IN A LOVE AGAINST LIFE

So I had this bunny for a while - a Tristan & Isolde Enjoltaire fusion (both Wagnerian and Arthurian elements) where the Thénardiers all fill in for King Mark - in this AU, they adopted an orphan Grantaire instead of Cosette, and, ever since a strand of fine, long golden hair with a static electric charge fell into their midst, they want the Enjolras heir for their firstborn Éponine's fiancé. So they send their valet R to the Camargue as a matchmaker or cupid or go-between to fetch the bridegroom... now add a kuudere Enj, a mishap with a love potion on the return trip (which leads to feelings intensifying between the wrong people, and one-sided admiration turning to something mutual and more serious), an Enjoltaire vs Enjonine conflict that escalates into open war, Combeferre as Kurwenal, Éponine as a woman scorned, lovesickness, lavender oil, savate fights, disguises, Tarot card spreads, bloodstained flour, bloodstained snow, backstabbing at the least expected moments, references to Wagner and to Shakespeare (as well as quotes from Gabriel-era Genesis lyrics, especially these apocrypha, and that song by Amaral - ¿Será tu voz, será el licor, serán las luces de esta habitación? But each chapter title will be a quote from Genesis lyrics)... and, obviously, STAR-CROSSED LOVE ensues, of course!

FONTAINES DANGEREUSES

THE THIRST OF HEROES, TRAGIC AND EPIC
Guy’s judicial combat with Amoraunt also provides an opportune
moment to illustrate another point of Saracen Otherness – the lack of chivalric
honour possessed by the denizens of the East. After a long and fierce period
of fighting, Amoraunt is stricken by a great thirst and offers Guy
the following bargain:


Sir Amoraunt withdrough him
With loureand chere (leering cheer) wroth and grim,
For the blod of him was lete (the blood of him was let, ie lost),
That drink he most other his liif forgon (he must drink, or his life is forgone)
So strong thrust (thirst) yede him opon
So michel was his hete (so oppressive was his heat).
"Fourti batayls ichave overcome
Ac fond Y never er moder sone
That me so sore gan bete.
Tel me," he seyd, "what artow?
Felt Y never man ar now
That gaf dintes so grete.

Ac lete me drink a litel wi3t
For þi lordes loue ful of mi3t
Þat þou louest wiþ wille,
& y þe hot bi mi lay,
3if þou haue ani þrest to-day,
Þou shalt drink al þi fille.
(Guy of Warwick, 114: 7 – 12).

Oh, let me drink a little, wight,
for thy lord is full of might,
that you lowest with will...
and if thee hot be down to lay,
if thou hast any thirst today,
thou shalt drink thy fill.

Guy, constrained by the chivalric code of honour, allows his opponent the
time to refresh himself, and when Amoraunt has done so, their battle
resumes. However, when in turn Guy requires water, Amoraunt reneges on
his promise and replaces it with a conditional one: he will allow his
opponent to drink only once he has revealed his name to him. Sorely
oppressed by both the heat and his thirst, Guy declares his name and requests
once more that the Moor allow him to drink. Amoraunt, upon discovering
that his foe is none other than the hated Guy, again refuses to allow his
adversary to slake his thirst, and attacks him in the water when Guy attempts
to drink without leave. The untrustworthy nature of the Saracen comes to the
fore once more in the unequal exchange of drinks, and Guy’s condemnation
of Amoraunt seems to characterize all those Saracens with whom he has
experience:

‘Amoraunt,’ þan seyd Gij,
‘Þou art ful fals, sikerly,
& ful-filt of tresoun.
No more wil y trust to þe
For no bihest þou hotest me:
Þou art a fals glotoun.’
(Guy of Warwick, 130: 7 – 12).

Fals is one of the most damning condemnations used by Guy within the
poem. Of the nine occurrences within the poem, eight are used to describe
Guy’s traitorous enemies, and it is fitting that Amoraunt’s double falsehood
receives two of these.


Tout au long de son parcours à travers l’Asie Mineure, l’Égypte, la Perse ou l’Inde, Alexandre est mû par un désir immodéré de conquêtes. Il ambitionne d’explorer et de conquérir la totalité des terres connues. Il repousse même les limites de celles-ci lorsqu’il franchit les bornes d’Hercule ou se rend aux portes du paradis terrestre. Son ambition, jugée sévèrement par les moralistes, porte une ombre sur sa renommée, faisant de lui l’incarnation de l’hybris. La démesure du conquérant a pu aisément être associée à l’intempérance et a sûrement contribué à l’accuser d’ivrognerie. Cette mauvaise réputation a été véhiculée notamment par Arrien et Plutarque. Au Moyen Âge, on la retrouve sous la plume de Gautier de Châtillon. La soif permanente d’Alexandre, soif qui s’avèrera mortelle lorsqu’il boira le vin empoisonné préparé par Antipater, est aussi la métaphore du désir de conquête et de pouvoir qui l’anime. Dans le Roman d’Alexandre d’Alexandre de Paris, le héros est continuellement assoiffé pendant sa traversée des déserts arides. À la recherche d’eau douce, il a les plus grandes difficultés à étancher la soif qui le tourmente ; le point d’eau qu’il finit par trouver sera infesté de redoutables hippopotames (III, laisses 59-61), ou cerné de bêtes sauvages (III, laisses 73-86), ou l’eau n’en sera pas potable :

Dementres que chascuns de herbregier s’argüe,
Descent li maines rois de sa mule crenue,
Il s’est agenoilliés desor l’erbe menue
Por estaindre sa soif qu’il a si grant eüe.
Plus iert amere l’eaue, quant li rois l’ot beüe,
Que suie ne fauterne n’aluisne ne ceüe.
Tel angoisse ot li rois tous li cors li tressue
Et voit que sans travail n’en bevroit beste mue,
Si l’a a toute l’ost v[e]ee et deffendue.
(Alexandre de Paris, Le Roman d’Alexandre, III, v. 1068-1076)

6L’eau amère dont doit se contenter le Macédonien est comparée à la suie, l’aristoloche, l’absinthe ou la ciguë, substances amères et surtout toxiques. Le poison devient le châtiment métaphorique de la convoitise, vice qui entache la renommée d’Alexandre dans la littérature médiévale. Dans la Prise de Defur, l’interpolateur retravaille ce thème. En effet, dans cet épisode écrit au XIII^e siècle pour être inséré dans la trame de l’œuvre d’Alexandre de Paris, Alexandre est présenté comme un conquérant insatiable ; sa démesure est à plusieurs reprises condamnée, notamment par le biais de la parabole de l’œil humain (laisses 57-58).
Assoiffés, ils arrivent au bord de la rivière Carengene, mais ne peuvent que constater la toxicité de l’eau : « Tant iert sure et amere et de mauvais pourtrait/Onques beste ne hons n’en pot boire un seul trait. » (La Prise de Defur, v. 1321-1322). Une autre mésaventure particulièrement édifiante arrive peu après à Alexandre. Toujours à la recherche d’eau douce, Alexandre rencontre un vieux paysan et se fait passer auprès de lui pour un simple soldat. L’homme indique à la troupe qui accompagne le Macédonien la direction de la rivière Sapïence mais la met en garde : cette rivière possède des pouvoirs merveilleux ; ne peuvent y boire que les hommes vertueux ; elle devient en effet délétère pour les « couvoiteus », les « escars » et les « traïtres prouvés » (v. 1362). Tholomer et les deux hommes qui l’accompagnent préfèrent rebrousser chemin quand Alexandre est bien décidé à boire de l’eau. Il reste donc auprès du paysan et fait la preuve, lors de la conversation qui s’engage, de sa grande convoitise. Le vieil homme le rabroue violemment : « Tais toi ! dans couvoiteus, parlés as folement,/Ne gousteras de l’iaue, retourne isnelement. » (La Prise de Defur,v. 1458-1459). Malgré cette admonestation, Alexandre se dirige vers la rivière, mais l’eau limpide se change immédiatement en liquide putride. Les miasmes qui s’en dégagent lui soulèvent le cœur et obscurcissent sa vue :

Quant li rois vint a l’iaue, qui molt fu bele et gente
Et clere comme argens, lor devint rovelente;
Uns flairs en issi fors qui le cuer li adente,
Le veüe li trouble et cuevre et varïente;
Bien set se l’os i vient livrés est a tourmente.
(La Prise de Defur, v. 1463-1467)

La convoitise d’Alexandre est donc punie dans la Prise de Defur par une menace d’empoisonnement. L’eau devenue « pire de touscin » (v. 1480) constitue le comparant récurrent de son ambition coupable. Dans le Voyage au Paradis terrestre, la même métaphore est employée par Aristote dans une leçon qu’il destine au jeune roi : « Convoitise est el mont molt male enerbeüre,/Avarisce est sa mere, li une et l’autre est sure. » (Le Voyage d’Alexandre au paradis terrestre, v. 251-252).

