gave their vote for death, I knew them by their

"Yes, this very minute; they are going to pass along at the end of this corridor. And see, here is Tommaso

Indeed, a tall spectral figure, black from head to foot, his face carefully hidden under a velvet mask, walked

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

floors. The conspirators advanced slowly, two by two, like a procession of ghosts, appeared for one moment

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

Catanzaro; the grand admiral and grand seneschal, Godfrey of Marsan, Count of Squillace, and Robert of

Cabane, Count of Eboli; the two women talking in a low voice with the eager gesticulations are Catherine of

Tarentum, Empress of Constantinople, and Philippa the Catanese, the queen's governess and chief lady; there

is Dona Cancha, chamberwoman and confidante of Joan; and there is the Countess of Morcone."

The notary stopped on beholding a shadow alone, its head bowed, with arms hanging loosely, choking back

"Who is the woman who seems to drag herself so painfully along in their train?" asked the duke, pressing his

That woman," said the notary, "is the queen." "Ah, now I see," thought Charles, breathing freely, with the

same sort of satisfaction that Satan no doubt feels when a long coveted soul falls at length into his power.

"And now, my lord," continued Master Nicholas, when all had returned once more into silence and darkness,

"if you have bidden me spy on these conspirators with a view to saving the young prince you are protecting

with love and vigilance, you must hurry forward, for to morrow maybe it will be too late."

"Follow me," cried the duke imperiously; "it is time you should know my real intention, and then carry out

With these words he drew him aside to a place opposite to where the conspirators had just disappeared. The

notary mechanically followed through a labyrinth of dark corridors and secret staircases, quite at a loss how

to account for the sudden change that had come over his mastercrossing one of the antechambers in the

castle, they came upon Andre, who joyfully accosted them; grasping the hand of his cousin Duras in his

affectionate manner, he asked him in a pressing way that would brook no refusal, "Will you be of our hunting

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

tomorrow, for my wife is very unwell; but I entreat you to accept the best falcon I have."

The morning of the 20th of August was fine and calmthe irony of nature contrasting cruelly with the fate

of mankind. From break of day masters and valets, pages and knights, princes and courtiers, all were on foot;

cries of joy were heard on every side when the queen arrived, on a snowwhite horse, at the head of the

young and brilliant throng. Joan was perhaps paler than usual, but that might be because she had been obliged

to rise very early. Andre, mounted on one of the most fiery of all the steeds he had tamed, galloped beside his

wife, noble and proud, happy in his own powers, his youth, and the thousand gilded hopes that a brilliant

future seemed to offer. Never had the court of Naples shown so brave an aspect: every feeling of distrust and

hatred seemed entirely forgotten; Friar Robert himself, suspicious as he was by nature, when he saw the

joyous cavalcade go by under his window, looked out with pride, and stroking his beard, laughed at his own

Andre's intention was to spend several days hunting between Capua and Aversa, and only to return to Naples

when all was in readiness for his coronation. Thus the first day they hunted round about Melito, and went

through two or three villages in the land of Labore. Towards evening the court stopped at Aversa, with a view

to passing the night there, and since at that period there was no castle in the place worthy of entertaining the

queen with her husband and numerous court, the convent of St. Peter's at Majella was converted into a royal

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

While the grand seneschal was giving orders for supper and the preparation of a room for Andre and his wife,

the prince, who during the whole day had abandoned himself entirely to his favourite amusement, went up on

the terrace to enjoy the evening air, accompanied by the good Isolda, his beloved nurse, who loved him more

even than his mother, and would not leave his side for a moment. Never had the prince appeared so animated

and happy: he was in ecstasies over the beauty of the country, the clear air, the scent of the trees around; he

besieged his nurse with a thousand queries, never waiting for an answer; and they were indeed long in

coming, for poor Isolda was gazing upon him with that appearance of fascination which makes a mother

absentminded when her child is talking: Andre was eagerly telling her about a terrible boar he had chased

that morning across the woods, how it had lain foaming at his feet, and Isolda interrupted him to say he had a

grain of dust in his eye. Then Andre was full of his plans for the future, and Isolda stroked his fair hair,

remarking that he must be feeling very tired. Then, heeding nothing but his own joy and excitement, the

young prince hurled defiance at destiny, calling by all his gods on dangers to come forward, so that he might

have the chance of quelling them, and the poor nurse exclaimed, in a flood of tears, "My child, you love me

Out of all patience with these constant interruptions, Andre scolded her kindly enough, and mocked at her

childish fears. Then, paying no attention to a sort of melancholy that was coming over him, he bade her tell

him old tales of his childhood, and had a long talk about his brother Louis, his absent mother, and tears were

in his eyes when he recalled her last farewell. Isolda listened joyfully, and answered all he asked; but no fell

presentiment shook her heart: the poor woman loved Andre with all the strength of her soul; for him she

would have given up her life in this world and in the world to come; yet she was not his mother.

When all was ready, Robert of Cabane came to tell the prince that the queen awaited him; Andre cast one last

look at the smiling fields beneath the starry heavens, pressed his nurse's hand to his lips and to his heart, and

followed the grand seneschal slowly and, it seemed, with some regret. But soon the brilliant lights of the

room, the wine that circulated freely, the gay talk, the eager recitals of that day's exploits, served to disperse

the cloud of gloom that had for a moment overspread the countenance of the prince. The queen alone, leaning

on the table, with fixed eyes and lips that never moved, sat at this strange feast pale and cold as a baleful

ghost summoned from the tomb to disturb the joy of the party. Andre, whose brain began to be affected by

the draughts of wine from Capri and Syracuse, was annoyed at his wife's look, and attributing it to contempt,

filled a goblet to the brim and presented it to the queen. Joan visibly trembled, her lips moved convulsively;

but the conspirators drowned in their noisy talk the involuntary groan that escaped her. In the midst of a

general uproar, Robert of Cabane proposed that they should serve generous supplies of the same wine drunk

at the royal table to the Hungarian guards who were keeping watch at the approaches to the convent, and this

liberality evoked frenzied applause. The shouting of the soldiers soon gave witness to their gratitude for the

unexpected gift, and mingled with the hilarious toasts of the banqueters. To put the finishing touch to Andre's

excitement, there were cries on every side of "Long live the (queen! Long live His Majesty the King of

The orgy lasted far into the night: the pleasures of the next day were discussed with enthusiasm, and Bertrand

of Artois protested in a loud voice that if they were so late now some would not rise early on the morrow.

Andre declared that, for his part, an hour or two's rest would be enough to get over his fatigue, and he eagerly

protested that it would be well for others to follow his example. The Count of Terlizzi seemed to express

some doubt as to the prince's punctuality. Andre insisted, and challenging all the barons present to see who

would be up first, he retired with the queen to the room that had been reserved for them, where he very soon

fell into a deep and heavy sleep. About two o'clock in the morning, Tommaso Pace, the prince's valet and first

usher of the royal apartments, knocked at his 2876 master's door to rouse him for the chase. At the first

knock, all was silence; at the second, Joan, who had not closed her eyes all night, moved as if to rouse her

husband and warn him of the threatened danger; but at the third knock the unfortunate young man suddenly

awoke, and hearing in the next room sounds of laughter and whispering, fancied that they were making a joke

of his laziness, and jumped out of bed bareheaded, in nothing but his shirt, his shoes half on and half off. He

opened the door; and at this point we translate literally the account of Domenico Gravina, a historian of much

esteem. As soon as the prince appeared, the conspirators all at once fell upon him, to strangle him with their

hands; believing he could not die by poison or sword, because of the charmed ring given him by his poor

mother. But Andre was so strong and active, that when he perceived the infamous treason he defended

himself with more than human strength, and with dreadful cries got free from his murderers, his face all

bloody, his fair hair pulled out in handfuls. The unhappy young man tried to gain his own bedroom, so as to

get some weapon and valiantly resist the assassins; but as he reached the door, Nicholas of Melazzo, putting

his dagger like a bolt into the lock, stopped his entrance. The prince, calling aloud the whole time and

imploring the protection of his friends, returned to the hall; but all the doors were shut, and no one held out a

helping hand; for the queen was silent, showing no uneasiness about her husband's death.

But the nurse Isolda, terrified by the shouting of her beloved son and lord, leapt from her bed and went to the

window, filling the house with dreadful cries. The traitors, alarmed by the mighty uproar, although the place

was lonely and so far from the centre of the town that nobody could have come to see what the noise was,

were on the point of letting their victim go, when Bertrand of Artois, who felt he was more guilty than the

others, seized the prince with hellish fury round the waist, and after a desperate struggle got him down; then

dragging him by the hair of his head to a balcony which gave upon the garden, and pressing one knee upon

And round his neck he passed a long cord of silk and gold, while the wretched man struggled all he could.

Bertrand quickly drew up the knot, and the others threw the body over the parapet of the balcony, leaving it

hanging between earth and sky until death ensued. When the Count of Terlizzi averted his eyes from the

"What are you doing there? The cord is long enough for us all to hold: we want not witnesses, we want

As soon as the last convulsive movements of the dying man had ceased, they let the corpse drop the whole

height of the three storeys, and opening the doors of the hall, departed as though nothing had happened.

Isolda, when at last she contrived to get a light, rapidly ran to the queen's chamber, and finding the door shut

on the inside, began to call loudly on her Andre. There was no answer, though the queen was in the room.

The poor nurse, distracted, trembling, desperate, ran down all the corridors, knocked at all the cells and woke

the monks one by one, begging them to help her look for the prince. The monks said that they had indeed

heard a noise, but thinking it was a quarrel between soldiers drunken perhaps or mutinous, they had not

thought it their business to interfere. Isolda eagerly, entreated: the alarm spread through the convent; the

monks followed the nurse, who went on before with a torch. She entered the garden, saw something white

The wretched Andre was lying in his blood, a cord round his neck as though he were a thief, his head crushed

in by the height from which he fell. Then two monks went upstairs to the queen's room, and respectfully

And when the queen made no answer, they went down again slowly to the garden, and kneeling one at the

head, the other at the foot of the dead man, they began to recite penitential psalms in a low voice. When they

had spent an hour in prayer, two other monks went up in the same way to Joan's chamber, repeating the same

question and getting no answer, whereupon they relieved the first two, and began themselves to pray. Next a

third couple went to the door of this inexorable room, and coming away perturbed by their want of success,,

perceived that there was a disturbance of people outside the convent, while vengeful cries were heard

amongst the indignant crowd. The groups became more and more thronged, threatening voices were raised, a

torrent of invaders threatened the royal dwelling, when the queen's guard appeared, lance in readiness, and a

litter closely shut, surrounded by the principal barons of the court, passed through the crowd, which stood

stupidly gazing. Joan, wrapped in a black veil, went back to Castel Nuovo, amid her escort; and nobody, say

The terrible part that Charles of Durazzo was to play began as soon as this crime was accomplished. The

duke left the corpse two whole days exposed to the wind and the rain, unburied and dishonoured, the corpse

of a man whom the pope had made King of Sicily and Jerusalem, so that the indignation of the mob might be

increased by the dreadful sight. On the third he ordered it to be conveyed with the utmost pomp to the

cathedral of Naples, and assembling all the Hungarians around the catafalque, he thus addressed them, in a

"Nobles and commoners, behold our king hanged like a dog by infamous traitors. God will soon make known

to us the names of all the guilty: let those who desire that justice may be done hold up their hands and swear

against murderers bloody persecution, implacable hatred, everlasting vengeance."

It was this one man's cry that brought death and desolation to the murderers' hearts, and the people dispersed

Divine justice, which knows naught of privilege and respects no crown, struck Joan first of all in her love.

When the two lovers first met, both were seized alike with terror and disgust; they recoiled trembling, the

queen seeing in Bertrand her husband's executioner, and he in her the cause of his crime, possibly of his

speedy punishment. Bertrand's looks were disordered, his cheeks hollow, his eyes encircled with black rings,

his mouth horribly distorted; his arm and forefinger extended towards his accomplice, he seemed to behold a

frightful vision rising before him. The same cord he had used when he strangled Andre, he now saw round

the queen's neck, so tight that it made its way into her flesh: an invisible force, a Satanic impulse, urged him

to strangle with his own hands the woman he had loved so dearly, had at one time adored on his knees. The

count rushed out of the room with gestures of desperation, muttering incoherent words; and as he shewed

plain signs of mental aberration, his father, Charles of Artois, took him away, and they went that same

evening to their palace of St. Agatha, and there prepared a defence in case they should be attacked.

But Joan's punishment, which was destined to be slow as well as dreadful, to last thirtyseven years

andend in a ghastly death, was now only beginning. All the wretched beings who were stained with

Andre's death came in turn to her to demand the price of blood. The Catanese and her son, who held in their

hands not only the queen's honour but her life, now became doubly greedy and exacting. Dona Cancha no

longer put any bridle on her licentiousness; and the Empress of Constantinople ordered her niece to marry her

eldest son, Robert, Prince of Tarentum. Joan, consumed by remorse, full of indignation and shame at the

arrogant conduct of her subjects, dared scarcely lift her head, and stooped to entreaties, only stipulating for a

few days' delay before giving her answer: the empress consented, on condition that her son should come to

reside at Castel Nuovo, with permission to see the queen once a day. Joan bowed her head in silence, and

Charles of Durazzo, who by the death of Andre had practically become the head of the family, and, would, by

the terms of his grandfather's will, inherit the kingdom by right of his wife Marie in the case of Joan's dying

without lawful issue, sent to the queen two commands: first, that she should not dream of contracting a new

marriage without first consulting him in the choice of a husband; secondly, that she should invest him at once

with the title of Duke of Calabria. To compel his cousin to make these two concessions, he added that if she

should be so ill advised as to refuse either of them, he should hand over to justice the proofs of the crime and

the names of the murderers. Joan, bending beneath the weight of this new difficulty, could think of no way to

avoid it; but Catherine, who alone was stout enough to fight this nephew of hers, insisted that they must strike

at the Duke of Durazzo in his ambition and hopes, and tell him, to begin withwhat was the factthat the

queen was pregnant. If, in spite of this news, he persisted in his plans, she would find some means or other,

she said, of causing trouble and discord in her nephew's family, and wounding him in his most intimate

affections or closest interests, by publicly dishonouring him through his wife or his mother.

Charles smiled coldly when his aunt came to tell him from the queen that she was about to bring into the

world an infant, Andre's posthumous child. What importance could a babe yet unborn possibly haveas a

fact, it lived only a few monthsin the eyes of a man who with such admirable coolness got rid of people

who stood in his wary, and that moreover by the hand of his own enemies? He told the empress that the

happy news she had condescended to bring him in person, far from diminishing his kindness towards his

cousin, inspired him rather with more interest and goodwill; that consequently he reiterated his suggestion,

and renewed his promise not to seek vengeance for his dear Andre, since in a certain sense the crime was not

complete should a child be destined to survive; but in case of a refusal he declared himself inexorable. He

cleverly gave Catherine to understand that, as she had some interest herself in the prince's death, she ought

The empress seemed to be deeply impressed by her nephew's threatening attitude, and promised to do her

best to persuade the queen to grant all he asked, on condition, however, that Charles should allow the

necessary time for carrying through so delicate a business. But Catherine profited by this delay to think out

her own plan of revenge, and ensure the means of certain success. After starting several projects eagerly and

then regretfully abandoning them, she fixed upon an infernal and unheardof scheme, which the mind would

refuse to believe but for the unanimous testimony of historians. Poor Agnes of Duras, Charles's mother, had

for some few days been suffering with an inexplicable weariness, a slow painful malady with which her son's

restlessness and violence may have had not a little to do. The empress resolved that the first effect of her

hatred was to fall upon this unhappy mother. She summoned the Count of Terlizzi and Dona Cancha, his

mistress, who by the queen's orders had been attending Agnes since her illness began. Catherine suggested to

the young chamberwoman, who was at that time with child, that she should deceive the doctor by

representing that certain signs of her own condition really belonged to the sick woman, so that he, deceived

by the false indications, should be compelled to admit to Charles of Durazzo that his mother was guilty and

dishonoured. The Count of Terlizzi, who ever since he had taken part in the regicide trembled in fear of

discovery, had nothing to oppose to the empress's desire, and Dona Cancha, whose head was as light as her

heart was corrupt, seized with a foolish gaiety on any chance of taking her revenge on the prudery of the only

princess of the blood who led a pure life at a court that was renowned for its depravity. Once assured that her

accomplices would be prudent and obedient, Catherine began to spread abroad certain vague and dubious but

terribly serious rumours, only needing proof, and soon after the cruel accusation was started it was repeated

At this amazing revelation the duke was seized with a fit of trembling. He sent instantly for the doctor, and

asked imperiously what was the cause of his mother's malady. The doctor turned pale and stammered; but

when Charles grew threatening he admitted that he had certain grounds for suspecting that the duchess was

enceinte, but as he might easily have been deceived the first time, he would make a second investigation

before pronouncing his opinion in so serious a matter. The next day, as the doctor came out of the bedroom,

the duke met him, and interrogating him with an agonised gesture, could only judge by the silence that his

fears were too well confirmed. But the doctor, with excess of caution, declared that he would make a third

trial. Condemned criminals can suffer no worse than Charles in the long hours that passed before that fatal

moment when he learned that his mother was indeed guilty. On the third day the doctor stated on his soul and

That evening the duchess took a medicine ordered by the doctor; and when, half an hour later, she was

assailed with violent pains, the duke was warned that perhaps other physicians ought to be consulted, as the

prescription of the ordinary doctor, instead of bringing about an improvement in her state, had only made her

Charles slowly went up to the duchess's room, and sending away all the people who were standing round her

bed, on the pretext that they were clumsy and made his mother worse, he shut the door, and they were alone.

The poor Agnes, forgetting her internal agony when she saw her son, pressed his hand tenderly and smiled

Charles, pale beneath his bronzed complexion, his forehead moist with a cold sweat, and his eyes horribly

"Ah, I am in pain, in frightful pain, my poor Charles. I feel as though I have molten lead in my veins. O my

son, call your brothers, so that I may give you all my blessing for the last time, for I cannot hold out long

against this pain. I am burning. Mercy! Call a doctor: I know I have been poisoned."

"Water!" cried the dying woman in a broken voice," water! A doctor, a confessor! My childrenI want

And as the duke paid no heed, but stood moodily silent, the poor mother, prostrated by pain, fancied that grief

had robbed her son of all power of speech or movement, and so, by a desperate effort, sat up, and seizing him

"Charles, my son, what is it? My poor boy, courage; it is nothing, I hope. But quick, call for help, call a

"Your doctor," said Charles slowly and coldly, each word piercing his mother's heart like a dagger,"your

"Unhappy man!" she cried, overwhelmed with, pain and terror, "you have murdered him! Perhaps you have

"It is your doing," said Charles, without show of emotion: "you have driven me into crime and despair; you

"What are you saying? My own Charles, have mercy! Do not let me die in this horrible uncertainty; what

fatal delusion is blinding you? Speak, my son, speak: I am not feeling the poison now. What have I done? Of

She looked with haggard eyes at her son: her maternal love still struggled against the awful thought of

matricide; at last, seeing that Charles remained speechless in spite of her entreaties, she repeated, with a

"What!" cried Agnes, with a loud cry, which broke her very heart. "O God, forgive him! Charles, your mother

Charles fell upon her neck, desperately crying for help: he would now have gladly saved her at the cost of his

life, but it was too late. He uttered one cry that came from his heart, and was found stretched out upon his

Strange comments were made at the court on the death of the Duchess of Durazzo and her doctor's

disappearance; but there was no doubt at all that grief and gloom were furrowing wrinkles on Charles's brow,

which was already sad enough. Catherine alone knew the terrible cause of her nephew's depression, for to her

it was very plain that the duke at one blow had killed his mother and her physician. But she had never

expected a reaction so sudden and violent in a man who shrank before no crime. She had thought Charles

capable of everything except remorse. His gloomy, self absorbed silence seemed a bad augury for her plans.

She had desired to cause trouble for him in his own family, so that he might have no time to oppose the

marriage of her son with the queen; but she had shot beyond her mark, and Charles, started thus on the

terrible path of crime, had now broken through the bonds of his holiest affections, and gave himself up to his

bad passions with feverish ardour and a savage desire for revenge. Then Catherine had recourse to gentleness

and submission. She gave her son to understand that there was only one way of obtaining the queen's hand,

and that was by flattering the ambition of Charles and in some sort submitting himself to his patronage.

Robert of Tarentum understood this, and ceased making court to Joan, who received his devotion with cool

kindness, and attached himself closely to Charles, paying him much the same sort of respect and deference

that he himself had affected for Andre, when the thought was first in his mind of causing his ruin. But the

Duke of Durazzo was by no means deceived as to the devoted friendship shown towards him by the heir of

the house of Tarentum, and pretending to be deeply touched by the unexpected change of feeling, he all the

An event outside all human foresight occurred to upset the calculations of the two cousins. One day while

they were out together on horseback, as they often were since their pretended reconciliation, Louis of

Tarentum, Robert's youngest brother, who had always felt for Joan a chivalrous, innocent love,a love

which a young man of twenty is apt to lock up in his heart as a secret treasure,Louis, we say, who had held

aloof from the infamous family conspiracy and had not soiled his hands with Andre's blood, drawn on by an

irrepressible passion, all at once appeared at the gates of Castel Nuovo; and while his brother was wasting

precious hours in asking for a promise of marriage, had the bridge raised and gave the soldiers strict orders to

admit no one. Then, never troubling himself about Charles's anger or Robert's jealousy, he hurried to the

queen's room, and there, says Domenico Gravina, without any preamble, the union was consummated.

On returning from his ride, Robert, astonished that the bridge was not at once lowered for him, at first loudly

called upon the soldiers on guard at the fortress, threatening severe punishment for their unpardonable

negligence; but as the gates did not open and the soldiers made no sign of fear or regret, he fell into a violent

fit of rage, and swore he would hang the wretches like dogs for hindering his return home. But the Empress

of Constantinople, terrified at the bloody quarrel beginning between the two brothers, went alone and on foot

to her son, and making use of her maternal authority to beg him to master his feelings, there in the presence

of the crowd that had come up hastily to witness the strange scene, she related in a low voice all that had

A roar as of a wounded tiger escaped from Robert's breast: all but blind with rage, he nearly trampled his

mother under the feet of his horse, which seemed to feel his master's anger, and plunging violently, breathed

blood from his nostrils. When the prince had poured every possible execration on his brother's head, he

turned and galloped away from the accursed castle, flying to the Duke of Durazzo, whom he had only just

left, to tell him of this outrage and stir him to revenge. Charles was talking carelessly with his young wife,

who was but little used to such tranquil conversation and expansiveness, when the Prince of Tarentum,

exhausted, out of breath, bathed in perspiration, came up with his incredible tale. Charles made him say it

twice over, so impossible did Louis's audacious enterprise appear to him. Then quickly changing from doubt

to fury, he struck his brow with his iron glove, saying that as the queen defied him he would make her

tremble even in her castle and in her lover's arms. He threw one withering look on Marie, who interceded

tearfully for her sister, and pressing Robert's hand with warmth, vowed that so long as he lived Louis should

That same evening he shut himself up in his study, and wrote letters whose effect soon appeared. A bull,

dated June 2, 1346, was addressed to Bertram de Baux, chiefjustice of the kingdom of Sicily and Count of

Monte Scaglioso, with orders to make the most strict inquiries concerning Andre's murderers, whom the pope

likewise laid under his anathema, and to punish them with the utmost rigour of the law. But a secret note was

appended to the bull which was quite at variance with the designs of Charles: the sovereign pontiff expressly

bade the chiefjustice not to implicate the queen in the proceedings or the princes of the blood, so as to avoid

worse disturbances, reserving, as supreme head of the Church and lord of the kingdom, the right of judging

For this imposing trial Bertram de Baux made great preparations. A platform was erected in the great hall of

tribunal, and all the officers of the crown and great state dignitaries, and all the chief barons, had a place

behind the enclosure where the magistrates sat. Three days after Clement VI's bull had been published in the

capital, the chiefjustice was ready for a public examination of two accused persons. The two culprits who

had first fallen into the hands of justice were, as one may easily suppose, those whose condition was least

exalted, whose lives were least valuable, Tommaso Pace and Nicholas of Melazzo. They were led before the

tribunal to be first of all tortured, as the custom was. As they approached the judges, the notary passing by

"My lord, the time has come to give my life for you: I will do my duty; I commend my wife and children to

Encouraged by a nod from his patron, he walked on firmly and deliberately. The chiefjustice, after

establishing the identity of the accused, gave them over to the executioner and his men to be tortured in the

public square, so that their sufferings might serve as a show and an example to the crowd. But no sooner was

Tommaso Pace tied to the rope, when to the great disappointment of all he declared that he would confess

everything, and asked accordingly to be taken back before his judges. At these words, the Count of Terlizzi,

who was following every movement of the two men with mortal anxiety, thought it was all over now with

him and his accomplices; and so, when Tommaso Pace was turning his steps towards the great hall, led by

two guards, his hands tied behind his back, and followed by the notary, he contrived to take him into a

secluded house, and squeezing his throat with great force, made him thus put his tongue out, whereupon he

The yells of the poor wretch so cruelly mutilated fell on the ears of the Duke of Durazzo : he found his way

into the room where the barbarous act had been committed just as the Count of Terlizzi was coming out, and

approached the notary, who had been present at the dreadful spectacle and had not given the least sign of fear

or emotion. Master Nicholas, thinking the same fate was in store for him, turned calmly to the duke, saying

"My lord, the precaution is useless; there is no need for you to cut out my tongue, as the noble count has done

to my poor companion. The last scrap of my flesh may be torn off without one word being dragged from my

mouth. I have promised, my lord, and you have the life of my wife and the future of my children as guarantee

"I do not ask for silence," said the duke solemnly; "you can free me from all my enemies at once, and I order

The notary bowed his head with mournful resignation; then raising it in affright, made one step up to the duke

"No one would believe you if you ventured to denounce her; but when the Catanese and her son, the Count of

Terlizzi and his wife and her most intimate friends, have been accused by you, when they fail to endure the

"I see, my lord. You do not only want my life; you would have my soul too. Very well; once more I

With a deep sigh he walked up to the tribunal. The chiefjustice asked Tommaso Pace the usual questions,

and a shudder of horror passed through the assembly when they saw the poor wretch in desperation opening

his mouth, which streamed with blood. But surprise and terror reached their height when Nicholas of

Melazzo slowly and firmly gave a list of Andre's murderers, all except the queen and the princes of the blood,

Proceedings were at once taken for the arrest of the grand seneschal, Robert of Cabane, and the Counts of

Terlizzi and Morcone, who were present and had not ventured to make any movement in selfdefence. An

hour later, Philippa, her two daughters, and Dona Cancha joined them in prison, after vainly imploring the

queen's protection. Charles and Bertrand of Artois, shut up in their fortress of Saint Agatha, bade defiance to

justice, and several others, among them the Counts of Meleto and Catanzaro, escaped by flight.

As soon as Master Nicholas said he had nothing further to confess, and that he had spoken the whole truth

and nothing but the truth, the chiefjustice pronounced sentence amid a profound silence; and 1897 without

delay Tommaso Pace and the notary were tied to the tails of two horses, dragged through the chief streets of

The other prisoners were thrown into a subterranean vault, to be questioned and put to the torture on the

following day. In the evening, finding themselves in the same dungeon, they reproached one another, each

pretending he had been dragged into the crime by someone else. Then Dona Cancha, whose strange character

knew no inconsistencies, even face to face with death and torture, drowned with a great burst of laughter the

"Look here, friends, why these bitter recriminationsthis ill mannered raving? We have no excuses to

make, and we are all equally guilty. I am the youngest of all, and not the ugliest, by your leave, ladies, but if I

am condemned, at least I will die cheerfully. For I have never denied myself any pleasure I could get in this

world, and I can boast that much will be forgiven me, for I have loved much: of that you, gentlemen, know

something. You, bad old man," she continued to the Count of Terlizzi, "do you not remember lying by my

side in the queen's antechamber? Come, no blushes before your noble family; confess, my lord, that I am

with child by your Excellency; and you know how we managed to make up the story of poor Agues of

Durazzo and her pregnancyGod rest her soul! For my part, I never supposed the joke would take such a

serious turn all at once. You know all this and much more; spare your lamentations, for, by my word, they are

With these words she yawned slightly, and, lying down on the straw, fell into a deep sleep, and dreamed as

On the morrow from break of day there was an immense crowd on the sea front. During the night an

enormous palisade had been put up to keep the people away far enough for them to see the accused without

hearing anything. Charles of Durazzo, at the head of a brilliant cortege of knights and pages, mounted on a

magnificent horse, all in black, as a sign of mourning, waited near the enclosure. Ferocious joy shone in his

eyes as the accused made their way through the crowd, two by two, their wrists tied with ropes; for the duke

every minute expected to hear the queen's name spoken. But the chief justice, a man of experience, had

prevented indiscretion of any kind by fixing a hook in the tongue of each one. The poor creatures were

tortured on a ship, so that nobody should hear the terrible confessions their sufferings dragged from them.

