Jealous? What a disconcerting concept. It has nothing at all to do with her appearance that the idea of that causes his guts to twist with a polite amount of revulsion. He would much prefer that she never spare him even a remotely sexual thought, and neither he in return.

He shrugs his shoulders, trying not to dwell on his irritation. He scoffs softly instead.

"I'm not interested," he says. "To be considered 'pretty' is hardly anything at all. Anyone can call you as much, no matter how wretched they themselves are. Your worth is not determined by a man's gaze."

Which is perhaps easy for Estinien to say when he's never been a teenaged girl in revolutionary France, but the sentiment is genuine.