ROMANCES OF OLD FRANCE ROMANCES OF OLD FRANCE BY RICHARD Le GALLIENNE AUTHOR OF "old LOVE STORIES RETOLD," "HOW TO GET THE BEST OUT OF BOOKS," "the quest OF THE GOLDEN GIRL," ETC., ETC. publigljerg; 33-37 East I7(h S'trcrl, Uiiion Square North Ncv York Copyright, 1905, by The Baker & Taylor Company Published, October, 1905 GIFT Publishers' Printiiig Company, Netv York, U.S.A. PQ/30Z To my friend James Carlton Young M870034 The write?' desires to thank Mr. John Brisben Walker for Ids kindness in alloiring the rejwoduc- tion of Jour of the following stories which originally appeared in The Cosmopolitan. nimijajJA^JJ.!Jjaj.U.UJ J J A K V I[ J J J J.J.I(AI.M/.^!J.V» JJU!X!^^ CONTENTS I King F lor us and the Fair Jehane 11 II Amis and Amile 35 III The Talc of King Coustans tJie Em- peror 59 IV Blonde of Oxford and Jehan of Dam- martin 85 V Aucassin and Nicolete 119 VI The History of Over Sea 141 KING FLORUS AND THE FAIR JEHANE I . T . I . T . l . l . l . T . I . T . I .U. T . T . t . T .V I . T . I . I J. 1 .1, T .I, t .I, l .l. l ,l. ' J. ' J.'.l.'.I.'./.T. I .M.M.U . ' . l . ' . l . ' . I . M . M . M .UAl.'X'J.'J ROMANCES OF OLD FRANCE I. King Florus and the Fair Jehane ri^HE prettiest story, except, perha])s, -*- "Aucassin and Nicolete," of those which such lovers of old French literature as Mr. Lang and William Morris have rediscovered for us is the "Tale of King Florus and the Fair Jehane." Also, it comes to us in its English dress with the advantage of having been translated by William Morris. It is one of the happi- est, least mannered, of his translations. With its central incident we have all been familiar since we read "Cymbeline" — the wager about a w^ife's honor. Shake- speare, of course, found his motive in Boc- caccio, wdio again found it somewhere in [11] Romances of Old France folk-literature, in which all over the world it is of common occur- rence. The story really ought to be called the "Tale of Squire Robin and the Fair Jehane" — for King Florus is brought in for little more than decoration. The old medi- aeval romancers were great snobs. No doubt they had to be. They depended for their livelihood upon the fashionable, moneyed class, called in those days "the great" and in later times "the quality." No one under tlie degree of a knight could be permitted to love within their high-bred pages. So the author of "King Florus and the Fair Jehane" evidently felt that the loves of a high-born lady and a simple squire, however beau- [12] Ki?ig Floriis and the Fair "Jchane tifiil and hiiiiianly touching, needed to be set in a gilded frame of roy- alty to make the ])ictnre accepta- ble to eyes polite. The picture could be taken out of the frame, with the greatest eiise, and the real story remain complete. King Florus, indeed, has hardly more to do with it than the con- ventional "Prince" in the envoy of a ballad has to do with the ballad. It is apparent that in his heart the old romancer cared little for kings and princes, for, after telling us in perfunctory, formal fashion that there was once a king who "had to name King Florus of Ausay," married to the daughter of the Prince of Brabant — both happy. God-fearing young people, who governed well and led useful lives [13] Romances of Old France — he, with undisguised eagerness, leaves them at once to tell of "a knight who dwelt in the marches of Flanders and Hainault." Now tliis knight "had to wife a full fair dame of whom he had a much fair daughter, who had to name Jehane and was then of the age of twelve years. Much w^ord was there of this fair maiden ; for in all the land was none so fair." As Je- hane was now twelve years old, her moth- er was naturally anxious to have her mar- ried, and she w^as forever "admonishing" her husband on the subject; but he was so taken up with "tournays" that he gave it but little thought. However, one day as he rode aw^ay from tourney with his valiant and well- beloved Squire Robin, he gave the sub- ject serious attention. Robin, it must be said, had, quite innocentlv, promised his [U] King Florus and the Fair "Jehafie lord's wife to recall the matter to the knight's mind. The knight had done so well at the tourney, borne olf "the praise and the prize" — "by means of the good deeds of Robin, his squire" — that he was in an accessible mood. The romancer gives us no hint that Robin had any ul- terior motive when he impressed upon his lord that it was high time he should be- troth his daughter. The outcome of his importunity seems to have been as little foreseen by him as by the reader. The romancer never speaks of the knight by name, but he has succeeded in making him live for us as a singularly attrac- tive, simple, honest, warm-hearted man — a man whom one can imagine going on "tournays" if for no other reason than to escape the "polite" atmosphere of his wife's drawing-room. The conversation between him and his squire deserves to [15] Roffiances of Old France be read in its entirety, it gives the man so well: '"Robin, thou and thy lady give me no peace about the marrying of my daughter; but as yet I know and see no man in my land unto whom I would give her.' 'Ah, sir,' said Robin, 'there is not a knight in thy land who would not take her with a good will.' 'Fair friend Robin, they are of no avail, all of them; and for- sooth to no one would I give her, save to one man only, and he for- sooth is no knight.' 'Sir, tell me of him,' said Robin, 'and I shall speak to him so subtly that the marriage shall be made.' 'Certes, Robin, thou hast served me ex- ceedingly well, and I have found thee a valiant man, and a loyal, and such as I be thou hast made [16] King Florus ami tlic Fair 'Jchane me, and great gain have I gotten by thee, to wit, five hundred })ound.s of hind; for it was but a httle while that I had but five luui(h'ed, and now have I a thousand, and I teh thee that I owe mucli to thee: wlierefore will I give my fair daughter unto thee, if thou wilt take her.' 'Ha, sir,' said Robin, ' God's mercy, what is this thou sayest ? I am too poor a person to have so high a maiden, nor one so fair and so rich as my damsel is ; I am not meet thereto. For there is no knight in this land, be he never so gentle a man, but would take her with a good will.' 'Rob- in, know that no knight of this hind shall have her, but I shall give her to thee, if tliou will it; and thereto will I give thee four hun- [17] Vif^ Romances of Old France dred pounds of my land.' 'Ha, sir,' said Robin, 'I deem that thou mockest me.' 'Robin,' said the knight, 'wot thou surely that I mock thee not.' 'Ha, sir, neither my lady nor her great lineage will accord hereto.' ' Robin,' said the knight, ' naught shall be done herein at the will of any of them. Hold! here is my glove, I invest thee with four hundred pounds of my land, and I will be thy warrant for all.' 'Sir,' said Robin, 'I will naught nay-say it; fair is the gift since I know that is soothfast.' 'Robin,' said the knight, 'now hast thou the rights thereof.' Then the knight delivered to him his glove, and invested him with the land and his fair daughter." But, as may be imagined, this disposal of her daughter's hand was little to the taste of the ambitious and elegant mother. She calls her familv together — " her broth- '[18] King Floriis and the Fair yehane ers, and her nephews and her cousins ^er- main" — and they plead with the knight. He acts with his usual common sense. There are many rich men among them, he says: will any one of them give her four hundred pounds of land ? If so, he will give her elsewhere. "A-God's name," is their answer, "we be naught fain to lay down so much." "Well, then," said the knight, ** since ye will not do this, then sufiFer me to do with my daughter as I list." "Sir, with a good will," said they. Thereupon the knight made a knight of Squire Robin, and Robin and Jehane were wedded next day. And here the tale begins. Robin had made a vow to visit the shrine of St. James the day after his knighting — whatever that day should be. It chanced to be his marriage-day, but none the less Robin [19] Romances of Old France was firm on his vow, in spite of criticism. Every one, including his old master and friend, took it ill of him. Yet his determination remained unshaken. Among oth- ers who mocked him was a certain Sir Raoul, a black-hearted knight who offered to bet four hundred pounds of land that he would win away the Fair Jehane's love before Sir Robin's return. Sir Robin takes the bet gayly, and takes the road for "Saint Jakem." Now, while Sir Robin is away, Sir Raoul tries every means in his power to win his wager, but in vain. Finally, a few days before Sir Robin's return, by the treach- ery of her waiting-maid, he sur- prises Jehane as she is taking the rare bath of the Middle Ages, and [-20] King Florus and the Fair Jehane descries a mole upon her right thigh. The reader will here, of course, recall "Cyrabeline." On Sir Robin's return. Sir Raoul boldly claims the foifeit, and, for token that he has really won his wager, he imparts to Sir Robin the information thus foully obtained. Sir Robin on the morrow pays his forfeit to Sir Raoul, and rides away once more, sad of heart, to Paris. But he is hardly on the road before Jehane is after him. Here the old romancer tells his story so charm- ingly that it is sacrilege to attempt to retell it. " On the first hour of the night," we read, "the lady arose, and took all pennies that she had in her cof- fer, and took a nag and a harness thereto, and gat her to the road; [21] Romances of Old France and she had let shear her fair tresses, and was otherwise arrayed Hke to an esquire. So much she went by her journeys that she presently came to Paris, and went after her lord; and she said and declared that she would never make an end before she found him. Thus she rode like to a squire. And on a morning she went forth out of Paris, and wended the way toward Orleans until she came to the Tomb Isory, and there she fell in with her lord. Sir Robin. Full fain she was when she saw him, and she drew up to him and greeted him, and he gave her greeting back and said: 'Fair friend, God give thee joy!' 'Sir,' said she, 'whence art thou 't' 'For- sooth, fair friend, I am of old Hainault.' ' Sir, whither wendest thou 't " ' Forsooth, fair friend, I wot not right well whither I I go, nor where I shall dwell. Forsooth, needs must I where fortune shall lead me; [ 2-2 ] King F lor us and the Fair 'Jehane and she is contrary enough; for 1 have lost the thing in the world that most I ever loved; and she also hath lost me. Withal I have lost my land, which was great and fair enough. But what hast thou to name, wdiither doth God lead thee.^' 'Certes, sir,' said Jehane, 'I am minded for Marseilles on the sea, where is war as 1 ho})e. There would I serve some val- iant man, about whom I shall learn me arms if God will. For I am so undone in mine ow n country that therein for a while of time I may not have peace. But, sir, meseemeth that thou be a knight, and I would serve thee with a right good will if it please thee. And of my company w^ilt thou be naught worsened.' 'Fair friend,' said Sir Robin, ' a knight am I verily. And where I may look to find war, thitherward would I draw^ full willingly. But tell me what thou hast to name 't ' ' Sir,' said she, [23] I Komances of Old France 'I have to name John.' 'In a good hour,' quotli the knight. 'And thou, sir, how hight thour' 'John,' said he, 'I have to name ^^^^^^^^___.. Robin.' 'Sir Robin, retain me as jjr 7-^4 thine esquire, and I will serve tliee f^ > . : fCT - ^Q j^^y power.' 'John, so would I with a good will. But so little of money have I that I must needs '^ '^^"7^ >y sell my horse before three days are worn. Wherefore I wot not how to do to retain thee.' 'Sir,' said John, 'be not dismayed thereof, for God will aid thee if it j^lease him. But tell me where thou wilt eat thy dinner .- ' ' John, my din- ner will soon be made; for not an- other penny have I than three sols of Paris.' 'Sir,' said John, 'be naught dismayed thereof, for I have hard on ten pounds Tour- [24] King Flams ami the Fair 'Jchane nais, whereof thou shalt not hick.' 'Fair friend John, liast thou niick- le tlianks.' "Then made they good s])eed to Montlhery: there John (Hght meat for his lord and they ate. When they had eaten, the knight slept in a bed and John at his feet. When they had sle])t, John did on the bridles, and they mounted and gat to the road." But, alas! nobody wanted sol- diers in Marseilles, and, as it was palpably impossible for a newly made knight to do any- thing else but fight, there seemed nothing for Sir Robin or his Squire John to do but presently starve. But here Squire John's accom- plishments as a woman come [25] t Romances of Old France charmingly to the rescue; he makes this proposal: "'Sir,' said John, 'I have yet well an hundred sols of Tournay, and if it please thee, I will sell our two horses, and make money thereby : for I am the best of bak- ers that ye may w^ot of; and I will make French bread, and I doubt me not but I shall earn my s])ending well and bounti- fully.' 