University of Virginia Library

6. CHAPTER VI.

The ladies had retired, but midnight still found a sufficiently
large group gathered together on the upper deck. By this time
others of the party had added themselves to the circle of raconteurs,
and from one of these we obtained another curious history
from the pages of chivalric times, and the troubadours of Provence.
The narrator assured us that it was a veritable biography.

LOVE'S LAST SUPPER;
A TRUE STORY OF THE TROUBADOURS.

CHAPTER 1.

In the first conception of the institution of chivalry it was
doubtless a device of great purity, and contemplated none but
highly proper and becoming purposes. Those very features
which, in our more sophisticated era, seem to have been the
most absurd, or at least fantastic, were, perhaps among its best
securities. The sentiment of love, apart from its passion, is what
a very earnest people, in a very selfish period, can not so well
understand; but it was this very separation of interests, which
we now hold to be inseparable, that constituted the peculiarity
of chivalry — the fanciful in its characteristics rendering sentiment
independent of passion, and refining the crude desire by
the exercise and influence of tastes, which do not usually accompany
it. Among the Provençal knights and troubadours, in the
palmy days of their progress, love was really the most innocent
and the most elevated of sentiments. It seems to have been
nursed without guile, and was professed, even when seemingly

in conflict with the rights of others, without the slightest notion
of wrong-doing or offence. It did not vex the temper, or impair
the marital securities of the husband, that the beauties of
his dame were sung with enthusiasm by the youthful poet; on
the contrary, he who gloried in the possession of a jewel, was
scarcely satisfied with fortune unless she brought to a just knowledge
of its splendors, the bard who alone could convey to the
world a similar sense of the value of his treasure. The narrative
which we have gathered from the ancient chronicles of
Provence, and which we take occasion to say is drawn from the
most veracious sources of history, will illustrate the correctness
of these particulars.

One of the most remarkable instances of the sentiment of love,
warmed into passion, yet without evil in its objects, is to be found
in the true and touching history of Guillaume de Cabestaign, a
noble youth of Roussillon. Though noble of birth, Guillaume
was without fortune, and it was not thought improper or humiliating
in those days that he should serve, as a page, the knight
whose ancestors were known to his own as associates. It was
in this capacity that he became the retainer of Raymond, lord
of Roussillon. Raymond, though a haughty baron, was one who
possessed certain generous tastes and sentiments, and who
showed himself capable of appreciating the talents and great
merits of Guillaume de Cabestaign. His endowments, indeed,
were of a character to find ready favor with all parties. The
youth was not only graceful of carriage, and particularly handsome
of face and person, but he possessed graces of mind and
manner which especially commended him to knightly sympathy
and admiration. He belonged to that class of improvvisatori to
whom the people of Provence gave the name of troubadour, and
was quite as ready to sing the praises of his mistress, as he was
to mount horse, and charge with sword and lance in her defence
and honor. His muse, taking her moral aspect from his own,
was pure and modest in her behavior — indulging in no song or
sentiment which would not fall becomingly on the most virgin
ear. His verses were distinguished equally by their delicacy
and fancy, and united to a spirit of the most generous and exulting
life a taste of the utmost simplicity and purity. Not less
gentle than buoyant, he was at once timid in approach, and joygiving

in society; and while he compelled the respect of men
by his frank and fearless manhood, he won the hearts of the
other sex by those gentle graces which, always prompt and
ready, are never obtrusive, and which leave us only to the just
appreciation of their value, when they are withdrawn from our
knowledge and enjoyment.

