However, before the wedding guests end their happy day, another entertainer than Maître Edmond is asked to perform. It is Baron Orri himself. He has lived so long in the south country that he has caught the troubadour gallantries. Stories run that he has left three lady loves in three different castles; that he has had a most romantic duel with a jealous husband, which ended however, in a reconciliation on proof that the friendship had been only platonic; and that he is a past master in all the thirty-four different methods of rhyming and the seventy-four different kinds of stanzas with which the expert bards of southern France serve up their sentimental ditties. At a suitable moment just before the noble guests are gathering for the supper Adela addresses him: "We know, kind Sire Orri, that you are a practitioner of all the 'gay science' of the South. You can sing _chansons_, songs of love; _vers_, the poems of slower movement; _sirventes_, poems of praise or satire; and also are master of the _tenso_, the debate on some tender subject, carried on in courtly verse. Honor us with your skill; for our northern poetry is rude and uncourtly beside that of the Languedoc." Barron Orri makes an elegant bow: "Ah, gracious lady," he says, "I wish I could convince you that a good refusal were worth more than a poor gift, but doubtless you would think me rude; therefore, I will obey. Though many of you, I fear, do not speak the beautiful Languedoc tongue, yet in so noble a company I am sure most of you will at least understand me. What shall it be, a _tenso_ by Bernart de Ventadorn discussing most wittily, 'How does a lady show the greater affection--by enjoining her friend to win renown, or by urging him simply to love her?' or shall I attempt a short _chanson_ by that other high troubadour, Arnaut de Maruelh?" "The _chanson_--the love song!" cry the company. "Ah! very well, my gentle mistresses and lords," answers the minstrel--"you have chosen. And now I pray Queen Venus to inspire me. Here, boy, my harp!" He takes a small lute and touches the strings. His blue mantle floats back in statuesque folds as with clear, deep voice he sings: [Sidenote: South French Troubadour Songs] "Fair to me is April bearing Winds that o'er me softly blow; Nightingales their music airing While the stars serenely glow. All the birds as they have power While the dews of morning wait, Sing of joy in sky and bower, Each consorting with his mate. And as all the world is wearing New delights while new leaves grow, 'Twould be vain to try forswearing _Love_ which makes my joys o'erflow....