Chapter 61
How a Gardener may get rid of the Dormice
that eat His Peaches
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NOT
ON the same night, as he had intended, but the next morning, the Count of
Monte Cristo went out by the Barrier d'Enfer, taking the road to Orleans.
Leaving the village of Linas, without stopping at the telegraph, which
flourished its great bony arms as he passed, the count reached the tower
of Montlhижry, situated, as every one knows,
upon the highest point of the plain of that name. At the foot of the hill
the count dismounted and began to ascend by a little winding path, about
eighteen inches wide; when he reached the summit he found himself stopped
by a hedge, upon which green fruit had succeeded to red and white flowers.
Monte
Cristo looked for the entrance to the enclosure, and was not long in
finding a little wooden gate, working on willow hinges, and fastened with
a nail and string. The count soon mastered the mechanism, the gate opened,
and he then found himself in a little garden, about twenty feet long by
twelve wide, bounded on one side by part of the hedge, which contained the
ingenious contrivance we have called a gate, and on the other by the old
tower, covered with ivy and studded with wall-flowers. No one would have
thought in looking at this old, weather-beaten, floral-decked tower (which
might be likened to an elderly dame dressed up to receive her
grandchildren at a birthday feast) that it would have been capable of
telling strange things, if,--in addition to the menacing ears which the
proverb says all walls are provided with,--it had also a voice. The garden
was crossed by a path of red gravel, edged by a border of thick box, of
many years' growth, and of a tone and color that would have delighted the
heart of Delacroix, our modern Rubens. This path was formed in the shape
of the figure of 8, thus, in its windings, making a walk of sixty feet in
a garden of only twenty. Never
had Flora, the fresh and smiling goddess of gardeners, been honored with a
purer or more scrupulous worship than that which was paid to her in this
little enclosure. In fact, of the twenty rose-trees which formed the
parterre, not one bore the mark of the slug, nor were there evidences
anywhere of the clustering aphis which is so destructive to plants growing
in a damp soil. And yet it was not because the damp had been excluded from
the garden; the earth, black as soot, the thick foliage of the trees
betrayed its presence; besides, had natural humidity been wanting, it
could have been immediately supplied by artificial means, thanks to a tank
of water, sunk in one of the corners of the garden, and upon which were
stationed a frog and a toad, who, from antipathy, no doubt, always
remained on the two opposite sides of the basin. There was not a blade of
grass to be seen in the paths, or a weed in the flower-beds; no fine lady
ever trained and watered her geraniums, her cacti, and her rhododendrons,
with more pains than this hitherto unseen gardener bestowed upon his
little enclosure. Monte Cristo stopped after having closed the gate and
fastened the string to the nail, and cast a look around. "The
man at the telegraph," said he, "must either engage a gardener
or devote himself passionately to agriculture." Suddenly he struck
against something crouching behind a wheelbarrow filled with leaves; the
something rose, uttering an exclamation of astonishment, and Monte Cristo
found himself facing a man about fifty years old, who was plucking
strawberries, which he was placing upon grape leaves. He had twelve leaves
and about as many strawberries, which, on rising suddenly, he let fall
from his hand. "You are gathering your crop, sir?" said Monte
Cristo, smiling. "Excuse
me, sir," replied the man, raising his hand to his cap; "I am
not up there, I know, but I have only just come down." "Do
not let me interfere with you in anything, my friend," said the
count; "gather your strawberries, if, indeed, there are any
left." "I
have ten left," said the man, "for here are eleven, and I had
twenty-one, five more than last year. But I am not surprised; the spring
has been warm this year, and strawberries require heat, sir. This is the
reason that, instead of the sixteen I had last year, I have this year, you
see, eleven, already plucked--twelve, thirteen, fourteen, fifteen,
sixteen, seventeen, eighteen. Ah, I miss three, they were here last night,
sir--I am sure they were here--I counted them. It must be the Mииre Simon's son who has stolen
them; I saw him strolling about here this morning. Ah, the young
rascal--stealing in a garden--he does not know where that may lead him
to." "Certainly,
it is wrong," said Monte Cristo, "but you should take into
consideration the youth and greediness of the delinquent." "Of
course," said the gardener, "but that does not make it the less
unpleasant. But, sir, once more I beg pardon; perhaps you are an officer
that I am detaining here." And he glanced timidly at the count's blue
coat. "Calm
yourself, my friend," said the count, with the smile which he made at
will either terrible or benevolent, and which now expressed only the
kindliest feeling; "I am not an inspector, but a traveller, brought
here by a curiosity he half repents of, since he causes you to lose your
time." "Ah,
my time is not valuable," replied the man with a melancholy smile.
