Chapter Chapter 29 · The House of Morrel & Son

Anyone who had quitted Marseilles a few years previously, well

acquainted with the interior of Morrel’s warehouse, and had returned at

this date, would have found a great change. Instead of that air of

life, of comfort, and of happiness that permeates a flourishing and

prosperous business establishment—instead of merry faces at the

windows, busy clerks hurrying to and fro in the long corridors—instead

of the court filled with bales of goods, re-echoing with the cries and

the jokes of porters, one would have immediately perceived all aspect

of sadness and gloom. Out of all the numerous clerks that used to fill

the deserted corridor and the empty office, but two remained. One was a

young man of three or four-and-twenty, who was in love with M. Morrel’s

daughter, and had remained with him in spite of the efforts of his

friends to induce him to withdraw; the other was an old one-eyed

cashier, called “Cocles,” or “Cock-eye,” a nickname given him by the

young men who used to throng this vast now almost deserted bee-hive,

and which had so completely replaced his real name that he would not,

in all probability, have replied to anyone who addressed him by it.

Cocles remained in M. Morrel’s service, and a most singular change had

taken place in his position; he had at the same time risen to the rank

of cashier, and sunk to the rank of a servant. He was, however, the

same Cocles, good, patient, devoted, but inflexible on the subject of

arithmetic, the only point on which he would have stood firm against

the world, even against M. Morrel; and strong in the

multiplication-table, which he had at his fingers’ ends, no matter what

scheme or what trap was laid to catch him.

In the midst of the disasters that befell the house, Cocles was the

only one unmoved. But this did not arise from a want of affection; on

the contrary, from a firm conviction. Like the rats that one by one

forsake the doomed ship even before the vessel weighs anchor, so all

the numerous clerks had by degrees deserted the office and the

warehouse. Cocles had seen them go without thinking of inquiring the

cause of their departure. Everything was as we have said, a question of

arithmetic to Cocles, and during twenty years he had always seen all

payments made with such exactitude, that it seemed as impossible to him

that the house should stop payment, as it would to a miller that the

river that had so long turned his mill should cease to flow.

Nothing had as yet occurred to shake Cocles’ belief; the last month’s

payment had been made with the most scrupulous exactitude; Cocles had

detected an overbalance of fourteen sous in his cash, and the same

evening he had brought them to M. Morrel, who, with a melancholy smile,

threw them into an almost empty drawer, saying:

“Thanks, Cocles; you are the pearl of cashiers.”

Cocles went away perfectly happy, for this eulogium of M. Morrel,

himself the pearl of the honest men of Marseilles, flattered him more

than a present of fifty crowns. But since the end of the month M.

Morrel had passed many an anxious hour.

In order to meet the payments then due; he had collected all his

resources, and, fearing lest the report of his distress should get

bruited abroad at Marseilles when he was known to be reduced to such an

extremity, he went to the Beaucaire fair to sell his wife’s and

daughter’s jewels and a portion of his plate. By this means the end of

the month was passed, but his resources were now exhausted. Credit,

owing to the reports afloat, was no longer to be had; and to meet the

one hundred thousand francs due on the 15th of the present month, and

the one hundred thousand francs due on the 15th of the next month to M.

de Boville, M. Morrel had, in reality, no hope but the return of the

_Pharaon_, of whose departure he had learnt from a vessel which had

weighed anchor at the same time, and which had already arrived in

harbor.

But this vessel which, like the _Pharaon_, came from Calcutta, had been

in for a fortnight, while no intelligence had been received of the

_Pharaon_.

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Such was the state of affairs when, the day after his interview with M.

de Boville, the confidential clerk of the house of Thomson & French of

Rome, presented himself at M. Morrel’s.

Emmanuel received him; this young man was alarmed by the appearance of

every new face, for every new face might be that of a new creditor,

come in anxiety to question the head of the house. The young man,

wishing to spare his employer the pain of this interview, questioned

the new-comer; but the stranger declared that he had nothing to say to

M. Emmanuel, and that his business was with M. Morrel in person.

Emmanuel sighed, and summoned Cocles. Cocles appeared, and the young

man bade him conduct the stranger to M. Morrel’s apartment. Cocles went

first, and the stranger followed him. On the staircase they met a

beautiful girl of sixteen or seventeen, who looked with anxiety at the

stranger.

