“Bertrand, stand back! How dare you threaten?”
“Curse Olivier! I tell you I will go to Rennes.”
“Rennes!”
“Yes; why should I not go? I am your son, mother. By Heavens! when will you treat me as you treat Olivier?” He gulped down some great sob of feeling that was in his throat, and turned to his father with moist eyes. “Sire, say that I may go to Rennes.”
Du Guesclin winced, fidgeted, and glanced at his wife.
“What shall I say to the lad, Jeanne?” he asked.
“Leave him to me,” she said, quietly. “I will show the fool the honest truth.”
Sieur Robert surrendered to his wife’s discretion, and, retreating towards the château, settled himself on a bench under an almond-tree that was still in bloom. Jeanne stood watching her husband over her shoulder. Presently she turned again to Bertrand with that regal and half-contemptuous air he had known so well of old. Jeanne stared at the lad in silence for some moments, the angles of her mouth twitching, her eyes cold and without pity.
“Bertrand!”
Her tones were sharp, hard, and incisive. The lad nodded, slouching his shoulders, and looking surly and ill at ease.