King René had a farm at Rivetes, and from an inventory dated November 12, 1458, we learn that he had—“69 chés d’animaille (heads of stock), 1 jument (mare), 1 poulain (colt), 42 chés de pourceaux (pigs), and much poultry.” Rivetes, with its forest of chestnuts, was situated between the rivers Loire and Anthion, at no great distance from Angers. René had also wild beasts and birds—a vast menagerie at Rivetes and Reculée. His keeper of lions and leopards in 1476 was Benoist Bagonet, and of his eagles and peacocks, Vissuel Gosmes. He had also at Reculée a Court fool, Triboullet. They were all very pleasant fellows, and helped to amuse the King and Queen and their guests.

King Charles VII. died at his favourite castle of Mehun-sur-Yèvre, July 22, 1461. He had suffered for a considerable time from an incurable ulcer in his mouth, which denied him the pleasure and necessity of eating. In his last illness Marie was at Chinon; he cried piteously for her to come to him: “Marie, ma Marie!” She hastened to Mehun, and was in time to hold his hand and moisten his heated brow, and quietly he died in her arms—the arms of the truest of wives and noblest of queens. Charles was buried in the royal vaults at St. Denis, and Louis XI., his son, reigned in his stead. Devoted to his mother, her widowhood was lightened by his affectionate regard. His father’s death made no difference in her royal state; the King placed his mother before his wife—Charlotte of Savoy.

Queen Marie bore her consort twelve children; six died in infancy. Her two sons were Louis and Charles; her daughters, who survived, Catherine, Jeanne, Yolande, and Madeleine. She survived Charles but two short years. Enguerrand de Monstrelet speaks thus of her death, which occurred near Poitiers, November 23, 1463: “There passed away from this world Marie of Anjou and France.… She bore all through her life the character of a good and devout woman, ever generous and patient.” Her death was not unexpected, for through trouble, sorrow, and fasting, her frame had become emaciated and her pulse beat slow; she died actually from prostration. Her end was very peaceful in the silent cloisters of the Abbey of Chastilliers in Poitou. She had but just returned from a pilgrimage to the Gallician shrine of Santiago da Compostella. Her body was embalmed and translated in solemn guise to St. Denis, and laid beside that of her husband. Her devotion to him had not ceased at his death, for she had endowed twelve altars in the chief cities of France proper for the offering of Masses for the repose of his soul. Every month she made the practice of visiting the royal tomb at St. Denis to hear Mass and pray for him. At Bourges, of sad and chastened memory, the widowed Queen founded in honour of her consort three considerable benevolent institutions—a hospital for the sick poor, a refuge for poor pilgrims, and an orphanage for illegitimate children.

Queen Marie’s transparent faithfulness and absolute unselfishness is outlined in a famous saying of hers with respect to her relations with King Charles: “He is my lord and master; he has entire power over all my actions, and I have none over his.” Her whole-hearted devotion and her heroic courage have raised Marie d’Anjou far above the ordinary level of her sex, and have elevated her to the very highest throne among the Queens of France.

CHAPTER VII
GIOVANNA II. DA NAPOLI—“SI COMME A REGINA GIOVANNA!”

The Queen’s father’s predecessor as occupant of the throne of Naples had been his second cousin, Giovanna I., the eldest surviving grandchild of King Robert, “Roberto il Buono e Saggio.” She died childless in 1382, although twice married, first to Andrew, King of Hungary, and secondly to Lodovico, Prince of Taranto. By her will she purposely passed over the Princes of the Durazzo family, and named as her successor Louis II. d’Anjou, King of Sicily and Jerusalem and Count of Provence. The Queen’s first marriage was celebrated September 24, 1333, when she was only seven years old, her boy-husband being fifteen. The Pope created Prince Andrew King of Naples six years later, upon his succession to the throne of Hungary. Without the slightest compunction, Charles, son of Lodovico, Count of Gravina, seized his cousin’s empty throne, and maintained himself thereupon for five years, his little daughter Giovanna being just ten years of age. The death of Queen Giovanna I. was due to the instigation of Charles. He entered Naples at the head of a strong force of cavalry, seized the palace, and took the Queen prisoner. She was conducted to the Castle of Muro, overlooking the road from Naples to Melfi, and there, with her lover, Otto of Brunswick, suffocated under a feather bed by two Hungarian soldiers. This outrage was committed in revenge for the death of King Andrew, which was ordered by Giovanna I., his consort.

Charles III., King of Naples, died in 1386, leaving to his son Ladislaus the royal succession, with his widow, Queen Margaret, as Regent. They with the Princess Giovanna, sixteen years of age, were fugitives from castle to castle, pursued by the troops of Louis d’Anjou. Nevertheless, Margaret was an astute mother, for when Ladislaus was eighteen years old she espoused him to Constance, daughter of the Count of Clermont in Sicily, a very wealthy heiress. What matrimonial projects were hatched or addled on behalf of Princess Giovanna during her father’s lifetime we know not, but almost the first matter taken in hand by King Ladislaus was an advantageous marriage for his sister. This was a very complicated business. First of all, neither he nor she cared very much for matrimony; he was a libertine, and she shared his freedom and his depravity. Next, each suitor for the hand of Giovanna retired disgusted by the loose morals of the Neapolitan Court and by the avarice of the King and his sister. However, at length a match was arranged between the Princess and Prince William, son of Leopold III., Duke of Austria. The actual nuptials, however, were postponed for one reason or another until 1403, when Giovanna had reached the considerable age of thirty-two. The princely couple went off to Austria, where they remained more or less unhappy until 1406, when the Prince died suddenly and suspiciously, many said by the hand or direction of his ill-conditioned wife.

