"Certainly not, if, as you said just now, you have the means of having Dantès arrested. Have you that means?"
"It is to be found for the searching. But why should I," he continued, "meddle in the matter? it is no affair of mine."
"I know not why you meddle," said Fernand, seizing his arm; "but this I know, you have some motive of personal hatred against Dantès, for he who himself hates is never mistaken in the sentiments of others."
"I! motives of hatred against Dantès! None, on my word! I saw you were unhappy, and your unhappiness interested me; that's all; but the moment you believe I act for my own account, adieu, my dear friend, get out of the affair as best you may."
Danglars made a pretense of rising.
"No, no," said Fernand, restraining him, "stay! It is of very little consequence to me, after all, whether you have any angry feeling or not against Dantès. I hate him! I confess it openly. Do you find the means, I will execute it, provided it is not to kill the man, for Mercédès has declared she will kill herself if Dantès is killed."
Caderousse, who had let his head drop on the table, now raised it, and, looking at Fernand with his dull and fishy eyes, he said:
"Kill Dantès! who talks of killing Dantès? I won't have him killed — I won't! He's my friend, and this morning offered to share his money with me, as I shared mine with him. I won't have Dantès killed — I wont!"
"And who has said a word about killing him, muddlehead?" replied Danglars. "We were merely joking: drink to his health," he added, filling Caderousse's glass, "and do not interfere with us."
"Yes, yes, Dantès' good health!" said Caderousse, emptying his glass, "here's to his health! his health! — hurrah!"
"But the means — the means?" said Fernand.
"Have you not hit upon any?"
"No! — you undertook to do so."
"True," replied Danglars; "the French have this superiority over the Spaniards, that the Spaniards ruminate, whilst the French invent."
"Invent, then!" said Fernand, impatiently.
"Waiter," said Danglars, "pen, ink, and paper."
"Pen, ink, and paper?" muttered Fernand.
"Yes; I am a supercargo; pen, ink, and paper are my tools, and without my tools I am fit for nothing."
"Pen, ink, and paper!" called Fernand, in his turn.
"All you require is on that table," said the waiter, pointing to the writing materials.
