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Title: The story of Flamenca
        The first modern novel, arranged from the Provençal original of the Thirteenth Century by William Aspenwall Bradley

Translator: William Aspenwall Bradley

Illustrator: Florence Wyman Ivins

Release date: February 19, 2025 [eBook #75417]

Language: English

Original publication: New York: Harcourt, Brace and Company, 1922

Credits: Bob Taylor, Tim Miller and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net (This file was produced from images generously made available by The Internet Archive)


*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE STORY OF FLAMENCA ***





  Transcriber’s Note
  Italic text displayed as: _italic_




THE STORY OF FLAMENCA


 THIS, THE FIRST EDITION OF THE STORY OF FLAMENCA, CONSISTS OF SEVEN
 HUNDRED AND FIFTY COPIES OF WHICH THIS IS NUMBER [handwritten number
 660]

[Illustration: FLAMENCA]




  THE STORY OF
  FLAMENCA:
  _The First Modern Novel_, Arranged
  from the Provençal Original
  of the Thirteenth Century by

  WILLIAM ASPENWALL BRADLEY
  _With_ WOODCUTS _by_ FLORENCE WYMAN IVINS

  [Illustration: Decoration]


  PUBLISHED IN NEW YORK : : MCMXXII : : BY
  HARCOURT, BRACE AND COMPANY




  COPYRIGHT, 1922, BY
  HARCOURT, BRACE AND COMPANY, INC.




TO J. E. SPINGARN




PREFACE


The _Roman de Flamenca_ occupies a unique place in Provençal
literature. “It has,” says Meyer, “nothing in common with the old
Carolingian and Breton traditions; its subject is not borrowed from the
legends transmitted by antiquity to the middle ages; nor would it be
possible to see in it one of those popular narratives which are to be
found in practically every literature, and whose impersonal character
renders it impossible to determine their origin. _Flamenca_ is the
creation of a man of talent who wished to write an agreeable work
representing the most brilliant aspects of courtly life in the twelfth
century. It is a novel of manners.”[1] As such it has affinities with
certain _romans d’aventure_, in the northern idiom, which similarly
combine a sentimental intrigue with the representation of a particular
milieu. _Flamenca_, however, is far superior to any of these in its
delicacy, in its verve, in its richness, in the truthful delineation
of its characters, and in the bold originality of its conception. Thus
it stands alone, not only in Provençal literature, but in medieval
literature generally, and may be called, without exaggeration, the
first modern novel.

The unique manuscript of _Flamenca_ is incomplete. Among the pages
missing are the first and last. Hence we have no knowledge of the
author or of the date of composition. The latter has been placed
approximately in the first half of the thirteenth century. At that
time the splendour of the little courts south of the Loire had waned;
but the poet shows us the largeness and liberality that had reigned
there, while his lightness of tone reflects that relaxing of the old
restraints in a sophisticated and pleasure-loving society, which stern
moralists would, no doubt, hold responsible for the ensuing swift
decadence. Love was the one real religion of the upper classes, and the
code of lovers, hardened into a vast, complicated system, constituted
the sole effective morality. Flamenca and Guillem are characteristic
products of this system, and its perfect exponents. Their acceptance
of it is complete. Never does any doubt enter the mind of either as to
the sovereignty of the rights conferred by mutual love. Both regard
themselves as accomplishing a sacred duty in going directly—or as
directly as possible—to the goal of their desire. At the same time,
there are forms to observe, and our two lovers are so scrupulous in
their observance that they may occasionally seem engaged much more
in going through an elaborate ritual than in pursuing dangerously a
passionate adventure. Yet the danger was there, and Flamenca never
forgets that if, in a sense, she is playing a game, it is a game the
stake of which is death.

In my version I have stressed the realistic elements in order to bring
the story into closer harmony with modern sentiment. Nor is this the
only liberty I have taken. If _Flamenca’s_ virtues are its own, its
defects it shares with nearly all imaginative literature of the middle
ages. It is inordinately long and lacking in a sense of proportion.
The interest is not sustained throughout and, after the meeting of
the lovers, ceases entirely. Accounts of banquets and fêtes are
interminably protracted, and page after page is filled with ingeniously
subtile discourses on love. Although the allegorical element does not
dominate here, as in the _Roman de la Rose_, it begins to rear its head
obtrusively, and there is a marked abuse of dreams and visions. It is
because of these shortcomings that, despite its charm, it has remained
relatively unknown. Hence I have not hesitated to operate heroically,
cutting to the bone in many places, and adding a ligature or two when
necessary. Some will, no doubt, reproach me with the sacrifice of
more than one delightful passage; but my purpose throughout has been
to disengage the story itself, in its main lines, and anything that
interfered with this has had to go.

Wishing to take counsel of Flamenca in my undertaking, I made a
pilgrimage last summer to the scene of her suffering and happy release.
Alas, I found little at Bourbon-l’Archambault, now an obscure thermal
station of the _Centre_, to remind me of my heroine. There are, indeed,
on a height dominating the town the romantic ruins of an imposing
castle which one would willingly accept as her prison; but my guide
informed me that this fortress was not erected till more than a century
later, though doubtless it occupies the same site. At the baths, save
for a few remains from Roman times, nothing goes farther back than
the seventeenth century, when this was one of the favorite resorts of
the court. Madame de Montespan is remembered in the name of a hotel
which, for all I know, replaces the comfortable establishment of the
complaisant Pierre Gui; but not the slightest construction of any sort
evokes the memory of the real lady of Bourbon.

It was only when I reached the church, situated on a green knoll
outside the town, that I touched a little of that remote past. Though
the venerable edifice has been much restored, parts of it may well
have been standing in Flamenca’s time. The interior is degraded by the
grossest modern polychroming, but I remarked certain capitals which
belong to the earliest period of Gothic sculpture. One, representing
gnome-like musicians playing curious instruments, wind and string,
brought irresistibly back the description of Flamenca’s wedding feast,
when “harpers harped, fifers fifed ... and all performed so well that
a great uproar reigned in the hall.” Placing myself in the choir, as
nearly as possible where, it seemed to me, Guillem must have stood when
he heard mass there for the first time, I too waited for Flamenca
to appear. It was, no doubt, one of those lesser feasts, “for which
Flamenca would no more have set foot out of doors than for that of a
simple martyr not in the calendar”; for I waited in vain. Never a glint
of her golden hair crossed the threshold. So I was obliged to leave
Bourbon-l’Archambault no richer than I had gone there, and finish my
little book without her aid.

  W. A. B.

 Paris, May, 1922.


FOOTNOTES:

[1] _Le Roman de Flamenca_, publié d’après le manuscrit unique de
Carcassonne, traduit et accompagné d’un glossaire, par Paul Meyer.
Paris, 1865.




