the experience of a philosopher and all a monk's cunning, told his pupil
that he ought to profit by the depression of spirit the king's death
had produced in Joan, and ought not to suffer her favourites to use this
time in influencing her by their seductive counsels.

But Joan's ability to receive consolation was quite as ready as her
grief had at first been impetuous; the sobs which seemed to be
breaking her heart ceased all at once; new thoughts, more gentle, less
lugubrious, took possession of the young queen's mind; the trace of
tears vanished, and a smile lit up her liquid eyes like the sun's ray
following on rain. This change, anxiously awaited, was soon observed by
Joan's chamberwoman: she stole to the queen's room, and falling on
her knees, in accents of flattery and affection, she offered her first
congratulations to her lovely mistress. Joan opened her arms and held
her in a long embrace, for Dona Cancha was far more to her than a
lady-in-waiting; she was the companion of infancy, the depositary of all
her secrets, the confidante of her most private thoughts. One had but
to glance at this young girl to understand the fascination she could
scarcely fail to exercise over the queen's mind. She had a frank and
smiling countenance, such as inspires confidence and captivates the
mind at first sight. Her face had an irresistible charm, with clear blue
eyes, warm golden hair, mouth bewitchingly turned up at the corners,
and delicate little chin. Wild, happy, light of heart, pleasure and
love were the breath of her being; her dainty refinement, her charming
inconstancies, all made her at sixteen as lovely as an angel, though at
heart she was corrupt. The whole court was at her feet, and Joan felt
more affection for her than for her own sister.

"Well, my dear Cancha," she murmured, with a sigh, "you find me very sad
and very unhappy!"