“Probably Madame Tiphaïne is looking out her very best gown.” And Olivier began to flick the dust from the embroidery and the slashed splendor of his côte hardie.
Jeanne du Guesclin looked at him and smiled.
“If Robin Raguenel is half as handsome—”
“Pooh, mother!”
“—as Messire Olivier.”
“Confound my good looks,” and he pretended to appear modestly impatient. “How often are you talking to me as though I were a fool of a peacock?”
“There, put your girdle straight, Olivier. If I have a handsome son, am I not allowed to use my eyes?”
“I may be straighter in the legs than Bertrand,” and he gave a sharp and shallow laugh.
“Bertrand, indeed! We shall soon have done with the worthless fool. My friends cannot say that I am prejudiced in the man’s favor, since I have been the first to tell many of them the truth.”
“Poor fellow!”