But Joan, in spite of the wrongs that most of the conspirators had done her, felt a renewal of pity for the

woman she had once respected as a mother, for her childish companions and her friends, and possibly also

some remains of love for Robert of Cabane, and sent two messengers to beg Bertram de Baux to show mercy

to the culprits. But the chiefjustice seized these men and had them tortured; and on their confession that they

also were implicated in Andre's murder, he condemned them to the same punishment as the others. Dona

Cancha alone, by reason of her situation, escaped the torture, and her sentence was deferred till the day of her

As this beautiful girl was returning to prison, with many a smile for all the handsomest cavaliers she could

see in the crowd, she gave a sign to Charles of Durazzo as she neared him to come forward, and since her

tongue had not been pierced (for the same reason) with an iron instrument, she said some words to him a

"My mother!oh, my poor mother! "murmured Charles in a choked voice, and he fell backward.

The next morning the people were beforehand with the executioner, loudly demanding their prey. All the

national troops and mercenaries that the judicial authorities could command were echelonned in the streets,

opposing a sort of dam to the torrent of the raging crowd. The sudden insatiable cruelty that too often

degrades human nature had awaked in the populace: all heads were turned with hatred and frenzy; all

imaginations inflamed with the passion for revenge; groups of men and women, roaring like wild beasts,

threatened to knock down the walls of the prison, if the condemned were not handed over to them to take to

the place of punishment: a great murmur arose, continuous, ever the same, like the growling of thunder: the

But, in spite of the desire of Bertram de Baux to satisfy the popular wish, the preparations for the solemn

execution were not completed till midday, when the sun's rays fell scorchingly upon the town. There went up

a mighty cry from ten thousand palpitating breasts when a report first ran through the crowd that the prisoners

were about to appear. There was a moment of silence, and the prison doors rolled slowly back on their hinges

with a rusty, grating noise. A triple row of horsemen, with lowered visor and lance in rest, started the

procession, and amid yells and curses the condemned prisoners came out one by one, each tied upon a cart,

gagged and naked to the waist, in charge of two executioners, whose orders were to torture them the whole

length of their way. On the first cart was the former laundress of Catana, afterwards wife of the grand

seneschal and governess to the queen, Philippa of Cabane: the two executioners at right and left of her

scourged her with such fury that the blood spurting up from the wounds left a long track in all the streets

Immediately following their mother on separate carts came the Countesses of Terlizzi and Morcone, the elder

no more than eighteen years of age. The two sisters were so marvellously beautiful that in the crowd a

murmur of surprise was heard, and greedy eyes were fixed upon their naked trembling shoulders. But the men

charged to torture them gazed with ferocious smiles upon their forms of seductive beauty, and, armed with

sharp knives, cut off pieces of their flesh with a deliberate enjoyment and threw them out to the crowd, who

eagerly struggled to get them, signing to the executioners to show which part of the victims' bodies they

Robert of Cabane, the grand seneschal, the Counts of Terlizzi and Morcone, Raymond Pace, brother of the

old valet who had been executed the day before, and many more, were dragged on similar carts, and both

scourged with ropes and slashed with knives; their flesh was torn out with redhot pincers, and flung upon

brazen chafingdishes. No cry of pain was heard from the grand seneschal, he never stirred once in his

frightful agony; yet the torturers put such fury into their work that the poor wretch was dead before the goal

In the centre of the square of Saint Eligius an immense stake was set up: there the prisoners were taken, and

what was left of their mutilated bodies was thrown into the flames. The Count of Terlizzi and the grand

seneschal's widow were still alive, and two tears of blood ran down the cheeks of the miserable mother as she

saw her son's corpse and the palpitating remains of her two daughters cast upon the firethey by their stifled

cries showed that they had not ceased to suffer. But suddenly a fearful noise overpowered the groans of the

victims ; the enclosure was broken and overturned by the mob. Like madmen, they rushed at the burning

pile,armed with sabres, axes, and knives, and snatching the bodies dead or alive from the flames, tore them

to pieces, carrying off the bones to make whistles or handles for their daggers as a souvenir of this horrible

The spectacle of this frightful punishment did not satisfy the revenge of Charles of Durazzo. Seconded by the

chiefjustice, he daily brought about fresh executions, till Andre's death came to be no more than a pretext

for the legal murder of all who opposed his projects. But Louis of Tarentum, who had won Joan's heart, and

was eagerly trying to get the necessary dispensation for legalising the marriage, from this time forward took

as a personal insult every act of the high court of justice which was performed against his will and against the

queen's prerogative: he armed all his adherents, increasing their number by all the adventurers he could get

together, and so put on foot a strong enough force to support his own party and resist his cousin. Naples was

thus split up into hostile camps, ready to come to blows on the smallest pretext, whose daily skirmishes,

But Louis had need of money both to pay his mercenaries and to hold his own against the Duke of Durazzo

and his own brother Robert, and one day he discovered that the queen's coffers were empty. Joan was

wretched and desperate, and her lover, though generous and brave and anxious to reassure her so far as he

could, did not very clearly see how to extricate himself from such a difficult situation. But his mother

Catherine, whose ambition was satisfied in seeing one of her sons, no matter which, attain to the throne of

Naples, came unexpectedly to their aid, promising solemnly that it would only take her a few days to be able

to lay at her niece's feet a treasure richer than anything she had ever dreamed of, queen as she was.

The empress then took half her son's troops, made for Saint Agatha, and besieged the fortress where Charles

and Bertrand of Artois had taken refuge when they fled from justice. The old count, astonished at the sight of

this woman, who had been the very soul of the conspiracy, and not in the least understanding her arrival as an

enemy, sent out to ask the intention of this display of military force. To which Catherine replied in words

"My friends, tell Charles, our faithful friend, that we desire to speak with him privately and alone concerning

a matter equally interesting to us both, and he is not to be alarmed at our arriving in the guise of an enemy,

for this we have done designedly, as we shall explain in the course of our interview. We know he is confined

to bed by the gout, and therefore feel no surprise at his not coming out to meet us. Have the goodness to

salute him on our part and reassure him, telling him that we desire to come in, if such is his good pleasure,

with our intimate counsellor, Nicholas Acciajuoli, and ten soldiers only, to speak with him concerning an

Entirely reassured by these frank, friendly explanations, Charles of Artois sent out his son Bertrand to the

empress to receive her with the respect due to her rank and high position at the court of Naples. Catherine

went promptly to the castle with many signs of joy, and inquiring after the count's health and expressing her

affection, as soon as they were alone, she mysteriously lowered her voice and explained that the object of her

visit was to consult a man of tried experience on the affairs of Naples, and to beg his active cooperation in the

queen's favour. As, however, she was not pressed for time, she could wait at Saint Agatha for the count's

recovery to hear his views and tell him of the march of events since he left the court. She succeeded so well

in gaining the old man's confidence and banishing his suspicions, that he begged her to honour them with her

presence as long as she was able, and little by little received all her men within the walls. This was what

Catherine was waiting for: on the very day when her army was installed at Saint Agatha, she suddenly

entered the count's room, followed by four soldiers, and seizing the old man by the throat, exclaimed

"Miserable traitor, you will not escape from our hands before you have received the punishment you deserve.

In the meanwhile, show me where your treasure is hidden, if you would not have me throw your body out to

The count, half choking, the dagger at his breast, did not even attempt to call for help; he fell on his knees,

begging the empress to save at least the life of his son, who was not yet well from the terrible attack of

melancholia that had shaken his reason ever since the catastrophe. Then he painfully dragged himself to the

Catherine could not contain herself for joy when she saw spread out at her feet exquisite and incredibly

valuable cups, caskets of pearls, diamonds and rubies of marvellous value, coffers full of gold ingots, and all

the wonders of Asia that surpass the wildest imagination. But when the old man, trembling, begged for the

liberty of his son as the price of his fortune and his own life, the empress resumed her cold, pitiless manner,

"I have already given orders for your son to be brought here; but prepare for an eternal farewell, for he is to

be taken to the fortress of Melfi, and you in all probability will end your days beneath the castle of Saint

The grief of the poor count at this violent separation was so great, that a few days later he was found dead in

his dungeon, his lips covered with a bloody froth, his hands gnawed in despair. Bertrand did not long survive

him. He actually lost his reason when he heard of his father's death, and hanged himself on the prison grating.

Thus did the murderers of Andre destroy one another, like venomous animals shut up in the same cage.

Catherine of Tarentum, carrying off the treasure she had so gained, arrived at the court of Naples, proud of

her triumph and contemplating vast schemes. But new troubles had come about in her absence. Charles of

Durazzo, for the last time desiring the queen to give him the duchy of Calabria, a title which had always

belonged to the heir presumptive, and angered by her refusal, had written to Louis of Hungary, inviting him

to take possession of the kingdom, and promising to help in the enterprise with all his own forces, and to give

up the principal authors of his brother's death, who till now had escaped justice.

The King of Hungary eagerly accepted these offers, and got ready an army to avenge Andre's death and

proceed to the conquest of Naples. The tears of his mother Elizabeth and the advice of Friar Robert, the old

minister, who had fled to Buda, confirmed him in his projects of vengeance. He had already lodged a bitter

complaint at the court of Avignon that, while the inferior assassins had been punished, she who was above all

others guilty had been shamefully let off scot free, and though still stained with her husband's blood,

continued to live a life of debauchery and adultery. The pope replied soothingly that, so far as it depended

upon him, he would not be found slow to give satisfaction to a lawful grievance; but the accusation ought to

be properly formulated and supported by proof; that no doubt Joan's conduct during and after her husband's

death was blamable; but His Majesty must consider that the Church of Rome, which before all things seeks

truth and justice, always proceeds with the utmost circumspection, and in so grave a matter more especially

Joan, frightened by the preparations for war, sent ambassadors to the Florentine Republic, to assert her

innocence of the crime imputed to her by public opinion, and did not hesitate to send excuses even to the

Hungarian court; but Andre's brother replied in a letter laconic and threatening:

"Your former disorderly life, the arrogation to yourself of exclusive power, your neglect to punish your

husband's murderers, your marriage to another husband, moreover your own excuses, are all sufficient proofs

Catherine would not be put out of heart by the King of Hungary's threats, and looking at the position of the

queen and her son with a coolness that was never deceived, she was convinced that there was no other means

of safety except a reconciliation with Charles, their mortal foe, which could only be brought about by giving

him all he wanted. It was one of two things: either he would help them to repulse the King of Hungary, and

later on they would pay the cost when the dangers were less pressing, or he would be beaten himself, and thus

they would at least have the pleasure of drawing him down with them in their own destruction.

The agreement was made in the gardens of Castel Nuovo, whither Charles had repaired on the invitation of

the queen and her aunt. To her cousin of Durazzo Joan accorded the title so much desired of Duke of

Calabria, and Charles, feeling that he was hereby made heir to the kingdom, marched at once on Aquila,

which town already was flying the Hungarian colours. The wretched man did not foresee that he was going

When the Empress of Constantinople saw this man, whom she hated above all others, depart in joy, she

looked contemptuously upon him, divining by a woman's instinct that mischief would befall him; then,

having no further mischief to do, no further treachery on earth, no further revenge to satisfy, she all at once

succumbed to some unknown malady, and died suddenly, without uttering a cry or exciting a single regret.

But the King of Hungary, who had crossed Italy with a formidable army, now entered the kingdom from the

side of Aquila: on his way he had everywhere received marks of interest and sympathy; and Alberto and

Mertino delta Scala, lords of Verona, had given him three hundred horse to prove that all their goodwill was

with him in his enterprise. The news of the arrival of the Hungarians threw the court into a state of confusion

impossible to describe. They had hoped that the king would be stopped by the pope's legate, who had come to

Foligno to forbid him, in the name of the Holy Father, and on pain of excommunication to proceed any

further without his consent; but Louis of Hungary replied to the pope's legate that, once master of Naples, he

should consider himself a feudatory of the Church, but till then he had no obligations except to God and his

own conscience. Thus the avenging army fell like a thunderbolt upon the heart of the kingdom, before there

was any thought of taking serious measures for defence. There was only one plan possible: the queen

assembled the barons who were most strongly attached to her, made them swear homage and fidelity to Louis

of Tarentum, whom she presented to them as her husband, and then leaving with many tears her most faithful

subjects, she embarked secretly, in the middle of the night, on a ship of Provence, and made for Marseilles.

Louis of Tarentum, following the prompting of his adventureloving character, left Naples at the head of

three thousand horse and a considerable number of foot, and took up his post on the banks of the Voltorno,

there to contest the enemy's passage; but the King of Hungary foresaw the stratagem, and while his adversary

was waiting for him at Capua, he arrived at Beneventum by the mountains of Alife and Morcone, and on the

same day received Neapolitan envoys: they in a magnificent display of eloquence congratulated him on his

entrance, offered the keys of the town, and swore obedience to him as being the legitimate successor of

Charles of Anjou. The news of the surrender of Naples soon reached the queen's camp, and all the princes of

the blood and the generals left Louis of Tarentum and took refuge in the capital. Resistance was impossible.

Louis, accompanied by his counsellor, Nicholas Acciajuoli, went to Naples on the same evening on which his

relatives quitted the town to get away from the enemy. Every hope of safety was vanishing as the hours

passed by; his brothers and cousins begged him to go at once, so as not to draw down upon the town the

king's vengeance, but unluckily there was no ship in the harbour that was ready to set sail. The terror of the

princes was at its height; but Louis, trusting in his luck, started with the brave Acciajuoli in an unseaworthy

boat, and ordering four sailors to row with all their might, in a few minutes disappeared, leading his family in

a great state of anxiety till they learned that he had reached Pisa, whither he had gone to join the queen in

Provence. Charles of Durazzo and Robert of Tarentum, who were the eldest respectively of the two branches

of the royal family, after hastily consulting, decided to soften the Hungarian monarch's wrath by a complete

submission. Leaving their young brothers at Naples, they accordingly set off for Aversa, where the king was.

Louis received them with every mark of friendship, and asked with much interest why their brothers were not

with them. The princes replied that their young brothers had stayed at Naples to prepare a worthy reception

for His Majesty. Louis thanked them for their kind intentions, but begged them to invite the young princes

now, saying that it would be infinitely more pleasant to enter Naples with all his family, and that be was most

anxious to see his cousins. Charles and Robert, to please the king, sent equerries to bid their brothers come to

Aversa; but Louis of Durazzo, the eldest of the boys, with many tears begged the others not to obey, and sent

a message that he was prevented by a violent headache from leaving Naples. So puerile an excuse could not

fail to annoy Charles, and the same day he compelled the unfortunate boys to appear before theking,

sending a formal order which admitted of no delay. Louis of Hungary embraced them warmly one after the

other, asked them several questions in an affectionate way, kept them to supper, and only let them go quite

When the Duke of Durazzo reached his room, Lello of Aquila and the Count of Fondi slipped mysteriously to

the side of his bed, and making sure that no one could hear, told him that the king in a council held that

morning had decided to kill him and to imprison the other princes. Charles heard them out, but incredulously:

suspecting treachery, he dryly replied that he had too much confidence in his cousin's loyalty to believe such

a black calumny. Lello insisted, begging him in the name of his dearest friends to listen; but the duke was

The next day there was the same kindness on the king's part, the same affection shown to the children; the

same invitation to supper. The banquet was magnificent; the room was brilliantly lighted, and the reflections

were dazzling: vessels of gold shone on the table, the intoxicating perfume of flowers filled the air; wine

foamed in the goblets and flowed from the flagons in ruby streams: conversation, excited and discursive, was

Charles of Durazzo sat opposite the king, at a separate table among his brothers. Little by little his look grew

fixed, his brow pensive. He was fancying that Andre might have supped in this very hall on the eve of his

tragic end, and he thought how all concerned in that death had either died in torment or were now languishing

in prison; the queen, an exile and a fugitive, was begging pity from strangers: he alone was free. The thought

made him tremble; but admiring his own cleverness in pursuing his infernal schemes; and putting away his

sad looks, he smiled again with an expression of indefinable pride. The madman at this moment was scoffing

at the justice of God. But Lello of Aquila, who was waitingat the table, bent down, whispering gloomily

Charles, angered by the man's obstinacy, threatened that if he were such a fool as to say any more, he would

"I have done my duty," murmured Lello, bowing his head; "now it must happen as God wills."

As he left off speaking, the king rose, and as the duke went up to take his leave, his face suddenly changed,

"Traitor! At length you are in my hands, and you shall die as you deserve; but before you are handed over to

the executioner, confess with your own lips your deeds of treachery towards our royal majesty: so shall we

need no other witness to condemn you to a punishment proportioned to your crimes. Between our two selves,

Duke of Durazzo tell me first why, by your infamous manoeuvring, you aided your uncle, the Cardinal of

Perigord, to hinder the coronation of my brother, and so led him on, since he had no royal prerogative of his

own, to his miserable end? Oh, make no attempt to deny it. Here is the letter sealed with your seal in secret

you wrote it, but it accuses you in public. Then why, after bringing us hither to avenge our brother's death, of

which you beyond all doubt were the cause, why did you suddenly turn to the queen's party and march

against our town of Aquila, daring to raise an army against our faithful subjects? You hoped, traitor, to make

use of us as a footstool to mount the throne withal, as soon as you were free from every other rival. Then you

would but have awaited our departure to kill the viceroy we should have left in our place, and so seize the

kingdom. But this time your foresight has been at fault. There is yet another crime worse than all the rest, a

crime of high treason, which I shall remorselessly punish. You carried off the bride that our ancestor King

Robert designed for me, as you knew, by his will. Answer, wretch what excuse can you make for the rape of

Anger had so changed Louis's voice that the last words sounded like the roar of a wild beast: his eyes

glittered with a feverish light, his lips were pale and trembling. Charles and his brothers fell upon their knees,

frozen by mortal terror, and the unhappy duke twice tried to speak, but his teeth were chattering so violently

that he could not articulate a single word. At last, casting his eyes about him and seeing his poor brothers,

"My lord, you look upon me with a terrible countenance that makes me tremble. But on my knees I entreat

you, have mercy on me if I have done wrong, for God is my witness that I did not call you to this kingdom

with any criminal intention: I have always desired, and still desire, your supremacy in all the sincerity of my

soul. Some treacherous counsellors, I am certain, have contrived to draw down your hatred upon me. If it is

true, as you say, that I went with an armed force to Aquila I was compelled by Queen Joan, and I could not

do otherwise; but as soon as I heard of your arrival at Fermo I took my troops away again. I hope for the love

of Christ I may obtain your mercy and pardon, by reason of my former services and constant loyalty. But as I

see you are now angry with me, I say no more waiting for your fury to pass over: Once again, my lord, have

The king turned away his head, and retired slowly, confiding the prisoners to the care of Stephen Vayvoda

and the Count of Zornic, who guarded them during the night in a room adjoining the king's chamber. The

next day Louis held another meeting of his council, and ordered that Charles should have his throat cut on the

very spot where poor Andre had been hanged. He then sent the other princes of the blood, loaded with chains,

to Hungary, where they were long kept prisoners. Charles, quite thunderstruck by such an unexpected blow,

overwhelmed by the thought of his past crimes, trembled like a coward face to face with death, and seemed

completely crushed. Bowed, upon his knees, his face half hidden in his hands, from time to time convulsive

sobs escaped him, as he tried to fix the thoughts that chased each other through his mind like the shapes of a

monstrous dream. Night was in his soul, but every now and then light flashed across the darkness, and over

the gloomy background of his despair passed gilded figures fleeing from him with smiles of mockery. In his

ears buzzed voices from the other world; he saw a long procession of ghosts, like the conspirators whom

Nicholas of Melazzo had pointed out in the vaults of Castel Nuovo. But these phantoms each held his head in

his hand, and shaking it by the hair, bespattered him with drops of blood. Some brandished whips, some

knives: each threatened Charles with his instrument of torture. Pursued by the nocturnal train, the hapless

man opened his mouth for one mighty cry, but his breath was gone, and it died upon his lips. Then he beheld

his mother stretching out her arms from afar, and he fancied that if he could but reach her he would be safe

But at each step the path grew more and more narrow, pieces of his flesh were torn off by the approaching

walls; at last, breathless, naked and bleeding, he reached his goal; but his mother glided farther away, and it

was all to begin over again. The, phantoms pursued him, grinning and screaming in his ears:

Charles was roused from these horrors by the cries of his brothers, who had come to embrace him for the last

time before embarking. The duke in a low voice asked their pardon, and then fell back into his state of

despair. The children were dragged away, begging to be allowed to share their brother's fate, and crying for

death as an alleviation of their woes. At length they were separated, but the sound of their lamentation

sounded long in the heart of the condemned man. After a few moments, two soldiers and two equerries came

Charles followed them, unresisting, to the fatal balcony where Andre had been hanged. He was there asked if

he desired to confess, and when he said yes, they brought a monk from the sane convent where the terrible

scene had been enacted: he listened to the confession of all his sins, and granted him absolution. The duke at

once rose and walked to the place where Andre had been thrown down for the cord to be put round his neck,

At these words, one of the equerries plunged his sword into his breast, and the other cut his head off with a

knife, and his corpse was thrown over the balcony into the garden where Andre's body had lain for three days

The King of Hungary, his black flag ever borne before him, started for Naples, reusing all offered honours,

and rejecting the canopy beneath which he was to make his entry, not even stopping to give audience to the

chief citizens or to receive the acclamations of the crowd. Armed at all points, he made for Castel Nuovo,

leaving behind him dismay and fear. His first act on entering the city was to order Dona Cancha to be burnt,

her punishment having been deferred by reason of her pregnancy. Like the others, she was drawn on a cart to

the square of St. Eligius, and there consigned to the flames. The young creature, whose suffering had not

impaired her beauty, was dressed as for a festival, and laughing like a mad thing up to the last moment,

A few days later, Godfrey of Marsana, Count of Squillace and grand admiral of the kingdom, was arrested by

the king's orders. His life was promised him on condition of his delivering up Conrad of Catanzaro, one of his

relatives, accused of conspiring against Andre. The grand admiral committed, this act of shameless treachery,

and did not shrink from sending his own son to persuade Conrad to come to the town. The poor wretch was

given over to the king, and tortured alive on a wheel made with sharp knives. The sight of these barbarities,

far from calming the king's rage; seemed to inflame it the more. Every day there were new accusations and

new sentences. The prisons were crowded: Louis's punishments were redoubled in severity. A fear arose that

the town, and indeed the whole kingdom, were to be treated as having taken part in Andre's death. Murmurs

arose against this barbarous rule, and all men's thoughts turned towards their fugitive queen. The Neapolitan

barons had taken the oath of fidelity with no willing hearts; and when it came to the turn of the Counts of San

Severino, they feared a trick of some kind, and refused to appear all together before the Hungarian, but took

refuge in the town of Salerno, and sent Archbishop Roger, their brother, to make sure of the king's intentions

beforehand. Louis received him magnificently, and appointed him privy councillor and grand proto notary.

Then, and not till then, did Robert of San Severino and Roger, Count of Chiaramonte, venture into the king's

presence; after doing homage, they retired to their homes. The other barons followed their example of

caution, and hiding their discontent under a show of respect, awaited a favourable moment for shaking off the

foreign yoke. But the queen had encountered no obstacle in her flight, and arrived at Nice five days later. Her

passage through Provence was like a triumph. Her beauty, youth, and misfortunes, even certain mysterious

reports as to her adventures, all contributed to arouse the interest of the Provencal people. Games and fetes

were improvised to soften the hardship of exile for the proscribed princess; but amid the outbursts of joy from

every town, castle, and city, Joan, always sad, lived ever in her silent grief and glowing memories.

At the gates of Aix she found the clergy, the nobility, and the chief magistrates, who received her respectfully

but with no signs of enthusiasm. As the queen advanced, her astonishment increased as she saw the coldness

of the people and the solemn, constrained air of the great men who escorted her. Many anxious thoughts

alarmed her, and she even went so far as to fear some intrigue of the King of Hungary. Scarcely had her

cortege arrived at Castle Arnaud, when the nobles, dividing into two ranks, let the queen pass with her

counsellor Spinelli and two women; then closing up, they cut her off from the rest of her suite. After this,

There was no room for doubt: the queen was a prisoner; but the cause of the manoeuvre it was impossible to

guess. She asked the high dignitaries, and they, protesting respectful devotion, refused to explain till they had

news from Avignon. Meanwhile all honours that a queen could receive were lavished on Joan; but she was

kept in sight and forbidden to go out. This new trouble increased her depression: she did not know what had

happened to Louis of Tarentum, and her imagination, always apt at creating disasters, instantly suggested that

But Louis, always with his faithful Acciajuoli, had after many fatiguing adventures been shipwrecked at the

port of Pisa; thence he had taken route for Florence, to beg men and money; but the Florentines decided to

keep an absolute neutrality, and refused to receive him. The prince, losing his last hope, was pondering

"My lord, it is not given to mankind to enjoy prosperity for ever: there are misfortunes beyond all human

foresight. You were once rich and powerful, and you are now a fugitive in disguise, begging the help of

others. You must reserve your strength for better days. I still have a considerable fortune, and also have

relations and friends whose wealth is at my disposal: let us try to make our way to the queen, and at once

decide what we can do. I myself shall always defend you and obey you as my lord and master."

The prince received these generous offers with the utmost gratitude, and told his counsellor that he placed his

person in his hands and all that remained of his future. Acciajuoli, not content with serving his master as a

devoted servant, persuaded his brother Angelo, Archbishop of Florence, who was in great favour at Clement

VI's court, to join with them in persuading the pope to interest himself in the cause of Louis of Tarentum. So,

without further delay, the prince, his counsellor, and the good prelate made their way to the port of

Marseilles, but learning that the queen was a prisoner at Aix, they embarked at AcqueMorte, and went

straight to Avignon. It soon appeared that the pope had a real affection and esteem for the character of the

Archbishop of Florence, for Louis was received with paternal kindness at the court of Avignon; which was

far more than he had expected: When he kneeled before the sovereign pontiff, His Holiness bent

affectionately towards him and helped him to rise, saluting him by the title of king.

Two days later, another prelate, the Archbishop of Aix, came into the queen's presence,

"Most gracious and dearly beloved sovereign, permit the most humble and devoted of your servants to ask

pardon, in the name of your subjects, for the painful but necessary measure they have thought fit to take

concerning your Majesty. When you arrived on our coast, your loyal town of Aix had learned from a

trustworthy source that the King of France was proposing to give our country to one of his own sons, making

good this loss to you by the cession of another domain, also that the Duke of Normandy had come to

Avignon to request this exchange in person. We were quite decided, madam, and had made a vow to God that

we would give up everything rather than suffer the hateful tyranny of the French. But before spilling blood

we thought it best to secure your august person as a sacred hostage, a sacred ark which no man dared touch

but was smitten to the ground, which indeed must keep away from our walls the scourge of war. We have

now read the formal annulment of this hateful plan, in a brief sent by the sovereign pontiff from Avignon;

"We give you your full and entire liberty, and henceforth we shall only endeavour to keep you among us by

prayers and protestations. Go then, madam, if that is your pleasure, but before you leave these lands, which

will be plunged into mourning by your withdrawal, leave with us some hope that you forgive the apparent

violence to which we have subjected you, only in the fear that we might lose you; and remember that on the

day when you cease to be our queen you sign the deathwarrant of all your subjects."

Joan reassured the archbishop and the deputation from her good town of Aix with a melancholy smile, and

promised that she would always cherish the memory of their affection. For this time she could not be

deceived as to the real sentiments of the nobles and people; and a fidelity so uncommon, revealed with

sincere tears, touched her heart and made her reflect bitterly upon her past. But a league's distance from

Avignon a magnificent triumphal reception awaited her. Louis of Tarentum and all the cardinals present at

the court had come out to meet her. Pages in dazzling dress carried above Joan's head a canopy of scarlet

velvet, ornamented with fleurdelys in gold and plumes. Hand some youths and lovely girls, their heads

crowned with flowers, went before her singing her praise. The streets were bordered with a living hedge of

people, the houses were decked out, the bells rang a triple peal, as at the great Church festivals. Clement VI

first received the queen at the castle of Avignon with all the pomp he knew so well how to employ on solemn

occasions, then she was lodged in the palace of Cardinal Napoleon of the Orsini, who on his return from the

Conclave at Perugia had built this regal dwelling at Villeneuve, inhabited later by the popes.

No words could give an idea of the strangely disturbed condition of Avignon at this period. Since Clement V

had transported the seat of the papacy to Provence, there had sprung up, in this rival to Rome, squares,

churches, cardinals' palaces, of unparalleled splendour. All the business of nations and kings was transacted

at the castle of Avignon. Ambassadors from every court, merchants of every nation, adventurers of all kinds,

Italians, Spaniards, Hungarians, Arabs, Jews, soldiers, Bohemians, jesters, poets, monks, courtesans,

swarmed and clustered here, and hustled one another in the streets. There was confusion of tongues, customs,

and costumes, an inextricable mixture of splendour and rags, riches and misery, debasement and grandeur.