The widow returned at once to Naples to fill the place of honour vacated by her brother’s wife, his second consort, Maria di Lusignan. Queen Constance he had divorced in 1391, and married the daughter of the King of Cyprus the same year. The ostensible reason for rejecting Constance was the failure of her father to pay her dowry. She was a lovely girl and virtuous,—a rare quality at that time,—and became the idol of the Court. Queen Maria had scarcely been seated on the throne, when she also fell from her high station. Ladislaus said she was delicate and in consumption, and no wife for him. One day, when she and the King were assisting at Mass in the cathedral, she heard with the utmost astonishment and dismay the Archbishop read a Bull of Pope Boniface IX. annulling her marriage with Ladislaus. At the conclusion of the citation the prelate advanced to the Queen’s throne and demanded her wedding-ring. Too stupefied to resist, the pledge of her married state was torn from her finger, and she was carried away to a remote convent under the care of two aged nuns. Three years after this outrage the King relented of his cruelty, and married her to one Andrea di Capua, one of his favourites. He took a third wife in 1406, Marie d’Enghien, the widow of Raimondo d’Orsini, some six months after the return of his sister from Austria. She is said to have survived Ladislaus. Some letters of hers are preserved at Conversano, near Bari, in the Benedictine convent.

The advance of Louis d’Anjou upon the capital roused Ladislaus to action, and he hastily gathered together an undisciplined army, and set forth to withstand his rival to the throne. A decisive battle was fought at Rocca Secca, May 19, 1411, wherein Ladislaus’s troops were routed, but Louis failed to follow up his advantage, and Ladislaus retained his throne and continued his debauches.

Early in 1412 Queen Margaret, mother of the King and of Giovanna, died somewhat suddenly. She and her entourage had taken refuge from a visitation of plague, which spared neither prince nor peasant, at her villa at Acquamela, six miles from Salerno. She was buried privately in the Cathedral of Salerno, in the crypt over against the marble sarcophagus which contained the ashes of St. Matthew. Whatever influence she may have exerted during the youth of her son and daughter for their good was speedily dissipated, and as soon as Ladislaus had obtained the crown he took steps to circumscribe the liberty of his mother. She appealed to her daughter Giovanna for sympathy, but found none, and the poor old Queen, who had survived her consort, Charles, for six-and-twenty years, was consigned to the Convent of the Annunciation, “so as to be out of the way of mischief,” as her daughter phrased it. The natural rôle of mother was entirely out of place in a palace or at a Court ruled by a libertine and a prostitute.

Ladislaus died sadly and alone. His unnatural sister refused to be with him, and all his butterfly courtesans gave to themselves wing when sickness and death entered the royal palace. He died August 6, 1414, leaving no lawful offspring by his three wives, but a numerous family of natural children. No Salic Law governed the succession to the throne in the kingdom of Naples, consequently Giovanna became Queen.

The widowed Queen Giovanna had not married again, although she counted lovers by the score; but within a few months of her accession she took steps to ally herself with a Prince who should be the handsomest and wittiest of the time. This determination of Giovanna was noised abroad all over the capitals and Courts of Europe, and forthwith a troop of eligible suitors passed through the ports of Marseilles and Genoa, each bent on taking the ribald Queen at her word. The romance reads like a fairy tale, for each princeling and prince was put through his paces to show his qualifications in person and in purse; for, desperately wicked as she was, the Queen had a commercial sense, and her exchequer stood sorely in need of replenishment. Taken for all in all, Juan d’Arragona, son of King Ferdinand, was the champion of physical beauty, knightly courtesy, and financial competence; but he was no more than a precocious lad of seventeen, whilst the Queen was forty-five. A matrimonial union was ruled to be impossible, and the pride of Aragon would not suffer a scion of her royal house to become the plaything of a lewd Queen.

Giovanna very unwillingly transferred her affections to an older suitor,—the champion, if we may so write, of the heavy weights,—Jacques de Bourbon, Comte de la Marche, of the Royal House of France, and their nuptials were celebrated in the Cathedral of Naples on August 10, 1415. He very soon discovered that, strong man as he was, he had a wily woman to contend with. He began to assert his marital rights, and required Giovanna to accord him equal honours with herself; at the same time he utterly failed in the reformation of the conduct of his wife. She served herself upon him as she willed, but she mostly willed to serve him not at all, and to transfer her favours, as before their marriage, indiscriminately to whilom paramours. Like a lion wounded in his den, Roy Jacques,—for so he called himself,—struck out at his supplanters, and, with his past-master knowledge of the rapier and its uses, he pricked to death not one but many lovers of the Queen. The Neapolitans were man for man with Giovanna, and indignant with her consort. Strange to say, perhaps, for us who read the story of the time, evil royal communications had wholly corrupted the morals and the manners of all classes in the realm.