'John,' said Sir Robin, 'I grant it thee to do all as thou wilt.' "So on the morrow John sold the two horses and bought corn and let grind it, and fell to making French bread so good that he sold it for more than the ])est baker of the towni might do; and he did so much within two years that he had well an hundred pounds of chattels." Can one ever eat French bread again without thinking of Sir Robin and his faithful squire 'f [26] King Florus and the Fair Jchane The fairy bakery continued so success- ful that the ambitious Sfiuire John designs to o})en a hostel. "I rede thee well," he says to Sir Robin, "tliat we l)uy us a very great house, and take to harl/oring good folk." Sir Robin agrees with the condescend- ing grace of a born aristocrat. Tilings went so well with Squire John's loyal in- dustry that "Sir Robin had his palfrey, and went to eat and drink with the most worthy of the town, and John sent him wine and victual so all they that haunted his company marvelled thereat." So five years went by, and all this time Sir Robin had never recognized his wife in the faithful squire. Xor did Sir Raoul recognize her either, passing through Marseilles and inevitably })utting up at Squire John's hotel on his way to })eni- tential ])ilgrimage through the IIolv Land. [ 27 ] Romances of Old France Sir RaoiiFs ])nest had im])osed this j)enaiice upon him, and he liad promised that on his return he ^YOuhl make confession of his crime and restitution of his wrong- fully gotten lands. All this he confides unsusj^ectingly to Sf[uire John. After a while Scpiire John works on his master to bring about his return to his own country. Seven years haye they been in Marseilles, and grown rich. But Sir Robin hesitates. Squire John reassures him, and adds, "Doubt thou noth- ing, for in all places, if it please God, I shall earn enough for thee and for me." At last Sir Robin consents. Now when Sir Robin and Squire John arrived in their own conn- [-28] King Floriis a/id the Fair ychafie try, they found tliat Sir Raoiil liad re})eiited liini of liis pious impulse to confession and tliat he still held Sir Robin's lands. Sir Robin thereon challenges him to battle, and does so mightily against him that Sir Raoul begs for his mercy — and, that being granted him, goes overseas and so out of the story. Sir Robin's victory, how- ever, seems but a barren one for him, for his wife is gone no man knows whither, and his faithful squire has not been seen for a fortnight. Both, however, are all this time comfortably hidden in the boudoir of a friendly cousin of the Fair Jehane, engaged in mak- ing "four pair of gowns" — "of Scarlet, of ^ air, of Perse, and of cloth of silk" — and in nursing the [ ^9 ] Romances of Old France womanly beauty which liad no doubt lost a little of its bloom and delicacy in the disguise of Squire John. When Jehane is adjudged to be once more her fair self, she is revealed duly to her husband. So great was their joy at meeting again that they embraced to- gether "for the space of the running of two acres or ever they might sunder." And very soon after, Squire John is also restored to the lord he has so faith- fully served. "Thus," as the old romancer charm- ingly says, "were these two good persons together." There, properly, the story ends; but beauty and virtue such as the Fair Je- hane's cannot be finally rewarded by any- thing short of a royal marriage. So, after many years of haj^piness, Jehane is left a widow, and is in due time sought in mar- [ •'!'» ] Khig Floriis and the Fair Jehane riage by King Floriis, who, all this long while, has been vainly hoping for an heir to his kingdom. His first loved wife, of whom mention was made at the begin- ning of the story, has, at the instance of his disappointed subjects, been placed in a nunnery; and a second wife has died leaving him still childless. In his widowerhood, friends bring him report of the beauty and wisdom of the Fair Widow Jehane, and at length he sets out to sue for her hand. This she gives him with appropriate ceremonies — and this time the prayers of King Florus were answered : for of their union were born a daughter who had to name Floria and a son who had to name Florence. This Florence in after days became so famous for feats of arms that "he was chosen to be Emperor of Constantinople;" while the daughter Floria "became queen of [31] Romances of Old France the land of her father, and tlie son of the King of Hungary took her to wife, and lady she was of two realms." So, you see, we take leave of the Fair Jehane in the very finest com- })any. But, after all, one likes to think of her best in that little French bakery at Marseilles. Was there ever a prettier fairy-tale of the devotion of woman 't [3^2 J AMIS AND AMILE II Amis and Amile " X A vie (les saints martyrs Amis et -*-^ Amile" is, par excellence, the fairy-tale of friendship, (ireater love than this hath no man — that he giveth his life for his friend. Yet Amile did even more than that, carried the ideal of rennncia- tory comradeship to a symbolic extreme, which in actual life, as in the story, could be justified only by the certainty of a miracle. The love of Amis and Amile began with life, as it was ended — or maybe merely seemed to end — only with death. Long ago, in that suflficiently legendary ])eriod of human history distinguished l)y the [35] Komances of Old France story-teller as "in the time of Pe- pin, King of France," a child was born in "the Castle of Bericain," "of a noble father of Alemaine, who was of great holiness." The pious parents vowed to God — "and Saint Peter and Saint Paul" — that they would carry their child to Rome for baptism. Now about the same time, in the castle of "a Count of Alverne," similar, in- deed identical, things were hap- jjening. The Count of Alverne also was happy in a new-born son, and — assisted by a heavenly vision — he, too, decided to take his child to Rome for baptism. But on the same pilgrimage, the two parents, hitherto unknown to each other, met at Lucca; "and when they found themselves to be of one pur- [30] Afnis and Amile pose, tliey joined company in all friendliness and entered Rome to- gether. And the two children fell to loving one another so sorely that one wonld not eat without the other, they lived of one victual, and lay in one bed." So the friendship of Amis and Amile began in their cradles, and that there should be no mistaking that they were born for each other. Nature, who predestines for us all, had made them so alike in person and character that it was impossi- ble to tell one from the other. As a further symbol of their unity, the "Apostle of Rome" at their bap- tism — wher "many a knight of Rome held them at the font with mickle joy, and raised them aloft even as God would" — gave to each [37] Romances of Old France of them a cup (a "hanap") wrought of wood, bound w^ith gokl and set wdth pre- cious stones; the two cups being identical as the two chikh"en. Then parents and chikh-en "betook them thence home in all joyance," and we hear no more of them till Amis is thirty years old, with his father upon his deathbed. The old knight of Bericain thus addresses the son he must leave behind, and wiser or more beautiful advice has seldom come from the dying. Here are his w^ords: "Fair son, well beloved, it behooveth me pres- ently to die, and thou shalt abide and be thine ow^n master. Now firstly, fair son, keep thou the commandments of God; the chivalry of Jesus Christ do thou. Keep thou faith to thy lords, and give aid to thy fellows and friends. Defend the widows and orphans. Uphold the poor and needy: and all davs hold thy last [ 38 ] ■ Amis and Aniile day in memory. Forget not tlie fellow- ship and friendship of the son of the Count of Alverne, whereas the A])ostle of Rome on one day l)a})tized you both, and with one gift honored you. Ye he alike of beauty, of fashion, and stature, and whoso should see you would deem you to be brethren." So the father died, but the son proved too gentle and Christian of nature to hold his own against the enemies that now rose up against him. Ahvays Amis turned the other cheek, and so it fell that he was despoiled of his heritage. In his trouble he bethinks him of his old friend and fellow^ "Go we now,'' he says, "to the Court of the Count Amile, who was my friend and my fellow. Mayhappen he w^ill make us rich with his goods and his havings." [ ^9 ] Romances of Old France However, on arriving at Amile's castle, tliey find that Amile is away — gone to comfort Amis for the death of his father. So the friends miss each other, and for two years and more Amile seeks A.mis, and Amis Amile, "in France and in Alemaine." Mean- while, Amis incidentally takes a wife, his bride's father having heard so well of him that he en- dows him and his company with gold and silver and "havings." Thns Amis and his "ten fellows" abide in comfort for a year and a half, Amile meanwhile having songht his friend "without ceas- ing." One cannot but note that while both friends no doubt love equally, Amile is the friend who does most throughout the storv. [iO] Amis cuid Aniile At tlie end of tlio year and a half, the conscience of Amis smites him. "We have done amiss," he says, "in that we have left seeking of Amile." So Amis and his knights set out toward Paris, and after various adventures are sitting at meat "by the water of Seine in a flowery meadow," when a com- pany of French knights fall upon them. The day is going hard with them, when Amis cries out, "Who are ye, knights, who have will to slay Amis the exile and his fel- lows.^" "At that voice," says the story- teller, "Amile knew Amis his fellow and said: 'O thou Amis most w^ell beloved, rest from my travail, I am Amile, son of the Count of Alverne, who have [41] Romances of Old France not ceased to seek tliee for two whole years.'" The friends thereon embraced and, swearing "friendship and fellowship per- petual," betook them to the Court of Charles, King of France, w^iere they be- came at once favorites of the King, Amis becoming treasurer, and Amile "server." "There might men behold them young, w^ell attempered, wise, fair, and of like fashion and visage, loved of all and honored." So abode they in happiness and pros- })erity for three years, at the end of which time it suddenly occurred to Amis that he was married and had not seen his wife for three years! "Fair sweet fellow," says he to his friend, "I desire sore to go see my wife whom I have left behind; and I will return the soonest that I may; and do thou abide at the Court." To this [42] Amis and Amile x\mis adds a word of advice: that Amile should keep away from the King's daugh- ter and that he should above all thing-s beware of "Arderi the felon." Now, as might ])erha})s be expected. Amis has no sooner departed than Amile forgets his commandment and teaching, and — re- members the King's daughter; "where- as," adds the monkish story-teller, "he was no holier than David nor wiser than Solomon." Now comes "Arderi the felon" with a false tale against Amis, which his friend apjKirently believes — namely, that Amis has stolen from the King's treasury and is therefore fled away. Thereon, for some unexplained reason, Amile swears fealty and friendship with Arderi, and unl)osoms himself concerning the King's daughter. Arderi reveals the secret to the King. Amile denies the charge and dial- [43] Romances of Old France lenges Arderi to the ordeal by battle. Meanwhile, before the day ap- pointed, Amile meets Amis by chance and tells him what has be- fallen. "Then said Amis, sighing: ' Leave we here our folk, and enter into this wood to lay bare our se- cret.' And Amis fell to blaming Amile, and said: 'Change we our garments and our horses, and get thee to my house, and 1 will do battle for thee against the trai- tor.'" The point, of course, of the change w^as that divine justice was supposed to preside over such duels as Amile had undertaken, and, as he was fighting for a lie, he must logically expect to fall in battle. With Amis in his place, justice might perhaps be hood- [44] Amis and Afiii/e winked. So man has thought to deceive the justice of heaven in all ages. The friends })art from each other weeping, Amis making his way to the court in the semblance of Amile, and Amile going to his friend's house in the semblance of Amis — not, however, without a word of warning which one might have deemed unnecessary between such good friends. Thus, after the manner of Sigurd, Amile placed his sword between him and the w^ife of Amis; though Amis had so little confidence either in his friend or in his wnfe that, we read, "he betook himself," o' nights, "in disguise to his house to wot if Amile kept faith with him of his wife." But this time Amile acquitted [45] Romances of Old France himself better than either David or Solo- mon, and justified the faith of his friend. Presently comes the day of battle. The false Arderi is duly vaufjuished, his head smitten off, and Amis rewarded with Belisaut the King's daughter, whom he honorably transfers to his friend. So Amile's affairs prosper, and it is soon time for Amis to l)e in trouble once more. Heaven, chastening whom it loveth — as the pious chronicler remarks — sends upon Amis the scourge of leprosy. He be- comes so "mesel" that his wife hates him and endeavors ofttimes to strangle him. In this sore trouble, the heart of Amis turns again to his friend. But when he reaches the Castle of Beri- cain, Amile's folk do not recognize Amis, and, seeing only an unclean leper, beat him sore and drive him and his company away. Thence he turns to Rome, where M6] Amis and Amile he is hospitably entertained hy the Holy Fatlier till a famine falls npon the land, a famine so great "that the father had will to thrust the son away from his house." In this extremity Amis is })orne once more to the city of the Count Amile. But by this time fortune had done its worst. So soon as his servants sounded the rattles (or clappers — "tartarelles") by which lepers in the INIiddle Ages gave sign of their approach, Amile, hearing the sound, sent out one of his servants with food for the sick man, and with it his own birthcup filled with wine. As yet he had no knowledge that the le}jer was Amis, but when his servant returned he told how^ the sick man had a "hanap" exactly like his master's; and so Amis became known again to Amile and by him and his wife was welcomed lovingly to the castle, leper though he was. [47] Romances of Old France But the siijH'eme test of Amile's love for Amis was yet to come. One night as tlie two friends were sleeping in tlie same room, the an- gel Raphael appeared to Amis and bade him tell Amile that if he were lo slay his two children and wash Amis in their blood, his friend would be healed. Amile is awak- ened by the s])eech of the angel, and bids Amis reveal what he has heard. Sorely against his will, Amis delivers the divine message, and in much tribulation of soul Amile ponders it. At length, how- ever, his sense of duty toward his friend triumphs over his love for his children, and he girds himself to make e/en this terrible sacri- fice. And heie let the old roman- cer take ujj the tale in his simple, [48] A)ni5 and A mile diiec't fashion: ''Tlien Ainile fell to weeping })rivily and thinking in his heart: 'This man forsooth was ap])arelled hefoie the King to (lie for me, and why shonld 1 not slay my ehildi'en for liim; if lie hath kept faith with me to the death, why keep I not faith r ' . . . "Then the ( ount took his sword, and went to the bed wheie lay his children, and fonnd them slee])ing, and he threw himself npon them, and fell to weeping })itterly and said: 'Who hath heai'd ever of a father who of his own will hath slain his child 'i Ah, alas, my chil- dren! I shall l)e no more yonr fa- ther, })nt yonr crnel mnrderer!' . . "When he had so said, he cut off their heads, and then laid them behind the bed, and laid the heads [49] Romances of Old France to the bodies, and covered them over even as they slept. And with their blood which he received, he washed his fellow, and said: 'Sire God, Jesus Christ, who com- mandest men to keep faith upon the earth, and who cleansest the mesel by thy word, deign thou to cleanse my fellow, for the love of whom I have shed the blood of my children.' "Then was Amis cleansed of his me- selry. And Amile clad him in his own right goodly raiment; and therewith they went to the church to give thanks there, and the bells by the grace of God rang of themselves. And when the people of the city heard that, they ran all together toward that marvel. . . . "Now was come the hour of tierce, and neither the father nor the mother was yet entered in to their children ; but the father sighed grievouslv for the death of his ' [ oO ] Amis and Afnilc babes. Then the Countess asked for iier children to make her joy, and the Count said: 'Dame, let be, let the ehiklren sleep ! ' "Therewith he entered all alone to the children to weep over them, and found them playing in the l)e(l; l>ut the scars of their wounds showed about the necks of each of them even as a red fillet. "Then he took them in his arms, and bore them to their mother, and said: ' Make great joy, dame, whereas thy sons whom I had slain by the commandment of the Angel are alive again, and by their blood is Amis cured and healed.' "And when the Countess heard it she said: ' O thou. Count, why didst thou not lead me with thee to receive the blood of my children, and I would have washed therewith Amis thy fellow and my Lord.