“M. Morrel is in his room, is he not, Mademoiselle Julie?” said the

cashier.

“Yes; I think so, at least,” said the young girl hesitatingly. “Go and

see, Cocles, and if my father is there, announce this gentleman.”

“It will be useless to announce me, mademoiselle,” returned the

Englishman. “M. Morrel does not know my name; this worthy gentleman has

only to announce the confidential clerk of the house of Thomson &

French of Rome, with whom your father does business.”

The young girl turned pale and continued to descend, while the stranger

and Cocles continued to mount the staircase. She entered the office

where Emmanuel was, while Cocles, by the aid of a key he possessed,

opened a door in the corner of a landing-place on the second staircase,

conducted the stranger into an antechamber, opened a second door, which

he closed behind him, and after having left the clerk of the house of

Thomson & French alone, returned and signed to him that he could enter.

The Englishman entered, and found Morrel seated at a table, turning

over the formidable columns of his ledger, which contained the list of

his liabilities. At the sight of the stranger, M. Morrel closed the

ledger, arose, and offered a seat to the stranger; and when he had seen

him seated, resumed his own chair. Fourteen years had changed the

worthy merchant, who, in his thirty-sixth year at the opening of this

history, was now in his fiftieth; his hair had turned white, time and

sorrow had ploughed deep furrows on his brow, and his look, once so

firm and penetrating, was now irresolute and wandering, as if he feared

being forced to fix his attention on some particular thought or person.

The Englishman looked at him with an air of curiosity, evidently

mingled with interest. “Monsieur,” said Morrel, whose uneasiness was

increased by this examination, “you wish to speak to me?”

“Yes, monsieur; you are aware from whom I come?”

“The house of Thomson & French; at least, so my cashier tells me.”

“He has told you rightly. The house of Thomson & French had 300,000 or

400,000 francs to pay this month in France; and, knowing your strict

punctuality, have collected all the bills bearing your signature, and

charged me as they became due to present them, and to employ the money

otherwise.”

Morrel sighed deeply, and passed his hand over his forehead, which was

covered with perspiration.

“So then, sir,” said Morrel, “you hold bills of mine?”

“Yes, and for a considerable sum.”

“What is the amount?” asked Morrel with a voice he strove to render

firm.

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“Here is,” said the Englishman, taking a quantity of papers from his

pocket, “an assignment of 200,000 francs to our house by M. de Boville,

the inspector of prisons, to whom they are due. You acknowledge, of

course, that you owe this sum to him?”

“Yes; he placed the money in my hands at four and a half per cent

nearly five years ago.”

“When are you to pay?”

“Half the 15th of this month, half the 15th of next.”

“Just so; and now here are 32,500 francs payable shortly; they are all

signed by you, and assigned to our house by the holders.”

“I recognize them,” said Morrel, whose face was suffused, as he thought

that, for the first time in his life, he would be unable to honor his

own signature. “Is this all?”

“No, I have for the end of the month these bills which have been

assigned to us by the house of Pascal, and the house of Wild & Turner

of Marseilles, amounting to nearly 55,000 francs; in all, 287,500

francs.”

It is impossible to describe what Morrel suffered during this

enumeration. “Two hundred and eighty-seven thousand five hundred

francs,” repeated he.

“Yes, sir,” replied the Englishman. “I will not,” continued he, after a

moment’s silence, “conceal from you, that while your probity and

exactitude up to this moment are universally acknowledged, yet the

report is current in Marseilles that you are not able to meet your

liabilities.”

At this almost brutal speech Morrel turned deathly pale.

“Sir,” said he, “up to this time—and it is now more than

four-and-twenty years since I received the direction of this house from

my father, who had himself conducted it for five-and-thirty years—never

has anything bearing the signature of Morrel & Son been dishonored.”