Incited by toadies and sycophants, Giovanna at last took the upper hand against her spouse, and on September 13, 1416,—little more than a year after their marriage,—she ordered his imprisonment in the Castella dell’ Ovo, a fortress of such strength that Froissart said: “None but the devil can take it!” Thence, however, he escaped, but with a price upon his head,—fixed by his inconstant mistress,—and took up his residence at Besançon, with the white cord of St. Francis d’Assisi round his loins. There he died, having renounced the world, the flesh, and the devil, a wiser and a disillusioned man, in 1436.

Giovanna, released from the bonds of matrimony, greatly to her relief, gave herself unreservedly into the arms of every man dare-devil enough to risk the consequences. Of these, perhaps the first whose name and maldoings chroniclers have preserved was Pandolfo Alopo, a base-born athlete, a very handsome fellow, and a seductive guitarist to boot. He responded to his royal mistress’s amours, and she appointed him Seneschal of the kingdom, with authority to use her signet-ring. Very soon, mentally and morally undisciplined as he was, he exceeded the length of Giovanna’s tether, by exciting her jealousy with respect to her Maids of Honour. Short was his shrift. Seized, bound, and tortured with nameless indignity and cruelty, his mutilated body was cast into the sea off the fair island of Nisida, where the vicious vixen held orgies equal in atrocity and bestiality to those of Tiberius in Capri.

Sforza da Colignola stepped gaily in the bloody footmarks of Alopo. He was the chief of the Queen’s pages, and had been reared under her eye and at her will; he had, moreover, a fell influence over his mistress, as witness time out of mind, ever since his teens, of her enormities. He, indeed, gained the upper hand of Giovanna, and, being an adept in martial exercises, held his own against all comers. For a time he left the intimate service of the Queen, and became a soldier of fortune, winning laurels and prizes all along his way. Secretly he sympathized with the claims of the House of Anjou, judging shrewdly enough that under the white lilies of Louis he would have a better hold upon his position at the Court of Naples than he would under the red bars of Alfonso of Aragon.

Giovanna felt the thraldom of Sforza’s strength of character and his knowledge of her past, and because no one seemed willing to take her at her word, and rid her of his presence, she turned herself about and fixed her confidence on Sergianni Caracciolo. Upon him she showered riches and honours, but in return he made himself her master.

The Queen’s choice of favourites was not, however, confined to men of merit or of high degree. Every good-looking youth or well-favoured man upon whom her eyes chanced to rest was enrolled in her household. She frequented athletic meetings incognita to view the personal qualifications of vigorous youths, and spent her evenings in surreptitious visits to her stables and her kennels. The men of her choice were offered no alternative, but when the guilty intercourse was consummated the lucky-luckless companion of her couch was expected to commit suicide or for ever leave his home on pain of imprisonment and torture if he tarried four-and-twenty hours.

Perhaps no figure of a man fascinated Queen Giovanna more completely than did the handsome person of Bartolommeo Colleone of Bergamo. His family had become impoverished by the bitter feuds of the Guelphs and Ghibellines, so at eighteen the young lad bid his parents farewell and started off to win his way in military adventures. He travelled south to Naples, and at twenty was as lusty and as strong as any man he met. Of a strict habit of body, he performed feats none others dared. Giovanna sent for the good-looking stranger, and pitted him against the ablest youths of Naples. In leaping, running, and casting of heavy weights, no one could surpass him. Instantly the Queen fell in love with him, and appointed him her esquire, with ready access to her boudoir, where she denied him nothing. His final reward was the cloister of St. Francis d’Assisi, which became his prison, and his mouth was sealed. How he escaped torture no one has recorded.

It would be long, and certainly distasteful, to give a full list of all those who shared the vampire caresses of the peccant Queen; but brief is her story of how Giovanna destroyed the fair fame of her house and the honour of her country. Of her it was written: “Ultima Durazza fiet destructio regnum” (“The last Durazzo shall destroy the kingdom”).

II.

Whilst Giovanna was thus prostituting herself and her kingdom, and Alfonso of Aragon was biding his time, a movement was on foot in Anjou and Provence, under the strong hand of Queen Yolande, to win back the rights her husband had abandoned to the succession of the Neapolitan crown. Her eldest son,—a boy not yet out of school,—should place that crown once more upon the head of an Angevine Sovereign or perish in the attempt. Men and arms and allies were all requisitioned, and elaborate preparations were made at Marseilles and Genoa for the embarkation of the “army of Naples.”

The expedition of Louis III. to Naples was hurried forward in consequence of the breach between Queen Giovanna and the nobles of Naples. Her disregard of their allegiance, and her appointment to all the more important posts under the Crown of men of obscure origin who had commended themselves to her by their physical charms and coarse obscenities, caused a disruption in the political economy of the kingdom. The Queen was deaf to the expostulations of her Barons, and ordered them severally to their estates, where, fuming with indignation, they armed their retainers and stood ready for any emergency. The arrogance of King Alfonso drove many would-be adherents into the camp of his Angevine rival, and an influential deputation of aggrieved dignitaries made its way to Marseilles to tender to Yolande, the Queen of Sicily and the mother of Anjou, their homage, and to assure her of their cordial support for the youthful King if only she would permit him to show himself at the head of an overawing force before the capital.

