“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!”