The next day there was the same kindness on the king's part, the same
affection shown to the children, the same invitation to supper. The
banquet was magnificent; the room was brilliantly lighted, and the
reflections were dazzling: vessels of gold shone on the table; the
intoxicating perfume of flowers filled the air; wine foamed in the
goblets and flowed from the flagons in ruby streams; conversation,
excited and discursive, was heard on every side; all faces beamed with
joy.

Charles of Durazzo sat opposite the king, at a separate table among his
brothers. Little by little his look grew fixed, his brow pensive. He was
fancying that Andre might have supped in this very hall on the eve
of his tragic end, and he thought how all concerned in that death had
either died in torment or were now languishing in prison; the queen,
an exile and a fugitive, was begging pity from strangers: he alone was
free. The thought made him tremble; but admiring his own cleverness in
pursuing his infernal schemes, and putting away his sad looks, he smiled
again with an expression of indefinable pride. The madman at this moment
was scoffing at the justice of God. But Lello of Aquila, who was waiting
at the table, bent down, whispering gloomily--

"Unhappy duke, why did you refuse to believe me? Fly, while there is yet
time."

Charles, angered by the man's obstinacy, threatened that if he were such
a fool as to say any more, he would repeat every word aloud.

"I have done my duty," murmured Lello, bowing his head; "now it must
happen as God wills."