There is a romantic story concerning King Louis’s journey to Naples told by Jehan Charantais, esquire to the King, in a letter to Queen Yolande. The fleet of Genoese and Provençal galleons was driven by adverse winds, it is related, and sought refuge under the high cliffs of Sicily. Whilst weather-bound, the young Prince landed with a company of knights in search of adventures. As they came ashore a number of girls greeted them with showers of roses, and tossed them handfuls of kisses. One, more daring than the rest, ran up to the youthful Sovereign, wholly ignorant of his identity, and gave him a nosegay of crimson blooms tied with a lovers’ knot of blue ribbon. Accepting the good-omened offering, Louis loosened his surcoat to insert the fragrant spray, when his kingly medallion fell out at the foot of the damsel. She at once picked it up and ran away, laughing provokingly. The Prince followed her, caught her, recovered his badge of sovereignty, and gave his captive in exchange a sounding kiss. But Leonora,—such was her name,—had discovered who he was.

That same day a missive was brought aboard the flagship by a Sicilian fisherman. It was in Leonora’s handwriting, and bore her signature. She told him she was about to be sent to Naples by her parents as a Maid of Honour to the Queen. She had very much disliked the idea, and had refused to go, because Giovanna was the daughter of a usurper, as was reported, and because she bore so evil a character. “Now,” she added, “that I have seen and spoken to my King, and have received his embraces, I am ready to go at all hazards and do my utmost in his cause.”

Louis dillydallied with his Sicilian mermaid, and their loves continued for wellnigh a fortnight before his fleet was ready to put to sea again. Fair Leonora, too, took her departure, saying, as she bid adieu to her lover: “We shall meet, dear Prince, again in the Queen’s boudoir.”

Louis III., a well-grown lad of seventeen, and as manly as he was fit mentally, arrived off the city of Naples on August 15, 1420, to maintain his right to the throne more bravely and more successfully than either his father or his grandfather had done. He had just fallen in with the fleet of the King of Aragon, but in defeating his hereditary enemy his own flotilla was so greatly worsted that he was unable to take the city by storm. He landed, however, and betook himself to Aversa to present his homage to Queen Giovanna. Shocked by her lustful overtures, he departed precipitately to Rome, and there bided his time. The Queen’s failure to seduce the young Sovereign threw her once more into the arms of King Alfonso, whom she formally proclaimed her heir on September 24 the same year. Three years passed whilst the adherents of the House of Anjou suffered forfeiture of goods, liberty of person, and many cruel punishments and tortures.

Alfonso, a natural son of King Ferdinand the Just, King of Aragon and Sicily, was forty years of age, remarkably handsome, talented and capable, ambitious, but generous and devoted to the fair sex. He was, however, entirely unresponsive to the amorous approaches of the Queen. His rejection, his scorn, and his independence of action, roused in Giovanna keen feelings of resentment. She had named him heir to Naples; she could just as easily disinherit and discard him. On June 24, 1423,—good St. John the Baptist’s Day, a festival of major obligation in the Church,—the Queen caused proclamation to be made at Mass and in the markets that, “owing to the incompetence and pretensions of the King of Aragon, he is thereby disinherited, and is no longer to be recognized as successor to the throne of Naples.” A plot, indeed, or more correctly plots, were revealed to Giovanna whereby Alfonso was implicated in a conspiracy to seize the Queen’s person, imprison her, and ultimately to poison her. On May 22 of the same year he had taken the bold step of arresting Gianni Caracciolo, the Queen’s chief favourite. This roused Giovanna to action. She ordered Caracciolo’s immediate release, and bade Alfonso quit Naples at once, or remain at his peril. Greatly to her surprise and relief, he took his departure, and left the field open to his youthful rival.

The Queen’s next step was to send to Rome, and invite her “beloved cousin,” as she called Louis, to return to her assistance in driving the Aragonese out of Naples, and to accept the succession to her throne. She bade him to have no fear of misunderstandings of the past, but to regard herself as nothing more than a well-intentioned relative.

Louis, now grown to manhood, with ripened experience of warlike tactics and political strife, and, be it said, of women and their ways, entered Naples in state on April 10, 1424. His arrival in Southern Italy cheered the desponding spirits of the Angevine party and roused their zeal. Adherents flocked to the banner he set up, and men and arms were ready at his beck and call. A very important personage allied himself with the young King-adventurer—none other than Sforza, the famous condottiere. He gathered around him a considerable number of distinguished malcontents and disappointed favourites of the Queen, who in no way concealed their intention of revenging the insults she had heaped upon them, as soon as they gained a promising opportunity. News of this determination very soon reached Giovanna’s ears, and she shut herself up in her palace with her maidens and her toadies, and declined to receive King Louis or his envoys. At the same time she summoned to her presence Braccio Fortebraccio di Mantova, another of her renowned condottieri, and Constable of Sicily, the avowed rival and enemy of Sforza, and suffering under a decree of excommunication of Pope Martin V.

