He grudged Richard everything--his beauty, his knit and graceful body, his brain like a sword, his past exploits, his present content.

What it was contented him he knew not altogether, though a letter from Saint-Pol had in part advised him; but he was sure he had wherewithal to discontent him.

'Foh! a juicy orange indeed,' he said to himself, 'but I can wring him dry.' If Richard hugged one thought, Bertran hugged another, and took it to bed with him o' nights.

Now, therefore, when Richard spoke of Jehane, Bertran said nothing, waiting his time; but when he went on to Madame Alois and his duty (which really coloured all the former thought) Bertran made a grimace.
'Rascal,' says Richard, shamming rough, 'why do you make faces at me ?' Bertran began jerking about like the lid of a boiling pot, and presently sends a boy for his viol.

At this, when it came, he snatched, and set to plucking a chord here and a chord there, grinning fearfully all the time.
'A _tenzon!_ A _tenzon!_ beau sire!' cries he.