following on so great a love, was stung by jealousy and wounded pride.
He broke out into bitter reproach and violent recrimination, and,
letting fall the mask, once for all lost his place in Joan's heart.

His mother at last saw that it was time to interfere: she rebuked her
son, accusing him of upsetting all her plans by his clumsiness.

"As you have failed to conquer her by love," she said, "you must now
subdue her by fear. The secret of her honour is in our hands, and she
will never dare to rebel. She plainly loves Bertrand of Artois, whose
languishing eyes and humble sighs contrast in a striking manner with
your haughty indifference and your masterful ways. The mother of the
Princes of Tarentum, the Empress of Constantinople, will easily seize
an occasion of helping on the princess's love so as to alienate her more
and more from her husband: Cancha will be the go between, and sooner or
later we shall find Bertrand at Joan's feet. Then she will be able to
refuse us nothing."

While all this was going on, the old king died, and the Catanese, who
had unceasingly kept on the watch for the moment she had so plainly
foreseen, loudly called to her son, when she saw Bertrand slip into
Joan's apartment, saying as she drew him after her--

"Follow me, the queen is ours."

It was thus that she and her son came to be there. Joan, standing in
the middle of the chamber, pallid, her eyes fixed on the curtains of
the bed, concealed her agitation with a smile, and took one step forward
towards her governess, stooping to receive the kiss which the latter
bestowed upon her every morning. The Catanese embraced her with affected