University of Virginia Library

3. CHAPTER III.

But the difficulties of Guillaume de Cabestaign were only
begun. It was not the policy of Raymond to be satisfied with
his simple asseverations. The suspicions which had been awakened
in his mind by the malignant suggestions of his courtiers,
were too deeply and skilfully infixed there, to suffer him to be
soothed by the mere statement of the supposed offender. He
required something of a confirmatory character from the lips of
Lady Agnes herself. Pleased, nevertheless, at what he had
heard, and at the readiness and seeming frankness with which
the troubadour had finally yielded his secret to his keeping, he
eagerly assured the latter of his assistance in the prosecution of
his quest; and he, who a moment before had coolly contemplated
a deliberate murder to revenge a supposed wrong to his
own honor, did not now scruple to profess his willingness to aid
his companion in compassing the dishonor of another. It did
not matter much to our sullen baron that the victim was the sister
of his own wife. The human nature of Lord Raymond, of
Roussillon, his own dignity uninjured, had but little sympathy
with his neighbor's rights and sensibilities. He promptly proposed,
at that very moment, to proceed on his charitable mission.
The castle of Tarrascon was in sight; and, pointing to
its turrets that rose loftily above the distant hills, the imperious
finger of Raymond gave the direction to our troubadour, which
he shuddered to pursue, but did not dare to decline. He now
began to feel all the dangers and embarrassments which he was
about to encounter, and to tremble at the disgrace and ruin
which seemed to rise, threatening and dead before him. Never
was woman more virtuous than the lady Agnes. Gentle and

beautiful, like her sister Marguerite, her reputation had been
more fortunate in escaping wholly the assaults of the malignant.
She had always shown an affectionate indulgence for our troubadour,
and a delighted interest in his various accomplishments;
and he now remembered all her goodness and kindness only to
curse himself, in his heart, for the treachery of which he had
just been guilty. His remorse at what he had said to Raymond
was not the less deep and distressing, from the conviction that
he felt that there had been no other way left him of escape from
his dilemma.

We are bound to believe that the eagerness which Raymond,
of Roussillon, now exhibited was not so much because of a desire
to bring about the dishonor of another, as to be perfectly satisfied
that he himself was free from injury. At the castle of
Tarrascon, the Lady Agnes was found alone. She gave the
kindest reception to her guests; and, anxious to behold things
through the medium of his wishes rather than his doubts and
fears, Raymond fancied that there was a peculiar sort of tenderness
in the tone and spirit of the compliments which she addressed
to the dejected troubadour. That he was disquieted and
dejected, she was soon able to discover. His uneasiness made
itself apparent before they had been long together; and the
keen intelligence of the feminine mind was accordingly very
soon prepared to comprehend the occasion of his disquiet, when,
drawn aside by Raymond at the earliest opportunity, she found
herself cross-examined by the impatient baron on the nature
and object of her own affections. A glance of the eye at Guillaume
de Cabestaign, as she listened to the inquiries of the suspicious
Raymond, revealed to the quick-witted woman the extent
of his apprehensions, and possibly the danger of her sister. Her
ready instinct, and equally prompt benevolence of heart, at
once decided all the answers of the lady.

“Why question me of lovers?” she replied to Raymond, with
a pretty querulousness of tone and manner; “certainly I have
lovers enow — as many as I choose to have. Would you that I
should live unlike other women of birth and quality, without my
servant to sing my praises, and declare his readiness to die in
my behalf?”

“Ay, ay, my lady,” answered the knight, “lovers I well

know you possess; for of these I trow that no lady of rank and
beauty, such as yours, can or possibly should be without; — but
is there not one lover, over all, whom you not only esteem for
his grace and service, but for whom you feel the tenderest interest
— to whom, in fact, you prefer the full surrender of your
whole heart, and, were this possible or proper, of your whole
person?”