It happened, unfortunately for our troubadour, that he won
too many hearts. Raised by the lord of Roussillon to the rank
of gentleman-usher to the Lady Marguerite, his young and beautiful
wife, the graces and accomplishments of Guillaume de
Cabestaign, soon became quite as apparent and agreeable to her
as to the meanest of the damsels in her train. She was never
so well satisfied as in his society; and her young and ardent
soul, repelled rather than solicited by the stern nature of Raymond,
her lord, was better prepared and pleased to sympathize
with the more beguiling and accessible spirit of the page. The
tenderest impressions of love, without her own knowledge, soon
seized upon her heart; and she had learned to sigh as she gazed
upon the person that she favored, long before she entertained
the slightest consciousness that he was at all precious to her
eyes. He himself, dutiful as devoted, for a long season beheld
none of these proofs of favor on the part of his noble mistress.
She called him her servant, it is true, and he, as such, sung daily
in her praises the equal language of the lover and the knight.
These were words, however, of a vague conventional meaning,
to which her husband listened with indifferent ear. In those
days every noble lady entertained a lover, who was called her
servant. It was a prerogative of nobility that such should be
the case. It spoke for the courtliness and aristocracy of the
party; and to be without a lover, though in the possession of a
husband, was to be an object of scornful sympathy in the eyes
of the sex. Fashion, in other words, had taken the name of
chivalry; and it was one of her regulations that the noble lady
should possess a lover, who should of necessity be other than
her lord. In this capacity, Raymond of Roussillon, found nothing
of which to complain in the devotion of Guillaume de Cabestaign
to Marguerite, his wife. But the courtiers who gathered
in her train were not so indulgent, or were of keener sight. They
soon felt the preference which she gave, over all others, to our

troubadour. They felt, and they resented in the more readily,
as they were not insensible to his personal superiority. Guillaume
himself, was exceeding slow in arriving at a similar consciousness.
Touched with a fonder sentiment for his mistress
than was compatible with his security, his modesty had never
suffered him to suppose that he had been so fortunate as to inspire
her with a feeling such as he now knew within himself.
It was at a moment when he least looked for it, that he made
the perilous discovery. It was in the course of a discussion upon
the various signs of love — such a discussion as occupied the idle
hours, and the wandering fancies of chivalry — that she said to
him, somewhat abruptly —

“Surely thou, Guillaume, thou, who canst sing of love so tenderly,
and with so much sweetness, thou, of all persons, should
be the one to distinguish between a feigned passion and a real
one. Methinks the eye of him who loves truly, could most certainly
discover, from the eye of the beloved one, whether the
real flame were yet burning in her heart.”

And even as she spoke, the glance of her dark and lustrous
eye settled upon his own with such a dewy and quivering fire,
that his soul at once became enlightened with her secret. The
troubadour was necessarily an improvvisatore. Guillaume de
Cabestaign was admitted to be one of the most spontaneous in
his utterance, of all his order. His lyre took for him the voice
which he could not well have used at that overpowering moment.
He sung wildly and triumphantly, inspired by his new and rapturous
consciousness, even while her eyes were yet fixed upon
him, full still of the involuntary declaration which made the inspiration
of his song. These verses, which embodied the first
impulsive sentiment which he had ever dared to breathe from
his heart of the passion which had long been lurking within it,
have been preserved for us by the damsels of Provence. We
translate them, necessarily to the great detriment of their
melody, from the sweet South, where they had birth, to our
harsher Runic region. The song of Guillaume was an apostrophe.

Such a poem is beyond analysis. It was simply a gush of
enthusiasm — the lyrical overflow of sentiment and passion, such
as a song should be always. The reader will easily understand
that the delicacy of the sentiment, the epigrammatic intenseness of
the expression, is totally lost in the difficulty of subjugating our
more stubborn language to the uses of the poet. A faint and inferior
idea of what was sung at this moment of wild and almost
spasmodical utterance, is all that we design to convey.

The spot in which this scene took place was amid the depth
of umbrageous trees, in the beautiful garden of Chateau Roussillon.
A soft and persuasive silence hung suspended in the atmosphere.
Not a leaf stirred, not a bird chirrupped in the foliage;
and, however passionate was the sentiment expressed by the
troubadour, it scarcely rose beyond a whisper — harmonizing in
the subdued utterance, and the sweet delicacy of its sentiment
with the exquisite repose and languor of the scene. Carried beyond
herself by the emotions of the moment, the feeling of Marguerite
became so far irresistible that she stooped ere the song
of the troubadour had subsided from the ear, and pressed her
lips upon the forehead of her kneeling lover. He seized her
hand at this moment and carried it to his own lips, in an equally
involuntary impulse. This act awakened the noble lady to a
just consciousness of her weakness. She at once recoiled from
his grasp.