"Still it belongs to government, and I ought not to waste it; but,
having received the signal that I might rest for an hour" (here he
glanced at the sun-dial, for there was everything in the enclosure of
Montlhижry, even a sun-dial), "and
having ten minutes before me, and my strawberries being ripe, when a day
longer--by-the-by, sir, do you think dormice eat them?" "Indeed,
I should think not," replied Monte Cristo; "dormice are bad
neighbors for us who do not eat them preserved, as the Romans did." "What?
Did the Romans eat them?" said the gardener--"ate dormice?"
"I
have read so in Petronius," said the count. "Really?
They can't be nice, though they do say 'as fat as a dormouse.' It is not a
wonder they are fat, sleeping all day, and only waking to eat all night.
Listen. Last year I had four apricots--they stole one, I had one
nectarine, only one--well, sir, they ate half of it on the wall; a
splendid nectarine--I never ate a better." "You
ate it?" "That
is to say, the half that was left--you understand; it was exquisite, sir.
Ah, those gentlemen never choose the worst morsels; like Mere Simon's son,
who has not chosen the worst strawberries. But this year," continued
the horticulturist, "I'll take care it shall not happen, even if I
should be forced to sit by the whole night to watch when the strawberries
are ripe." Monte Cristo had seen enough. Every man has a devouring
passion in his heart, as every fruit has its worm; that of the telegraph
man was horticulture. He began gathering the grape-leaves which screened
the sun from the grapes, and won the heart of the gardener. "Did you
come here, sir, to see the telegraph?" he said. "Yes,
if it isn't contrary to the rules." "Oh,
no," said the gardener; "not in the least, since there is no
danger that anyone can possibly understand what we are saying." "I
have been told," said the count, "that you do not always
yourselves understand the signals you repeat." "That
is true, sir, and that is what I like best," said the man, smiling. "Why
do you like that best?" "Because
then I have no responsibility. I am a machine then, and nothing else, and
so long as I work, nothing more is required of me." "Is
it possible," said Monte Cristo to himself, "that I can have met
with a man that has no ambition? That would spoil my plans." "Sir,"
said the gardener, glancing at the sun-dial, "the ten minutes are
almost up; I must return to my post. Will you go up with me?" "I
follow you." Monte Cristo entered the tower, which was divided into
three stories. The tower contained implements, such as spades, rakes,
watering-pots, hung against the wall; this was all the furniture. The
second was the man's conventional abode, or rather sleeping-place; it
contained a few poor articles of household furniture--a bed, a table, two
chairs, a stone pitcher--and some dry herbs, hung up to the ceiling, which
the count recognized as sweet pease, and of which the good man was
preserving the seeds; he had labelled them with as much care as if he had
been master botanist in the Jardin des Plantes. "Does
it require much study to learn the art of telegraphing?" asked Monte
Cristo. "The
study does not take long; it was acting as a supernumerary that was so
tedious." "And
what is the pay?" "A
thousand francs, sir." "It
is nothing." "No;
but then we are lodged, as you perceive." Monte
Cristo looked at the room. They passed to the third story; it was the
telegraph room. Monte Cristo looked in turn at the two iron handles by
which the machine was worked. "It is very interesting," he said,
"but it must be very tedious for a lifetime." "Yes.