Au début du XIV^e siècle, l’évocation de l’empoisonnement d’Alexandre encadre la narration des Vœux du paon qui commence et s’achève sur une déploration de la mort annoncée du Macédonien ; le narrateur impute très clairement cette fin inéluctable à la convoitise du héros.

La vulnérabilité du roi

Alexandre, qui est parvenu à repousser les limites de son empire au-delà des bornes du monde connu, qui a soumis les potentats de la Perse et de l’Inde, succombe à une gorgée de vin. Ce paradoxe est souligné par cette réflexion ironique de Gautier de Châtillon : Crescit auara sitis iuueni, sed potio tantam/Comprimet una sitim (Gauthier de Châtillon, Alexandréide, X, v. 200-201) (« La soif avide du jeune homme croît, mais une seule gorgée étanchera si grande soif »). Contenter sa soif, mettre fin à sa quête de pouvoir correspondent pour le héros à une condamnation à mort. Cette caractéristique du destin d’Alexandre est illustrée sur le mode métaphorique dans un épisode du Roman d’Alexandre d’Alexandre de Paris qui relate comment les Grecs parviennent à tuer le Dentirant, ce monstre du désert indien, venu s’abreuver au bord de l’étang où l’armée d’Alexandre a dressé son camp. Cette créature menaçante résiste aussi bien aux coups d’épée, de lance et de hache qu’aux jets de flèches dont elle est criblée. Alexandre conseille alors à ses hommes de la laisser boire. De fait, une fois désaltérée, la bête devient vulnérable et succombe sous les coups (Le Roman d’Alexandre,III, laisses 79-82). Alexandre mourra de la même façon quand il sera repu de conquêtes et se sera désaltéré à la coupe des traîtres. Le monstre redoutable, le Dentirant – comment ne pas entendre derrière ce mot celui de tyran ? – est en quelque sorte un double métaphorique et inquiétant du roi omnipotent, qui, comme le dit l’auteur du Voyage d’Alexandre au paradis terrestre par un raccourci saisissant, est « de la mort abevrez » (v. 403).

Le caractère dérisoire de l’instrument responsable de la mort du Macédonien est renforcé par Alexandre de Paris qui, reprenant un élément du récit du Pseudo-Callisthène, précise que c’est une plume, arme bien inoffensive a priori, qui achève le roi. En effet, après avoir bu le vin empoisonné et ressenti les premiers malaises, Alexandre tente de se faire vomir à l’aide d’une plume :

Puis sailli de la table, la coupe a jus getee,
Por ce que vomir vaut une plume a rovee.
Antipater li fel l’en a une aprestee
Q’il ot molt coiement sous son mantel botee,
Et estoit de venim entoschie et louee.
Il a prise la plume, ne l’a pas esgardee,
Si l’a isnelement en sa bouche boutee ;
Li deerains venins li a la mort donee.
Tuit li menbre li falent, la poitrine a enflee.
(Alexandre de Paris, Le Roman d’Alexandre, IV, v. 159-167)

La plume a été au préalable imbibée de poison par Antipater. En l’introduisant dans sa bouche, Alexandre, au lieu de soulager son mal, ne fait que l’aggraver. Alexandre meurt en dilatant sa poitrine. Le terme « enfler », du latin inflare « souffler dans », peut certes décrire le gonflement dû à l’intoxication mais aussi suggérer le dernier souffle du mourant. N’est-il dès lors pas possible de rapprocher cette mort du héros de celle de Roland qui expire dans un ultime et terrible souffle ? Alexandre est un personnage profondément ambivalent. La soif qui le caractérise peut conduire à diverses interprétations. Symbole du désir de conquête du roi, elle permet aussi d’assimiler ce dernier aux héros, tel le martyr de Roncevaux ou celui d’Archamp qui, imitant la passion du Christ, meurt victime de sa soif (Jean, 19, 18).
Sur ce motif de la soif du héros voir J. H. Grisward, « Les morts de Roland », Mélanges René Louis, Saint-Père-sous-Velay, 1982, p. 417-427.



ROMAN DE LA ROSE - NARCISSE


que Narcisus par aventure
a la fontaine clere et pure
se vint soz le pin ombroier
un jor qu'il venoit de chacier,
qu'il avoit soffert grant traval
de corre et amont et aval,
tant qu'il ot soif por l'aspreté
dou chaut et por la lasseté
qui li ot tolue l'alaine.
Et quant il vint a la fontaine
que li pins de ses rains covroit,
ilec pensa que il bevroit.
Sus la fontaine toz adenz
se mist lors por boivre dedenz,
si vit en l'eve clerc et nete
son vis, son nés et sa bouchete ;
et cil maintenant s'esbahi,
car ses ombres l'avoit traï,
qu'il cuida voair la figure
d'un esfant bel a desmesure.
Lors se sot bien Amors venchier
dou grant orguil et dou dangier
que Narcisus li ot mené.
Bien li fu lors guerredoné,
qu'il musa tant en la fontaine
qu'il ama son ombre demainne,
si en fu morz a la parclouse,
c'est la some de ceste chose.
Car quant il vit qu'il ne porroit
acomplir ce qu'il desiroit
et qu'il estoit si pris par fort
qu'il ne porroit avoir confort
en nule fin ne en nul sen,
il perdi d'ire tot le sen
et fu mon en poi de termine.
Ensi si out de la meschine
qu'il avoit devant escondite
son guerredon et sa merite.


Et voulut que Narcisse un jour
S'en vint justement, de retour
De la chasse, vers cette source,
Fatigué d'une longue course,
Chercher l'ombre sous le grand pin.
Par monts, par vaux, dès le matin,
Il courait le bois et la plaine ;
Exténué, tout hors d'haleine,
Altéré par l'âpre chaleur,
Il vit sous l'arbre protecteur
La source vive et transparente.
Pour étancher sa soif ardente
Et tremper ses lèvres dans l'eau,
Il se pencha sur le ruisseau.
Quant il vit dans l'eau claire et nette
Son front, son nez, et sa bouchette,
Il resta soudain ébahi,
Car son ombre l'avait trahi
En lui faisant voir la figure
D'une enfant belle sans mesure.
Pour punir Narcisse et le deuil
Qu'il avait fait et son orgueil,
Amour alors tint sa vengeance
Et lui donna sa récompense.
Au bord de l'eau Narcisse heureux
Resta de son ombre amoureux,
Et de sa mort ce fut la cause.
Voici le détail de la chose :
Car lorsqu'il vit qu'il ne pourrait
Accomplir ce qu'il désirait,
Lorsqu'il comprit à sa souffrance
Qu'il n'aurait jamais jouissance
En nul sens, en nulle façon,
Il perdit d'ire la raison
Et de mourir ne larda guère.

