The conversation of three courtiers at the beginning of Act III apprises us of the fact that the Pope has succeeded in bringing about a reconciliation between the royal pair, and that they are both to be crowned, and as a matter of precaution, the nurse Philippine, and the monk Fra Rupert are to be sent upon their several ways.  The scene is next filled by the conspirators, La Catanaise directing the details of the plots.  It is made clear that the Queen is utterly ignorant of these proceedings, which are after all useless; for we fail to see what valid motive these plotters have to urge them on to their contemptible deed.  A brilliant banquet scene ensues, wherein Anfan of Sisteron sings a song of seven stanzas about the fairy Melusine, and seven times Dragonet sings the refrain, “Sian de la raco di lesert” (We are of the race of the lizards).  And there are enthusiastic tirades in praise of the Queen and of Provence, and all is merry.  But Andrea spills salt upon the table, which evil augury seems to be taken seriously.  This little episode is foolish, and unwrorthy of a tragedy.  We are on the verge of an assassination.  Either the gloomy forebodings and the terror of the event should be impressed upon us, or the exaggerated gayety and high spirits of the revellers should by contrast make the coming event seem more terrible; but the spilling of salt is utterly trivial.  After the feast La Catanaise and her daughter proceed to their devilish work, in the room now lighted only by the pale rays of the moon, while the voice of the screech-owl is heard outside.  The trap is set for the King; he is strangled just out of sight with the silken noose.  The Queen is roused by her nurse.  The palace is in an uproar, and the act terminates with a passionate demand for vengeance and justice on the part of Fra Rupert.

And now the Fourth Act.  Here Mistral is in his element; here his love of rocky landscapes, of azure seas and golden islands, of song and festivity, finds full play.  The tragedy is forgotten, the dramatic action completely interrupted,—­never mind.  We accompany the Queen on her splendid galley all the way from Naples to Marseilles.  She leaves amid the acclamations of the Neapolitans, recounts the splendors of the beautiful bay, and promises to return “like the star of night coming out of the mist, laurel in hand, on the white wings of her Provencal galley.”  The boat starts, the rowers sing their plaintive rhythmic songs, the Queen is enraptured by the beauty of the fleeing shores, the white sail glistens in the glorious blue above.  She is lulled by the motion of the boat and the waving of the hangings of purple and gold.  Midway on her journey she receives a visit from the Infante of Majorca, James of Aragon, who seems to be wandering over that part of the sea; then the astrologer Anselme predicts her marriage with Alio and her death.  She shall be visited with the sins of her ancestors; the blood spilled by Charles of Anjou cries for vengeance.