So much for the form.  Who is the author?  We do not know, and never shall know.  Apparently he mentions himself in the first lines: 

   “Who would listen to the lay,
   Of the captive old and gray;”

for this is as much sense as one can make out of del deport du viel caitif.

The author, then, was an old fellow.  I think we might learn as much from the story.  An old man he was, or a man who felt old.  Do you know whom he reminds me of?  Why, of Mr. Bowes, of the Theatre Royal, Chatteris; of Mr. Bowes, that battered, old, kindly sentimentalist who told his tale with Mr. Arthur Pendennis.

It is a love story, a story of love overmastering, without conscience or care of aught but the beloved.  And the viel caitif tells it with sympathy, and with a smile.  “Oh, folly of fondness,” he seems to cry; “oh, pretty fever and foolish; oh, absurd happy days of desolation: 

   “When I was young, as you are young,
   And lutes were touched, and songs were sung!
   And love-lamps in the windows hung!”

It is the very tone of Thackeray, when Thackeray is tender; and the world heard it first from this elderly nameless minstrel, strolling with his viol and his singing boys, a blameless D’Assoucy, from castle to castle in the happy poplar land.  I think I see him and hear him in the silver twilight, in the court of some chateau of Picardy, while the ladies around sit listening on silken cushions, and their lovers, fettered with silver chains, lie at their feet.  They listen, and look, and do not think of the minstrel with his gray head, and his green heart; but we think of him.  It is an old man’s work, and a weary man’s work.  You can easily tell the places where he has lingered and been pleased as he wrote.

The story is simple enough.  Aucassin, son of Count Garin, of Beaucaire, loved so well fair Nicolette, the captive girl from an unknown land, that he would never be dubbed knight, nor follow tourneys; nor even fight against his father’s mortal foe, Count Bougars de Valence.  So Nicolette was imprisoned high in a painted chamber.  But the enemy were storming the town, and, for the promise of “one word or two with Nicolette, and one kiss,” Aucassin armed himself and led out his men.  But he was all adream about Nicolette, and his horse bore him into the press of foes ere he knew it.  Then he heard them contriving his death, and woke out of his dream.

“The damoiseau was tall and strong, and the horse whereon he sat fierce and great, and Aucassin laid hand to sword, and fell a-smiting to right and left, and smote through helm and headpiece, and arm and shoulder, making a murder about him, like a wild boar the hounds fall on in the forest.  There slew he ten knights, and smote down seven, and mightily and knightly he hurled through the press, and charged home again, sword in hand.”  For that hour Aucassin struck like one of Mallory’s men in the best of all romances.  But though he took Count Bougars prisoner, his father would not keep his word, nor let him have one word or two with Nicolette, and one kiss.  Nay, Aucassin was thrown into prison in an old tower.  There he sang of Nicolette,