“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 sundial, “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 lower 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.”