“Mother, I am thinking of joining the Countess at Rennes this year.”
Olivier was forever on the point of sallying on imaginary quests, and thrilling his mother’s heart with the threat of daring untold perils. He had been to the wars but once in his life, when an English spear-thrust had excused many months of unheroic idleness.
“They must miss you,” said Jeanne, with a jealous look.
Olivier spread his shoulders but did not see that Bertrand smiled.
“True,” he confessed, with divine self-unction; “I am a good man at my arms. This cursed spear-wound still smarts a little and chafes under the harness. How many men, mother, can you spare me in the spring?”
Jeanne du Guesclin considered the demand with the fondness of an unwilling fool. Olivier’s vaporings never rang false in her maternal ears. Like many a shrewd, cold-hearted woman, she was deceived pitifully by the one thing that she loved.
“Wait till the summer, child,” she said.
“Child!” And Olivier stood upon his dignity and showed temper. “You are blind, madame; you never see that I am a man. You women are made of butter. We men are of sterner stuff.”
His mother’s meekness was wonderful in one so proud.
“Ah, Olivier, you have the soldier’s spirit! I must not try to curb your courage.”