“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 banknotes into his hand.
“What am I to do?”
“Nothing very difficult.”