When Guillaume de Flavy grew weary of warfare and politics, he decided
to increase his fortunes by taking a wife. He was a big strong man,
broad-shouldered, with a hairy and bosomy chest. He could grab two
armed knights, one with each hand, and force them both to the ground.
He used to strap on his leggings and go around his lands in person,
right through the mire, clapping his heavy hand upon the backs of the
muddied men who stooped among the furrows.
His broad face was flushed with the blood that always throbbed at his
temples; and he used to crack the bones between his teeth when eating
meat.
One day, riding within the borders of his meadows near Rheims, he saw
the fields belonging to Robert d'Ovrebreuc. He dismounted and entered
the great hall of the house. The enormous chests arranged along the
walls, each one big enough to climb into, looked shabby; the dining
table was rickety, the fire-irons were rusts, and the spit was coated
with dirt an inch thick. Here and there he noticed a cobbler's apron,
awls, and some flat hammers; and there was a man sitting cross-legged
in a corner darning a coarse linen shirt. But then, squatting on the
hearthstones, staring directly at him in surprise, with golden hair
strewn about her pallid face, a little girl turned her head towards
Guillaume de Flavy. She might have been ten years old: her chest was
flat, her limbs scrawny, her hands tiny; but her mouth was a woman's,
sliced across her pale face like a bloody gash.