Le Narcisse de notre tapisserie a-t-il découvert sa différence et sa supériorité ?
Mais il a bien souffert, il a grande fatigue et grande soif :

un jor qu'il venoit de chacier,
qu'il avoit soffert grant traval
de corre et amont et aval,
tant qu'il ot soif por l'aspreté
dou chaut et por la lasseté
qui li ot tolue l'alaine.
Et quant il vint a la fontaine
que li pins de ses rains covroit,
ilec pensa que il bevroit.

Ainsi, pouvons-nous penser, il a fait preuve de virilité, de courage. C'est un preux qui a su, dans l'inter-texte, manier l'épée, symbole phallique, qu'il porte au côté droit. A moins qu'il n'ait délégué cette puissance non encore conquise à son faucon et à ses chiens qui tuent à sa place.
Peut-être en est-il de cette quête de puissance musculaire comme il en est de la quête amoureuse où il n'a pas encore prouvé sa toute puissance, sauf à le considérer responsable de la mort d'Echo… et de la sienne qui l'attend à l'ombre du pin. Le royaume des ombres… Né de la nymphe azurée, la naïade Liriopé et du dieu-fleuve, Céphise, Narcisse ne pouvait que regagner l'eau en ultime demeure. 

Les Métamorphoses d'Ovide 3, 413-503	Le Roman de la Rose vv. 1523-1563
L'épisode " chasse " est conservée : épuisement, chaleur, soif, source (libre ou canalisée dans une fontaine)
Ici l'enfant, épuisé par une chasse animée sous la chaleur, se laisse tomber, séduit par l'aspect du site et par la source,et tandis qu'il désire apaiser sa soif, une autre soif grandit en lui :	que Narcisus par aventure a la fontaine clere et pure se vint soz le pin ombroier un jor qu'il venoit de chacier, qu'il avoit soffert grant traval de corre et amont et aval, tant qu'il ot soif por l'aspreté dou chaut et por la lasseté qui li ot tolue l'alaine. Et quant il vint a la fontaine que li pins de ses rains covroit, ilec pensa que il bevroit. Sus la fontaine toz adenz se mist lors por boivre dedenz,

 



Cependant, alors qu’il a ainsi détourné et banalisé le mythe et fait de Narcisse un « essample » de la puissance de l’amour à laquelle chaque être doit se soumettre sous peine de mort, l’auteur du Lai est resté beaucoup plus proche d’Ovide dans la description qu’il donne de l’arrivée du héros à la « fontaine » et de la fontaine elle-même. Il a ainsi fixé pour des générations d’écrivains les grandes lignes du scénario « arrivée au bord de la fontaine » et de la description du lieu. Comme point de départ, la chasse d’un cerf qui n’est pas encore blanc, mais qui trompe tout autant les efforts du chasseur ; la soif qui brûle le héros, à l’heure fatidique de midi ; la découverte d’une eau claire, douce et bonne à boire ; le lieu propice, aménagé par l’homme, la margelle de marbre se substituant à la source naturelle du poète latin ; l’herbe drue qui invite à s’allonger ; l’arbre pour attacher le cheval. Sont ici réunis, pour la première fois exprimés en langue française, tous les traits et les attraits du lieu fontaine, qui pourra aussi bien se transformer en lieu mortifère qu’en lieu érotisé de la rencontre avec la fée, de la plainte amoureuse, de l’invention poétique. Les exemples dans la littérature ultérieure sont innombrables. On se contentera de citer en écho immédiat quelques vers du Roman de Troie, texte à peu près contemporain, qui ouvre lui aussi le récit mythique du Jugement de Pâris sur le motif de la chasse interrompue, de la chaleur extrême, de l’absence de vent (trait repris à Ovide), de l’arrivée du chasseur au bord d’une fontaine où personne, jamais, ne s’est abreuvée, le sommeil de Pâris, propice à l’apparition des déesses, se substituant alors à la sidération mortifère de Narcisse.

• 
  

L’autrier, es kalendes de mai
Chacöe en Ide la menor
Un cerf, ce m’est vis, correor.
Le jor le chacierent mi chien ;
Assez corui, ainc n’en pris rien.
Mout fist grant chaut d’estrange guise,
Ne venta gaires le jor bise.
Mes veneors e toz mes chiens
Perdi el val de Citariens.
Lez la funtaine ou riens n’abeivre,
De desoz l’onbre d’un geneivre
M’estut dormir, nel poi müer. (vv. 3860-3871)

7On retiendra de cette première série de textes deux éléments : l’auteur du Lai de Narcisse n’a pas conservé l’absence de vent, qui explique chez Ovide la durable immobilité de l’eau, de l’image qu’elle reflète sans trouble.

• 
  

Si la feuille éperdue effleure la napée,
Elle suffit à rompre un univers dormant…

8Le choix du récit médiéval est en effet d’en finir avec l’enchantement de Narcisse, de brouiller la surface immobile de la fontaine –c’est là le rôle de Dané- pour détourner le jeune homme de la contemplation de soi. Il est également remarquable que dans ces deux textes le lieu fontaine tisse un premier écho entre Narcisse et Pâris, devient le lieu où peuvent aussi bien s’accomplir un destin de mort, dans le refus de l’aventure amoureuse, que le choix de Vénus, la révélation de la puissance vitale de l’amour.

Il a tôt fait de renvoyer aux oubliettes de la mythologie le drame de Narcisse et de se mirer dans l’eau de la fontaine pour y découvrir l’objet de sa quête d’amour. Par la grâce du rêve, la fontaine, il est vrai, a été le lieu, du texte latin au texte médiéval, d’une métamorphose inattendue. Lieu de mort dans le discours « ovidien » du narrateur, qui s’est bien gardé de rappeler la métamorphose du corps en narcisse, elle est devenue à l’approche du rêveur un lieu de vie, sous le double signe, mais n’est-ce pas le même ?, d’Amour et de Nature qui a mis tout son art à la créer (vv. 1431-1432). L’eau immobile « court » désormais, coule à grands flots, toujours fresche et novele. Grâce à elle, l’herbe pousse en toutes saisons, toujours épaisse et drue. A l’unique reflet de Narcisse se substitue la vision du buisson de roses et de l’estre d’un vergier dont lecteur et rêveur connaissent déjà la luxuriance, la fertilité et l’abondance des ressources érotiques. A la contemplation de l’ombre se substitue le regard orienté vers l’autre d’un jeune homme éperdu, immédiatement pénétré jusqu’au fond du cœur par la douce saveur des roses. Le narrateur sans doute annonce aussitôt l’échec subi dans la « réalité » (vv. 1606-1612)et le caractère déceptif de ce nouveau miroir. Du moins le rêveur a-t-il tenté l’aventure amoureuse, pris le risque de traverser le miroir périlleux. Désormais, en l’effacement conscient mais provisoire de l’histoire de Narcisse, c’est à la fontaine où le rêveur se garde bien d’apaiser sa soif que se noue le destin, la rage d’aimer.

Benoît de Sainte-Maure, Le Roman de Troie, éd. bilingue (extraits) par E. Baumgartner et F. Vielliard, Paris, Le livre de poche, Lettres gothiques, 1998. Benoît unit ici des passages du récit ovidien sur Narcisse (la chasse, la soif) à une description de la « fontaine » tirée de l’Héroïde XVI, dans laquelle Pâris, rappelons-le, relate à Hélène la scène du jugement.

·

"La napée": Paul Valéry, Fragments du Narcisse.

D’autres auteurs, tout en gardant le cadre de Chrétien, changent l’action et sa motivation. Au geste magique se substitue alors l’action naturelle de boire, boire parce que l’on a soif, après une longue chevauchée, par exemple. Répandre de l’eau n’est plus un geste volontaire, premier, défi aux divinités des fontaines, mais un geste second, qui ne se produit, quand il a lieu, que par inadvertance. Rationalisation donc et surtout entrée en scène du désir qui commence à se cristalliser autour d’un motif qui deviendra un emblème: «Je meurs de soif auprès de la fontaine».

