e, 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 Mother 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 up 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 man at the telegraph was horticulture. He began
gathering the vine-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 not contrary to the rules."

"Oh no," said the gardener; "there are no orders against doing so,
providing there is nothing dangerous, and that no one knows what we
are saying."

"I have been told," said the count, "that you do not always yourselves
understand the signals you repeat."

"Certainly, 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 nearly expired; 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 stages. The lowest contained gardening implements, such as
spades, rakes, watering-pots, hung against the wall; this was all the
furniture. The second was the usual dwelling or rather sleeping-place
of the man; 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-peas, and of which
the good man was preserving the seeds, having labeled them with as
much care as if he had been a botanist.

"Does it require much study to learn the art of telegraphing, sir?"
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,