was formed in the shape of the figure 8: thus, in its windings, making a walk of sixty feet in a garden of only twenty.
Never had Flora, the fresh and smiling goddess of gardeners, been honored with a purer or more minute worship than that which was paid to her in this little inclosure. In fact, of the twenty rose-trees which formed the parterre, not one bore the mark of the fly, nor was there to be seen any of those clusters of green insects which destroy plants 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, told it was there; 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, arid 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, nor a weed in the flower-beds; no fine lady ever trained and watered her geraniums, her cactus, and her rhododendrons in her porcelain jardinière with more pains than this hitherto unseen gardener bestowed upon his little inclosure.
Monte-Cristo stopped, after having closed the door 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 himself against something crouching behind a wheelbarrow filled with leaves; the something rose, uttering an exclamation of astonishment, and Monte-Cristo found himself facing a man about fifty years old, who was plucking strawberries, which he was placing upon vine-leaves. He had twelve leaves and about as many strawberries, which, on rising suddenly, he let fall from his hand.
"You are gathering your crop, sir?" said Monte-Cristo, smiling.
"Excuse me, sir," replied the man, raising his hand to his cap;" I am not up there, I know, but I have only just come down."
"Do not let me interfere with you in anything, my friend," said the count; "gather your strawberries, if, indeed, there are any left."
"I have ten left," said the man, "for here are eleven, and I had twenty-one, five more than last year. But I am not surprised; the spring has been warm this year, and strawberries require heat, sir. This is the reason that, instead of the sixteen I had last year, I have this year, you see, eleven, already plucked—twelve, thirteen, fourteen, fifteen, sixteen, seventeen, eighteen. Ah, I miss three! they were here last night, sir—I am sure they were here—I counted them. It must be the son of Mère Simon who has stolen them; I saw him strolling about here this morning. Ah! the young rascal! stealing in a garden, he does not know where that may lead him to."
