The Count of Monte Cristo (Unabridged Penguin) (116 page)

The first floor was the man’s usual – or, rather, nocturnal – home. It contained a few miserable household utensils, a bed, a table, two chairs and an earthenware sink, as well as some plants hanging from the ceiling, which the count understood to be beans and sweet peas, dried in order to preserve the seeds in their pods. They had been labelled with as much care as the work of a master botanist at the Jardin des Plantes.

‘Does it take a long time to learn telegraphy, Monsieur?’ he asked.

‘Not in itself, but the apprenticeship is long.’

‘And how much do you earn?’

‘A thousand francs, Monsieur.’

‘That’s hardly anything.’

‘But, as you can see, one is housed.’

Monte Cristo looked around the room and muttered: ‘As long as one doesn’t mind where one lives.’

They went up to the third floor; this was the telegraph room. Monte Cristo studied each of the two handles which the man used to operate the machine.

‘Very interesting,’ he said. ‘But in the long run, doesn’t this life become rather dull?’

‘Oh, yes. At first you get a stiff neck from looking; but after a year or two you get used to that. Then we have rest days and days off.’

‘Days off?’

‘Yes.’

‘When do you have those?’

‘When it’s foggy.’

‘Ah! Of course.’

‘Those are my holidays. I go down to the garden and plant, cut or prune. In short, time goes by.’

‘How long have you been here?’

‘Ten years, with five as an apprentice, making fifteen in all.’

‘And you are… ?’

‘Fifty-five.’

‘How long do you have to work to earn a pension?’

‘Oh! Twenty-five years.’

‘And how much does it amount to?’

‘A hundred
écus
.’

‘Poor creatures!’ Monte Cristo murmured.

‘I beg your pardon, Monsieur?’

‘I said that it was most curious.’

‘What?’

‘All this… that you have shown me. But you understand nothing of your signals?’

‘Absolutely nothing.’

‘And you have never tried to understand?’

‘Never; why should I?’

‘But there must be some signals addressed to you personally?’

‘Those ones are always the same.’

‘What do they say?’

‘ “Nothing to report”, “Take an hour off” or “Good-night”.’

‘That’s perfectly innocuous,’ said the count. ‘But, look! Isn’t your correspondent starting to move?’

‘Oh, yes, that’s right! Thank you, Monsieur.’

‘What is he saying? Is it something you understand?’

‘Yes, he’s asking if I’m ready.’

‘How do you reply?’

‘With a signal that tells the telegraphist to my right that I am ready and at the same time warns the one on my left to get ready in his turn.’

‘Very ingenious,’ said the count.

‘You will see,’ the man said proudly. ‘In five minutes, he will start speaking.’

‘So I have five minutes,’ thought Monte Cristo. ‘More time than I need.’ Then he said aloud: ‘My dear sir, let me ask you a question.’

‘Please do.’

‘Are you fond of gardening?’

‘Passionately.’

‘So what if, instead of a patch twenty feet long, you could have a garden of two acres?’

‘I should make it into an earthly paradise.’

‘And you don’t live well on your thousand francs?’

‘Not very well; but I can survive.’

‘Yes, but you only have a tiny garden.’

‘That’s true: the garden is not very large.’

‘And it is full of dormice who eat everything.’

‘They are the bane of my life.’

‘Tell me, suppose you were unfortunate enough to turn your head away when the telegraphist to your right started operating?’

‘Then I wouldn’t see his signals.’

‘What would happen?’

‘I couldn’t repeat them.’

‘And then?’

‘What would happen is that, if I neglected to repeat them, I would be fined.’

‘How much?’

‘A hundred francs.’

‘A tenth of your income! That’s nice!’

‘Ah, well…’ the telegraphist said.

‘Has that happened to you?’

‘Once, Monsieur, once… when I was grafting a rose-bush.’

‘Very well. Now suppose you were to change something in the signal or to send a different one?’

‘That’s another matter. I should be dismissed and lose my pension.’

‘Three hundred francs?’

‘Yes, a hundred
écus
, Monsieur. So you understand, I would never do that.’

‘Not even for fifteen years’ salary? Come, it’s worth considering, I think?’

‘For fifteen thousand francs?’

‘Yes.’

‘Monsieur, you are frightening me.’

‘Huh!’

‘Monsieur, are you trying to tempt me?’

‘Exactly! Fifteen thousand francs, you understand?’

‘Please, Monsieur, let me look at my correspondent to the right.’

‘No, don’t look at him. Look at this.’

‘What is it?’

‘Do you mean you don’t recognize this paper?’

‘Banknotes!’

‘Square ones, fifteen of them.’

‘Whose are they?’

‘Yours, if you wish.’

‘Mine!’ the man cried, in a strangled voice.

‘Undoubtedly! Yours and no one else’s.’

‘But look, Monsieur, my correspondent to the right has started up.’

‘Let him carry on.’

‘You have distracted me, I’m going to be fined.’

‘It will cost you a hundred francs. So, you see, it is in your interest to take my fifteen banknotes.’

‘Monsieur, my correspondent on the right is getting impatient. He is repeating his signals.’

‘Let him. Take the notes.’ And the count put the packet into the telegraphist’s hand. ‘Now,’ he said, ‘that’s not all. You won’t be able to live on fifteen thousand francs.’

‘I shall still have my job.’

‘No, you’ll lose it, because you are going to send a different signal from the one you receive.’

‘But, Monsieur, what are you suggesting?’

‘Child’s play.’

‘Monsieur, only if I were forced to…’

‘That is precisely what I intend.’ He took another packet out of his pocket and said: ‘Here are ten thousand more francs; with the fifteen thousand you already have, that makes twenty-five thousand. Five thousand is enough to buy a pretty little house and two acres of land; with the remainder, you can have an income of a thousand francs.’