THE STORY OF FLAMENCA




[Illustration: Man and woman in vines]




THE STORY OF FLAMENCA


I

Count Guy of Nemours had a daughter, Flamenca, whose beauty was such
that the fame of it passed into every land, and all who heard thereof
would fain have her for wife. Many sent messengers to make their suit:
knights, nobles, and even the Slav king, who offered to ally himself
with the count and aid him against his enemies.

But Guy, who loved his daughter, did not wish her to depart so far
thence.

“I would rather,” he said, “she were a simple chatelaine, and see her
each week or month or even year, than a queen and lose her forever.”

Thus, in the end, he made choice of Archambaut, lord of Bourbon, whose
friendship he had long sought, and than whom no better knight girded on
sword from there to the end of the world

Now when Archambaut heard these tidings, how the count would have him
for son, and none other; and when he learned, too, from his messengers,
that the hundredth part had not been told him of the damsel’s beauty,
he rejoiced greatly and set out with a fair following of one hundred
knights and four hundred squires, all mounted, for Nemours.

He arrived there three days before the time appointed for his wedding,
and when he saw Flamenca he felt his heart inflamed, all flooded over
with a sweet amorous fire. Trembling without, he burned within; and
though that of which he suffered was not a fever, yet might it have
proved fatal, had he not found for it a speedy cure.

Three nights he did not sleep, and Sunday morning he was already clad
and shod betimes when the count, entering his room, gave him good
morrow from Flamenca.

“Come,” he said, “if you would see the damsel in her bower.”

Then he took Archambaut by the hand, and led him to Flamenca, who was
no whit confused, but only a little blushing.

“Here is your bride, lord Archambaut,” said the count. “Take her if you
will.”

“Sir,” he answered, “if there be no hindrance in her, never took I
aught so willingly.”

Then the damsel, smiling, said to her father:

“Sir, you show clearly you hold me in your power, who dispose of me so
lightly. But, since it is your will, I consent.”

At this word, “consent,” Archambaut felt such joy that he could not
keep from taking her hand and pressing it.

Thereupon they departed. Archambaut knew right well with whom he had
left the heart he bore not back with him again. Without once quitting
the damsel with his eyes, he drew towards the door, where he bade her
farewell. Nor was Flamenca disdainful, but smiled at him and repeated
graciously: “God keep you.”

       *       *       *       *       *

Five bishops and ten abbotts, in their robes, awaited them in the
church, to marry them. When they had done this and said mass, all went
to partake of the feast that had been prepared. Lord Archambaut and
the count served at this feast; but the eyes of the first wandered oft
to where his heart was, and, could he have had his way, he would have
bidden the guests arise from the table before they had half fed.

When the feast was finished and the table was cleared, the jongleurs
began. Some sang, others played. All this was a sore trial for lord
Archambaut and, had not the night made him amends, I think that neither
by food nor by drink, would his life ever have been restored.

The feast lasted more than eight days. Lord Archambaut was happy, for
he now had what he most desired, nor was he beset by other care than to
serve her whom he wished to honor and please. Had it not been for manly
shame which restrained him, he would fain have tired her and handed her
himself her gown, her comb, and her mirror.

When, at length, he saw the feast was drawing to a close, and it would
ill beseem him to stay longer, he took his leave and set out straight
for Bourbon, to prepare his own feast, which he wished to make of such
surpassing splendour that the other would no longer be spoken of.

He sent messengers to the king of France, pressing him to come and
bring his queen with him. He bade them say to the king that, if he
would deign to pass by Nemours, and lead with him the lady Flamenca, he
would be his forever.

Then Archambaut caused the city to be decked, and the streets hung with
banners and fine tapestries, with silk and with samite. Gold, silver,
clothes, and all things else were, by his order, brought together to be
given freely to whoever might deign to accept them.

Five hundred suits of raiment, of purple and fine gold, a thousand
lances and a thousand shields, a thousand spears and a thousand coats
of mail, were made ready in the armory, and a thousand steeds were held
waiting in their stalls, for those whom lord Archambaut would make
knights.

The king came with a great array, and led Flamenca with him. More than
six leagues, more than seven, reached the great company; and, before
all the rest, rode the count’s son, Flamenca’s brother. For he wished
to be the first to greet Archambaut, who rode forth to the encounter
right well attended with a thousand knights, a thousand burghers, and a
thousand varlets.

Each welcomed the king and besought him to lodge with him. He refused
saying:

“You press me in vain, for I have the lady Flamenca in my keeping; but
my barons will gladly make their abode with you.”

So, at the end, all were lodged, and no man kept his door closed. The
queen had a good pavillion, and Flamenca was her neighbour.

At the ninth hour all went to meat, and took with them good appetites.
Fish of every sort was served, and whatever else is fitting for
fast-days, including the fruits that are in season in the month of
June, both pears and cherries. The king sent a present of two pieces of
agate to Flamenca, who thanked him graciously when the repast was over.

The next day was the feast of Saint John, and it was not permitted to
pass without due observance. The bishop of Cleremont said high mass
and preached a sermon on Our Lord, how He loved Saint John so well He
called him more than prophet. Then a herald proclaimed, in the king’s
name, that none should leave the court before a fortnight, for any
reason, however weighty.

When they had heard mass, the king spoke with Flamenca, and led her
from the church. After him followed full three thousand knights, each
leading a lady.

Together they went to the great hall where the feast was spread. When
they had washed their hands, they were seated, not on bare benches, but
on cushions covered with cloth; and the napkins on which they dried
their hands were not coarse and rough, but fine and soft to the touch.

The guests were served with all manner of meats. Each had what he most
liked, and so much that he who had least had no reason to envy him who
had more. Yet there were above five hundred who gazed with wonder upon
Flamenca and who, while they fed their eyes upon her fair face, let
their mouths go hungry.

No one there could compare with Flamenca. For, just as the sun is
supreme by virtue of his splendour, so did she take rank above all
the other ladies by reason of her beauty. Her color was so fresh, her
look so gentle and gracious, her discourse so wise and so witty, that
the noblest and liveliest among them remained as if dumb and deeming
herself vanquished. They said that one would strive in vain to appear
beautiful by the side of this lady. And, when they praised her, you may
believe she was indeed fair; for, in all the world, there are not three
to whom the others will accord beauty, and praise it.

When all had eaten they again washed their hands, but remained seated
where they were, and partook of the wine; for such was the custom
in those days. The cloths being removed, great mirrors—those good
counsellors!—were brought and placed on tall standards before the
guests, so that each might arrange his dress according to his liking.
Then the jongleurs arose, each wishing to make himself heard.

