"I forget what you told me that your Christian name was. But the name you gave me was not the right one."
"Yes, it was," she said.
"Your name is Florence: Florence Levasseur."
She started.
"What! Who told you? Florence? How do you know?"
"Here is your photograph, with your name on it almost illegible."
"Oh!" she said, amazed at seeing the picture. "I can't believe it! Where does it come from? Where did you get it from?" And, suddenly, "It was the Prefect of Police who gave it to you, was it not? Yes, it was he, I'm sure of it. I am sure that this photograph is to identify me and that they are looking for me, for me, too. And it's you again, it's you again"
"Have no fear," he said. "The print only wants a few touches to alter the face beyond recognition. I will make them. Have no fear."
She was no longer listening to him. She gazed at the photograph with all her concentrated attention and murmured:
"I was twenty years old.… I was living in Italy. Dear me, how happy I was on the day when it was taken! And how happy I was when I saw my portrait!… I used to think myself pretty in those days.… And then it disappeared.… It was stolen from me like other things that had already been stolen from me, at that time"
And, sinking her voice still lower, speaking her name as if she were addressing some other woman, some unhappy friend, she repeated:
