“But I must consult the council of regency.”

“The council will hasten to ratify the queen’s wishes,” replied Robert, handing her the parchment with an imperious gesture:  “you need only speak to the Count of Artois.”

And he cast a threatening glance at the curtain, which had slightly moved.

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

“Now, my daughter, I have come in the name of all the care I bestowed on your infancy, of all the maternal love I have lavished on you, to implore a favour that my family will remember for evermore.”

The queen recoiled one step, crimson with astonishment and rage; but before she could find words to reply, the lady continued in a voice that betrayed no feeling—­

“I request you to make my son Count of Eboli.”

“That has nothing to do with me, madam; the barons of this kingdom would revolt to a man if I were on my own authority to exalt to one of the first dignities the son of a—–­”

“A laundress and a negro; you would say, madam?” said Robert, with a sneer.  “Bertrand of Artois would be annoyed perhaps if I had a title like his.”

He advanced a step towards the bed, his hand upon the hilt of his sword.

“Have mercy, Robert!” cried the queen, checking him:  “I will do all you ask.”

And she signed the parchment naming him Count of Eboli.

“And now,” Robert went on impudently, “to show that my new title is not illusory, while you are busy about signing documents, let me have the privilege of taking part in the councils of the crown:  make a declaration that, subject to your good pleasure, my mother and I are to have a deliberative voice in the council whenever an important matter is under discussion.”

“Never!” cried Joan, turning pale.  “Philippa and Robert, you abuse my weakness and treat your queen shamefully.  In the last few days I have wept and suffered continually, overcome by a terrible grief; I have no strength to turn to business now.  Leave me, I beg:  I feel my strength gives way.”

“What, my daughter,” cried the Catanese hypocritically, “are you feeling unwell?  Come and lie down at once.”  And hurrying to the bed, she took hold of the curtain that concealed the Count of Artois.

The queen uttered a piercing cry, and threw herself before Philippa with the fury of a lioness.  “Stop!” she cried in a choking voice; “take the privilege you ask, and now, if you value your own life, leave me.”