“Bertrand, can you serve or carve at table?”
“No.”
“Can you sing or play the lute, dance, or make courtly speeches?”
“No.”
“Can you amuse a great lady?”
“No.”
“Where are your fine clothes, your armor, and your horse?”
“Mother, you know I have none.”
Dame Jeanne’s eyes were fixed with a malicious glitter upon his face. She knew how to crush the lad, to sting into him the realization of his unfitness for the polite pageantry of life.
“Listen to me, Bertrand: you will never make a gentleman.”