The austere poets of the Middle Ages stigmatised the accursed city in their writings under the name of the

There is one curious monument of Joan's sojourn at Avignon and the exercise of her authority as sovereign.

She was indignant at the effrontery of the women of the town, who elbowed everybody shamelessly in the

streets, and published a notable edict, the first of its kind, which has since served as a model in like cases, to

compel all unfortunate women who trafficked in their honour to live shut up together in a house, that was

bound to be open every day in the year except the last three days of Holy Week, the entrance to be barred to

Jews at all times. An abbess, chosen once a year, had the supreme control over this strange convent. Rules

were established for the maintenance of order, and severe penalties inflicted for any infringement of

discipline. The lawyers of the period gained a great reputation by this salutary institution; the fair ladies of

Avignon were eager in their defence of the queen in spite of the calumnious reports that strove to tarnish her

reputation: with one voice the wisdom of Andre's widow was extolled. The concert of praises was disturbed,

however, by murmurs from the recluses themselves, who, in their own brutal language, declared that Joan of

Meanwhile Marie of Durazzo had joined her sister. After her husband's death she had found means to take

refuge in the convent of Santa Croce with her two little daughters; and while Louis of Hungary was busy

burning his victims, the unhappy Marie had contrived to make her escape in the frock of an old monk, and as

by a miracle to get on board a ship that was setting sail for Provence. She related to her sister the frightful

details of the king's cruelty. And soon a new proof of his implacable hatred confirmed the tales of the poor

Louis's ambassadors appeared at the court of Avignon to demand formally the queen's condemnation.

It was a great day when Joan of Naples pleaded her own cause before the pope, in the presence of all the

cardinals then at Avignon, all the ambassadors of foreign powers, and all the eminent persons come from

every quarter of Europe to be present at this trial, unique in the annals of history. We must imagine a vast

enclosure, in whose midst upon a raised throne, as president of the august tribunal, sat God's vicar on earth,

absolute and supreme judge, emblem of temporal and spiritual power, of authority human and divine. To

right and left of the sovereign pontiff, the cardinals in their red robes sat in chairs set round in a circle, and

behind these princes of the Sacred College stretched rows of bishops extending to the end of the hall, with

vicars, canons, deacons, archdeacons, and the whole immense hierarchy of the Church. Facing the pontifical

throne was a platform reserved for the Queen of Naples and her suite. At the pope's feet stood the

ambassadors from the King of Hungary, who played the part of accusers without speaking a word, the

circumstances of the crime and all the proofs having been discussed beforehand by a committee appointed for

the purpose. The rest of the hall was filled by a brilliant crowd of high dignitaries, illustrious captains, and

noble envoys, all vying with one another in proud display. Everyone ceased to breathe, all eyes were fixed on

the dais whence Joan was to speak her own defence. A movement of uneasy curiosity made this compact

mass of humanity surge towards the centre, the cardinals above raised like proud peacocks over a golden

The queen appeared, hand in hand with her uncle, the old Cardinal of Perigord, and her aunt, the Countess

Agnes. Her gait was so modest and proud, her countenance so melancholy and pure, her looks so open and

confident, that even before she spoke every heart was hers. Joan was now twenty years of age; her

magnificent beauty was fully developed, but an extreme pallor concealed the brilliance of her transparent

satin skin, and her hollow cheek told the tale of expiation and suffering. Among the spectators who looked on

most eagerly there was a certain young man with strongly marked features, glowing eyes, and brown hair,

whom we shall meet again later on in our narrative; but we will not divert our readers' attention, but only tell

them that his name was James of Aragon, that he was Prince of Majorca, and would have been ready to shed

every drop of his blood only to check one single tear that hung on Joan's eyelids. The queen spoke in an

agitated, trembling voice, stopping from time to time to dry her moist and shining eyes, or to breathe one of

those deep sighs that go straight to the heart. She told the tale of her husband's death painfully and vividly,

painted truthfully the mad terror that had seized upon her and struck her down at that frightful time, raised her

hands to her brow with the gesture of despair, as though she would wrest the madness from her brainand a

shudder of pity and awe passed through the assembled crowd. It is a fact that at this moment, if her words

were false, her anguish was both sincere and terrible. An angel soiled by crime, she lied like Satan himself,

but like him too she suffered all the agony of remorse and pride. Thus, when at the end of her speech she

burst into tears and implored help and protection against the usurper of her kingdom, a cry of general assent

drowned her closing words, several hands flew to their sword hilts, and the Hungarian ambassadors retired

That same evening the sentence, to the great joy of all, was proclaimed, that Joan was innocent and acquitted

of all concern in the assassination of her husband. But as her conduct after the event and the indifference she

had shown about pursuing the authors of the crime admitted of no valid excuse, the pope declared that there

were plain traces of magic, and that the wrongdoing attributed to Joan was the result of some baneful charm

cast upon her, which she could by no possible means resist. At the same time, His Holiness confirmed her

marriage with Louis of Tarentum, and bestowed on him the order of the Rose of Gold and the title of King of

Sicily and Jerusalem. Joan, it is true, had on the eve of her acquittal sold the town of Avignon to the pope for

While the queen was pleading her cause at the court of Clement VI, a dreadful epidemic, called the Black

Plaguethe same that Boccaccio has described so wonderfullywas ravaging the kingdom of Naples, and

indeed the whole of Italy. According to the calculation of Matteo Villani, Florence lost threefifths of her

population, Bologna two thirds, and nearly all Europe was reduced in some such frightful proportion. The

Neapolitans were already weary of the cruelties and greed of the Hungarians, they were only awaiting some

opportunity to revolt against the stranger's oppression, and to recall their lawful sovereign, whom, for all her

ill deeds, they had never ceased to love. The attraction of youth and beauty was deeply felt by this

pleasureloving people. Scarcely had the pestilence thrown confusion into the army and town, when loud

cursing arose against the tyrant and his executioners. Louis of Hungary, suddenly threatened by the, wrath of

Heaven and the people's vengeance, was terrified both by the plague and by the riots, and disappeared in the

middle of the night. Leaving the government of Naples in the hands of Conrad Lupo, one of his captains, he

embarked hastily at Berletta, and left the kingdom in very much the same way as Louis of Tarentum, fleeing

This news arrived at Avignon just when the pope was about to send the queen his bull of absolution. It was at

once decided to take away the kingdom from Louis's viceroy. Nicholas Aeciajuoli left for Naples with the

marvellous bull that was to prove to all men the innocence of the queen, to banish all scruples and stir up a

new enthusiasm. The counsellor first went to the castle of Melzi, commanded by his son Lorenzo: this was

the only fortress that had always held out. The father and son embraced with the honourable pride that near

relatives may justly feel when they meet after they have united in the performance of a heroic duty. From the

governor of Melzi Louis of Tarentum's counsellor learned that all men were wearied of the arrogance and

vexatious conduct of the queen's enemies, and that a conspiracy was in train, started in the University of

Naples, but with vast ramifications all over the kingdom, and moreover that there was dissension in the

enemy's army. The indefatigable counsellor went from Apulia to Naples, traversing towns and villages,

collecting men everywhere, proclaiming loudly the acquittal of the queen and her marriage with Louis of

Tarentum, also that the pope was offering indulgences to such as would receive with joy their lawful

sovereigns. Then seeing that the people shouted as he went by, "Long live Joan! Death to the Hungarians!" he

returned and told his sovereigns in what frame of mind he had left their subjects.

Joan borrowed money wherever she could, armed galleys, and left Marseilles with her husband, her sister,

and two faithful advisers, Acciajuoli and Spinelli, on the l0th of September 1348. The king and queen not

being able to enter at the harbour, which was in the enemy's power, disembarked at Santa Maria del Carmine,

near the river Sebeto, amid the frenzied applause of an immense crowd, and accompanied by all the

Neapolitan nobles. They made their way to the palace of Messire Ajutorio, near Porta Capuana, the

Hungarians having fortified themselves in all the castles; but Acciatjuoli, at the head of the queen's partisans,

blockaded the fortresses so ably that half of the enemy were obliged to surrender, and the other half took to

flight and were scattered about the interior of the kingdom. We shall now follow Louis of Tarentum in his

arduous adventures in Apulia, the Calabrias, and the Abruzzi, where he recovered one by one the fortresses

that the Hungarians had taken. By dint of unexampled valour and patience, he at last mastered nearly all the

more considerable places, when suddenly everything changed, and fortune turned her back upon him for the

second time. A German captain called Warner, who had deserted the Hungarian army to sell himself to the

queen, had again played the traitor and sold himself once more, allowed himself to be surprised at Corneto by

Conrad Lupo, the King of Hungary's vicargeneral, and openly joined him, taking along with him a great

party of the adventurers who fought under his orders. This unexpected defection forced Louis of Tarentum to

retire to Naples. The King of Hungary soon learning that the troops had rallied round his banner, and only

awaited his return to march upon the capital, disembarked with a strong reinforcement of cavalry at the port

of Manfredonia, and taking Trani, Canosa, and Salerno, went forward to lay siege to Aversa.

The news fell like a thunderclap on Joan and her husband. The Hungarian army consisted of 10,000 horse

and more than 7000 infantry, and Aversa had only 500 soldiers under Giacomo Pignatelli. In spite of the

immense disproportion of the numbers, the Neapolitan general vigorously repelled the attack; and the King of

Hungary, fighting in the front, was wounded in his foot by an arrow. Then Louis, seeing that it would be

difficult to take the place by storm, determined to starve them out. For three months the besieged performed

prodigies of valour, and further assistance was impossible. Their capitulation was expected at any moment,

unless indeed they decided to perish every man. Renaud des Baux, who was to come from Marseilles with a

squadron of ten ships to defend the ports of the capital and secure the queen's flight, should the Hungarian

army get possession of Naples, had been delayed by adverse winds and obliged to stop on the way. All things

seemed to conspire in favour of the enemy. Louis of Tarentum, whose generous soul refused to shed the

blood of his brave men in an unequal and desperate struggle, nobly sacrificed himself, and made an offer to

the King of Hungary to settle their quarrel in single combat. We append the authentic letters that passed

"Illustrious King of Hungary, who has come to invade our kingdom, we, by the grace of God King of

Jerusalem and Sicily, invite you to single combat. We know that you are in no wise disturbed by the death of

your lancers or the other pagans in your suite, no more indeed than if they were dogs; but we, fearing harm to

our own soldiers and menatarms, desire to fight with you personally, to put an end to the present war and

restore peace to our kingdom. He who survives shall be king. And therefore, to ensure that this duel shall take

place, we definitely propose as a site either Paris, in the presence of the King of France, or one of the towns

of Perugia, Avignon, or Naples. Choose one of these four places, and send us your reply."

Great King, we have read and considered your letter sent to us by the bearer of these presents, and by your

invitation to a duel we are most supremely pleased; but we do not approve of any of the places you propose,

since they are all suspect, and for several reasons. The King of France is your maternal grandfather, and

although we are also connected by blood with him, the relationship is not so near. The town of Avignon,

although nominally belonging to the sovereign pontiff, is the capital of Provence, and has always been

subject to your rule. Neither have we any more confidence in Perugia, for that town is devoted to your cause.

As to the city of Naples, there is no need to say that we refuse that rendezvous, since it is in revolt against us

and you are there as king. But if you wish to fight with us, let it be in the presence of the Emperor of

Germany, who is lord supreme, or the King of England, who is our common friend, or the Patriarch of

Aquilea, a good Catholic. If you do not approve of any of the places we propose, we shall soon be near you

with our army, and so remove all difficulties and delays. Then you can come forth, and our duel can take

After the interchange of these two letters, Louis of Tarentum proposed nothing further. The garrison at

Aversa had capitulated after a heroic resistance, and it was known only too well that if the King of Hungary

could get so far as the walls of Naples, he would not have to endanger his life in order to seize that city.

Happily the Provencal galleys had reached port at last. The king and the queen had only just time to embark

and take refuge at Gaeta. The Hungarian army arrived at Naples. The town was on the point of yielding, and

had sent messengers to the king humbly demanding peace; but the speeches of the Hungarians showed such

insolence that the people, irritated past endurance, took up arms, and resolved to defend their household gods

While the Neapolitans were holding out against their enemy at the Porta Capuana, a strange scene was being

enacted at the other side of the town, a scene that shows us in lively colours the violence and treachery of this

barbarous age. The widow of Charles of Durazzo was shut up in, the castle of Ovo, and awaiting in feverish

anxiety the arrival of the ship that was to take her to the queen. The poor Princess Marie, pressing her

weeping children to her heart, pale, with dishevelled locks, fixed eyes, and drawn lips, was listening for every

sound, distracted between hope and fear. Suddenly steps resounded along the corridor, a friendly voice was

Renaud des Baux, admiral of the Provencal squadron, respectfully advanced, followed by his eldest son

"One moment, madam," said Renaud, stopping her: "you are indeed saved, but upon one condition."

"Listen, madam. The King of Hungary, the avenger of Andre's murderers, the slayer of your husband, is at

the gates of Naples; the people and soldiers will succumb, as soon as their last gallant effort is spentthe

army of the conqueror is about to spread desolation and death throughout the city by fire and the sword. This

time the Hungarian butcher will spare no victims: he will kill the mother before her children's eyes, the

children in their mother's arms. The drawbridge of this castle is up and there are none on guard; every man

who can wield a sword is now at the other end of the town. Woe to you, Marie of Durazzo, if the King of

"But have you not come here to save me?" cried Marie in a voice of anguish. "Joan, my sister, did she not

"Your sister is no longer in the position to give orders," replied Renaud, with a disdainful smile. "She had

nothing for me but thanks because I saved her life, and her husband's too, when he fled like a coward before

Marie looked fixedly at the admiral to assure herself that it was really he who thus arrogantly talked about his

"As I owe my life and my children's lives solely to your generosity, I am grateful to you beyond all measure.

But we must hurry, my lord: every moment I fancy I hear cries of vengeance, and you would not leave, me

"God forbid, madam; I will save you at the risk of my life; but I have said already, I impose a condition."

"That you marry my son on the instant, in the presence of our reverend chaplain."

"Rash man!" cried Marie, recoiling, her face scarlet with indignation and shame; "you dare to speak thus to

the sister of your legitimate sovereign? Give thanks to God that I will pardon an insult offered, as I know, in a

The count, without one word, signed to his son and a priest to follow, and prepared to depart. As he crossed

the threshold Marie ran to him, and clasping her hands, prayed him in God's name never to forsake her.

"I might easily take my revenge," he said, "for your affront when you refuse my son in your pride; but that

business I leave to Louis of Hungary, who will acquit himself, no doubt, with credit."

"Have mercy on my poor daughters!" cried the princess; "mercy at least for my poor babes, if my own tears

"If you loved your children," said the admiral, frowning, "you would have done your duty at once."

"But I do not love your son!" cried Marie, proud but trembling. "O God, must a wretched woman's heart be

thus trampled? You, father, a minister of truth and justice, tell this man that God must not be called on to

"You are young, perhaps you have loved: one day no doubt you will love. I appeal to your loyalty as a young

man, to your courtesy as a knight, to all your noblest impulses; join me, and turn your father away from his

fatal project. You have never seen me before: you do not know but that in my secret heart I love another.

Your pride should be revolted at the sight of an unhappy woman casting herself at your feet and imploring

your favour and protection. One word from you, Robert, and I shall bless you every moment of my life: the

memory of you will be graven in my heart like the memory of a guardian angel, and my children shall name

you nightly in their prayers, asking God to grant your wishes. Oh, say, will you not save me? Who knows,

"I must obey my father," Robert replied, never lifting his eyes to the lovely suppliant.

The priest was silent. Two minutes passed, and these four persons, each absorbed in his own thoughts, stood

motionless as statues carved at the four corners of a tomb. Marie was thrice tempted to throw herself into the

sea. But a confused distant sound suddenly struck upon her ears: little by little it drew nearer, voices were

The tears of Marie's children were the answer to these cries; and little Margaret, raising her hands to her

mother, expressed her fear in speech that was far beyond her years. Renaud, without one look at this touching

"Stay," said the princess, extending her hand with a solemn gesture: "as God sends no other aid to my

She fell on her knees before the priest, bending her head like a victim who offers her neck to the executioner.

Robert des Baux took his place beside her, and the priest pronounced the formula that united them for ever,

"All is over!" murmured Marie of Durazzo, looking tearfully on her little daughters.

"No, all is not yet over," said the admiral harshly, pushing her towards another room; "before we leave, the

"O just God!" cried the princess, in a voice torn with anguish, and she fell swooning to the floor.

Renaud des Baux directed his ships towards Marseilles, where he hoped to get his son crowned Count of

Provence, thanks to his strange marriage with Marie of Durazzo. But this cowardly act of treason was not to

go unpunished. The wind rose with fury, and drove him towards Gaeta, where the queen and her husband had

just arrived. Renaud bade his sailors keep in the open, threatening to throw any man into the sea who dared to

disobey him. The crew at first murmured; soon cries of mutiny rose on every side. The admiral, seeing he

was lost, passed from threats to prayers. But the princess, who had recovered her senses at the first

"Come to me, Louis! Come, my barons! Death to the cowardly wretches who have outraged my honour!"

Louis of Tarentum jumped into a boat, followed by some ten of his bravest men, and, rowing rapidly, reached

the ship. Then Marie told him her story in a word, and he turned upon the admiral a lightning glance, as

Then he had the son loaded with chains, and also the unworthy priest who had served as accomplice to the

admiral, who now expiated his odious crime by death. He took the princess and her children in his boat, and

The Hungarians, however, forcing one of the gates of Naples, marched triumphant to Castel Nuovo. But as

they were crossing the Piazza delle Correggie, the Neapolitans perceived that the horses were so weak and

the men so reduced by all they had undergone during the siege of Aversa that a mere puff of wind would

dispense this phantom like army. Changing from a state of panic to real daring, the people rushed upon their

conquerors, and drove them outside the walls by which they had just entered. The sudden violent reaction

broke the pride of the King of Hungary, and made him more tractable when Clement VI decided that he

ought at last to interfere. A truce was concluded first from the month of February 1350 to the beginning of

April 1351, and the next year this was converted into a real peace, Joan paying to the King of Hungary the

After the Hungarians had gone, the pope sent a legate to crown Joan and Louis of Tarentum, and the 25th of

May, the day of Pentecost, was chosen for the ceremony. All contemporary historians speak enthusiastically

of this magnificent fete. Its details have been immortalised by Giotto in the frescoes of the church which from

this day bore the name of L'Incoronata. A general amnesty was declared for all who had taken part in the late

wars on either side, and the king and queen were greeted with shouts of joy as they solemnly paraded beneath

But the day's joy was impaired by an accident which to a superstitious people seemed of evil augury. Louis of

Tarentum, riding a richly caparisoned horse, had just passed the Porta Petruccia, when some ladies looking

out from a high window threw such a quantity of flowers at the king that his frightened steed reared and

broke his rein. Louis could not hold him, so jumped lightly to the ground; but the crown fell at his feet and

was broken into three pieces. On that very day the only daughter of Joan and Louis died.

But the king not wishing to sadden the brilliant ceremony with show of mourning, kept up the jousts and

tournaments for three days, and in memory of his coronation instituted the order of 'Chevaliers du Noeud'.

But from that day begun with an omen so sad, his life was nothing but a series of disillusions. After

sustaining wars in Sicily and Apulia, and quelling the insurrection of Louis of Durazzo, who ended his days

in the castle of Ovo, Louis of Tarentum, worn out by a life of pleasure, his health undermined by slow

disease, overwhelmed with domestic trouble, succumbed to an acute fever on the 5th of June 1362, at the age

of fortytwo. His body had not been laid in its royal tomb at Saint Domenico before several aspirants

One was the Prince of Majorca, the handsome youth we have already spoken of: he bore her off triumphant

over all rivals, including the son of the King of France. James of Aragon had one of those faces of

melancholy sweetness which no woman can resist. Great troubles nobly borne had thrown as it were a

funereal veil over his youthful days: more than thirteen years he had spent shut in an iron cage; when by the

aid of a false key he had escaped from his dreadful prison, he wandered from one court to another seeking

aid; it is even said that he was reduced to the lowest degree of poverty and forced to beg his bread. The young

stranger's beauty and his adventures combined had impressed both Joan and Marie at the court of Avignon.

Marie especially had conceived a violent passion for him, all the more so for the efforts she made to conceal

it in her own bosom. Ever since James of Aragon came to Naples, the unhappy princess, married with a

dagger at her throat, had desired to purchase her liberty at the expense of crime. Followed by four armed

men, she entered the prison where Robert des Baux was still suffering for a fault more his father's than his

own. Marie stood before the prisoner, her arms crossed, her cheeks livid, her lips trembling. It was a terrible

interview. This time it was she who threatened, the man who entreated pardon. Marie was deaf to his prayers,

and the head of the luckless man fell bleeding at her feet, and her men threw the body into the sea. But God

never allows a murder to go unpunished: James preferred the queen to her sister, and the widow of Charles of

Durazzo gained nothing by her crime but the contempt of the man she loved, and a bitter remorse which

Joan was married in turn to James of Aragon, son of the King of Majorca, and to Otho of Brunswick, of the

imperial family of Saxony. We will pass rapidly over these years, and come to the denouement of this history

of crime and expiation. James, parted from his wife, continued his stormy career, after a long contest in Spain

with Peter the Cruel, who had usurped his kingdom: about the end of the year 1375 he died near Navarre.

Otho also could not escape the Divine vengeance which hung over the court of Naples, but to the end he

valiantly shared the queen's fortunes. Joan, since she had no lawful heir, adopted her nephew, Charles de la

Paix (so called after the peace of Trevisa). He was the son of Louis Duras, who after rebelling against Louis

of Tarentum, had died miserably in the castle of Ovo. The child would have shared his father's fate had not

Joan interceded to spare his life, loaded him with kindness, and married him to Margaret, the daughter of her

sister Marie and her cousin Charles, who was put to, death by the King of Hungary.

Serious differences arose between the queen and one of her former subjects, Bartolommeo Prigiani, who had

become pope under the name of Urban VI. Annoyed by the queen's opposition, the pope one day angrily said

he would shut her up in a convent. Joan, to avenge the insult, openly favoured Clement VII, the antipope,

and offered him a home in her own castle, when, pursued by Pope Urban's army, he had taken refuge at

Fondi. But the people rebelled against Clement, and killed the Archbishop of Naples, who had helped to elect

him: they broke the cross that was carried in procession before the antipope, and hardly allowed him time to

make his escape on shipboard to Provence. Urban declared that Joan was now dethroned, and released her

subjects from their oath of fidelity to her, bestowing the crown of Sicily and Jerusalem upon Charles de la

Paix, who marched on Naples with 8000 Hungarians. Joan, who could not believe in such base ingratitude,

sent out his wife Margaret to meet her adopted son, though she might have kept her as a hostage, and his two

children, Ladislaus and Joan, who became later the second queen of that name. But the victorious army soon

arrived at the gates of Naples, and Charles blockaded the queen in her castle, forgetting in his ingratitude that

Joan during the siege endured all the worst fatigues of war that any soldier has to bear. She saw her faithful

friends fall around her wasted by hunger or decimated by sickness. When all food was exhausted, dead and

decomposed bodies were thrown into the castle that they might pollute the air she breathed. Otho with his

troops was kept at Aversa; Louis of Anjou, the brother of the King of France whom she had named as her

successor when she disinherited her nephew, never appeared to help her, and the Provenqal ships from

Clement VII were not due to arrive until all hope must be over. Joan asked for a truce of five days, promising

that, if Otho had not come to relieve her in that time, she would surrender the fortress.

On the fifth day Otho's army appeared on the side of Piedigrotta. The fight was sharp on both sides, and Joan

from the top of a tower could follow with her eyes the cloud of dust raised by her husband's horse in the

thickest of the battle. The victory was long uncertain: at length the prince made so bold an onset upon the

royal standard, in his, eagerness to meet his enemy hand to hand, that he plunged into the very middle of the

army, and found himself pressed on every side. Covered with blood and sweat, his sword broken in his hand,

he was forced to surrender. An hour later Charles was writing to his uncle, the King of Hungary, that Joan

had fallen into his power, and he only awaited His Majesty's orders to decide her fate.

It was a fine May morning: the queen was under guard in the castle of Aversa: Otho had obtained his liberty

on condition of his quitting Naples, and Louis of Anjou had at last got together an army of 50,000 men and

was marching in hot haste to the conquest of the kingdom. None of this news had reached the ears of Joan,

who for some days had lived in complete isolation. The spring lavished all her glory on these enchanted

plains, which have earned the name of the blessed and happy country, campagna felite. The orange trees were

covered with sweet white blossoms, the cherries laden with ruby fruit, the olives with young emerald leaves,

the pomegranate feathery with red bells; the wild mulberry, the evergreen laurel, all the strong budding

vegetation, needing no help from man to flourish in this spot privileged by Nature, made one great garden,

here and there interrupted by little hidden runlets. It was a forgotten Eden in this corner of the world. Joan at

her window was breathing in the perfumes of spring, and her eyes misty with tears rested on a bed of flowery

verdure a light breeze, keen and balmy, blew upon her burning brow and offered a grateful coolness to her

damp and fevered cheeks. Distant melodious voices, refrains of wellknown songs, were all that disturbed

the silence of the poor little room, the solitary nest where a life was passing away in tears and repentance, a

The queen was slowly reviewing in her mind all her life since she ceased to be a childfifty years of

disillusionment and suffering. She thought first of her happy, peaceful childhood, her grandfather's blind

affection, the pure joys of her days of innocence, the exciting games with her little sister and tall cousins.

Then she shuddered at the earliest thought of marriage, the constraint, the loss of liberty, the bitter regrets;

she remembered with horror the deceitful words murmured in her ear, designed to sow the seeds of

corruption and vice that were to poison her whole life. Then came the burning memories of her first love, the

treachery and desertion of Robert of Cabane, the moments of madness passed like a dream in the arms of

Bertrand of Artoisthe whole drama up to its tragic denouement showed as in letters of fire on the dark

background of her sombre thoughts. Then arose cries of anguish in her soul, even as on that terrible fatal

night she heard the voice of Andre asking mercy from his murderers. A long deadly silence followed his

awful struggle, and the queen saw before her eyes the carts of infamy and the torture of her accomplices. All

the rest of this vision was persecution, flight, exile, remorse, punishments from God and curses from the

world. Around her was a frightful solitude: husbands, lovers, kindred, friends, all were dead; all she had

loved or hated in the world were now no more; her joy, pain, desire, and hope had vanished for ever. The

poor queen, unable to free herself from these visions of woe, violently tore herself away from the awful

reverie, and kneeling at a priedieu, prayed with fervour. She was still beautiful, in spite of her extreme

pallor; the noble lines of her face kept their pure oval; the fire of repentance in her great black eyes lit them

up with superhuman brilliance, and the hope of pardon played in a heavenly smile upon her lips.

Suddenly the door of the room where Joan was so earnestly praying opened with a dull sound: two Hungarian

barons in armour entered and signed to the queen to follow them. Joan arose silently and obeyed; but a cry of

pain went up from her heart when she recognised the place where both Andre and Charles of Durazzo had

died a violent death. But she collected her forces, and asked calmly why she was brought hither. For all

"May the will of a just God be done!" cried Joan, and fell upon her knees. Some minutes later she had ceased

For nearly one hundred years this curious problem has exercised the imagination of writers of fictionand of

drama, and the patience of the learned in history. No subject is more obscure and elusive, and none more

attractive to the general mind. It is a legend to the meaning of which none can find the key and yet in which

everyone believes. Involuntarily we feel pity at the thought of that long captivity surrounded by so many

extraordinary precautions, and when we dwell on the mystery which enveloped the captive, that pity is not

only deepened but a kind of terror takes possession of us. It is very likely that if the name of the hero of this

gloomy tale had been known at the time, he would now be forgotten. To give him a name would be to

relegate him at once to the ranks of those commonplace offenders who quickly exhaust our interest and our

tears. But this being, cut off from the world without leaving any discoverable trace, and whose disappearance

apparently caused no voidthis captive, distinguished among captives by the unexampled nature of his

punishment, a prison within a prison, as if the walls of a mere cell were not narrow enough, has come to

typify for us the sum of all the human misery and suffering ever inflicted by unjust tyranny.

Who was the Man in the Mask? Was he rapt away into this silent seclusion from the luxury of a court, from

the intrigues of diplomacy, from the scaffold of a traitor, from the clash of battle? What did he leave behind?

Love, glory, or a throne? What did he regret when hope had fled? Did he pour forth imprecations and curses

on his tortures and blaspheme against high Heaven, or did he with a sigh possess his soul in patience?