Leonora, immediately in attendance on the Queen, managed very skilfully to convey intelligence of all that passed in Giovanna’s secret councils to her royal lover. She told him that, in spite of her recent proclamation, the Queen had sent her favourite Court Seneschal, Gianni Caracciolo, to the King of Aragon to implore him to come and rescue her, and put the coalition to flight. She asked Alfonso to accept the title and estates of Duke of Calabria, as appertaining to the heir-presumptive to the Neapolitan throne. This daring courtier pressed his attentions upon the Queen, demanding not only a share of her bed, but a share of her throne. Leonora told Louis all the ins and outs of this intrigue, and warned him to be on the alert; for should Caracciolo’s presumption become known in Naples, there would be a general revolution. Sforza, on his side, was not prepared to allow his rival Hercules an unquestioned victory at Court. He demanded admission to the palace, and an interview with the Queen, before whom he challenged Caracciolo to mortal combat.

Giovanna was delighted that such redoubtable champions should worst each other on her account. Her vanity was flattered—and that is a happy condition for a scheming woman. Undoubtedly she most favoured Caracciolo, but Sforza’s fine physique appealed to her irresistibly, and she fanned his passion. If Caracciolo was for the moment master of her heart, Sforza was master of her future, and she was happy. One day she invited the rivals to join her in the chase, and she rode between them. She cared little for hunting save as an incentive to amorous relations. Tiring soon of the exercise, she expressed a wish to dismount and saunter in the forest glades, but her mood lead to an extraordinary contest. Caracciolo threw himself at once off his mount, and gave the Queen his hand to rid her of her pommel. Sforza, seeing his advantage, pressed his horse against the Queen’s and seized her other hand. Each hero pulled his hardest, until Giovanna was compelled to cry aloud for pain! Then, slipping quietly down, she ordered Sforza to release her. This token of non-preference excited the condottiere’s passion. “If Caracciolo,” he hissed out, “had not been so clumsy, your Majesty would not have been so greatly disarranged!”

“It is not you,” replied the Queen, “that should dare to regulate my conduct, or, for the matter of that, your rival’s. Hold your tongue and leave me; your presence is not grateful just now!”

“As you will, madam,” said Sforza fiercely. “Yes, I will leave you with the favourite of your heart, but you ought to know that you cannot treat thus a man like me!” Then he turned to Caracciolo, and exclaimed in a tone of scornful disdain: “As for you, I advise you to use all your wits and all your resources, for you will stand in need of them!”

Giovanna was on that day absolutely overcome by her physical passions. She cared for nothing, and the last sight the enraged Sforza had of her was locked in her lover’s arms and reclining on a mossy bed, lost to the world around. The erring Queen speedily came to her senses with respect to the position Sforza had taken up; and when she learnt that he had thrown in his lot for better or for worse with Louis III., under a pretext, she despatched Caracciolo to Rome to claim the Papal reversal of his excommunication, and to assure the Pope of her filial devotion to the Holy See. Before he departed, Giovanna required him to deliver up his sword as Seneschal of the kingdom, which she promptly offered as a bribe to Sforza.

Meanwhile Leonora had not been idle. She had spoken to the Queen often and passionately about the comeliness and the gallantry of her hero, contrasting his buoyant physical excellences with the blazé proportions of Alfonso,—not knowing that he had rejected Giovanna’s lustful overtures,—until she expressed herself desirous of confirming his appointment as her heir. Leonora wrote thus to King Louis: “Come not yet to the palace; but arm your fleet, and recruit what troops you can. Sforza is loyal, but Caracciolo is your enemy, and he is powerful. Besides him you have to reckon with Braccio and with King Alfonso. You have need of prudence and daring.”

The position of affairs, so far as the Queen was personally concerned, was perilous in the extreme. On one hand, the King of Aragon did not hide his intention of capturing her, and consigning her and her maidens and men to a castle in Catalonia, and then he would be absolute master of the kingdom of Naples. On the other hand, Louis, aided by Sforza, whom she had so grievously outraged, was determined to win back his ancestral inheritance, Queen or no Queen, but he in no way threatened her life or liberty. The Queen fled with her Court to the Castle of Capua, and there established herself. Sforza followed her, and, whilst avowedly protecting his Queen, made her his prisoner, and then, with the assistance of the fleet of King Louis, caused Alfonso, who with Braccio was investing the city of Naples, to seek refuge in Castel Nuovo, whence he set sail to Aragon for reinforcements and supplies.

Leonora,—still with the Queen and still devoted to the cause of King Louis,—wrote to him again, bidding him adventure himself to Aversa, whither Giovanna retired after the departure of King Alfonso. There Louis found her, and, in spite of advancing years and the disordered life she had led, noted her good looks, her grace of manner and of speech, and her general attractiveness. “Her eyes,” wrote Leonora, “flashed wonderfully, and her cheeks reddened passionately directly she beheld again her good-looking young cousin.” Giovanna greeted him at the top of the grand staircase of the palace, and addressed him in gushing terms: “The brave deeds you have accomplished, gallant Prince,” she said, “have added greatly to your renown. Enter, victorious King, my peaceful abode, take a well-merited repose, and receive from me, your devoted admirer, the homage of a thankful Princess, who is greatly charmed at beholding you in full possession of your lawful estate.” Extending her hand, she led the young King to the apartments which had been prepared for him.

