The luckless wife having, all unconscious, tasted of the dish, her lord informed her what it was and asked her how she liked it.
"I like it so well," she replied, "that henceforth I will taste no other," and she flung herself headlong from the castle window.
The horror of the tale lingers in the thoughts even as they turn to other things: to the figure of the lady herself leaning over the parapet of the little platform that hangs over the valley; to the scene in the castle after the tournament when the gay company has gathered in the hall, and there is singing and playing of the vielle and verse-making and dance; to the love-songs of Raimbaut, thrilling and sweet above those of other troubadours. He was but too fitted to attract: handsome, courtly, quick-witted, warm-hearted, a warrior poet, a knight and a singer.
Our poor heroine had no chance! One can see her in the splendid barbaric hall, among the throng. White was her bliaut, or robe, finely embroidered in gold, and her long mantle was fastened to the shoulder with a clasp of sardonyx.
It was not merely the beautiful dress, but the noble manner of wearing it that counted in those strange little courts of the Middle Ages. If the life was wild and terrible, at least it had an exquisite and gracious side.
One can picture Raimbaut, too, as he hastens to greet Alazais; one can see her smile of welcome, grave and gracious, half ceremonious, half encouraging.
And then the scene grows clearer and more realistic, for we come upon a piece of solid history.
Between Raimbaut and his famous patron, Guilhelm des Baux, many little disagreements had disturbed of late the long friendship. Raimbaut, accustomed to ride and fight and make verses by his friend's side, had perhaps presumed upon the intimacy, and once he went so far as to rally the Prince upon a recent incident that had amused the district.
His Highness had been casually ravaging the estates of his neighbour, Count Aimar de Valence, and one day when he was on the Rhone in a small boat, some fishermen caught him and he had to pay a large ransom to Count Aimar, and be ridiculed into the bargain by Gui di Cavaillon, whose tenso on the subject was taken up and sung by all Provence. For notwithstanding the new sentiment obligatory on all noble and knightly persons, the men and women of the twelfth century had by no means escaped from the base clutches of the ancient régime whence they sprang, and to them the misadventure and mortification of a neighbour seemed exquisitely funny.
Even Raimbaut's sense of humour had not advanced beyond that primitive stage.