NOT ON the same night, as he had intended, but the next morning, the Count of Monte Cristo went out by the Barrier d'Enfer, taking the road to Orleans. Leaving the village of Linas, without stopping at the telegraph, which flourished its great bony arms as he passed, the count reached the tower of Montlhéry, situated, as every one knows, upon the highest point of the plain of that name. At the foot of the hill the count dismounted and began to ascend by a little winding path, about eighteen inches wide; when he reached the summit he found himself stopped by a hedge, upon which green fruit had succeeded to red and white flowers.

Monte Cristo looked for the entrance to the enclosure, and was not long in finding a little wooden gate, working on willow hinges, and fastened with a nail and string. The count soon mastered the mechanism, the gate opened, and he then found himself in a little garden, about twenty feet long by twelve wide, bounded on one side by part of the hedge, which contained the ingenious contrivance we have called a gate, and on the other by the old tower, covered with ivy and studded with wall-flowers. No one would have thought in looking at this old, weather-beaten, floral-decked tower (which might be likened to an elderly dame dressed up to receive her grandchildren at a birthday feast) that it would have been capable of telling strange things, if,--in addition to the menacing ears which the proverb says all walls are provided with,--it had also a voice. The garden was crossed by a path of red gravel, edged by a border of thick box, of many years' growth, and of a tone and color that would have delighted the heart of Delacroix, our modern Rubens. This path was formed in the shape of the figure of 8, thus, in its windings, making a walk of sixty feet in a garden of only twenty.

Never had Flora, the fresh and smiling goddess of gardeners, been honored with a purer or more scrupulous worship than that which was paid to her in this little enclosure. In fact, of the twenty rose-trees which formed the parterre, not one bore the mark of the slug, nor were there evidences anywhere of the clustering aphis which is so destructive to plants growing in a damp soil. And yet it was not because the damp had been excluded from the garden; the earth, black as soot, the thick foliage of the trees betrayed its presence; besides, had natural humidity been wanting, it could have been immediately supplied by artificial means, thanks to a tank of water, sunk in one of the corners of the garden, and upon which were stationed a frog and a toad, who, from antipathy, no doubt, always remained on the two opposite sides of the basin. There was not a blade of grass to be seen in the paths, or a weed in the flower-beds; no fine lady ever trained and watered her geraniums, her cacti, and her rhododendrons, with more pains than this hitherto unseen gardener bestowed upon his little enclosure. Monte Cristo stopped after having closed the gate and fastened the string to the nail, and cast a look around.

"The man at the telegraph," said he, "must either engage a gardener or devote himself passionately to agriculture." Suddenly he struck against something crouching behind a wheelbarrow filled with leaves; the something rose, uttering 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 grape 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 Mère Simon's son 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 officer that I am detaining here." And he glanced timidly at the count's blue coat.

"Calm yourself, my friend," said the count, with the smile which he made at will either terrible or benevolent, and which now expressed only the kindliest feeling; "I am not an inspector, but a traveller, brought here by a 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 government, and I ought not to waste it; but, having received the signal that I might rest for an hour" (here he glanced at the sun-dial, for there was everything in the enclosure 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--"ate dormice?"

"I have read so in Petronius," 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 Mere 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?"

"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 pease, 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."

"Those are indeed holidays to me; I go into the garden, I plant, I prune, I trim, I 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 have served 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 itself 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 enclosure 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 a wretchedly 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 at this."

"What is it?"

"What? Do you not know these bits of paper?"

"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 signalling."

"Let him signal."

"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 man's hands. "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 your correspondent's message."

"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 shot told; 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, in spite of the frightful contortions of the right-hand correspondent, who, not understanding the change, began to think the gardener had gone mad. As to the left-hand one, he conscientiously repeated the same signals, which were finally transmitted 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, 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' house.

"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:

"[By telegraph.] The king, Don Carlos, has escaped the vigilance of his guardians at Bourges, and has returned to Spain by the Catalonian frontier. Barcelona has risen in his favor."

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:

"It was without any foundation that Le Messager yesterday announced the flight of Don Carlos and the revolt of Barcelona. The king (Don Carlos) has not left Bourges, and the peninsula is in the enjoyment of profound peace. A telegraphic signal, improperly interpreted, owing to the fog, was the cause of this error."

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's 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 how a gardener may get rid of the dormice that eat his peaches."

