"Once again I entreat you,leave not the court before a year has passed.Do you promise me?""I promise,my lord."
"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 last words."A few moments later the priest and the doctor re-entered 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 hear his last wishes.
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 frock.
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 all-devouring ambition.She had her three sons about her--Robert,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 twenty-three 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 obstacles,gratify all desires.