“I know that,” replied the Englishman. “But as a man of honor should

answer another, tell me fairly, shall you pay these with the same

punctuality?”

Morrel shuddered, and looked at the man, who spoke with more assurance

than he had hitherto shown.

“To questions frankly put,” said he, “a straightforward answer should

be given. Yes, I shall pay, if, as I hope, my vessel arrives safely;

for its arrival will again procure me the credit which the numerous

accidents, of which I have been the victim, have deprived me; but if

the _Pharaon_ should be lost, and this last resource be gone——”

The poor man’s eyes filled with tears.

“Well,” said the other, “if this last resource fail you?”

“Well,” returned Morrel, “it is a cruel thing to be forced to say, but,

already used to misfortune, I must habituate myself to shame. I fear I

shall be forced to suspend payment.”

“Have you no friends who could assist you?”

Morrel smiled mournfully.

“In business, sir,” said he, “one has no friends, only correspondents.”

“It is true,” murmured the Englishman; “then you have but one hope.”

“But one.”

“The last?”

“The last.”

“So that if this fail——”

“I am ruined,—completely ruined!”

“As I was on my way here, a vessel was coming into port.”

“I know it, sir; a young man, who still adheres to my fallen fortunes,

passes a part of his time in a belvedere at the top of the house, in

hopes of being the first to announce good news to me; he has informed

me of the arrival of this ship.”

“And it is not yours?”

“No, she is a Bordeaux vessel, _La Gironde_; she comes from India also;

but she is not mine.”

“Perhaps she has spoken to the _Pharaon_, and brings you some tidings

of her?”

“Shall I tell you plainly one thing, sir? I dread almost as much to

receive any tidings of my vessel as to remain in doubt. Uncertainty is

still hope.” Then in a low voice Morrel added,—“This delay is not

natural. The _Pharaon_ left Calcutta the 5th of February; she ought to

have been here a month ago.”

“What is that?” said the Englishman. “What is the meaning of that

noise?”

“Oh, my God!” cried Morrel, turning pale, “what is it?”

A loud noise was heard on the stairs of people moving hastily, and

half-stifled sobs. Morrel rose and advanced to the door; but his

strength failed him and he sank into a chair. The two men remained

opposite one another, Morrel trembling in every limb, the stranger

gazing at him with an air of profound pity. The noise had ceased; but

it seemed that Morrel expected something—something had occasioned the

noise, and something must follow. The stranger fancied he heard

footsteps on the stairs; and that the footsteps, which were those of

several persons, stopped at the door. A key was inserted in the lock of

the first door, and the creaking of hinges was audible.

“There are only two persons who have the key to that door,” murmured

Morrel, “Cocles and Julie.”

At this instant the second door opened, and the young girl, her eyes

bathed with tears, appeared. Morrel rose tremblingly, supporting

himself by the arm of the chair. He would have spoken, but his voice

failed him.

“Oh, father!” said she, clasping her hands, “forgive your child for

being the bearer of evil tidings.”

Morrel again changed color. Julie threw herself into his arms.

“Oh, father, father!” murmured she, “courage!”

“The _Pharaon_ has gone down, then?” said Morrel in a hoarse voice. The

young girl did not speak; but she made an affirmative sign with her

head as she lay on her father’s breast.

“And the crew?” asked Morrel.

“Saved,” said the girl; “saved by the crew of the vessel that has just

entered the harbor.”

Morrel raised his two hands to heaven with an expression of resignation

and sublime gratitude.

“Thanks, my God,” said he, “at least thou strikest but me alone.”

A tear moistened the eye of the phlegmatic Englishman.

“Come in, come in,” said Morrel, “for I presume you are all at the

door.”

Scarcely had he uttered those words when Madame Morrel entered weeping

bitterly. Emmanuel followed her, and in the antechamber were visible

the rough faces of seven or eight half-naked sailors. At the sight of

these men the Englishman started and advanced a step; then restrained

himself, and retired into the farthest and most obscure corner of the

apartment. Madame Morrel sat down by her husband and took one of his

hands in hers, Julie still lay with her head on his shoulder, Emmanuel

stood in the centre of the chamber and seemed to form the link between

Morrel’s family and the sailors at the door.

