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 flowerbeds; no fine lady ever trained and watered her geraniums, her cacti, and her rhododendrons, in her porcelain jardinière 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