his horse's head in the same direction. Of the various startling incidents of this journey, the most memorable is one that almost exhausts an already overstrained credulity. Piere's biographers relate that at Cyprus his route was deflected by meeting a beautiful woman, whom he—alas! in no chivalric spirit—married. Certain persons, it is told, aware of the troubadour's fondness for notoriety, suggested to him that the lady was so nearly related to the Emperor of Greece that marriage with her would entitle him to the practical sovereignty of that kingdom. It is probable that this absurd pretext served Peire as well as any other to indulge his inveterate passion for posing. So it was announced that Sir Peire Vidal—he had already conferred upon himself the dignity of knighthood—had become an emperor and his wife an empress. Ignoring any possible political aspect of their rank, the pair sat upon thrones, wore crowns, and caused themselves to be addressed as "Majesties." This preposterous comedy was highly irritating to Peire's fellow troubadours,—a fact which doubtless increased his own perverse delight in it. However, when, as shortly happened, the flavor of the pastime was spent, he calmly abandoned it, though what became of his passive partner in the imperial farce tradition does not say. It is certain, at least, that she in no way interfered with her husband's subsequent amours, or sought in any way to emphasize the uncomfortable anomalousness of her position as wife of a troubadour.
In Italy, some time after this unromantic incident, the inconstant Peire recalled his abeyant sufferings on the score of the lady Azalais, and set himself to composing an additional series of poems on the always graceful theme of his disappointed love. Although nothing is more untranslatable than Provençal poetry, one example may be given of an attempt at the impossible, in connection with this stage of the poet's career. While hardly poetical, the translation, which is Hueffer's, has the value of great literalness:
With my breath I drink the air
That Provence my country sends me;
For a message ever lends me
Joy, from her most dear and fair.
When they praise her. I rejoice,
Ask for more, with eager voice,
Listen, listen, night and morrow.
For no country 'neath the sun
Beats mine, from Rozer to Vensa,
From the sea to the Durensa;
Nowhere equal joy is won.
With my friends, when I did part,
And with her I left my heart
Who dispelled my deepest sorrow.
Nothing harms me all the day
While her sweet eyes stand before me,
And her lips, that vapture bore me.
If I praise her, no one may
Call my rapturous word a lie:
For the whole world can descry
Nothing wrought in sweeter fashion.
All the good I do or say
Only to her grace is owing,
For she made me wise and knowing,
For she made me true and gay.
If in glory I abound
To her praise it must redound
Who inspires my song with passion.
The news that Peire was still rhyming of the stolen kiss and of Azalais's cruelty in failing to condone the theft came shortly to the ears of Barral and his viscountess. Lord Barral, who had an unconquerable liking for being amused, declared that he could no longer dispense with the amiable Peire's society, and with great difficulty prevailed upon "Vierna" to extend the pardon whose solicitation had inspired so many rhymes. It was grudgingly given, but riotously received, and Peire turned sharply about to accomplish his long-delayed return to Marseilles.
T this time the troubadour was still in his twenties, his head reeling with the wine of adventure. His successes had, after all, been no less conspicuous than his failures, and, genial optimist that he was, he remembered them more easily. He had acquired the manner of a personage, and, like the other masters of his craft, was an inspiriting picture to look upon. "And whither he went," says the Provençal historian," he brought with him fine chargers and rich armor and a throne and a royal tent, and deemed
