“No; I do not understand,” said Danglars.
“Poor Fernand has been dismissed,” continued Caderousse.
“Well, and what then?” said Fernand, lifting up his head, and looking at Caderousse like a man who looks for someone on whom to vent his anger; “Mercédès is not accountable to any person, is she? Is she not free to love whomsoever she will?”
“Oh, if you take it in that sense,” said Caderousse, “it is another thing. But I thought you were a Catalan, and they told me the Catalans were not men to allow themselves to be supplanted by a rival. It was even told me that Fernand, especially, was terrible in his vengeance.”
Fernand smiled piteously. “A lover is never terrible,” he said.
“Poor fellow!” remarked Danglars, affecting to pity the young man from the bottom of his heart. “Why, you see, he did not expect to see Dantès return so suddenly—he thought he was dead, perhaps; or perchance faithless! These things always come on us more severely when they come suddenly.”
“Ah, ma foi, under any circumstances!” said Caderousse, who drank as he spoke, and on whom the fumes of the wine began to take effect,—“under any circumstances Fernand is not the only person put out by the fortunate arrival of Dantès; is he, Danglars?”
“No, you are right—and I should say that would bring him ill-luck.”
“Well, never mind,” answered Caderousse, pouring out a glass of wine for Fernand, and filling his own for the eighth or ninth time, while Danglars had merely sipped his. “Never mind—in the meantime he marries Mercédès—the lovely Mercédès—at least he returns to do that.”
During this time Danglars fixed his piercing glance on the young man, on whose heart Caderousse’s words fell like molten lead.