For a moment the gentle lady hesitated in her answer. The
question was one of a kind to startle a delicate and faithful
spirit. But, as her eyes wandered off to the place where the
troubadour stood trembling — as she detected the pleading terror
that was apparent in his face — her benevolence got the
better of her scruples, and she frankly admitted that there really
was one person in the world for whom her sentiments were even
thus lively, and her sympathies thus warm and active.

“And now, I beseech you, Lady Agnes,” urged the anxious
baron, “that you deal with me like a brother who will joy to
serve you, and declare to me the name of the person whom you
so much favor.”

“Now, out upon it, my lord of Roussillon,” was the quick
and somewhat indignant reply of the lady, “that you should
presume thus greatly upon the kindred that lies between us.
Women are not to be constrained to make such confession as
this. It is their prerogative to be silent when the safety of
their affections may suffer from their speech. To urge them to
confess, in such cases, is only to compel them to speak unnecessary
falsehoods. And know I not you husbands all? you have
but a feeling in common; and if I reveal myself to you, it were
as well that I should go at once and make full confession to my
own lord.”

“Nay, dearest Lady Agnes, have no such doubt of my loyalty.
I will assure thee that what you tell me never finds it way to
the ear of your lord. I pray thee do not fear to make this confession
to me; nay, but thou must, Agnes,” exclaimed the rude
baron, his voice rising more earnestly, and his manner becoming
passionate and stern, while he grasped her wrist firmly in his
convulsive fingers, and, drawing her toward him, added, in the
subdued but intense tones of half-suppressed passion, “I tell
thee, lady, it behooves me much to know this secret.”

The lady did not immediately yield, though the manner of
Raymond, from this moment, determined her that she would
do so. She now conjectured all the circumstances of the case,
and felt the necessity of saving the troubadour for the sake of
her sister. But she played with the excited baron awhile longer,
and, when his passion grew so impatient as to be almost beyond
his control, she admitted, as a most precious secret, confided to
his keeping only that he might serve her in its gratification, that
she had a burning passion for Guillaume de Cabestaign, of which
he himself was probably not conscious.

The invention of the lady was as prompt and accurate as if
the troubadour had whispered at her elbow. Raymond was
now satisfied. He was relieved of his suspicions, turned away
from the Lady of Tarrascon, to embrace her supposed lover, and
readily accepted an invitation from the former, for himself and
companion, to remain that night to supper. At that moment the
great gate of the castle was thrown open, and the Lord of Tarrascon
made his appearance. He confirmed the invitation extended
by his wife; and, as usual, gave a most cordial reception
to his guests. As soon as an opportunity offered, and before the
hour of supper arrived, the Lady Agnes contrived to withdraw
her lord to her own apartments, and there frankly revealed to
him all that had taken place. He cordially gave his sanction
to all that she had done. Guillaume de Cabestaign was much
more of a favorite than his jealous master; and the sympathies
of the noble and the virtuous, in those days, were always accorded
to those who professed a love so innocent as — it was justly
believed by this noble couple — was that of the Lady Marguerite
and the troubadour. The harsh suspicions of Raymond were
supposed to characterize only a coarse and brutal nature, which,
in the assertion of its unquestionable rights, would abridge all
those freedoms which courtliness and chivalry had established
for the pleasurable intercourse of other parties.

A perfect understanding thus established between the wife
and husband, in behalf of the troubadour, and in misleading the
baron, these several persons sat down to supper in the rarest
good humor and harmony. Guillaume de Cabestaign recovered
all his confidence, and with it his inspiration. He made several
improvvisations during the evening, which delighted the company

