Aldobrandino was no more fortunate. He cast his poem in the form of a serena or night song, and spoke sadly and sentimentally of the evening of old age, dusky and drear, and of that night of death which he saw approaching. Strangely enough, he made no plea for present happiness, but begged the flowers, or their ladies, to drop tears upon his grave when he declared that he would sleep content.
Though chanted in all earnestness this grave-yard ditty chimed not in with the joyous temper of the company. There was sly nudging and smiling, a snicker from an ill-mannered page, and the only sighs were those of relief when he ended.
It was now the opportunity of Raymond of Toulouse. Besides being an accomplished technician in all forms of writing he was a man of shrewd and lively apprehension, and his wound had by no means injured his wits. As he lay upon the litter engaging the sympathy of the ladies and the leniency of the judges he had divined rightly the reason of the discomforture of each of his rivals. He saw that Aldobrandino had made shipwreck by reason of his indifference to the charms of all, and des Baux on account of his zeal for one at the expense of the others, for not a single protestation of esteem, not a compliment even had any one of Sancie's sisters received, and this in face of the well known fact that all were beautiful and eager for appreciation.
In avoiding the conspicuous lapses of his predecessors Raymond with all his guile fell into another pitfall. He lauded the Rose, the Daisy, the Garland of Vine Leaves worn by Eleanor, Marguerite, and Beatrice in three canzonets so perfect in form, so exquisite in diction that they rivalled the ditties of Thibault of Champagne, who was hitherto accounted as having written "the most delightful and most melodious canzonets that at any time were heard."
But in doing this he exhausted all terms of endearment and admiration which he could command, and when he attempted to celebrate the Peach Blossom he could only repeat utterances already made, so that his conclusion was an anticlimax, bad in art and unfortunately giving the impression that he was more enamoured of Sancie's sisters than of herself.
The insincerity of his graceful verse was apparent to all. Sordello and Boniface who had nodded their appreciation at the conclusion of the first, second, and third canzonets, scowled and coughed at the fourth, and though there was applause sufficient to gratify this poet's vanity it misled him as to the impression which he had made upon his judges.
Richard knew not that Raymond had over-shot his mark; it seemed to him that he had surely won, and that it was useless for him to offer his halting verses, save as a tribute of genuine feeling. Such they were, and honesty even in literature and courtship is some whiles best policy. But one thought had sunk itself in his distracted brain since noting what flower his beloved carried, how that Sancie was Flower o' the Peach and be the others what they might she was the flower of all flowers to him. He had no knowledge of the complicated metres with which Provençal troubadours played so deftly, but he had been in Italy and had marked how the peasants bandied back and forth their bright stornelli as though the quick play were that of ball, the thought striking the fancy and deftly handled as it leapt from one to the other of the players.
Therefore he modestly announced that he would strive to imitate in the langue d'oc certain of these stornelli a fiore trusting that their rudeness and brevity might be forgiven.[7]
Queen Eleanor was crowned with roses and was throned beneath a canopy of those royal flowers. To her Richard, accompanying himself upon the lute, addressed his first stornello:
"Flower o' the Briar—
Though high on her trellis the Rose o' the Briar,
Sits supreme o'er the garden my heart clambers higher."