M. Varbarriere thought, under the untoward circumstances, that a disclosure so imperfect as had been made to Lady Alice was a good deal more dangerous than one a little fuller. He therefore took that lady's hand very reverentially, and looking with his full solemn eyes in her face, said--
"It is not only true, madam, that his name is Guy Deverell, but equally true that he is the lawful son, as well as the namesake, of that Guy Deverell, your _son_, who perished by the hand of Sir Jekyl Marlowe in a duel. Shot down foully, as that Mr. Strangways avers who was his companion, and who was present when the fatal event took place."
"Yes, madam, _married_ more than a year before his death. All the proofs are extant, and at this moment in England."
"Married! my boy married, and never told his mother! Oh, Guy, Guy, _Guy_ is it credible?"
"It is not a question, madam, but an absolute certainty, as I will show you whenever I get the papers to Wardlock."
"And to whom, sir, pray, was my son married?" demanded Lady Alice, after a long pause.
"Was she a person at all his equal in life?--a person of--of any education, I mean?" inquired Lady Alice, with a gasp, sublimely unconscious of her impertinence.
"As good a lady as you are," replied Varbarriere, with a swarthy flush upon his forehead.
"I should like to _know_ she was a _lady_, at all events."
"She was a lady, madam, of pure blood, incapable of a mean thought, incapable, too, of anything low-bred or impertinent."
His sarcasm sped through and through Lady Alice without producing any effect, as a bullet passes through a ghost.
"It is a great surprise, sir, but _that_ will be satisfactory. I suppose you can show it?"
Varbarriere smiled sardonically and answered nothing.
"My son married to a Frenchwoman! Dear, dear, _dear!_ Married! You can feel for me, monsieur, knowing as I do nothing of the person or family with whom he connected himself."
Lady Alice pressed her lean fingers over her heart, and swept the wall opposite, with dismal eyes, sighing at intervals, and gasping dolorously.
The old woman's egotism and impertinence did not vex him long or much. But the pretence of being absolutely above irritation from the feminine gender, in any extant sage, philosopher, or saint, is a despicable affectation. Man and woman were created with inflexible relations; each with the power in large measure or in infinitesimal doses, according to opportunity, to infuse the cup of the other's life with sweet or bitter--with nectar or with poison. Therefore great men and wise men have winced and will wince under the insults of small and even of old women.