“Alas!” she exclaimed, with clasped hands, “what have I
done?”

“Ah, lady!” was the answer of the troubadour, “it is thy
goodness which has at length discovered how my heart is devoted

to thee. It is thy truth, and thy nobleness, dear lady,
which I love and worship.”

“By these shalt thou know me ever, Guillaume of Cabestaign,”
was the response; “and yet I warn thee,” she continued,
“I warn and I entreat thee, dear servant, that thou approach
me not so near again. Thou hast shown to me, and surprised
from me, a most precious but an unhappy secret. Thou hast
too deeply found thy way into my heart. Alas! wherefore!
wherefore!” and the eyes of the amiable and virtuous woman
were suffused with tears, as her innocent soul trembled under
the reproaches of her jealous conscience. She continued —

“I can not help but love thee, Guillaume of Cabestaign, but
it shall never be said that the love of the Lady Marguerite of
Roussillon was other than became the wife of her lord. Thou,
too, shalt know me, by love only, Guillaume; but it shall be
such a love as shall work neither of us trespass. Yet do not
thou cease to love me as before, for, of a truth, dear servant,
the affections of thy heart are needful to the life of mine.”

The voice of the troubadour was only in his lyre. At all
events, his reply has been only preserved to us in song. It was
in the fullness of his joy that he again poured forth his melody:—

2. CHAPTER II.

It does not appear that love trespassed in this instance beyond
the sweet but narrow boundaries of sentiment. The lovers
met daily, as usual, secretly as well as publicly, and their
professions of attachment were frankly made in the hearing of
the world; but the vows thus spoken were not articulated any
longer in that formal, conventional phraseology and manner,
which, in fact, only mocked the passion which it affectedly professed.
It was soon discovered that the songs of Guillaume de
Cabestaign were no longer the frigid effusions of mere gallantry,
the common stilt style of artifice and commonplace. There was
life, and blood, and a rare enthusiasm in his lyrics. His song
was no longer a thing of air, floating, as it had done, on the
winglets of a simple fancy, but a living and a burning soul, borne
upward and forward, by the gales of an intense and earnest passion.
It was seen that when the poet and his noble mistress
spoke together, the tones of their voices mutually trembled as
if with a strange and eager sympathy. When they met, it was
noted that their eyes seemed to dart at once into each other,
with the intensity of two wedded fires, which high walls would
vainly separate, and which, however sundered, show clearly
that they will overleap their bounds, and unite themselves in
one at last. Theirs was evidently no simulated passion. It
was too certainly real, as well in other eyes as their own. The
world, though ignorant of the mutual purity of their hearts, was
yet quick enough to discern what were their real sentiments.
Men saw the affections of which they soon learned, naturally
enough, to conjecture the worst only. The rage of rivals, the
jealousy of inferiors, the spite of the envious, the malice of the
wantonly scandalous, readily found cause of evil where in reality
offence was none. To conceive the crime, was to convey
the cruel suspicion, as a certainty, to the mind of him whom the
supposed offence most affected. Busy tongues soon assailed the
ears of the lord of Roussillon, in relation to his wife. They
whispered him to watch the lovers — to remark the eager intimacy
of their eyes — the tremulous sweetness of their voices, and
their subdued tones whenever they met — the frequency of their
meetings — the reluctance with which they separated; and they

dwelt with emphasis upon the pointed and passionate declarations,
the intensity and ardor of the sentiments which now filled
the songs of the troubadour — so very different from what they
had ever been before. In truth, the new passion of Guillaume
had wrought wondrously in favor of his music. He who had
been only a clever and dextrous imitator of the artificial strains
of other poets, had broken down all the fetters of convention,
and now poured forth the most natural and original poetry of
his own, greatly to the increase of his reputation as a troubadour.

