precepice."...

"Well," said I to her, "since, ungrateful woman, thy hard heart
treats me thus, and thou carest no more about my presents than
that, let them go to the devil!" and I hurled them, _pataflou_,
into the precipice....

Here the tone is not one that an English reader finds serious; the
sending the jewels to the Devil, in the presence of the beautiful lady,
and the interjection, seem trivial. Evidently they are not so, for the
Princess is mollified at once.

"He was not very astute, he who made thee believe that the love of a
proud soul can be won with a few trinkets! Ah, where are the handsome
Troubadours, masters of love?"

She tells the love-stories of Geoffroy Rudel, of Ganbert de Puy-Abot, of
Foulquet of Marseilles, of Guillaume de Balauen, of Guillaume de la
Tour, and her words fall upon Calendau's heart like a flame. He catches
a glimpse of an existence of constant ecstasy.

His second exploit is a tournament on the water, where the combatants
stand on boats, and are rowed violently against one another, each
striking his lance against the wooden breastplate of his adversary. His
victory wins for him the hatred of the Cassidians, for his enemy accuses
him of cornering the fish. Esterello consoles him with more stories from
the _Chansons de geste_ and the songs of the Troubadours.

In the seventh canto is described in magnificent language Calendau's
exploit on the Mont Ventoux. This is a remarkable mountain, visible all
over the southern portion of the Rhone valley, standing in solitary
grandeur, like a great pyramid dominating the plain. Its summit is
exceedingly difficult of access. It appears to be the first mountain
that literature records as having been ascended for pleasure. This
ascent is the subject of one of Petrarch's letters.

During nine days Calendau felled the larches that grew upon the flanks
of the mighty mountain, and hurled the forest piecemeal into the
torrent below. At the Rocher du Cire he is frightfully stung by myriads
of bees, during his attempt to obtain as a trophy for his lady a
quantity of honey from this well-nigh inaccessible place. The kind of
criticism that is appropriate for realistic literature is here quite out
of place. It must be said, however, that the episode is far from
convincing. Calendau compares his sufferings to those of a soul in hell,
condemned to the cauldron of oil. Yet he makes a safe escape, and we
never hear of the physical c