He who knew a new piece for the viol, a song, a lai, or a descant, did
his best to prevail above the others. Harpers harped, fifers fifed.
Some sang the words, while their fellows played the notes. Both did
their best and all performed so well that a great uproar reigned in the
hall.

Then the king said:

“Sir knights, when the squires have eaten, cause your steeds to be
saddled, and we shall go to the jousting. While we wait, I would have
the queen lead one dance with Flamenca, and I too will dance, with the
others.”

Thereupon knights, ladies, and damsels took one another by the hand.
Never, in France or in Brittany, had been seen a dance so splendid.
Two hundred jongleurs, good players of the viol, took their places in
pairs on the benches, and ran the sets without missing a note.

Now the squires had saddled and decked and led around the chargers.
When these were seen, the dancing ceased, for never was so brave a
sight. Each knight had his squire bring him his arms. Nor did the
ladies depart thence, but stayed and found for themselves places in the
windows to look out upon those who battled for their sake.

As for lord Archambaut, he lost no time but, with his own hand, dubbed
nine hundred and ninety-seven knights, who went forthwith on foot to
the palace in silken shoon and presented themselves to the king. He,
for handsel, gave them this wish, that they should suffer no greater
pain than love might give them. And the queen said likewise.

This day the king himself bore arms. At the tip of his lance he had
fastened a sleeve. The queen gave no sign that she was displeased by
this token, but she said to herself that, if she knew who had given it
to the king, she would make her rue the favor she had bestowed. In her
heart she believed it was Flamenca and sent for lord Archambaut, who
presented himself fully armed before her.

“My lord,” said she, taking him by the hand and seating him beside her
in the window, “I am ill at ease and need your counsel.”

“Your highness,” returned he, “may God keep you.”

Then the queen, touching Flamenca, seated nearbye, said:

“My lady, I would speak alone with lord Archambaut.”

“Willingly, madam, since you wish it,” replied Flamenca.

At the next window sat the countess of Nevers who, when she saw
Flamenca draw near, greeted her and made her a cushion of her own
mantle. Flamenca, thanking her, sat down beside her, and looked out
upon the jousting.

The queen lost no time but broke forth in bitter rage:

“My lord Archambaut, is it not most unseemly for the king to wear thus,
beneath my very eyes, an amorous devise? Methinks it is an affront to
you, no less than to me.”

Archambaut saw clearly that she suspected Flamenca of having given the
sleeve to the king.

“By Christ, my lady,” he hastened to answer, “I can not see that the
king dishonours either you or me in thus bearing the badge of love.
With him it is but knightly duty.”

“My lord, that is an excuse of which you yourself will have good need
before another fortnight be past.”

“Nay, madam, seek not to make me jealous where there is no need.”

“Do you think then,” demanded the queen, frowning, “that you too will
not feel the pangs of jealousy? By my faith, that you shall, and not,
perchance, without good cause.”

At that moment a jongleur drew near Archambaut and addressed him,
saying:

“Sir, the king desires to bestow arms upon Thibaut, count of Blois, and
I come from Thibaut himself, who prays you to join him.”

Lord Archambaut took his leave of the queen more troubled than he
let her see. He was, indeed, in a bad humour because of what she had
said; and, when he had seen Thibaut and more than four hundred others
knighted by the king, he summoned his squire:

“Have the bells rung for vespers,” he ordered. “It will be time to sup
when the king has heard them.”

When the ladies, seated at the windows, heard the bells, they cried:

“Why, it is not yet none, and already they are ringing vespers! May
she lose her husband who stirs a step while yet one knight is left in
the lists! Never shall I leave the tiltyard for vespers!”

The king entered at that moment and, going graciously up to Flamenca,
led her away. The barons followed him and led the ladies to church.
When the office was ended, the king brought Flamenca back and playfully
placed his hand upon her breast.

The queen was very wroth at this, and lord Archambaut also, though he
gave no sign.

Then they supped. The tables were furnished with roast meats, with
fruits, with fresh roses and violets, and with snow and ice to cool
the wine, that it might not banish sleep. All were tired with the
diversions of this day, and soon went to seek repose till the morrow.

The next morning, at daybreak, the newmade knights, clad in their gear,
rode through the streets, ringing bells of every sort. They made a
fine hubbub, and Archambaut’s trouble grew as he heard it. In his
heart was such grief he was like to die thereof. Yet he sought to hold
himself in leash, blaming the queen for the suspicions she had sown in
his breast, and concealing his feelings from the others.

Nineteen days the feast lasted, and all marvelled whence Archambaut
could draw the great treasure he gave in largesse. On the twentieth
day the king and queen took their departure; for the queen did not
wish the feast to last the full month, now that she believed the king
to be in love with Flamenca; but the king did not love with real love,
and thought only to honor lord Archambaut when, in the presence of his
host, he embraced Flamenca, and kissed her.

Archambaut set his guests upon their way right courteously, but his
heart was gnawed by sharp jealous pangs. As he rode back, he raved
wildly and, when he had returned, his companions left him, thinking he
had lost his senses. Alone, he cried:

“Alas, of what was I thinking when I took unto myself a wife! Good God,
I was mad. Had I not everything I needed to make me happy? A curse on
my friends and family who counselled me that which is ever for men a
source of sorrow. Now, indeed, I have a wife; but much good does she do
me, who consumes me with jealousy.”

Lord Archambaut was in an evil case. Leaving all his affairs in
disorder, he made great dole when anyone came to the castle, and could
hardly keep from throwing him out head-first. In every visitor he
feared a rival. If one so much as spoke to his wife, he thought to see
her ravished before his eyes.

“That is how all this came to pass. The king chose well his moment.
Even before they left Nemours I believe he essayed her. I thought I
had naught to fear from him, or I should have known how to guard her
against his devices. Now as many as wish can come and go, and there
are never enough for her liking.

“Mark the welcome she gives them! She shows clearly she is no longer
mine. Alas, unhappy wretch that I am! Cursed be the hour wherein I was
born! The queen knew well what she was saying, when she told me I would
be jealous. Curses on her, too, prophetess of evil!”

Then he broke into a great rage, tearing his hair, biting his lips,
gnashing his teeth, and glaring fiercely at Flamenca. Scarce could he
keep from cutting off her gleaming golden tresses.

“My lord, what ails you?” she asked him.

“What! Christ! I die, and you mock me! This is the work of these brave
gallants who come to see you; but, by my faith, they will no longer
find the way open to you. He who takes a wife has his trouble for
naught if he put her not in some safe place and keep guard over her.
This shall I do. The tower is high, the wall is wide, and here you
shall stay with only your damsels to keep you company.”

He delayed not, but, sending for a mason, led him straight to
Flamenca’s tower. There he ordered him to cut a window into the
kitchen, that her food might be passed through to her, and that he
himself might spy upon his wife the more easily.

