“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 Mère 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?”