had taken counsel with Andre
d'Isernia, a very learned lawyer of the day, respected as much for his
lofty character as for his great learning. The prince, annoyed at being
shut out in this way, began to act in a violent and despotic manner. On
his own authority he released prisoners; he showered favours upon
Hungarians, and gave especial honours and rich gifts to Giovanni Pipino,
Count of Altanuera, the enemy of all others most dreaded and detested by
the Neapolitan barons. Then the Counts of San Severino, Mileto, Terlizzi
and Balzo, Calanzaro and Sant' Angelo, and most of the grandees,
exasperated by the haughty insolence of Andre's favourite, which grew
every day more outrageous, decided that he must perish, and his master
with him, should he persist in attacking their privileges and defying
their anger.

Moreover, the women who were about Joan at the court egged her on, each
one urged by a private interest, in the pursuit of her fresh passion.
Poor Joan,--neglected by her husband and betrayed by Robert of Cabane--
gave way beneath the burden of duties beyond her strength to bear, and
fled for refuge to the arms of Bertrand of Artois, whose love she did not
even attempt to resist; for every feeling for religion and virtue had
been destroyed in her own set purpose, and her young inclinations had
been early bent towards vice, just as the bodies of wretched children are
bent and their bones broken by jugglers when they train them. Bertrand
himself felt an adoration for her surpassing ordinary human passion.
When he reached the summit of a happiness to which in his wildest dreams
he had never dared to aspire, the young count nearly lost his reason. In
vain had his father, Charles of Artois (who was Count of Aire, a direct
descendant of Philip the Bold, and one of the regents of the kingdom),
attempted by severe admonitions to stop him while yet on the brink of the
precipice: Bertrand would listen to nothing but his love for Joan and his
implacable hatred for all the queen's enemies. Many a time, at the close
of day, as the breeze from Posilippo or Sorrento coming from far away was
playing in his hair, might Bertrand be seen leaning from one of the
casements of Castel Nuovo, pale and motionless, gazing fixedly from his
side of the square to where the Duke of Calabria and the Duke of Durazzo
came galloping home from their evening ride side by side in a cloud of
dust. Then the brows of the young count were violently co