“I follow you.”
Monte Cristo entered the tower, which was divided into three stories. The tower contained implements, such as spades, rakes, watering-pots, hung against the wall; this was all the furniture. The second was the man’s conventional abode, or rather sleeping-place; 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; he had labelled them with as much care as if he had been master botanist in the Jardin des Plantes.
“Does it require much study to learn the art of telegraphing?” 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 to the third story; it was the telegraph room. Monte Cristo looked in turn 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.”
“Holidays?”
“Yes.”
“When?”
“When we have a fog.”
“Ah, to be sure.”