The blows of fortune are differently received according to the different characters of those on whom they fall;

and each one of us who in imagination threads the subterranean passages leading to the cells of Pignerol and

Exilles, and incarcerates himself in the Iles SainteMarguerite and in the Bastille, the successive scenes of

that longprotracted agony will give the prisoner a form shaped by his own fancy and a grief proportioned to

his own power of suffering. How we long to pierce the thoughts and feel the heartbeats and watch the

trickling tears behind that machinelike exterior, that impassible mask! Our imagination is powerfully

excited by the dumbness of that fate borne by one whose words never reached the outward air, whose

thoughts could never be read on the hidden features; by the isolation of forty years secured by twofold

barriers of stone and iron, and she clothes the object of her contemplation in majestic splendour, connects the

mystery which enveloped his existence with mighty interests, and persists in regarding the prisoner as

sacrificed for the preservation of some dynastic secret involving the peace of the world and the stability of a

And when we calmly reflect on the whole case, do we feel that our first impulsively adopted opinion was

wrong? Do we regard our belief as a poetical illusion? I do not think so; on the contrary, it seems to me that

our good sense approves our fancy's flight. For what can be more natural than the conviction that the secret of

the name, age, and features of the captive, which was so perseveringly kept through long years at the cost of

so much care, was of vital importance to the Government? No ordinary human passion, such as anger, hate,

or vengeance, has so dogged and enduring a character; we feel that the measures taken were not the

expression of a love of cruelty, for even supposing that Louis XIV were the most cruel of princes, would he

not have chosen one of the thousand methods of torture ready to his hand before inventing a new and strange

one? Moreover, why did he voluntarily burden himself with the obligation of surrounding a prisoner with

such numberless precautions and such sleepless vigilance? Must he not have feared that in spite of it all the

walls behind which he concealed the dread mystery would one day let in the light? Was it not through his

entire reign a source of unceasing anxiety? And yet he respected the life of the captive whom it was so

difficult to hide, and the discovery of whose identity would have been so dangerous. It would have been so

easy to bury the secret in an obscure grave, and yet the order was never given. Was this an expression of hate,

anger, or any other passion? Certainly not; the conclusion we must come to in regard to the conduct of the

king is that all the measures he took against the prisoner were dictated by purely political motives; that his

conscience, while allowing him to do everything necessary to guard the secret, did not permit him to take the

further step of putting an end to the days of an unfortunate man, who in all probability was guilty of no crime.

Courtiers are seldom obsequious to the enemies of their master, so that we may regard the respect and

consideration shown to the Man in the Mask by the governor SaintMars, and the minister Louvois, as a

For my part, I make no pretensions to the erudition of the bookworm, and I cannot read the history of the

Man in the Iron Mask without feeling my blood boil at the abominable abuse of powerthe heinous crime of

A few years ago, M. Fournier and I, thinking the subject suitable for representation on the stage, undertook to

read, before dramatising it, all the different versions of the affair which had been published up to that time.

Since our piece was successfully performed at the Odeon two other versions have appeared: one was in the

form of a letter addressed to the Historical Institute by M. Billiard, who upheld the conclusions arrived at by

Soulavie, on whose narrative our play was founded; the other was a work by the bibliophile Jacob, who

followed a new system of inquiry, and whose book displayed the results of deep research and extensive

reading. It did not, however, cause me to change my opinion. Even had it been published before I had written

my drama, I should still have adhered to the idea as to the most probable solution of the problem which I had

arrived at in 1831, not only because it was incontestably the most dramatic, but also because it is supported

by those moral presumptions which have such weight with us when considering a dark and doubtful question

like the one before us. It will, be objected, perhaps, that dramatic writers, in their love of the marvellous and

the pathetic, neglect logic and strain after effect, their aim being to obtain the applause of the gallery rather

than the approbation of the learned. But to this it may be replied that the learned on their part sacrifice a great

deal to their love of dates, more or less exact; to their desire to elucidate some point which had hitherto been

considered obscure, and which their explanations do not always clear up; to the temptation to display their

proficiency in the ingenious art of manipulating facts and figures culled from a dozen musty volumes into one

Our interest in this strange case of imprisonment arises, not alone from its completeness and duration, but

also from our uncertainty as to the motives from which it was inflicted. Where erudition alone cannot suffice;

where bookworm after bookworm, disdaining the conjectures of his predecessors, comes forward with a new

theory founded on some forgotten document he has hunted out, only to find himself in his turn pushed into

oblivion by some follower in his track, we must turn for guidance to some other light than that of scholarship;

especially if, on strict investigation, we find that not one learned solution rests on a sound basis of fact.

In the question before us, which, as we said before, is a double one, asking not only who was the Man in the

Iron Mask, but why he was relentlessly subjected to this torture till the moment of his death, what we need in

order to restrain our fancy is mathematical demonstration, and not philosophical induction.

While I do not go so far as to assert positively that Abbe Soulavie has once for all lifted the veil which hid the

truth, I am yet persuaded that no other system of research is superior to his, and that no other suggested

solution has so many presumptions in its favour. I have not reached this firm conviction on account of the

great and prolonged success of our drama, but because of the ease with which all the opinions adverse to

The qualities that make for success being quite different in a novel and in a drama, I could easily have

founded a romance on the fictitious loves of Buckingham and the queen, or on a supposed secret marriage

between her and Cardinal Mazarin, calling to my aid a work by SaintMihiel which the bibliophile declares

he has never read, although it is assuredly neither rare nor difficult of access. I might also have merely

expanded my drama, restoring to the personages therein their true names and relative positions, both of which

the exigencies of the stage had sometimes obliged me to alter, and while allowing them to fill the same parts,

making them act more in accordance with historical fact. No fable however farfetched, no grouping of

characters however improbable, can, however, destroy the interest which the innumerable writings about the

Iron Mask excite, although no two agree in details, and although each author and each witness declares

himself in possession of complete knowledge. No work, however mediocre, however worthless even, which

has appeared on this subject has ever failed of success, not even, for example, the strange jumble of Chevalier

de Mouhy, a kind of literary braggart, who was in the pay of Voltaire, and whose work was published

anonymously in 1746 by Pierre de Hondt of The Hague. It is divided into six short parts, and bears the title,

'Le Masque de Fer, ou les Aventures admirables du Prre et du Fils'. An absurd romance by Regnault Warin,

and one at least equally absurd by Madame Guenard, met with a like favourable reception. In writing for the

theatre, an author must choose one view of a dramatic situation to the exclusion of all others, and in following

out this central idea is obliged by the inexorable laws of logic to push aside everything that interferes with its

development. A book, on the contrary, is written to be discussed; it brings under the notice of the reader all

the evidence produced at a trial which has as yet not reached a definite conclusion, and which in the case

before us will never reach it, unless, which is most improbable, some lucky chance should lead to some new

The first mention of the prisoner is to be found in the 'Memoires secrets pour servir a l'Histoire de Perse' in

one 12mo volume, by an anonymous author, published by the 'Compagnie des Libraires Associes

"Not having any other purpose," says the author (page 20, 2nd edit.), "than to relate facts which are not

known, or about which no one has written, or about which it is impossible to be silent, we refer at once to a

fact which has hitherto almost escaped notice concerning Prince Giafer (Louis de Bourbon, Comte de

Vermandois, son of Louis XIV and Mademoiselle de la Valliere), who was visited by AliMomajou (the Duc

d'Orleans, the regent) in the fortress of Ispahan (the Bastille), in which he had been imprisoned for several

years. This visit had probably no other motive than to make sure that this prince was really alive, he having

been reputed dead of the plague for over thirty years, and his obsequies having been celebrated in presence of

"ChaAbas (Louis XIV) had a legitimate son, SephiMirza (Louis, Dauphin of France), and a natural son,

Giafer. These two princes, as dissimilar in character as in birth, were always rivals and always at enmity with

each other. One day Giafer so far forgot himself as to strike SephiMirza. ChaAbas having heard of the

insult offered to the heir to the throne, assembled his most trusted councillors, and laid the conduct of the

culprit before themconduct which, according to the law of the country, was punishable with death, an

opinion in which they all agreed. One of the councillors, however, sympathising more than the others with

the distress of ChaAbas, suggested that Giafer should be sent to the army, which was then on the frontiers of

Feidrun (Flanders), and that his death from plague should be given out a few days after his arrival. Then,

while the whole army was celebrating his obsequies, he should be carried off by night, in the greatest secrecy,

to the stronghold on the isle of Ormus (Sainte Marguerite), and there imprisoned for life.

"This course was adopted, and carried out by faithful and discreet agents. The prince, whose premature death

was mourned by the army, being carried by unfrequented roads to the isle of Ormus, was placed in the

custody of the commandant of the island, who, had received orders beforehand not to allow any person

whatever to see the prisoner. A single servant who was in possession of the secret was killed by the escort on

the journey, and his face so disfigured by dagger thrusts that he could not be recognised.

"The commandant treated his prisoner with the most profound respect; he waited on him at meals himself,

taking the dishes from the cooks at the door of the apartment, none of whom ever looked on the face of

Giafer. One day it occurred to the prince to scratch, his name on the back of a plate with his knife. One of the

servants into whose hands the plate fell ran with it at once to the commandant, hoping he would be pleased

and reward the bearer; but the unfortunate man was greatly mistaken, for he was at once made away with,

"Giafer remained several years in the castle Ormus, and was then transported to the fortress of Ispahan; the

commandant of Ormus having received the governorship of Ispahan as a reward for faithful service.

"At Ispahan, as at Ormus, whenever it was necessary on account of illness or any other cause to allow anyone

to approach the prince, he was always masked; and several trustworthy persons have asserted that they had

seen the masked prisoner often, and had noticed that he used the familiar 'tu' when addressing the governor,

while the latter showed his charge the greatest respect. "As Giafer survived ChaAbas and SephiMirza by

many years, it may be asked why he was never set at liberty; but it must be remembered it would have been

impossible to restore a prince to his rank and dignities whose tomb actually existed, and of whose burial there

were not only living witnesses but documentary proofs, the authenticity of which it would have been useless

to deny, so firm was the belief, which has lasted down to the present day, that Giafer died of the plague in

camp when with the army on the frontiers of Flanders. AliHomajou died shortly after the visit he paid to

This version of the story, which is the original source of all the controversy on the subject, was at first

generally received as true. On a critical examination it fitted in very well with certain events which took place

The Comte de Vermandois had in fact left the court for the camp very soon after his reappearance there, for

he had been banished by the king from his presence some time before for having, in company with several

"The king," says Mademoiselle de Montpensier ('Memoires de Mademoiselle de Montpensier', vol. xliii. p.

474., of 'Memoires Relatifs d d'Histoire de France', Second Series, published by Petitot), "had not been

satisfied with his conduct and refused to see him. The young prince had caused his mother much sorrow, but

had been so well lectured that it was believed that he had at last turned over a new leaf." He only remained

four days at court, reached the camp before Courtrai early in November 1683, was taken ill on the evening of

the 12th, and died on the 19th of the same month of a malignant fever. Mademoiselle de Montpensier says

For if, during the four days the comte was at court, he had struck the dauphin, everyone would have heard of

the monstrous crime, and yet it is nowhere spoken of, except in the 'Memoires de Perse'. What renders the

story of the blow still more improbable is the difference in age between the two princes. The dauphin, who

already had a son, the Duc de Bourgogne, more than a year old, was born the 1st November 1661, and was

therefore six years older than the Comte de Vermandois. But the most complete answer to the tale is to be

found in a letter written by Barbezieux to SaintMars, dated the 13th August 1691:

"When you have any information to send me relative to the prisoner who has been in your charge for twenty

years, I most earnestly enjoin on you to take the same precautions as when you write to M. de Louvois."

The Comte de Vermandois, the official registration of whose death bears the date 1685, cannot have been

Six years after the Man in the Mask had been thus delivered over to the curiosity of the public, the 'Siecle de

Louis XIV' (2 vols. octavo, Berlin, 1751) was published by Voltaire under the pseudonym of M. de

Francheville. Everyone turned to this work, which had been long expected, for details relating to the

Voltaire ventured at length to speak more openly of the prisoner than anyone had hitherto done, and to treat

as a matter of history "an event long ignored by all historians." (vol. ii. p. 11, 1st edition, chap. xxv.). He

assigned an approximate date to the beginning of this captivity, "some months after the death of Cardinal

Mazarin " (1661); he gave a description of the prisoner, who according to him was "young and

darkcomplexioned; his figure was above the middle height and well proportioned; his features were

exceedingly handsome, and his bearing was noble. When he spoke his voice inspired interest; he never

complained of his lot, and gave no hint as to his rank." Nor was the mask forgotten: "The part which covered

the chin was furnished with steel springs, which allowed the prisoner to eat without uncovering his face."

And, lastly, he fixed the date of the death of the nameless captive; who "was buried," he says, "in 1704., by

Voltaire's narrative coincided with the account given in the 'Memoires de Peyse', save for the omission of the

incident which, according to the 'Memoires', led in the first instance to the imprisonment of Giafer. "The

prisoner," says Voltaire, "was sent to the Iles SainteMarguerite, and afterwards to the Bastille, in charge of a

trusty official; he wore his mask on the journey, and his escort had orders to shoot him if he took it off. The

Marquis de Louvois visited him while he was on the islands, and when speaking to him stood all the time in a

respectful attitude. The prisoner was removed to the Bastille in 1690, where he was lodged as comfortably as

could be managed in that building; he was supplied with everything he asked for, especially with the finest

linen and the costliest lace, in both of which his taste was perfect; he had a guitar to play on, his table was

Voltaire added a few further details which had been given him by M. de Bernaville, the successor of M. de

SaintMars, and by an old physician of the Bastille who had attended the prisoner whenever his health

required a doctor, but who had never seen his face, although he had "often seen his tongue and his body." He

also asserted that M. de Chamillart was the last minister who was in the secret, and that when his soninlaw,

Marshal de la Feuillade, besought him on his knees, de Chamillart being on his deathbed, to tell him the name

of the Man in the Iron Mask, the minister replied that he was under a solemn oath never to reveal the secret, it

being an affair of state. To all these details, which the marshal acknowledges to be correct, Voltaire adds a

remarkable note: "What increases our wonder is, that when the unknown captive was sent to the Iles

The story of the Comte de Vermandois and the blow was treated as an absurd and romantic invention, which

does not even attempt to keep within the bounds of the possible, by Baron C. (according to P. Marchand,

Baron Crunyngen) in a letter inserted in the 'Bibliotheque raisonnee des Ouvrages des Savants de d'Europe',

June 1745. The discussion was revived somewhat later, however, and a few Dutch scholars were supposed to

be responsible for a new theory founded on history; the foundations proving somewhat shaky, however,a

quality which it shares, we must say, with all the other theories which have ever been advanced.

According to this new theory, the masked prisoner was a young foreign nobleman, groom of the chambers to

Anne of Austria, and the real father of Louis XIV. This anecdote appears first in a duodecimo volume printed

by Pierre Marteau at Cologne in 1692, and which bears the title, 'The Loves of Anne of Austria, Consort of

Louis XIII, with M. le C. D. R., the Real Father of Louis XIV, King of France; being a Minute Account of the

Measures taken to give an Heir to the Throne of France, the Influences at Work to bring this to pass, and the

This libel ran through five editions, bearing date successively, 1692, 1693, 1696, 1722, and 1738. In the title

of the edition of 1696 the words "Cardinal de Richelieu" are inserted in place of the initials "C. D. R.," but

that this is only a printer's error everyone who reads the work will perceive. Some have thought the three

letters stood for Comte de Riviere, others for Comte de Rochefort, whose 'Memoires' compiled by Sandras de

Courtilz supply these initials. The author of the book was an Orange writer in the pay of William III, and its

object was, he says, "to unveil the great mystery of iniquity which hid the true origin of Louis XIV." He goes

on to remark that "the knowledge of this fraud, although comparatively rare outside France, was widely

spread within her borders. The wellknown coldness of Louis XIII; the extraordinary birth of

LouisDieudonne, so called because he was born in the twentythird year of a childless marriage, and several

other remarkable circumstances connected with the birth, all point clearly to a father other than the prince,

who with great effrontery is passed off by his adherents as such. The famous barricades of Paris, and the

organised revolt led by distinguished men against Louis XIV on his accession to the throne, proclaimed aloud

the king's illegitimacy, so that it rang through the country; and as the accusation had reason on its side, hardly

We give below a short abstract of the narrative, the plot of which is rather skilfully constructed:

"Cardinal Richelieu, looking with satisfied pride at the love of Gaston, Duc d'Orleans, brother of the king, for

his niece Parisiatis (Madame de Combalet),formed the plan of uniting the young couple in marriage. Gaston

taking the suggestion as an insult, struck the cardinal. Pere Joseph then tried to gain the cardinal's consent and

that of his niece to an attempt to deprive Gaston of the throne, which the childless marriage of Louis XIII

seemed to assure him. A young man, the C. D. R. of the book, was introduced into Anne of Austria's room,

who though a wife in name had long been a widow in reality. She defended herself but feebly, and on seeing

the cardinal next day said to him, "Well, you have had your wicked will; but take good care, sir cardinal, that

I may find above the mercy and goodness which you have tried by many pious sophistries to convince me is

awaiting me. Watch over my soul, I charge you, for I have yielded!" The queen having given herself up to

love for some time, the joyful news that she would soon become a mother began to spread over the kingdom.

In this manner was born Louis XIV, the putative son of Louis XIII. If this instalment of the tale be favourably

received, says the pamphleteer, the sequel will soon follow, in which the sad fate of C. D. R. will be related,

Although the first part was a great success, the promised sequel never appeared. It must be admitted that such

a story, though it never convinced a single person of the illegitimacy of Louis XIV, was an excellent prologue

to the tale of the unfortunate lot of the Man in the Iron Mask, and increased the interest and curiosity with

which that singular historical mystery was regarded. But the views of the Dutch scholars thus set forth met

The third historian to write about the prisoner of the Iles Sainte Marguerite was LagrangeChancel. He was

just twentynine years of age when, excited by Freron's hatred of Voltaire, he addressed a letter from his

country place, Antoniat, in Perigord, to the 'Annee Litteraire' (vol. iii. p. 188), demolishing the theory

advanced in the 'Siecle de Louis XIV', and giving facts which he had collected whilst himself imprisoned in

"My detention in the IlesSaintMarguerite," says LagrangeChancel," brought many things to my

knowledge which a more painstaking historian than M. de Voltaire would have taken the trouble to find out;

for at the time when I was taken to the islands the imprisonment of the Man in the Iron Mask was no longer

regarded as a state secret. This extraordinary event, which M. de Voltaire places in 1662, a few months after

the death of Cardinal Mazarin, did not take place till 1669, eight years after the death of His Eminence. M. de

La Motte Guerin, commandant of the islands in my time, assured me that the prisoner was the Duc de

Beaufort, who was reported killed at the siege of Candia, but whose body had never been recovered, as all the

narratives of that event agree in stating. He also told me that M. de SaintMars, who succeeded Pignerol as

governor of the islands, showed great consideration for the prisoner, that he waited on him at table, that the

service was of silver, and that the clothes supplied to the prisoner were as costly as he desired; that when he

was ill and in need of a physician or surgeon, he was obliged under pain of death to wear his mask in their

presence, but that when he was alone he was permitted to pull out the hairs of his beard with steel tweezers,

which were kept bright and polished. I saw a pair of these which had been actually used for this purpose in

the possession of M. de Formanoir, nephew of SaintMars, and lieutenant of a Free Company raised for the

purpose of guarding the prisoners. Several persons told me that when SaintMars, who had been placed over

the Bastille, conducted his charge thither, the latter was heard to say behind his iron mask, 'Has the king

designs on my life?' To which SaintMars replied, ' No, my prince; your life is safe: you must only let

"I also learned from a man called Dubuisson, cashier to the well known Samuel Bernard, who, having been

imprisoned for some years in the Bastile, was removed to the Iles SainteMarguerite, where he was confined

along with some others in a room exactly over the one occupied by the unknown prisoner. He told me that

they were able to communicate with him by means of the flue of the chimney, but on asking him why he

persisted in not revealing his name and the cause of his imprisonment, he replied that such an avowal would

"Whether it were so or not, today the name and rank of this political victim are secrets the preservation of

which is no longer necessary to the State; and I have thought that to tell the public what I know would cut

short the long chain of circumstances which everyone was forging according to his fancy, instigated thereto

by an author whose gift of relating the most impossible events in such a manner as to make them seem true

"Beginning with the year 1664.," he says, "the Duc de Beaufort had by his insubordination and levity

endangered the success of several maritime expeditions. In October 1666 Louis XIV remonstrated with him

with much tact, begging him to try to make himself more and more capable in the service of his king by

cultivating the talents with which he was endowed, and ridding himself of the faults which spoilt his conduct.

'I do not doubt,' he concludes, 'that you will be all the more grateful to me for this mark of my benevolence

towards you, when you reflect how few kings have ever shown their goodwill in a similar manner.'" (

'Oeuvres de Louis XIV', vol. v. p. 388). Several calamities in the royal navy are known to have been brought

about by the Duc de Beaufort. M. Eugene Sue, in his 'Histoire de la Marine', which is full of new and curious

information, has drawn a very good picture of the position of the "roi des halles," the "king of the markets,"

in regard to Colbert and Louis XIV. Colbert wished to direct all the manoeuvres of the fleet from his study,

while it was commanded by the naval grandmaster in the capricious manner which might be expected from

his factious character and love of bluster (Eugene Sue, vol. i., 'Pieces Justificatives'). In 1699 Louis XIV sent

the Duc de Beaufort to the relief of Candia, which the Turks were besieging. Seven hours after his arrival

Beaufort was killed in a sortie. The Duc de Navailles, who shared with him the command of the French

squadron, simply reported his death as follows: "He met a body of Turks who were pressing our troops hard:

placing himself at the head of the latter, he fought valiantly, but at length his soldiers abandoned him, and we

have not been able to learn his fate" ('Memoires du Duc de Navailles', book iv. P. 243)

The report of his death spread rapidly through France and Italy; magnificent funeral services were held in

Paris, Rome, and Venice, and funeral orations delivered. Nevertheless, many believed that he would one day

"Several wagers have been laid that M. de Beaufort is not dead! 'O utinam'!" (Guy Patin, September 26,

"It is said that M. de Vivonne has been granted by commission the post of viceadmiral of France for twenty

years; but there are many who believe that the Duc de Beaufort is not dead, but imprisoned in some Turkish

island. Believe this who may, I don't; he is really dead, and the last thing I should desire would be to be as

"In several narratives written by eyewitnesses of the siege of Candia," says Jacob, "it is related that the

Turks, according to their custom, despoiled the body and cut off the head of the Duc de Beaufort on the field

of battle, and that the latter was afterwards exhibited at Constantinople; and this may account for some of the

details given by Sandras de Courtilz in his 'Memoires du Marquis de Montbrun' and his 'Memoires

d'Artagnan', for one can easily imagine that the naked, headless body might escape recognition. M. Eugene

Sue, in his 'Histoire de la Marine' (vol. ii, chap. 6), had adopted this view, which coincides with the accounts

left by Philibert de Jarry and the Marquis de Ville, the MSS. of whose letters and 'Memoires' are to be found

"In the first volume of the 'Histoire de la Detention des Philosophes et des Gens de Lettres a la Bastille, etc.',

"Without dwelling on the difficulty and danger of an abduction, which an Ottoman scimitar might any day

during this memorable siege render unnecessary, we shall restrict ourselves to declaring positively that the

correspondence of SaintMars from 1669 to 1680 gives us no ground for supposing that the governor of

Pignerol had any great prisoner of state in his charge during that period of time, except Fouquet and

While we profess no blind faith in the conclusions arrived at by the learned critic, we would yet add to the

considerations on which he relies another, viz. that it is most improbable that Louis XIV should ever have

considered it necessary to take such rigorous measures against the Duc de Beaufort. Truculent and

selfconfident as he was, he never acted against the royal authority in such a manner as to oblige the king to

strike him down in secret; and it is difficult to believe that Louis XIV, peaceably seated on his throne, with all

the enemies of his minority under his feet, should have revenged himself on the duke as an old Frondeur.

The critic calls our attention to another fact also adverse to the theory under consideration. The Man in the

Iron Mask loved fine linen and rich lace, he was reserved in character and possessed of extreme refinement,

and none of this suits the portraits of the 'roi des halles' which contemporary historians have drawn.

Regarding the anagram of the name Marchiali (the name under which the death of the prisoner was

registered), 'hic amiral', as a proof, we cannot think that the gaolers of Pignerol amused themselves in

propounding conundrums to exercise the keen intellect of their contemporaries; and moreover the same

anagram would apply equally well to the Count of Vermandois, who was made admiral when only

twentytwo months old. Abbe Papon, in his roamings through Provence, paid a visit to the prison in which

"It was to the Iles SainteMarguerite that the famous prisoner with the iron mask whose name has never been

discovered, was transported at the end of the last century; very few of those attached to his service were

allowed to speak to him. One day, as M. de SaintMars was conversing with him, standing outside his door,

in a kind of corridor, so as to be able to see from a distance everyone who approached, the son of one of the

governor's friends, hearing the voices, came up; SaintMars quickly closed the door of the room, and, rushing

to meet the young man, asked him with an air of great anxiety if he had overheard anything that was said.

Having convinced himself that he had heard nothing, the governor sent the young man away the same day,

and wrote to the father that the adventure was like to have cost the son dear, and that he had sent him back to

"I was curious enough to visit the room in which the unfortunate man was imprisoned, on the 2nd of February

1778. It is lighted by one window to the north, overlooking the sea, about fifteen feet above the terrace where

the sentries paced to and fro. This window was pierced through a very thick wall and the embrasure

barricaded by three iron bars, thus separating the prisoner from the sentries by a distance of over two

fathoms. I found an officer of the Free Company in the fortress who was nigh on fourscore years old; he told

me that his father, who had belonged to the same Company, had often related to him how a friar had seen

something white floating on the water under the prisoner's window. On being fished out and carried to M. de

SaintMars, it proved to be a shirt of very fine material, loosely folded together, and covered with writing

from end to end. M. de SaintMars spread it out and read a few words, then turning to the friar who had

brought it he asked him in an embarrassed manner if he had been led by curiosity to read any of the, writing.

The friar protested repeatedly that he had not read a line, but nevertheless he was found dead in bed two days

later. This incident was told so often to my informant by his father and by the chaplain of the fort of that time

that he regarded it as incontestably true. The following fact also appears to me to be equally well established

by the testimony of many witnesses. I collected all the evidence I could on the spot, and also in the Lerins

"A female attendant being wanted for the prisoner, a woman of the village of Mongin offered herself for the

place, being under the impression that she would thus be able to make her children's fortune; but on being

told that she would not only never be allowed to see her children again, but would be cut off from the rest of

the world as well, she refused to be shut up with a prisoner whom it cost so much to serve. I may mention

here that at the two outer angles of the wall of the fort which faced the sea two sentries were placed, with

"The prisoner's personal attendant died in the Iles Sainte Marguerite. The brother of the officer whom I

mentioned above was partly in the confidence of M. de SaintMars, and he often told how he was summoned

to the prison once at midnight and ordered to remove a corpse, and that he carried it on his shoulders to the

burial place, feeling certain it was the prisoner who was dead; but it was only his servant, and it was then

Abbe Papon gives some curious details, hitherto unknown to the public, but as he mentions no names his

narrative cannot be considered as evidence. Voltaire never replied to LagrangeChancel, who died the same

year in which his letter was published. Freron desiring to revenge himself for the scathing portrait which

Voltaire had drawn of him in the 'Ecossaise', called to his assistance a more redoubtable adversary than

LagrangeChancel. SainteFoix had brought to the front a brand new theory, founded on a passage by Hume

in an article in the 'Annee Litteraire (1768, vol. iv.), in which he maintained that the Man in the Iron Mask

was the Duke of Monmouth, a natural son of Charles II, who was found guilty of high treason and beheaded

"It was commonly reported in London that the Duke of Monmouth's life had been saved, one of his adherents

who bore a striking resemblance to the duke having consented to die in his stead, while the real culprit was

The great affection which the English felt for the Duke of Monmouth, and his own conviction that the people

only needed a leader to induce them to shake off the yoke of James II, led him to undertake an enterprise

which might possibly have succeeded had it been carried out with prudence. He landed at Lyme, in Dorset,

with only one hundred and twenty men; six thousand soon gathered round his standard; a few towns declared

in his favour; he caused himself to be proclaimed king, affirming that he was born in wedlock, and that he

possessed the proofs of the secret marriage of Charles II and Lucy Waiters, his mother. He met the Royalists

on the battlefield, and victory seemed to be on his side, when just at the decisive moment his ammunition ran

short. Lord Gray, who commanded the cavalry, beat a cowardly retreat, the unfortunate Monmouth was taken

The details published in the 'Siecle de Louis XIV' as to the personal appearance of the masked prisoner might

have been taken as a description of Monmouth, who possessed great physical beauty. SainteFoix had

collected every scrap of evidence in favour of his solution of the mystery, making use even of the following

passage from an anonymous romance called 'The Loves of Charles II and James II, Kings of England':

"The night of the pretended execution of the Duke of Monmouth, the king, attended by three men, came to

the Tower and summoned the duke to his presence. A kind of loose cowl was thrown over his head, and he

was put into a carriage, into which the king and his attendants also got, and was driven away."