The sweet child now knew not what to do. Her life henceforth was little
better than death. If her days were bad, her nights were worse, holding
naught for her but weariness. She had to wait upon her two pretty
maids, whose sorrows equalled hers, for they too were prisoners. Gentle
and kind, they did what they could to comfort their mistress, and
thinking only of the love they bore her, they forgot their own pain.
The name of one of these damsels was Alis, of the other, Margarida.

God sent great grief unto Flamenca. Many sighs and much agony of heart
were hers because of her husband, and she shed bitter tears, being
filled with sadness and affliction. Yet one signal mark of grace He
bestowed upon her that, having no child, He put not love into her
heart. For, loving, and having naught whereon to nourish her love, she
would have suffered more sorely.

Long time she lived thus afflicted, never passing the door save on
Sundays and feast days. Even in church neither knight nor clerk could
speak with her. For Archambaut kept her ever in a dark corner behind a
wide screen he had built to the level of her chin. He did not let her
go to the altar for Communion, but made the priest bring the offering,
which he gave her himself. A little clerk gave her the pax, and he, at
least, might have got a glimpse of her, had he but known how to manage
it.

After the words: _Ite missa est_, Archambaut left without waiting for
sixte or none.

“Come, come,” he said to the young women, “Let me dine at once. Do not
keep me waiting.”

He did not even give them time to say their prayers.

Thus passed two years. Every day the poor prisoners saw their pain
redoubled, while Archambaut swore and groaned and guarded them both
morning and night.


II

Now at this time, while Archambaut was thus jealous and, in all
Auvergne, songs, sirventes, couplets, and sonnets were made upon him,
there dwelt in Burgundy a knight whom Nature had delighted to fashion
and instruct. Nor had she failed in this task, for never has been seen
a youth so fair of person or of goodlier mien.

He had light curling hair, broad white forehead, dark arching brows,
black laughing eyes, and nose as straight as the stock of an arbalest.
His shoulders were broad, his muscles strong. When he jousted, none
could sustain the shock of his assault. Lifting his foe from the
saddle, he passed on bearing him at the end of his lance.

He had studied at Paris and learned there so much of the seven arts
that he could have taught school anywhere. He could both read and
write, and spoke English better than any clerk. His name was Guillem de
Nevers.

Guillem was at all points a good knight. He led a fair following to
the tourney, took captives and made prizes. What he thus won he spent
and gave away freely in presents. He loved gaming, dogs, falcons—all
pleasant things, in short, and suited to his estate. One only he
lacked, and that was any experience of love.

He had read all the poets who treat thereof and instruct lovers. From
them he had learned that, without love, one could not lead the life
ordained for noble youth, and often he dreamed of engaging in some high
adventure that would bring him both pleasure and honour.

Thus it happened that, when Guillem heard how Flamenca was held
prisoner by her jealous husband, his heart spoke, and said to him that,
were he but able to speak with her, he might, perchance, enjoy her love.

Long he pondered upon this. Then, one night, Love appearing in a dream,
urged him to the adventure and made him fair promises. Next day Guillem
set forth, with his companions, for Bourbon.

Now there were baths at Bourbon in those days, where all could come and
bathe at their ease. A tablet in each bath made known the properties of
the water both hot and cold, that sprang from two spouts, and over it
was built a house, with quiet rooms wherein to take one’s ease.

Of these baths the best were those belonging to Pierre Gui, a right
honest man who was on terms of amity with lord Archambaut; and when
Guillem, arriving at Bourbon, demanded where he might lodge, he was
directed thither.

The goodman, seated at the door of his hostel, seeing the youth
approach, arose and greeted him graciously, while his wife, Dame
Bellapila, invited him within and gave him his dinner. When he had
eaten, Pierre Gui showed him his rooms and gave him free choice among
them.

Guillem wanted one thing only, which was to be so lodged that he could
see Flamenca’s tower from his window. When he had found this, he said,
dissembling:

“This room pleases me, because it is larger than the others, and of a
more agreeable aspect.”

“As you like,” replied his host. “Here you will be undisturbed, and
master of all you do. Count Raoul often makes this room his abode when
he comes to Bourbon; but it is a long time since he has shown himself
here. For our master, who was so good a knight, is sadly changed. Since
he took him a wife, he has not laced helm or donned hauberk, and he
holds the world as naught. I doubt not, however, you have heard these
things reported of him.”

“I have, indeed, heard them spoken of,” replied Guillem, “but I have
far other concerns. I suffer from a sore ailment, and if the waters
here heal me not, I know not what I shall do to be cured.”

“Rest assured as to that, fair sir,” answered Pierre Gui. “Know that no
one, however sick, comes to our baths without going away cured, if only
he stay long enough.”

The room was large and clean and well furnished. There wanted neither
bed nor hearth nor aught else for comfort. Guillem caused all his
belongings to be brought and placed therein. Then, when his host had
retired, he dismissed his squires, instructing them to let none know
his name, saying simply that he was from Besançon.

It was the night after Easter, the season when the nightingale accuses
with his songs those who have no care of love. One sang in the grove
near Guillem’s window, and the young man could not close his eyes,
though his couch was white and soft and wide.

“Ah Love,” he sighed, “what will become of me? At your behest, leaving
my own people, I have come into this country a pilgrim, a stranger.
Sighing without cease, I suffer from a desire that has taken fast hold
of my heart. I feign sickness now, it is true; but I shall need to
feign it no longer, if I am not soon cured of this ill.”

Then, as day was beginning to break, and his bed brought him no repose,
he arose, crossed himself, and prayed to Saint Blaise, Saint Martin,
Saint George, Saint Genies, and five or six other saints who were
gentle knights, that they might make intercession for him. Before
beginning to dress, he opened his window and looked upon the tower
where his lady languished.

“O lady tower,” he cried, “you are beautiful without and pure and white
within. Would to God I were inside your walls, so as not to be seen of
Archambaut, of Margarida, or of Alis!”

So saying, his arms fell, his feet no longer sustained him, his color
fled, and he fainted. One of his squires, seeing him about to fall,
seized him, held him close, and bore him to the bed. The squire was
greatly frightened, for he could not feel the beat of his master’s
heart. This was because Love had transported his spirit to Flamenca’s
tower, where Guillem held her in his arms, and caressed her so gently
she was not aware of it. Then his soul, having had its will, returned
to his body, which was not long in reviving.

It was clear he had come back from a place full of delight, for he was
more blithe and beautiful than before. The young squire had wept so
much that his master’s face was wet with his tears.

“Sir,” he said, drying his eyes, “I have been sore troubled.”

“Ah, my friend,” sighed Guillem, “your concern was occasioned by my
happiness.”