基督山伯爵驱车出了恩弗城栅，踏上了去奥尔良的大路，但并不象他所说的在当天傍晚，而是在第二天早晨。当经过黎纳斯村的时候，他并没有在那些不起眼的急报站前停下来，而是径直达到蒙得雷塔。蒙得雷塔，大家都知道，就在蒙得雷平原的最高点上。伯爵在山脚下下了车，开始沿着一条约莫十八寸宽的弯弯曲曲的小路上山。一到山顶，他就发觉自己被一道篱笆挡住了，篱笆上挂满了绿色的果实和红色白色的花朵。

基督山找了一下篱笆上的门，不久就找到了。那是一扇小木门，用柳条做的铰链，用一根绳子和一枚钉子做的搭扣。

伯爵不一会儿搞清了它的机关，门开了。他于是发觉自己已站在了一个约莫二十尺长、十二尺宽的小花园里，花园的这一面是篱笆，上面挖出一个门，另一面就是那座爬满了常春藤和点缀着野花的古塔。看它这种满脸皱纹、盛装艳抹的样子，真象是一位等候她的孙儿女来向她拜寿的老太太，然而，假如象古谚语所说隔墙有耳的话，它能讲出好几件可怕的悲剧，这恐怕是谁都想得到的。花园里有一条红色的石子铺成的小径，两旁夹着已经生长了很多年的茂密的黄杨树，其色彩和风格，要是让我们当代的绘画大师德拉克络斯看了心里一定会很喜欢的。这条小径成字形，所以在一个只有二十尺长的花园里，它弯弯曲曲地形成了一条六十尺的走道。白花女神弗洛雪林要是看到了这块小小的园地，准会满面含笑的。准会觉得在这里受到了旷世未有的崇敬。的确，在那花坛中的那二十株玫瑰花上，没有一只苍蝇停在上面。那些繁生在潮湿的土壤里专门毁坏植物的绿色昆虫，在这里却一只都看不到。可是这并非说花园里的土就不潮湿。那泥土黑得象煤炭一样，树上枝叶茂密，这一切都说明土壤的确是很润湿的；而且，要是天然的湿度不够的话，还可以立刻用人工的方法来弥补，这就得感谢那只埋在花园的一个角落里的大水缸了。水缸边上驻着一只青蛙和一只癞蛤蟆，青蛙和癞蛤蟆是天生合不来的，它们当然永远地呆在这只浴盆的两面。小径上看不到一根杂草，花坛里也没有。这位园丁虽然还未露面，但他经营这片小园地的一番苦心已是人人都看得到的了，即使一位细心的太太也不会这样小心地来浇灌她的天竺葵、仙人掌和踯躅草的。基督山把门关上，把绳子扣回到铁钉上，然后站定了向四周看了一眼。

“这位急报员，”他说道，“一定雇有园丁，不然的话，他本人肯定就是一位热心的园艺家。”突然他在一辆满装树叶的羊角车后面踩到了一样东西，那东西本来是伛偻着的，被他一踩，就站了起来，于是基督山发觉他面前已站着一个年约五十岁左右的男人，他刚才正在摘草莓，并把摘下的草莓都放在葡萄叶上。他有十二张萄萄叶和差不多同数的草莓，但由于站起来的时候太突然了，草莓从他的手上滚了下去。

“你在采果子吗，先生？”基督山微笑着说道。

“很抱歉，先生，”那人把他的手举到鸭舌帽的边上，答道。“我没在上面，你知道，但我也是刚刚下来的。”

“我不打扰你了，朋友，”伯爵说，“继续采你的草莓吧，假如的确还有些没采完的话。”

“我还有十个没采下来，”那人说道，“因为这儿已经有十一个了，我一共有二十一个，比去年多了五个。这我并不感到奇怪，因为今年春天很暖和，而草莓要天热才长得好，先生。就是为了这个原因，我去年虽然只有十六个，而今年，你看，已经摘了十一个了——十二，十三，十四，十五，十六，十七，十八。啊，少了三个！它们昨天晚上还在这儿的，先生。我确信它们是在这儿的——我数过的呀。肯定是西蒙大娘的儿子把它们偷去了。我今天早晨看到他在这儿溜来溜去的。啊，那个小混蛋！在花园里偷东西！他倒不怕吃官司。”

“这事是挺严重，”基督山说道，“但你也应考虑到罪犯的年轻和口味。”

