CHAPTER XV

BEAUCAIRE AND ITS LOVE-STORY

Beaucaire, it may be remembered, has a hill-set castle opposite King RenÉ's at Tarascon. The two stand frowning at one another across the river, unforgetful of their old feuds.

The town was the property of the Counts of Toulouse, before the Albigensian wars snuffed out that great family, and it had its share of suffering in those desperate persecutions. The Pope gave all their domains to his accomplice, Simon de Montfort, because Raimon VI. of Toulouse—one of the noblest figures of the Middle Ages—had dared to oppose the massacre of the helpless Albigenses.

At last the young Count raises a revolt against de Montfort while the latter is at Beaucaire. It is a relief to hear of his being seriously opposed after all the atrocities that he has committed in this exquisite land, all the savage destruction of beautiful things and thoughts of which he is guilty. He is, indeed, almost as terrible a scourge as his coadjutor, the Puritan of the north; they are spiritual twins: the soldier who persecutes with fire and sword, and the equally pitiless and bigoted saint who persecutes with the fire and sword of the spirit, rejoicing, he too, when the gladness and the passion of life lie bleeding beneath his feet. Between them, in their different spheres, they have lain low how much of beauty and of happiness!

The persecution of the Albigenses broke up the whole delicate edifice of what one may call the troubadour civilisation and plunged the country once more into chaos.

The luckless Count of Toulouse found himself obliged to lay siege to his own castle of Beaucaire, where de Montfort was installed with a powerful garrison.

It is a dream of peace and beauty now, as we approach it up a hill-side through pine-trees and irises, a wonderful sight surely in the season of blossoming.

An old ProvenÇal poem gives an account of the siege: a sharp battering-ram injured the wall, but the besieged ingeniously made loops of cord attached to a beam, and noosed the head of the too-lively ram and held it imprisoned and harmless. Then, after the fashion of the day, they let down sulphur and boiling pitch upon the enemy by means of a chain, the materials being wrapped in sackcloth. Finally de Montfort—perhaps for the first time in his life—is defeated, after a fierce struggle, for the Powers of Darkness had deserted their faithful servant, who shortly afterwards ended his atrocious career at the siege of Toulouse, which had revolted against him.

After passing through the grove of pines and irises, we emerge upon a sunlit plateau high above the town, and the ruins of the castle are before us.

These and a fine little Romanesque chapel in which St. Louis said Mass before starting for the Crusades, give character to the scene—a beautiful background to the famous old story of Aucassin and Nicolette.

"The adventures of the lovers," says Pater, "seem to be chosen for the happy occasion they afford of keeping the eye of the fancy, perhaps the outward eye, fixed on pleasant objects, a garden, a ruined tower, the little hut of flowers which Nicolette constructs in the forest.... All through it one feels the influence of that faint air of overwrought delicacy, almost of wantonness, which was so strong a characteristic of the poetry of the Troubadours. The Troubadours themselves were often men of great rank; they wrote for an exclusive audience, people of much leisure and great refinement.... There is a languid Eastern deliciousness in the very scenery of the story, the full-blown roses, the chamber painted in some mysterious manner where Nicolette is imprisoned, the cool brown marble, the almost nameless colours, the odour of plucked grass and flowers. Nicolette herself well becomes this scenery, and is the best illustration of the quality I mean—the beautiful, weird, foreign girl, whom the shepherds take for a fay...."

We sit down at the foot of the walls to rest. Above us stands the curious three-cornered tower built by the Visigoths during their rule in the South of France in late days of the Empire. The object was to oppose only the angle of the building to the enemy's assault, while the garrison could attack from the sides as usual.

Was this the tower in which Aucassin was imprisoned by his father, the Count of Beaucaire, to prevent his marrying the little Saracen maid Nicolette? Was it here that she watched and waited on one moonlit night, long ago, hearing Aucassin lamenting in his captivity? One likes to think of the good sentinel ostentatiously humming a warning song, when he heard the town-guards advancing to kill the devoted Nicolette, by order of the Count.

I had copied out some of the songs and fragments of the story from Andrew Lang's translation, in order to have the pleasure of reading them on the spot.