Clad in breeches and shirt, he took his place once more in the window,
throwing over his shoulders a mantle of vair trimmed with gris. The
tower stood to the right, and naught could turn Guillem from it, while
putting on his shoes—elegant buskins fashioned at Douai.

He called for his ewer. Then, when he had washed, he laced up his
sleeves with a silver bodkin. Over all he passed a cape of black silk,
and studied carefully the figure he made.

As he was thus occupied, his host entered to lead him to the church.
There Guillem, kneeling at the altar of Saint Clement, prayed devoutly
to God, as also to Mary, to Michael, and to all the saints, to aid him.
Then, taking a psalter, he opened it. Straight way he came upon a verse
which filled him with delight: “Dilexi quoniam.”

“God knows well what I desire,” he exclaimed, closing the book. He made
careful note of the place where his lady would sit, and prayed that
naught might keep her from coming.

When it was time for mass, Guillem took his place, with his host, in
the choir, where he could look out through a little opening, without
being seen. His heart beat loudly as he awaited the arrival of
Flamenca; and, at each shadow that fell across the doorway, he thought
Archambaut was about to enter.

Everyone else had arrived, and the third bell had rung, when the
jealous husband, uncouth and unkempt, entered the church. Beside him,
but keeping well her distance, for it was clear he filled her with
disgust, came Flamenca.

She paused an instant on the threshold, to make her reverence, and
then it was, for the first time, that Guillem saw his lady. He ceased
to gaze upon her only when she passed behind her screen. Then he knelt
with the others.

“Asperges me,” proclaimed the priest. Guillem took up the response at
the “Domine,” and sang it clear through. Never before had it been so
well sung in that church.

The priest left the choir, followed by a clerk bearing the holy water.
When he came to Flamenca, he did his best to spray her across the
screen, and she uncovered a little her hair, where it was parted in
the middle, the better to receive the water on her forehead. Her skin
showed white and fine, and the golden crown of her hair, where the
sun chanced to strike it with one of his rays, at that instant, shone
resplendent. At the sight of this splendid sample of what love held
in store for him, Guillem trembled with joy, and intoned the “Signum
salutis.”

The priest then returned to the altar and said the “Confiteor,” with
his little clerk. At the Evangel, Flamenca arose. At first a burgher,
to Guillem’s disgust, stood in front of her; but God willed him to move
to one side, that she might be seen unobscured. To cross herself, she
lowered a little the band which covered her mouth and chin, and with
one finger loosened the latchets of her mantle. Guillem gazed at her
bare hand which seemed to steal his heart from his breast and bear it
away. The emotion which seized him was so strong that he was like to
faint of it.

By good fortune, he found at his feet a stool on which to kneel, as if
in prayer. He stayed thus, quite still, till the little clerk gave him
the pax. When, in her turn, Flamenca kissed the breviary, Guillem saw,
for a moment, her red mouth, and the sight filled him with sweet joy.

When the clerk had finished giving the pax, Guillem considered how he
might gain possession of the book.

“My friend,” he whispered to the clerk, “have you a calendar? I wish to
learn on what day falls Pentecost.”

The youth handed him the book, but Guillem gave small heed to the day
of the month or the year. He turned the leaves from end to end, and
would fain have kissed them all for the sake of one, could he have done
so without being remarked.

“Clerk,” he asked, “where is it that you give the pax? Is it not in the
psalter?”

“Here is the place, sir,” the clerk answered, and showed it to Guillem
who, kneeling again as if in prayer, kissed the page more than a
thousand times, and did not cease from his devotions till the priest
had said: “Ite missa.”

Archambaut left the church without delay, forcing Flamenca to follow
with her damsels. Guillem waited for the priest to finish none, then
addressed him courteously:

“Sir,” he said, “I demand a boon. Dine with me today at my hostel, and
hereafter, as long as I stay, be my guest at table.”

The priest consented gladly, and all three repaired at once to the
hostel, where dinner awaited them.

When they had finished and the table was cleared, Guillem sent one
of his squires to fetch the gifts he had designed for his host and
hostess. To the former he gave a long belt with a buckle of French
make, worth more than a silver mark; to the latter, a piece of stuff
to fashion a summer mantle. So grateful were they for these gifts that
they promised to do all in their power to serve Guillem. They even
offered to move out of their house and leave it all to him, should he
so desire.

He accepted gladly. Then, turning to the priest, Dom Justin, he said:
“I ask you now to cut the hair from the top of my head, and make me a
tonsure such as I had before. I am a canon of Péronne, and would return
now to that estate.”

The priest could scarce answer at first, so surprised was he at
Guillem’s request; but, while the others wept to see the young man
thus despoiled of his golden crown, the little clerk, whose name was
Nicholas, held the basin, and Dom Justin shore off the locks with sharp
shears, clipping the hair close about the neck, and making a large
tonsure.

Guillem gave the priest a gilded goblet, worth four marks, as his
reward.

“The barber,” said he, “must be well paid.”

“My lord, it is too much!” protested the priest. “Tell me what I can do
to merit more fully so rich a gift.”

“Take me for your clerk,” said Guillem. “As for Nicholas, here, send
him to Paris to study. He is not yet too old, and he will learn more in
two years there than here in three. I will give him four golden marks a
year, and furnish him with raiment.”

“My lord, blessed be the day we first met,” cried the priest. “Nothing
has so pained me as to see my nephew losing time precious for his
studies. Already he can write and make verses, and when he has studied
two years he will know twice as much. As for your request, you shall be
master, and I will do all you desire.”

“Nay,” exclaimed Guillem hastily, “you must give me your promise to
treat me in all ways as your little clerk. Else I shall fail of my
purpose, which is to serve humbly both you and God at the same time.”

Then he instructed the priest to have fashioned for him a large round
cape of brown silk or garbardine, which should cover him from head to
foot.

“I no longer wish to follow the fêtes of the court,” he said, “for all
that is but derision and vain smoke; and he who thinks to have gained
most from it, finds himself poorest when night falls.”

Thus preached Isengrin. Had the priest been wilier he might have said,
with Renard: “You are hiding your real game.” But he suspected nothing,
and went out with the squires to order the cape.

Next morning, after mass, Guillem went to the baths. There he examined
carefully the soil, and found it was of tufa so soft he could cut it
with a knife. That very afternoon, when his hosts had moved out, he
sent to Chatillon secretly for some laborers.

Saturday Nicholas left, and Guillem assisted at vespers. At first he
held his cape a little high, for he was forever placing his hand upon
his hip, as had been his habit; but he played his part well, and Dom
Justin was overjoyed at having such a clerk sent him by heaven.

After vespers Guillem went over with the priest the lessons and
responses for the next morning.