^'" [ '^^l ] Romances of Old France Nor must it be forgotten that on the self-same day that Amis was made whole, the devils l>ore off his inhuman wife; "they brake the neck of her, and bore awav her soul." So the love of Amis and Amile endured through life, and in their death they were not divided, for not only did they fall in battle to- gether fighting for King Charles against the Lombards, but heaven itself set this hnal seal of miracle u])on their love. On the field of INIortara where they fell, the King built two churches, dedicating one to St. Eusebius and the other to St. Peter. In one church was buried Amis and in the other Amile: "but on the mori'ow's morn the body of Amile, and his cofhn Amii and A mile tliercwitlu was fouiK! iu the churcli of St. Kiisehius liai'd hy the coifiii of Amis his feUow." Thus it came about tliat till the end of the sev- eiiteeuth eentui-y tlie names of tlie two friends were to he found side l)y side in tlie calendar of saints jind maityrs. So Holy Church blesses a hu- man love and hallows it. The story of Amis and Aniile is one well known in many forms to folklorists. It is to be met with in many languages, and leained authorities differ as to its origin. Some claim that it came from the East and some from (ireece, and some that it is founded on actual historic incidents of the wars of Charlemagne. Mr. Josej)h Ja- cobs (in his introduction to ^^ ill- [53 1 Romances of Old France iam Morris's translation — "Old French Romances," Scribner's Sons) points ont that the names of the heroes are clearly Latin — Amicus and ^imilius; and also refers to the fantastic conjecture that the proverb, "A miss is as good as a mile," has its explanation in this old story. Those who seek learning on the su})ject may find it in Mr, Jacobs's introduction above referred to, and by him l)e intro- duced to other authorities. Walter Pa- ter's essay on "Two Early French Sto- ries" in his volume on the Renaissance was probal)ly the first introduction of the story to most English readers, William Mon-is following with the translation from which I have quoted. The original may be found in that pretty scries the Bihlioth^que Elzeviriemie, and the ecclesi- astical legend of the two friends in the Acta Sanctorum. [ -M ] Amis mid Amilc The charm of the romance is mainly in the story itself, and but little in its form, which is often crude and merely quaint, and seldom interesting from a dramatic or literary point of view. There is no note in it of that poignancy of feeling which we find in David's lament for Jona- than, or in "Tennessee's Pardner"; but the story itself is sufficiently eloquent, eloquent of an ideal of human loyalty which takes friendship rather than love for its supreme expression — seeming in- deed to suggest that there is something finer about friendship than love — some- thing, might one say, less selfish, more essentially divine. "Passing the love of woman"! It is to be remembered that that famous phrase was made by a great lover of women, by the lover of Bath- sheba, the man who placed Uriah in the front of the battle. David had known [55] Ro77iances of Old France both love and friendship, but we say "David and Jonathan" — not David and Bathsheba. [06] THE TALE OF KING COUSTANS THE EMPEROR | JXMA^^^JJ^ ^ OTXC [ JJJJJ.u^^^^^ l JJA I ■^ ^ J, l .^lJa,^^ | .^^^ ! .^^^^l^^JJJJ CIr!Ia^^ III The Tale of King Coustans the Emperor ^TTIIILE no less picturesque than the ^ " two romances we have already considered, the Tale of King Coustans the Emperor is perhaps even more im- portant than any of them from the point of view of the literaiy antiquarian. Its significance in this respect is somewhat fully set out by Mr. Jacobs, with his ac- customed learning, in his introduction to William Morris's "Old French Roman- ces." For the fulness of knowledge the reader is referred to Mr. Jacobs. Here it will suffice to hint at one or two points of that antiquarian interest which Mr. Jacob more fully develops. [ •"'0 ] Romances of Old France The story affords a striking illus- tration of that intercourse between East and West which was brought about by the Crusades, and to which Western thought owed so much of its early quickening. " Permanent bonds of culture," says Mr. Ja- cobs, "began to be formed be- tween the extreme East and the extreme West of Europe by inter- marriage, by commerce, by the ad- mission of the nobles of Byzantium within the orders of chivalry. These ties went on increasing throughout the twelfth century till tliey culminated at its close with the foundation of the Latin king- dom of Constantino])le." Till this ])eriod, of course, Con- stantinople had retained its an- cient name of Byzantium ; and our ['60 ] Khig Coustans the Emperor story has a furtlier historical inter- est in that it professes to be the le- gend of how the name was changed. In the Old French form of the story, the metrical romance from which William Morris made his version, the 'M)it de Fempereur Constant," occnr these lines: "Pour ce (jui si nobles ostoit, Et que nobles oevres faisoit, L'appielloient Consiant Ic noble, Et pour you ot Co)isia)ifin noble, Li cytes de Bissencc a non " — which may be freely translated: " So noble was he, So noble were his deeds, That men called him Constant the Noble, And from that, Constantinople, The [old] city of Byzantium, takes its name." We shall come nj)on still another etymology in the conrse of the [01] Komances of Old France story; and we may note that this old ro- mance takes no accomit of a certain Con- stantine the Great with whom more offi- cial history associates the name of the city. The story itself may have come as far as from India and reached Constantino- })le via Arabia and Greece; and the Rev. Sabine Baring - (xould has found it, slightly disguised, so near home as in Yorkshire. You can find it, too, in Grimm under the title of "The Devil with Three Golden Hairs." Perhaps it may interest the reader to compare the Yorkshire version, as told by Mr. Jacobs, with the story as told by William Morris from the Old French. The story is entitled "The Fish and the Ring," and is as follows : "A girl comes as the unwelcome sixth of the family of a very poor man who [62] King Coustcuis the Kniperor lived under the shadow of York Minster, A Knight, riding by on the chiy of hei- birth, discovers, by consultation of the Book of Fate, that she is destined to marry his son. He offers to adopt her, and throws her into the River Ouse. A fisherman saves her, and she is again dis- covered after many years by the Knight, who learns what Fate has still in store for his son. He sends her to his brother at Scarborough with a fatal letter, ordering him to put her to death. But on the way she is seized by a band of robbers, who read the letter and re])lace it by one or- dering the Baron's son to be married to her immediately on her arrival. When the Baron discovers that he has not been able to evade the decree of fate, he still persists in her persecution, and taking a ring from his finger throws it into the sea, saying that the girl shall never live [ 0.') ] A"^^ ^^"'f ^^- Romances of Old France with his son till she can show him that ring. She wanders al)out and becomes a scnilery-maid at a great castle, and one day W'hen the Baron is dining at the castle, while cleaning a great fish she finds his ring, and all ends hap))ily." With this ]>reliminary note let ns tni'n to onr story: While (\)nstantino])le was still known nnder its old name of By- zantium, it was ruled over by a cer- tain P^mpei-or Musselin— known only, one may add, to romance. This Musselin was of course a "paynim," and, ecclesiastically s])eaking, a lost soul; hut, for all that, he appeal's to have been a wise and much cultivated man; and he was particularly learned in those Ki?ig Coustans the Emperor forbidden sc-iences by which man is able to read tlie stars and consult the devil. After the manner of Eastern ])otentates, he was me iVlalioume and Terma- gaunt!" he swore, "if I do not hang him, if he betake him not to telhng me reason wlierefore he doeth it! Come we now unto him." So they went into the house, and the husband, in no wise recognizing the Em- peror, made no conceahnent of his rea- sons for his strange prayer. He was, lie tohl, a student of astrology, and watching the stars while his wife was in travail, he perceived, by the signs in the heaven, certain moments when it would be pro- pitious for their child to be born, and [00] King Coustans the E/fiperor certain other moments when for liini to be born would mean certain jxMcIition. Therefore, at the propitious moments he prayed to (iod for his wife to be dehv- ered, and at the unpropitious moments he prayed for her dehvery to be stayed; and so well had his knowledge and his prayers availed that, at the moment of the stranp;ers addressin<»; him, a nian- child had been born in a good hour. " How in a good hour ?" asked the Em- peror; and the man, still unsuspecting, answered that his son was destined to marry the diiughter of the Emperor, then eight days old, and that some day he would become lord of the city and em- peror of the whole earth. Concealing his anger at this strange answer, the Em])eror })rivily instructed his knight to carry away the new-born babe and bring it to his palace; and this [07] Romances of Old France the knight in no long time was able to accomplish — for the women were so busied an anp-ino; the moth- er that they took no note of the knight as he stole into the room and found the babe lying wra])ped in linen upon a chair. When the Eni])eror saw the child, he was so filled with hatred of it that he took a knife and slit its breast right down to its navel. He made even to tear out its heart, but the knight begged him to de- sist, pioinising to take it away and drown it in the sea. Now. as the knight carried the babe toward the sea-shore, his heart softened, and instead of drowning it, he left it wra])})ed in a silken coverlet before the gate of a certain abl)ev of monks, [68] Kifig Coustans the Rnipcror wlu) were even then .at tlieir ma- tins. Presently tlie monks lieard the eliikl cryino", and, goino; to tlie <2;ate, found it there and })rouo;lit it to the ah])ot, who, seeing that it was a comely child, determined to nourish and rear it. Ilayino-, too, discoyered its wound, he sent for leeches and demanded of them for what sum they would heal him. And here comes in the second ])unnino; etymology of the city of Constantinople to which I haye previously referred. The leeches asked a hundred bezants for their services; but to this sum the abbot demurred as excessive, and finally arranged to pay fourscore bezants. Thereon he baptized the infant and named ^^-^^ Ro??jances of Old France him Coiistans, because, he said, " he costed exceeding much for the heaUng of him." But, behke, this was merely a pleasan- try on the part of the abbot, for he neg- lected naught that was needed for the child's upbringing. Good nurses he found him, and, when he had reached the age of seven, found him good teach- ers, so that he was soon learned beyond his years; and when Coustans was some twelve years old, so comely and clever a lad was he that the abbot loved to have him in his sight and would take him to ride abroad with him in his retinue. Now" it chanced that, when Coustans was fifteen, the abl)ot had some ground of complaint to lay l^efore the Emperor — who was liege-lord of the abl^ey — and the Emperor having appointed a day for the audience, the abbot a])])eared before him; and the lad Coustans was in his train. [ 70 ] Ki?ig Coustans the Emperor When the business liad })een conchided between the abbot and the Emperor, the Emperor noted the handsome boy and asked eoncerning him. Thereon the ab- bot tohl him the story: How tlie monks had found liim at tlie abbey (k)or some fifteen years ago, and how sorely and in what manner he had been wounded, and how lie had been healed and nurtured and schooled at the abbey; and as the Emperor heard the story, he understood that Coustans was the child whom he had wounded years ago and given to his knight to cast into the sea — but of this he made no sign, only communed with himself as to how he might get the boy into his power. Thus he asked the abbot to give him to him for his own train, and the abbot an- sw^ered that he must first sj)eak of the matter to his convent, and so went his way. [71] Rofnances of Old France Now tlie monks, fearing the wiiitli of the Em])eror, counselled the abbot that the Emperor should have his desire; and thus Coii- stans was taken to the court and given into the hands of his enemy. 