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

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.”