SainteFoix also referred to the alleged visit of Saunders, confessor to James II, paid to the Duchess of

Portsmouth after the death of that monarch, when the duchess took occasion to say that she could never

forgive King James for consenting to Monmouth's execution, in spite of the oath he had taken on the sacred

elements at the deathbed of Charles II that he would never take his natural brother's life, even in case of

Hume also records this solemn oath, but we cannot say that all the historians agree on this point. 'The

Universal History' by Guthrie and Gray, and the 'Histoire d'Angleterre' by Rapin, Thoyras and de Barrow, do

"Further," wrote SainteFoix, "an English surgeon called Nelaton, who frequented the Caf Procope, much

affected by men of letters, often related that during the time he was senior apprentice to a surgeon who lived

near the Porte SaintAntoine, he was once taken to the Bastille to bleed a prisoner. He was conducted to this

prisoner's room by the governor himself, and found the patient suffering from violent headache. He spoke

with an English accent, wore a gold flowered dressinggown of black and orange, and had his face covered

This story does not hold water: it would be difficult to form a mask out of a napkin; the Bastille had a

resident surgeon of its own as well as a physician and apothecary; no one could gain access to a prisoner

without a written order from a minister, even the Viaticum could only be introduced by the express

This theory met at first with no objections, and seemed to be going to oust all the others, thanks, perhaps, to

the combative and restive character of its promulgator, who bore criticism badly, and whom no one cared to

It was known that when SaintMars journeyed with his prisoner to the Bastille, they had put up on the way at

Palteau, in Champagne, a property belonging to the governor. Freron therefore addressed himself to a

grandnephew of SaintMars, who had inherited this estate, asking if he could give him any information

about this visit. The following reply appeared in the 'Annee Litteraire (June 1768):

"As it appears from the letter of M. de SainteFoix from which you quote that the Man in the Iron Mask still

exercises the fancy of your journalists, I am willing to tell you all I know about the prisoner. He was known

in the islands of SainteMarguerite and at the Bastille as 'La Tour.' The governor and all the other officials

showed him great respect, and supplied him with everything he asked for that could be granted to a prisoner.

He often took exercise in the yard of the prison, but never without his mask on. It was not till the 'Siecle' of

M. de Voltaire appeared that I learned that the mask was of iron and furnished with springs; it may be that the

circumstance was overlooked, but he never wore it except when taking the air, or when he had to appear

"M. de Blainvilliers, an infantry officer who was acquainted with M. de SaintMars both at Pignerol and

SainteMarguerite, has often told me that the lot of 'La Tour' greatly excited his curiosity, and that he had

once borrowed the clothes and arms of a soldier whose turn it was to be sentry on the terrace under the

prisoner's window at SainteMarguerite, and undertaken the duty himself; that he had seen the prisoner

distinctly, without his mask; that his face was white, that he was tall and well proportioned, except that his

ankles were too thick, and that his hair was white, although he appeared to be still in the prime of life. He

passed the whole of the night in question pacing to and fro in his room. Blainvilliers added that he was

always dressed in brown, that he had plenty of fine linen and books, that the governor and the other officers

always stood uncovered in his presence till he gave them leave to cover and sit down, and that they often bore

"In 1698 M. de SaintMars was promoted from the governorship of the Iles SainteMarguerite to that of the

Bastille. In moving thither, accompanied by his prisoner, he made his estate of Palteau a halting place. The

masked man arrived in a litter which preceded that of M. de SaintMars, and several mounted men rode

beside it. The peasants were assembled to greet their liege lord. M. de SaintMars dined with his prisoner,

who sat with his back to the diningroom windows, which looked out on the court. None of the peasants

whom I have questioned were able to see whether the man kept his mask on while eating, but they all noticed

that M. de SaintMars, who sat opposite to his charge, laid two pistols beside his plate; that only one footman

waited at table, who went into the antechamber to change the plates and dishes, always carefully closing the

diningroom door behind him. When the prisoner crossed the courtyard his face was covered with a black

mask, but the peasants could see his lips and teeth, and remarked that he was tall, and had white hair. M. de

SaintMars slept in a bed placed beside the prisoner's. M. de Blainvilliers told me also that 'as soon as he was

dead, which happened in 1704, he was buried at SaintPaul's,' and that 'the coffin was filled with substances

which would rapidly consume the body.' He added, 'I never heard that the masked man spoke with an English

SainteFoix proved the story related by M. de Blainvilliers to be little worthy of belief, showing by a

circumstance mentioned in the letter that the imprisoned man could not be the Duc de Beaufort; witness the

epigram of Madame de Choisy, "M. de Beaufort longs to bite and can't," whereas the peasants had seen the

prisoner's teeth through his mask. It appeared as if the theory of SainteFoix were going to stand, when a

Jesuit father, named Griffet, who was confessor at the Bastille, devoted chapter xiii, of his 'Traite des

differentes Sortes de Preuves qui servent a etablir la Verite dans l'Histoire' (12mo, Liege, 1769) to the

consideration of the Iron Mask. He was the first to quote an authentic document which certifies that the Man

in the Iron Mask about whom there was so much disputing really existed. This was the written journal of M.

du Jonca, King's Lieutenant in the Bastille in 1698, from which Pere Griffet took the following passage:

"On Thursday, September the 8th, 1698, at three o'clock in the afternoon, M. de SaintMars, the new

governor of the Bastille, entered upon his duties. He arrived from the islands of Sainte Marguerite, bringing

with him in a litter a prisoner whose name is a secret, and whom he had had under his charge there, and at

Pignerol. This prisoner, who was always masked, was at first placed in the Bassiniere tower, where he

remained until the evening. At nine o'clock p.m. I took him to the third room of the Bertaudiere tower, which

I had had already furnished before his arrival with all needful articles, having received orders to do so from

M. de SaintMars. While I was showing him the way to his room, I was accompanied by M. Rosarges, who

had also arrived along with M. de SaintMars, and whose office it was to wait on the said prisoner, whose

"Monday, 19th November 1703. The unknown prisoner, who always wore a black velvet mask, and whom

M. de SaintMars brought with him from the Iles SainteMarguerite, and whom he had so long in charge,

felt slightly unwell yesterday on coming back from mass. He died today at 10 p.m. without having a serious

illness, indeed it could not have been slighter. M. Guiraut, our chaplain, confessed him yesterday, but as his

death was quite unexpected he did not receive the last sacraments, although the chaplain was able to exhort

him up to the moment of his death. He was buried on Tuesday the 20th November at 4 P.M. in the

burialground of St. Paul's, our parish church. The funeral expenses amounted to 40 livres."

His name and age were withheld from the priests of the parish. The entry made in the parish register, which

"On the 19th November 1703, Marchiali, aged about fortyfive, died in the Bastille, whose body was buried

in the graveyard of SaintPaul's, his parish, on the 20th instant, in the presence of M. Rosarges and of M.

As soon as he was dead everything belonging to him, without exception, was burned; such as his linen,

clothes, bed and bedding, rugs, chairs, and even the doors of the room he occupied. His service of plate was

melted down, the walls of his room were scoured and whitewashed, the very floor was renewed, from fear of

his having hidden a note under it, or left some mark by which he could be recognised.

Pere Griffet did not agree with the opinions of either Lagrange Chancel or SainteFoix, but seemed to

incline towards the theory set forth in the 'Memoires de Perse', against which no irrefutable objections had

been advanced. He concluded by saying that before arriving at any decision as to who the prisoner really was,

SainteFoix hastened to reply, upholding the soundness of the views he had advanced. He procured from

Arras a copy of an entry in the registers of the Cathedral Chapter, stating that Louis XIV had written with his

own hand to the said Chapter that they were to admit to burial the body of the Comte de Vermandois, who

had died in the city of Courtrai; that he desired that the deceased should be interred in the centre of the choir,

in the vault in which lay the remains of Elisabeth, Comtesse de Vermandois, wife of Philip of Alsace, Comte

de Flanders, who had died in 1182. It is not to be supposed that Louis XIV would have chosen a family vault

SainteFoix was, however, not acquainted with the letter of Barbezieux, dated the 13th August 1691, to

which we have already referred, as a proof that the prisoner was not the Comte de Vermandois; it is equally a

proof that he was not the Duke of Monmouth, as SainteFoix maintained; for sentence was passed on the

Duke of Monmouth in 1685, so that it could not be of him either that Barbezieux wrote in 1691, "The

In the very year in which SainteFoix began to flatter himself that his theory was successfully established,

Baron Heiss brought a new one forward, in a letter dated "Phalsburg, 28th June 1770," and addressed to the

'Journal Enclycopedique'. It was accompanied by a letter translated from the Italian which appeared in the

'Histoire Abregee de l'Europe' by Jacques Bernard, published by Claude Jordan, Leyden, 168587, in

detached sheets. This letter stated (August 1687, article 'Mantoue') that the Duke of Mantua being desirous to

sell his capital, Casale, to the King of France, had been dissuaded therefrom by his secretary, and induced to

join the other princes of Italy in their endeavours to thwart the ambitious schemes of Louis XVI. The Marquis

d'Arcy, French ambassador to the court of Savoy, having been informed of the secretary's influence,

distinguished him by all kinds of civilities, asked him frequently to table, and at last invited him to join a

large hunting party two or three leagues outside Turin. They set out together, but at a short distance from the

city were surrounded by a dozen horsemen, who carried off the secretary, 'disguised him, put a mask on him,

and took him to Pignerol.' He was not kept long in this fortress, as it was 'too near the Italian frontier, and

although he was carefully guarded it was feared that the walls would speak'; so he was transferred to the Iles

This theory, of which much was heard later, did not at first excite much attention. What is certain is that the

Duke of Mantua's secretary, by name Matthioli, was arrested in 1679 through the agency of Abbe d'Estrade

and M. de Catinat, and taken with the utmost secrecy to Pignerol, where he was imprisoned and placed in

charge of M. de SaintMars. He must not, however, be confounded with the Man in the Iron Mask.

Catinat says of Matthioli in a letter to Louvois "No one knows the name of this knave:

Louvois writes to SaintMars: "I admire your patience in waiting for an order to treat such a rogue as he

SaintMars replies to the minister: "I have charged Blainvilliers to show him a cudgel and tell him that with

Again Louvois writes: "The clothes of such people must be made to last three or four years."

This cannot have been the nameless prisoner who was treated with such consideration, before whom Louvois

Altogether, we gather from the correspondence of SaintMars that the unhappy man alluded to above was

confined along with a mad Jacobin, and at last became mad himself, and succumbed to his misery in 1686.

Voltaire, who was probably the first to supply such inexhaustible food for controversy, kept silence and took

no part in the discussions. But when all the theories had been presented to the public, he set about refuting

them. He made himself very merry, in the seventh edition of 'Questions sur l'Encyclopedie distibuees en

forme de Dictionnaire (Geneva, 1791), over the complaisance attributed to Louis XIV in acting as

policesergeant and gaoler for James II, William III, and Anne, with all of whom he was at war. Persisting

still in taking 1661 or 1662 as the date when the incarceration of the masked prisoner began, he attacks the

opinions advanced by LagrangeChancel and Pere Griffet, which they had drawn from the anonymous

'Memoires secrets pour servir a l'Histoire de Perse'. "Having thus dissipated all these illusions," he says, "let

us now consider who the masked prisoner was, and how old he was when he died. It is evident that if he was

never allowed to walk in the courtyard of the Bastille or to see a physician without his mask, it must have

been lest his too striking resemblance to someone should be remarked; he could show his tongue but not his

face. As regards his age, he himself told the apothecary at the Bastille, a few days before his death, that he

thought he was about sixty; this I have often heard from a soninlaw to this apothecary, M. Marsoban,

surgeon to Marshal Richelieu, and afterwards to the regent, the Duc d'Orleans. The writer of this article

This article in the 'Questions on the Encyclopaedia' was followed by some remarks from the pen of the

publisher, which are also, however, attributed by the publishers of Kelh to Voltaire himself. The publisher,

who sometimes calls himself the author, puts aside without refutation all the theories advanced, including that

of Baron Heiss, and says he has come to the conclusion that the Iron Mask was, without doubt, a brother and

an elder brother of Louis XIV, by a lover of the queen. Anne of Austria had come to persuade herself that

hers alone was the fault which had deprived Louis XIII [the publisher of this edition overlooked the obvious

typographical error of "XIV" here when he meant, and it only makes sense, that it was XIII. D.W.] of an heir,

but the birth of the Iron Mask undeceived her. The cardinal, to whom she confided her secret, cleverly

arranged to bring the king and queen, who had long lived apart, together again. A second son was the result

of this reconciliation; and the first child being removed in secret, Louis XIV remained in ignorance of the

existence of his halfbrother till after his majority. It was the policy of Louis XIV to affect a great respect for

the royal house, so he avoided much embarrassment to himself and a scandal affecting the memory of Anne

of Austria by adopting the wise and just measure of burying alive the pledge of an adulterous love. He was

thus enabled to avoid committing an act of cruelty, which a sovereign less conscientious and less

After this declaration Voltaire made no further reference to the Iron Mask. This last version of the story upset

that of SainteFoix. Voltaire having been initiated into the state secret by the Marquis de Richelieu, we may

be permitted to suspect that being naturally indiscreet he published the truth from behind the shelter of a

pseudonym, or at least gave a version which approached the truth, but later on realising the dangerous

We now approach the question whether the prince who thus became the Iron Mask was an illegitimate

brother or a twinbrother of Louis XIV. The first was maintained by M. QuentinCrawfurd; the second by

Abbe Soulavie in his 'Memoires du Marechal Duc de Richelieu' (London, 1790). In 1783 the Marquis de

Luchet, in the 'Journal des Gens du Monde' (vol. iv. No. 23, p. 282, et seq.), awarded to Buckingham the

honour of the paternity in dispute. In support of this, he quoted the testimony of a lady of the house of

SaintQuentin who had been a mistress of the minister Barbezieux, and who died at Chartres about the

middle of the eighteenth century. She had declared publicly that Louis XIV had consigned his elder brother to

perpetual imprisonment, and that the mask was necessitated by the close resemblance of the two brothers to

The Duke of Buckingham, who came to France in 1625, in order to escort Henrietta Maria, sister of Louis

XIII, to England, where she was to marry the Prince of Wales, made no secret of his ardent love for the

queen, and it is almost certain that she was not insensible to his passion. An anonymous pamphlet, 'La

Conference du Cardinal Mazarin avec le Gazetier' (Brussels, 1649), says that she was infatuated about him,

and allowed him to visit her in her room. She even permitted him to take off and keep one of her gloves, and

his vanity leading him to show his spoil, the king heard of it, and was vastly offended. An anecdote, the truth

of which no one has ever denied, relates that one day Buckingham spoke to the queen with such passion in

the presence of her ladyinwaiting, the Marquise de Senecey, that the latter exclaimed, "Be silent, sir, you

cannot speak thus to the Queen of France!" According to this version, the Man in the Iron Mask must have

been born at latest in 1637, but the mention of any such date would destroy the possibility of Buckingham's

After the taking of the Bastille the masked prisoner became the fashionable topic of discussion, and one heard

of nothing else. On the 13th of August 1789 it was announced in an article in a journal called 'Loisirs d'un

Patriote francais', which was afterwards published anonymously as a pamphlet, that the publisher had seen,

among other documents found in the Bastille, a card bearing the unintelligible number "64389000," and the

following note: "Fouquet, arriving from Les Iles SainteMarguerite in an iron mask." To this there was, it

was said, a double signature, viz. "XXX," superimposed on the name "Kersadion." The journalist was of

opinion that Fouquet had succeeded in making his escape, but had been retaken and condemned to pass for

dead, and to wear a mask henceforward, as a punishment for his attempted evasion. This tale made some

impression, for it was remembered that in the Supplement to the 'Siecle de Louis XIV' it was stated that

Chamillart had said that "the Iron Mask was a man who knew all the secrets of M. Fouquet." But the

existence of this card was never proved, and we cannot accept the story on the unsupported word of an

>From the time that restrictions on the press were removed, hardly a day passed without the appearance of

some new pamphlet on the Iron Mask. Louis Dutens, in 'Correspondence interceptee' (12mo, 1789), revived

the theory of Baron Heiss, supporting it by new and curious facts. He proved that Louis XIV had really

ordered one of the Duke of Mantua's ministers to be carried off and imprisoned in Pignerol. Dutens gave the

name of the victim as Girolamo Magni. He also quoted from a memorandum which by the wish of the

Marquis de Castellane was drawn up by a certain Souchon, probably the man whom Papon questioned in

1778. This Souchon was the son of a man who had belonged to the Free Company maintained in the islands

in the time of SaintMars, and was seventynine years old. This memorandum gives a detailed account of the

abduction of a minister in 1679, who is styled a "minister of the Empire," and his arrival as a masked prisoner

at the islands, and states that he died there in captivity nine years after he was carried off.

Dutens thus divests the episode of the element of the marvellous with which Voltaire had surrounded it. He

called to his aid the testimony of the Duc de Choiseul, who, having in vain attempted to worm the secret of

the Iron Mask out of Louis XV, begged Madame de Pompadour to try her hand, and was told by her that the

prisoner was the minister of an Italian prince. At the same time that Dutens wrote, "There is no fact in history

better established than the fact that the Man in the Iron Mask was a minister of the Duke of Mantua who was

carried off from Turin," M. QuentinCrawfurd was maintaining that the prisoner was a son of Anne of

Austria; while a few years earlier Bouche, a lawyer, in his 'Essai sur l'Histoire de Provence' (2 vols. 4to,

1785), had regarded this story as a fable invented by Voltaire, and had convinced himself that the prisoner

was a woman. As we see, discussion threw no light on the subject, and instead of being dissipated, the

In 1790 the 'Memoires du Marechal de Richelieu' appeared. He had left his notebooks, his library, and his

correspondence to Soulavie. The 'Memoires' are undoubtedly authentic, and have, if not certainty, at least a

strong moral presumption in their favour, and gained the belief of men holding diverse opinions. But before

placing under the eyes of our readers extracts from them relating to the Iron Mask, let us refresh our memory

by recalling two theories which had not stood the test of thorough investigation.

According to some MS. notes left by M. de Bonac, French ambassador at Constantinople in 1724, the

Armenian Patriarch Arwedicks, a mortal enemy of our Church and the instigator of the terrible persecutions

to which the Roman Catholics were subjected, was carried off into exile at the request of the Jesuits by a

French vessel, and confined in a prison whence there was no escape. This prison was the fortress of

SainteMarguerite, and from there he was taken to the Bastille, where he died. The Turkish Government

continually clamoured for his release till 1723, but the French Government persistently denied having taken

Even if it were not a matter of history that Arwedicks went over to the Roman Catholic Church and died a

free man in Paris, as may be seen by an inspection of the certificate of his death preserved among the archives

in the Foreign Office, one sentence from the notebook of M. de Bonac would be sufficient to annihilate this

theory. M. de Bonac says that the Patriarch was carried off, while M. de Feriol, who succeeded M. de

Chateauneuf in 1699, was ambassador at Constantinople. Now it was in 1698 that SaintMars arrived at the

Several English scholars have sided with Gibbon in thinking that the Man in the Iron Mask might possibly

have been Henry, the second son of Oliver Cromwell, who was held as a hostage by Louis XIV.

By an odd coincidence the second son of the Lord Protector does entirely disappear from the page of history

in 1659; we know nothing of where he afterwards lived nor when he died. But why should he be a prisoner of

state in France, while his elder brother Richard was permitted to live there quite openly? In the absence of all

proof, we cannot attach the least importance to this explanation of the mystery.

We now come to the promised extracts from the 'Memoires du Marechal de Richelieu':

"Under the late king there was a time when every class of society was asking who the famous personage

really was who went by the name of the Iron Mask, but I noticed that this curiosity abated somewhat after his

arrival at the Bastille with SaintMars, when it began to be reported that orders had been given to kill him

should he let his name be known. SaintMars also let it be understood that whoever found out the secret

would share the same fate. This threat to murder both the prisoner and those who showed too much curiosity

about him made such an impression, that during the lifetime of the late king people only spoke of the mystery

below their breath. The anonymous author of 'Les Memoires de Perse', which were published in Holland

fifteen years after the death of Louis XIV, was the first who dared to speak publicly of the prisoner and relate

"Since the publication of that work, liberty of speech and the freedom of the press have made great strides,

and the shade of Louis XIV having lost its terrors, the case of the Iron Mask is freely discussed, and yet even

now, at the end of my life and seventy years after the death of the king, people are still asking who the Man in

"This question was one I put to the adorable princess, beloved of the regent, who inspired in return only

aversion and respect, all her love being given to me. As everyone was persuaded that the regent knew the

name, the course of life, and the cause of the imprisonment of the masked prisoner, I, being more

venturesome in my curiosity than others, tried through my princess to fathom the secret. She had hitherto

constantly repulsed the advances of the Duc d' Orleans, but as the ardour of his passion was thereby in no

wise abated, the least glimpse of hope would be sufficient to induce him to grant her everything she asked; I

persuaded her, therefore, to let him understand that if he would allow her to read the 'Memoires du Masque'

"The Duc d'Orleans had never been known to reveal any secret of state, being unspeakably circumspect, and

having been trained to keep every confidence inviolable by his preceptor Dubois, so I felt quite certain that

even the princess would fail in her efforts to get a sight of the memoranda in his possession relative to the

birth and rank of the masked prisoner; but what cannot love, and such an ardent love, induce a man to do?

"To reward her goodness the regent gave the documents into her hands, and she forwarded them to me next

day, enclosed in a note written in cipher, which, according to the laws of historical writing, I reproduce in its

entirety, vouching for its authenticity; for the princess always employed a cipher when she used the language

of gallantry, and this note told me what treaty she had had to sign in order that she might obtain the

documents, and the duke the desire of his heart. The details are not admissible in serious history, but,

borrowing the modest language of the patriarchal time, I may say that if Jacob, before he obtained possession

of the best beloved of Laban's daughters, was obliged to pay the price twice over, the regent drove a better

"'The unfortunate prince whom I brought up and had in charge till almost the end of my life was born on the

5th September 1638 at 8.30 o'clock in the evening, while the king was at supper. His brother, who is now on

the throne, was born at noon while the king was at dinner, but whereas his birth was splendid and public, that

of his brother was sad and secret; for the king being informed by the midwife that the queen was about to

give birth to a second child, ordered the chancellor, the midwife, the chief almoner, the queen's confessor,

and myself to stay in her room to be witnesses of whatever happened, and of his course of action should a

"'For a long time already it had been foretold to the king that his wife would give birth to two sons, and some

days before, certain shepherds had arrived in Paris, saying they were divinely inspired, so that it was said in

Paris that if two dauphins were born it would be the greatest misfortune which could happen to the State. The

Archbishop of Paris summoned these soothsayers before him, and ordered them to be imprisoned in

SaintLazare, because the populace was becoming excited about thema circumstance which filled the king

with care, as he foresaw much trouble to his kingdom. What had been predicted by the soothsayers happened,

whether they had really been warned by the constellations, or whether Providence by whom His Majesty had

been warned of the calamities which might happen to France interposed. The king had sent a messenger to

the cardinal to tell him of this prophecy, and the cardinal had replied that the matter, must be considered, that

the birth of two dauphins was not impossible, and should such a case arrive, the second must be carefully

hidden away, lest in the future desiring to be king he should fight against his brother in support of a new

"'The king in his suspense felt very uncomfortable, and as the queen began to utter cries we feared a second

confinement. We sent to inform the king, who was almost overcome by the thought that he was about to

become the father of two dauphins. He said to the Bishop of Meaux, whom he had sent for to minister to the

queen, " Do not quit my wife till she is safe; I am in mortal terror." Immediately after he summoned us all,

the Bishop of Meaux, the chancellor M. Honorat, Dame Peronete the midwife, and myself, and said to us in

presence of the queen, so that she could hear, that we would answer to him with our heads if we made known

the birth of a second dauphin; that it was his will that the fact should remain a state secret, to prevent the

misfortunes which would else happen, the Salic Law not having declared to whom the inheritance of the

"'What had been foretold happened: the queen, while the king was at supper, gave birth to a second dauphin,

more dainty and more beautiful than the first, but who wept and wailed unceasingly, as if he regretted to take

up that life in which he was afterwards to endure such suffering. The chancellor drew up the report of this

wonderful birth, without parallel in our history; but His Majesty not being pleased with its form, burned it in

our presence, and the chancellor had to write and rewrite till His Majesty was satisfied. The almoner

remonstrated, saying it would be impossible to hide the birth of a prince, but the king returned that he had

"'Afterwards the king made us register our oath, the chancellor signing it first, then the queen's confessor, and

I last. The oath was also signed by the surgeon and midwife who attended on the. queen, and the king

attached this document to the report, taking both away with him, and I never heard any more of either. I

remember that His Majesty consulted with the chancellor as to the form of the oath, and that he spoke for a

long time in an undertone to the cardinal: after which the lastborn child was given into the charge of the

midwife, and as they were always afraid she would babble about his birth, she has told me that they often

threatened her with death should she ever mention it: we were also forbidden to speak, even to each other, of

"'Not one of us has as yet violated his oath; for His Majesty dreaded nothing so much as a civil war brought

about by the two children born together, and the cardinal, who afterwards got the care of the second child into

his hands, kept that fear alive. The king also commanded us to examine the unfortunate prince minutely; he

had a wart above the left elbow, a mole on the right side of his neck, and a tiny wart on his right thigh; for His

Majesty was determined, and rightly so, that in case of the decease of the firstborn, the royal infant whom

he was entrusting to our care should take his place; wherefore he required our signmanual to the report of the

birth, to which a small royal seal was attached in our presence, and we all signed it after His Majesty,

according as he commanded. As to the shepherds who had foretold the double birth, never did I hear another

word of them, but neither did I inquire. The cardinal who took the mysterious infant in charge probably got

"'All through the infancy of the second prince Dame Peronete treated him as if he were her own child, giving

out that his father was a great nobleman; for everyone saw by the care she lavished on him and the expense

she went to, that although unacknowledged he was the cherished son of rich parents, and well cared for.

"'When the prince began to grow up, Cardinal Mazarin, who succeeded Cardinal Richelieu in the charge of

the prince's education, gave him into my hands to bring up in a manner worthy of a king's son, but in secret.

Dame Peronete continued in his service till her death, and was very much attached to him, and he still more

to her. The prince was instructed in my house in Burgundy, with all the care due to the son and brother of a

"'I had several conversations with the queen mother during the troubles in France, and Her Majesty always

seemed to fear that if the existence of the prince should be discovered during the lifetime of his brother, the

young king, malcontents would make it a pretext for rebellion, because many medical men hold that the

lastborn of twins is in reality the elder, and if so, he was king by right, while many others have a different

"'In spite of this dread, the queen could never bring herself to destroy the written evidence of his birth,

because in case of the death of the young king she intended to have his twinbrother proclaimed. She told me

"'I gave the illstarred prince such an education as I should have liked to receive myself, and no

acknowledged son of a king ever had a better. The only thing for which I have to reproach myself is that,

without intending it, I caused him great unhappiness; for when he was nineteen years old he had a burning

desire to know who he was, and as he saw that I was determined to be silent, growing more firm the more he

tormented me with questions, he made up his mind henceforward to disguise his curiosity and to make me

think that he believed himself a lovechild of my own. He began to call me 'father,' although when we were

alone I often assured him that he was mistaken; but at length I gave up combating this belief, which he

perhaps only feigned to make me speak, and allowed him to think he was my son, contradicting him no more;

but while he continued to dwell on this subject he was meantime making every effort to find out who he

really was. Two years passed thus, when, through an unfortunate piece of forgetfulness on my part, for which

I greatly blame myself, he became acquainted with the truth. He knew that the king had lately sent me several

messengers, and once having carelessly forgotten to lock up a casket containing letters from the queen and

the cardinals, he read part and divined the rest through his natural intelligence; and later confessed to me that

"'I can recall that from this time on, his manner to me showed no longer that respect for me in which I had

brought him up, but became hectoring and rude, and that I could not imagine the reason of the change, for I

never found out that he had searched my papers, and he never revealed to me how he got at the casket,

whether he was aided by some workmen whom he did not wish to betray, or had employed other means,

"'One day, however, he unguardedly asked me to show him the portraits of the late and the present king. I

answered that those that existed were so poor that I was waiting till better ones were taken before having

"'This answer, which did not satisfy him, called forth the request to be allowed to go to Dijon. I found out

afterwards that he wanted to see a portrait of the king which was there, and to get to the court, which was just

then at SaintJeandeLuz, because of the approaching marriage with the infanta; so that he might compare

himself with his brother and see if there were any resemblance between them. Having knowledge of his plan,

"'The young prince was at this time as beautiful as Cupid, and through the intervention of Cupid himself he

succeeded in getting hold of a portrait of his brother. One of the upper servants of the house, a young girl, had

taken his fancy, and he lavished such caresses on her and inspired her with so much love, that although the

whole household was strictly forbidden to give him anything without my permission, she procured him a

portrait of the king. The unhappy prince saw the likeness at once, indeed no one could help seeing it, for the

one portrait would serve equally well for either brother, and the sight produced such a fit of fury that he came

to me crying out, "There is my brother, and this tells me who I am!" holding out a letter from Cardinal

"'The dread lest the prince should escape and succeed in appearing at the marriage of his brother made me so

uneasy, that I sent off a messenger to the king to tell him that my casket had been opened, and asking for

instructions. The king sent back word through the cardinal that we were both to be shut up till further orders,

and that the prince was to be made to understand that the cause of our common misfortune was his absurd

claim. I have since shared his prison, but I believe that a decree of release has arrived from my heavenly

judge, and for my soul's health and for my ward's sake I make this declaration, that he may know what

measures to take in order to put an end to his ignominious estate should the king die without children. Can

any oath imposed under threats oblige one to be silent about such incredible events, which it is nevertheless

Such were the contents of the historical document given by the regent to the princess, and it suggests a crowd

of questions. Who was the prince's governor? Was he a Burgundian? Was he simply a landed proprietor, with

some property and a country house in Burgundy? How far was his estate from Dijon? He must have been a

man of note, for he enjoyed the most intimate confidence at the court of Louis XIII, either by virtue of his

office or because he was a favourite of the king, the queen, and Cardinal Richelieu. Can we learn from the list

of the nobles of Burgundy what member of their body disappeared from public life along with a young ward

whom he had brought up in his own house just after the marriage of Louis XIV? Why did he not attach his

signature to the declaration, which appears to be a hundred years old? Did he dictate it when so near death

that he had not strength to sign it? How did it find its way out of prison? And so forth.