Raymond de Roussillon hearkened to these suggestions in
silence, and with a gloomy heart. He loved his wife truly, as
far as it was possible for him to love. He was a stern, harsh
man, fond of the chase, of the toils of chivalry rather than its
sports; was cold in his own emotions, and with an intense self-esteem
that grew impatient under every sort of rivalry. It was
not difficult to impress him with evil thoughts, even where he
had bestowed his confidence; and to kindle his mind with the
most terrible suspicions of the unconsciously offending parties.
Once aroused, the dark, stern man, resolved to avenge his supposed
wrong; and hearing one day that Guillaume had gone out
hawking, and alone, he hastily put on his armor, concealing it
under his courtly and silken vestments, took his weapon, and
rode forth in the direction which the troubadour had taken. He
overtook the latter after a while, upon the edge of a little river
that wound slowly through a wood. Guillaume de Cabestaign
approached his lord without any misgiving; but as he drew near,
a certain indefinable something in the face of Raymond, inspired
a feeling of anxiety in his mind, and, possibly, the secret consciousness
in his own bosom added to his uneasiness. He remembered
that it was not often that great lords thus wandered
forth unattended; and the path which Raymond pursued was
one that Guillaume had taken because of its obscurity, and with
the desire to find a solitude in which he might brood securely
over his own secret fancies and affections. His doubts, thus awakened,
our troubadour prepared to guard his speech. He boldly
approached his superior, however, and was the first to break
silence.

“You here, my lord, and alone! How does this chance?”

“Nay, Guillaume,” answered the other, mildly; “I heard
that you were here, and hawking, and resolved to share your
amusement. What has been your sport?”

“Nothing, my lord. I have scarcely seen a single bird, and
you remember the proverb — `Who finds nothing, takes not
much.'”

The artlessness and simplicity of the troubadour's speech and
manner, for the first time, inspired some doubts in the mind of
Raymond, whether he could be so guilty as his enemies had
reported him. His purpose, when he came forth that morning,
had been to ride the supposed offender down, wherever he encountered
him, and to thrust his boar-spear through his body.
Such was the summary justice of the feudal baron. Milder
thoughts had suddenly possessed him. If Raymond of Roussillon
was a stern man, jealous of his honor, and prompt in his
resentment, he at least desired to be a just man; and a lurking
doubt of the motives of those by whom the troubadour had been
slandered, now determined him to proceed more deliberately in
the work of justice. He remembered the former confidence
which he had felt in the fidelity of the page, and he was not
insensible to the charm of his society. Every sentence which
had been spoken since their meeting had tended to make him
hesitate before he hurried to judgment in a matter where it was
scarcely possible to repair the wrong which a rash and hasty
vengeance might commit. By this time, they had entered the
wood together, and were now concealed from all human eyes.
The Lord of Roussillon alighted from his horse, and motioned
his companion to seat himself beside him in the shade. When
both were seated, and after a brief pause, Raymond addressed
the troubadour in the following language: —

“Guillaume de Cabestaign,” said he, “be sure I came not
hither this day to talk to you of birds and hawking, but of something
more serious. Now, look upon me, and, as a true and
loyal servant, see that thou answer honestly to all that I shall
ask of thee.”

The troubadour was naturally impressed by the stern simplicity
and solemnity of this exordium. He was not unaware
that, as the knight had alighted from his steed, he had done so
heavily, and under the impediment of concealed armor. His

doubts and anxieties were necessarily increased by this discovery,
but so also was his firmness. He felt that much depended
upon his coolness and address, and he steeled himself,
with all his soul, to the trial which was before him. The recollection
of Marguerite, and of her fate and reputation depending
upon his own, was the source of no small portion of his present
resolution. His reflections were instantaneous; there was no
unreasonable delay in his answer, which was at once manly and
circumspect.

“I know not what you aim at or intend, my lord, but —
by Heaven! — I swear to you that, if it be proper for me to
answer you in that you seek, I will keep nothing from your
knowledge that you desire to know!”

“Nay, Guillaume,” replied the knight, “I will have no conditions.
You shall reply honestly, and without reserve, to all
the questions I shall put to you.”

“Let me hear them, my lord — command me, as you have
the right,” was the reply of the troubadour, “and I will answer
you, with my conscience, as far as I can.”

“I would then know from you,” responded Raymond, very
solemnly, “on your faith and by your God, whether the verses
that you make are inspired by a real passion?”

