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 angel—­or the bad one—­who inspired his every thought and guided his every action.

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