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.”