The Count of Monte Cristo didn't leave Paris yet. Instead, he set out the following morning, heading south toward the city of Orléans. His destination wasn't the city itself, but a specific location along the way, a telegraph tower perched on the highest point of a flat plain.
Back in those days, before phones or internet, telegraph towers were how important messages traveled across the country. Men stationed in towers would move mechanical arms in coded patterns, and the next tower down the line would copy those signals, passing messages from city to city at remarkable speed.
The Count dismounted at the base of a hill and climbed a narrow, winding path. At the summit, a hedge blocked his way, its branches heavy with green fruit where flowers had bloomed earlier in the season. He found a crude wooden gate held shut by nothing more than a nail and string, pushed it open, and stepped into a tiny garden.
The space was barely twenty feet long and twelve feet wide, squeezed between the hedge and an ancient ivy-covered tower. Despite its age, the tower looked almost cheerful, like an elderly grandmother dressed up for a family gathering. The garden itself was immaculate, a red gravel path wound through it in a figure-eight pattern, bordered by perfectly trimmed boxwood that had grown thick and dark over many years.
Every rose bush was pristine. Not a single pest had damaged the leaves. The soil was rich and black, and in one corner sat a small water tank where a frog and a toad kept to opposite sides, as if they couldn't stand each other. Every pathway was perfectly clear, every flower bed weed-free. Someone clearly devoted enormous care to this tiny plot of land.
The Count closed the gate behind him and surveyed the scene. "The telegraph operator," he murmured to himself, "must either hire a gardener or be completely obsessed with plants."
Suddenly, something moved behind a wheelbarrow filled with leaves. A figure rose with a startled exclamation, and the Count found himself face-to-face with a man of about fifty, clutching grape leaves that held a small collection of strawberries. The berries tumbled from his hands as he stood.
"Harvesting your crop?" the Count asked with a smile.
"Sorry, sir," the man said, touching his cap nervously. "I know I should be up in the tower, but I only just came down."
"Please, don't let me interrupt," the Count replied smoothly. "Collect your strawberries, if there are any left."
"I have ten left," the man said, bending down again. "Well, eleven now. I had twenty-one total. That's five more than last year! The warm spring helped, strawberries need heat, you see. Last year I only had sixteen, but this year I should have... eleven, twelve, thirteen, fourteen, fifteen, sixteen, seventeen, eighteen..." He paused, frowning. "I'm missing three. They were here last night, I counted them! It must have been that Simon boy I saw skulking around this morning. The little thief! Stealing from a garden, doesn't he know where that path leads?"
"It's certainly wrong," the Count agreed, "though you should consider his youth and, well, his appetite."
"True enough," the gardener admitted, "but it's still frustrating." He glanced nervously at the Count's fine blue coat. "Forgive me, sir, are you perhaps an inspector? Am I keeping you from your duties?"
"Relax, my friend." The Count's smile shifted, becoming genuinely warm and kind. "I'm no inspector. Just a traveler whose curiosity brought him here, though now I regret making you waste your time."
"Oh, my time isn't valuable," the man said with a melancholy smile. "Though technically it belongs to the government, so I shouldn't waste it. But I received the signal that I could rest for an hour." He glanced at a sundial in the corner of the garden. "I have ten minutes left, and my strawberries are ripe. If I wait even one more day..." He paused. "By the way, sir, do you think dormice eat strawberries?"
"I wouldn't think so," Monte Cristo replied. "Dormice are terrible neighbors for those of us who don't preserve them to eat, as the Romans did."
"What? The Romans ate dormice?" The gardener looked shocked.
"I've read that they did."
"Well, no wonder people say 'fat as a dormouse.' They sleep all day and wake only to eat all night! Last year I had four apricots, dormice stole one. I had one nectarine, just one, and they ate half of it right on the wall! It was magnificent, the best nectarine I'd ever tasted."
"The half that was left, yes. You understand, it was exquisite! Those creatures never choose the worst pieces, just like that Simon boy and my strawberries. But this year I'll make sure it doesn't happen, even if I have to sit out here all night to guard them!"
The Count had seen enough. Every person has a consuming passion, just as every fruit has its worm. For this telegraph operator, it was gardening. Monte Cristo began gathering grape leaves to shade some grapes from the sun, instantly winning the gardener's heart.
"Did you come here to see the telegraph, sir?" the man asked.
"Yes, if it's allowed."
"Oh, certainly! There's no danger of anyone understanding what we're saying anyway."
"I've heard," the Count said carefully, "that you operators don't always understand the signals you repeat."
"That's true, sir, and that's what I like best!" The man smiled.
"Why would you like that?"
"Because then I have no responsibility. I'm just a machine, nothing more. As long as I work properly, nothing else is required of me."
Is it possible, Monte Cristo thought, that I've found a man with no ambition? That could ruin everything. ɴᴇᴡ ɴᴏᴠᴇʟ ᴄʜᴀᴘᴛᴇʀs ᴀʀᴇ ᴘᴜʙʟɪsʜᴇᴅ ᴏɴ nοvelfire.net
"Sir," the gardener said, checking his sundial, "my ten minutes are almost up. I must return to my post. Would you like to come up with me?"
The Count entered the tower, which had three levels. The ground floor held tools, spades, rakes, watering cans hung on the walls. Nothing else. The second floor was the operator's living quarters: a simple bed, a table, two chairs, a stone pitcher, and bunches of dried herbs hanging from the ceiling. The Count recognized them as sweet peas, carefully labeled as if by a master botanist.
"Does it take long to learn telegraphy?" Monte Cristo asked.
"The learning is quick. It's working as an apprentice that takes forever."
"A thousand francs per year, sir."
"No, but we get housing, as you can see."
They climbed to the third floor, the telegraph room itself. The Count examined the two iron handles that operated the mechanical arms outside.