That this freedom was frequently abused is, unfortunately, no matter of doubt. France is not, and never has been, a prosperous climate for the growth of wedded happiness. The heroines of all the love-stories connected with the history of the troubadours are, indeed, with not a single exception that I am aware of, married ladies. This fact is certainly of deep significance, but its importance ought not to be overrated. We must remember that the troubadours and their biographers were by nature and profession inclined to magnify the force and extension of the great passion. Frequently they may, and in some cases we positively know that they did, mistake gracious condescension for responsive love; and to accept all their statements _au pied de la lettre_ would be about as advisable as to judge the institution of marriage in modern France solely by the works of Flaubert and Ernest Feydeau. In many cases, however, the perfect innocence of the relations between the troubadour and the lady he celebrates is fully acknowledged by all parties. It was the privilege of high-born and high-minded women to protect and favour poetry, and to receive in return the troubadours’ homage. It is in this beautiful character as admirer and patroness of the literature of her country, that I wish first to consider the lady of Provence. In the choice of an individual instance of the relation alluded to, I have been guided by a feeling of historic, not to say poetic, justice. History and fiction have vied with each other in painting the picture of Eleanor, wife of Henry II. of England, in the darkest colours. The former convicts her of faithlessness to two husbands, and of conspiracy with her own sons against their father; the latter charges her with the murder of Rosamond Clifford. Any redeeming feature in such a character ought to be welcome to the believer in human nature. Her connection with Bernart de Ventadorn, one of the sweetest and purest of troubadours, is such a feature. The poet came to her court in sorrow. The lady he loved had been torn from him, and it was by her own desire that he left her and the country where she dwelt. He now turned to Eleanor for comfort and sympathy, and his hope was not disappointed. The old Provençal biography of Bernart is provokingly laconic with regard to the subject. ‘He went to the Duchess of Normandy,’ it says, ‘who was young and of great worth, and knew how to appreciate worth and honour, and he said much in her praise. And she admired the _canzos_ and verses of Bernart. And she received him very well, and bade him welcome. And he stayed at her court a long time, and became enamoured of her, and she of him, and he composed many beautiful songs of her. And while he was with her King Henry of England made her his wife, and took her away from Normandy with him. And from that time Bernart remained sad and woful.’