Il en va ainsi dans un roman en vers du XIII siècle: Richard le Beau. Richard meurt de soif au sens littéral. Il arrive à une fontaine où se retrouvent tous les éléments mis en circulation par Chrétien de Troyes:

Dessour la fontainne ot un marbre

Et par deseure ot un biel arbre,

Et a chel arbre ert atachiés

Uns bachinés d’or entailliés

A une si bielle caÿne

Qu’elle vaut d’argent mine plainne. (vv. 937-942)

(A côté de la fontaine, il y avait une pierre de marbre et au dessus un bel

arbre. A cet arbre, un bassin d’or ciselé était attaché par une chaîne si belle qu’elle valait bien une mine d’argent.)

Se précipitant pour y boire, il fait sonner la chaînette du bassin, ce qui

déclenche, non une tempête, mais l’apparition d’un chevalier, gardien de la fontaine, qui sort d’une petite hutte et interdit de boire sans son assentiment. Par sa victoire sur ce chevalier, Richard lève l’interdit de la fontaine. Il en tire une sentence morale.

Ce texte s’en tient au désir physique de boire, besoin qui a été longuement expliqué: le héros a marché à pied pour se réchauffer et est assoiffé. L’aventure n’est pas mise en rapport avec la rencontre d’une dame à la fontaine.

D’autres auteurs croisent le thème de la soif, du désir sous-jacent, et celui de la rencontre. Dans Le Roman de Mélusine

de Jean d’Arras, si l’on reste dans le domaine narratif, la rencontre des héros et de leur future femme se fait à la fontaine, autour du motif de la soif. A la première génération, le roi Elinas se trouve ainsi en

présence de la fée Présine:

«Et ot lors si grant soif que, sans adviz, ne sans mesure, vint sur la fontaine et print le bacin qui y pendoit a une grant chayenne, si puisa de l’eaue et but. Et lors regarda la dame...» (p. 122). (Et il avait une soif si grande que, de manière irréfléchie et inconsidérée, il vint auprès de la fontaine, prit le bassin qui pendait à une grande chaîne, puisa de l’eau et but. Il regarda alors la dame.)

Pas de rituel météorologique mais une rencontre amoureuse. À la seconde génération, Raymondin, après le meurtre accidentel de son oncle, arrive à une fontaine qui porte un nom, c’est la Fontaine de Soif

(p. 158). C’est une fontaine faee, enchantée, dont le nom cristallise l’histoire et les pouvoirs. Il y trouve trois damesdont l’une est Mélusine. La littérature informe la topographie, la soif est liée à l’amour.  Un traitement entièrement allégorique du thème est celui que propose Watriquet de Couvin dans son Dit de la fontaine d’Amours. Un matin de prin-temps, le poète entre dans un verger et trouve «la plus bele fontaine» (v. 43) que l’on puisse décrire: «Toute estoit d’or entregetée / Et la greve au fons argentée, / Qui moult estoit melodieuse» (vv. 49-51) (Très mélodieuse, elle était toute veinée d’or et le sable au fond argenté). Elle appartient à Vénus qui l’a «avironnée d’une soif qui iert Esperance apelée» (vv. 63-64). Dans le Roman de la Rose, c’est «Cupido, li filz Venus» qui a semé «d’Amors la graine / Qui toute acuevre la fontaine» (vv. 1586-1587). La fontaine de Watriquet a trois bassins, Jonesce, Proesce et Largesce qu’attachent trois chaînes: Vaillance, Cuidier (Pensée), Courtoisie. La fontaine a trois gardiens: Celer (Discrétion), Loiauté et Sens, et les bassins eux-mêmes trois autres gardiens: Bonne Volentez, Avis et Plenté (Abondance). Watriquet de Couvin croise la description de Chrétien de Troyes, avec ses éléments caractéristiques —bassins, chaînes— à la vision du Roman de la Rose. 
On y trouve Vénus et le dieu Amour/Cupidon comme chez Guillaume de Lorris, et une insistance sur l’élément trinitaire de la fontaine en écho à Jean de Meun. L’analyse de Watriquet, qui détaille les éléments constitutifs de la fontaine, est psychologique et morale. Mais elle n’est qu’une entrée en texte pour le poète. Le narrateur boit de l’eau de cette fontaine qui l’enivre. Il s’endort et rêve qu’il est transporté à la cour d’amour. Le motif joue le rôle qui devient le sien, celui d’une mémoire intertextuelle.
 BOIRE OU NE PAS BOIRE À LA FONTAINE
 Guillaume de Machaut au XIV e siècle renouvelle le motif de la fontaine, motif qu’il connaît très bien. Il joue de la reprise dans Le dit dou Lyon 12 , dont le titre fait écho au Chevalier au Lion (Yvain) de Chrétien de Troyes. La fontaine intervient au début du récit. Elle se trouve dans un verger protégé par une rivière qui l’enserre. Lion et poète, l’un étant le double de l’autre, boivent au ruisseau qui sort de la fontaine, «un ruisselet / Qui descendait d’une fontainne» (vv. 438-439): «Mais li lions a longue alainne / En lapa et en but assez. / Et j’aussi qui fu tous lassez / En bu, car mestier en avoie. (vv. 440-443) (Mais le lion à longues goulées en lapa et en but beaucoup et moi aussi, qui étais très fatigué, j’en bus car j’en avais besoin.) Il n’est plus question de bassin, de chaîne. Lion et poète se désaltèrent en buvant directement au ruisseau 13 . La fontaine est «bele et gente» (v. 447) (belle et noble). A côté d’elle, une tente, et sur un tapis posé entre la fontaine et la tente, une dame. Le tapis est donné comme une «uevre sauvage, / Fait a la guise de Cartage» (vv. 456-457) (une œuvre étrangère faite à la mode de Carthage). Un déplacement s’est opéré, en termes de création artistique, de la fontaine au tapis. Le scénario est celui de la rencontre, et le schéma mixte croise fontaine amoureuse et fontaine aventureuse. 
Dans Le Remede de Fortune14 en revanche, Guillaume de Machaut inverse le motif de la rencontre à la fontaine. Le jeune poète a fui sa dame auquel il n’osait, par timidité, révéler qu’il était l’auteur du lay où il déclarait son amour. Il entre dans le Parc de Hedin (v. 786), parc en Artois, fréquenté par les rois, célèbre à l’époque de Machaut pour ses artifices et ses jeux hydrauliques, jeux d’eaux coquins. Machaut joue sans doute sur la prononciation semblable au XIV e siècle de Hedin et de Eden. Il arrive à une fontaine «moult clere et moult bele» (v. 836), simplement mentionnée 15 , qui devient le lieu de la composition de sa complainte de Fortune. Ce n’est qu’ensuite que se présente une dame allégorique: Espérance. La réflexion de Guillaume de Machaut sur le sens de la fontaine culmine dans La Fontaine amoureuse16 qui l’inscrit en son titre et au centre exact de l’œuvre, au vers 1413 d’un texte qui en comporte 2848. L’entrée différée au verger signe une réflexion sur l’amour d’un narrateur vieillissant —si le poète est bien né en 1300, il a aux alentours de soixante ans quand il écrit La Fontaine amoureuse. Ni le poète, ni le prince, déjà amoureux, ne boiront de l’eau de la fontaine. Le titre, en ce qui les concerne, est déceptif. Le prince précise même, désabusé, que «jamais n’en buveroit, / Car il en avoit tant beü / Qu’il s’en tenoit pour deceü» (vv. 1436-1438) (il n’en boirait jamais plus car il en avait tant bu qu’il se considérait comme berné). Le poète joue avec ce refus. Alors qu’au réveil du songe, le prince se lave visage et mains au ruisselet de la fontaine (vv. 2530-2531), le poète fait de même, mais en précisant bien, de manière amusée, qu’il se garde d’avaler une goutte de cette eau (vv. 2533-2536). Déni de l’amour-philtre et de la tradition des Tristan. Ni le poète ni le prince ne veulent boire leur mort. La fontaine de Guillaume de Machaut dans ce texte est une œuvre d’art. Elle a été sculptée par Pygmalion (v. 1397) à partir de matériaux fournis par Jupiter et Vénus: l’or (v. 1394) pour Jupiter, le marbre et l’ivoire (v. 1395) pour Vénus, conjonction du masculin et du féminin, nécessaire à la création. 