— all in favor of the Lady Agnes, and glimpsing faintly at
his attachment for her. These, unhappily, have not been preserved
to us. They are said to have been so made as to correspond
to the exigency of his recent situation; the excellent
Baron Raymond all the while supposing that he alone possessed
the key to their meaning. The Lady Agnes, meanwhile, under
the approving eye of her husband, was at special pains to show
such an interest in the troubadour, and such a preference for his
comfort, over that of all persons present, as contributed to confirm
all the assurances she had given to her brother-in-law in
regard to her affections. The latter saw this with perfect satisfaction;
and leaving Guillaume to pass the night where he was so
happily entertained, he hurried home to Roussillon, eager to re
veal to his own wife, the intrigue between her lover and her sister.
It is quite possible that, if his suspicions of the troubadour were
quieted, he still entertained some with regard to Marguerite. It
is not improbable that a conviction that he was giving pain at
every syllable he uttered entered into his calculations, and
prompted what he said. He might be persuaded of the innocence
of the parties, yet doubtful of their affections; and though
assured now that he was mistaken in respect to the tendency of
those of Guillaume, his suspicions were still lively in regard
to those of his wife. His present revelations might be intended
to probe her to the quick, and to gather from her emotions, at
his recital, in how much she was interested in the sympathies of
the troubadour.

How far he succeeded in diving into her secret, has not been
confided to the chronicler. It is very certain, however, that he
succeeded in making Marguerite very unhappy. She now entertained
no doubt, after her husband's recital, of the treachery
of her sister, and the infidelity of her lover; and though she
herself had permitted him no privilege, inconsistent with the
claims of her lord, she was yet indignant that he should have
proved unfaithful to a heart which he so well knew to be thoroughly
his own. The pure soul itself, entirely devoted to the
beloved object, thus always revolts at the consciousness of its
fall from its purity and its pledges; and though itself denied —
doomed only to a secret worship, to which no altar may be raised
and to which there is no offering but the sacrifice of constant privation

— yet it greatly prefers to entertain this sacred sense of
isolation, to any enjoyment of mere mortal happiness. To feel
that our affections are thus isolated in vain — that we have yielded
them to one who is indifferent to the trust, and lives still for his
earthly passions — is to suffer from a more than mortal deprivation.
Marguerite of Roussillon passed the night in extreme agony
of mind, the misery of which was greatly aggravated by the
necessity, in her husband's presence, of suppressing every feeling
of uneasiness. But her feelings could not always be suppressed;
and when, the next day, on the return of the trouba
dour from Tarrascon, she encountered him in those garden walks
which had been made sacred to their passion by its first mutual
revelation, the pang grew to utterance, which her sense of dignity
and propriety in vain endeavored to subdue. Her eyes
brightened indignantly through her tears; and she whose virtue
had withheld every gift of passion from the being whom she yet
professed to love, at once, but still most tenderly, reproached
him with his infidelity.

“Alas! Guillaume,” she continued, after telling him all that
she had heard, “alas! that my soul should have so singled thine
out from all the rest, because of its purity, and should find thee
thus, like all the rest, incapable of a sweet and holy love such
as thou didst promise. I had rather died, Guillaume, a thousand
deaths, than that thou shouldst have fallen from thy faith
to me.”

“But I have not fallen — I have not faltered in my faith,
Marguerite! I am still true to thee — to thee only, though I
sigh for thee vainly, and know that thou livest only for another.
Hear me, Marguerite, while I tell thee what has truly happened.
Thou hast heard something truly, but not all the truth.”

And he proceeded with the narrative to which we have
already listened. He had only to show her what had passed
between her lord and himself, to show how great had been his
emergency. The subsequent events at Tarrascon, only convinced
her of the quick intelligence, and sweet benevolence of
purpose by which her sister had been governed. Her charitable
sympathies had seen and favored the artifice in which lay the
safety equally of her lover and herself. The revulsion of her
feelings from grief to exultation, spoke in a gush of tears, which

relieved the distresses of her soul. The single kiss upon his
forehead, with which she rewarded the devotion of the troubadour,
inspired his fancy. He made the event the subject of the
sonnet, which has fortunately been preserved to us; —

MARGUERITE.