A warm flush passed over the cheeks of the troubadour; the
pride of the artist was offended by the inquiry. That it should
be questioned whether he really felt what he so passionately
declared, was a disparaging judgment upon the merits of his
song.

“Ah! my lord,” was the reply, expressed with some degree
of mortification, “how could I sing as I do, unless I really felt
all the passion which I declare. In good sooth, then, I tell you,
love has the entire possession of my soul.”

“And verily I believe thee, Guillaume,” was the subdued
answer of the baron; “I believe thee, my friend, for, unless a
real passion was at his heart, no troubadour could ever sing as
thou. But, something more of thee, Guillaume de Cabestaign.
Prithee, now, declare to me the name of the lady whom thy
verses celebrate.”

Then it was that the cheek of our troubadour grew pale, and
his heart sunk within him; but the piercing eye of the baron

was upon him. He had no moment for hesitation. To falter
now, he was well assured, was to forfeit love, life, and everything
that was proud and precious in his sight. In the moment
of exigency the troubadour found his answer. It was evasive,
but adroitly conceived and expressed.

“Nay, my lord, will it please you to consider? I appeal to
your own heart and honor — can any one, without perfidy, declare
such a secret? — reveal a thing that involves the rights
and the reputation of another, and that other a lady of good
fame and quality? Well must you remember what is said on
this subject by the very master of our art — no less a person
than the excellent Bernard de Ventadour. He should know —
what says he?”

The baron remained silent, while Guillaume repeated the following
verses of the popular troubadour, whose authority he
appealed to: —

Though seemingly well adapted to his object, the quotation
of our troubadour was unfortunate. There were yet other verses
to this instructive ditty, and the Baron of Roussillon, who had
listened very patiently as his companion recited the preceding,
soon proved himself to have a memory for good songs, though
he never pretended to make them himself. When Guillaume
had fairly finished, he took up the strain after a brief introduction.

“That is all very right and very proper, Guillaume, and I
gainsay not a syllable that Master Bernard hath written; nay,
methinks my proper answer to thee lieth in another of his verses,
which thou shouldst not have forgotten while reminding me of
its companions. I shall refresh thy memory with the next that

follows.” And without waiting for any answer, the baron proceeded
to repeat another stanza of the old poem, in very creditable
style and manner for an amateur. This remark Guillaume
de Cabestaign could not forbear making to himself, though he
was conscious at the same time that the utterance of the baron
was in singularly slow and subdued accents — accents that
scarcely rose above a whisper, and which were timed as if every
syllable were weighed and spelled, ere it was confided to expression.
The verse was as follows: —

“Now, methinks,” continued the baron, “here lieth the wisdom
of my quest. Who better than myself can help to secure
thee thy desires, to promote thy passion, and gain for thee the
favor of the fair? Tell me, then, I command thee, Guillaume,
and I promise to help thee with my best efforts and advice.”

Here was a dilemma. The troubadour was foiled with his
own weapons. The quotation from his own authority was conclusive
against him. The argument of Raymond was irresistible.
Of his ability to serve the young lover there could be no question;
and as little could the latter doubt the readiness of that
friendship — assuming his pursuit to be a proper one — to which
he had been so long indebted for favor and protection. He
could excuse himself by no further evasion; and, having admitted
that he really and deeply loved, and that his verses declared
a real and living passion, it became absolutely necessary that
our troubadour, unless he would confirm the evident suspicions
of his lord, should promptly find for her a name. He did so.
The emergency seemed to justify a falsehood; aud, with firm
accents, Guillaume did not scruple to declare himself devoted,
heart and soul, to the beautiful Lady Agnes de Tarrascon, the
sister of Marguerite, his real mistress. At the pressing solicitation
of Raymond, and in order to render applicable to this case
certain of his verses, he admitted himself to have received from
this lady certain favoring smiles, upon which his hopes of future
happiness were founded. Our troubadour was persuaded to
select the name of this lady, over all others, for two reasons.
He believed that she suspected, or somewhat knew of, the

mutual flame which existed between himself and her sister;
and he had long been conscious of that benevolence of temper
which the former possessed, and which he fondly thought would
prompt her in some degree to sympathize with him in his necessity,
and lend herself somewhat to his own and the extrication
of Marguerite. After making his confession, he concluded by
imploring Raymond to approach his object cautiously, and by
no means to peril his fortunes in the esteem of the lady he
professed to love.