FAVOURITE ROMANTIC LOVE STORIES

THE WASHERWOMAN'S HEN
Folktale -origins unknown, Catholic Europe-

The oldest crones in this land still tell that a certain washerwoman, more humble than miserable but nevertheless very poor, did nothing but pray to the Heavens for a child, since both wise women and doctors had told her that she could never have any offspring. But still she never resigned herself to accept that she was barren.
One day, while she was hanging costly clothes on the line, she saw a mother hen clucking by, followed by all of her chicks, and the sight made her so desperate that, en tête-à-tête with the Virgin Mary, she asked Our Lady to at least give her a hen, whom she would know to love and treat as a daughter of her own. "Holy Mary, if you gave me at least a hen for a daughter, then I would feel contented..."
Nine months later, she laid a chicken egg, which she, with all her love, hatched in her bosom. The chick grew within a matter of three days, and now it was a grown hen. The unfortunate washerwoman did not tarry in accepting how things were. At least she now had some company.
It was truly a beautiful hen, with a red plumage that shifted in colours like a flame, a majestic way of walking, and a cackle like the song of a primadonna soprano. Twelve years later, when the washerwoman already felt like the proud mother of a prized if not decent hen, her daughter began to increase in size, just like some maidens have growth spurts. At the same time, she began to do really strange things, like waltzing around her mother's ankles and singing:

"Cocorococo, cocorococo,
leave me, Mum,
to wash the clothes!"

One day that she was incessantly cackling this chant, the washerwoman gave her a dirty rag and threw it to her daughter, for the hen to leave her be in peace.
The hen caught the rag in her beak and took it as far from her mother's eyes as she could.
Then, she gave it a peck, and instantly from the rag sprouted a magnificent mansion, down whose staircase walked twelve damsels bearing dishes fit for a feast for the hen, which, of course, had become a damsel as fair and bright as the sun; one would dare to say a princess.
Thus it happened for several times, and once it came to pass by chance that the royals' eldest son was riding by, beheld the hen and her rags, and was witness to the wonderful events that transpired afterwards. The prince was smitten with the princess and decided to make her his bride.
And thus, one day, he showed up at the washerwoman's door, and the following conversation ensued:
"Would you please sell me that hen, madame?"
"She's not for sale! Not for all the gold in the world!" she replied.
"And how much is 'all the gold in the world'?"
"Let's say... five hundred sacks full."
"I shall give you one thousand," the Crown Prince replied.
"Then... who could refuse such an offer?" the washerwoman gave in.
And this was how the prince brought the hen to Court.
He was not that sure of what he was to do to succeed in marrying her, but at last he had an idea. One evening, the local lordship of the hen's home province hosted a grand ball at his castle. The prince tucked his "little" hen to sleep in her canopy bed, having made for her a round nest out of his own bedcovers, and left for the ballroom, for the dance, leaving her asleep with the curtains drawn. As soon as the door had been shut behind her, the hen pecked the rag, which she wore for a shawl, and instantly she was human and her handmaids appeared, dressing her in her very best ensemble to attend the same ball.
When the Crown Prince saw her arrive in the royal gardens, and all eyes were upon her, he understood that right then was the time to put his strategy into action. He stormed back to the palace, upstairs into her bedchamber, and found her canopy bed full of fire-red feathers; then he took all these feathers to throw them into the fire, along with the rag. Once he was sure that there was not a single feather left and the rag had been burned as well, he went himself to bed and awaited the return of his fiancée from the dance.
When he heard her steps walking upstairs, he pretended he was asleep. She tiptoed into the bedchamber, not to wake her fiancé up, but her surprise was enormour when she saw that, in her sleeping place, there was neither magical rag nor even a single hen feather.
Right then, she felt two strong, youthful arms clasping her waist.
"Now I've got you! And now, you shall marry me!" the elated prince startled her.
And of course so it came to be, and there was much rejoicing, especially for the washerwoman, who became one of the most illustrious ladies of the Court, and even governess to the royal children of that happy marriage.


SER BYRTING OF BAYERLAND
-Scandinavian lore (the ballad exists in many forms), though set in Bavaria-

Ser Byrting was a noble knight born and bred, and dwelling, in Bayerland, the region he loved more than anything else in the wide world, so he said. He was a dashing young man, whose appearance showed no signs of manliness or harshness; and yet he was wise beyond his years, a skilful warrior upon the field of battle, and righteous towards his vassals. Some of which, precisely, thought that he had one single flaw marring all that perfection: that he was still single.
However, in spite of the love he held for his native land, he would die far from home, and not unmarried.
The tale tells, in fact, that on a dark and stormy night, with a veritable flood pouring down upon and around the castle, a great clash of thunder and lighting, and the whistling of the gale being sometimes even more ominous than the thunderstorm, Byrting arose startled from his canopy bed, awakened by a knocking at the door. In spite of the night being that stormy, he had slept an innocent and sound sleep, for his conscience was crystal clear. However, those knockings had the nearly miraculous power to wake him up.
"Who's there?" he asked, as he rose from his bed and parted the bed-curtains, his right hand instinctively clutching the hilt of his sword.
"Open, Ser Byrting," the stranger replied in a female voice, so fragile that the knight believed that he was haunted by a revenant.
Then, hearing that female voice, brave Ser Byrting was filled with dread. His shirt clung to his back, his heart raced, a shudder ran down his spine.... Outside, the storm had calmed in a strangely sudden fashion, and he saw the starry night sky crowned by a full moon. So he replied that he would not open the door; if the stranger were in need of shelter for the night, she might as well ask his vassals.
"And who are you?" Byrting asked in response.
"I am Nora, queen of the light elves. I have come to tell you that tomorrow you shall be with me, in the realm of my elders."
And Nora turned around, as if she did not care, and vanished from the spot. It was then that Byrting decided not to waste any time in her pursuit. He summoned a pair of valets and commanded them to gather a knapsack with provisions he might need for the long journey; he wrapped himself, without any aid, the cloak around his shoulders, placed the helmet on his own golden locks, girded the sheathed sword upon his left thigh; and he fled Bayerland as soon as the sun's first rays rose.
He galloped for many leagues and many days, always guided up north by the North Star, and, the further from home he came, the more his spirits were calmed and at ease.
Suddenly, upon crossing a certain stream at a bridge haunted by elves, his steed reared and the rider fell to the ground, the horse galloping away and leaving Byrting to his fate. Stunned with the fall, he began to call for help, but with a weakened voice that scarcely could be heard six feet around. He had fallen on his left side, and bloody foam sprang from his lips, as even breathing racked him with pain.
However, from the stream tinkling under the bridge, the elven queen Nora arose. In her hands she held a golden chalice.
"Who are you, and where do you come from?" she asked.
"I am Ser Byrting, a knight of Bayerland, the realm I love over anything else upon this wide world."
Nora gave him to drink from her chalice; thirsty as he was from both exertion and his injury, he drank a deep draught. It was a sweetly-scented and sweetly-flavoured liquor, far stronger than mead, that instantly filled the knight with a pleasant drowsiness.
"Of course..." he kept on speaking, his voice now slurred and wavering. "My beloved Bayerland, my native land, my father's land and my mother's... Bayerland..."
Nora gave him another drink, again he quaffed deeply, and then the young man felt that his shapely limbs, grown strong and hardened in many a hard-contested battle, were dissolving as if into thin air. Then she reached out her chalice again, as she asked the same question:
"Who are you, and where do you come from?"
"I do not know who I am. But I know that I am leaving for Alfheim, that is, Elfhome, to marry the queen of the elves, the fairest one that there is upon this world."
And thus, the pale knight shut his weary eyes, his head nestling in Nora's lap, from which he would nevermore rise.


