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

“As you have failed to conquer her by love,” she said, “you must now subdue her by fear.  The secret of her honour is in our hands, and she will never dare to rebel.  She plainly loves Bertrand of Artois, whose languishing eyes and humble sighs contrast in a striking manner with your haughty indifference and your masterful ways.  The mother of the Princes of Tarentum, the Empress of Constantinople, will easily seize an occasion of helping on the princess’s love so as to alienate her more and more from her husband:  Cancha will be the go between, and sooner or later we shall find Bertrand at Joan’s feet.  Then she will be able to refuse us nothing.”

While all this was going on, the old king died, and the Catanese, who had unceasingly kept on the watch for the moment she had so plainly foreseen, loudly called to her son, when she saw Bertrand slip into Joan’s apartment, saying as she drew him after her—­

“Follow me, the queen is ours.”

It was thus that she and her son came to be there.  Joan, standing in the middle of the chamber, pallid, her eyes fixed on the curtains of the bed, concealed her agitation with a smile, and took one step forward towards her governess, stooping to receive the kiss which the latter bestowed upon her every morning.  The Catanese embraced her with affected cordiality, and turning, to her son, who had knelt upon one knee, said, pointing to Robert—­

“My fair queen, allow the humblest of your subjects to offer his sincere congratulations and to lay his homage at your feet.”

“Rise, Robert,” said Joan, extending her hand kindly, and with no show of bitterness.  “We were brought up together, and I shall never forget that in our childhood—­I mean those happy days when we were both innocent—­I called you my brother.”

“As you allow me, madam,” said Robert, with an ironical smile, “I too shall always remember the names you formerly gave me.”

“And I,” said the Catanese, “shall forget that I speak to the Queen of Naples, in embracing once more my beloved daughter.  Come, madam, away with care:  you have wept long enough; we have long respected your grief.  It is now time to show yourself to these good Neapolitans who bless Heaven continually for granting them a queen so beautiful and good; it is time that your favours fall upon the heads of your faithful subjects, and my son, who surpasses all in his fidelity, comes first to ask a favour of you, in order that he may serve you yet more zealously.”

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

“You know, madam, I can refuse your son nothing.”

“All he asks,” continued the lady, “is a title which is his due, and which he inherited from his father—­the title of Grand Seneschal of the Two Sicilies:  I trust, my daughter, you will have no difficulty in granting this.”