C.D. Warner, et al., comp. The Library of the World’s Best Literature.
An Anthology in Thirty Volumes. 1917.
The Cure for Dormice that Eat Peaches
By Alexandre Dumas (1802–1870)
N
Monte Cristo looked for the door of the inclosure, and was not long in finding it. It was a little wooden gate, working on willow hinges, and fastened with a nail and string. The count soon understood its mechanism, and the door opened. He then found himself in a little marvelously well-kept garden, about twenty feet long by twelve wide, bounded on one side by part of the hedge, in which was formed the ingenious machine we have named a door; and on the other by the old tower, covered with ivy and studded with wild flowers. Monte Cristo stopped, after having closed the door and fastened the string to the nail, and cast a look around.
“The man at the telegraph,” said he, “must either keep a gardener or devote himself passionately to horticulture.” Suddenly he struck himself against something crouching behind a wheelbarrow filled with leaves; the something rose, uttered 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 vine-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 son of Mother Simon 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 official that I am detaining here?” And he glanced timidly at the count’s blue coat.
“Calm yourself, my friend,” said the count, with that smile which at his will became so terrible or benevolent, and which this time beamed only with the latter expression; “I am not an inspector, but a traveler, conducted here by 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 the government, and I ought not to waste it; but having received the signal that I might rest for an hour” (here he glanced at a sun-dial, for there was everything in the inclosure of Montlhéry, 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; “eat dormice?”
“I have read so,” 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 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, sir.”
“It is nothing.”
“No; but then we are lodged, as you perceive.”
Monte Cristo looked at the room. They passed on to the third stage; it was the room of the telegraph. Monte Cristo looked in turns 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 when we have a fog.”
“Ah, to be sure.”
“Those are indeed holidays to me; I go into the garden, I plant, prune, trim, and 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 serve 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 himself 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 inclosure 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 only a 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 on this.”
“What is it?”
“What! do you not know these little papers?”
“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 signaling.”
“Let him.”
“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 hands of the man. “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 the sign of your correspondent.”
“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 mark was hit: 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; notwithstanding the frightful contortions of the right-hand correspondent, who, not understanding the change, began to think the gardener had become mad. As to the left-hand one, he conscientiously repeated the same signals, which were definitively carried 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; he 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’s.
“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:—
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:
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 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 the method of ridding a gardener of the dormice that eat his peaches.”