urch at Carhaix, one at each end; out of one of the
tombs grew a vine, and out of the other grew a rose, and the branches,
creeping along the pillars, interlaced under the vaulted roof. The magic
draught thus proved stronger than death.

In the ancient epic poems, love was nothing, here it is everything; and
woman, who had no part, now plays the first; warlike feats are
henceforth only a means to win her heart. Grass has grown over the
bloody vale of Roncevaux, which is now enamelled with flowers; Roland's
love, Durandal, has ascended to heaven, and will return no more. The new
poets are the exact antithesis of the former ones. Religion, virtue,
country, now count for nothing; love defies, nay more, replaces them.
Marc's friends, who warn him, are traitors and felons, vowed to scorn
and hate, as were formerly Gannelons, who betrayed fair France. To be in
love is to be worthy of heaven, is to be a saint, and to practise
virtue. This theory, put forward in the twelfth century by the singers
of the British cycle, has survived, and will be found again in the
"Astree," in Byron, and in Musset.

These tales multiply, and their worldly, courteous, amorous character
becomes more and more predominant. Woman already plays the part that she
plays in the novels of yesterday. A glance opens Paradise to Arthur's
knights; they find in a smile all the magic which it pleases us, the
living of to-day, to discover there. A trite word of farewell from the
woman they cherish is transformed by their imagination, and they keep it
in their hearts as a talisman. Who has not cherished similar talismans?
Lancelot recalls the past to queen Guinevere: "And you said, God be with
you, fair, gentle friend! Never since have these words left my heart. It
is these words that shall make me a _preux_, if ever I am one; for
never since was I in such great peril but that I remembered these words.
They have comforted me in all my sorrows; these words have kept and
guarded me from all danger; these words have fed me when hungry and made
me wealthy when poor."

"By my troth," said the queen, "those words were happily spoken, and
blessed be God who caused me to speak them. But I did not put into them
as much as you saw, and to many a knight have I spoken the same without
thinking of more than what they plainly bear."[192]

After being a saint, the beloved object becomes a goddess; her wishes
are decrees, her mysterious caprices are laws which must not even be