“How did this happen?” said Morrel.

“Draw nearer, Penelon,” said the young man, “and tell us all about it.”

An old seaman, bronzed by the tropical sun, advanced, twirling the

remains of a hat between his hands.

“Good-day, M. Morrel,” said he, as if he had just quitted Marseilles

the previous evening, and had just returned from Aix or Toulon.

“Good-day, Penelon,” returned Morrel, who could not refrain from

smiling through his tears, “where is the captain?”

“The captain, M. Morrel,—he has stayed behind sick at Palma; but please

God, it won’t be much, and you will see him in a few days all alive and

hearty.”

“Well, now tell your story, Penelon.”

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Penelon rolled his quid in his cheek, placed his hand before his mouth,

turned his head, and sent a long jet of tobacco-juice into the

antechamber, advanced his foot, balanced himself, and began.

“You see, M. Morrel,” said he, “we were somewhere between Cape Blanc

and Cape Boyador, sailing with a fair breeze, south-south-west after a

week’s calm, when Captain Gaumard comes up to me—I was at the helm I

should tell you—and says, ‘Penelon, what do you think of those clouds

coming up over there?’ I was just then looking at them myself. ‘What do

I think, captain? Why I think that they are rising faster than they

have any business to do, and that they would not be so black if they

didn’t mean mischief.’—‘That’s my opinion too,’ said the captain, ‘and

I’ll take precautions accordingly. We are carrying too much canvas.

Avast, there, all hands! Take in the studding-sails and stow the flying

jib.’ It was time; the squall was on us, and the vessel began to heel.

‘Ah,’ said the captain, ‘we have still too much canvas set; all hands

lower the mainsail!’ Five minutes after, it was down; and we sailed

under mizzen-topsails and top-gallant sails. ‘Well, Penelon,’ said the

captain, ‘what makes you shake your head?’ ‘Why,’ I says, ‘I still

think you’ve got too much on.’ ‘I think you’re right,’ answered he, ‘we

shall have a gale.’ ‘A gale? More than that, we shall have a tempest,

or I don’t know what’s what.’ You could see the wind coming like the

dust at Montredon; luckily the captain understood his business. ‘Take

in two reefs in the top-sails,’ cried the captain; ‘let go the

bowlin’s, haul the brace, lower the top-gallant sails, haul out the

reef-tackles on the yards.’”

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“That was not enough for those latitudes,” said the Englishman; “I

should have taken four reefs in the topsails and furled the spanker.”

His firm, sonorous, and unexpected voice made everyone start. Penelon

put his hand over his eyes, and then stared at the man who thus

criticized the manœuvres of his captain.

“We did better than that, sir,” said the old sailor respectfully; “we

put the helm up to run before the tempest; ten minutes after we struck

our top-sails and scudded under bare poles.”

“The vessel was very old to risk that,” said the Englishman.

“Eh, it was that that did the business; after pitching heavily for

twelve hours we sprung a leak. ‘Penelon,’ said the captain, ‘I think we

are sinking, give me the helm, and go down into the hold.’ I gave him

the helm, and descended; there was already three feet of water. ‘All

hands to the pumps!’ I shouted; but it was too late, and it seemed the

more we pumped the more came in. ‘Ah,’ said I, after four hours’ work,

‘since we are sinking, let us sink; we can die but once.’ ‘Is that the

example you set, Penelon?’ cries the captain; ‘very well, wait a

minute.’ He went into his cabin and came back with a brace of pistols.

‘I will blow the brains out of the first man who leaves the pump,’ said

he.”

“Well done!” said the Englishman.

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“There’s nothing gives you so much courage as good reasons,” continued

the sailor; “and during that time the wind had abated, and the sea gone

down, but the water kept rising; not much, only two inches an hour, but

still it rose. Two inches an hour does not seem much, but in twelve

hours that makes two feet, and three we had before, that makes five.

‘Come,’ said the captain, ‘we have done all in our power, and M. Morrel

will have nothing to reproach us with, we have tried to save the ship,

let us now save ourselves. To the boats, my lads, as quick as you can.’

