Chapter 9: The Plan: II
"Haven’t you thought of anything?" Danglars asked.
"No, you said you’d handle it." Replied Fernand.
"True. Well, we French are smarter than you Spanish. You guys just brood while we actually come up with plans."
"Then come up with one!" Fernand said impatiently.
"Waiter!" Danglars called out. "Bring me a pen, some ink, and paper."
"Pen, ink, and paper?" Fernand repeated, confused.
"Yeah, I’m in shipping. These are my tools. Without them, I’m useless."
"Pen, ink, and paper!" Fernand called out loudly.
"There’s some on that table over there," the waiter replied.
"Bring it here." Danglars asked.
Caderousse let his hand fall onto the paper, saying philosophically, "You know, there’s enough stuff here to destroy a man more effectively than waiting in some dark alley to stab him. I’ve always been more afraid of a pen, a bottle of ink, and a piece of paper than any sword or gun."
"He’s not as drunk as he looks," Danglars muttered. "Give him more wine, Fernand."
Fernand filled Caderousse’s glass. Like the professional drunk he was, Caderousse immediately grabbed the glass and knocked it back. Fernand watched as this final assault on his friend’s senses left Caderousse barely conscious, his glass dropping back onto the table.
"Well?" Fernand prompted, seeing his drinking buddy was finally out of commission.
"Well then, let’s say hypothetically," Danglars began, "that after a voyage like the one Dantès just completed, where he stopped at that island near Italy, someone were to tip off the prosecutor that he’s a Bonaparte sympathizer..."
"I’ll do it!" Fernand exclaimed. "I’ll turn him in!"
"Sure, but they’ll make you sign a statement and confront you with your accusation. I can give you the evidence to back it up, I know the facts. But Dantès won’t stay in prison forever. Eventually he’ll get out, and when he does, God help whoever put him there."
"I’d welcome the chance to fight him."
"Yeah? And what about Mercédès? She’ll hate your guts if you so much as give her precious Edmond a paper cut!"
"Shit. You’re right."
"No, no," Danglars continued, "if we’re going to do this, it’s better if I handle it." He picked up the pen and dipped it in ink. "I’ll write with my left hand so the handwriting can’t be traced back to me."
Danglars carefully wrote out a letter in disguised handwriting, completely different from his normal style. When he finished, he handed it to Fernand, who read it quietly:
"To the honorable prosecutor: A loyal friend of the crown wishes to inform you that one Edmond Dantes, officer of the ship Pharaon, arrived this morning from his voyage. During his travels, he stopped at several ports and was given letters, one from Napoleon’s supporters to deliver to Bonaparte sympathizers in Paris. You’ll find proof when you arrest him. The letter will be on him, at his father’s house, or in his cabin on the ship."
"Perfect," Danglars said. "Now your revenge looks smart instead of petty. There’s no way it can be traced back to you, and it’ll take care of itself. All we have to do is fold this up, address it to the prosecutor, and we’re done." He wrote the address as he spoke.
"Yeah, and we’re done!" Caderousse suddenly exclaimed. Through sheer force of will, he’d managed to follow the reading and understood exactly what kind of hell this letter would unleash. "We’re done all right, this is bloody despicable!" He reached for the letter.
"Yeah," said Danglars, pulling it away from him, "and since I’m just kidding around anyway, and I’d actually be sorry if anything really happened to good old Dantès, look here!" He crumpled up the letter and tossed it into the corner of their little outdoor seating area.
"Good!" said Caderousse. "Dantès is my friend. I won’t let anyone screw him over."
"And who’s trying to screw him over? Not me, and not Fernand," Danglars said, standing up and looking at Fernand, who was still sitting but staring intently at the crumpled paper in the corner.
"In that case," Caderousse replied, "let’s have another round. I want to drink to Edmond and beautiful Mercédès!"
"You’ve had way too much already, you drunk," Danglars said. "Keep this up and you’ll have to sleep here because you won’t be able to walk."
Caderousse stood up with all the wounded pride of a drunk man. "Me? Can’t walk? Bullshit! I bet I could climb to the top of the church bell tower without even swaying!"
"You’re on," said Danglars. "But we’ll settle that bet tomorrow. Today it’s time to go home. Give me your arm."
"Fine, let’s go," said Caderousse, "but I don’t need your damn arm. Come on, Fernand, you coming back to the city with us?"
"No," said Fernand. "I’m going back to my neighborhood."
"Bad idea. Come with us to the city."
"I’m not going."
"What do you mean you’re not going? Whatever, your choice, man. Everyone’s free to do what they want. Come on, Danglars. Let pretty boy go back to his neighborhood if he wants."
Danglars took advantage of Caderousse’s agreeable mood to guide him toward the city, both of them stumbling as they walked.
After they’d gone about twenty yards, Danglars glanced back and saw Fernand bend down, pick up the crumpled letter, stuff it in his pocket, and then hurry out of the seating area toward town.
"Hey," said Caderousse, "what a liar! He said he was going back to his neighborhood, but he’s heading toward the city. Hey, Fernand!"
"You’re seeing things," said Danglars. "He went the right way."
"Huh," said Caderousse, "I could have sworn... damn, wine really messes with your head!"
"Perfect," Danglars thought to himself. "Now the plan is in motion, and it’ll work itself out without any more help from me."