by Alexandre Dumas (Pere)
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"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?"
