Yes, he could get the girl's body by a couple of pen-strokes,
and had he been older that might have contented him: as it was, what
he wanted was to rouse the look her eyes had borne in Chartres orchard
that tranquil morning, and this one could not readily secure by
fiddling with seals and parchments. You see his position: this
high-spirited young man now loved the Princess too utterly to take her
on lip-consent, and this marriage was now his one possible excuse for
ceasing from victorious warfare. So he blustered, and the fighting
recommenced; and he slew in a despairing rage, knowing that by every
movement of his arm he became to her so much the more detestable.
Then the Vicomte de Montbrison, as you have heard, betrayed France,
and King Henry began to strip the French realm of provinces as you
peel the layers from an onion. By the May of the year of grace 1420
France was, and knew herself to be, not beaten but demolished. Only a
fag-end of the French army lay entrenched at Troyes, where King
Charles and his court awaited Henry's decision as to the morrow's
action.
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