At first my neck was cramped with looking at it, but at the end of a year
I became used to it; and then we have our hours of recreation, and our
holidays." "Holidays?"
"Yes."
"When?"
"When
we have a fog." "Ah,
to be sure." "Those
are indeed holidays to me; I go into the garden, I plant, I prune, I trim,
I kill the insects all day long." "How
long have you been here?" "Ten
years, and five as a supernumerary make fifteen." "You
are--" "Fifty-five
years old." "How
long must you have served to claim the pension?" "Oh,
sir, twenty-five years." "And
how much is the pension?" "A
hundred crowns." "Poor
humanity!" murmured Monte Cristo. "What
did you say, sir?" asked the man. "I
was saying it was very interesting." "What
was?" "All
you were showing me. And you really understand none of these
signals?" "None
at all." "And
have you never tried to understand them?" "Never.
Why should I?" "But
still there are some signals only addressed to you." "Certainly."
"And
do you understand them?" "They
are always the same." "And
they mean--" "Nothing
new; You have an hour; or To-morrow." "This
is simple enough," said the count; "but look, is not your
correspondent putting itself in motion?" "Ah,
yes; thank you, sir." "And
what is it saying--anything you understand?" "Yes;
it asks if I am ready." "And
you reply?" "By
the same sign, which, at the same time, tells my right-hand correspondent
that I am ready, while it gives notice to my left-hand correspondent to
prepare in his turn." "It
is very ingenious," said the count. "You
will see," said the man proudly; "in five minutes he will
speak." "I
have, then, five minutes," said Monte Cristo to himself; "it is
more time than I require. My dear sir, will you allow me to ask you a
question?" "What
is it, sir?" "You
are fond of gardening?" "Passionately."
"And
you would be pleased to have, instead of this terrace of twenty feet, an
enclosure of two acres?" "Sir,
I should make a terrestrial paradise of it." "You
live badly on your thousand francs?" "Badly
enough; but yet I do live." "Yes;
but you have a wretchedly small garden." "True,
the garden is not large." "And,
then, such as it is, it is filled with dormice, who eat everything." "Ah,
they are my scourges." "Tell
me, should you have the misfortune to turn your head while your right-hand
correspondent was telegraphing"-- "I
should not see him." "Then
what would happen?" "I
could not repeat the signals." "And
then?" "Not
having repeated them, through negligence, I should be fined." "How
much?" "A
hundred francs." "The
tenth of your income--that would be fine work." "Ah,"
said the man. "Has
it ever happened to you?" said Monte Cristo. "Once,
sir, when I was grafting a rose-tree." "Well,
suppose you were to alter a signal, and substitute another?" "Ah,
that is another case; I should be turned off, and lose my pension." "Three
hundred francs?" "A
hundred crowns, yes, sir; so you see that I am not likely to do any of
these things." "Not
even for fifteen years' wages? Come, it is worth thinking about?" "For
fifteen thousand francs?" "Yes."
"Sir,
you alarm me." "Nonsense."
"Sir,
you are tempting me?" "Just
so; fifteen thousand francs, do you understand?" "Sir,
let me see my right-hand correspondent." "On
the contrary, do not look at him, but at this." "What
is it?" "What?
Do you not know these bits of paper?" "Bank-notes!"
