s of the human heart
would at one glance have perceived that this woman under her ghastly
pallor concealed an implacable hatred, a venomous jealousy, and an
all-devouring ambition. She had her three sons about her--Robert, Philip,
and Louis, the youngest. Had the king chosen out from among his nephews
the handsomest, bravest, and most generous, there can be no doubt that
Louis of Tarentum would have obtained the crown. At the age of
twenty-three he had already excelled the cavaliers of most renown in
feats of arms; honest, loyal, and brave, he no sooner conceived a project
than he promptly carried it out. His brow shone in that clear light
which seems to serve as a halo of success to natures so privileged as
his; his fine eyes, of a soft and velvety black, subdued the hearts of
men who could not resist their charm, and his caressing smile made
conquest sweet. A child of destiny, he had but to use his will; some
power unknown, some beneficent fairy had watched over his birth, and
undertaken to smooth away all obstacles, gratify all desires.

Near to him, but in the fourth group, his cousin Charles of Duras stood
and scowled. His mother, Agnes, the widow of the Duke of Durazzo and
Albania, another of the king's brothers, looked upon him affrighted,
clutching to her breast her two younger sons, Ludovico, Count of Gravina,
and Robert, Prince of Morea. Charles, pale-faced, with short hair and
thick beard, was glancing with suspicion first at his dying uncle and
then at Joan and the little Marie, then again at his cousins, apparently
so excited by tumultuous thoughts that he could not stand still. His
feverish uneasiness presented a marked contrast with the calm, dreamy
face of Bertrand d'Artois, who, giving precedence to his father Charles,
approached the queen at the foot of the bed, and so found himself face to
face with Joan. The young man was so absorbed by the beauty of the
princess that he seemed to see nothing else in the room.

As soon as Joan and Andre, the Princes of Tarentum and Durazzo, the
Counts of Artois, and Queen Sancha had taken their places round the bed
of death, forming a semicircle, as we have just described, the
vice-chancellor passed through the rows of barons, who according to their
rank were following closely after the princes of the blood; and bowing
low before the king, unfolded a parchment sealed with the royal seal, and
read in a solemn voice, amid a profound silence:

"Robert, by the