"No--she does not matter--she is always jealous. I tell you it was Monseigneur. You did wrong to show yourself to him. And if you stay here you will repent it. Mark my words. Go. Here is my lord's carriage"--and seizing Becky's arm, he rushed down an alley of the garden as Lord Steyne's barouche, blazing with heraldic devices, came whirling along the avenue, borne by the almost priceless horses, and bearing Madame de Belladonna lolling on the cushions, dark, sulky, and blooming, a King Charles in her lap, a white parasol swaying over her head, and old Steyne stretched at her side with a livid face and ghastly eyes. Hate, or anger, or desire caused them to brighten now and then still, but ordinarily, they gave no light, and seemed tired of looking out on a world of which almost all the pleasure and all the best beauty had palled upon the worn-out wicked old man.
"Monseigneur has never recovered the shock of that night, never," Monsieur Fiche whispered to Mrs. Crawley as the carriage flashed by, and she peeped out at it from behind the shrubs that hid her. "That was a consolation at any rate," Becky thought.

You did wrong to show yourself to him. And if you stay here you will repent it. Mark my words. Go. Here is my lord's carriage."
Seizing Becky's arm, he rushed her down an alley as Lord Steyne's barouche came whirling along the avenue, drawn by priceless horses, and bearing Madame de Belladonna lolling on the cushions, dark, sulky, and blooming, with old Steyne stretched at her side with a livid face. His ghastly eyes seemed tired of looking out on a world of which almost all the pleasure and beauty had palled.
"Monseigneur has never recovered from the shock of that night," Monsieur Fiche whispered to Mrs. Crawley as the carriage flashed by, and she peeped out from behind the shrubs.
"That is a consolation at any rate," Becky thought.
