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 frightful details of the king's cruelty.And soon a new proof of his implacable hatred confirmed the tales of the poor princess.
Louis's ambassadors appeared at the court of Avignon to demand formally the queen's condemnation.
It was a great day when Joan of Naples pleaded her own cause before the pope,in the presence of all the cardinals then at Avignon,all the ambassadors of foreign powers,and all the eminent persons come from every quarter of Europe to be present at this trial,unique in the annals of history.We must imagine a vast enclosure,in whose midst upon a raised throne,as president of the august tribunal,sat God's vicar on earth,absolute and supreme judge,emblem of temporal and spiritual power,of authority human and divine.To right and left of the sovereign pontiff,the cardinals in their red robes sat in chairs set round in a circle,and behind these princes of the Sacred College stretched rows of bishops extending to the end of the hall,with vicars,canons,deacons,archdeacons,and the whole immense hierarchy of the Church.Facing the pontifical throne was a platform reserved for the Queen of Naples and her suite.At the pope's feet stood the ambassadors from the King of Hungary,who played the part of accusers without speaking a word,the circumstances of the crime and all the proofs having been discussed beforehand by a committee appointed for the purpose.The rest of the hall was filled by a brilliant crowd of high dignitaries,illustrious captains,and noble envoys,all vying with one another in proud display.Everyone ceased to breathe,all eyes were fixed on the dais whence Joan was to speak her own defence.A movement of uneasy curiosity made this compact mass of humanity surge towards the centre,the cardinals above raised like proud peacocks over a golden harvest-field shaken in the breeze.
The queen appeared,hand in hand with her uncle,the old Cardinal of Perigord,and her aunt,the Countess Agnes.Her gait was so modest and proud,her countenance so melancholy and pure,her looks so open and confident,that even before she spoke every heart was hers.Joan was now twenty years of age;her magnificent beauty was fully developed,but an extreme pallor concealed the brilliance of her transparent satin skin,and her hollow cheek told the tale of expiation and suffering.Among the spectators who looked on most eagerly there was a certain young man with strongly marked features,glowing eyes,and brown hair,whom we shall meet again later on in our narrative;but we will not divert our readers'attention,but only tell them that his name was James of Aragon,that he was Prince of Majorca,and would have been ready to shed every drop of his blood only to check one single tear that hung on Joan's eyelids.The queen spoke in an agitated,trembling voice,stopping from time to time to dry her moist and shining eyes,or to breathe one of those deep sighs that go straight to the heart.She told the tale of her husband's death painfully and vividly,painted truthfully the mad terror that had seized upon her and struck her down at that frightful time,raised her hands to her brow with the gesture of despair,as though she would wrest the madness from her brain-and a shudder of pity and awe passed through the assembled crowd.It is a fact that at this moment,if her words were false,her anguish was both sincere and terrible.An angel soiled by crime,she lied like Satan himself,but like him too she suffered all the agony of remorse and pride.Thus,when at the end of her speech she burst into tears and implored help and protection against the usurper of her kingdom,a cry of general assent drowned her closing words,several hands flew to their sword-hilts,and the Hungarian ambassadors retired covered with shame and confusion.