Louis, bowing profoundly, deprecated the services which had gained such honours as the Queen had bestowed upon him. “I have achieved success in your name, Madam, and for your pleasure,” he replied. They supped together, and then, bidding all the company and the servants to withdraw, she conversed with her visitor upon every subject that came uppermost in her mind, but eventually laid herself open to receive the supreme pleasure she had in contemplation. Louis was inflexible, and all her tenderness and affection found no response. At last she said: “I do not know what more I can do. You, Sire, accept gladly the rights your arms have won, but what is more precious still you refuse—these arms of mine which are ready to do your will and pleasure.”

Giovanna then lowered her gaze and sat mute, awaiting Louis’s reply with palpitating breast. She might very well have hummed the kissing song of Ronsard:

“No, madam,” at last spoke the young Prince, greatly embarrassed by the Queen’s words and looks, “it shall never be said that I seek the means for impairing your royal prerogative; you shall retain that, I pray, in its entirety so long as Providence sees good to preserve you to your people.” Then he politely withdrew from the chamber and sought his own lodging. Again on the morrow the King and Queen dined together privately. Giovanna was dressed superbly in royal robes and wore priceless jewels, but her manner was strangely marked by languor and vexation. Their conversation was forced and restrained in turn. After the repast they adjourned together to the lovely gardens of the palace, which were brilliantly illuminated and filled with a numerous and festive company. The best musicians, of the capital and the most excellent jongleurs of foreign and native fame forgathered to do honour to the royal guest. Dances and flirtations were the order of the evening, and among the Queen’s maidens was the lovely girl from Sicily, Leonora. Louis saw her immediately, and it was not very long before they were tête-à-tête in a grotto hidden from public gaze.

The royal romance reached a climax when Louis avowed himself the devoted admirer and lover of the girl. He even proposed a clandestine marriage, but Leonora begged him with tears not to press his suit. She revealed to him the real character of her mistress, and warned him that if Giovanna became conversant with the liaison, then she herself would be done to death, and he, Louis, would probably be assassinated. “You may,” she said, “refuse to marry the Queen, but she will never pardon you if you marry anybody else.”

Again, the third day of Louis’s visit to Aversa, the Queen arranged meals and meetings alone with the Prince, whose morals and whose manhood she was striving so consumedly to seduce. The Queen’s eyes had in them not alone the lure of lust, but the flash of passion and the flame of resentment. Louis again excused himself her presence, and, making his way to his tryst with Leonora, heard as he approached the grotto the high-toned voice of Giovanna beating down the frightened protests of his innamorata—they were together in the grotto! The Prince revealed himself, only to meet the scornful invectives of the jealous Queen. She demanded to know the nature of Louis’s relations with her serving-maid, and when she had heard the story she turned upon Leonora like a tiger. Louis stepped before the terrified girl, and bade Giovanna abate her fury and not lay hands upon a woman whom he loved. “Leonora has done more than you, madam,” he exclaimed, “to mount me on the throne of Naples, and you shall not cause me to descend therefrom!”

The Queen, at last realizing the manner of man with whom she had to deal, was intimidated by his boldness, and presently she left the grotto. Leonora still refused Louis’s proposition, and before the day dawned she had taken her flight from Aversa, and was well on her way to Rome, to claim sanctuary. She wrote a farewell letter to her royal lover, which a faithful dependent of her father safely conveyed to Naples. King Louis offered the old man every possible inducement to reveal the hiding-place of his young mistress, but he never broke the seal of secrecy which Leonora placed upon him, and Louis and Leonora never met again.

Louis managed to evade the embraces and the advances of the Queen. He had been espoused to the Princess Margaret of Savoy, and although he used the liberty of a vigorous and a level-headed young manhood under the silver-feathered ægis of Prince Cupid, he was not forgetful of his troth. Having broken the back of the opposition of Alfonso of Aragon, and being confident of the support of Genoa and Milan, he lived in comparative comfort and peace; but he withdrew into Calabria, where he was for a time, at all events, safe from the intrigues of Giovanna. During this interval the young King made repeated visits both to Angers and Chambéry, to greet his devoted mother, revive the sweet memories of his boyhood, and to cultivate the love of his fiancée Margaret, now growing rapidly to womanhood.

The whole of France was once again in a ferment. The English, driving all before them, captured almost all the possessions of the Crown. Charles VII. was a fugitive, and his consort Marie, Louis’s beloved sister, broken-hearted. René, his younger brother, was fighting for his own in Bar and Lorraine. With the chivalry and self-sacrifice which distinguished all the children of Louis II. and Yolande, he placed his sword at the disposal of his brother-in-law, and fell into line with the defenders of his native soil. None of the French King’s allies held themselves more stoutly, nor were anything like so dependable, as was the young King of Sicily and Naples. His royal person and his coroneted helmet were ever foremost in the battle; his bravery was inspiring. When matters seemed to be hopeless and the flame of France’s honour appeared to be extinguished, the miraculous mission of the Maid of Domremy cheered the hearts of all true patriots. She chose René as her preux chevalier, and her place was at the head of the troops under his orders. Louis III. had another post of danger to fill; he and his command were told off to keep watchful eyes upon the movements of the Duke of Burgundy. By his excellent strategy he kept the English apart from their allies, and rendered the co-operation of the Burgundians impossible.