THE SONG OF DISTANT LOVE
-Folklore about Southern French troubadours-

Joffrey Rudel was a troubadour, which means that by trade he wandered across the wide world thinking up songs and singing them, sometimes at the courts of powerful rulers, others for his equals, and not rarely to entertain himself as he rode from village to village in the evening, seeking room and board.
He had gained renown among all the others of his trade because, as they said, no one else had ever contrived to sing in such a lifelike or heartwarming way of a distant beloved. That was Joffrey's favourite theme: to express in the very words of someone madly in love the feelings inspired in him by a lady he had never seen, whose name he had never known, of whom he had never had any news. He had only confided in some friends that she lived in the Far East, in a magical palace where even the plumage of the songbirds was of such stuff that dreams were made of.
He held in his heart a special affection for one of these friends, one Bertrand, who, in exchange, loved Joffrey as the precious friend he was. One day, Joffrey fell ill with such a burning fever that the physicians tending to him despaired for his life. Bertrand, feeling sorry for him, assured his friend that he knew the lady of his dreams, and that it was none other than a certain Eastern princess by the name of Melisandre.
"Joffrey, dear friend, why should we not pay her a visit? I have acquired a ship waiting to set sail in Marseilles, and an unquenchable thirst for adventure!"
For a while Joffrey doubted, yet, in the end, not to disappoint his best friend, he finally accepted.
"We shall go forth to see that Melisandre, since you are so convinced that she is my lady... Yet, from now on, I tell you that you deceive yourself, for the will of my lady, to whom I owe all my heart and all my wit, is to shun me, to keep me always on tenterhooks, by night and day, keeping my eyes wide open by virtue of the beauty of her own eyes. Besides..." here Joffrey paused, smiling as a weary, exhausted young man does, "...you know that not even her real name can be guessed."
Bertrand nodded in response to every word Joffrey said, excited because what was interesting for him was that his friend had decided to join him on the quest, for he thought that some excitement might improve Joffrey's state of health.
For weeks they sailed the Mediterranean, towards the strait where Europe gives way to Asia. Joffrey, instead of admiring the shores where they docked or making friends with the strangers they found, usually stayed on deck, singing of his distant love.
At last they reached that Eastern country of dreams and Melisandre's palace. Joffrey confessed to Bertrand that he was not in the mood to appear before such a highborn royal lady, even if she were the one of his dreams. The troubadour was beginning to doubt. What if she was the one always on his mind and in his lyrics?
Bertrand presented himself first as a go-between to Melisandre, explaining the reason for their journey and their visit from so far away:
"Your Highness, much has been spoken to me about you, and the word of your generosity has reached me from far away; I pray you to please give respite to this unfortunate young man. He is wavering between life and death, and he needs to find what he always has sought..."
But chance would have it that Melisandre should become smitten with Bertrand, and Bertrand with Melisandre. The princess, who did not even want to be unfaithful for once to her love, rotundly denied to perform that charade of her tryst en tête-à-tête with Joffrey.
"I love you, Bertrand," those were her words, "which means that there can be no other man in my life."
One day, Bertrand received a visit from two sailors of his crew, who came to inform him that Joffrey Rudel's health had worsened. Only then was Bertrand able to soften Melisandre's heart.
The princess was left en tête-à-tête with Joffrey, who lay, breathing hardly, on his deathbed. She was unable to break the ice in any conversation with him, eagerly awaiting his words. But the troubadour could only gape shallowly, his lungs thirsting for air.
However, instantly a miracle occurred. Joffrey opened his eyes, looked at Melisandre, breathed deeply, arose, and, with the sweetest voice he had ever tuned, he sang his song of distant love.
Then, after singing the last verse, he breathed his last.
Melisandre approached Bertrand and gave him the sorrowful news. And it was twice a crushing blow for Bertrand; on one hand, because his best friend was no more; on the other hand, because of Melisandre's own words:
"We cannot be together anymore, Bertrand. Your friend Joffrey has put a wall between us, and that delicate melody is like a thick stone wall that will forever part us."
The next three or four days, Bertrand insisted to have a tryst en tête-à-tête with Melisandre, yet that tryst he was always denied. Finally, he decided to return home to Provence.
He was restored to life by the sea, the ports he visited, the new people he made the acquaintance of, and the image of his dear friend Joffrey, the troubadour, who had died in the same way he had lived.