The lines first italicised embody the name of the lady, by a
periphrasis known to the Provençal dialect, and the name of the
daisy, as used in the closing line, is Marguerite. The poem
is an unequivocal declaration of attachment, obviously meant to
do away with all adverse declarations. To those acquainted
with the previous history, it unfolds another history quite as
significant; and to those who knew nothing of the purity of the
parties, one who made no allowance for the exaggerated manner
in which a troubadour would be apt to declare the privileges he
had enjoyed, it would convey the idea of a triumph inconsistent
with the innocence of the lovers, and destructive of the rights
of the injured husband.

Thus, full of meaning, it is difficult to conceive by what imprudence
of the parties, this fatal sonnet found its way to the
hands of Raymond of Roussillon. It is charged by the biographers,
in the absence of other proofs, that the vanity of Marguerite,
in her moments of exultation — greater than her passion —
proud of the homage which she inspired, and confident in the innocence
which the world had too slanderously already begun to question
— could not forbear the temptation of showing so beautiful a
testimony of the power of her charms. But the suggestion lacks
in plausibility. It is more easy to conceive that the fond heart

of the woman would not suffer her to destroy so exquisite a
tribute, and that the jealousy of her lord, provoked by the arts
of envious rivals, conducted him to the place of safe-keeping
where her treasure was concealed. At all events, it fell into
his hands, and revived all his suspicions. In fact, it gave the
lie to the artful story by which he had been lulled into confidence,
and was thus, in a manner, conclusive of the utter guilt
of the lovers. His pride was outraged as well as his honor. He
had been gulled by all upon whom he had relied — his wife, his
page, and his sister. He no longer doubted Marguerite's infidelity
and his own disgrace; and, breathing nothing but vengeance,
he yet succeeded in concealing from all persons the conviction
which he felt, of the guilt which dishonored him, and the terrible
vengeance which he meditated for its punishment. He was a cold
and savage man, who could suppress, in most cases, the pangs
which he felt, and could deliberately restrain the passions which
yet occupied triumphant place in his heart and purpose.

It was not long before he found the occasion which he desired.
The movements of the troubadour were closely watched,
and one day, when he had wandered forth from the castle seeking
solitude, as was his frequent habit, Raymond contrived to
steal away from observation, and to follow him out into the forest.
He was successful in his quest. He found Guillaume
resting at the foot of a shady tree, in a secluded glen, with
his tablets before him. The outlines of a tender ballad, tender
but spiritual, as was the character of all his melodies, were
already inscribed upon the paper. The poet was meditating, as
usual, the charms of that dangerous mistress, whose beauty was
destined to become his bane. Raymond threw himself upon the
ground beside him.

“Ah! well,” said he, as he joined the troubadour, “this love
of the Lady Agnes is still a distressing matter in thy thoughts.”

“In truth, my lord, I think of her with the greatest love and
tenderness,” was the reply of Guillaume.

“Verily, thou dost well,” returned the baron; “she deserves
requital at thy hands. Thou owest her good service. And yet,
for one who so greatly affecteth a lady, and who hath found so
much favor in her sight, methinks thou seek'st her but seldom.
Why is this, Sir Troubadour?”

Without waiting for the answer, Raymond added, “But let
me see what thou hast just written in her praise. It is by his
verses that we understand the devotion of the troubadour.”

Leaning over the poet as he spoke, as if his purpose had been
to possess himself of his tablets, he suddenly threw the whole
weight of his person upon him, and, in the very same moment,
by a quick movement of the hand, he drove the couteau de
chasse, with which he was armed, and which he had hitherto
concealed behind him, with a swift, unerring stroke deep down
into the bosom of the victim. Never was blow better aimed, or
with more energy delivered. The moment of danger was that
of death. The unfortunate troubadour was conscious of the
weapon only when he felt the steel. It was with a playful
smile that Raymond struck, and so innocent was the expression
of his face, even while his arm was extended and the weight of
his body was pressing upon Guillaume, that the only solicitude
of the latter had been to conceal his tablets. One convulsive
cry, one hideous contortion, and Guillaume de Cabestaign was
no more. The name of Marguerite was the only word which
escaped in his dying shriek. The murderer placed his hand
upon the heart of the victim. It had already ceased to beat.