s, La Catanaise directing the details of
the plots. It is made clear that the Queen is utterly ignorant of these
proceedings, which are after all useless; for we fail to see what valid
motive these plotters have to urge them on to their contemptible deed. A
brilliant banquet scene ensues, wherein Anfan of Sisteron sings a song
of seven stanzas about the fairy Melusine, and seven times Dragonet
sings the refrain, "Sian de la raco di lesert" (We are of the race of
the lizards). And there are enthusiastic tirades in praise of the Queen
and of Provence, and all is merry. But Andrea spills salt upon the
table, which evil augury seems to be taken seriously. This little
episode is foolish, and unwrorthy of a tragedy. We are on the verge of
an assassination. Either the gloomy forebodings and the terror of the
event should be impressed upon us, or the exaggerated gayety and high
spirits of the revellers should by contrast make the coming event seem
more terrible; but the spilling of salt is utterly trivial. After the
feast La Catanaise and her daughter proceed to their devilish work, in
the room now lighted only by the pale rays of the moon, while the voice
of the screech-owl is heard outside. The trap is set for the King; he is
strangled just out of sight with the silken noose. The Queen is roused
by her nurse. The palace is in an uproar, and the act terminates with a
passionate demand for vengeance and justice on the part of Fra Rupert.

And now the Fourth Act. Here Mistral is in his element; here his love of
rocky landscapes, of azure seas and golden islands, of song and
festivity, finds full play. The tragedy is forgotten, the dramatic
action completely interrupted,--never mind. We accompany the Queen on
her splendid galley all the way from Naples to Marseilles. She leaves
amid the acclamations of the Neapolitans, recounts the splendors of the
beautiful bay, and promises to return "like the star of night coming out
of the mist, laurel in hand, on the white wings of her Provencal
galley." The boat starts, the rowers sing their plaintive rhythmic
songs, the Queen is enraptured by the beauty of the fleeing shores, the
white sail glistens in the glorious blue above. She is lulled by the
motion of the boat and the waving of the hangings of purple and gold.
Midway on her journey she receives a visit from the Infante of Majorca,
James of Aragon, who seems to be wandering over that part of the sea;
then the astrologer Anselme predict