We must admit that Julien's expression was awful, his countenance ghastly; it breathed unmitigated criminality. It represented the unhappy man at war with all society.
"To arms," exclaimed Julien. And he bounded up the flight of steps of the hotel with one stride. He entered the stall of the street scrivener; he frightened him. "Copy this," he said, giving him mademoiselle de La Mole's letter.
While the scrivener was working, he himself wrote to Fouqué. He asked him to take care of a valuable deposit. "But he said to himself," breaking in upon his train of thought, "the secret service of the post-office will open my letter, and will give you gentlemen the one you are looking for … not quite, gentlemen." He went and bought an enormous Bible from a Protestant bookseller, skilfully hid Mathilde's letter in the cover, and packed it all up. His parcel left by the diligence addressed to one of Fouqué's workmen, whose name was known to nobody at Paris.
This done, he returned to the hôtel de La Mole, joyous and buoyant.
Now it's our turn he exclaimed as he locked himself into the room and threw off his coat.
"What! mademoiselle," he wrote to Mathilde, "is it mademoiselle de La Mole who gets Arsène her father's lackey to hand an only too flattering letter to a poor carpenter from the Jura, in order no doubt to make fun of his simplicity?" And he copied out the most explicit phrases in the letter which he had just received. His own letter would have done honour to the diplomatic prudence of M. the Chevalier de Beauvoisis. It was still only ten o'clock when Julien entered the Italian opera, intoxicated with happiness and that feeling of his own power which was so novel for a poor devil like him. He heard his friend Geronimo sing. Music had never exalted him to such a pitch.
