“Come, come, child, what is it?” he asked, more gently.
Arletta rocked to and fro in the saddle.
“I am nothing—I am a mere drab. Men may mock at me; I am nothing—I have no honor.”
Bertrand grimaced.
“Am I not your servant, lording? Yet, but who cares what Gaston says to me?”
“Letta—”
“No, no; you only laugh at me, you do not care. I am a drab, a tavern woman.”
Bertrand looked at her and stroked his chin. Women were strange creatures, and their whims puzzled him, but he caught a glimpse of Arletta’s meaning. How much was artifice he could not tell. She wished to see him jealous; he was quick enough to gather that.
“Gaston shall have his tongue clipped,” he said at last.
“Ah, lording, you do not care!”