There is no answer to all these questions, and I, for my part, cannot undertake to affirm that the document is

genuine. Abbe Soulavie relates that he one day "pressed the marshal for an answer to some questions on the

matter, asking, amongst other things, if it were not true that the prisoner was an elder brother of Louis XIV

born without the knowledge of Louis XIII. The marshal appeared very much embarrassed, and although he

did not entirely refuse to answer, what he said was not very explanatory. He averred that this important

personage was neither the illegitimate brother of Louis XIV, nor the Duke of Monmouth, nor the Comte de

Vermandois, nor the Duc de Beaufort, and so on, as so many writers had asserted." He called all their

writings mere inventions, but added that almost every one of them had got hold of some true incidents, as for

instance the order to kill the prisoner should he make himself known. Finally he acknowledged that he knew

the state secret, and used the following words: "All that I can tell you, abbe, is, that when the prisoner died at

the beginning of the century, at a very advanced age, he had ceased to be of such importance as when, at the

The above was written down under the eyes of the marshal, and when Abbe Soulavie entreated him to say

something further which, while not actually revealing the secret, would yet satisfy his questioner's curiosity,

the marshal answered, "Read M. de Voltaire's latest writings on the subject, especially his concluding words,

With the exception of Dulaure, all the critics have treated Soulavie's narrative with the most profound

contempt, and we must confess that if it was an invention it was a monstrous one, and that the concoction of

the famous note in cipher was abominable. "Such was the great secret; in order to find it out, I had to allow

myself 5, 12, 17, 15, 14, 1, three times by 8, 3." But unfortunately for those who would defend the morals of

Mademoiselle de Valois, it would be difficult to traduce the character of herself, her lover, and her father, for

what one knows of the trio justifies one in believing that the more infamous the conduct imputed to them, the

more likely it is to be true. We cannot see the force of the objection that Louvois would not have written in

the following terms to SaintMars in 1687 about a bastard son of Anne of Austria: "I see no objection to your

removing Chevalier de Thezut from the prison in which he is confined, and putting your prisoner there till the

one you are preparing for him is ready to receive him." And we cannot understand those who ask if

SaintMars, following the example of the minister, would have said of a prince "Until he is installed in the

prison which is being prepared for him here, which has a chapel adjoining"? Why should he have expressed

himself otherwise? Does it evidence an abatement of consideration to call a prisoner a prisoner, and his

A certain M. de SaintMihiel published an 8vo volume in 1791, at Strasbourg and Paris, entitled 'Le veritable

homme, dit au MASQUE DE FER, ouvrage dans lequel on fait connaitre, sur preuves incontestables, a qui le

celebre infortune dut le jour, quand et ou il naquit'. The wording of the title will give an idea of the bizarre

and barbarous jargon in which the whole book is written. It would be difficult to imagine the vanity and

selfsatisfaction which inspire this new reader of riddles. If he had found the philosopher's stone, or made a

discovery which would transform the world, he could not exhibit more pride and pleasure. All things

considered, the "incontestable proofs" of his theory do not decide the question definitely, or place it above all

attempts at refutation, any more than does the evidence on which the other theories which preceded and

followed his rest. But what he lacks before all other things is the talent for arranging and using his materials.

With the most ordinary skill he might have evolved a theory which would have defied criticism at least as

successfully, as the others, and he might have supported it by proofs, which if not incontestable (for no one

has produced such), had at least moral presumption in their favour, which has great weight in such a

mysterious and obscure affair, in trying to explain, which one can never leave on one side, the respect shown

by Louvois to the prisoner, to whom he always spoke standing and with uncovered head.

According to M. de SaintMihiel, the 'Man in the Iron Mask was a legitimate son of Anne of Austria and

He avers that Mazarin was only a deacon, and not a priest, when he became cardinal, having never taken

priest's orders, according to the testimony of the Princess Palatine, consort of Philip I, Duc d'Orleans, and that

it was therefore possible for him to marry, and that he did marry, Anne of Austria in secret.

"Old Madame Beauvais, principal woman of the bedchamber to the queen mother, knew of this ridiculous

marriage, and as the price of her secrecy obliged the queen to comply with all her whims. To this

circumstance the principal bedchamber women owe the extensive privileges accorded them ever since in

"The queen mother, consort of Louis XIII, had done worse than simply to fall in love with Mazarin, she had

married him, for he had never been an ordained priest, he had only taken deacon's orders. If he had been a

priest his marriage would have been impossible. He grew terribly tired of the good queen mother, and did not

live happily with her, which was only what he deserved for making such a marriage" (Letter of the Duchesse

"She (the queen mother) was quite easy in her conscience about Cardinal Mazarin; he was not in priest's

orders, and so could marry. The secret passage by which he reached the queen's rooms every evening still

The queen's, manner of conducting affairs is influenced by the passion which dominates her. When she and

the cardinal converse together, their ardent love for each other is betrayed by their looks and gestures; it is

plain to see that when obliged to part for a time they do it with great reluctance. If what people say is true,

that they are properly married, and that their union has been blessed by Pere Vincent the missioner, there is

no harm in all that goes on between them, either in public or in private" ('Requete civile contre la Conclusion

The Man in the Iron Mask told the apothecary in the Bastille that he thought he was about sixty years of age

('Questions sur d'Encyclopedie'). Thus he must have been born in 1644, just at the time when Anne of Austria

Can we find any incident recorded in history which lends support to the supposition that Anne of Austria had

"In 1644, Anne of Austria being dissatisfied with her apartments in the Louvre, moved to the Palais Royal,

which had been left to the king by Richelieu. Shortly after taking up residence there she was very ill with a

severe attack of jaundice, which was caused, in the opinion of the doctors, by worry, anxiety, and overwork,

and which pulled her down greatly" ('Memoire de Madame de Motteville, 4 vols. 12mo, Vol i. p. 194).

"This anxiety, caused by the pressure of public business, was most probably only dwelt on as a pretext for a

pretended attack of illness. Anne of Austria had no cause for worry and anxiety till 1649. She did not begin to

complain of the despotism of Mazarin till towards the end of 1645" (Ibid., viol. i. pp. 272, 273).

"She went frequently to the theatre during her first year of widowhood, but took care to hide herself from

Abbe Soulavie, in vol. vi. of the 'Memoires de Richelieu', published in 1793, controverted the opinions of M.

de SaintMihiel, and again advanced those which he had published some time before, supporting them by a

The fruitlessness of research in the archives of the Bastille, and the importance of the political events which

were happening, diverted the attention of the public for some years from this subject. In the year 1800,

however, the 'Magazin encyclopedique' published (vol. vi. p. 472) an article entitled 'Memoires sur les

Problemes historiques, et la methode de les resoudre appliquee a celui qui concerne l'Homme au Masque de

Fer', signed C. D. O., in which the author maintained that the prisoner was the first minister of the Duke of

In the same year an octavo volume of 142 pages was produced by M. RouxFazillac. It bore the title

'Recherches historiques et critiques sur l'Homme au Masque de Fer, d'ou resultent des Notions certaines sur

ce prisonnier'. These researches brought to light a secret correspondence relative to certain negotiations and

intrigues, and to the abduction of a secretary of the Duke of Mantua whose name was Matthioli, and not

In 1802 an octavo pamphlet containing 11 pages, of which the author was perhaps Baron Lerviere, but which

was signed Reth, was published. It took the form of a letter to General Jourdan, and was dated from Turin,

and gave many details about Matthioli and his family. It was entitled 'Veritable Clef de l'Histoire de l'Homme

au Masque de Fer'. It proved that the secretary of the Duke of Mantua was carried off, masked, and

imprisoned, by order of Louis XIV in 1679, but it did not succeed in establishing as an undoubted fact that

It may be remembered that M. Crawfurd writing in 1798 had said in his 'Histoire de la Bastille' (8vo, 474

pages), "I cannot doubt that the Man in the Iron Mask was the son of Anne of Austria, but am unable to

decide whether he was a twinbrother of Louis XIV or was born while the king and queen lived apart, or

during her widowhood." M. Crawfurd, in his 'Melanges d'Histoire et de Litterature tires dun Portefeuille'

In 1825, M. Delort discovered in the archives several letters relating to Matthioli, and published his Histoire

de l'Homme au Masque de Fer (8vo). This work was translated into English by George AgarEllis, and

retranslated into French in 1830, under the title 'Histoire authentique du Prisonnier d'Etat, connu sons le Nom

de Masque de Fer'. It is in this work that the suggestion is made that the captive was the second son of Oliver

In 1826, M. de Taules wrote that, in his opinion, the masked prisoner was none other than the Armenian

Patriarch. But six years later the great success of my drama at the Odeon converted nearly everyone to the

version of which Soulavie was the chief exponent. The bibliophile Jacob is mistaken in asserting that I

followed a tradition preserved in the family of the Duc de Choiseul; M. le Duc de Bassano sent me a copy

made under his personal supervision of a document drawn up for Napoleon, containing the results of some

researches made by his orders on the subject of the Man in the Iron Mask. The original MS., as well as that of

the Memoires du Duc de Richelieu, were, the duke told me, kept at the Foreign Office. In 1834 the journal of

the Institut historique published a letter from M. Auguste Billiard, who stated that he had also made a copy of

this document for the late Comte de Montalivet, Home Secretary under the Empire.

M. Dufey (de l'Yonne) gave his 'Histoire de la Bastille' to the world in the same year, and was inclined to

Besides the many important personages on whom the famous mask had been placed, there was one whom

everyone had forgotten, although his name had been put forward by the minister Chamillart: this was the

celebrated Superintendent of Finance, Nicolas Fouquet. In 1837, Jacob, armed with documents and extracts,

once more occupied himself with this Chinese puzzle on which so much ingenuity had been lavished, but of

which no one had as yet got all the pieces into their places. Let us see if he succeeded better than his

The first feeling he awakes is one of surprise. It seems odd that he should again bring up the case of Fouquet,

who was condemned to imprisonment for life in 1664, confined in Pignerol under the care of SaintMars,

and whose death was announced (falsely according to Jacob) on March 23rd, 1680. The first thing to look for

in trying to get at the true history of the Mask is a sufficient reason of state to account for the persistent

concealment of the prisoner's features till his death; and next, an explanation of the respect shown him by

Louvois, whose attitude towards him would have been extraordinary in any age, but was doubly so during the

reign of Louis XIV, whose courtiers would have been the last persons in the world to render homage to the

misfortunes of a man in disgrace with their master. Whatever the real motive of the king's anger against

Fouquet may have been, whether Louis thought he arrogated to himself too much power, or aspired to rival

his master in the hearts of some of the king's mistresses, or even presumed to raise his eyes higher still, was

not the utter ruin, the lifelong captivity, of his enemy enough to satiate the vengeance of the king? What

could he desire more? Why should his anger, which seemed slaked in 1664, burst forth into hotter flames

seventeen years later, and lead him to inflict a new punishment? According to the bibliophile, the king being

wearied by the continual petitions for pardon addressed to him by the superintendent's family, ordered them

to be told that he was dead, to rid himself of their supplications. Colbert's hatred, says he, was the immediate

cause of Fouquet's fall; but even if this hatred hastened the catastrophe, are we to suppose that it pursued the

delinquent beyond the sentence, through the long years of captivity, and, renewing its energy, infected the

minds of the king and his councillors? If that were so, how shall we explain the respect shown by Louvois?

Colbert would not have stood uncovered before Fouquet in prison. Why should Colbert's colleague have done

It must, however, be confessed that of all existing theories, this one, thanks to the unlimited learning and

research of the bibliophile, has the greatest number of documents with the various interpretations thereof, the

1st, that the precautions taken when Fouquet was sent to Pignerol resembled in every respect those employed

later by the custodians of the Iron Mask, both at the Iles SainteMarguerite and at the Bastille;

2nd, that the majority of the traditions relative to the masked prisoner might apply to Fouquet;

3rd, that the Iron Mask was first heard of immediately after the announcement of the death of Fouquet in

4th, that there exists no irrefragable proof that Fouquet's death really occurred in the above year.

The decree of the Court of justice, dated 20th December 1664, banished Fouquet from the kingdom for life.

"But the king was of the opinion that it would be dangerous to let the said Fouquet leave the country, in

consideration of his intimate knowledge of the most important matters of state. Consequently the sentence of

perpetual banishment was commuted into that of perpetual imprisonment " ('Receuil des defenses de M.

Fouquet'). The instructions signed by the king and remitted to SaintMars forbid him to permit Fouquet to

hold any spoken or written communication with anyone whatsoever, or to leave his apartments for any cause,

not even for exercise. The great mistrust felt by Louvois pervades all his letters to Saint Mars. The

precautions which he ordered to be kept up were quite as stringent as in the case of the Iron Mask.

The report of the discovery of a shirt covered with writing, by a friar, which Abbe Papon mentions, may

perhaps be traced to the following extracts from two letters written by Louvois to SaintMars: "Your letter

has come to hand with the new handkerchief on which M. Fouquet has written" (18th Dec. 1665 ); "You can

tell him that if he continues too employ his tablelinen as notepaper he must not be surprised if you refuse

Pere Papon asserts that a valet who served the masked prisoner died in his master's room. Now the man who

waited on Fouquet, and who like him was sentenced to lifelong imprisonment, died in February 1680 (see

letter of Louvois to SaintMars, 12th March 1680). Echoes of incidents which took place at Pignerol might

have reached the Iles SainteMarguerite when SaintMars transferred his "former prisoner" from one fortress

to the other. The fine clothes and linen, the books, all those luxuries in fact that were lavished on the masked

prisoner, were not withheld from Fouquet. The furniture of a second room at Pignerol cost over 1200 livres

It is also known that until the year 1680 SaintMars had only two important prisoners at Pignerol, Fouquet

and Lauzun. However, his "former prisoner of Pignerol," according to Du Junca's diary, must have reached

the latter fortress before the end of August 1681, when SaintMars went to Exilles as governor. So that it was

in the interval between the 23rd March 1680, the alleged date of Fouquet's death, and the 1st September

1681, that the Iron Mask appeared at Pignerol, and yet SaintMars took only two prisoners to Exilles. One of

these was probably the Man in the Iron Mask; the other, who must have been Matthioli, died before the year

1687, for when SaintMars took over the governorship in the month of January of that year of the Iles

SainteMarguerite he brought only ONE prisoner thither with him. "I have taken such good measures to

guard my prisoner that I can answer to you for his safety" ('Lettres de SaintMars a Louvois', 20th January

In the correspondence of Louvois with SaintMars we find, it is true, mention of the death of Fouquet on

March 23rd, 1680, but in his later correspondence Louvois never says "the late M. Fouquet," but speaks of

him, as usual, as "M. Fouquet" simply. Most historians have given as a fact that Fouquet was interred in the

same vault as his father in the chapel of SaintFrancois de Sales in the convent church belonging to the

Sisters of the Order of the VisitationSainteMarie, founded in the beginning of the seventeenth century by

Madame de Chantal. But proof to the contrary exists; for the subterranean portion of St. Francis's chapel was

closed in 1786, the last person interred there being Adelaide Felicite Brulard, with whom ended the house of

Sillery. The convent was shut up in 1790, and the church given over to the Protestants in 1802 ; who

continued to respect the tombs. In 1836 the Cathedral chapter of Bourges claimed the remains of one of their

archbishops buried there in the time of the Sisters of SainteMarie. On this occasion all the coffins were

examined and all the inscriptions carefully copied, but the name of Nicolas Fouquet is absent.

Voltaire says in his 'Dictionnaire philosophique', article "Ana," "It is most remarkable that no one knows

But in spite of all these coincidences, this carefully constructed theory was wrecked on the same point on

which the theory that the prisoner was either the Duke of Monmouth or the Comte de Vermandois came to

grief, viz. a letter from Barbezieux, dated 13th August 1691, in which occur the words, "THE PRISONER

WHOM YOU HAVE HAD IN CHARGE FOR TWENTY YEARS." According to this testimony, which

Jacob had successfully used against his predecessors, the prisoner referred to could not have been Fouquet,

We have now impartially set before our readers all the opinions which have been held in regard to the

solution of this formidable enigma. For ourselves, we hold the belief that the Man in the Iron Mask stood on

the steps of the throne. Although the mystery cannot be said to be definitely cleared up, one thing stands out

firmly established among the mass of conjecture we have collected together, and that is, that wherever the

prisoner appeared he was ordered to wear a mask on pain of death. His features, therefore, might during half

a century have brought about his recognition from one end of France to the other; consequently, during the

same space of time there existed in France a face resembling the prisoner's known through all her provinces,

Whose face could this be, if not that of Louis XVI, twinbrother of the Man in the Iron Mask?

Our task has been limited to that of an examining judge at a trial, and we feel sure that our readers will not be

sorry that we have left them to choose amid all the conflicting explanations of the puzzle. No consistent

narrative that we might have concocted would, it seems to us, have been half as interesting to them as to

allow them to follow the devious paths opened up by those who entered on the search for the heart of the

mystery. Everything connected with the masked prisoner arouses the most vivid curiosity. And what end had

we in view? Was it not to denounce a crime and to brand the perpetrator thereof? The facts as they stand are

sufficient for our object, and speak more eloquently than if used to adorn a tale or to prove an ingenious

We are sometimes astonished at the striking resemblance existing between two persons who are absolute

strangers to each other, but in fact it is the opposite which ought to surprise us. Indeed, why should we not

rather admire a Creative Power so infinite in its variety that it never ceases to produce entirely different

combinations with precisely the same elements? The more one considers this prodigious versatility of form,

To begin with, each nation has its own distinct and characteristic type, separating it from other races of men.

Thus there are the English, Spanish, German, or Slavonic types; again, in each nation we find families

distinguished from each other by less general but still wellpronounced features; and lastly, the individuals of

each family, differing again in more or less marked gradations. What a multitude of physiognomies! What

variety of impression from the innumerable stamps of the human countenance! What millions of models and

no copies! Considering this ever changing spectacle, which ought to inspire us with most astonishmentthe

perpetual difference of faces or the accidental resemblance of a few individuals? Is it impossible that in the

whole wide world there should be found by chance two people whose features are cast in one and the same

mould? Certainly not; therefore that which ought to surprise us is not that these duplicates exist here and

there upon the earth, but that they are to be met with in the same place, and appear together before our eyes,

little accustomed to see such resemblances. From Amphitryon down to our own days, many fables have owed

their origin to this fact, and history also has provided a few examples, such as the false Demetrius in Russia,

the English Perkin Warbeck, and several other celebrated impostors, whilst the story we now present to our

On the 10th of, August 1557, an inauspicious day in the history of France, the roar of cannon was still heard

at six in the evening in the plains of St. Quentin; where the French army had just been destroyed by the united

troops of England and Spain, commanded by the famous Captain Emanuel Philibert, Duke of Savoy. An

utterly beaten infantry, the Constable Montmorency and several generals taken prisoner, the Duke d'Enghien

mortally wounded, the flower of the nobility cut down like grass,such were the terrible results of a battle

which plunged France into mourning, and which would have been a blot on the reign of Henry II, had not the

In a little village less than a mile from the field of battle were to be heard the groans of the wounded and

dying, who had been carried thither from the field of battle. The inhabitants had given up their houses to be

used as hospitals, and two or three barber surgeons went hither and thither, hastily ordering operations which

they left to their assistants, and driving out fugitives who had contrived to accompany the wounded under

pretence of assisting friends or near relations. They had already expelled a good number of these poor

fellows, when, opening the door of a small room, they found a soldier soaked in blood lying on a rough mat,

"Who are you?" said one of the surgeons to the sufferer. "I don't think you belong to our French troops."

"From the colour of that tunic," remarked the other surgeon, "I should wager the rascal belongs to some

"Die, wretch!" responded the last speaker, pushing him with his foot. "Die, like the dog you are!"

But this brutality, answered as it was by an agonised groan, disgusted the other surgeon.

"After all, he is a man, and a wounded man who implores help. Leave him to me, Rene."

Rene went out grumbling, and the one who remained proceeded to examine the wound. A terrible

arquebusshot had passed through the leg, shattering the bone: amputation was absolutely necessary.

Before proceeding to the operation, the surgeon turned to the other soldier, who had retired into the darkest

The man replied by coming forward into the light: no other answer was needed. He resembled his companion

so closely that no one could doubt they were brotherstwin brothers, probably. Both were above middle

height; both had olivebrown complexions, black eyes, hooked noses, pointed chins, a slightly projecting

lower lip; both were roundshouldered, though this defect did not amount to disfigurement: the whole

personality suggested strength, and was not destitute of masculine beauty. So strong a likeness is hardly ever

seen; even their ages appeared to agree, for one would not have supposed either to be more than thirtytwo;

and the only difference noticeable, besides the pale countenance of the wounded man, was that he was thin as

compared with the moderate fleshiness of the other, also that he had a large scar over the right eyebrow.

"Look well after your brother's soul," said the surgeon to the soldier, who remained standing; "if it is in no

"The wound is too large and too deep," replied the man of science, "to be cauterised with boiling oil,

according to the ancient method. 'Delenda est causa mali,' the source of evil must be destroyed, as says the

learned Ambrose Pare; I ought therefore 'secareferro,'that is to say, take off the leg. May God grant that he

While seeking his instruments, he looked the supposed brother full in the face, and added

"But how is it that you are carrying muskets in opposing armies, for I see that you belong to us, while this

"Oh, that would be a long story to tell," replied the soldier, shaking his head. "As for me, I followed the

career which was open to me, and took service of my own free will under the banner of our lord king, Henry

II. This man, whom you rightly suppose to be my brother, was born in Biscay, and became attached to the

household of the Cardinal of Burgos, and afterwards to the cardinal's brother, whom he was obliged to follow

to the war. I recognised him on the battlefield just as he fell; I dragged him out of a heap of dead, and

During his recital this individual's features betrayed considerable agitation, but the surgeon did not heed it.

Not finding some necessary instruments, "My colleague," he exclaimed, "must have carried them off. He

constantly does this, out of jealousy of my reputation; but I will be even with him yet! Such splendid

instruments! They will almost work of themselves, and are capable of imparting some skill even to him,

dunce as he is!... I shall be back in an hour or two; he must rest, sleep, have nothing to excite him, nothing to

inflame the wound; and when the operation is well over, we shall see! May the Lord be gracious to him!"

Then he went to the door, leaving the poor wretch to the care of his supposed brother.

"My God!" he added, shaking his head, "if he survive, it will be by the help of a miracle."

Scarcely had he left the room, when the unwounded soldier carefully examined the features of the wounded

"Yes," he murmured between his teeth, "they were right in saying that my exact double was to be found in the

hostile army . . . . Truly one would not know us apart! . . . I might be surveying myself in a mirror. I did well

to look for him in the rear of the Spanish army, and, thanks to the fellow who rolled him over so conveniently

with that arquebusshot; I was able to escape the dangers of the melee by carrying him out of it."

"But that's not all," he thought, still carefully studying the tortured face of the unhappy sufferer; "it is not

enough to have got out of that. I have absolutely nothing in the world, no home, no resources. Beggar by

birth, adventurer by fortune, I have enlisted, and have consumed my pay; I hoped for plunder, and here we

are in full flight! What am I to do? Go and drown myself? No, certainly a cannonball would be as good as

that. But can't I profit by this chance, and obtain a decent position by turning to my own advantage this

curious resemblance, and making some use of this man whom Fate has thrown in my way, and who has but a

Arguing thus, he bent over the prostrate man with a cynical laugh: one might have thought he was Satan

"Alas! alas!" cried the sufferer; "may God have mercy on me! I feel my end is near."

"Bah! comrade, drive away these dismal thoughts. Your leg pains you well they will cut it off! Think only

"Water, a drop of water, for Heaven's sake!" The sufferer was in a high fever. The wouldbe nurse looked

round and saw a jug of water, towards which the dying man extended a trembling hand. A truly infernal idea

entered his mind. He poured some water into a gourd which hung from his belt, held it to the lips of the

His tormentor allowed him to swallow a mouthful, then overwhelmed him with questions as to his family, his

friends and fortune, and compelled him to answer by keeping before his eyes the water which alone could

relieve the fever which devoured him. After this often interrupted interrogation, the sufferer sank back

exhausted, and almost insensible. But, not yet satisfied, his companion conceived the idea of reviving him

with a few drops of brandy, which quickly brought back the fever, and excited his brain sufficiently to enable

him to answer fresh questions. The doses of spirit were doubled several times, at the risk of ending the

unhappy man's days then and there: Almost delirious, his head feeling as if on fire, his sufferings gave way to

a feverish excitement, which took him back to other places and other times: he began to recall the days of his

youth and the country where he lived. But his tongue was still fettered by a kind of reserve: his secret

thoughts, the private details of his past life were not yet told, and it seemed as though he might die at any

moment. Time was passing, night already coming on, and it occurred to the merciless questioner to profit by

the gathering darkness. By a few solemn words he aroused the religious feelings of the sufferer, terrified him

by speaking of the punishments of another life and the flames of hell, until to the delirious fancy of the sick

man he took the form of a judge who could either deliver him to eternal damnation or open the gates of

heaven to him. At length, overwhelmed by a voice which resounded in his ear like that of a minister of God,

the dying man laid bare his inmost soul before his tormentor, and made his last confession to him.

Yet a few moments, and the executionerhe deserves no other name hangs over his victim, opens his

tunic, seizes some papers and a few coins, half draws his dagger, but thinks better of it; then, contemptuously

"I might kill you," he says, "but it would be a useless murder; it would only be hastening your last Sigh by an

hour or two, and advancing my claims to your inheritance by the same space of time."

Four months later, a woman sat at the door of a house at one end ,of the village of Artigues, near Rieux, and

played with a child about nine or ten years of age. Still young, she had the brown complexion of Southern

women, and her beautiful black hair fell in curls about her face. Her flashing eyes occasionally betrayed

hidden passions, concealed, however, beneath an apparent indifference and lassitude, and her wasted form

seemed to acknowledge the existence of some secret grief. An observer would have divined a shattered life, a

Her dress was that of a wealthy peasant; and she wore one of the long gowns with hanging sleeves which

were in fashion in the sixteenth century. The house in front of which she sat belonged to her, so also the

immense field which adjoined the garden. Her attention was divided between the play of her son and the

orders she was giving to an old servant, when an exclamation from the child startled her.

She looked where the child pointed, and saw a young boy turning the corner of the street.

"Yes," continued the child, "that is the lad who, when I was playing with the other boys yesterday, called me

"There was one I did not understand, but it must have been a very bad one, for the other boys all pointed at

me, and left me alone. He called meand he said it was only what his mother had told himhe called me a

His mother's face became purple with indignation. "What!" she cried, "they dared! . . . What an insult!"

"What does this bad word mean, mother?" asked the child, half frightened by her anger. "Is that what they

His mother folded him in her arms. "Oh!" she continued, "it is an infamous slander! These people never saw

your father, they have only been here six years, and this is the eighth since he went away, but this is

abominable! We were married in that church, we came at once to live in this house, which was my marriage

portion, and my poor Martin has relations and friends here who will not allow his wife to be insulted"

"Ah! uncle!" exclaimed the woman, turning towards an old man who had just emerged from the house.

"Yes, Bertrande," continued the newcomer, "you must get reconciled to the idea that my nephew has ceased

to exist. I am sure he was not such a fool as to have remained all this time without letting us hear from him.

He was not the fellow to go off at a tangent, on account of a domestic quarrel which you have never

vouchsafed to explain to me, and to retain his anger during all these eight years! Where did he go? What did

he do? We none of us know, neither you nor I, nor anybody else. He is assuredly dead, and lies in some

Bertrande, weeping, made the sign of the cross, and bowed her head upon her hands.