“当然喽，”那园艺家说道，“但它仍然使我不高兴呀。先生，我再道歉一次，我耽搁你了，您大概是一位长官吧？”他胆怯地瞟了一眼伯爵的蓝色上装。

“请放心吧，我的朋友，”伯爵带笑说道，他可以随意把他的笑容变成可怕或慈祥的样子，而这一次他脸上笑容是后者那种表情。“我不是什么视察官，而是一个旅客，是出于好奇心才到这儿来的。我已经开始后悔来参观了，因为这恐怕要浪费你的时间的。”

“啊！”我的时间是不值钱的。”那人带着一个凄苦的微笑回答道。“可是，它是属于政府的，我也不应该浪费它，但收过信号后，我就可以休息一个钟头了。”（说到这里，他望了一眼日规，在这个蒙得雷花园里一切都齐备，连日规都有），还有十分钟，我的草莓已经熟了，再过一天——且慢，先生，你认为睡鼠吃草莓吗？”

“哦，我想不会吧，”基督山郑重地回答说，“睡鼠，先生，是我们的坏邻居，但我们可不象罗马人那样把它们浸在蜜糖里吃。”

“什么！罗马人吃这种东西吗？”那位园艺家说道，“他们吃睡鼠？”

“彼特尼乌斯［彼特尼乌斯，生于公元一世纪，罗马作家，写有《讽刺集》一书，记述罗马一世纪时的生活。——译注］的书上是这样写的。”伯爵说道。

“真的！它们不见得好吃吧，尽管人们常说，‘肥得象一只睡鼠’这句话。也难怪它们肥，白天整天睡觉，到了晚上才醒来，然后通夜地吃。听我说！去年我的树上结了四只杏子，它们偷去了一个。结了一只油桃，只有一只——嗯，先生，它们就爬到墙上去吃掉了半只，那可是一只非常好的油桃，我从来没吃到过比它更好的了。”

“你吃了吗？”

“吃了剩下的那半只，您知道，味道鲜美极了，先生。啊，那些先生们是从来不会捡坏东西吃的，就象西蒙大娘的儿子一样，他从不吃那些坏草莓。但明年呀，”那位园艺家继续说道，“我是要小心提防，不让这种事再发生，当草莓快要成熟的时候，即使要我通宵坐着看守他们我也干。”

基督山看够了。每个人的心里都热爱着某样东西，正如每一种果子里都有一种毛虫一样，这个急报员所热爱的是园艺业。他开始来摘掉那些使葡萄被遮住，而享受不到阳光的叶子，所以才博得了那位园艺家的欢心。

“您是到这儿来看发急报的吗，先生？”他问。

“是的，假如不违反规定的话。”

“噢，不，”那园艺家说道，“根本没什么规定不许人看，况且看看也没什么危险，因为没有人知道，也没有人能知道，我们在说些什么。”

“我听人说，”伯爵说道，“你们对于自己所传达的信号也并不是都懂的。”

“当然喽，先生，我最高兴的就是这一点。”那个人微笑着说。

“你为什么最高兴这一点呢？”

“因为那样我就没责任了。我只是一架机器而已，只要我完成了自己的任务，别的就一概都不用管了。”

“难道我是遇到了一个没有野心的人吗？”基督山心里自问道，“那会把我的计划弄糟的。”

“先生，”那位园艺家瞟了一眼日规说道，“十分钟快过去了，我得回去干我的活了。请您和我一起上去好吗？”

“我跟着你。”

基督山走进了这座塔。塔分上下三层，最底下的一层储藏园艺工具，如铲子、水壶、钉耙什么的，都一一挂在墙上；全部家具都在这儿了。第二层是普通房间。说得更确切些，就是那人睡觉的地方；房间里有几件可怜的家具——一张床，一个桌子，两把椅子，一只陶瓷水壶；天花板上挂着一些干瘪的草本植物，伯爵认出那是干胡豆，其中有不知是哪位好人保留下来的种子，上面贴着标签，贴得非常认真仔细，好象他曾在植物研究所里当过植物学大师似的。

“要学会急报术得花很长时间吗，先生？”基督山问。

“学会它用不了多久，只是工作很单调，令人厌烦极了。”

“薪水是多少？”

“一千法郎，先生。”

“太少了。”

“是的，但你也看到了，我们是供给住处的。”

基督山望着房间。“希望他不要十分依恋他这个住处才好！”他心里默想着。

他们走上了三楼。这里就是急报房了。基督山交替地观看着那架机器上的两只铁把子。“有趣极了，”他说道，但天长日久，你对这种生活一定会觉得非常厌烦吧。”

