‘La Lasterie de la Vignoble—a most distinguished house, sir. Provencal, and of the purest blood. Auguste de la Lasterie married the daughter of the Duke de Miriancourt, a cousin of my husband’s, and there was another of them who went as ambassador to Madrid.’
I knew none of them, and I suppose I looked as much.
‘Your mother was, probably, of the elder branch, sir?’ asked she.
I had to stammer out a most lamentable confession of my ignorance.
‘Not know your own kinsfolk, sir—not your nearest of blood!’ cried she, in amazement. ‘General, have you heard this strange avowal? or is it possible that my ears have deceived me?’
‘Please to remember, madam,’ said I submissively, ‘the circumstances in which I passed my infancy. My father fell by the guillotine.’
‘And his son wears the uniform of those who slew him!’
‘Of a French soldier, madam, proud of the service he belongs to; glorying to be one of the first army in Europe.’
‘An army without a cause is a banditti, sir. Your soldiers, without loyalty, are without a banner.’
‘We have a country, madam.’