15ut the Emperor could not for a time devise a means how he might slay the boy; yet soon there were matters arising which took him on a long journey to the bor- ders of his kingdom, and he took Coustans with him. Then, one day when he was still far distant from his ca])ital, he wrote a letter to the burgonuister of Byzantium, and bade Coustans ride night and day till he c-ame to the city. And the letter which the boy carried was on this wise: "I, Emj^eror of Byzance and Lord of Greece, do [7'2] King Coustans the E/npcror tliee to wit who al)i(lest duly in my place for the warcHiig of my hiiui; and so soon as tlion seest this letter thou shalt slay or let slay him who this letter shall bear to thee, so soon as he has delivered the said letter to thee, without longer tar- rying. As tliou holdest dear thine own pro|:er hody, do straightway my commandment herein." So Coustans, knowing not that it was his own death that he car- ried in his wallet, made such haste upon his journey that he ar- rived at Byzantium within fifteen days. And here the story goes so pret- tily in WilHam Morris's version that it would l)e unfair to the reader to attempt another: " When the lad entered the city [ 73 1 'Romances of Old France it was the hour of dinner; so, as God would have it, he thought that he w^ould not go his errand at that nick of time, but would tarry till folk had done dinner: and exceeding hot was the weather, as is wont about St. John's-mass. So he en- tered into the garden all a-horseback. Great and long was the garden; so the lad took the bridle from off his horse and unlaced the saddle-girth, and let him graze; and thereafter he w^ent into the nook of a tree; and full pleasant was the place, so that presently he fell asleep. "Now so it fell out, that when the fair daughter of the Emperor had eaten, she went into the garden with three of her maidens; and they fell to chasing each other about, as whiles is the wont of maidens to play; until at last the fair Em- peror's daughter came under the tree whereas Coustans lay a-sleeping, and he [74] King Coustans the Emperor was all vermeil as the rose. And wlieii the damsel saw him, she beheld him with a right good will, and she said to herself, that never on a day had she seen so fair a fashion of man. Then she called to her that one of her fellows in whom she had the most affiance, and the others she made to go forth from out of the garden. "Then the fair Maiden, daughter of the Emperor, took her fellow ])y the hand, and led her to look on the lovely lad whereas he lay a-sleeping; and she spake thus : ' Fair fellow, here is a rich treasure. Lo thou! the most fairest fashion of a man that ever mine eyes have seen on any day of my life. And he beareth a letter, and well I would see what it sayeth.' "So the two maidens drew^ nigh to the lad, and took from him the letter, and the daughter of the Emperor read the same; and when she had read it, she fell [75] Romanct's of Old France a-lamenting full sore, and said to her fellow; '(Vrtes, here is a great grief!' 'Ha, my Lady I' said the other one, 'tell me what it is/ 'Of a surety,' said the Maiden, 'might I but ti'ow in thee I would do away that sorrow!' 'Ha, Lady,' said she, 'hardily mayest thou trow in me, whereas for naught would I uncover that thing which thou wouldest have hid.' "Then the Maiden, the daugh- ter of the Emjjeror, took oath of her according to the ])aynim law; and thereafter she told her what the letter said; and the damsel answered her: 'Lady, and what wouldest thou dor" '1 will tell thee well,' said the daughter of the Emperor; '1 will put in his pouch another letter, wherein the Em- [76] King Coustans the Emperor peror, my father, biddeth liis Biir- greve to give me to wife to this fair child here, and that lie make great feast at the (loiny; of the weddino; unto all the folk of this laud; whereas he is to wot well that the lad is a high man and a loyal.' "When the damsel had heard that, she said that would be good to do. ' But, Lady, how wilt thou have the seal of thy father ':' ' ' Full well,' said the Maiden, 'for my father delivered to me four pair of scrolls, sealed of his seal thereon; he hath written naught therein; and 1 will write all that I will.' 'Lady,' said she, 'thou hast said full well; l)ut do it speedily, and haste thee eie he awakeneth.' 'So will I,' said the Maiden. "Then the fair Maiden, the [77] Romances of Old France daughter of the Eni}:>eror, went to her coffers, and drew thereout one of the said scrolls sealed, which her father had left her, that she might borrow money there- by, if so she would. For ever was the Emperor and his folk in war, whereas he had neighbors right felon, and exceeding mighty, whose land marched upon his. So the Maiden wrote the letter in this wise : "'I, King Musselin, Em])eror of Greece and of Byzance the city, to my Burgreve of Byzance greeting. I com- mand thee that the bearer of this letter ye give to my fair daughter in marriage ac- cording to our law; whereas I have heard and wot soothly that he is a high person, and well w^orthy to have my daughter. And thereto make ye great joy and great feast to all them of my city and of all my land.' [78] King Coustans the Rmperor "In such wise wrote aiul said the letter of the fair daughter of the Emjjeror; and when she had written the said letter, she went back to the garden, she and her fel- low together, and they found that one yet asleep, and they })ut the letter into his ])oucli. And they then began to sing and make noise to awaken him. So he awoke anon, and was all astonied at the fair Maiden, the daughter of the Emperoi*, and the other one her fellow, who came before him; and the fair Maiden, daugh- ter of the Emperor, greeted him; and he greeted her again right debonairly. Then she asked of him what he was, and whither he went; and he said that he bore a letter to the Burgreve, which the Emperor sent by him; and the Maiden said that she would bring him straight- way whereas was the Burgreve. There- with she took him l)y the hand, and [7!)] Romances of Old France brought him to the jjalace, where there was iiiueli folk, who ah rose against the Maiden, as to her who was their Lady." All went hapj)ily as the Princess devised. The Burgreve knowing full well the seal of his lord the Emperor, and, moreo\er, delight- ing in the union of so fair a maid with a s<|uire of such noble bear- ing, ])ut no obstacle in their way. Coustans and the Princess were married, and the old ))ro]>hecy overheard by the Emj^eror so many years ago was thus fulfilled, in spite of all his cruel plotting against it. And so ha))py were the peoj)le of Pyzantium in the hap- piness of their Princess, after the manner of such sim])le folk, that no mail worked in the city for the [ 80 ] Kifig Coustans the Emperor space of fifteen days. All was eating and drinking and making merry from early morn far into the night. News was brought to the Em- peror of the rejoicings in his city and much he marvelled when the story was told him. But, being a wise man, he realized that his per- secution of Coustans, so long and so cruelly waged, must as fate de- creed be fruitless, and so he made no more fight against an evident destiny, but peaceably accepted his son-in-law and showed him great honor, making him a knight and heir to all his lands. And so it befell that on the death of Mus- selin, Coustans ruled over Byzan- tium, according to the prophecy, and under his ride the land be- [ «i ] Romances of Old France came Christian. Many years did he and his wife Hve in happiness together, and there was born to them a son named Con- stantine, who became a very great knight and in his turn ruled over Byzantium — from his time onward known as Constan- tinople, because, as was previously told, of his father Coustans, who, the good abbot had said, had cost so nnich for his healing. [82] BLONDE OF OXFORD AND JEHAN OF DAMMARTIN ! X ! JJJ.,!.,l.M.U.M.M.M.!.l.'J.'Jl.!.t.M.'.l.'.l.'.I.UJJJJ. ! A!JU!JJ IV Blonde of Oxford and Jehan of Dammartin ri^HE impoverished nobleman -*- in search of his fortune — or, more strictly speaking, her fortune — is a figure that has met with all too little sympatliy. The romance of his position, the excitement of his adventure, have been but little recognized. Far back in the thirteenth century, however, there was a certain trouvere, Philippe de Reimes, of whom nothing is known beyond his name and the two metrical romances that bear it, who saw the })oetry and pluck of a gentleman thus essaying to re- [85] ?5f^--ri Romances of Old France gild the family escutcheon. In his day Irench noblemen on such a quest made for England, as nowadays English noble- men make for America. England was then, it would appear, the heiress-produc- ing country, and in his moralistic exor- dium to the charming story he has to tell Philippe de Reimes is very emphatic on the duty of a poor gentleman thus to fare abroad, instead of remaining idle at home, "a burthen to himself and to his relatives who love him." "He of whom I am now going to tell you," he con- cludes, "was none of these idlers, but he went into a foreign land to gain renown and honor — by seeking honor he arrived at it, and I will tell you how it happened." All good fairy-tales have morals — to which no one pays the least attention. The moral is like a grace after meat. Philippe de Reimes puts his at the begin- [80] Blonde and 'Jehan ning instead of the end, and then pro- ceeds to the real business of his fancy, the pretty and spirited telling of a story, which, while it breathes the rose-garden fragrance we associate with the w^ords "Old France," is alive too with pictur- esque and stirring incident and telling strokes of character — the romantic his- tory of Blonde of Oxford and Jehan of Dammartin. Completely to fulfil the requirements of romance, Jehan should have been a younger son. As it was, however, he was the eldest son of a certain aged knight, renowned for arms in his youth and for hospitality in his age, whose lands lay at Dammartin, in the Ile-de-France — acres broad, but alas! mortgaged by the old man's youth. A wife much beloved re- mained to him, with two daughters and four sons. Now when Jehan arrived at [87] Romances of Old France the age of twenty, he reahzed the family situation, and determined to do wliat in liim lay to repair it. So, taking a horse, and "twenty sols" in his pocket, and a "var- let" to name Robin for his squire — Robin seems to be a favorite name for squires in romance — he set out for England, and, ])resently arriving at Dover, found himself on the high-road to London, On the way he came up with the ret- inue of a great lord likewise jour- neying to London. It was the Earl of Oxford. Jelian lost no time in introducing himself, and telling his story, with the result that the Earl engaged him as an esquire of his household. In London Jehan, as his esquire's duty was, carved for his master on an occa- [88] Blonde arid Jehan sion when the Eail was dining with the King, and pei formed his offiee so adroitly that his phiee in the EarFs favor was at once secnre. So skilfully, indeed, did Jehan carve, that when he accompanied the Earl to Oxford, his graceful manners winning the Countess at once, he was appointed to wait at table upon their only child, the Lady Blonde. Jehan of Dammar- tin was a French gentleman of blood as good, doubtless, as the Earl of Oxford's, but he did not disdain to stand before the young lady of the house and carve for her, like the humblest servitor. Imag- ine certain dukes and earls one could name deferentially perform- ing the office of waiter for certain young ladies of the Middle West. [ 89 ] Romances of Old France Philippe de Reimes gives us a long floriated troubadourish description of the beauty of Blonde of Oxford, a description running to hundreds of honeysuckle lines, and showing him quite an interesting master of the literary methods of his time. Now Jehan had carved for his beauti- ful young mistress for the space of eigh- teen weeks, without his having paid any attention to the charms so elaborately catalogued by Philippe de Reimes — so occupied was he, it would appear, with his carving. But one night his eyes fell on her with such a fixity of wonder and love that — he forgot his carving. Now for Blonde of Oxford up till this time, and long after, Jehan of Dammartin was nothing more than a servant — with cer- tain gifts, it is true, for musical instru- ments and parlor games, which, I should [90] Blonde and "Jehiin have said, had ah-eady made him popular with everyone in the Earl of Oxford's house, from Earl to waiting-maid. There- fore, when his eyes forgot his carving for her face, and his hands lay idly on each side of the roast, dreamily grasping the carving knife and fork, she reprimanded him with the directness of wealthy young ladies of all times and countries. " Je- han," said she, "carve — you seem beside yourself!" Jehan took the rebuke and — carved; but, next day the same enchantment be- fell him, and his young mistress rebuked him even more severely. "Jehan," said she, "carve. Are you asleep, or are you adream ':■ If you please, give me some- thing to eat, and leave your dreaming for the present!" The rhymes in the old French give a rather comical piquancy to the reproach: [91] Komances of Old France "Puis li redist: 'Jehan, trenchies! Dormes-vous chi, ou vous songies ? S'il vous plaist, dones m" a mengier; Ne ne wellies or plus songier." This time the rebuke so discon- certed poor Jehan that he cut two of his fingers and was obhged temporarily to depute his office to another esquire, and retire to his chamber. There he hiy complaining sadly to himself of a wound much deeper and more im- portant than the wound to his fin- gers; and, presently, to his de- lighted surprise, his young niistress appeared by his bedside to inquire about his fingers, with, however, nothing more than the conven- tional solicitude of a mistress. " Jehan," said she, "are you much hurt.