“Altamira informs me you are one of us,” said Don Diego, whose demeanour was growing graver and graver to Julien as he went out. “You will help us one day in re-winning our liberty, so I would like to help you in this little amusement. It is right that you should know the maréchale’s style; here are four letters in her hand-writing.”
“I will copy them out,” exclaimed Julien, “and bring them back to you.”
“And you will never let anyone know a word of what we have been saying.”
“Never, on my honour,” cried Julien.
“Well, God help you,” added the Spaniard, and he silently escorted Altamira and Julien as far as the staircase.
This somewhat amused our hero; he was on the point of smiling. “So we have the devout Altamira,” he said to himself, “aiding me in an adulterous enterprise.”
During Don Diego’s solemn conversation Julien had been attentive to the hours struck by the clock of the Hôtel d’Aligre.
The dinner hour was drawing near, he was going to see Mathilde again. He went in and dressed with much care.
“Mistake No. 1,” he said to himself as he descended the staircase: “I must follow the prince’s instructions to the letter.”
He went up to his room again and put on a travelling suit which was as simple as it could be. “All I have to do now,” he thought, “is to keep control of my expression.” It was only half-past five and they dined at six. He thought of going down to the salon which he found deserted. He was moved to the point of tears at the sight of the blue sofa. “I must make an end of this foolish sensitiveness,” he said angrily, “it will betray me.” He took up a paper in order to keep himself in countenance and passed three or four times from the salon into the garden.