"Goodbye, Sanxi," said the uncle, tapping the child's,' cheek. Sanxi turned sulkily away.

There was certainly nothing specially attractive about the uncle: he belonged to a type which children

instinctively dislike, false, crafty, with squinting eyes which continually appeared to contradict his honeyed

"Bertrande," he said, "your boy is like his father before him, and only answers my kindness with rudeness."

"Forgive him," answered the mother; "he is very young, and does not understand the respect due to his

father's uncle. I will teach him better things; he will soon learn that he ought to be grateful for the care you

"No doubt, no doubt," said the uncle, trying hard to smile. "I will give you a good account of it, for I shall

only have to reckon with you two in future. Come, my dear, believe me, your husband is really dead, and you

So saying, he departed, leaving the poor young woman a prey to the saddest thoughts.

Bertrande de Rolls, naturally gifted with extreme sensibility, on which a careful education had imposed due

restraint, had barely completed her twelfth year when she was married to Martin Guerre, a boy of about the

same age, such precocious unions being then not uncommon, especially in the Southern provinces. They were

generally settled by considerations of family interest, assisted by the extremely early development habitual to

the climate. The young couple lived for a long time as brother and sister, and Bertrande, thus early familiar

with the idea of domestic happiness, bestowed her whole affection on the youth whom she had been taught to

regard as her life's companion. He was the Alpha and Omega of her existence; all her love, all her thoughts,

were given to him, and when their marriage was at length completed, the birth of a son seemed only another

link in the already long existing bond of union. But, as many wise men have remarked, a uniform happiness,

which only attaches women more and more, has often upon men a precisely contrary effect, and so it was

with Martin Guerre. Of a lively and excitable temperament, he wearied of a yoke which had been imposed so

early, and, anxious to see the world and enjoy some freedom, he one day took advantage of a domestic

difference, in which Bertrande owned herself to have been wrong, and left his house and family. He was

sought and awaited in vain. Bertrande spent the first month in vainly expecting his return, then she betook

herself to prayer; but Heaven appeared deaf to her supplications, the truant returned not. She wished to go in

search of him, but the world is wide, and no single trace remained to guide her. What torture for a tender

heart! What suffering for a soul thirsting for love! What sleepless nights! What restless vigils! Years passed

thus; her son was growing up, yet not a word reached her from the man she loved so much. She spoke often

of him to the uncomprehending child, she sought to discover his features in those of her boy, but though she

endeavoured to concentrate her whole affection on her son, she realised that there is suffering which maternal

love cannot console, and tears which it cannot dry. Consumed by the strength of the sorrow which ever dwelt

in her heart, the poor woman was slowly wasting, worn out by the regrets of the past, the vain desires of the

present, and the dreary prospect of the future. And now she had been openly insulted, her feelings as a mother

wounded to the quirk; and her husband's uncle, instead of defending and consoling her, could give only cold

Pierre Guerre, indeed, was simply a thorough egotist. In his youth he had been charged with usury; no one

knew by what means he had become rich, for the little drapery trade which he called his profession did not

After his nephew's departure it seemed only natural that he should pose as the family guardian, and he

applied himself to the task of increasing the little income, but without considering himself bound to give any

account to Bertrande. So, once persuaded that Martin was no more, he was apparently not unwilling to

Night was fast coming on; in the dim twilight distant objects became confused and indistinct. It was the end

of autumn, that melancholy season which suggests so many gloomy thoughts and recalls so many blighted

hopes. The child had gone into the house. Bertrande, still sitting at the door, resting her forehead on her hand,

thought sadly of her uncle's words; recalling in imagination the past scenes which they suggested, the time of

their childhood, when, married so young, they were as yet only playmates, prefacing the graver duties of life

by innocent pleasures; then of the love which grew with their increasing age; then of how this love became

altered, changing on her side into passion, on his into indifference. She tried to recollect him as he had been

on the eve of his departure, young and handsome, carrying his head high, coming home from a fatiguing hunt

and sitting by his son's cradle; and then also she remembered bitterly the jealous suspicions she had

conceived, the anger with which she had allowed them to escape her, the consequent quarrel, followed by the

disappearance of her offended husband, and the eight succeeding years of solitude and mourning. She wept

over his desertion; over the desolation of her life, seeing around her only indifferent or selfish people, and

caring only to live for her child's sake, who gave her at least a shadowy reflection of the husband she had lost.

"Lostyes, lost for ever!" she said to herself, sighing, and looking again at the fields whence she had so

often seen him coming at this same twilight hour, returning to his home for the evening meal. She cast a

wandering eye on the distant hills, which showed a black outline against a yet fiery western sky, then let it

fall on a little grove of olive trees planted on the farther side of the brook which skirted her dwelling.

Everything was calm; approaching night brought silence along with darkness: it was exactly what she saw

She rose to reenter the house, when her attention was caught by a movement amongst the trees. For a

moment she thought she was mistaken, but the branches again rustled, then parted asunder, and the form of a

man appeared on the other side of the brook. Terrified, Bertrande tried to scream, but not a sound escaped her

lips; her voice seemed paralyzed by terror, as in an evil dream. And she almost thought it was a dream, for

notwithstanding the dark shadows cast around this indistinct semblance, she seemed to recognise features

once dear to her. Had her bitter reveries ended by making her the victim of a hallucination? She thought her

brain was giving way, and sank on her knees to pray for help. But the figure remained; it stood motionless,

with folded arms, silently gazing at her! Then she thought of witchcraft, of evil demons, and superstitious as

every one was in those days, she kissed a crucifix which hung from her neck, and fell fainting on the ground.

"Bertrande!" it said in a voice of emotion. She raised her head, uttered a piercing cry, and was clasped in her

The whole village became aware of this event that same evening. The neighbours crowded round Bertrande's

door, Martin's friends and relations naturally wishing to see him after this miraculous reappearance, while

those who had never known him desired no less to gratify their curiosity; so that the hero of the little drama,

instead of remaining quietly at home with his wife, was obliged to exhibit himself publicly in a neighbouring

barn. His four sisters burst through the crowd and fell on his neck weeping; his uncle examined him

doubtfully ,at first, then extended his arms. Everybody recognised him, beginning with the old servant

Margherite, who had been with the young couple ever since their weddingday. People observed only that a

riper age had strengthened his features, and given more character to his countenance and more development

to his powerful figure; also that he had a scar over the right eyebrow, and that he limped slightly. These were

the marks of wounds he had received, he said; which now no longer troubled him. He appeared anxious to

return to his wife and child, but the crowd insisted on hearing the story of his adventures during his voluntary

absence, and he was obliged to satisfy them. Eight years ago, he said, the desire to see more of the world had

gained an irresistible mastery over him; he yielded to it, and departed secretly. A natural longing took him to

his birthplace in Biscay, where he had seen his surviving relatives. There he met the Cardinal of Burgos, who

took him into his service, promising him profit, hard knocks to give and take, and plenty of adventure. Some

time after, he left the cardinal's household for that of his brother, who, much against his will, compelled him

to follow him to the war and bear arms against the French. Thus he found himself on the Spanish side on the

day of St. Quentin, and received a terrible gunshot wound in the leg. Being carried into a house a an

adjoining village, he fell into the hands of a surgeon, who insisted that the leg must be amputated

immediately, but who left him for a moment, and never returned. Then he encountered a good old woman,

who dressed his wound and nursed him night and day. So that in a few weeks he recovered, and was able to

set out for Artigues, too thankful to return to his house and land, still more to his wife and child, and fully

Having ended his story, he shook hands with his still wondering neighbours, addressing by name some who

had been very young when he left, and who, hearing their names, came forward now as grown men, hardly

recognisable, but much pleased at being remembered. He returned his sisters' carresses, begged his uncle's

forgiveness for the trouble he had given in his boyhood, recalling with mirth the various corrections received.

He mentioned also an Augustinian monk who had taught him to read, and another reverend father, a

Capuchin, whose irregular conduct had caused much scandal in the neighbourhood. In short, notwithstanding

his prolonged absence, he seemed to have a perfect recollection of places, persons, and things. The good

people overwhelmed him with congratulations, vying with one another in praising him for having the good

sense to come home, and in describing the grief and the perfect virtue of his Bertrande. Emotion was excited,

many wept, and several bottles from Martin Guerre's cellar were emptied. At length the assembly dispersed,

uttering many exclamations about the extraordinary chances of Fate, and retired to their own homes, excited,

astonished, and gratified, with the one exception of old Pierre Guerre, who had been struck by an

unsatisfactory remark made by his nephew, and who dreamed all night about the chances of pecuniary loss

It was midnight before the husband and wife were alone and able to give vent to their feelings. Bertrande still

felt half stupefied; she could not believe her own eyes and ears, nor realise that she saw again in her marriage

chamber her husband of eight years ago, him for whom she had wept; whose death she had deplored only a

few hours previously. In the sudden shock caused by so much joy succeeding so much grief, she had not been

able to express what she felt; her confused ideas were difficult to explain, and she seemed deprived of the

powers of speech and reflection. When she became calmer and more capable of analysing her feelings, she

was astonished not to feel towards her husband the same affection which had moved her so strongly a few

hours before. It was certainly himself, those were the same features, that was the man to whom she had

willingly given her hand, her heart, herself, and yet now that she saw him again a cold barrier of shyness, of

modesty, seemed to have risen between them. His first kiss, even, had not made her happy: she blushed and

felt saddeneda curious result of the long absence! She could not define the changes wrought by years in his

appearance: his countenance seemed harsher, yet the lines of his face, his outer man, his whole personality,

did not seem altered, but his soul had changed its nature, a different mind looked forth from those eyes.

Bertrande knew him for her husband, and yet she hesitated. Even so Penelope, on the, return of Ulysses,

required a certain proof to confirm the evidence of her eyes, and her long absent husband had to remind her

Martin, however, as if he understood Bertrande's feeling and divined some secret mistrust, used the most

tender and affectionate phrases, and even the very pet names which close intimacy had formerly endeared to

"My queen," he said, "my beautiful dove, can you not lay aside your resentment? Is it still so strong that no

submission can soften it? Cannot my repentance find grace in your eyes? My Bertrande, my Bertha, my

She tried to smile, but stopped short, puzzled; the names were the very same, but the inflexion of voice quite

Martin took her hands in his. "What pretty hands! Do you still wear my ring? Yes, here it is, and with it the

Bertrande did not answer, but she took the child and placed him in his father's arms.

Martin showered caresses on his son, and spoke of the time when he carried him as a baby in the garden,

lifting him up to the fruit trees, so that he could reach and try to bite the fruit. He recollected one day when

the poor child got his leg terribly torn by thorns, and convinced himself, not without emotion, that the scar

Bertrande was touched by this display of affectionate recollections, and felt vexed at her own coldness. She

"My departure caused you great grief: I now repent what I did. But I was young, I was proud, and your

"It was little Rose, our neighbour, whom you said I was making love to, because you found us together at the

spring in the little wood. I explained that we met only by chance,besides, she was only a child,but you

"In your blind anger you took up, I know not what, something which lay handy, and flung it at me. And here

Much moved, Bertrande swept aside his hair, and looked at the scar visible on his forehead.

"But," she said, with surprise not free from alarm, "this scar seems to me like a fresh one."

"Ah!" Martin explained, with a, little embarrassment; "it reopened lately. But I had thought no more about it.

Let us forget it, Bertrande; I should not like a recollection which might make you think yourself less dear to

"Send the child to bed," said Martin. "Tomorrow shall be for him; tonight you have the first place,

Bertrande came and knelt beside her husband, regarding him attentively with an uneasy smile, which did not

"I do not knowforgive me, oh! forgive me! . . . But the happiness of seeing you was so great and

unexpected, it is all like a dream. I must try to become accustomed to it; give me some time to collect myself;

let me spend this night in prayer. I ought to offer my joy and my thanksgiving to Almighty God"

"Not so," interrupted her husband, passing his arms round her neck and stroking her beautiful hair. "No; 'tis to

me that your first thoughts are due. After so much weariness, my rest is in again beholding you, and my

happiness after so many trials will be found in your love. That hope has supported me throughout, and I long

"What!" he exclaimed angrily. " Bertrande, is this your love? Is it thus you keep faith with me? You will

make me doubt the evidence of your friends; you will make me think that indifference, or even another

He caught her in his arms. "No, no; I think nothing which could wound you, my queen, and I believe your

fidelity, even as before, you know, on that first journey, when you wrote me these loving letters which I have

treasured ever since. Here they are." And he drew forth some papers, on which Bertrande recognised her own

handwriting. "Yes," he continued, "I have read and reread them.... See, you spoke then of your love and

the sorrows of absence. But why all this trouble and terror? You tremble, just as you did when I first received

you from your father's hands.... It was here, in this very room.... You begged me then to leave you, to let you

spend the night in prayer; but I insisted, do you remember? and pressed you to my heart, as I do now."

But the words were intercepted by a kiss, and the remembrance of the past, the happiness of the present,

resumed their sway; the imaginary terrors were forgotten, and the curtains closed around the marriage bed.

The next day was a festival in the village of Artigues. Martin returned the visits of all who had come to

welcome him the previous night, and there were endless recognitions and embracings. The young men

remembered that he had played with them when they were little; the old men, that they had been at his

The women remembered having envied Bertrande, especially the pretty Rose, daughter of Marcel, the

apothecary, she who had roused the demon of jealousy in, the poor wife's heart. And Rose knew quite well

that the jealousy was not without some cause; for Martin had indeed shown her attention, and she was unable

to see him again without emotion. She was now the wife of a rich peasant, ugly, old, and jealous, and she

compared, sighing, her unhappy lot with that of her more fortunate neighbour. Martin's sisters detained him

amongst them, and spoke of their childish games and of their parents, both dead in Biscay. Martin dried the

tears which flowed at these recollections of the past, and turned their thoughts to rejoicing. Banquets were

given and received. Martin invited all his relations and former friends; an easy gaiety prevailed. It was

remarked that the hero of the feast refrained from wine; he was thereupon reproached, but answered that on

account of the wounds he had received he was obliged to avoid excess. The excuse was admitted, the result of

Martin's precautions being that he kept a clear head on his shoulders, while all the rest had their tongues

"Ah!" exclaimed one of the guests, who had studied a little medicine, "Martin is quite right to be afraid of

drink. Wounds which have thoroughly healed may be reopened and inflamed by intemperance, and wine in

the case of recent wounds is deadly poison. Men have died on the field of battle in an hour or two merely

Martin Guerre grew pale, and began a conversation with the pretty Rose, his neighbour. Bertrande observed

this, but without uneasiness; she had suffered too much from her former suspicions, besides her husband

When the first few days were over, Martin began to look into his affairs. His property had suffered by his

long absence, and he was obliged to go to Biscay to claim his little estate there, the law having already laid

hands upon it. It was several months before, by dint of making judicious sacrifices, he could regain

possession of the house and fields which had belonged to his father. This at last accomplished, he returned to

Artigues, in order to resume the management of his wife's property, and with this end in view, about eleven

Pierre was expecting him; he was extremely polite, desired Martin , to sit down, overwhelmed him with

compliments, knitting his brows as he discovered that his nephew decidedly meant business. Martin broke

"Uncle," he said, "I come to thank you for the care you have taken of my wife's property; she could never

have managed it alone. You have received the income in the family interest: as a good guardian, I expected

no less from your affection. But now that I have returned, and am free from other cares, we will go over the

His uncle coughed and cleared his voice before replying, then said slowly, as if counting his words

"It is all accounted for, my dear nephew; Heaven be praised! I don't owe you anything."

"What! a thousand livres for that? And Bertrande lived alone, so quietly and simply! Nonsense! it is

"Any surplus," resumed the old man, quite unmoved," any surplus went to pay the expenses of seedtime

Pierre thought it advisable to appear extremely offended and angry, and Martin, exasperated at his evident

dishonesty, took still higher ground, and threatened to bring an action against him. Pierre ordered him to

leave the house, and suiting actions to words, took hold of his arm to enforce his departure. Martin, furious,

Martin's hand dropped, but he left the house uttering reproaches and insults, among which Pierre

"That is a word I shall remember," cried the angry old man, slamming his door violently.

Martin brought an action before the judge at Rieux, and in course of time obtained a decree, which, reviewing

the accounts presented by Pierre, disallowed them, and condemned the dishonest guardian to pay his nephew

four hundred livres for each year of his administration. The day on which this sum had to be disbursed from

his strong box the old usurer vowed vengeance, but until he could gratify his hatred he was forced to conceal

it, and to receive attempts at reconciliation with a friendly smile. It was not until six months later, on the

occasion of a joyous festivity, that Martin again set foot in his uncle's house. The bells were ringing for the

birth of a child, there was great gaiety at Bertrande's house, where all the guests were waiting on the

threshold for the godfather in order to take the infant to church, and when Martin appeared, escorting his

uncle, who was adorned with a huge bouquet for the occasion, and who now came forward and took the hand

of Rose, the pretty godmother, there were cries of joy on all sides. Bertrande was delighted at this

reconciliation, and dreamed only of happiness. She was so happy now, her long sorrow was atoned for, her

regret was at an end, her prayers seemed to have been heard, the long interval between the former delights

and the present seemed wiped out as if the bond of union had never been broken, and if she remembered her

grief at all, it was only to intensify the new joys by comparison. She loved her husband more than ever; he

was full of affection for her, and she was grateful for his love. The past had now no shadow, the future no

cloud, and the birth of a daughter, drawing still closer the links which united them, seemed a new pledge of

felicity. Alas! the horizon which appeared so bright and clear to the poor woman was doomed soon again to

The very evening of the christening party, a band of musicians and jugglers happened to pass through the

village, and the inhabitants showed themselves liberal. Pierre asked questions, and found that the leader of the

band was a Spaniard. He invited the man to his own house, and remained closeted with him for nearly an

hour, dismissing him at length with a refilled purse. Two days later the old man announced to the family that

he was going to Picardy to see a former partner on a matter of business, and he departed accordingly, saying

The day on which Bertrande again saw her uncle was, indeed, a terrible one. She was sitting by the cradle of

the latelyborn infant, watching for its awakening, when the door opened, and Pierre Guerre strode in.

Bertrande drew back with an instinct of terror as soon as she saw him, for his expression was at once wicked

and joyfulan expression of gratified hate, of mingled rage and triumph, and his smile was terrible to

behold. She did not venture to speak, but motioned him to a seat. He came straight up to her, and raising his

"Oh!" said Pierre, with bitter irony, "a woman always thinks herself innocent as long as her sin is hidden; she

thinks the truth will never be known, and her conscience goes quietly to sleep, forgetting her faults. Here is a

woman who thought her sins nicely concealed; chance favoured her: an absent husband, probably no more;

another man so exactly like him in height, face, and manner that everyone else is deceived! Is it strange that a

weak, sensitive woman, wearied of widowhood, should willingly allow herself to be imposed on?"

Bertrande listened without understanding; she tried to interrupt, but Pierre went on

"It was easy to accept this stranger without having to blush for it, easy to give him the name and the rights of

a husband! She could even appear faithful while really guilty; she could seem constant, though really fickle;

and she could, under a veil of mystery, at once reconcile her honour, her dutyperhaps even her love."

Feeling as if the ground were passing from beneath her, Bertrande staggered, and caught at the nearest piece

of furniture to save herself from falling; then, collecting all her strength to meet this extraordinary attack, she

This cry, which came from her heart, convinced Pierre that she did not know, and that she had sustained a

"Pierre, you are killing me; your words are torture. No more mystery, I entreat. What do you know? What do

"God is my witness that I would willingly have kept it from you, but you must know; if only for the safety of

your soul entangled in so deadly a snare,... there is yet time, if you follow my advice. Listen: the man with

whom you are living, who dares to call himself Martin Guerre, is a cheat, an impostor"

"Because I have discovered it. Yes, I had always a vague suspicion, an uneasy feeling, and in spite of the

marvellous resemblance I could never feel as if he were really my sister's child. The day he raised his hand to

strike meyes, that day I condemned him utterly.... Chance has justified me! A wandering Spaniard, an old

soldier, who spent a night in the village here, was also present at the battle of St. Quentin, and saw Martin

Guerre receive a terrible gunshot wound in the leg. After the battle, being wounded, he betook himself to the

neighbouring village, and distinctly heard a surgeon in the next room say that a wounded man must have his

leg amputated, and would very likely not survive the operation. The door opened, he saw the sufferer, and

knew him for Martin Guerre. So much the Spaniard told me. Acting on this information, I went on pretence

of business to the village he named, I questioned the inhabitants, and this is what I learned."

"I learned that the wounded man had his leg taken off, and, as the surgeon predicted, he must have died in a

Bertrande remained a few moments as if annihilated by this appalling revelation; then, endeavoring to repel

"No," she cried, "no, it is impossible! It is a lie intended to ruin himto ruin us all."

"Say rather you pretend to disbelieve me: the truth has pierced your heart, but you wish to deny it. Think,

"Silence, wretched man!... No, God would not send me so terrible a trial. What proof can you show of the

"Fine proofs indeed! The story of a vagabond who flattered your hatred in hope of a reward, the gossip of a

distant village, the recollections of ten years back, and finally, your own word, the word of a man who seeks

only revenge, the word of a man who swore to make Martin pay dearly for the results of his own avarice, a

man of furious passions such as yours! No, Pierre, no, I do not believe you, and I never will!"

"Then I shall contradict you publicly! "And coming quickly forward, her eyes shining with virtuous anger

"I shall yet know how to convince everyone, and will make you acknowledge it," cried the furious old man.

He went out, and Bertrande sank exhausted into a chair. All the strength which had supported her against

Pierre vanished as soon as she was alone, and in spite of her resistance to suspicion, the terrible light of doubt

penetrated her heart, and extinguished the pure torch of trustfulness which had guided her hithertoa doubt,

alas! which attacked at once her honour and her love, for she loved with all a woman's tender affection. Just

as actual poison gradually penetrates and circulates through the whole system, corrupting the blood and

affecting the very sources of life until it causes the destruction of the whole body, so does that mental poison,

suspicion, extend its ravages in the soul which has received it. Bertrande remembered with terror her first

feelings at the sight of the returned Martin Guerre, her involuntary repugnance, her astonishment at not

feeling more in touch with the husband whom she had so sincerely regretted. She remembered also, as if she

saw it for the first time, that Martin, formerly quick, lively, and hasty tempered, now seemed thoughtful, and

This change of character she had supposed due to the natural development of age, she now trembled at the

idea of another possible cause. Some other little details began to occur to her mindthe forgetfulness or

abstraction of her husband as to a few insignificant things; thus it sometimes happened that he did not answer

to his name of Martin, also that he mistook the road to a hermitage, formerly well known to them both, and

again that he could not answer when addressed in Basque, although he him self had taught her the little she

knew of this language. Besides, since his return, he would never write in her presence, did he fear that she

would notice some difference? She had paid little or no attention to these trifles; now, pieced together, they

assumed an alarming importance. An appalling terror seized Bertrande: was she to remain in this uncertainty,

or should she seek an explanation which might prove her destruction? And how discover the truthby

questioning the guilty man, by noting his confusion, his change of colour, by forcing a confession from him?

But she had lived with him for two years, he was the father of her child, she could not ruin him without

ruining herself, and, an explanation once sought, she could neither punish him and escape disgrace, nor

pardon him without sharing his guilt. To reproach him with his conduct and then keep silence would destroy

her peace for ever; to cause a scandal by denouncing him would bring dishonour upon herself and her child.

Night found her involved in these hideous perplexities, too weak to surmount them; an icy chill came over

her, she went to bed, and awoke in a high fever. For several days she hovered between life and death, and

Martin Guerre bestowed the most tender care upon her. She was greatly moved thereby, having one of those

impressionable minds which recognise kindness fully as much as injury. When she was a little recovered and

her mental power began to return, she had only a vague recollection of what had occurred, and thought she

had had a frightful dream. She asked if Pierre Guerre had been to see her, and found he had not been near the

house. This could only be explained by the scene which had taken place, and she then recollected all the

accusation Pierre had made, her own observations which had confirmed it, all her grief and trouble. She

inquired about the village news. Pierre, evidently, had kept silence why? Had he seen that his suspicions were

unjust, or was he only seeking further evidence? She sank back into her cruel uncertainty, and resolved to

How was she to suppose that God had created two faces so exactly alike, two beings precisely similar, and

then sent them together into the world, and on the same track, merely to compass the ruin of an unhappy

woman! A terrible idea took possession of her mind, an idea not uncommon in an age of superstition, namely,

that the Enemy himself could assume human form, and could borrow the semblance of a dead man in order to

capture another soul for his infernal kingdom. Acting on this idea, she hastened to the church, paid for masses

to be said, and prayed fervently. She expected every day to see the demon forsake the body he had animated,

but her vows, offerings, and prayers had no result. But Heaven sent her an idea which she wondered had not

occurred to her sooner. "If the Tempter," she said to herself, "has taken the form of my beloved husband, his

power being supreme for evil, the resemblance would be exact, and no difference, however slight, would

exist. If, however, it is only another man who resembles him, God must have made them with some slight

She then remembered, what she had not thought of before, having been quite unsuspicious before her uncle's

accusation, and nearly out of her mind between mental and bodily suffering since. She remembered that on

her husband's left shoulder, almost on the neck, there used to be one of those small, almost imperceptible, but

ineffaceable birthmarks. Martin wore his hair very long, it was difficult to see if the mark were there or not.

One night, while he slept, Bertrande cut away a lock of hair from the place where this sign ought to be it

Convinced at length of the deception, Bertrande suffered inexpressible anguish. This man whom she had

loved and respected for two whole years, whom she had taken to her heart as a husband bitterly mourned

forthis man was a cheat, an infamous impostor, and she, all unknowing, was yet a guilty woman! Her child

was illegitimate, and the curse of Heaven was due to this sacrilegious union. To complete the misfortune, she

was already expecting another infant. She would have killed herself, but her religion and the love of her

children forbade it. Kneeling before her child's cradle, she entreated pardon from the father of the one for the

father of the other. She would not bring herself to proclaim aloud their infamy.

"Oh!" she said, "thou whom I loved, thou who art no more, thou knowest no guilty thought ever entered my

mind! When I saw this man, I thought I beheld thee; when I was happy, I thought I owed it to thee; it was

thee whom I loved in him. Surely thou dost not desire that by a public avowal I should bring shame and

She rose calm and strengthened: it seemed as if a heavenly inspiration had marked out her duty. To suffer in

silence, such was the course she adopted,a life of sacrifice and selfdenial which she offered to God as an

expiation for her involuntary sin. But who can understand the workings of the human heart? This man whom

she ought to have loathed, this man who had made her an innocent partner in his crime, this unmasked

impostor whom she should have beheld only with disgust, sheloved him! The force of habit, the ascendancy

he had obtained over her, the love he had shown her, a thousand sympathies felt in her inmost heart, all these

had so much influence, that, instead of accusing and cursing him, she sought to excuse him on the plea of a

passion to which, doubtless, he had yielded when usurping the name and place of another. She feared

punishment for him yet more than disgrace for herself, and though resolved to no longer allow him the rights

purchased by crime, she yet trembled at the idea of losing his love. It was this above all which decided her to

keep eternal silence about her discovery; one single word which proved that his imposture was known would

To conceal her trouble entirely was, however, beyond her power; her eyes frequently showed traces of her

secret tears. Martin several times asked the cause of her sorrow; she tried to smile and excuse herself, only

immediately sinking back into her gloomy thoughts. Martin thought it mere caprice; he observed her loss of

colour, her hollow cheeks, and concluded that age was impairing her beauty, and became less attentive to her.

His absences became longer and more frequent, and he did not conceal his impatience and annoyance at

being watched; for her looks hung upon his, and she observed his coldness and change with much grief.

Having sacrificed all in order to retain his love, she now saw it slowly slipping away from her.

Another person also observed attentively. Pierre Guerre since his explanation with Bertrande had apparently

discovered no more evidence, and did not dare to bring an accusation without some positive proofs.

Consequently he lost no chance of watching the proceedings of his supposed nephew, silently hoping that

chance might put him on the track of a discovery. He also concluded from Bertrande's state of melancholy

Martin was then endeavoring to sell a part of his property, and this necessitated frequent interviews with the

lawyers of the neighbouring town. Twice in the week he went to Rieux, and to make the journey easier, used

to start horseback about seven in the evening, sleep at Rieux, and return the following afternoon. This

arrangement did not escape his enemy's notice, who was not long in convincing himself that part of the time

Towards ten o'clock on the evening of a dark night, the door of a small house lying about half a gunshot from

the village opened gently for the exit of a man wrapped in a large cloak, followed by a young woman, who

accompanied him some distance. Arrived at the parting point, they separated with a tender kiss and a few

murmured words of adieu; the lover took his horse, which was fastened to a tree, mounted, and rode off

towards Rieux. When the sounds died away, the woman turned slowly and sadly towards her home, but as

she approached the door a man suddenly turned the corner of the house and barred her away. Terrified, she

was on the point of crying for help, when he seized her arm and ordered her to be silent.