^ Tell me how you are." [92] Blonde and "Jeha?! "Truly, lady," he replied, "1 know not how it hap})ened, but I cut myself to the })oiie. But it is not this wound that grieves me; I think I have some other disease, for I have lost all my spirits, and have been unal)le to eat either yes- terday or to-day; and I feel a great fainting of the heart, that I hardly know what to do." ''Tru- ly, Jehan, I am much concerned at that," said the Lady Blonde courteously; "you must pay at- tention to your diet, and ask for whatever you like until you are restored." "Lady," said Jehan, "many thanks!" but he added in a whisper between his teeth, "La- dy, it is you who carry the key of my life and health, of which 1 am [ J^'^ ] Romances of Old France Blonde, however, did not hear these words, and it was not till Jehan had lain in bed for five weeks, refusing food, and unresponsive alike to the skill of doctors and the kind attentions of the Earl and Countess, that the truth began to dawn upon her. Yet, even so, her suspicion that Jehan's malady was the old malady of love awakened within her as yet no reciprocal sympathy. Her regret for Je- han's illness seems still to have remained regret for Jehan in his capacity as — car- ver. Yet, it must be admitted that she was prepared to do a great deal to retain the services of a mere serving-man. Je- han must have been a wonderful carver. When, as I have said, he had lain in bed five weeks, and his life was desjjaired of, the Lady Blonde came once more to his bedside, and besought him to tell her the truth about his illness. "Jehan," said [94] Blonde and Jehaji she, "fair friend, tell me what is the cause of your being reduced to this condition; I wish to know, and therefore tell me, and I pray you by the duty you owe me not to conceal it from me. I give you my true word that, if I can find a cure for you, you shall be no longer ill." "Many thanks, gentle lady," answered Jehan, "your words are very sweet; but know that I see no way by which I can be cured of this disease; nor have I sufficient cour- age to venture on saying what is the med- icine which would restore me. Never- theless, there is a medicine by which, if she wdio has it in her ])ower would ad- minister it, I should no doubt be relieved ; but I die from the want of courage to de- clare it." " Jehan, fair friend," answers Blonde, "you shall not do that; for, were you, it would be a great sorrow to me. Never before have I ])rayed you for any- [ ^>-5 ] ■,^ k#).Al*M Romances of Old France tiling, l)iit now I })ray tliis of you for your own good; tell me your malady, and I swear to you on my life that I will labor to cure you, if only I know what ails you." " Will you, lady?" "Yes, truly; now talk to me without fear." "Lady, I dare not." "Nonsense, I will know it one way or other." "If you will, lady, then you shall know it; it is for you that I suffer." The murder was out, and with the strain of confession Jehan fainted. Blonde brought him back to life with caiesses and soothing words. "Friend," said she, "since for my sake you have faced the })oint of death, I will give you comfort; therefore, ])ut your trust in me, and think only of getting well, and know that as soon [OG] Blonde afid Jehan as you are well again you shall he my 'hon ami.'" "Shall 1, Lady? Is it truth that you say?" "Yes, friend, be assured of it." "Then, lady, I shall be well again, for 1 have no other malady." "Eat then, fair, sweet friend, and let your heart be at ease." "Lady, I will do as pleases you; when you will, I will eat." Now, strange as it may sound, the Lady Blonde was through all this, thinking of Jehan as a carver, and not for a moment as a lover. She feared his dying, because with his death she would lose so dexter- ous a carver. She pretended other- wise, as we have seen, merely to resuscitate him at table — as poor Jehan soon discovered; for his rapid recovery was to prove a bitter [97] Ro??iances of Old France disappointment. In a night or two he was carving for Blonde as had been liis custom, but, as he furtively and huml^ly stole a glance at her immortal face, he became aware that she had forgotten all she had said by his sick-bed — that, in fact, he was once more a servant. One day he came upon her in a mead- ow, weaving a chaplet of flowers, and — reminded her. Somewhat haughtily and humorously she looked up at him, and frankly acknowledged that she had been thus complacent merely to help him back to health again. In fact, she had pre- tended to love him, so that he might lise from his sick-bed — and carve for her once more. Jelian had only to realize this to go back to bed again, and in a day or two was so much more ill than before that his squire Robin aroused the maidens of [08] Blonde and yehan Lady Blonde's bedcliamber in the mid- dle of the night with the news that Jehan was dying. Hastily drawing a **pelicon" of ermine around her — for beautiful ladies in those days went to bed with nothing on — Blonde hurried to Jehan's bedside, and, when she saw how far-spent he was for love of her, love too was suddenly born in her own heart, and, overcome with pity for poor Jehan, and remorse for her past cruelty to him, she fainted away. Pres- ently reviving, she loaded him with ca- resses and sweet words, so that Jehan, who had hardly been aware of her pres- ence, slowly came back to life. Then she nursed him gently after the manner of fair women and persuaded him to eat some cold chicken "an verjus." And so she stayed with him till daylight, when they parted aflBanced lovers, and Jehan [99] Romances of Old France slept for the first time in eight days. His recovery was now no less rapid than before, and this time the Lady Blonde did not go back on her word, but the two continued to be happy secret lovers for the space of two years — though Philippe de Reimes would have you under- stand that theirs was a strictly innocent love. This beatific state of things was suddenly l)roken in upon by news from France. Jehan's father was ill and had sent over sea for his son. Jehan's grief on hearing this news was great, Init it is to be feared that it was not entirely filial in its origin. The Earl and Count- ess comforted him as best th.ey could, but he had to wait till nightfall to have speech of his [100] Blonde and "Jt'/uifi lady. Tliev meet at last in tlie moonlit orehard, and seated side by side nnder a pear-tree give way at once to their love and their sor- row. Philippe de Reimes makes a pretty picture of it. " Beneath a pear-free heaidiful Jchan and Blonde sit sorrowful; Weeping sore together they. Tear-wet cheek on cheek they lay. In a piteous embrace Their fair bodies interlace. For their hearts with grief are full Beneath that pear-tree beautiful. Ere they have power to speak, full fain Five hundred kisses sweet they drain. And fair and pleasant seemed y-wis Each unto each such services. Nor was there any unkissed place. Nor eyes, nor aught of either face Left of their lips unmsited; The while the bitter tears they shed Their faces sweet have watered. The lovers then agree - it was the Lady Blonde's heavenly sug- [101] Romances of Old France gestion — that, though they must part now, they will meet again on the same night on the following year, under the same pear-tree, and Blonde will fly with Jehan to France. The lark has taken the place of the nightingale and the moon has long since left the orchard before they can find courage to part, and with the morning Jehan and his trusty Robin ride away, accompanied by two palfreys laden with "white sterlings," good silver money of England, the parting gift of the Earl of Oxford, who had taken leave of Jehan in the most affectionate manner. Jehan must return, he had said, and he would make him steward of all his lands. "You shall have the charge of everything, and take what you like," were his words, and Jehan had answered, with a tongue rather saucily addicted to plays upon words, "If it please God, I will return one [ 102 ] Blonde ami Je/iaTi day, and take something of yours." "In faith," the Earl liad innocently answered again, "I am much pleased to hear it." In due course Jehan reaches his home at Dammartin, and shortly after his ar- rival his father dies, and Jehan becomes his heir. He goes to Paris to do homage for his lands to the King, and the King is anxious to take him into his service; but Jehan, with his heart in England, has other plans, and his three brothers take his place in the royal household. Jehan, re- turning to Dammartin, pays his father's debts and generally sets his affairs in order, and then, as the months begin to go by, he makes the mysterious purchases of a choice palfrey, a rich "sambue," or lady's saddle, stuffed with cotton, and a silk bridle. It will soon be time to set out for "le plus bel perier du monde." Meanwhile, that had haj^pened to the [103] Romances of Old France liady 151onde which both had feared. Her father had insisted on choosing her a husband, and the l)ridegrooni was to be the Earl of Gloucester. Blonde succeeds in ol)taining four months' delay on the plea of mourning for her moth- er, but not a day longer will her father grant. Now, of course, the four months will be up exactly on the day she has promised to meet Jelian under the pear-tree. At length the time comes for Je- han to start, and he and Robin and that daintily caparisoned pal- frey say good-bye to Dammartin and, reaching the sea-coast, set sail for Dover. On landing there Jehan l)ays the shipman ten pounds to await his return, and takes the road to London. Arrived r 10-11 Blonde and ye/ian ill London, lie l()(lo;es at a fasliion- a})le inn, and piosently sannlers out into the streets to \ iew tlie town. Soon lie eomes upon a great crowd of l)iisy j)eople, and, on inquirv, he learns that it is the retinue of the Earl of (jdoucester, who is passing through London on his way — to marry the Earl of f^, Oxford's daughter. The marriage had lieen delayed four months, but the Earl is to marry her, Jelian learns, on the very day of the pear-tree. His heait sinks at the news, but his faithful Rol)in reas- sures him, hittino; on the rii^ht ex- plaiiation that Blonde Inid ar- ranged the four months' delay in order to keep her faith with him. On the morrow, Jelian and the Earl of Gloucester take the Oxford [ K'-' ] Romances of Old France road about the same time, and, the two parties coming up with each other, the Earl, perceiving that Jehan is a French- man, addresses him courteously in bad French, asking his name. Jehan answers that his name is Gautier, and that he comes from Montdidier. The Earl makes a rude jest on his name, and then ofl'ers to buy the palfrey. Jehan, pretending to be a dealer, affects assent, but asks so large a price for it that the Earl thinks him a fool, and declines the bargain. Thus they ride on in company and the journey gives Jehan the opportunity for some more of his saucy humor. Toward evening a storm comes on, and the Earl, wdio is very richly dressed, is wet through, his robe of "green sendal" being ruined. "If I were a rich man as you are," mocks Jehan, "I would always carry a house with me in which I could take shelter; I [ 106 ] Blonde and "Je/iiin should not then be soiled, or be wet, as you are." This remark confirmed the Earl's opin- ion that Jehan was a fool — like all French- men, for that matter! Again, later on, they come to a river, which has to be crossed by a ford. The Earl misses the ford, is carried off into the deep water and has to be rescued by fishermen; while Jehan and Robin cross over dry-shod. "If I had such a multi- tude of followers,'" was Jehan's sarcastic comment, "I would always carry a bridge with me, so that I could pass every river with ease." This remark hugely tickled the Earl and his followers, who once more laughed heartily at Jehan for a fool. Neverthe- less, the Earl seems to have been taken with Jehan, and, as they near Oxford, in- vites the further j^leasure of his societv. f 107 ] Romances of Old France But Jehan ie])lies that his way takes him tliroiigh a l)y-road, as near there he had once seen a fair hawk for whicli he had hiid a snare, and lie must now go to see if it is caught. Once more the Earl is convinced of his folly, for by this time surely, he laughs, net and bird, if caught, will both be rotten. And with this final sally, the Earl goes his way and Jehan his. Meanwhile, the castle of Ox- ford is all a-hum with guests awaiting the coming of the Earl, and Blonde is awaiting the night and the coming of Jehan. She seems to have had no misgivings, but as night falls, contriving to steal away from her relatives, she packs her jewels into a casket, and \ 108 ] Blonde and "Jchan takes her stand under the pear- tree with perfect confidence — the most beautiful pear-tree in the world! As we know, her faith was not in vain, and she has not long to wait before Jehan appears, punc- tual to the second, to take into his arms that "something" of the Earl of Oxford's he had promised to steal. After the first customary transports, the lovers waste no more time in caresses, but soon the white palfrey is carrying its delicious burden on the way to France, and Jehan and Robin are keeping a sharp look-out for dan- ger. They avoid the highway and take their course through by-path and woodland, travelling by night and resting by day, and a very [109] Romances of Old France pretty journey they make of it. The in- dispensable Robin looks after the larder. \Ahile the lovers lie hidden in the depths of the forest he repairs to the nearest town and comes back laden with cakes, white bread, and pasties of capons, not to mention "wine in two barrels." '"Robin loads Jii.s Jior.sc's pack. To those lovers carries hack Capon pasties and white bread To the place where they are hid; And wine there was, for barrels two Went ever ivith those lovers true. Upon the green grass then they spread A napkin fair emhroidere'd , And eat beneath the brandling boughs. Close at hand their liorses browse. And Robin every need supplies With his ever watchful eyes. When on pasties and white bread The happy lovers thus are fed, hi each other's arms all day They kiss and talk the time away; Much and sweet they had to say. And the woods with them rejoice. All the greenness, the sweet noise Of nightinr/alc and mavis call, [110] Blonde and Je/mn And the other birdies small That sweetly in their vnldirood Latin Woodland vesper sing and matin. X aught tJiese lovers doth annoy. Hearing is enough of joy. And irith other such deligJits Pass their happy days and nights.'