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.