Valentine had turned pale, and her brow was covered with a dark cloud; she rose, however, and paced the floor excitedly, muttering from time to time:
"No! no! not if I should hear it a hundred times! Mere conjectures—antechamber gossip, servants' tittle-tattle—what does it all prove? To dare to say that he, Léodgard—so noble and so handsome!—Oh! it is frightful! it is an outrage!"
Then, seized with a sudden idea, she asked abruptly:
"This man who was pursued last night, and whom you claim to have recognized—he was wounded, you say?"
"Yes, madame, and severely wounded, for he lost much blood."
"Where was he wounded?"
"In the shoulder, so far as I could judge—for he put his hand there several times. I think that I divine madame's thought; if it is her wish, I will go to inquire——"
"No, I do not wish you to go out; I will go myself to inquire.—You hear me, Miretta? I forbid you to leave the house before my return."
"I will obey you, madame."
Valentine hastily donned an ample cloak, and a great veil which almost concealed her features; then she betook herself at headlong speed, taking care to avoid the most frequented streets, to Rue de Bretonvilliers, inquired for Léodgard's hotel, and knocked at the gate.