“Because, if my lord will permit, because there is only one person in Naples who possesses that dowry your Excellency mentions.”

“And so?”

“And she,” stammered the notary, embarrassed more and more, “—­she is the queen’s sister.”

“And in the contract you will write the name of Marie of Anjou.”

“But the young maiden,” replied Nicholas timidly, “whom your Excellency would marry is destined, I thought, under the will of our late king of blessed memory, to become the wife of the King of Hungary or else of the grandson of the King of France.”

“Ah, I understand your surprise:  you may learn from this that an uncle’s intentions are not always the same as his nephew’s.”

“In that case, sire, if I dared—­if my lord would deign to give me leave—­if I had an opinion I might give, I would humbly entreat your Excellency to reflect that this would mean the abduction of a minor.”

“Since when did you learn to be scrupulous, Master Nicholas?”

These words were uttered with a glance so terrible that the poor notary was crushed, and had hardly the strength to reply—­

“In an hour the contract will be ready.”

“Good:  we agree as to the first point,” continued Charles, resuming his natural tone of voice.  “You now will hear my second charge.  You have known the Duke of Calabria’s valet for the last two years pretty intimately?”

“Tommaso Pace; why, he is my best friend.”

“Excellent.  Listen, and remember that on your discretion the safety or ruin of your family depends.  A plot will soon be on foot against the queen’s husband; the conspirators no doubt will gain over Andre’s valet, the man you call your best friend; never leave him for an instant, try to be his shadow; day by day and hour by hour come to me and report the progress of the plot, the names of the plotters.”

“Is this all your Excellency’s command?”

“All.”

The notary respectfully bowed, and withdrew to put the orders at once into execution.  Charles spent the rest of that night writing to his uncle the Cardinal de Perigord, one of the most influential prelates at the court of Avignon.  He begged him before all things to use his authority so as to prevent Pope Clement from signing the bull that would sanction Andre’s coronation, and he ended his letter by earnestly entreating his uncle to win the pope’s consent to his marriage with the queen’s sister.

“We shall see, fair cousin,” he said as he sealed his letter, “which of us is best at understanding where our interest lies.  You would not have me as a friend, so you shall have me as an enemy.  Sleep on in the arms of your lover:  I will wake you when the time comes.  I shall be Duke of Calabria perhaps some day, and that title, as you well know, belongs to the heir to the throne.”