Joan’s voice did not betray the slightest emotion; her look had became kind, and the sweetest smile was on her lips.  But in her heart Andre’s death was from that moment decided upon.  The prince, too much preoccupied with his own projects of vengeance, and too confident in his all-powerful talisman and his personal valour, had no suspicion that his plans could be anticipated.  He conversed a long time with his wife in a chatting, friendly way, trying to spy out her secret, and exposing his own by his interrupted phrases and mysterious reserves.  When he fancied that every cloud of former resentment, even the lightest, had disappeared from Joan’s brow, he begged her to go with her suite on a magnificent hunting expedition that he was organising for the 20th of August, adding that such a kindness on her part would be for him a sure pledge of their reconciliation and complete forgetfulness of the past.  Joan promised with a charming grace, and the prince retired fully satisfied with the interview, carrying with him the conviction that he had only to threaten to strike a blow at the queen’s favourite to ensure her obedience, perhaps even her love.

But on the eve of the 20th of August a strange and terrible scene was being enacted in the basement storey of one of the lateral towers of Castel Nuovo.  Charles of Durazzo, who had never ceased to brood secretly over his infernal plans, had been informed by the notary whom he had charged to spy upon the conspirators, that on that particular evening they were about to hold a decisive meeting, and therefore, wrapped in a black cloak, he glided into the underground corridor and hid himself behind a pillar, there to await the issue of the conference.  After two dreadful hours of suspense, every second marked out by the beating of his heart, Charles fancied he heard the sound of a door very carefully opened; the feeble ray of a lantern in the vault scarcely served to dispel the darkness, but a man coming away from the wall approached him walking like a living statue.  Charles gave a slight cough, the sign agreed upon.  The man put out his light and hid away the dagger he had drawn in case of a surprise.

“Is it you, Master Nicholas?” asked the duke in a low voice.

“It is I, my lord.”

“What is it?”

“They have just fixed the prince’s death for tomorrow, on his way to the hunt.”

“Did you recognise every conspirator?”

“Every one, though their faces were masked; when they gave their vote for death, I knew them by their voices.”

“Could you point out to me who they are?”

“Yes, this very minute; they are going to pass along at the end of this corridor.  And see, here is Tommaso Pace walking in front of them to light their way.”

Indeed, a tall spectral figure, black from head to foot, his face carefully hidden under a velvet mask, walked at the end of the corridor, lamp in hand, and stopped at the first step of a staircase which led to the upper floors.  The conspirators advanced slowly, two by two, like a procession of ghosts, appeared for one moment in the circle of light made by the torch, and again disappeared into shadow.