“Over head and ears; but, unless I am much mistaken, there will be a storm in that quarter.”
“Explain yourself.”
“Why should I?”
“It is more important than you think, perhaps. You do not like Dantès?”
“I never like upstarts.”
“Then tell me all you know about the Catalane.”
“I know nothing for certain; only I have seen things which induce me to believe, as I told you, that the future captain will find some annoyance in the vicinity of the Vieilles Infirmeries.”
“What have you seen?—come, tell me!”
“Well, every time I have seen Mercédès come into the city she has been accompanied by a tall, strapping, black-eyed Catalan, with a red complexion, brown skin, and fierce air, whom she calls cousin.”
“Really; and you think this cousin pays her attentions?”
“I only suppose so. What else can a strapping chap of twenty-one mean with a fine wench of seventeen?”
“And you say that Dantès has gone to the Catalans?”
“He went before I came down.”
“Let us go the same way; we will stop at La Réserve, and we can drink a glass of La Malgue, whilst we wait for news.”
“Come along,” said Caderousse; “but you pay the score.”
“Of course,” replied Danglars; and going quickly to the designated place, they called for a bottle of wine, and two glasses.
Père Pamphile had seen Dantès pass not ten minutes before; and assured that he was at the Catalans, they sat down under the budding foliage of the planes and sycamores, in the branches of which the birds were singing their welcome to one of the first days of spring.