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.

4. CHAPTER IV.

“Thou wilt mock me no more!” he muttered fiercely, as he
half rose from the body now stiffening fast. But his fierce vengeance
was by no means completed. As if a new suggestion
had seized upon his mind, while his hand rested upon the heart
of the troubadour, he suddenly started and tore away the garments
from the unconscious bosom. Once more he struck it
deeply with the keen and heavy blade. In a few moments he
had laid it open. Then he plunged his naked hand into the
gaping wound, and tore out the still quivering heart. This he
wrapped up with care and concealed in his garments. With another
stroke he smote the head from the body, and this he also
concealed, in fragments of dress torn from the person of his victim.
With these proofs of his terrible revenge, he made his way, under
cover of the dusk, in secret to the castle. What remains to be
told is still more dreadful — beyond belief, indeed, were it not that

the sources of our history are wholly above discredit or denial.
The cruel baron, ordering his cook into his presence, then gave
the heart of the troubadour into his keeping, with instructions to
dress it richly, and after a manner of dressing certain favorite
portions of venison, of which Marguerite was known to be particularly
fond. The dish was a subject of special solicitude with
her husband. He himself superintended the preparation, and
furnished the spices. That night, he being her only companion
at the feast, it was served up to his wife, at the usual time of
supper. He had assiduously subdued every vestige of anger,
unkindness, or suspicion, from his countenance. Marguerite was
suffered to hear and see nothing which might provoke her apprehensions
or arrest her appetite. She was more than usually
serene and cheerful, as, that day and evening, her lord was
more than commonly indulgent. He, too, could play a part
when it suited him to do so; and, like most men of stern will
and great experience, could adapt his moods and manners to that
livelier cast, and more pliant temper, which better persuade the
feminine heart into confidence and pleasure. He smiled upon
her now with the most benevolent sweetness; but while he earnestly
encouraged her to partake of the favorite repast which she
so much preferred, he himself might be seen to eat of any other
dish. The wretched woman, totally unsuspicious of guile or evil,
undreaming of disaster, and really conscious of but little self-reproach,
ate freely of the precious meat which had been placed
before her. The eyes of Raymond greedily followed every
morsel which she carried to her lips. She evidently enjoyed the
food which had been spiced for her benefit, and as she continued
to draw upon it, he could no longer forbear to unfold the exultation
which he felt at the entire satisfaction of his vengeance.

“You seem very much to like your meats to-night, Marguerite.
Do you find them good?”

“Verily,” she answered, “this venison is really delicious.”

“Eat then,” he continued, “I have had it dressed purposely
for you. You ought to like it. It is a dish of which you have
always shown yourself very fond.”

“Nay, my lord, but you surely err. I can not think that I
have ever eaten before of anything so very delicious as this.”

“Nay, nay, Marguerite, it is you that err. I know that the

meat of which you now partake, is one which you have always
found the sweetest.”

There was something now in the voice of the speaker that
made Marguerite look up. Her eyes immediately met his own
and the wolfish exultation which they betrayed confounded
and made her shudder. She felt at once terrified with a nameless
fear. There was a sudden sickness and sinking of her heart.
She felt that there was a terrible meaning, a dreadful mystery
in his looks and words, the solution of which she shrunk from
with a vague but absorbing terror. She was too well acquainted
with the sinister expression of that glance. She rallied herself
to speak.

“What is it that you mean, my lord? Something dreadful!
What have you done? This food —”

“Ay, this food! I can very well understand that you should
find it delicious. It is such as you have always loved a little
too much. It is but natural that you should relish, now that it
is dead, that which you so passionately enjoyed while living.
Marguerite, the meat of that dish which you have eaten was
once the heart of Guillaume de Cabestaign!”

The lips of the wretched woman parted spasmodically. Her
jaws seemed to stretch asunder. Her eyes dilated in a horror
akin to madness. Her arms were stretched out and forward.
She half rose from the table, which she at length seized upon
for her support.