That night he did not sleep. At the first stroke of the bell for
matins, he arose and ran to the church, where, seizing the rope from
the hands of the priest, he finished ringing lustily.

After matins Dom Justin told Guillem he might rest a little, and led
him to a room, next the belfry, which had belonged to Nicholas; but,
though the floor was strewn with reeds and rushes, he could not close
his eyes, for now a new care assailed him. What should he say to his
lady, when he gave her the pax?

Long he lay and pondered, calling on Love to aid him at this pass.
At last, finding naught, he arose and went out, closing the door and
putting the key on the shelf, whence Dom Justin had taken it. Then
he requested a beadle, one Vidal, to bring him the salt for the holy
water. While mixing this, the priest awoke, and Guillem gave him some
of the water to wash. Then they began prime.

When they had sung tierce and rung again, the people began to come for
mass. After the main body, as usual, arrived Archambaut, followed by
Flamenca, who passed behind her screen.

Seeing her, Guillem had eyes for naught else. He did not, however,
neglect his duties. As he had the offices by heart, these were easy for
him. His voice was fresh and clear, and rang out as he sang the “Agnus
Dei.” Then he took the book and offered it to his host, who sat in the
choir. Pierre Gui passed it to those without, and the pax proceeded
thus through the church.

Guillem followed the book as it went from hand to hand; but he moved
so slowly through the press that Archambaut had already received the
pax, by the time he reached the little cell that held his treasure.
Trembling, without daring to look up, he drew near, fully resolved to
say at least a word, yet not knowing, even now, what it would be. With
a prayer to Love to aid him, he approached, and as Flamenca kissed the
psalter, he murmured: “Alas!” then withdrew, his head humbly bowed. Had
he disarmed a hundred knights in a tourney, he would have been less
happy.

His joy was great, but of brief duration. It lasted while he folded up
the altar cloths and put away safely the chalice and the paten; but,
when he was alone in his room once more, he was all despair.

“Alas,” he cried, “I deserve to die. Love, thou hast been of slight aid
to me. I thought to throw a six, and I have come off with an ace. Never
in this world could my lady have heard me. Else she would at least
have lifted her eyes, nor so soon drawn back behind her screen. It was
her wimple betrayed me, that covered her ears so closely. Curses on the
father of such a fashion!”

Flamenca, however, had not failed to hear Guillem’s “alas,” and
suffered some despite from it. She showed no sign while Archambaut was
with her; but, when he went out after dinner, she gave way to her grief.

“It would have been for me, rather, to cry ‘alas!’” she made moan.
“He suffers not, being neither sick nor in prison. Why then insult my
sufferings? Dear God, what harm have I done him, that he should assail
me in such a place?”

“Come hither, sweet children,” she cried to Alis and Margarida, “and
give heed to what is troubling me. A young man I know not, whose face I
have never seen before, has basely insulted me.”

“What young man, my lady?” demanded Margarida.

“He who gave me the pax.”

“What did he say, madam?” asked Alis.

“I will tell you, though it pains me even to recall it. To mock and
torment me, in handing me the psalter, he murmured ‘alas!’ as if it
were he who suffered, not I.”

“What was his bearing, my lady, as he said this?”

“He kept his eyes cast down.”

“Why, then, madam, I am not so sure he meant to insult you. It appears
to me as if he felt some fear in your presence, rather than overweening
pride.”

“It is true,” reflected Flamenca, that “he blushed and sighed.”

“Certainly,” then broke in Alis, “this young man did not seem so
ill-bred as to wish to harm you. Besides, he is not the one who always
gives us the pax. He is taller and handsomer. He is more skilled at
reading, also, and sings more clearly. In short, he had all the seeming
of a gentleman.”

“My lady,” spoke up Margarida, once more, “I do not know this young
man, or what he wants of you, but I think you would do well to discover
his meaning.”

“You speak as if that were an easy matter,” replied Flamenca,
petulantly. “How can I?”

“Christ, my lady,” exclaimed Alis, “if it were left to me, I should
manage easily enough. Ask him! He said ‘alas’. Do you say to him now:
‘Why do you complain?’”

“I can try,” said Flamenca, still doubtful.

So the following Sunday, when Guillem gave her the pax, she took the
psalter and, tilting it a trifle towards Archambaut, she whispered:
“Why do you complain?”

It was Flamenca’s turn now to be troubled and to ask if Guillem had
heard her.

“Did you hear me, Alis?” she demanded when they had returned from
church.

“Not I, madam.”

“And you, Margarida?”

“No, my lady, I heard nothing. How did you speak? Show us, and we
shall be able to tell you if he heard.”

“Stand up, Alis,” commanded Flamenca, “and pretend you are giving me
the pax. Take that copy of _Blanchefleur_ for the breviary.”

Alis jumped up, ran to the table where the book lay, and came back to
her mistress, who, for all her sadness, could scarce keep from laughing
at the sight of the young girl counterfeiting the clerk. Then Flamenca,
tilting the book a trifle, as in the church, and pretending to kiss it,
said: “Why do you complain?”

“There, did you hear me?” she asked eagerly.

“Yes indeed,” they both cried. “If you spoke like that, there can be no
doubt.”

Next week, Guillem, this time having prepared his answer, came straight
towards his lady, who loosened her wimple that she might hear the more
clearly. As she took the pax, he said: “I die.”

“Nay, he must not die, my lady!” cried Margarida, when Flamenca had
repeated this response. “I swear I have never seen so handsome a young
clerk.”

“What can I do?” asked her mistress, weakly.

“Ask him: ‘Of what?’ since that is what we wish to know.”

This same Sunday the workmen came from Chatillon. They marvelled
greatly at the oath Guillem required of them before making known the
task they were to accomplish. This was to dig a passage under the
ground between the baths and his own room. They were skilful and worked
rapidly, in such wise that in short space the passage was completed and
so cunningly contrived at both ends that not a sign of it showed.

When, on the eighth day, Guillem gave the pax, Flamenca whispered: “Of
what?” then drew back quickly.

“My little Margarida, I said it,” she exclaimed when they were back in
the tower.

“Thank God for that, my lady! I only hope he heard you this time, too.”

“You may set your mind at rest, my dear. He moved away so slowly that
he could not have helped hearing me. Now we shall know the answer on
Thursday, for that is the feast of the Ascension.”

“Madam, methinks these feasts come far less often now than at any other
season,” pouted Alis. “The rest of the year, when we have no need of
them, there is one nearly every day. While here, this summer, we have
had five full weeks with nothing but Sundays!”

On his side, Guillem repeated Flamenca’s question and pondered it.

“‘Of what?’ she asked me. Well, it will not be hard to tell her that,
for I know only too well whereof I suffer.”

Thursday, therefore, at tierce, he said: “Of love.”

