"In the house of Madame de Luceval."
"What! You are—?"
"M. de Luceval."
Valentine d'Infreville stood as if petrified in her turn by this allusion which awakened so many painful memories; but, after a moment, she said, in tones of profound sadness:
"You speak the truth, monsieur. The first and only time we met at Madame de Luceval's it must have been as impossible for you to distinguish my features as it was for me to distinguish yours. Overcome with shame, I concealed my face, and, even now," she added, turning away her head as if to escape M. de Luceval's gaze, "I thank Heaven that it is dark."
"Believe me, madame, it is with deep regret that I remind you of a scene that was so distressing to you, and to myself as well, for, influenced by M. d'Infreville, I—"
But Valentine, interrupting him, inquired, with mingled curiosity, uneasiness, and tender interest:
"And Florence; where is she?"
"It was Florence that I was following just now."
"What! That woman was—"