His jests made the Prince very angry, and a quarrel arose between the two which overthrew once and for all their affectionate relations.
Then Raimbaut knew that the end had come to this era of his life, and that he must go forth to seek his fortunes anew.
And Alazais, in whose honour he had made such innumerable verses? He must leave her too—love and friendship had come to naught at one blow.
How beautiful she had looked in her white robes—perhaps there had been something in her glance that had made him forget consequences—everything—except—what folly it was!
Quick, pen and paper! A canson had darted into his head. Farewell to joy and Alazais! Such a tribute was only expected and fitting whatever might be his real sentiments.
Raimbaut had got well into the third stanza, and the lady's hair had been compared to six different resplendent objects, when he was summoned to take part in the events of the evening.
"Holy Mary!" cries the poet, "can a man not be left in peace while he writes a canson to his lady?"
He goes muttering imprecations on idle folk who cannot even pursue their idling without the help of busy people.
Les Baux is among the places to which is attributed one of the most famous of the Courts of Love, and to this tribunal one may imagine the troubadour wending his way through the crowds who are parading the streets, singing and dancing the mouresca, their ancient Saracenic dance, drifted westward from the mountains of the Moors.
Raimbaut is greeted with reproaches for his tardy arrival. The business of the Court is in full swing: gracious ladies and courtly knights are judging compositions according to the rules of minstrelsy, discussing nice points of honour and conduct, burning questions concerning the purity and preservation of the language, the rights and duties of the love-lorn.