That night Flamenca lay on her bed, more pensive than ever, and with
something resembling distress at her heart.

“Well, what did he say, my lady?” asked Alis at last.

“Ah, my friend, you could never guess. It is quite different from
anything we might have imagined. He says it is love of which he
suffers. Did anyone ever hear of a stranger coming thus to complain of
love?”

“Faith, madam,” laughed Alis, with a sly look at Margarida, “of what
evil did you think he came here to complain? Surely, had he been beaten
or robbed, he would not have sought to lay his complaint before you.”

“But for whom is this love? pursued Flamenca, still puzzled.

“Why my lady, I can guess readily enough,” replied Margarida, also
laughing; “but since you would have sure knowledge, ask him that, too.”

“Good God! Is it a jest?” cried Guillem on Sunday, when she had asked
him: “For whom?” “Is it possible she does not suspect my love? How can
she help knowing that I love her with all my heart? But, since she asks
me, I will gladly tell her.”

So on the day of Pentecost, Guillem, trembling, answered: “For you.”

Then was Flamenca sore troubled.

“What!” she exclaimed. “Can it be for me he cherishes an amorous
desire? Then he must needs seek another mistress, for my love is no
love at all, but sorrow and anguish. Sobs and sighs, troubles and
tears, bitterness and sadness of heart—these are my near neighbors, my
privy companions. What shall I do, what shall I say?”

“My lady,” exclaimed Margarida, “whatever you do or say, you will
surely not let that gallant young man love you and entreat you in vain!
Who knows but God Himself has sent him to deliver you from prison?”

“Even were I to return his love, I do not see how that would advantage
him in aught,” said Flamenca.

“Ask him, my lady. He has done so well already, he will surely know.”

So, the following Sunday Flamenca said: “What can I do?” and the eighth
day after Pentecost, on the feast of Saint Barnaby—a little feast for
which Flamenca would no more have set foot out of doors than for that
of a simple martyr not in the calendar—Guillem answered “Cure.”

“How can I cure his ills, who am without remedy for my own?” pondered
Flamenca, and her damsels counselled her to ask: “How?”

“Trust him. He will easily find a way to compass your happiness at the
same time as his own.”

“May God in His mercy will it so,” sighed Flamenca, “for at present I
do not see how we shall ever be able to do more for each other than we
do now.”

“In little space God works,” replied Alis devoutly, “and brave effort
overcomes all obstacles.”

The following Sunday was the feast of Saint John. It was not a day lost
for Guillem, whose lady, in taking the psalter, and whispering: “How?”
brushed his finger with her hand. When he was alone again, he sang for
joy.

“O God,” he cried, “I swear by the apostles and the prophets, I will
give all my rents from France for the building of churches and bridges,
if you will but let me see my lady face to face!”

The next time, drawing near with a high heart, he said: “I have found a
way!”

“He has already found a way!” exclaimed Alis, gleefully. “Were this the
olden time, lady dear, and there came such a friend to me, I should
think ’twas Jupiter or some other God, who was in love with me.” Answer
him boldly, then: “Take it.”

Flamenca sighed, her colour came and went, she still hesitated.
Suddenly Alis sneezed.

“Bless you!” the damsel exclaimed. “Now everything is bound to come out
right. We could not have a better omen.”

“God bless you both,” cried Flamenca, deeply touched, “for all the hope
and courage you have given me. I will do as you say, though I know not
if, in thus accepting his love so readily, I shall not be dishonoured.”

“My Lady,” Alis assured her, “there can be no dishonour, since Love
wills it so.”

Thursday was the feast of the passion of the two glorious apostles, who
hold the first place after Saint Michael, in Paradise. That day, then,
by her answer, Flamenca confirmed Guillem’s every hope. How shall I
tell his delight? Now he was sure that Love wished to exalt him above
all other lovers, and the next time he said to his lady: “I have taken
it.” At the same moment their eyes met and their hearts embraced.

“Can it be possible,” wondered Flamenca, “that in three days’ time, he
has found a way whereby I may heal him? How wanting in faith was I! It
was a sin even to doubt him. I promise now, before God, that if he can
bring us together, I shall be his, and his alone, forever more.”

“Small love do I owe the knights of my country! Two whole years have
I dwelt in bitter grief, and not one has given a thought to me. And
the knights of this country! Scarcely do they merit the renown of true
knighthood, who permit a poor stranger lady to perish thus miserably!
But this knight has a right to all my love, who, for my sake, has
placed his own life in jeopardy.”

So Flamenca hesitated no longer but next time asked him boldly: “What
shall I do?” and eight days later Guillem, in his turn, answered: “You
will go,” but did not say where. So, on the feast of the Magdalen,
Flamenca inquired: “Where?” and the day following Guillem said: “To the
baths,” whereat Flamenca divined he had found some way of coming to
her in the baths, and prayed God and His saints that there might not
thereby come to her any dishonour.

On Tuesday, which was the feast of Saint James of Compostella, she
demanded resolutely: “When?”

Great was Guillem’s joy, and it would not have been hard for him to
answer at once; but he would rather have let himself be tonsured with a
cross like a thief, or branded with a red-hot iron, than speak a word
which might have betrayed them.

The fifth day thereafter he replied: “Soon.”

Then again was Flamenca sorely distressed.

“Fear, shame and love, draw me in different directions,” she cried.
“Fear chides me and warns that, if he caught me, my husband would burn
me alive. Shame bids me beware of the world’s dispraise. Love says,
on the other hand, that Fear and Shame have never made a brave heart,
and that she can never be called a true lover who, through them, lets
herself be turned aside.

“Yet, O Love, how grievous are thy darts! Never could I have guessed
that to love meant to suffer so sorely! But, since I am at thy mercy,
naught remains for me but to receive thee. Enter then into this
dwelling which is thine own. My heart shall be thy chamber. Naught
shall avail to oppose thy will, for I belong to thee only.

“And to him who comes to claim that which I hold from thee, as thy
vassal, I shall answer, without longer delaying, ‘With all my heart!’”

At these words she fell into a swoon and remained without consciousness
till Archambaut’s return.

“Madam, here is our master,” cried Alis, fearful lest her mistress,
awaking, might let fall some word to arouse his suspicions. She cried
so loudly that Flamenca recovered her senses; but, before opening her
eyes, she lay still a moment, to prepare what she should say to her
husband.

Archambaut was all disturbed. Bringing water, he dashed it in her face.
Then at last, opening her eyes, and looking up, she drew a deep sigh.

“My lady,” he inquired anxiously, “what ails you?”

“My lord, a pain at my heart is killing me.”

“I believe if you took a little nutmeg every day it would cure you.”

“No, sire, the baths alone can bring me any relief. Lead me there on
Wednesday, I beseech you.”