The relief of Orléans was followed by the amalgamation of the two French armies, led so brilliantly by the Angevine royal brothers, and the victorious hosts of France swept Charles and his Court along with them triumphantly to his Sacré at Reims. Released from his duties as coadjutor to the King of France, Louis returned south again, and at Geneva he and Margherita di Savoia were united in the bonds of matrimony. The royal couple left immediately for Marseilles, and sailed away to Naples, accompanied by a strong squadron of war-galleys of Venice and Genoa; for the Venetians, recognizing the courage and the ability of the young King, and desirous of gaining some of the commercial profits of Neapolitan trade, joined their forces to the banner of the Angevine King of Naples.

Once more in his capital he discovered Queen Giovanna wholly under the influence of Gianni Caracciolo, who had assumed regal attributes, and was personally carrying on an intrigue to supplant his authority. Louis immediately sent for the usurper, asked him about his pretensions, and warned him that if the Queen, as he said, had named him her Lieutenant-General, he (Louis) was his undoubted Sovereign. Caracciolo took the King’s assumption of his kingly rights quite nonchalantly, and replied insolently that as long as Giovanna lived he was the mouthpiece of her Government.

The favourite of the Queen was not a persona grata at her Court. His arrogance and presumption raised up enemies on every side; in particular, the old nobility looked askance upon a courtier of his low origin. Sergianni was by name a Caracciolo, by birth the son of a common woman—so it was said. The Queen’s Mistress of the Robes was Covella Ruffo, Duchess of Sessa,—her husband was a pretender to the crown,—and she voiced the palace discontent. She boldly demanded of Giovanna the immediate disgrace of her Seneschal, and proclaimed the Court preference for King Louis and his fascinating consort Margherita. The Queen indignantly stood by Caracciolo, and forbade the Duchess to name the matter again. Within ten days,—it was August 25, 1432,—the body of the favourite was picked up by brethren of the Misericordia and given decent burial. In the dead man’s heart, plunged up to the hilt, was the jewelled poniard of the Duchess of Sessa! The incident passed, for the Queen deemed it inexpedient to ask for explanations; besides, she had become wearied by the obsequiousness of her Minister, and she had other fish to fry! With rare commercial acumen, she seized all Caracciolo’s belongings,—most of them he had received from herself,—and actually, with feminine inconsequence, shared them with the Duchess!

III.

Whilst Louis was strengthening his position at Naples, Duke René of Bar and Lorraine was languishing in the Tour de Bar at Bracon, vanquished at Bulgneville and crushed by the Duke of Burgundy. Louis added his protest against his brother’s retention in captivity to that of all the Sovereigns and peers of France, and his appeal was carried by Queen Margherita to her father, the Duke of Savoy, whose influence was great with the Court of Burgundy. René’s release on parole for a year was largely due to the intercession of his brother. Giovanna expressed a wish to see “my other cousin of Anjou,” as she put it, and Louis pressed his brother to bend his steps to Naples and recruit his health and spirits in the sunny, merry South. The Duke’s first step, however, was to hurry off to Nancy to fold his heroic wife Isabelle and darling children to his breast; here, too, to regulate many affairs of State awaiting his decision. To Angers next he boated, to pay his filial homage to his courageous, resourceful mother, Queen Yolande, and to relieve her of some of the worry of government. René, too, had much business to do at the Court of King Charles of France, and his loyal, devoted subjects in Provence demanded his presence. So passed nearly the whole of his twelvemonth’s grace.

Giovanna’s reception of her “cousin” was affectionate in the extreme, and she was warm in her admiration of “another handsome Prince of Anjou.”

Nothing, however, would suit her until René became her guest, and as such he went through all the weird experience of his elder brother. It mattered not to the Queen that he was a married man with a loving wife and dear children; what mattered to her was that he was good-looking, brave, and gallant. To be sure, René’s serious manner disconcerted her, and his artistic tastes bored her, but under his studious courtesy she tried to believe that he was hiding a lively response to her amorous advances. In the presence of “il galantuomo Re,”—by which term she always saluted Louis,—Giovanna named René second heir to her kingdom, and successor to the title and estates of the duchy of Calabria. She carefully refrained from inquiries about Duchess Isabelle; indeed, she ignored her existence altogether, and in this line of conduct she was quite consistent, for she had declined to receive the young Queen Margherita when Louis entered Naples with her in state.

René, however, was instrumental, whilst under the fascination of Queen Giovanna, in effecting two matters of importance for the kingdom of Naples and its people. She had instructed Giovanni Capistrani, a perfervid son of Rome, and at the same time an admirer of the Queen, whom she had appointed Court Chamberlain, to persecute the Jews and drive them away from Naples; all such as refused exile he was ordered to put to death. René interposed in the interpretation of these decrees, and gained the Queen’s consent to allow the persecuted race to remain on two conditions: (1) That they should not exact unjust usury; and (2) that they should be marked by a yellow cross to differentiate them from the Christian subjects of the Crown. René further suggested to Giovanna that the Church needed her patronage, that she herself would go the way of all flesh, and that some accommodation with Heaven was very desirable. The Queen laughed his counsel to scorn, and badgered him for a crusader and a churchling, but his words went home even to her hardened, sensuous heart. Capistrani’s unexpected action, moreover, greatly moved her; he resigned his Court offices and emoluments, and meekly entered a monastery of St. Francis d’Assisi.

