It was May-time, and they were journeying through the lovely land of Provence, which was quite enough to make any one happy, and the count and Pierrot were fairly brimming over with good humor as they rode along. They were bound for the old town of Aix, where in those days stood the palace of the good King René, whom everybody loved. Now, King René himself was a troubadour, although he could not wander about over the country as did the others, but was obliged to stay in Aix and govern his people. Yet he spent hours and hours every day writing poetry and making up music for it; and he delighted above all things to gather about him all who could finger a lutestring or sing a merry song. There were always dozens of fine troubadours staying with King René, and he was never weary of adding to their number, and of seeking out the best in France; and so it chanced he had heard much of the great skill of Pierrot’s master and also of another noble lord, the Count William of Auvergne. The friends of each of these boasted that none other in all France was worthy to be called the champion of the troubadours. So René had sent messages to both, inviting them to come and visit him, and to hold a contest of song, saying he would give a beautiful collar of jewels to the one who sang the better. In response to this invitation, the Count William was already in Aix, having come the day before, after a long journey from his castle in Auvergne. He was now resting, awaiting the Count Reynaurd, and pleasing himself in thinking of the glory of winning the jeweled collar; for he fully expected by and by to carry it off as his prize. Meantime, Count Reynaurd and Pierrot trotted gaily along the road to Aix. The almond-trees were in flower, and from one of them Pierrot had broken a little switch covered with rosy blossoms, with which he now and then tapped the flank of his little white palfrey, who would then kick up her heels and frisk along at a rollicking pace. Pierrot’s own legs looked lovely in party-colored hose, the right being a beautiful pearl-gray and the left a delicate robin’s-egg blue; his doublet was of pink silk embroidered in silver and slashed with white satin; and on his head he wore a jaunty cap with a long feather. He was a handsome little fellow, with bright eyes and dark curls, and as gay and lively as the great black crickets that live in Provence. His master, Count Reynaurd, looked very stately in a suit of plum-colored velvet, with a collar of fine lace fastened with a golden violet, which he often felt, so as to be sure he had not lost it and that it was still tightly clasped. For the gold violet was a prize that the count had just won in the town of Toulouse, whither, every May-time, all the troubadours used to go and hold great contests, called the Games of Flowers. At these games each one sang a song, and the most skillful received prizes, a violet of gold and a rose of silver being the most wished for.