It did not please lord Archambaut to have his wife go to the baths. He
took her there as seldom as possible, and always examined each corner
carefully before leaving her, for fear some man might be lurking in the
corner; but he could not refuse her now.

“Very well, I am willing,” he grumbled, going out in a bad humour to
find Pierre Gui and to tell him to make ready the baths.

Tuesday Flamenca, who found herself well enough to go to the church,
said: “With all my heart,” and, with her left hand, lightly brushed
Guillem’s right. He returned home in a state of rapture, and that
evening he heard his host say to two servants:

“Cleanse the baths and empty them so that they will fill up afresh for
our lady, who will come tomorrow at an early hour.”

Wednesday, at daybreak, Flamenca, feigning a return of her malady, made
great dole, as well she might, for she had not slept a wink. She called
feebly to her husband:

“Never in all my life have I suffered as I do now. Hasten, I beseech
you, and be not too vexed, for you will soon be rid of me. Indeed,
rather would I die than endure my present pain; and, if the baths
restore me not, already I hold myself to be no better than one dead.”

The damsels were already up and dressed. They went first, taking with
them their basins and unguents, while Archambaut followed reluctantly,
leading his wife to her lover.

When he had looked well in all the corners, as was his wont, he went
out, locking the door. Quickly the damsels sprang to bar it on the
inside. Then, looking at each other, they said:

“What shall we do? We know not where or how he will enter, who has
given us this tryst.”

“I am no wiser than you,” replied Flamenca. “I see nothing changed in
the appearance of the place. Yet I have no thought to undress, since I
did not come here to bathe.”

Scarcely had she spoken, when they heard a little noise. The next
instant Guillem lifted a stone in the floor, and entered.

In his hand he held a candle. His shirt and his breeches were of fine
linen from Rheims. His shoes were of silk embroidered with flowers.
His well-cut doublet was fashioned of some costly stuff, and he
wore, on his head, a little cloth cap, sewn with silk. Love had lent
him somewhat of his pallor, but he was only the handsomer for that.
Kneeling before Flamenca, he said:

“My lady, may He Who created you, and Whose will it is that you should
be without peer for beauty and graciousness, save you—you and yours!”

And he bowed low at her feet.

“Fair sir,” replied Flamenca, “may He Who never lies and Who willed
you to come hither, protect you, and permit you to accomplish all your
desire.”

“All my desire, sweet lady, all my thought, all my trouble and my pain,
are for you, to whom I have given myself. And, if you, in turn, will
give yourself to me, all my wishes will be fulfilled.”

“Fear not. Since God has granted us to come together, you will have
naught to complain of in me. Besides, since long time, my heart has
been yours.”

He took her in his arms and kissed her tenderly and embraced her, then
said:

“If it be your pleasure, we can seek, by the safe way I have made, the
room where I have so often gazed upon your tower.”

“As you will, sweet friend. I shall go whithersoever you lead me, sure
that you will bring me back again in all security.”

The passage was not dark, for it was lighted with candles, and, before
they knew it, they were in the chamber, which was richly furnished with
tapestries, with benches, with precious stuffs of all sorts, and strewn
with green rushes.

Guillem and Flamenca seated themselves upon a couch raised a little
above the level of the floor, while Alis and Margarida took cushions at
their feet.

Flamenca looked at them fondly.

“Dear friend,” she said, “never have these damsels grown weary in
pleading your suit. And, had it not been for their wise counsels and
good sense, never would you have had your desire.”

Guillem thanked them warmly, begging them to accept of him girdles,
diadems, ribbons, bracelets, brooches, rings, little bags of musk, and
still other trinkets. Then, turning to Flamenca, he said:

“Sweet love, a boon, I beseech you.”

“Name it, dear friend. I think no wish of yours could prove displeasing
to me.”

“I have two cousins,” he answered, “Otho and Clari, who follow me that
they, too, one day, may be made knights. It would please me were they
to have some share in our happiness.”

“How mean you?”

“My squires are young and debonair, like your two damsels, in whose
company they would not want whereof to speak. And, if they found it in
their hearts to love one another, they would but love us the more.”

[Illustration: Man and woman holding hands]

“It shall be even as you say,” assented Flamenca gladly, and Guillem,
opening the door, told his squires to enter.

They marvelled greatly at seeing Flamenca, and when their eyes fell
upon the two damsels, they believed they were under some spell. Quickly
they fell to their knees.

“Here am I, lady, to do your bidding,” said each of them in turn.

Flamenca was well pleased, and welcomed the young men graciously. Then,
turning to her young women:

“Come hither, both of you,” she addressed them. “Here are two young
men, and you are two, also. It is my wish that each should have her
friend. Wait not to be entreated. ’Tis I, your mistress, who entreat,
who tell, who command you, to do all their desire. Go to the baths.
Pleasure awaits you there.”

Then Alis chose Otho, and Margarida had Clari. Together all four went
to the baths, where there were pleasant chambers, from which Alis and
Margarida had no need to come forth as they went in, unless they so
desired.

When they were alone, Guillem, turning to Flamenca, said:

“Long have I suffered for your sweet sake a martyr’s pains. Now that we
have come together at last, I thank you for these; but you know not yet
who I am, unless it be that Love has told you I am your man.”

“My friend,” said Flamenca, “I doubt not you are of some high estate.
This I know by the knightly soul you have shown in wishing to be my
lover.”

Then Guillem recounted to her, word by word, who he was, how he had
come, and all he had done since he had been at Bourbon.

When Flamenca knew what manner of man her Guillem was, she was so full
of joy she gave herself to him without stint. She threw her arms about
his neck and kissed him with all her heart.

Many times did they kiss each other on the eyes and on the mouth and
on the hands and on the neck, and many times did they do for each other
all those things without which joy in love is incomplete. Each sought
to appease the heavy burden and the long desire that each for the other
had suffered.

They took pleasure too, in rehearsing the words they had spoken, and
so lovely was their delight, that man would not know how to record, or
mouth to speak, or mind to conceive it.

When it came time to part, Guillem called his squires and the damsels.
These, their eyes wet with tears, thanked him for the happiness that
had been theirs in the company of the young men.

Guillem, too, wept when he took leave of his lady, for it seemed to him
he would never see her more. He was, however, to see her again, and
that many times; for, henceforth, Flamenca would return to the baths as
often as she pleased.

The season of sorrow and sadness was over at last for this lady and her
two damsels. No longer did they remember their prison, or the jealous
husband who kept them there in vain; for, from this sad trial, had
sprung, for them, joy and happiness.




  Transcriber’s Notes

  pg 28 Changed: a desire that has taken fast hold of my heat
             to: a desire that has taken fast hold of my heart





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