“Two years; perhaps less. Her father was an armorer at Ancenis; she left him when the French marched through. I did not take her from her home. Besides, she is no longer a child.”
Bertrand’s face seemed furrowed with recollections, or as though he were asking himself some question that he could not answer. Tiphaïne did not move.
“How a man stores judgments for himself! The girl cannot be left to a life like this. I feel I have some duty by her. And yet I could swear she would be ready to throw herself into the moat if I told her I would send her home.”
“There is one other way, Bertrand.”
“How?” And his face appealed to her.
“She is a woman; she could be your wife.”
Bertrand’s jaw dropped.
“Marry her!”
“So you are too proud for that?”
He remained silent, staring at Tiphaïne, his hands opening and shutting, his forehead a knot of wrinkles.