"Exactly;
there are fifteen of them." "And
whose are they?" "Yours,
if you like." "Mine?"
exclaimed the man, half-suffocated. "Yes;
yours--your own property." "Sir,
my right-hand correspondent is signalling." "Let
him signal." "Sir,
you have distracted me; I shall be fined." "That
will cost you a hundred francs; you see it is your interest to take my
bank-notes." "Sir,
my right-hand correspondent redoubles his signals; he is impatient." "Never
mind--take these;" and the count placed the packet in the man's
hands. "Now this is not all," he said; "you cannot live
upon your fifteen thousand francs." "I
shall still have my place." "No,
you will lose it, for you are going to alter your correspondent's
message." "Oh,
sir, what are you proposing?" "A
jest." "Sir,
unless you force me"-- "I
think I can effectually force you;" and Monte Cristo drew another
packet from his pocket. "Here are ten thousand more francs," he
said, "with the fifteen thousand already in your pocket, they will
make twenty-five thousand. With five thousand you can buy a pretty little
house with two acres of land; the remaining twenty thousand will bring you
in a thousand francs a year." "A
garden with two acres of land!" "And
a thousand francs a year." "Oh,
heavens!" "Come,
take them," and Monte Cristo forced the bank-notes into his hand. "What
am I to do?" "Nothing
very difficult." "But
what is it?" "To
repeat these signs." Monte Cristo took a paper from his pocket, upon
which were drawn three signs, with numbers to indicate the order in which
they were to be worked. "There,
you see it will not take long." "Yes;
but"-- "Do
this, and you will have nectarines and all the rest." The shot told;
red with fever, while the large drops fell from his brow, the man
executed, one after the other, the three signs given by the count, in
spite of the frightful contortions of the right-hand correspondent, who,
not understanding the change, began to think the gardener had gone mad. As
to the left-hand one, he conscientiously repeated the same signals, which
were finally transmitted to the Minister of the Interior. "Now you
are rich," said Monte Cristo. "Yes,"
replied the man, "but at what a price!" "Listen,
friend," said Monte Cristo. "I do not wish to cause you any
remorse; believe me, then, when I swear to you that you have wronged no
man, but on the contrary have benefited mankind." The man looked at
the bank-notes, felt them, counted them, turned pale, then red, then
rushed into his room to drink a glass of water, but he had no time to
reach the water-jug, and fainted in the midst of his dried herbs. Five
minutes after the new telegram reached the minister, Debray had the horses
put to his carriage, and drove to Danglars' house. "Has
your husband any Spanish bonds?" he asked of the baroness. "I
think so, indeed! He has six millions' worth." "He
must sell them at whatever price." "Why?"
"Because
Don Carlos has fled from Bourges, and has returned to Spain." "How
do you know?" Debray shrugged his shoulders. "The idea of asking
how I hear the news," he said. The baroness did not wait for a
repetition; she ran to her husband, who immediately hastened to his agent,
and ordered him to sell at any price. When it was seen that Danglars sold,
the Spanish funds fell directly. Danglars lost five hundred thousand
francs; but he rid himself of all his Spanish shares. The same evening the
following was read in Le Messager: "[By
telegraph.] The king, Don Carlos, has escaped the vigilance of his
guardians at Bourges, and has returned to Spain by the Catalonian
frontier. Barcelona has risen in his favor." All
that evening nothing was spoken of but the foresight of Danglars, who had
sold his shares, and of the luck of the stock-jobber, who only lost five
hundred thousand francs by such a blow. Those who had kept their shares,
or bought those of Danglars, looked upon themselves as ruined, and passed
a very bad night. Next morning Le Moniteur contained the following: "It
was without any foundation that Le Messager yesterday announced the flight
of Don Carlos and the revolt of Barcelona. The king (Don Carlos) has not
left Bourges, and the peninsula is in the enjoyment of profound peace. A
telegraphic signal, improperly interpreted, owing to the fog, was the
cause of this error." The
funds rose one per cent higher than before they had fallen. This,
reckoning his loss, and what he had missed gaining, made the difference of
a million to Danglars. "Good," said Monte Cristo to Morrel, who
was at his house when the news arrived of the strange reverse of fortune
of which Danglars's had been the victim, "I have just made a
discovery for twenty-five thousand francs, for which I would have paid a
hundred thousand." "What
have you discovered?" asked Morrel. "I
have just discovered how a gardener may get rid of the dormice that eat
his peaches." |
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