“No!” she exclaimed, hoarsely, at length. “No! no! It is
not true. It is not possible. I will not — I dare not believe it.”

“You shall have a witness, Marguerite! You shall hear it
from one whom, heretofore, you have believed always, and who
will find it impossible now to lie. Behold! This is the head
of him whose heart you have eaten!”

With these dreadful words, the cruel baron raised the ghastly
head of the troubadour, which he had hitherto concealed beneath
the table, and which he now placed upon it. At this horrible
spectacle the wretched woman sunk down in a swoon, from
which, however, she awakened but too quickly. The wan and
bloody aspect of her lover, the eyes glazed in death but full
still of the tenderest expression, met her gaze as it opened upon
the light. The savage lord who had achieved the horrid butchery

stood erect, and pointing at the spectacle of terror. His
scornful and demoniac glance — the horrid cruelty of which he
continued to boast — her conscious innocence and that of her
lover — her complete and deep despair — all conspired to arm
her soul with courage which she had never felt till now. In the
ruin of her heart she had grown reckless of her life. Her eye
confronted the murderer.

“Be it so!” she exclaimed. “As I have eaten of meat so
precious, it fits not that inferior food should ever again pass
these lips! This is the last supper which I shall taste on earth!”

“What! dare you thus shamelessly avow to me your passion?”

“Ay! as God who beholds us knows, never did woman more
passionately and truly love mortal man, than did Marguerite of
Roussillon the pure and noble Guillaume de Cabestaign. It is
true? I fear not to say it now! Now, indeed, I am his only,
and for ever!”

Transported with fury at what he heard, Raymond drew his
dagger, and rushed to where she stood. But she did not await
his weapon. Anticipating his wrath, she darted headlong through
a door which opened upon a balcony, over the balustrade of
which, with a second effort, she flung herself into the court below.
All this was the work of but one impulse and of a single
instant. Raymond reached the balcony as the delicate frame
of the beautiful woman was crushed upon the flag-stones of the
court. Life had utterly departed when they raised her from the
ground!

This terrible catastrophe struck society everywhere with consternation.
At a season, when not only chivalry, but the church,
gave its most absolute sanction to the existence and encouragement
of that strange conventional love which we have sought to
describe, the crime of Raymond provoked a universal horror.
Love, artificial and sentimental rather than passionate, was the
soul equally of military achievement and of aristocratic society.
It was then of vast importance, as an element of power, in the
use of religious enthusiasm. The shock given to those who
cherished this sentiment, by this dreadful history, was felt to all
the extremities of the social circle. The friends and kindred of
these lovers — the princes and princesses of the land — noble
lords, knights and ladies, all combined, as by a common impusle,

to denounce and to destroy the bloody-minded criminal. Alphonso,
king of Arragon, devoted himself to the work of justice.
Raymond was seized and cast into a dungeon. His castle was
razed to the ground, under a public decree, which scarcely anticipated
the eager rage of hundreds who rushed to the work of
demolition. The criminal himself was suffered to live; but he
lived, either in prison or in exile, with loss of caste and society
and amidst universal detestation!

Very different was the fate of the lovers whom man could no
more harm or separate. They were honored, under the sanction
of Alphonso, with a gorgeous funeral procession. They
were laid together, in the same tomb, before the church of Per
pignan, and their names and cruel history were duly engraven
upon the stone raised to their memory. According to the Provençal
historians, it was afterward a custom with the knights of
Roussillon, of Cerdagne, and of Narbonnois, every year to join
with the noble dames and ladies of the same places, in a solemn
service, in memory of Marguerite of Roussillon, and William of
Cabestaign. At the same time came lovers of both sexes, on a
pilgrimage to their tomb, where they prayed for the repose of
their souls. The anniversary of this service was instituted by
Alphonso. We may add that romance has more than once
seized upon this tragic history, out of which to weave her fictions.
Boccacio has found in it the material for one of the stories
of the Decameron, in which, however, while perverting history,
he has done but little to merit the gratulation of Art. He has
failed equally to do justice to himself, and to his melancholy
subject.