“是的。最初要不断地望着，直望得我脖子都酸了，但过了一年之后，我倒也习惯了，而且我们也有消遣和放假的时候。”

“放假？”

“是的。”

“什么时候？”

“大雾天的时候。”

“啊，一点不错。”

“那实在是我的假日，我就到花园里去，下种，拔草，剪枝，整天灭虫。”

“你在这儿有多久了？”

“十年加五年，我已经做了十五年的机器人了。”

“你现在”

“五十五岁喽。”

“你必须服务多久才能享受养老金？”

“噢，先生，得二十五年才行。”

“养老金是多少？”

“一百艾居。”

“可怜的人类！”基督山低声说道。

“你说什么，先生？”那人问道。

“我说有趣极了。”

“什么东西有趣？”

“你指给我看的一切都很有趣。你对于这些信号真的一点都不懂吗？”

“一点都不懂。”

“你从未想过去弄懂它们的意思吗？”

“不。我何必要去懂呢？”

“但有几个信号是特地发给你的吗？”

“当然罗。”

“那些信号你懂不懂？”

“那是千篇一律的。”

“它们的意思是”

“‘无新消息’、‘可休息一小时’、或是‘明天’。”

“这倒非常简单，”伯爵说道，“看！你的通讯员是不是在那儿向你发信号了？”

“啊，是的，谢谢你，先生。”

“他在说什么——你懂不懂？”

“懂的，他在问我准备好了没有。”

“你的回答呢？”

“发一个信号，告诉我右边的通讯员我已经准备好了，同时，这也是在通知我左边的通讯员，叫他也准备好。”

“妙极了。”伯爵说道。

“你瞧着吧，”那人骄傲地说道，“五分钟之内，他就要说话了。”

“那么，我还有五分钟的时间，”基督山对他自己说道，“我还用不了那么长的时间呢。亲爱的先生，你能允许我问你一个问题吗？”

“什么事，先生！”

“你很喜欢园艺工作？”

“喜欢极了。”

“假如放弃这块二十尺长的草坪，给你一个两亩大的园子，你会高兴吗？”

“先生，我可以把它造成一座人间乐园的。”

“只靠一千法郎，你的生活一定过得很艰难吧？”

“够艰难的了，但还能活下去。”

“是的，但你只有一个很可怜的花园！”

“不错，这个花园不大。”

“而且，非但不大，还到处都有偷吃一切东西的睡鼠。”

“啊！它们可真是我的灾星。”

“告诉我，当你右边的那位通讯员在发报的时候，假如你碰巧转了一下头——”

“那我就什么都看不到了。”

“那就会发生什么事？”

“我就无法转达那信号了。”

“于是？”

“因疏忽而不能转达，我将被罚款。”

“罚多少？”

“一百法郎。”

“一下子去了你收入的十分之一，真够受的！”

“啊！”那个人说道。

“你有没有发生过这种事？”基督山说道。

“有一次的，先生，那次我正在给一棵玫瑰花接枝。”

“嗯，假如你把它改变一下，用别的信号来代替呢？”

“啊，那就是另一回事了，我就会被革职，失去我的养老金的。”

“是三百法郎吗？”

“是的，一百艾居，先生，所以你看，我是不愿意去干那种事的。”

“一下子给你十五年的工资你也不干吗？嘿，这可是值得想一想的呀，呃？”

“给我一万五千法郎？”

“是呀。”

“先生，您吓坏我啦。”

“这算不了什么。”

“先生，您在诱惑我。”

“一点不错，一万五千法郎，你懂吗？”

“先生，现在让我来看看我右边的通讯员吧！”

“恰恰相反，别去看他，来看看这个吧。”

“这是什么？”

“什么！难道你不认识这些小纸片吗？”

“钞票！”

“一点儿不错，一共十五张。”

“这是谁的？”

“是你的，假如你愿意的话。”

“我的！”那个人几乎透不过气来大声说道。

“是的，你的——你自己的财产。”

“先生，我右边的通讯员在发信号啦。”

“让他去发好啦。”

“先生，你可害苦了我了，我会被罚款的呀。”

“那只会使你损失一百法郎，你瞧，收了我的钞票以后对你还是很有利的。”

“先生，我右边的通讯员在重发他的信号了，他不耐烦啦。”

“别去管他，收下吧。”说着伯爵就把那叠钞票塞到了那个人的手里。“这还没完，”他说道，“你不能只靠一万五千法郎生活。”

