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The small man gave a brief, maddening chuckle. “And he is also one of the greatest spendthrifts. Now be on your way.”

Verne spluttered. “But . . . but have you no respect for books?”

“Aye -- for ledger books. You’ll have to find a new patron if you’re another of those leeches who clung to Dumas and his wealth.” The man sneered. “Or else find legitimate work of your own.”

The haughty man marched off into another room, where a beautiful gilt-framed mirror was being hauled down with two ropes and a great deal of clumsiness. He bellowed an admonition to the workmen, and the startled brutes let loose the ropes. The mirror crashed into thousands of shards upon the polished floor.

Verne stopped another businessman on his way out to the reflecting pond. “Where is Monsieur Dumas? I must speak with him.”

The potbellied man just snorted. “We all want to speak with Monsieur Dumas, but he has made himself conveniently scarce. If you find him, send him back to the main house.”

With a sinking heart, Verne strode across the beautifully kept grounds, past hedges and flower boxes, fountains that now sat quiet instead of spraying torrents of diamond-like droplets. A handful of droopy-eyed writers stood in the manicured orange grove; two sat on stone benches. No one spoke, all their conversation smothered by a pall of despair.

Verne hurried up to them and repeated his questions, but got the same answers. They looked toward the tiny island where Dumas did his writing. Swans still drifted across the water, unconcerned about their future -- although from the looks of Monte Cristo, there might not even be enough money left to feed the birds. No doubt they’d end up in someone’s oven.

Even with his own dismal prospects, Verne found the moaning writers depressing. Dumas could pay none of them, not even for work they’d already done. Still, Verne found himself as much concerned for his enormous, good-natured mentor as he was filled with gloom about his precarious situation.

He wandered around the grounds, past the now-empty servants’ quarters to the stables and the carriage house. There he heard people moving about with hushed whispers. Curious, Verne entered the carriage house and saw a footman lashing a harness to the single remaining horse.

The great Dumas stood outside a closed carriage, looking sullenly at a few baskets and sacks of possessions he had snatched from his estate. The man’s generous lips were turned downward in an uncharacteristic frown. He had no room to store anything else inside the overloaded vehicle.

“Monsieur Dumas!” Verne called in delight and relief. The footman jumped, startled. The broad-shouldered writer whirled, almost losing his balance as his girth swung around. His broad face carried a look of dismay, as if he was ready to flee into the forests on the outskirts of Monte Cristo.

But when he saw Jules Verne, his face composed itself into a pale reminder of his former genial and welcoming expression. “Oh, ho, my friend Jules! Thank you for coming to see me, even in this dark hour.”

Verne found himself at a loss for words. He had practiced the speech so many times, hoping to request work from Dumas. Now that the opportunity was gone, he had little hope left in his heart. “I . . . I am --”

“Well?” The dark man rubbed his thick fingers together. He had loaded them with more rings than Verne remembered having seen before. “Did you pass your law exam? You had a great deal riding on that test, if I recall.”

“Yes, sir,” Verne said with a groan. “I’m now licensed to be a practicing attorney.”

“Delicious!” Dumas laughed at himself. “I myself could use a great deal of legal help. However, I’m unable to pay for it, at present.”

“That’s what . . . what I was given to understand. I’m sorry to hear about it, Monsieur. I am afraid I have little experience and even fewer suggestions to offer you right now. Your situation is . . . beyond me.”

“It is a good thing you have established your career. Unlike me, you have a solid future ahead