^ Meanwhile, of course, things had been happening in the castle of Oxford. On his arrival, the Earl of Gloucester had been anxious to see his young wife with- out delay, and Blonde had been sent for. Not being found, her father had at first assumed that she had hidden herself away for some mysteries of the feminine toilet, in order to make herself especially beautiful for her bridegroom, and, while they awaited her, the Earl of Gloucester filled in the time by anecdotes of the 'good fooK of a Frenchman, a droll fellow, whom he had met on the way. As he talked, there was something about the anecdotes that irresistibly [HI] Romances of Old France reminded the Earl of Oxford of Jehan, and, the Lady Blonde continuing to be missing, her father came to the conclusion that the Earl's fellow-traveller had indeed been Jehan of Dammar- tin, who had come to keep his word and carry off that "something" that was his. He confided his fears to the Earl of Gloucester, with the result that the Earl im- mediately sets off in pursuit of the poor lovers, with a great com- pany of men-at-arms, thunder- ing along the highways toward Dover. But, of course, Jehan had not overlooked this danger, and when at last his little cavalcade is in sight of the sea, he hides with Blonde in a forest, and sends out [112] Blonde and "Jehan Robin in disguise to reconnoitre. Robin finds all the roads senti- nelled by the Earl's retainers, and the boat which was faithfully awaiting them watched by four men-at-arms. But he contrives to get speech of the shipman, whom he finds loyal, and arranges with him the details of the desperate embarkation they are to attempt that midnight. The shipman's heart is with the lovers, and there are twenty stout lads on his ship to lend a hand. So night comes and Jehan and the wdiite palfrey and Robin steal softly out of the woods toward the, unfortunately, moonlit strand. The Earl's watchers are on the alert, and immediately attack them. As there are but four of them, how- [113] Ro??iances of Old France ever, it is an easy matter for Jehan to dispose of three. But the fourth has time to blow a horn which brings the Earl and his retinue immediately upon the scene. Then follows a spirited piece of fighting which shows Philippe de Reimes as a poet of vigor as w^ell as of nio-htinf^ales : " la douce noise Des mauvis et des roussignos." Need one say that, in spite of the Earl's superior forces, Love was too strong for him ? Unhorsed by Jehan, he lay dan- gerously w^ounded on the sand, half his retainers dead and the rest in panic; and so at last the white palfrey may delicately step aboard and the sails fill out for Bou- logne and Dammartin. The rest of the story is just — happy ending. Surely no reader will need to be told how the King of France bestirred [lU] Blonde a?id 'Jehan himself on behalf of the two lovers and won for them the not difhcult forgiveness of the Earl of (Oxford, who had always had a weakness for Jehan; how the Earl made a splendid visit to Dammartin, how honors were hea}3ed upon Jehan, how Blonde bore him four children, "the most beautiful in the world," and how, when his father-in-law died, Jehan be- came Earl of Oxford as well as Count of Dammartin, and how Jehan lived to en- joy all this good fortune for thirty years. So fate blesses a true love and honors it — sometimes. The reader's prayers are requested for the repose of Philippe de Rheims, whose soul, it is to be hoped, is long since in Paradise : Pour cou n' oblierai-ge mie Que je lie vous pri et requier Que vous voellies a Dieu priier [115] Romances of Old F> ranee Que Phclippe dc Reim gart Et de paradis li douist part* * The writer is indebted for this story to tlie complete text, edited by M. LeRoux de Lincy, and published by the Camden Society. [IIG] AUCASSIN AND NICOLETE !ajJO.'.I.M..MiM.'ili.'.l.M.M.M.'.l.'.l.'J.'tl.M.'.l.!.gJn Aucassin and Nicolete * rpHOUGH the song-story— " cante- -^ fable" — "C'est d'Aucassin et de Nicolete," has long had an antiquarian interest for scholars, it is only during the last twenty years or so that it has taken its place in the living literature of the world, and given two of the most fra- grant names to the mythology of lovers. Monsieur Bida in France, and Mr. Andrew Lang and Mr. F. W. Bour- * Although this sketch of Aucassin and Nico- lete was embodied in the companion volume to this, " Old Love Stories Retold," it is nevertheless so typical a romance of Old France, that I have ventured to reprint it here in its more accurate classification. [119] Romances of Old France dillon in England, are to be thanked for rescuing this precious pearl from the dust-heaps of phil- ological learning. In England Mr. Bourdillon was first with a very graceful and scholarly translation. Yv^alter Pater in his famous essays on "The Renaissance" early di- rected to it the attention of ama- teurs of such literary delicacies; but practically Mr. Lang is its sponsor in English, by virtue of a translation which for freshness and grace and tender beauty may well take the place of the original with those of us for whom Old French has its difficulties. Nine years be- fore, Mr. Edmund Clarence Sted- man had introduced the lovers to American readers in "A Masque of Poets." There in a single lyric [ 130 ] Aucassin and Nicolete Mr. Stedman lias so skilfully con- centrated the romance of the old story that I venture to quote from it, particularly as Mr. Stedman has done readers of his poetry the mysterious unkindness of omitting it from his collected poems : " Within the garden of Biaucaire He met her by a secret stair, — The night was centuries ago. Said Aucassin, 'My love, my pet. These old confesso/s vex me so! They threaten all the pains of hell Unless I give you up, ma belle,' — Said Aucassin to Nicolette. " ' Now, who should there in heaven be To fill your place, ma tres-douce mie ? To reach that spot I little care! There all the droning priests are met ; — All the old cripples, too, are there That unto shrines and altars cling. To filch the Peter-pence we bring' ; — Said Aucassin to Nicolette. " ' To purgatory I would go With pleasant comrades whom we know, [ 121 ] 'Romances of Old France Fair scholars, minstrels, lusty knights Whose deeds the land will not forget, The captains of a hundred fights. The men of valor and degree : We'll join that gallant company,' — Said Aucassin to Nicolette. Sweet players on the cithern strings And they who roam the world like kings Are gathered there, so blithe and free ! Pardie ! I'd join them now, my pet. If you went also, ma douce mie! The joys of heaven I'd forego To have you with me there below,' — Said Aucassin to Nicolette." Here the three notes of the old song story are admirably struck : the force and freshness of young passion, the trouba- dourish sweetness of literary manner, the rebellious humanity. Young love has ever been impatient of the middle-aged wisdom of the world, and fiercely re- sisted the pious or practical restraints to its happiness ; but perhaps the rebellious- ness of young hearts has never been so [ 122 ] Aucassin and Nicolete audaciously expressed as in "Aucassin and Nicolete." The absurdity of parents, who, after all these generations of ex- perience, still confidently op])ose them- selves to that omnipotent passion which Holy Writ itself tells us many waters cannot quench; the absurdity of thin- blooded, chilly old maids of both sexes who would have us believe that this warm-hearted ecstasy is an evil thing, and that prayer and fasting are better worth doing — not in the most "pagan" litera- ture of our own time have these twin ab- surdities been assailed with more out- spoken contempt than in this naive old romance of the thirteenth century. The Count Bougars de Valence is at war with Count Garin de Biaucaire. The town of Biaucaire is closely besieged and its Count is in despair, for he is an old man, and his son Aucassin, who should take [ 123 ] Romances of Old France his place, is so overtaken with a hopeless passion that he sits in a lovesick dream, refusing to put on his armor or to take any part in the defence of the town. His father reproaches him, and how absolutely of our own day rings his half-bored, half-impatient an- swer. "'Father,' said Aucassin, 'I marvel that you will be speak- ing. Never may God give me aught of my desire if I be made knight, or mount my horse, or face stour and battle wherein knights smite and are smitten again, un- less thou give me Nicolete, my true love, that I love so well. . . .'" Father — caiii you understand .^ How strange old people are! Don't you see how it is .^ "Father, I marvel that you will [ 12^ ] Aucassin and Nicolcte be speaking!" It is the eternal ex- elamation, the universal shrug, of youth confronted by "these te- dious old fools!" Now Nicolete is no projjer match for Aucassin, a great Count's son — though, naturally, in Aucassin's opinion, "if she were Empress of Constantinople or of Germany, or Queen of France or England, it were little enough for her" — because she is "the slave girl" of the Count's own Captain- at-arms, who had bought her of the Saracens, reared, christened and adopted her as his " daughter-in- God." Actually she is the daugh- ter of the King of Carthage, though no one in Biaucaire, not even her- self, knows of her high birth. The reader, of course, would naturally [125] Ro??iances of Old France guess as much, for no polite jongleur of the Middle Ages, addressing, as he did, an audience of the highest rank, would admit into his stories any but heroes and heroines with the finest connections. Father and son by turns have an in- terview with the Captain. The Captain promises the Count to send Nicolete into a far country, and the story goes in Biau- caire that she is lost, or made away with by the order of the Count. The Captain, however, having an affection for his adopted daughter, and being a rich man, secretes her high up in " a rich palace with a garden in face of it." To him comes Aucassin asking for news of his lady. The Captain, with whose dilemma it is possible for any one not in his first youth to sympathize, lectures Aucassin not un- kindly after the prescribed formulas. It is impossible for Aucassin to marry Nico- [ 126] Aucassin and Nicolete lete, and were lie less honest, hell wonlcl be his portion and Paradise closed against him forever. It is in answer to this admirable common sense that Aucassin flashes out his famous defiance. "Para- dise!" he laughs — "in Paradise what have I to win ? Therein I seek not to en- ter, but only to have Nicolete, my sweet lady that I love so well. For into Para- dise go none but such folk as I shall tell thee now: Thither go these same old priests, and halt old men and maimed, who all day and night cower continually before the altars and in the crypts; and such folk as wear old amices and old clouted frocks, and naked folk and shoe- less, and covered with sores, perishing of hunger and thirst, and of cold, and of little ease. These be they that go into Paradise; with them have I naught to make. But into hell would I fain go; for [127] Romances of Old France into hell fare the goodly clerks, and goodly knights that fall in tourneys and great wars, and stout men-at-arms, and all men noble. With these would I liefly go. And thither pass the sweet ladies and courteous that have two lovers, or three, and their lords also thereto. Thither go the gold, and the silver, and cloth of vair, and cloth of gris, and harpers, and makers, and the princes of this world. With these I would gladly go, let me but have with me Nicolete, my sweetest lady." Aucassin's defiance of priests as well as parents is something more significant than the impulsive ut- terance of wilful youth. It is at once, as Pater has pointed out, illustrative of that humanistic re- [ 128 ] Aucassin and Nicolete volt against the ideals of Christian asceticism which even in the Mid- dle Ages was already beginning — a revolt openly acknowledged in the so-called Renaissance, and a revolt growingly characteristic of our own time. The gospel of the Joy of Life is no mere heresy to-day. Rather it may be said to be the prevailing faith. Aii- cassin's spirited speech is no longer a lonely protest. It has become a creed. Finding Aucassin unshaken in his determination, the Count his father bribes him with a promise that, if he will take the field, he shall be permitted to see Nicolete — "even so long," Aucassin stipu- lates, "that I may have of her two words or three, and one kiss." [ 129 ] Romances of Old France The compact made, Aiicassin does so mightily "with his hands" against the enemy that he raises the siege and takes prisoner the Count Bougars de Valence. But the father refuses the agreed reward — and here, after the charming manner of the old story-teller himself, we may leave prose awhile and continue the story in verse — the correct formula is "Here one singeth:" "When the Count Garin doth know That his child would ne'er forego Love of her that loved him so, Nicolete, the bright of brow. In a dungeon deep below Childe Aucassin did he throw. Even there the Childe must dwell In a dun-walled marble cell. There he waileth in liis woe, Crpng thus as ye shall know : ' Nicolete, thou lily white, ]My sweet lady, bright of brow, Sweeter than the grape art thou. Sweeter than sack posset good In a cup of maple wood . . . [130] Aucassin and Nicolete "My sweet lady, lily white, Sweet thy footfall, sweet thine eyes, And the mirth of thy replies. "'Sweet thy laughter, sweet thy face, Sweet thy lips and sweet thy brow. And the touch of thy embrace. "Who but doth in thee delight .^ I for love of thee am bound In this dungeon underground, All for loving thee must lie Here where loud on thee I cry, Here for loving thee must die, For thee, my love.' " Now Nicolete is no less whole-hearted and indomitable in her love than Aucas- sin. She is like a prophecy of Rosalind in her adventurous, full-blooded girlhood. When her master has locked her up in the tower, she loses no time in making a vig- orous escape by that ladder of knotted bedclothes without which romance could hardly have gone on existing. Who that has read it can forget the picture of her as she slips down into the moonlit garden, [131] 'Romances of Old France and kilts up her kirtle "because of the dew that she saw lying deep on the grass" ? — "Her locks were yellow and curled, her eyes blue and smiling, her face featly fashioned, the nose high and fairly set, the lips more red than cherry or rose in time of summer, her teeth white and small; her breasts so firm that they bore up the folds of her bod- ice as they had been two apples; so slim she was in the waist that your two hands might have clipped her, and the daisy flowers that brake beneath her as she went tiptoe, and that bent above her instep, seemed black against her feet, so white was the maiden." As Nicolete steals in the moon- light to the ruinous tower where [132] Aiicassin and Nicolete her lover lies, she hears liim "wailing within, and making dole and lament for the sweet lady he loves so well." The lovers snatch a perilous talk, while the town's guards pass down the street with drawn swords seeking Nicolete, but not remarking her crouched in the shadow of the tower. How Nicolete makes good her escape into the wildwood and builds a bower of woven boughs with her own hands, and how Aucassin finds her there, and the joy they have, and their wandering together in strange lands, their losing each other once more, and their final happy finding of each other again — "by God's w^ill w^ho loveth lov- ers" — is not all this written in the Book of Love 't — [133] Romances of Old France "Sweet the song, the story sweet. There is no man hearkens it, No man hving 'neath the sun So outwearied, so foredone. Sick and woful, worn and sad, But is healed, but is glad, 'Tis so sweet." The story is simple enough, of a pat- tern old and familiar as love itself, but the telling of it is a rare achievement of art, that art which is so accomplished as to be able to imitate simplicity; for, roughly connected as are certain parts of the story, "Aucassin and Nicolete" in