"I feel, madame, that what has happened to us to-day is so inexplicable that our mutual reserve should be maintained no longer." "I agree with you, perfectly, monsieur. Will you give me your arm? I am nearly frozen, and what with the surprise and excitement, I am feeling far from well, but my indisposition will pass off if I walk a little way, I think." "Which way shall we go, madame?" "It doesn't matter in the least,--towards the Pont Neuf, perhaps." As they walked slowly on, the following conversation took place: "I feel it obligatory upon me to first tell you my name, monsieur," remarked the lady. "It is not a matter of much consequence, perhaps, but you ought to know who I am. I am a widow, and my name is Valentine d'Infreville." "Good God!" exclaimed the man in the cloak, stopping short in his astonishment. "You Madame d'Infreville?" "Why do you evince such astonishment, monsieur? My name is not unknown to you." "After all," remarked the man, recovering from the amazement this announcement had caused, "it is not surprising that I did not recognise you either here or in Chili, madame, for the first time I saw you, four years ago, I could not distinguish your features; besides, the indignation I felt--" "What do you mean, monsieur? Do you mean that you had seen me before our meeting in Chili?" "Yes, madame." "And where?" "I scarcely dare to remind you." "In whose house did you meet me, tell me, monsieur?" "In my wife's house." "Your wife's?" "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--" "Madame de Luceval; yes." "But why were you following her?" "You are not aware, then--" "Speak, monsieur, speak!" "That my wife and I have separated," replied M. de Luceval, smothering a sigh. "But where does Florence live?" "On the Rue de Vaugirard." "Great Heavens! How strange!" exclaimed Valentine, starting violently. "What is the matter, madame?" "Florence lives in the Rue de Vaugirard, you say. At what number?" "Number 59." "And Michel lives at Number 57!" exclaimed Valentine.