‘A garden of two acres?’

‘And an income of a thousand francs.’

‘Good Lord! Oh, Lord!’

‘Take it, then!’ And Monte Cristo forced the ten thousand francs into the telegraphist’s hands.

‘What do I have to do?’

‘Nothing very hard.’

‘What, then?’

‘Repeat these signals.’

Monte Cristo took a sheet of paper out of his pocket on which there were three ready-prepared signals and numbers showing the order in which they were to be sent.

‘As you see, it will not take long.’

‘Yes, but…’

‘And for this, you will have nectarines and to spare.’

This was the telling blow. Feverish, red, pouring with sweat, the man sent the three signals he had been given by the count, despite the wild gesticulations transmitted by the telegraphist to his right, who was quite unable to understand the reason for the alteration and had begun to think that the nectarine man was mad. Meanwhile the man to the left conscientiously transmitted the new signals, which finally made their way to the Ministry of the Interior.

‘Now you are rich,’ Monte Cristo said.

‘Yes,’ said the telegraphist. ‘But at what price!’

‘Listen, my friend,’ Monte Cristo said. ‘I do not want your conscience to suffer. So believe me, I swear to you that you have done no harm to anyone and that you have served God’s will.’

The telegraphist looked at the banknotes, felt them, counted them. He went pale, then red. Finally he hurried into his room to drink a glass of water, but he was unable to reach the sink and fainted among the dry beans.

Five minutes after the telegraphic signal had reached the ministry, Debray harnessed his coupé and hurried round to Danglars’.

‘Does your husband have Spanish government bonds?’ he asked the baroness.

‘Yes, indeed he does. Six millions’ worth.’

‘Tell him to sell them at any price.’

‘Why?’

‘Because Don Carlos has escaped from Burgos and returned to Spain.’

‘How do you know?’

‘I have my sources,’ said Debray, with a shrug of the shoulders.

The baroness did not need to be told twice. She hastened to tell her husband, and he in turn ran round to his stockbroker and ordered him to sell at any price. When people saw that M. Danglars was selling, Spanish bonds at once began to fall. Danglars lost 500,000 francs, but he liquidated all his stock.

That evening, you could read in
Le Messager
: ‘King Don Carlos has escaped from house arrest in Burgos and has crossed the Catalonian border into Spain. Barcelona has risen to support him.’

Throughout the evening, everyone was talking about Danglars’ foresight in selling his stock, and the speculator’s good fortune in losing only 500,000 francs on the deal. Those who had kept their Spanish stock or bought from Danglars decided they were ruined, and spent a very unpleasant night.

The next day, you could read in
Le Moniteur
: ‘Yesterday’s article in
Le Messager
announcing Don Carlos’ escape and a rebellion in Barcelona was without foundation. King Don Carlos is still in Burgos and the peninsula is entirely tranquil. A telegraphic signal, misread because of the fog, gave rise to this false report.’

Spanish stock rose to double its price before the alarm. In actual losses and loss of profits, it meant a million francs to Danglars.

‘Very well!’ Monte Cristo said to Morrel, who was at his house when the news arrived of the odd reversal which had struck Danglars at the Exchange. ‘I have just paid twenty-five thousand francs for a discovery for which I would willingly have paid a hundred thousand.’

‘What have you discovered?’ Maximilien asked.

‘I have just found out how to rescue a gardener from the dormice who are eating his peaches.’

At first sight, on the outside, the house in Auteuil had none of the splendour one would expect from a dwelling intended for the magnificent Count of Monte Cristo. But this simplicity was consistent with the master’s wishes: he had given strict instructions that nothing was to be changed on the outside, and one had only to consider the inside to understand why: the door was hardly open before the scene changed utterly.

M. Bertuccio had outdone himself in the good taste shown in the choice of furnishings and in the speed of fitting the house out. Like the Duc d’Antin, who once had a row of trees cut down overnight because King Louis XIV had complained that they interrupted the view, so in three days M. Bertuccio had had an empty courtyard entirely planted, while fine poplars and sycamores, transplanted with their huge mass of roots, gave shelter to the façade of the house in front of which, instead of stones half overgrown with grass, there was a lawn: the turves had been laid that very morning to make a vast carpet still glistening with the water that had been sprinkled over it.

The orders for all this had come from the count. He had given Bertuccio a plan on which he had marked the number and position of the trees that needed planting, and the shape and extent of the lawn that was to take the place of the stone yard. Now that the work was done, the house had become unrecognizable and Bertuccio himself claimed that he could no longer recognize it, nestling as it was into its setting of greenery.

While he was about it, the steward would have liked to make some changes in the garden, but the count had expressly forbidden him to alter anything. Bertuccio made up for the disappointment by filling the antechambers, stairways and mantelpieces with flowers.

In all, this house, which had been empty for twenty-five years and only the day before had been dark and gloomy, impregnated with what might be called the aroma of time, had in a single day recovered an appearance of life, full of the master’s favourite perfumes and even his preferred amount of daylight: nothing could
better have illustrated the steward’s skill and his master’s understanding – the first, in what was needed to serve, the latter in what was needed to be served. When he came in, the count found his books and his weapons to hand, and his favourite paintings before his eyes. In the antechambers were the dogs it pleased him to stroke and the birds it pleased him to hear sing. Like the Sleeping Beauty’s castle, the whole house had been awakened from its long sleep and come to life; it sang and blossomed like one of those houses that we have long cherished and in which, when we are unfortunate enough to leave them, we involuntarily relinquish a part of our souls.