THE CRAB PRINCE
-Folktale from the Mediterranean-

In that coastal realm, there were two people who knew practically everything about the fauna of the seas. On one hand, an old salt, a fisherman who had spent decades toiling in his trade; on the other hand, the royals' only daughter, the Crown Princess, who was fascinated by anything that came from the deep.
One day, the old fisherman brought to shore a crab so immensely large that human eyes were only able to see part of it. He returned home in the best of spirits, excited upon thinking of how much money he would make at the fish and seafood market in exchange for such an exceptional individual. Of course his wife wanted to eat it, for, even if she had never cast a hook into the water, she was a regular glutton. But, in the end, her husband's voice of reason prevailed.
"Listen," his wife nevertheless told him. "Since you have decided to sell it, don't take it to market. Offer this crab to the Royal Court itself."
The old salt thought that this was not a bad idea, and thus he sauntered off to the royal palace, with the oversized animal in tow. Even though he was a middling fisherman, the royal guards and servants stood so agape before that beast, that they made way for its owner without even daring to ask who he was; some thought the King or the Queen might wish to own the monster; others thought, in dread, that it was a wicked monster carried in tow by one of the most evil among sorcerers.
However, the King was not as remarkably impressed by the crab as the fisherman had expected.
"The truth is that you have caught an exceptional beast, my good old salt, but what do I need such a crab for? Follow my advice: head for the fish and seafood market, and sell it there."
However, it came to pass that the princess, who was so fascinated by all things underwater, waltzed into the throne room. Upon seeing the mammoth decapod, she coaxed her father into buying it; thus she might keep it as a pet in her saltwater pond and be able to watch it anytime she wished.
The King, who obeyed his daughter's every whim, and even spoiled her (which came as no surprise, the girl being royalty and an only child!), bought the crab for a purse full of gold doubloons, and gave it as a pet to his girl.
As days went by, that animal gradually became the only object of the ocean-loving princess's cares, and the apple of her eye. However, the crustacean displayed rather strange behaviours: by midday, it hid in an underwater cave, not returning to the light until three hours later. At first, the princess thought that it must be because it was an exotic species. However, one day, she would find out, unravelling the whole mystery behind these absences.
That day around twelve, a beggar who skirted the palace grounds begged the princess, who was in her bedchamber, out loud for alms. So she took a bag of silver shillings and threw it out the window, for the poor sinner to catch it in his hands.
But the tower where she lived was so high that the purse fell into a stream that ran close by, right outside the garden walls. The beggar, determined to reach what to him was real treasure, plunged into the stream, following it down to sea, swimming for a time in both freshwater and saltwater to see if he could reach the gift he had received from royalty.
And thus had he swum for a while when, right when his lungs were ready to burst, he finally surfaced to breathe eagerly... Imagine his surprise upon realising that he stood on the shore of what appeared to be a little island, where there was a table set with golden plates and cutlery, flagons and cups of Bohemian glass, and many an exquisite dish served upon a silver platter! As it came to pass that he heard someone arrive right then, the beggar hid behind a rock, so he could witness it all.
The crab appeared, swimming like a boat with a fairy mounted upon its carapace. As they landed and approached the table, the fairy touched the crab with the tip of her wand, and the carapace opened to reveal a most lovely young man, who sat down by her side at the table, and both of them began to relish the feast. Once they had eaten and drunk their fill, the young man entered the crab's carapace once more, and he began to swim off, guided by the fairy on his back.
Needless to say, the crab was returning, by underground waterways, back to the princess's pond.
Marvelling at the sight his eyes beheld, the beggar stalked the couple from a prudent distance, seeing that the crab, with the prince inside and the fairy riding it, entered the princess's favourite place through an underwater grotto in the cliff, then through underground waterways.
Without further ado, their stalker entered the grotto himself, surfacing in the saltwater pond of the royal gardens, and told the princess of what he had seen.
The very next day, Her Royal Highness followed her pet crab and, upon seeing from the carapace come out that young prince (for of course the young man was royalty!), whom she immediately preferred to his decapod form, she sauntered close to him, telling him that she had fallen for his person at first sight.
"You're mad as a hatter!" he whispered to her. "If the fairy who cursed and keeps me finds out, it shall be the end of both of us..."
"But I want you to cease to hide inside that carapace, and for us to marry... and..."
"Now look," the prince replied. "There is a way to set me free, but it is no easy task. The fairy who keeps me loves violin music. If she enjoys your performance, ask her for the star she keeps around her neck for a pendant, because that is my human life."
"But I can't play the violin!" the princess sobbed.
"There is no other way out of this."
However, the princess was as stubborn as only a spoiled child can be, and thus, that very same day in the afternoon, she went to her parents and asked them if she could take any violin lessons, for she would like to learn to play the violin. Of course the King and Queen introduced their only daughter to the Court Conductor, whom they had chosen as her music teacher:
"Tomorrow, if it pleases Her Highness, her lessons shall commence. But remember, Your Majesties, that playing the violin takes not one day to master."
Three days later, however, the conductor could not believe his ears, for, in such a short lapse of time, the princess had learned every secret of such a difficult instrument, and she could play it perfectly, like a real virtuosa.
And thus, the next day, she seized the first chance to dive into the pond with her crab and her violin in its case, and, when they reached the island, she began to play the loveliest melodies which her warm feelings of love inspired. The fairy, entranced, approached the maiden and, after listening to her for some time, told her that never had such beautiful music reached her pointed ears. As a reward, she added, she would grant the virtuosa anything she could wish for.
Without further ado, the princess asked her for the star pendant. The fairy, who was no one's fool, took it from around her neck and, screaming "Catch it if you can!" she threw it over a hundred nautic miles away, for her faithful mermaid servants in the ocean to gather the star.
But, just like she had learned to master the violin within three days, the princess was able to swim so rapidly that soon she could reach the star right before it hit the water.
When she returned to the island with the star in her mouth, the fairy had vanished into thin air, the prince received her with open arms to press her to his chest, and the open crab carapace awaited to transport them to the palace pond.
A short while later, the royal wedding of the decade was celebrated: between the underwater-loving, stubborn Crown Princess and her no longer a crab prince.


TRISTAN AND ISOLDE
-Arthurian legend, immortalised by Richard Wagner-

King Mark of Cornwall was about to enter his winter years when he lost his first wife and decided to remarry Isolde, a young Irish princess. Since some time ago, his orphan nephew Tristan lived at the royal castle, for it was the custom in those days for young lads of rank to learn the skills of courtly life and the art of war among relatives, and the childless King's sister, Tristan's mother, had wished him to be fostered at Mark's court upon her deathbed. It was young Tristan who was given the quest to set sail for Ireland's foreign shore to bring the bride, after her parents had given the marriage their blessing.
Tristan didn't leave on that quest quite willingly; he knew that Isolde, whose face he had never seen, was decades younger than his uncle; and, even though the young man loved his guardian with all his heart, he thought that such an unequal marriage was against the laws of nature. He resolved to limit himself to performing his duty, and not meddling into any affairs which were none of his business.
Little did Tristan foresee that no affairs would be as much of his business as that one where he soon would find himself. In fact, as soon as he saw the fair Isolde, he fell head over heels in love with the maiden, and she fell head over heels for him as well.
The sailing trip back to Cornwall was a tranquil one, though the young hearts of both Tristan and Isolde were dangerously near shipwrecking. He courteously resisted any impulse he could harbour to get too close to his future aunt; while she, loving him with such a passion, began to despise him, for she thought the young man spurned her advances. Convinced of this, she asked one of her handmaids to prepare a lethal poison, which she would offer Tristan. Once it was ready, King Mark's fiancée handed the cup to her cavalier:
"Drink, fair Tristan. This draught shall refresh you and dispel that piercing stare with which you stroll about on deck, as if you were shunning me."
"I thank you for your kindness, Your Highness," he replied, bowing as he took the chalice.
He was not thirsty, but the decrees of courtesy forbade him to refuse such an offer. No sooner had he drunk the first drops that Tristan felt something take his soul by storm and produce a veritable earthquake within his heart. He looked at Isolde with a different look in his eyes. The princess, frightened because she thought that burning look was one of perpetual score, asked her female druid for advice. The wise woman, who knew a lot about spells and enchantment, had to admit that they had committed a fatal error: instead of having handed out a deadly draught, Her Highness had offered her cavalier a love potion. And then, Isolde, fascinated each and every time more by Tristan's shining eyes, poured herself a cup of that same potion, and drained it to the last drop.
When they landed on Cornwall, Tristan and Isolde had confessed their love for each other a thousand and one times with fire in their words, but both of them restrained themselves out of the respect that King Mark deserved.
The ruler received them with great pomp and circumstance. Upon seeing Isolde --so fresh, so graceful, so lovely, so young--, he felt his heart break with sadness, for he knew that his blood was running cold as he descended into the vale of years, and that it was an injustice to chain to his desire a maiden like the bride who had just arrived for his sake. And thus, since that very first day, Mark let her stay at the castle, yet, day after day, he delayed the wedding.
One afternoon, Tristan and Isolde met by chance in the royal gardens. Neither one attempted to flee. Both of them felt that, in that instant, they were alone with one another in the wide world and neither one would dare to repeat his or her life. They shared a passionate kiss and swore eternal love to one another.
Yet chance would have it that, at the same time their tryst took place, a certain courtier knight was passing by; this courtier, Melot by name, hated Tristan with a passion since the latter, as a young boy, had entered the King's service. Drawing steel and uttering his loudest warcry, the jealous Melot lunged at Tristan and, without giving the young man any time to defend himself, stabbed him in the right arm. Instantly, people arrived from the castle, including King Mark himself. As Melot told the ruler of what he had seen, thinking of how this revelation might make him rise in royal favour, Isolde was sobbing and wailing, her face buried in her hands.
"Bring Tristan in, for his wound to be cleaned and tended to," the King said in a shaky voice. "As for you, Isolde, you may stay at our court until my men-at-arms escort you back to your native shore."
Then, casting a glance of reproach upon Melot, he headed for his own royal bedchamber. Once alone with himself, he burst into tears: he loved both young people, and now he understood that he should have never asked for the hand of the fair Isolde.
As the days went by, Tristan's wound got worse and worse. As a matter of fact, his real wound was not in the arm, but in the heart: far from Isolde, bedridden and febrile as he was, life had no longer any meaning. Until, one early morning, he awoke with a start, burning with a high fever; the blade had been poisoned as well. He called Isolde's name the loudest he could, but one could say that she was right there by his side, talking to him.
"My lord is delirious," Kurwenal, Tristan's faithful squire and confidant, told the King. "Your Majesty, I may ask that you please visit him; I am sure that your presence will restore him to health."
"Call for Queen Isolde," Mark commanded.
As it was said, so it was done; and, when his young bride was in his presence, the aged ruler took her delicate hands in his callused own, and, choking back and fighting his sobs of pain, he told her to go unto Tristan and stay by his bedside until the wound had healed.
In the nighttime, he was told that Tristan lay on his deathbed. The King stood up, took up his sword, and went to see his bedridden nephew.
He found Tristan with his head cradled, nestled, in Isolde's lap. The young man was breathing painfully, and he could barely open his eyes; yet, as soon as he recognised the silhouette of his uncle and guardian, he slurred some words of forgiveness that no one was able to understand. In response, Mark lifted his sword and touched, with the blade, his ward on the shoulders and on the crown of the head: he had just knighted Ser Tristan.
Within instants, however, the newly-made knight died, falling peacefully asleep as he breathed his last. Throwing herself in despair upon his form, unable to bear the pain of separation and feeling eternally united with her lover, Isolde gave up the ghost as well.
Mark, his eyes shut, thought about true love, and that so many decades of a long lifetime as his own had little to teach about that feeling that unites human beings according to its whims.
Then, bending the knee, he said a prayer for the afterlife fate of Tristan and Isolde.