the main is evidently the work of one who was a true poet and an exquisite literary craftsman. The curious, almost unique form of it is one of its most characteristic charms; for it is written alternately in prose and verse. The verse sometimes repeats in a condensed form what has already been related in the prose, some- times elaborates upon it, and sometimes [ 134 ] Aucassin and Nicolete carries on the story independently. The formula with which the prose is intro- duced is: "So say they, speak they, tell they the Tale," and the formula for in- troducing the verse, as already noted, is: "Here one singeth." These formulas, and the fact that the music for some of the songs has come down to us on the precious unique manuscript preserved in the Bibliotheque Nationale, lead critics to think that the romance was probably presented by a company of jongleurs, with music, and possibly with some dra- matic action. The author is unknown, and the only reference to him is his own in the opening song: " Who would list to the good lay, Gladness of the captive gray ? " M. Gaston Paris suggests that the "viel caitif" lived and wrote in the time of Louis VH. (1130), and Mr. Lang draws [135] Romances of Old France a pretty picture of the "elderly, nameless minstrel strolling with his viol and his singing-boys . . . from castle to castle in 'the happy poplar land.'" Beaucaire is bet- ter known now^adays for its an- cient fair than for its lovers. Ac- cording to tradition, that fair has been held annually for some- thing like a thousand years — and our lovers have been dead al- most as long. Still, thanks to the young heart of that unknown old troubadour, their love is as fresh as a may-bush in his songs, the dew is still on the moonlit daisies where Nicolete's white feet have just passed, and her bower in the wildwood is as green as the day she wove it out of boughs and flowers. As another old poet has [136] Aiicassin and Nicokte siino", "the world might find the spring by foUowing her" — so ex- qnisitely vernal is the spirit that breathes from this old song story. To read in it is to take the ad- vice given to Aucassin by a cer- tain knight. "Aucassin," said the knight, "of that sickness of thine have I been sick, and good coun- sel will I give thee : . . . mount thy horse, and go take thy pastime in yonder forest ; there w^ilt thou see the good flowers and grass, and hear the sweet birds sing. Per- chance thou shalt hear some word, whereby thou shalt be the better." The reader will do well to take the knight's advice, and follow into the woodland "the fair white feet of Nicolete." [Note : The reader may care to com- pare Walter Pater's translation of the [137] Romances of Old France description of Nicolete with Mr. Lang's given on page 139 : " Her hair was yellow in small curls, her smiling eyes blue-green, her face clear and feat, the little lips very red, the teeth small and wliite; and the daisies which she crushed in passing, hold- ing her skirt high behind and before, looked dark against her feet; the girl was so white!"] [138] THE HISTORY OF OVER SEA / T f^ t .?.l,.!.I.'.».!,T.!.».MJX!JJJJ.L!.L'.l.!.t.!.».M.!.U'J.M.MJ.l. ! .LM..M...M VI The History of Over Sea /^NE of the great charms of ^^ mediaeval story is the ro- mantic indefiniteness of the geog- raphy, as also its subhme inde- pendence of formal historical events. As we have seen in the tale of Xing Coustans, the story- teller is in no wise abashed by the discrepancies between his version of the origin of Constantinople and the version of tlie official historians. Anachronism has no terrors for him, and yon can be- lieve him or not as you please. Of course, you prefer to believe [141] Romances of Old France him. Similarly the events of the mediae- val story-teller take place in countries for which you will look in vain on the map, but he were dull, indeed, and hard to please, who would demand the latitude and longitude of such realms of old romance as Belmarye and Aumarie. Such a one might at the same time de- mand an exact localization of the Forest of Arden or the Woods of Broceliande. Even places that are to be found on earthly maps take on a certain mythical unreality from the romantic atmosphere; and such places as Acre and Joppa, for example, seem rather to belong to dream- land than to geography. The scene of "The History of Over Sea" is situated partly in "Aumarie," ruled over by that potentate of romance known as "the Soudan" — how much more suggestive than "Sultan" — and [ 142 ] The History of Over Sea partly in an old France hardly less mythical. It opens in " Ponthieu," which once npon a time was ruled over by a certain Count of Ponthieu, a very valiant and good knight. In his near neighbor- hood lived another great lord, the Count of St. Pol. Now Count St. Pol had no son, so his nephew Thibault, son of his sister. Dame of Dontmart in Ponthieu, was his heir. The Count of Ponthieu had one fair daughter, whose name the chronicler does not deem it necessary to give, she being a mere woman; and by a second wife he had a son, and both son and daughter he loved much. Now my Lord of Thibault, though heir to his uncle, was a poor man, and must needs work for his living, as only gentlemen could work in those days, with his lance and sword. Therefore, having won the approval of the Count of Ponthieu, he [143] Romances of Old France became one of the knights of his retinue, and rode with him to tournaments; and in these and other warhke expeditions he did so vahantly and profitably for his master that the Count was highly pleased with him. One day as they returned together from a tournament, the Count called him to his side and said: '"Thibault, as God may help thee, tell me what jewel of my land thou lovest the best.'" "'Sir,' answered Thibault, 'I am but a poor man, but as God may help me, of all the jewels of thy land I love none so much as my damosel, thy daughter.'" The Count, when he heard that, was much merry and jo}^ul in his heart, and said: '"Thibault, [1-44] The History of Over Sea 1 will give her to thee if she will.'" "'Sir,' said he, ' miieh great thanks have thou; God reward thee.'" Then went the Count to his daughter, and said to her: '"Fair daughter, I have married thee, save by thee ]:>e any hindrance.' 'Sir,' said she, 'unto whom.^' 'A — God's name,' said he, 'to a much valiant man, of much avail: to a knight of mine who hath to name Thibault of Dontmart.' 'Ha, sir,' said she, 'if thy country were a kingdom, and should come to me all wholly, forsooth I should hold me right well wedded in him.' 'Daughter,' said the Count, 'bless- ed be thine heart, and the hour wherein thou wert born.'" So all is well, and my Lord Thibault and the Count's daugh- [145] Rofnances of Old France ter are married, and live happily to- gether for five years. They had but one sorrow. "It {^leased not our Lord Jesus Christ that they should have an heir of their flesh, which was a heavy matter to them." One night as Thibault lay by the side of his sleeping wife, he pondered much on this sorrow of theirs, and why it should be, seeing that they loved each other so well, and the thought came to him of " St. Jakeme, the Apostle of Ga- licia," who was said to befriend such as were thus denied the gift of children. Presently his wife awoke, and taking her in his arms he begged a gift of her. "'Sir,' said the dame, 'and what gift.^' 'Dame,' said he, 'thou shalt wot that when I have it.' 'Sir,' she said, 'if I may give it, I will give it, whatso it may be.' 'Dame,' said he, 'I crave leave of thee [146] The History of Over Sea to go to my lord St. Jacque the Apostle, that he may pray our Lord Jesus Christ to give us an heir of our flesh, whereby God may be served in this world, and the Holy Church refreshed.' 'Sir,' said the dame, 'the gift is full courteous, and much debonairly will I grant it thee.'" A night or two after, as they were again lying side by side, the wife speaks. Sir,' said she, ' I pray and require of thee a gift.' 'Dame,' said he, 'ask, and I will give it, if give it I may.' 'Sir,' she said, 'I crave leave of thee to go with thee on thy journey.'" Thibault was sorrowful to hear this, and said: "'Dame, grievous thing w^ould it be to thine heart, for the w^ay is much longsome, and the land is much strange and much diverse.' She said : ' Sir, doubt thou naught of me, for of such littlest squire that thou hast shalt thou be more [147] Romances of Old France hindered than of me.' 'Dame,' said he, 'A — God's name, I grant it thee.'" So it was arranged, and in no great while Thibault and his wife start out on their pilgrimage, the Count of Ponthieu having smiled upon their departure, and bestowed upon them "pennies" for their journey. At first all goes well with them on the road, and at length they come to a town within two days' journey of the saint. Here they put up for the night, and on the morrow, asking the landlord concerning the w^ay they should take and the condition of the roads, he makes a fair report, and once more they start out with a good heart. After journeying for some time thev come to a forest, ['l48] The History of Over Sea and presently find themselves at a parting of the ways. There are two roads, one to all appearance good, and one bad, and they know not which to take, Thibault, his wife, and chamberlain, have rid- den ahead of the retinue, and, the place seeming lonesome and threat- ening, Thibault sends back his chamberlain to bring up his ser- vants. Meanwhile, further exam- ining the roads, he decides to take the good one, not suspecting that certain forest thieves thus made the bad road seem good as a trap for unwary travellers. For the space of a quarter of a league the road continued broad, but sud- denly it grew narrower, and ob- structed with low-hanging boughs ; and Thibault turned to his wife [149] Rofnances of Old France with misgiving: "'Dame,' said he, 'me- seemeth that we go not well.' " The words had scarcely left his lips, than there came in sight four stout fellows mounted on four great horses, and each rider held a spear in his hand. Turning to look behind him, Thibault is aware of four others similarly mounted and armed, and presently one of the first four rides at him with drawn sword. Thi- bault, who is unarmed, contrives to evade the stroke, and also to snatch the sword from the robber's grasp. With it, by God's help, he is able to slay three of the eight thieves, but the combat is too un- ecjual, and presently he is overpowered and stripped of his raiment. The thieves then bind him hand and foot with a sword-belt and cast him into a bramble- bush. Turning then to his lady, they take and strip her in like manner even [150] The History of Over Sea unto her smock, and tlien fall to dis- puting among themselves as to whose prize she shall be. "'Masters,' said one of them to his fellows, 'I have lost my brother in this stour, therefore will I have this Lady in atonement thereof.' Another said: 'But T also, I have lost my cousin-german; therefore I claim as much as thou here- in; yea, and another such right have I.' And even in such wise said the third and the fourth and the fifth; but at last said one: 'In the holding of this Lady ye have no great getting or gain; so let us lead her into the forest here, and do our will on her, and then set her on the road again and let her go.' So did they even as they devised, and set her on the road again." Meanwhile, Thibault, lying in the bramble-bush, had seen all that befell [151] Romances of Old France in agony of soul, and here comes in a curious side- light on the position of woman in tlie middle ages. It would not occur to us to-day that Thibault's dame could be held re- sponsible for what had happened to her, and indeed Thibault readily allows that it was all against her will and gives her his assurance that he will not hold it in any way against her; but he does so with an evident sense of his peculiar magnanimity, an evident feeling that all husbands would not have been so lenient. His wife, beside herself with the anguish of her humiliation, very evidently ex- pected no such clemency, and indeed is unable to believe that her lord really means what he says. So when he calls to her to [152] The History of Over Sea release him from his bands, she, spying a sword left behind from the combat, takes it in her hand, and, distraught as she is with shame and fear of her husband, endeavors to smite instead of re- leasing him. The stroke, how- ever, misses him, and severs the thongs, so that he springs to his feet, and, taking the sword from her, says : " ' Dame, so please God, no more to-day shalt thou slay me;' to which she humbly answers: 'Of a surety, sir, I am heavy thereof.' " Thibault seems to bear her no ill-will for her action, but, laying his hand on her shoulder, he leads her back along the road till they meet his retinue, by whom they are soon provided with changes of raiment, and fresh [ 153 ] Ro??iances of Old France horses, and so once more continue their way to St. Jakeme, or St. Jacqne. At the next town Thibault leaves his wife in the care of some good sisters, and proceeds toward the saint alone. His pilgrimage accomplished to his satisfaction, he re- turns for his Lady, and both take the home journey together for Ponthieu, he, says the old story-teller, evidently feeling it a matter for emphasis, treating her "with as much great honor as he had led her away, save the lying a-bed with her." During the day of festivity which sig- nalized their return home, the Count of Ponthieu and his son-in-law sat together at table, familiarly eating from one dish; and presently the Count asked Thibault to tell him for his entertainment some tale from his travels, either some expe- rience of his own, or some of which he had heard. Thibault at first professed [15-t] The History of Over Sea ignorance of any sucli story to tell, but, on the Count's continuino; to uro^e him, he withdrew him away from the rest of the company and proceeded to tell his own story, though without revealing the identity of the j^ersons involved. When the story was ended, the Count asked Thibault what the knight had done with the lady, and the conversation which ensues gives lurid evidence that, after all, Thibault was an exceptional hus- band for those days. He gave answer to the Count that "the knight had brought and led the Lady back to her own country, with as much great joy and as much great honor as he had led her thence, save lying in the bed whereas lay the lady." "'Thibault,' said the Count, 'other- wise deemed the knight than I had deemed; for by the faith which I Dwe Komances of Old France unto God, and unto thee, whom much I love, I woukl have hung the Lady by the tresses to a tree or to a bush or by the very girdle if none other cord I might find.' "'Sir,' said Messire Thibault, 'naught so certain is the thing as it will be if the Lady shall ])ear witness thereto with her very body.'" Other times, other manners, in- deed! Xo one seems to give a thought to the shameful suffering of the Lady herself. It would seem as though the crime had been committed entirely against the husband and the father. The Count now grows curious as to the name of the knight, and, though Thibault endeavors to dissuade him, will not be gain- [156] The History of Over Sea said. His persistence })reaks clown Thibault's resolution and at last he tells the full truth. But the Count's savage sense of justice is by no means weakened by the shame being thus brought so near home. "Much grieving and abashed, he held his peace a great while, and spake no word; and when he spoke he said: 'Thi- bault, then to my daughter it was that this adventure betid .