. Since Clement V had transported the seat of the
papacy to Provence, there had sprung up, in this rival to Rome, squares,
churches, cardinals' palaces, of unparalleled splendour. All the
business of nations and kings was transacted at the castle of Avignon.
Ambassadors from every court, merchants of every nation, adventurers
of all kinds, Italians, Spaniards, Hungarians, Arabs, Jews, soldiers,
Bohemians, jesters, poets, monks, courtesans, swarmed and clustered
here, and hustled one another in the streets. There was confusion of
tongues, customs, and costumes, an inextricable mixture of splendour and
rags, riches and misery, debasement and grandeur. The austere poets of
the Middle Ages stigmatised the accursed city in their writings under
the name of the New Babylon.

There is one curious monument of Joan's sojourn at Avignon and the
exercise of her authority as sovereign. She was indignant at the
effrontery of the women of the town, who elbowed everybody shamelessly
in the streets, and published a notable edict, the first of its
kind, which has since served as a model in like cases, to compel
all unfortunate women who trafficked in their honour to live shut up
together in a house, that was bound to be open every day in the year
except the last three days of Holy Week, the entrance to be barred
to Jews at all times. An abbess, chosen once a year, had the supreme
control over this strange convent. Rules were established for
the maintenance of order, and severe penalties inflicted for any
infringement of discipline. The lawyers of the period gained a great
reputation by this salutary institution; the fair ladies of Avignon were
eager in their defence of the queen in spite of the calumnious reports
that strove to tarnish her reputation: with one voice the wisdom of
Andre's widow was extolled. The concert of praises was disturbed,
however, by murmurs from the recluses themselves, who, in their own
brutal language, declared that Joan of Naples was impeding their
commerce so as to get a monopoly for herself.

Meanwhile Marie of Durazzo had joined her sister. After her husband's
death she had found means to take refuge in the convent of Santa Croce
with her two little daughters; and while Louis of Hungary was busy
burning his victims, the unhappy Marie had contrived to make her escape
in the frock of an old monk, and as by a miracle to get on board a
ship that was setting sail for Provence. She related to her sister the
frig