The technical Provençal name of a poem like ‘Flamenca’ would be _nova_, and with a slight variation of the final syllable the word will serve the same turn in our language. For ‘Flamenca’ in all essential points answers to the definition of a novel. It is a picture of contemporary society in the same sense, and quite as close, as is ‘Tom Jones’ or ‘Vanity Fair.’ From the popular epic it naturally differs as widely as can be imagined, but even with the other artistic romances of the same period it has little in common. These latter depend for their interest chiefly on a number of adventures more or less loosely strung together; in ‘Flamenca’ there is a plot in our modern sense, artistically worked up to a climax and illumined by cleverly drawn characters and psychological observations. It is indeed evidently the author’s intention to delineate and point out the evil consequences of certain psychological phenomena, and in this respect ‘Flamenca’ might indeed almost be described as a ‘novel with a purpose,’ the ‘purpose’ leading the poet much beyond the limits of probability and narrative economy, as ‘purposes’ are apt to do. The plot of ‘Flamenca,’ moreover, is evidently a pure invention, while the poets of ordinary chivalrous romances always rely more or less on legendary sources. Flamenca, the lovely daughter of Count Gui de Nemours, is wooed by the King of Hungary and by Lord Archimbaut Count of Bourbon. Her father prefers the latter suitor, who is said to be one of the best and most valorous knights in the world; an important circumstance which the reader is asked to remember. Count Archimbaut, on being told of the decision in his favour, makes preparations on the grandest scale to visit his bride, whom he has never seen, but of whom the descriptions of her beauty given by his messengers have deeply enamoured him. The festivities arranged for his reception at the court of Nemours are described at some length, and give the poet an opportunity of deploring the decay of liberality amongst the great nobles, of courtesy, of love, and of chivalry in his own time, a complaint frequently met with in the works of the later troubadours. Early on a Sunday morning Count Archimbaut is introduced by her father to Flamenca, who, like a well-educated young lady, ‘did not pretend to be doleful, but was a little shamefaced.’ ‘Here is your bride,’ Count Gui says; ‘take her if you like.’ ‘Sir,’ answers the bridegroom, ‘if she does not gainsay it, I never was so willing to take anything in my life.’ Then the lady smiled, and ‘Sir,’ she said, ‘one can see that you hold me in your power, as you give me away so easily; but as it is your will I consent.’ This ‘I consent’ throws Archimbaut into a transport of joy, and he presses her hand passionately. But here the interview ends. The gentlemen retire, Archimbaut taking leave of her with his eyes at the door, while Flamenca did not show pride, but gave him good countenance, frequently saying, ‘God be with you!’