“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.”