Even the cook, gardeners, and dairy-women crowded “the screens” to catch a glimpse of Bertrand as he sat at the high table. They watched him eat and drink as though he were an ogre, whispering together, peeping over one another’s shoulders. Bertrand, who had none of the spirit of the mock hero, chafed under this flattering publicity, being in no humor to be gaped at like a black bear in a cage.
“My good-fellow, do people ever eat here?”
Girard flourished a napkin and looked puzzled.
“Ah, messire—”
“These friends of yours seem to grudge me my hunger by the way they push and stare.”
Girard took the hint and closed the doors on the array of inquisitive faces. He returned and made his bow.
“Messire du Guesclin must pardon the people. Messire du Guesclin is a great soldier and a hero.”
“Nonsense, sir,” and Bertrand laughed half foolishly at Girard’s magniloquent respect.
“Messire, you have a modest heart.”
“Modest heart!—to the devil with you!”