Barbara was much amused at Aucassin's interview with the Captain of the City of Beaucaire who had imprisoned Nicolette in his house, by the Count's command.

Poor Aucassin is very disconsolate, and in his distress he makes some very free remarks about Heaven and hell, pointing out that in Heaven the company is intolerably dull, whereas all the jolly good fellows and pleasant ladies are to be found—elsewhere.

"With these I would gladly go," he says, "let me but have with me my sweetest lady."

But nobody will allow that; for the way of the world is to be immensely active about other people's business. So the Count and all the rest of Aucassin's nearest and dearest bestir themselves to separate him and Nicolette.

Nicolette's escape from prison was much appreciated by Barbara.

"Nicolette lay one night on her bed, and saw the moon shine clear through a window, yea, and heard the nightingale sing in the garden, so she minded her of Aucassin her lover, whom she loved so well."

Then it goes on to tell how she knotted linen and sheets together and let herself down from her window.

"Her locks were yellow and curled, her eyes blue and smiling, her face neatly fashioned.... She came to the postern gate, and unbarred it, and went out through the streets of Beaucaire, keeping always on the shadowy side, for the moon was shining right clear, and so wandered she till she came to the tower where her lover lay."

"Just here," said Barbara, looking up.

"The tower was flanked with buttresses—" the account continues.

"It isn't!" cried Barbara in disappointment.

"Architecture is so often inaccurate," I suggest, soothingly.

"And she cowered under one of them, wrapped in her mantle. Then thrust she her head through a crevice of the tower that was old and worn, and so heard she Aucassin wailing within...."

And then she tells him all that has happened, and not being able to reach her hand to him, she casts her curls into the dungeon, and—

It is a love scene almost more charming than that of Romeo and Juliet, for it seems more genuine. Aucassin does not say such elaborate things, but there is a glow and fervour about his utterances that commends itself to us as ringing beautifully true.

They argue about which of them loves the most, until at last the town-guard comes along, "with swords drawn beneath their cloaks, for the Count Garin had charged them that if they could take Nicolette they should slay her."

But luckily the sentinel on the towers sees them coming, and decides, as we have seen, to befriend Nicolette, "for if they slay her, then were Aucassin, my damoiseau, dead, and that were great pity."

So the sentinel considerately sings a song in which he gives a broad hint of what is menacing, and Nicolette shrinks under the shadow of a pillar till the men have passed. Finally she jumps down into the fosse and, hurt and bruised as she is, climbs the castle wall and goes out into the forest, where she builds "a little hut of flowers as a token to Aucassin that she had passed that way." Later, Aucassin finds her there after many wanderings, and they are happy for a little while.

And so, through adventures and sorrows, the story goes till the lovers are hopelessly parted—pirates, tempests, Saracens are banded against them, and Nicolette seems lost for ever.

The final scene is once more in this old castle, after many years, when Count Garin is dead and Aucassin rules in his stead. Then comes a minstrel—a woman—to the castle, with a "vielle." Aucassin, we may suppose, was taking a walk along the ramparts. And suddenly he hears a voice singing to the vielle in the castle court below. He listens and the song makes him weep; and he asks for more songs. And the singer sings again, about strange adventures; and the story is that of Nicolette! And finally, the minstrel runs away to Aucassin's mother in the castle and throws off her disguise. The Countess is overjoyed, for she has been in despair at her son's incurable grief; and she dresses Nicolette in splendid raiment and leads her back to the bewildered Aucassin. And then there is a meeting such as happens rarely in human story. Deep sorrow has been gnawing in Aucassin's heart, and he had never married, in spite of much urging by his friends. And suddenly he knows that the day of his tribulation is over, and the deepest joy he can ever feel has come to him after weary waiting. And once more, with a rapture learnt of long sorrow and heartache, he folds Nicolette in his arms.

And soon afterwards their marriage feast is prepared with great pomp and ceremony, and Beaucaire has a splendid time of it with tournaments and jousts and dancing. And in the good old fashion, Aucassin and Nicolette are not only married—which any fools can be—but they are happy ever after!