Troubadour Tales 2

Troubadour Tales 2

He fussed and fumed, but not even the least little bit of a rhyme could

he make; and the more he wished it, the more impossible it seemed to

become. He strode up and down the room; he snatched his paper and tore

it into bits; and then he scolded Henri till the poor little fellow

tiptoed out in his little pointed velvet shoes, and fled to the garden,

where he sat down under an orange tree, and consoled himself with some

fresh cookies that one of the kitchen scullions brought out to him. As

he crunched down the sugary morsels he now and then flung a crumb to

the pretty goldfishes in a fountain by his side; and then he wondered

what any one wanted to make up poetry for anyway, especially when it

was May-time and one might sit in King René’s garden, and above all, on

a day when King René’s cooks were making sweetmeats.

 

Meantime, across the corridor from Henri’s master things were going

on very differently with the noble Reynaurd and Pierrot. As luck

would have it, this count was getting on famously. He had composed a

most beautiful poem, and lovely music by which to sing it, and was

altogether so pleased with himself and all the world that he snapped

his fingers joyously, and fetched Pierrot a playful slap on the

shoulder, crying, “Hey, Pierrot, just listen to this!” And then in a

loud voice he began to sing.

 

Pierrot was so delighted that he clapped his hands, and declared he was

quite sure his lord would win the prize, and shame the Count William

into everlasting silence. Then he helped himself to a couple of great

golden oranges from a basket he had just brought to Reynaurd, and

strutted out to air himself, and to boast to Henri of his master’s

superior skill.

 

Meantime, Count Reynaurd sang over and over his new song, each time

roaring it out louder and louder, till his lungs fairly ached.

 

While all this was going on, the Count William, in a great rage, was

still striding up and down the floor of his chamber, which happened to

be across the corridor and at no great distance from that of the happy

Reynaurd. And, as it happened also, when Pierrot went out he forgot to

close the door behind him—a fact which Count Reynaurd had not noticed.

The door was very thick and heavy, and fitted badly between the stone

walls, so it was not to be wondered at that Pierrot did not manage to

latch it.

 

As it was, the loud voice of Count Reynaurd came rolling forth, and

suddenly the Count William, angrily pacing the floor, stood stock-still

and pricked up his ears.

 

Now, the count’s ears were famous for being extraordinarily sharp,

and he was also wonderfully apt at remembering anything to which he

had once carefully listened. He knew in a moment the voice of Count

Reynaurd, and then a broad smile crept over his face, and he listened

harder than ever.

 

As Reynaurd kept singing over and over again, it was not long till

Count William had the whole song by heart, and then, seizing his own

lute, he began practising it very softly.

 

“Ha, ha, ha!” he laughed to himself. “Thou great foolish Reynaurd!

Canst thou never learn how to hold thy tongue? But never mind, I will

play such a trick on thee as will teach thee a lesson thou’lt not soon

forget. Ha, ha, ha!” And then he practised longer, till he knew both

the poetry and music as well as Count Reynaurd himself.

 

The next day, Pierrot, still exulting over his master’s skill, happened

to meet Henri in the garden, and asked how his noble lord was getting

on.

 

“Oh!” said Henri, “finely. He has just made a lovely new song!” And

with that he hummed a snatch of the melody he had heard Count William

singing, and which he thought his master had composed.

 

As Pierrot heard the music he could scarce believe his ears; first he

was speechless with astonishment, but at last he sputtered out:

 

“It is not true—it is stolen! That is my dear master’s, the Count

Reynaurd’s!”

 

“Pierrot,” burst in Henri, “I would have thee understand that my noble

lord, the Count William, does not steal, and is a far better singer,

anyhow, than thy great Reynaurd!”

 

From this matters went from bad to worse, till the two little pages

were just on the point of coming to blows; but, fortunately, at

this point one of King René’s seneschals caught sight of them, and,

hastening up, gave each a sound cuff on the ear, crying out as he did

so:

 

“Ho, ye saucy little knaves! Know ye not the good king will have no

brawlers upon these palace grounds? Take that, sirrahs! and see to it

that ye behave more seemly hereafter.”