Duke René returned to his prison at Dijon, and King Louis took his bride off to Cosenza, the capital of Calabria, where a second marriage was celebrated on August 15, 1433, to allay the scruples of prejudiced adherents of the Neapolitan throne. A rumour had been spread,—originating, it was said, with the Queen herself,—which affirmed that Margherita was not the wife, but the mistress, of the royal Duke! Eighteen short months of marital bliss were enjoyed by Louis and Margherita, broken, alas! by a fresh attack by Alfonso in force on Naples. A naval battle off Gaeta, 1434, ended disastrously for the fleet of Aragon. Arrayed against it were the allied forces of Genoa, Venice, Florence, and Milan. Alfonso and his brother Juan were taken prisoners, and carried off to Milan by Duke Filippo Maria. Then a blow fell on the young Queen and upon the whole kingdom of Naples, which made itself felt even in the morbid heart of Queen Giovanna. King Louis caught fever besieging the city of Taranto, and was borne swiftly off to Cosenza, where he died, in his own fond Queen’s arms, on November 15, 1434. Few Princes have made themselves so universally loved as Louis III. of Sicily and Naples, and never were there so many sad hearts and tearful eyes in the kingdom of Naples as when his beloved body was laid out for burial in the Cathedral of Cosenza.

Giovanna never again recovered her spirits; to be sure, she did not renounce her evil ways, but she set about in a hurry to put into execution Duke René’s suggestions. Among belated pious deeds, she rebuilt and refounded the Church of Santa Maria dell’ Annunziata by way of penance for her bad life, and there she was buried in front of the high-altar. A simple slab of marble points out, in the absence of a grandiose monument, the place of her sepulture. She died February 2, 1435, and no woman wept for her, and no man felt grieved. If it is true that “the evil which men do dies with them,” then we must not rake up the tainting memories of an evil past. Giovanna II., Queen of Naples, has passed to her last account, and before Heaven’s tribunal will she stand, alongside with the victims of her vampire-love. Faraglia, in his “Storia della Regina Giovanna II. d’Angio,” makes a brave attempt to whitewash the character of the Queen, and he records many interesting details in her daily life. “Every morning,” he says, “she rose with the sun, spent one hour at Mass and private devotions; then she applied herself to the study of music and literature; at noon she breakfasted, generally alone, the afternoon she gave to exercise, and before dinner she bathed in a bath supplied with the milk of one hundred asses.” Apparently the Queen gave no time to affairs of State, and she had not much leisure for company. Undoubtedly Queen Giovanna was the friend of art and craft, but only so far as their exponents helped to enhance her own attractions and luxuries. Antonio Solario—“Il Zingaro”—was her favourite painter, and, by the oddest of irrational conventions, he has represented her in an altar-piece as the Virgin Mary with the Infant Christ, and surrounded by a court of saints!

With what feelings the news of the death of Louis III. at Cosenza was received by René in his prison chamber at Tour de Bar we may well imagine. The hold of his house upon the kingdom of Naples was, of course, of the weakest; and if the late King upon the spot, free to move what troops and stores he had at will, was unable to retain command of Naples, how could a captive Prince away in Burgundy hope to enforce successfully his claim as his brother’s heir?

In Provence and Anjou and beyond the borders of his dominions, with Bar and Lorraine, and with the sympathy and assistance of friendly Sovereigns and Princes at home and abroad, he had, of course, numberless loyal subjects, friends, and allies, but among them all not one could enthuse his cause as he could himself in person. Three devoted Princesses,—Yolande, Isabelle, and Marguerite,—were doing all they could to free him from his captivity. Their efforts were in the schools of sympathy and politics, but they could not lead troops or command a victorious army. No doubt René was depressed and in despair at the apparent paralysis of all effective assistance. Then came the crushing intelligence that Giovanna, the Queen of Naples, was dead, and that he (René) was de facto King. This must have made him desperate. He had no resources, and there appeared no possibility of his obtaining possession of his rights. How he chafed and fumed as he paced his spacious chamber, and how defiantly he must have gazed through its barred windows and at its closed door! Duke René’s brain must have reeled.

Relief, however, came in quite an unexpected sort of way. One morning the bolts of his door were noisily shot back, and upon the threshold he beheld two foreign gentlemen unknown to him. They knelt and kissed his hand; then they offered him a permit from the Duke of Burgundy, a sealed letter from Duchess (now Queen) Isabelle, and a great official despatch from the lately deceased Queen Giovanna. The two emissaries were devoted adherents to the House of Anjou-Provence—Baron Charles de Montelar and Signore Vidal di Cabarus. They came, as their credentials ordered, directly from the deathbed of the Queen, to tell him from her that, “for the sake of the love I had for King Louis,—now, alas! departed,—I chose his noble brother René as my heir and successor. Long live King René!” Into his hand the two gentlemen delivered the Sovereign’s medallion and its royal chain of gold, and again they did obeisance to their new Sovereign.

René accepted their homage chivalrously, if sorrowfully, but his eye wandered to the smaller packet held by di Cabarus, for he saw it was addressed to him in his dear wife’s handwriting. Tearing open the cover, he read with tears in his eyes the startling news that—