^' 'Sir,' said he, 'of a verity.' 'Thibault,' said the Count, ' well shalt thou be avenged, since thou hast brought her back to me.' "And because of the great ire which the Count had, he called for his daughter, and asked her if that were true which Messire Thi- bault had said; and she asked [157] Romances of Old France ' What ? ' and he answered : ' This, that thou wouklst have slain him, even as he hath tokl it ? ' ' Sir,' she said, ' yea.' ' And wherefore,' said the Count, 'wouldst thou have done itr' 'Sir,' said she, 'hereto, for that it grieveth nie that I did it not; and that I slew him not!'" To say the least. Dame Thibault's answer was hardly politic at the mo- ment, and may perhaps set one thinking that the mediaeval husband cannot be judged by our mild modern conditions. After all, when a wife expresses her re- gret in cold blood that she had not mur- dered her husband, we can hardly be surprised if that husband hangs her by her hair to the next tree. But the Count of Ponthieu, all)eit he was her father, was planning for her a still more terrible punishment. We next find him at a little seaport riosi The History of Over Sea which the story-teller familiarly refers to as "Riie-on-Sea," as if there were any such place, and his daughter, his son and his son-in-law are with him there. The Count is there on grim business. First, he has made for him an immense barrel, very strong and thick, and hav- ing shipped this on board a stout craft, he bids his daughter and his son and Thibault come aboard with him, and thereon they are rowed out to sea, none save the Count knowing the meanino; of their trip. When they had gone some two leagues, the Count smote off the head of the barrel, and paying no heed to her frenzied entreaties or those of her companions, he compelled his daughter to get into the barrel. Then, replacing the staves and having made all water- tight, he thrust the barrel over the boat's side into the sea, saying, "I commend [159] Komances of Old France thee unto the winds and waves." So had Perseus and his mother Danse been cast adrift by the angry king centuries ago, and, as even a heathen providence had taken pity upon a weak woman in a Hke extremity, it was not to be thouglit that in Christian times such distress should go unsuc- cored; "but our Lord Jesus Christ, wdio willeth not the death of sinners -be they he or she," quaintly remarks the pious story- teller, "but that they may turn from their sins and live, sent succor unto the Lady." It chanced that a short while after the Lady Thibault had thus been commended unto the winds and the waves, a merchant ship outward bound from Flanders [160] The History of Over Sea passed by where the great barrel was rolHng to and fro upon the waters. Being espied by one of the merchants, it was hauled on board, and great was the astonish- ment of the voyagers on discover- ing its strange cargo. The poor Lady was far spent with lack of air, but the ministrations of her rescuers soon brought her to her- self, and "she ate and drank and became much fair." So fair, in- deed, did she seem in the sight of the merchantmen, that, when at length they arrived at "Aumarie," it occurred to them that they might turn her beauty to good account with the Soudan, who, like all Soudans before and since, was a lover of fair women. So, attiring her in fair apparel, they brought [161] e-^ Romances of Old France her as a gift to the Soudan, who was a young man and as vet unwed. The Soudan, who was nol)le and gentle of nature, treated her with great distinction, but in vain asked her to reveal her name and people. However, he perceived her to be of high lineage, and, being captivated with her beauty, begged her to renounce her religion and become his wife. Real- izing that her only hope of escape was through his love, the Lady Thibault con- sented, and, having recanted Christianity, she became the Soudan's wife according to the laws of the Saracens, and she and her Saracen husband appear to have lived very peacefully together; for as a husband the Soudan seems to compare most favor- ably with the Christian Thibault. In due course, and with appropriate rejoicings, a son is born to them, and again a daughter, and the years begin to go by. [ 162 ] The History of Over Sea Meanwhile, the conscience of the Count of Ponthieu grows more and more troub- lesome for the crime committed in his anger against his daughter, and her hus- band and brother are likewise haunted with the thought of her. At length the Count confesses his sin to the Arch- bishop of Rheims, and his son-in-law and his son alike make confession, and all three take the vow of^ilgrimage Over Sea, that is, to the Holy Land. Pres- ently setting out on their journey, they arrive over sea, and having visited all the shrines and holy places, they give them- selves to the service of the Temple at Jerusalem for the space of a year. Thus having eased their souls, they bethink them once more of this world and Ponthieu, and presently take ship at Acre on their homeward voyage. At first the w^inds and the waves, to which [163] Romances of Old France the Count had commended his daughter are favorable, but one day a storm arises, and their only hope from shipwreck is to take refuge in the land of Aumarie, in spite of the risk they thus run at the hands of the heathen Saracens. However, a deferred death })y martyrdom seems preferable to im- mediate death in the sea, so they make for the nearest port in Au- marie. As they run in towards shore, they are boarded by a wSaracen galley, and taken prison- ers, and their captors, as they had foreseen, made a present of them to the Soudan, captured Christians being a particularly ingratiating gift to Saracen monarchs. The Soudan had them cast into dif- ferent prisons, with heavy chains [164] The History of Over Sea and little food, and generally they were treated with much hardship. And so they abode in prison many days, knowing nothing of their nearness to the Lady Thibault, she being no less ignorant of them. At length the Soudan's birthday came round, and as the custom was, the people came to him and demanded their yearly right — "a ca])tive Christian to set up at the butts." The Soudan granted them their request as a matter of course. " ' Go ye to the gaol,' said he, ' and take him who has the least of life in him.'" On going to the gaol, the Count of Ponthieu, emaciated, and with matted hair and beard, seemed to have little enough life in him to serve their purpose, so when thev brought him before the Soudan [ 105 ] Ro??iances of Old France he bid them take the old man away and do their will upon him. But as the Soudan's lady, sitting by the side of her lord, looked on the poor captive, some- thing stirred in her heart, and it was as though her very blood told her who the captive was, though her eyes had not recognized him. So turning to the Sou- dan she said: "'Sir, I am French, where- fore I would willingly speak to yonder poor man before he dieth, if it please thee.' 'Yea, dame,' said the Soudan, 'it pleases me w^ell.'" Coming to the captive, the lady Thibault asked him of what land he was and what kin and he answered sorrowfully: '"Lady, I am of the Kingdom of France, of a land which is called Ponthieu; and certes, dame, it may not import to me of what kin I be, for I have suffered so many pains and griefs since I departed that I love better [166] The History of Over Sea to die than to live; but so much can I tell thee of a sooth, that I was the Count of Ponthieu.'" When his daughter hears this, with- out revealing her identity, which the old Count had not suspected, she goes to her lord, the Soudan, saying: "'Sir, give me this captive, if it please thee, for he knoweth the chess and the tables, and fair tales withal, which shall please thee much; and he shall play before thee and learn thee.' 'Dame,' said the Soudan, 'by my law, wot that with a good will I give him thee; so do with him as thou wilt.'" The jailers then led out Thibault, and again his wife asks for speech with him, and again begs him of the Soudan, and again her request is granted. Her brother is then brought out, with the same result. He too knows the chess [ 107 ] Romances of Old France and the tables! '"Dame, said the indulgent Soudan, 'by my law, were there an hundred of them I would give them unto thee will- ingly.'" What is a captive Chris- tian more or less! So the Lady Thibault's kindred thus pass into her safekeeping, and the populace are just as much pleased with an- other Christian prisoner, who, un- fortunately not being acquainted with the Soudan's lady, passes duly to his martyrdom. The Soudan's lady then pro- ceeds to nurse and nourish her captives, sore wasted with their stay in prison, and provides them with fitting raiment, so that at length they are restored, and daily play at the chess and the tables before her, and the Soudan him- [168] The History of Over Sea self takes pleasure in their coin- panv. But, all this time, the dame wisely refrains from discovering herself. Now, after some time has gone by, a neighboring Soudan goes to war with the Soudan of Aumarie, and herein the Soudan's lady sees an opportunity of escape. Going to her kinsmen, she asks them still more particularly about themselves and their histories, end- ing w^ith: "'And thy daughter, whom this knight had, wdiat be- came of her.^'" "'Lady,' said the Count, 'I trow that she be dead.' 'What wise died she t ' quoth she. ' Certes, Lady,' said the Count, 'by an occasion which she had deserved.' 'And what was the occasion.^'" said the lady. [169] Romances of Old France The Count then related the whole history, and when he comes to where his daughter raised the sword against her husband, the wife of the Soudan exclaims: '"Ha! sir! thou sayest the sooth; and well I know wherefore she would to do it.' 'I)ame,'^said the Count, 'and wherefore?' 'Certes,' quoth she, 'for the great shame which had befallen her.'" Thibault then protests with tears that he would not have held her blameworthy. '"Sir, that she deemed naught,'" an- swered the Lady. Then she falls to questioning them as to wdiether they think the Count's daughter alive or dead. '"Dame, we wot not,' they an- swer. 'But if it pleased God,' she con- tinued, 'that she were alive, and that ye might have of her true tidings, what would ye say thereto.^'" [170] The History of Over Sea Ail protest tliat to see her alive again would be better than to be out of prison, better than to be King of France, better than to be endowed with all the riches of the world; and softened with these answers, she at length reveals herself, and unfolds her plans for their escape to Ponthieu. First Thibault must ac- company the Soudan in battle, and trust to winning his good-will by his valor, and this part of the plan is accomplished with such brilliant success to the Sou- dan's arms that Thibault is at once set high in his favor. He offers Thibault wide lands and a rich wife, if only he will become a Saracen. The Soudan's Lady temporizes for him, and meanwhile, falling ill, informs her lord that she is with child, and that she has been warned that she w^ll die if she is not presently taken to some other soil aw^ay from [171] Komances of Old France the city. The ever-indulgent Sou= dan, for whom one begins to feel sorry, immediately falls in with his wife's wishes, and has a ship pre- pared for her that she may voyage to whatever land she deems good — so simple as well as gentle was the redoubtable Soudan of Aumarie. His Lady begs to take her old and young captives for her entertain- ment, cunningly proposing to leave Thibault behind. The Soudan grants this request also, but demurs to her leaving Thibault. So brave a warrior will be a great protection for her on her voyage, he says. So presently all four are aboard, and she has taken with her also the Soudan's little son — which seems hardly fair. And now, '"if God please, we shall yet be [ 1T2 ] The History of Over Sea in France and the land of Pon- thieu.'" After a while the mariners come to a port on the French coast, another seaport in the moon, called "Brandis." Here is the good land where the Lady would be set down, and once safely on land with her companions she turns to the mariners. " ' Masters ', she says, 'get ye back and tell to the Soudan that I have taken from him my body, and his son whom he loved much, and that I have cast forth from prison my father, my husband, and my brother.'" With this message the mariners must needs return disconsolately to Aumarie; and the moral of the story, when you come to reflect that her Christian kinsmen had [ 178 ] Ro??iances of Old France set her adrift in a barrel, and her "pay- nim" lord had ever been a gentle loving husband, is, to say the least, cynical and hardly calculated to encourage Saracen potentates in clemency towards Christian captives. However, these happy people of Pon- thieu appear to have given little thought to the feelings of the Soudan, but as soon as possible repair to Rome, where "the Apostle" sets the Lady Thibault "in right Christendom" once more, and thence to Ponthieu, and a future filled with "great joy" and "great pleasure," and all manner of good fortune and honors. Incidentally, it must be told that the Lady Thibault's daughter by the Soudan whom she had left behind in Aumarie, and who was known as the Fair Caitif, grew up passing fair, and, being given [174] The History of Over Sea in marriage to the famous Turk, "Mala- kin," became through him the grand- mother of the great Salachn. So, at all events, says the old romancer. [175] 20 »-"-"'• """"f^