 

The pages being thus forcibly separated, Pierrot ran as fast as his

legs could carry him up the palace stairs, and burst into his master’s

chamber, panting out indignantly:

 

“Dear Lord Reynaurd, the wicked Count William has stolen thy beautiful

song and will win the prize! And I tried to stop Henri, and—o-o-oh—”

Here poor Pierrot, still smarting under the cuff from the seneschal,

quite broke down, and was obliged to double his fists very hard and

bite his lips to keep back the angry tears.

 

At first Count Reynaurd gasped with astonishment, and then jumped up

in a towering passion. But by and by his wits came back to him, and he

remembered that Count William had always been a good friend of his; but

then his heart misgave him as he remembered, too, that Count William

was a famous joker, and loved a jest above all things.

 

The more he thought of it, the more sure he felt that William only

meant in some way to tease him, though he could not understand how

he had learned the song. Just then his eyes fell on the door, that

Pierrot in his haste had left unfastened, as usual; and then it flashed

through Count Reynaurd’s mind how Count William had found out about

the music. Reynaurd, moreover, had no doubt but that, before the king,

William would probably sing the piece as his own,—a thing which he

could easily do, as René had announced that they would be called on

in alphabetical order, according to the names of their domains; and as

Auvergne thus came before Poitiers, Reynaurd knew that Count William

would sing first, and that it would then be hard to make the people

believe that the song was his and not William’s; yet he determined, if

possible, to try in some way to get the better of him.

 

He thought and thought very hard for a little while, and then suddenly

he said to Pierrot:

 

“Pierrot, dost thou still remember the Latin tongue that good Father

Ambrose taught thee last winter in our castle in Poitiers?”

 

The little page assured his lord that he did, for he was really a

clever scholar in the Latin tongue, which both his master and the Count

William understood but indifferently.

 

Then Count Reynaurd called him close to his side, and whispered a plan

to him that seemed to please them both mightily. Pierrot at once took

the goose-quill pen that Reynaurd handed him, and after screwing up

his face and working very carefully, he wrote these lines:

 

Hoc carmen non composui,

Quod cano, quod cano!

 

and this he took great pains to teach his master.

 

The next day Count Reynaurd sang his song over again and again, and

Pierrot purposely left the door ajar. Count William noticed that after

every stanza there were two new lines added in another tongue:

 

Hoc carmen non composui,

Quod cano, quod cano!

 

At first this puzzled Count William very much indeed.

 

“Faugh!” he said to himself at length, “that ridiculous Reynaurd is

seeking to give a learned air to his poetry! I dare say he has picked

up those lines out of some old manuscript, and thinks to pass himself

off for a great scholar.”

 

Then Count William tried to make out the meaning of the words, which

were fitted into the rhyme of the stanzas in such a way that they

could not well be left out. He studied over them till he thought he

understood them, though, as it turned out, he was quite mistaken. But

as it was a common way with the troubadours to end every stanza with

similar lines, which they called the refrain, Count William suspected

nothing, and set himself to work to learn the new words.

 

The time that the king had allowed the rival noblemen was now almost

up, and in two days more the song-contest took place.

 

The great banqueting-hall had been beautifully hung with garlands of

flowers and gay banners. At one end of it the king’s throne stood on a

dais, and over it swung a scarlet canopy like an enormous poppy-flower

turned upside down. In the middle of the room were placed long tables,

and in the palace kitchens the cooks were running about busying

themselves preparing the great feast that was to follow.

 

By and by King René came into the hall and took his seat on the throne.

He wore a rich robe of purple velvet, embroidered all over in the

brightest silks and gold; after him came a great troupe of troubadours

and minnesingers, some carrying their own harps or viols, and some

followed by little pages who bore their masters’ belongings.

 

As the good King René looked at his gay company and the brilliantly

lighted hall and the long tables, his eyes sparkled with delight, and

his heart swelled with joy when he thought of the coming contest;

for he was never so pleased as when thus surrounded by his dear

troubadours, whom he loved to make in every way as happy as possible.

 

Then, when all was ready, a gaily dressed herald came into the hall,

and kneeling before the king, and bowing to the assembled company,

announced the coming of the two counts, William and Reynaurd. All the

other troubadours and minnesingers stood up, and King René smiled

graciously as the two noblemen entered, followed by their pages,

Pierrot and Henri, each of whom carried a viol bedecked with long silken ribbons.