THE PRINCESS AND THE PEA
-Retelling of the tale by H.C. Andersen, inspired by Norse folk motifs-

Once upon a time, there was a prince who wanted to marry. He was dashing, charming, and courteous, and besides heir to a great power, so that every blue-blooded maiden in the land and in foreign realms dreamt of becoming his bride. Yet he had sworn by his sacred honour that he should only take to wife one who turned out to be a "real princess;" and by that he meant that the candidates had to fulfil a lot of conditions for him to even dare to take a glance at them. So demanding was the test that, naturally, the years went by and he remained single. His crowned father and especially his crowned mother, fearing their only child and heir should die childless and put an end to the dynasty, launched a proclamation across the continent that the gates of the royal palace were open to every maiden who could prove herself as a "real princess."
Young noblewomen came by the score from far and wide, but one seemed too fussy in the prince's eyes, another one too rude, a third one could not play the concert flute, a fourth one limped -although imperceptibly- on her left foot, and many provincial ladies knew not how to take off their gloves according to the customs of the court. His parents were desperate until, on a dark and stormy evening, a knock at the door led the guards to open, and into the hall entered a young girl with a humble look on her face and the sweetest voice. She was none other than the adopted daughter of the royal gardeners, living in a cottage at the edge of the palace grounds, but she really was a child of foreign royalty, dethroned long time ago by revolutionaries.
The Queen, seeing that the maiden was soaked to the bone, offered her a seat by the fireplace, where a great provision of wood burned and crackled. The cupbearer served her a cup of hot chocolate to warm herself, and even the maids brought a set of dry clothes fit for royalty, into which the maiden could change. Once the sumptuous brocade gown had been donned, the hot chocolate had been drunk to the last drop, and a now delightfully warm and dry visitor exchanged some words with the Queen, she went into the bedchamber of his son and heir to warn him that she had found a "real princess."
The young man, though still as perfectionistic and mistrusting as usual, paid a lot of attention to his mother's description of every gesture the newcomer had made, of every word the newcomer had said, and, little by little, he was soon convinced that this was the person that he sought to tie the knot with. However, he wished the maiden to submit to one final test. His crowned mother should ask her to spend the night at the palace, and the guest should have a bed made with nineteen eiderdown covers and twenty mattresses, but under the bottommost mattress there had to be placed a dried pea: if, the next morning, the guest realised that she had spent a most dreadful night, only then would he take her to wife.
And the Queen arranged it all exactly as her only son had planned.
At the crack of dawn the next day, she rushed into the maiden's bedchamber.
"Good morning, my dear. Have you spent a good night's rest?"
"Oh... please do not speak of it, Your Majesty! Something hard has been hurting my back all the time! I have not even been able to get a blink of an eye...!"
And, as the maids took the guest's négligée off, a little dark blue spot on her lower back came to view.
The Queen, mad with elation, made haste to tell her son and heir of the test's glorious success.
In the end, the prince had to admit that he had finally found the "real princess" he had sought for so long.
They married and, to live happy ever after, they only needed a single mattress.
The pea wound up at the Court Museum, where anyone may see it displayed in a glass case as an ancestral heirloom and proof of the events described in this tale being real.
Provided that one can find that kingdom, and that the pea has not been misplaced, of course!



THE FLOWER OF LOVE
-Legend from the Guaraní tribe of the Amazon-

Pitá was the most valiant warrior in the village. Moratí was the loveliest among maidens. The two young people loved each other and they could not live without one another.

But it was not written in the decrees of the gods that they would be happy.

Moratí was haughty and she felt proud of her charms. She knew she was the prettiest one, the most attractive one, and she wanted to be recognised as such by her female friends, who walked by her side along the riverbank.

"You can't even imagine what the brave Pitá is able to do for my love's sake. Now you'll see!" she told them.

She took off one of her bracelets, which her beloved had given her for a present, and, with a resolute gesture, she tossed it into the water. Then, she turned her gaze to the young Guaraní warrior and defiantly commanded him:

"Bring me this bracelet that has wound up at the bottom of the river."

 Pitá, without thinking twice, plunged immediately, head-first, into the stream. He spent a long while underwater... and did not resurface. All of Moratí's female friends remained there, awaiting him impatiently. No one doubted his courage, his skill, nor his strength, but a long time passed by and the brave swimmer did not reappear on the surface.
All the men and women in the village were dreadfully desperate; that tragedy had occurred because of Moratí. She was to blame. If only she could set everything right, to the way it was before!
The village sage explained, out loud, what had occurred.
"Pitá has been taken prisoner by the beautiful Cuyá Payé, the leader of all Yaras, or freshwater spirits. The Yara has dragged him to the bottom of the river and taken him to her underwater palace. There, she has bespelled him and made him forget, in her arms, the love that bound him to the lovely Moratí. I am seeing both of them in one another's arms, in the gold and diamond bedchamber of the siren's palace, sunken into the depths of the Amazon. He will nevermore return, unless someone goes forth to seek him out.
"He took that plunge for my sake, and I must free him, and bring him back to life," Moratí volunteered.
The sage found it was a righteous decision, and he accepted:
"Only you can rescue him from the cold love of the Yara. Only you, if he really loves you in return, can tear him away from her sinister attraction..."
The maiden plunged into the stream, with a stone tied to her ankles in order to sink all the way down to the bottom. Her tribespeople accompanied her with their chants to encourage her success.
At the break of day, upon the waters of the Amazon there floated the rounded leaves of a plant which was unknown. Later on, it would be known that the flower was called irupé, for upon these leaves came floating downstream a lovely and sweetly-scented flower. The central petals were white, just like the face of the maiden; and the outer ones were red, just like the lips of the warrior.
The strange flower seemed to emit a sigh, and then it sank once more into the waters. The warriors and the women looked at one another, without knowing how to react. It was then that the sage intervened once more:
"Moratí has succeeded in rescuing Pitá with the force of her love. This time, the terrible Yara, who has spirited so many warriors away, has not attained her purpose. The white and crimson petals floating on the stream were the two lovers, who were embracing one another.
Ever since, whenever, upon the turbid waters of the immense Amazon, the beautiful irupé water-lilies appear, the inhabitants of the riverbanks remember the valiant warrior and the lovely maiden, both of them Guaraní, who still continue loving one another in the depths. The flower called irupé is so lovely and so fragrant because it is born from the true love and the unmeasurable regrets of the lovely Moratí, who wistfully forced a young warrior to sacrifice himself for her sake.