"Rose," he whispered, "I know everything: that man is your lover. In order to receive him safely, you send

your old husband to sleep by means of a drug stolen from your father's shop. This intrigue has been going on

for a month; twice a week, at seven o'clock, your door is opened to this man, who does not proceed on his

"Yes," replied Pierre, "you may well be frightened: I have your secret. I have only to publish it and you are

"I have only to tell your husband," continued Pierre, "that his wife has dishonoured him, and to explain the

"No doubt: he is jealous, he is an Italian, he will know how to avenge himselfeven as I do."

"But I never did you any harm," Rose cried in despair. "Oh! have pity, have mercy, and spare me!"

Bertrande had just finished her evening prayer, and was preparing for bed, when she was startled by several

knocks at her door. Thinking that perhaps some neighbour was in need of help, she opened it immediately,

and to her astonishment beheld a dishevelled woman whom Pierre grasped by the arm. He exclaimed

Bertrande did not at once recognise the woman, who fell at her feet, overcome by Pierre's threats.

"Tell the truth here," he continued, "or I go and tell it to your husband, at your own home!" " Ah! madame,

kill me," said the unhappy creature, hiding her face; "let me rather die by your hand than his!"

Bertrande, bewildered, did not understand the position in the least, but she recognised Rose

"But what is the matter, madame? Why are you here at this hour, pale and weeping? Why has my uncle

dragged you hither? I am to judge you, does he say? Of what crime are you guilty?"

A lightning flash of jealousy shot through Bertrande's soul at these words, all her former suspicions revived.

"That he left this woman's house only a little while ago, that for a month they have been meeting secretly.

The cry was a confession. Bertrande became pate as death. "O God!" she murmured, "deceived,

"Oh! the wretch," she continued, with increasing passion; " then his whole life is a lie! He has abused my

credulity, he now abuses my love! He does not know me! He thinks he can trample on meme, in whose

"And you, miserable woman! by what unworthy artifice did you gain his love? Was it by witchcraft? or some

"Alas! no, madame; my weakness is my only crime, and also my only excuse. I loved him, long ago, when I

"Memories? What! did you also think you were loving the same man? Are you also his dupe? Or are you only

It was now Rose who failed to understand; Bertrande continued, with growing excitement

"Yes, it was not enough to usurp the rights of a husband and father, he thought to play his part still better by

deceiving the mistress also . . . . Ah! it is amusing, is it not? You also, Rose, you thought he was your old

lover! Well, I at least am excusable, I the wife, who only thought she was faithful to her husband!"

"It means that this man is an impostor and that I will unmask him. Revenge! revenge!"

Pierre came forward. "Bertrande," he said, "so long as I thought you were happy, when I feared to disturb

your peace, I was silent, I repressed my just indignation, and I spared the usurper of the name and rights of

By way of answer she sat down by the table and wrote a few hasty lines with a trembling hand, then gave

"Yes," he said, "vengeance for him, but for her pity. Let this humiliation be her only punishment. I promised

"Go, fear not," said the old man, and Rose went out. Pierre also left the house.

Left to herself, Bertrande felt utterly worn out by so much emotion; indignation gave way to depression. She

began to realise what she had done, and the scandal which would fall on her own head. Just then her baby

awoke, and held out its arms, smiling, and calling for its father. Its father, was he not a criminal? Yes! but

was it for her to ruin him, to invoke the law, to send him to death, after having taken him to her heart, to

deliver him to infamy which would recoil on her own head and her child's and on the infant which was yet

unborn? If he had sinned before God, was it not for God to punish him? If against herself, ought she not

rather to overwhelm him with contempt? But to invoke the help, of strangers to expiate this offence; to lay

bare the troubles of her life, to unveil the sanctuary of the nuptial couchin short, to summon the whole

world to behold this fatal scandal, was not that what in her imprudent anger she had really done? She

repented bitterly of her haste, she sought to avert the consequences, and notwithstanding the night and the bad

weather, she hurried at once to Pierre's dwelling, hoping at all costs to withdraw her denunciation. He was not

there: he had at once taken a horse and started for Rieux. Her accusation was already on its way to the

At break of day the house where Martin Guerre lodged when at Rieux was surrounded by soldiers. He came

forward with confidence and inquired what was wanted. On hearing the accusation, he changed colour

slightly, then collected himself, and made no resistance. When he came before the judge, Bertrande's petition

was read to him, declaring him to be "an impostor, who falsely, audaciously, and treacherously had deceived

her by taking the name and assuming the person of Martin Guerre," and demanding that he should be

The prisoner listened calmly to the charge, and met it courageously, only evincing profound surprise at such a

step being taken by a wife who had lived with him for two years since his return, and who only now thought

of disputing the rights he had so long enjoyed. As he was ignorant both of Bertrande's suspicions and their

confirmation, and also of the jealousy which had inspired her accusation, his astonishment was perfectly

natural, and did not at all appear to be assumed. He attributed the whole charge to the machinations of his

uncle, Pierre Guerre; an old man, he said, who, being governed entirely by avarice and the desire of revenge,

now disputed his name arid rights, in order the better to deprive him of his property, which might be worth

from sixteen to eighteen hundred livres. In order to attain his end, this wicked man had not hesitated to

pervert his wife's mind, and at the risk of her own dishonour had instigated this calumnious chargea

horrible and unheardof thing in the mouth of a lawful wife. "Ah! I do not blame her," he cried; "she must

suffer more than I do, if she really entertains doubts such as these; but I deplore her readiness to listen to

The judge was a good deal impressed by so much assurance. The accused was relegated to prison, whence he

He began by explaining the cause of his long absence, originating, he said, in a domestic quarrel, as his wife

well remembered. He there related his life during these eight years. At first he wandered over the country,

wherever his curiosity and the love of travel led him. He then had crossed the frontier, revisited Biscay,

where he was born, and having entered the service of the Cardinal of Burgos, he passed thence into the army

of the King of Spain. He was wounded at the battle of St. Quentin, conveyed to a neighbouring village, where

he recovered, although threatened with amputation. Anxious to again behold his wife and child, his other

relations and the land of his adoption, he returned to Artigues, where he was immediately recognised by

everyone, including the identical Pierre Guerre, his uncle, who now had the cruelty to disavow him. In fact,

the latter had shown him special affection up to the day when Martin required an account of his stewardship.

Had he only had the cowardice to sacrifice his money and thereby defraud his children, he would not today

be charged as an impostor. "But," continued Martin, "I resisted, and a violent quarrel ensued, in which anger

perhaps carried me too far; Pierre Guerre, cunning and revengeful, has waited in silence. He has taken his

time and his measures to organise this plot, hoping thereby to obtain his ends, to bring justice to the help of

his avarice, and to acquire the spoils he coveted, and revenge for his defeat, by means of a sentence obtained

from the scruples of the judges." Besides these explanations, which did not appear wanting in probability,

Martin vehemently protested his innocence, demanding that his wife should be confronted with him, and

declaring that in his presence she would not sustain the charge of personation brought against him, and that

her mind not being animated by the blind hatred which dominated his persecutor, the truth would

He now, in his turn, demanded that the judge should acknowledge his innocence, and prove it by condemning

his calumniators to the punishment invoked against himself; that his wife, Bertrande de Rolls, should be

secluded in some house where her mind could no longer be perverted, and, finally, that his innocence should

After this speech, delivered with warmth, and with every token of sincerity, he answered without difficulty all

the interrogations of the judge. The following are some of the questions and answers, just as they have come

"My father died June 15th, 1530; my mother survived him three years and twelve days."

"I had one brother, who only lived three months. My four sisters, Inez, Dorothea, Marietta, and Pedrina, all

came to live at Artigues when I did; they are there still, and they all recognised me."

"My fatherinlaw, my motherinlaw, my uncle, my two sisters, Maitre Marcel and his daughter Rose; a

neighbour called Claude Perrin, who got drunk at the wedding feast; also Giraud, the poet, who composed

"At midnight exactly, our neighbour, Catherine Boere, brought us the repast which is known as 'medianoche.'

This woman has recognised me, as also our old Marguerite, who has remained with us ever since the

"February 10, 1548, nine years after our marriage. I was only twelve when the ceremony took place, and did

"It was in August 1549. As I left the village, I met Claude Perrin and the cure Pascal, and took leave of them.

I went towards Beauvais, end I passed through Orleans, Bourges, Limoges, Bordeaux, and Toulouse. If you

want the names of people whom I saw and to whom I spoke, you can have them. What more can I say?"

Never, indeed, was there a more apparently veracious statement! All the doings of Martin Guerre seemed to

be most faithfully described, and surely only himself could thus narrate his own actions. As the historian

remarks, alluding to the story of Amphitryon, Mercury himself could not better reproduce all Sosia's actions,

In accordance with the demand of the accused, Bertrande de Rolls was detained in seclusion, in order to

remove her from the influence of Pierre Guerre. The latter, however, did not waste time, and during the

month spent in examining the witnesses cited by Martin, his diligent enemy, guided by some vague traces,

All the witnesses bore out the statement of the accused; the latter heard this in prison, and rejoiced, hoping for

a speedy release. Before long he was again brought before the judge, who told him that his deposition had

"Do you know of no others?" continued the magistrate. "Have you no relatives except those you have

An old man issued forth, who fell on the prisoner's neck, exclaiming, "My nephew!"

Martin trembled in every limb, but only for a moment. Promptly recovering himself, and gazing calmly at the

"What!" said the old man, "do you not know me? Dare you deny me? me, your mother's brother, Carbon

Barreau, the old soldier! Me, who dandled you on my knee in your infancy; me, who taught you later to carry

a musket; me, who met you during the war at an inn in Picardy, when you fled secretly. Since then I have

sought you everywhere; I have spoken of you, and described your face and person, until a worthy inhabitant

of this country offered to bring me hither, where indeed I did not expect to find my sister's son imprisoned

"You shall hear," replied the magistrate. "Then you identify the prisoner as your nephew? You affirm his

"Arnauld du Thill, also called 'Pansette,' after his father, Jacques Pansa. His mother was Therese Barreau, my

"Three things," replied the latter, unabashed, "this man is either mad, or he has been suborned to tell lies, or

The old man was struck dumb with astonishment. But his supposed nephew's start of terror had not been lost

upon the judge, also much impressed by the straightforward frankness of Carbon Barreau. He caused fresh

investigations to be made, and other inhabitants of Sagias were summoned to Rieux, who one and all agreed

in identifying the accused as the same Arnauld du Thill who had been born and had grown up under their

very eyes. Several deposed that as he grew up he had taken to evil courses, and become an adept in theft and

lying, not fearing even to take the sacred name of God in vain, in order to cover the untruth of his daring

assertions. From such testimony the judge naturally concluded that Arnauld du Thill was quite capable of

carrying on, an imposture, and that the impudence which he displayed was natural to his character. Moreover,

he noted that the prisoner, who averred that he was born in Biscay, knew only a few words of the Basque

language, and used these quite wrongly. He heard later another witness who deposed that the original Martin

Guerre was a good wrestler and skilled in the art of fence, whereas the prisoner, having wished to try what he

could do, showed no skill whatever. Finally, a shoemaker was interrogated, and his evidence was not the least

damning. Martin Guerre, he declared, required twelve holes to lace his boots, and his surprise had been great

when he found those of the prisoner had only nine. Considering all these points, and the cumulative evidence,

the judge of Rieux set aside the favourable testimony, which he concluded had been the outcome of general

credulity, imposed on by an extraordinary resemblance. He gave due weight also to Bertrande's accusation,

although she had never confirmed it, and now maintained an obstinate silence; and he pronounced a judgment

by which Arnauld du Thill was declared "attainted and convicted of imposture, and was therefore condemned

to be beheaded; after which his body should be divided into four quarters, and exposed at the four corners of

This sentence, as soon as it was known, caused much diversity of opinion in the town. The prisoner's enemies

praised the wisdom of the judge, and those less prejudiced condemned his decision; as such conflicting

testimony left room for doubt. Besides, it was thought that the possession of property and the future of the

children required much consideration, also that the most absolute certainty was demanded before annulling a

The condemned man appealed from this sentence to the Parliament of Toulouse. This court decided that the

case required more careful consideration than had yet been given to it, and began by ordering Arnauld du

Who can say what feelings animate a man who, already once condemned, finds himself subjected to a second

trial? The torture scarcely ended begins again, and Hope, though reduced to a shadow, regains her sway over

his imagination, which clings to her skirts, as it were, with desperation. The exhausting efforts must be

recommenced; it is the last strugglea struggle which is more desperate in proportion as there is less

strength to maintain it. In this case the defendant was not one of those who are easily cast down; he collected

all his energy, all his courage, hoping to come victoriously out of the new combat which lay before him.

The magistrates assembled in the great hall of the Parliament, and the prisoner appeared before them. He had

first to deal with Pierre, and confronted him calmly, letting him speak, without showing any emotion. He then

replied with indignant reproaches, dwelling on Pierre's greed and avarice, his vows of vengeance, the means

employed to work upon Bertrande, his secret manoeuvres in order to gain his ends, and the unheardof

animosity displayed in hunting up accusers, witnesses, and calumniators. He defied Pierre to prove that he

was not Martin Guerre, his nephew, inasmuch as Pierre had publicly acknowledged and embraced him, and

his tardy suspicions only dated from the time of their violent quarrel. His language was so strong and

vehement, that Pierre became confused and was unable to answer, and the encounter turned entirely in

Arnauld's favour, who seemed to overawe his adversary from a height of injured innocence, while the latter

The scene of his confrontation with Bertrande took a wholly different character. The poor woman, pale, cast

down, worn by sorrow, came staggering before the tribunal, in an almost fainting condition. She endeavoured

to collect herself, but as soon as she saw the prisoner she hung her head and covered her face with her hands.

He approached her and besought her in the gentlest accents not to persist in an accusation which might send

him to the scaffold, not thus to avenge any sins he might have committed against her, although he could not

"Gentlemen," he said, "my wife is a jealous woman! Ten years ago, when I left her, she had formed these

suspicions; they were the cause of my voluntary exile. Today she again accuses me of, guilty relations with

the same person; I neither deny nor acknowledge them, but I affirm that it is the blind passion of jealousy

which, aided by my uncle's suggestions, guided my wife's hand when she signed this denunciation."

"Do you dare," he continued, turning towards her," do you dare to swear before God that jealousy did not

"You see, gentlemen," exclaimed the prisoner triumphantly, "her jealousy breaks forth before your eyes.

Whether I am, or am not, guilty of the sin she attributes to me, is not the question for you to decide. Can you

conscientiously admit the testimony of a woman who, after publicly acknowledging me, after receiving me in

her house, after living two years in perfect amity with me, has, in a fit of angry vengeance, thought she could

give the lie to all her wards and actions? Ah! Bertrande," he continued, "if it only concerned my life I think I

could forgive a madness of which your love is both the cause and the excuse, but you are a mother, think of

that! My punishment will recoil on the head of my daughter, who is unhappy enough to have been born since

our reunion, and also on our unborn child, which you condemn beforehand to curse the union which gave it

being. Think of this, Bertrande, you will have to answer before God for what you are now doing!"

"I adjure you," he continued solemnly, "you, my wife, Bertrande de Rolls, to swear now, here, on the

A crucifix was placed before Bertrande; she made a sign as if to push it away, endeavoured to speak, and

feebly exclaimed, "No," then fell to the ground, and was carried out insensible.

This scene considerably shook the opinion of the magistrates. They could not believe that an impostor,

whatever he might be, would have sufficient daring and presence of mind thus to turn into mockery all that

was most sacred. They set a new inquiry on foot, which, instead of producing enlightenment, only plunged

them into still greater obscurity. Out of thirty witnesses heard, more than threequarters agreed in identifying

as Martin Guerre the man who claimed his name. Never was greater perplexity caused by more extraordinary

appearances. The remarkable resemblance upset all reasoning: some recognised him as Arnauld du Thill, and

others asserted the exact contrary. He could hardly understand Basque, some said, though born in Biscay, was

that astonishing, seeing he was only three when he left the country? He could neither wrestle nor fence well,

but having no occasion to practise these exercises he might well have forgotten them. The shoemakerwho

made his shoes aforetime, thought he took another measure, but he might have made a mistake before or be

mistaken now. The prisoner further defended himself by recapitulating the circumstances of his first meeting

with Bertrande, on his return, the thousand and one little details he had mentioned which he only could have

known, also the letters in his possession, all of which could only be explained by the assumption that he was

the veritable Martin Guerre. Was it likely that he would be wounded over the left eye and leg as the missing

man was supposed to be? Was it likely that the old servant, that the four sisters, his uncle Pierre, many

persons to whom he had related facts known only to himself, that all the community in short, would have

recognised him? And even the very intrigue suspected by Bertrande, which had aroused her jealous anger,

this very intrigue, if it really existed, was it not another proof of the verity of his claim, since the person

concerned, as interested and as penetrating as the legitimate wife; had also accepted him as her former lover?

Surely here was a mass of evidence sufficient to cast light on the case. Imagine an impostor arriving for the

first time in a place where all the inhabitants are unknown to him, and attempting to personate a man who had

dwelt there, who would have connections of all kinds, who would have played his part in a thousand different

scenes, who would have confided his secrets, his opinions, to relations, friends, acquaintances, to all sorts of

people; who had also a wifethat is to say, a person under whose eyes nearly his whole life would be

passed, a person would study him perpetually, with whom he would be continually conversing on every sort

of subject. Could such an impostor sustain his impersonation for a single day, without his memory playing

him false? >From the physical and moral impossibility of playing such a part, was it not reasonable to

conclude that the accused, who had maintained it for more than two years, was the true Martin Guerre?

There seemed, in fact, to be nothing which could account for such an attempt being successfully made unless

recourse was had to an accusation of sorcery. The idea of handing him over to the ecclesiastical authorities

was briefly discussed, but proofs were necessary, and the judges hesitated. It is a principle of justice, which

has become a precept in law, that in cases of uncertainty the accused has the benefit of the doubt; but at the

period of which we are writing, these truths were far from being acknowledged; guilt was presumed rather

than innocence; and torture, instituted to force confession from those who could not otherwise be convicted,

is only explicable by supposing the judges convinced of the actual guilt of the accused; for no one would

have thought of subjecting a possibly innocent person to this suffering. However, notwithstanding this

prejudice, which has been handed down to us by some organs of the public ministry always disposed to

assume the guilt of a suspected person,notwithstanding this prejudice, the judges in this case neither

ventured to condemn Martin Guerre themselves as an impostor, nor to demand the intervention of the

Church. In this conflict of contrary testimony, which seemed to reveal the truth only to immediately obscure

it again, in this chaos of arguments and conjectures which showed flashes of light only to extinguish them in

greater darkness, consideration for the family prevailed. The sincerity of Bertrande, the future of the children,

seemed reasons for proceeding with extreme caution, and this once admitted, could only yield to conclusive

evidence. Consequently the Parliament adjourned the case, matters remaining in 'statu quo', pending a more

exhaustive inquiry. Meanwhile, the accused, for whom several relations and friends gave surety, was allowed

Bertrande therefore again saw him an inmate of the house, as if no doubts had ever been cast on the

legitimacy of their union. What thoughts passed through her mind during the long 'teteatete'? She had

accused this man of imposture, and now, notwithstanding her secret conviction, she was obliged to appear as

if she had no suspicion, as if she had been mistaken, to humiliate herself before the impostor, and ask

forgiveness for the insanity of her conduct; for, having publicly renounced her accusation by refusing to

swear to it, she had no alternative left. In order to sustain her part and to save the honour o� her children, she

must treat this man as her husband and appear submissive and repentant; she must show him entire

confidence, as the only means of rehabilitating him and lulling the vigilance of justice. What the widow of

Martin Guerre must have suffered in this life of effort was a secret between God and herself, but she looked

at her little daughter, she thought of her fast approaching confinement, and took courage.

One evening, towards nightfall, she was sitting near him in the most private corner of the garden, with her

little child on her knee, whilst the adventurer, sunk in gloomy thoughts, absently stroked Sanxi's fair head.

Both were silent, for at the bottom of their hearts each knew the other's thoughts, and, no longer able to talk

familiarly, nor daring to appear estranged, they spent, when alone together, long hours of silent dreariness.

All at once a loud uproar broke the silence of their retreat; they heard the exclamations of many persons, cries

of surprise mixed with angry tones, hasty footsteps, then the garden gate was flung violently open, and old

Marguerite appeared, pale, gasping, almost breathless. Bertrande hastened towards her in astonishment,

followed by her husband, but when near enough to speak she could only answer with inarticulate sounds,

pointing with terror to the courtyard of the house. They looked in this direction, and saw a man standing at

the threshold; they approached him. He stepped forward, as if to place himself between them. He was tall,

dark; his clothes were torn; he had a wooden leg; his countenance was stern. He surveyed Bertrande with a

gloomy look: she cried aloud, and fell back insensible; . . . she recognised her real husband!

Arnauld du Thill stood petrified. While Marguerite, distracted herself, endeavoured to revive her mistress, the

neighbours, attracted by the noise, invaded the house, and stopped, gazing with stupefaction at this

astonishing resemblance. The two men had the same features, the same height, the same bearing, and

suggested one being in two persons. They gazed at each other in terror, and in that superstitious age the idea

of sorcery and of infernal intervention naturally occurred to those present. All crossed themselves, expecting

every moment to see fire from heaven strike one or other of the two men, or that the earth would engulf one

of them. Nothing happened, however, except that both were promptly arrested, in order that the strange

The wearer of the wooden leg, interrogated by the judges, related that he came from Spain, where first the

healing of his wound, and then the want of money, had detained him hitherto. He had travelled on foot,

almost a beggar. He gave exactly the same reasons for leaving Artigues as had been given by the other Martin

Guerre, namely, a domestic quarrel caused by jealous suspicion, the desire of seeing other countries, and an

adventurous disposition. He had gone back to his birthplace, in Biscay; thence he entered the service of the

Cardinal of Burgos; then the cardinal's brother had taken him to the war, and he had served with the Spanish

troops; at the battle of St. Quentinyhis leg had been shattered by an arquebus ball. So far his recital was the

counterpart of the one already heard by the judges from the other man. Now, they began to differ. Martin

Guerre stated that he had been conveyed to a house by a man whose features he did not distinguish, that he

thought he was dying, and that several hours elapsed of which he could give no account, being probably

delirious; that he suffered later intolerable pain, and on coming to himself, found that his leg had been

amputated. He remained long between life and death, but he was cared for by peasants who probably saved

his life; his recovery was very slow. He discovered that in the interval between being struck down in the

battle and recovering his senses, his papers had disappeared, but it was impossible to suspect the people who

had nursed him with such generous kindness of theft. After his recovery, being absolutely destitute, he sought

to return to France and again see his wife and child: he had endured all sorts of privations and fatigues, and at

length, exhausted, but rejoicing at being near the end of his troubles, he arrived, suspecting nothing, at his

own door. Then the terror of the old servant, a few broken words, made him guess at some misfortune, and

the appearance of his wife and of a man so exactly like himself stupefied him. Matters had now been

explained, and he only regretted that his wound had not at once ended his existence.

The whole story bore the impress of truth, but when the other prisoner was asked what he had to say he

adhered to his first answers, maintaining their correctness, and again asserted that he was the real Martin

Guerre, and that the new claimant could only be Arnauld du Thill, the clever impostor, who was said to

resemble himself so much that the inhabitants of Sagias had agreed in mistaking him for the said Arnauld.

The two Martin Guerres were then confronted without changing the situation in the least; the first showing

the same assurance, the same bold and confident bearing; while the second, calling on God and men to bear

The judge's perplexity was great: the affair became more and more complicated, the question remained as

difficult, as uncertain as ever. All the appearances and evidences were at variance; probability seemed to

incline towards one, sympathy was more in favour of the other, but actual proof was still wanting.

At length a member of the Parliament, M. de Coras, proposed as a last chance before resorting to torture, that

final means of examination in a barbarous age, that Bertrande should be placed between the two rivals,

trusting, he said, that in such a case a woman's instinct would divine the truth. Consequently the two Martin

Guerres were brought before the Parliament, and a few moments after Bertrande was led in, weak, pale,

hardly able to stand, being worn out by suffering and advanced pregnancy. Her appearance excited

compassion, and all watched anxiously to see what she would do. She looked at the two men, who had been

placed at different ends of the hall, and turning from him who was nearest to her, went and knelt silently

before the man with the wooden leg; then, joining her hands as if praying for mercy, she wept bitterly. So

simple and touching an action roused the sympathy of all present; Arnauld du Thill grew pale, and everyone

expected that Martin Guerre, rejoiced at being vindicated by this public acknowledgment, would raise his

wife and embrace her. But he remained cold and stern, and in a contemptuous tone

"Your tears, madame," he said; "they do not move me in the least, neither can you seek to excuse your

credulity by the examples of my sisters and my uncle. A wife knows her husband more intimately than his

other relations, as you prove by your present action, and if she is deceived it is because she consents to the

deception. You are the sole cause of the misfortunes of my house, and to you only shall I ever impute them."

Thunderstruck by this reproach, the poor woman had no strength to reply, and was taken home more dead

The dignified language of this injured husband made another point in his favour. Much pity was felt for

Bertrande, as being the victim of an audacious deception; but everybody agreed that thus it beseemed the real

Martin Guerre to have spoken. After the ordeal gone through by the wife had been also essayed by the sisters

and other relatives, who one and all followed Bertrande's example and accepted the new comer, the court,

having fully deliberated, passed the following sentence, which we transcribe literally:

"Having reviewed the trial of Arnauld du Thill or Pansette, calling himself Martin Guerre, a prisoner in the

"We declare that this court negatives the appeal and defence of the said Arnauld du Thill; and as punishment

and amends for the imposture, deception, assumption of name and of person, adultery, rape, sacrilege, theft,

larceny, and other deeds committed by the aforesaid du Thill, and causing the abovementioned trial; this

court has condemned and condemns him to do penance before the church of Artigue, kneeling, clad in his

shirt only, bareheaded and barefoot, a halter on his neck, and a burning torch in his hand, and there he shall

ask pardon from God, from the King, and from justice, from the said Martin Guerre and Bertrande de Rolls,

husband and wife: and this done, the aforesaid du Thill shall be delivered into the hands of the executioners

of the King's justice, who shall lead him through the customary streets and crossroads of the aforesaid place

of Artigues, and, the halter on his neck, shall bring him before the house of the aforesaid Martin Guerre,

where he shall be hung and strangled upon a gibbet erected for this purpose, after which his body shall be

burnt: and for various reasons and considerations thereunto moving the court, it has awarded and awards the

goods of the aforesaid Arnauld du Thill, apart from the expenses of justice, to the daughter born unto him by

the aforesaid Bertrande de Rolls, under pretence of marriage falsely asserted by him, having thereto assumed

the name and person of the aforesaid Martin Guerre, by this mans deceiving the aforesaid de Rolls; and

moreover the court has exempted and exempts from this trial the aforesaid Martin Guerre and Bertrande de

Rolls, also the said Pierre Guerre, uncle of the aforesaid Martin, and has remitted and remits the aforesaid

Arnauld du Thill to the aforesaid judge of Rieux, in order that the present sentence may be executed

according to its form and tenor. Pronounced judicially this 12th day of September 1560."

This sentence substituted the gallows for the decapitation decreed by the first judge, inasmuch as the latter

punishment was reserved for criminals of noble birth, while hanging was inflicted on meaner persons.

When once his fate was decided, Arnauld du Thill lost all his audacity. Sent back to Artigues, he was

interrogated in prison by the judge of Rieux, and confessed his imposture at great length. He said the idea

first occurred to him when, having returned from the camp in Picardy, he was addressed as Martin Guerre by

several intimate friends of the latter. He then inquired as to the sort of life, the habits and relations of, this

man, and having contrived to be near him, had watched him closely during the battle. He saw him fall, carried

him away, and then, as the reader has already seen, excited his delirium to the utmost in order to obtain

possession of his secrets. Having thus explained his successful imposture by natural causes, which excluded

any idea of magic or sorcery, he protested his penitence, implored the mercy of God, and prepared himself for

The next day, while the populace, collecting from the whole neighbourhood, had assembled before the parish

church of Artigues in order to behold the penance of the criminal, who, barefoot, attired in a shirt, and

holding a lighted torch in his hand, knelt at the entrance of the church, another scene, no less painful, took

place in the house of Martin Guerre. Exhausted by her suffering, which had caused a premature confinement,

Bertrande lay on her couch of pain, and besought pardon from him whom she had innocently wronged,

entreating him also to pray for her soul. Martin Guerre, sitting at her bedside, extended his hand and blessed

her. She took his hand and held it to her lips; she could no longer speak. All at once a loud noise was heard

outside: the guilty man had just been executed in front of the house. When finally attached to the gallows, he

uttered a terrible cry, which was answered by another from inside the house. The same evening, while the

body of the malefactor was being consumed by fire, the remains of a mother and child were laid to rest in