he asked; but no fell presentiment shook her heart: the poor woman loved
Andre with all the strength of her soul; for him she would have given
up her life in this world and in the world to come; yet she was not his
mother.

When all was ready, Robert of Cabane came to tell the prince that
the queen awaited him; Andre cast one last look at the smiling fields
beneath the starry heavens, pressed his nurse's hand to his lips and to
his heart, and followed the grand seneschal slowly and, it seemed, with
some regret. But soon the brilliant lights of the room, the wine that
circulated freely, the gay talk, the eager recitals of that day's
exploits served to disperse the cloud of gloom that had for a moment
overspread the countenance of the prince. The queen alone, leaning on
the table with fixed eyes and lips that never moved, sat at this strange
feast pale and cold as a baleful ghost summoned from the tomb to disturb
the joy of the party. Andre, whose brain began to be affected by the
draughts of wine from Capri and Syracuse, was annoyed at his wife's
look, and attributing it to contempt, filled a goblet to the brim
and presented it to the queen. Joan visibly trembled, her lips moved
convulsively; but the conspirators drowned in their noisy talk the
involuntary groan that escaped her. In the midst of a general uproar,
Robert of Cabane proposed that they should serve generous supplies of
the same wine drunk at the royal table to the Hungarian guards who were
keeping watch at the approaches to the convent, and this liberality
evoked frenzied applause. The shouting of the soldiers soon gave
witness to their gratitude for the unexpected gift, and mingled with
the hilarious toasts of the banqueters. To put the finishing touch to
Andre's excitement, there were cries on every side of "Long live the
Queen! Long live His Majesty the King of Naples!"