“Sir,” replied Danglars, pale with anger and fear, “I warn you, when I have the misfortune to meet with a mad dog, I kill it; and far from thinking myself guilty of a crime, I believe I do society a kindness. Now, if you are mad and try to bite me, I will kill you without pity. Is it my fault that your father has dishonored himself?”
“Yes, miserable wretch!” cried Morcerf, “it is your fault.”
Danglars retreated a few steps.
“My fault?” said he; “you must be mad! What do I know of the Grecian affair? Have I travelled in that country? Did I advise your father to sell the castle of Yanina—to betray—”
“Silence!” said Albert, with a thundering voice. “No; it is not you who have directly made this exposure and brought this sorrow on us, but you hypocritically provoked it.”
“I?”
“Yes; you! How came it known?”
“I suppose you read it in the paper in the account from Yanina?”
“Who wrote to Yanina?”
“To Yanina?”
“Yes. Who wrote for particulars concerning my father?”
“I imagine anyone may write to Yanina.”
“But one person only wrote!”
“One only?”