“我仍然可以保留我的工作的。”

“不，你的工作肯定要失去的，因为你得改变一下那个通讯员发来的信号。”

“噢，先生，您想干什么？”

“开个玩笑而已。”

“先生，除非你强迫我——”

“我准备很有效地强迫你，”基督山从他的口袋里又抽出一叠钞票来。“这儿还有一万法郎，”他说道，“加上已经在你口袋里的那一万五千，一共是二万五了。你可以用五千法郎买一块两亩大的地和一所漂亮的小房子；余下的两万可以使你每年有一千法郎的利息。”

“一座两亩地大的花园？”

“一年还有一千法郎。”

“啊，天哪！”

“喂，拿着吧！”基督山把钞票硬塞到他的手里。

“我得做什么事呢？”

“事情并不很难。”

“但是什么事呢？”

“把这些信号发出去。”基督山从他的口袋里摸出一张纸来，上面已写好了三组信号，还有数目字标明发送的次序。

“喏，你看，这用不了多长时间的。”

“是的，但是——”

“完成这件事以后，油桃以及其他的一切你便都可以有了。”

这一突然的进攻成功了，那个人脸涨得通红，额头上滚下了一连串黄豆般大的汗珠，他把伯爵交给他的那三组信号接连发了出去，根本不顾那右边的通讯员在那儿是多么得惊奇，后者由于不知道其中的变化，还以为这位园艺家发疯了呢。至于左边的那个通讯员，他如实地转达了那些同样的信号。于是那些信号就忠实地传向了内政部长。

“你现在发财了。”基督山说道。

“是的，”那个人回答说，“但付出了多大的代价呵！”

“听着，我的朋友，”基督山说道。“我不希望你产生丝毫的后悔之意，所以，相信我吧，我可以向你发誓，你这样做不损害任何人，你只是执行了天意而已。”

“那人望着钞票，把它们抚摸了一阵，数了一遍；他的脸色由白转红。然后他向他的房间里冲去，想去喝一杯水，但还没等跑到水壶那个地方，他就晕倒在他的干豆枝堆里了。

五分钟之后，这封新的急报送到了部长的手里，德布雷吩咐套车，急忙赶到了腾格拉尔府上。

“你丈夫有没有西班牙公债？”他问男爵夫人。

“我想有的吧。的确！他有六百万呢。”

“他必须卖掉它，不管是什么价钱。”

“为什么？”

“因为卡罗斯已经从布尔日逃了出来，回西班牙了。”

“你怎么知道的？”

德布雷耸了耸肩。“竟想到来问我怎么知道那个消息的！”他说道。

男爵夫人不再问什么了。她急忙奔到她丈夫那儿，后者则立刻赶到了他的代理人那儿，吩咐他不管什么价钱赶快卖掉。大家一看到腾格拉尔抛出，西班牙公债西班牙公债就立刻下跌了。腾格拉尔虽蚀掉了五十万法郎，但他却把他的西班牙证券全部都脱手了。当天晚上，《消息报》上登出了这样一段新闻：“急报站讯：被监禁在布尔日的国王卡罗斯已逃脱，现已越过加塔洛尼亚边境回到了西班牙。巴塞罗那人民群起拥戴。”

那天晚上，大家别的什么都不谈，只谈论腾格拉尔有先见之明，因为他把他的证券全卖掉了，又谈到了他的运气，因为在这样一个打击之下，他只蚀掉了五十万法郎。那些没有把证券卖掉或收购腾格拉尔的公债的人，认为自己已经破产了，因而过了一个极不愉快的夜晚。

第二天早晨，《警世报》上登出了下面这段消息：“《消息报》昨日所登有关卡罗斯逃脱，巴塞罗那叛变的消息毫无根据。国王卡罗斯并未离开布尔日，半岛仍处一片升平气象中。此项错误，系由于雾中急报信号误传所致。

于是西班牙公债立刻飞涨了起来，其上涨的幅度是下跌的两倍。把蚀掉的本钱和错过的赚头加起来，腾格拉尔一下子损失了一百万。

“好！”基督山对莫雷尔说道，当这个暴跌暴涨的怪新闻传来的时候，后者正在他的家里。“我刚才有了一个新发现，可以用二万五千法郎去买到我愿意付十万的东西。”  

“你发现了什么？”莫雷尔问道。

“我刚刚发现了一种把一个怕睡鼠吃他的桃子的园艺家拯救出来的方法。”