Now,” continued Penelon, “you see, M. Morrel, a sailor is attached to

his ship, but still more to his life, so we did not wait to be told

twice; the more so, that the ship was sinking under us, and seemed to

say, ‘Get along—save yourselves.’ We soon launched the boat, and all

eight of us got into it. The captain descended last, or rather, he did

not descend, he would not quit the vessel; so I took him round the

waist, and threw him into the boat, and then I jumped after him. It was

time, for just as I jumped the deck burst with a noise like the

broadside of a man-of-war. Ten minutes after she pitched forward, then

the other way, spun round and round, and then good-bye to the

_Pharaon_. As for us, we were three days without anything to eat or

drink, so that we began to think of drawing lots who should feed the

rest, when we saw _La Gironde_; we made signals of distress, she

perceived us, made for us, and took us all on board. There now, M.

Morrel, that’s the whole truth, on the honor of a sailor; is not it

true, you fellows there?” A general murmur of approbation showed that

the narrator had faithfully detailed their misfortunes and sufferings.

“Well, well,” said M. Morrel, “I know there was no one in fault but

destiny. It was the will of God that this should happen, blessed be his

name. What wages are due to you?”

“Oh, don’t let us talk of that, M. Morrel.”

“Yes, but we will talk of it.”

“Well, then, three months,” said Penelon.

“Cocles, pay two hundred francs to each of these good fellows,” said

Morrel. “At another time,” added he, “I should have said, Give them,

besides, two hundred francs over as a present; but times are changed,

and the little money that remains to me is not my own, so do not think

me mean on this account.”

Penelon turned to his companions, and exchanged a few words with them.

“As for that, M. Morrel,” said he, again turning his quid, “as for

that——”

“As for what?”

“The money.”

“Well——”

“Well, we all say that fifty francs will be enough for us at present,

and that we will wait for the rest.”

“Thanks, my friends, thanks!” cried Morrel gratefully; “take it—take

it; and if you can find another employer, enter his service; you are

free to do so.”

These last words produced a prodigious effect on the seaman. Penelon

nearly swallowed his quid; fortunately he recovered.

“What, M. Morrel!” said he in a low voice, “you send us away; you are

then angry with us!”

“No, no,” said M. Morrel, “I am not angry, quite the contrary, and I do

not send you away; but I have no more ships, and therefore I do not

want any sailors.”

“No more ships!” returned Penelon; “well, then, you’ll build some;

we’ll wait for you.”

“I have no money to build ships with, Penelon,” said the poor owner

mournfully, “so I cannot accept your kind offer.”

“No more money? Then you must not pay us; we can scud, like the

_Pharaon_, under bare poles.”

“Enough, enough!” cried Morrel, almost overpowered; “leave me, I pray

you; we shall meet again in a happier time. Emmanuel, go with them, and

see that my orders are executed.”

“At least, we shall see each other again, M. Morrel?” asked Penelon.

“Yes; I hope so, at least. Now go.” He made a sign to Cocles, who went

first; the seamen followed him and Emmanuel brought up the rear. “Now,”

said the owner to his wife and daughter, “leave me; I wish to speak

with this gentleman.”

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And he glanced towards the clerk of Thomson & French, who had remained

motionless in the corner during this scene, in which he had taken no

part, except the few words we have mentioned. The two women looked at

this person whose presence they had entirely forgotten, and retired;

but, as she left the apartment, Julie gave the stranger a supplicating

glance, to which he replied by a smile that an indifferent spectator

would have been surprised to see on his stern features. The two men

were left alone. “Well, sir,” said Morrel, sinking into a chair, “you

have heard all, and I have nothing further to tell you.”

“I see,” returned the Englishman, “that a fresh and unmerited

misfortune has overwhelmed you, and this only increases my desire to

serve you.”

“Oh, sir!” cried Morrel.

“Let me see,” continued the stranger, “I am one of your largest

creditors.”

“Your bills, at least, are the first that will fall due.”

“Do you wish for time to pay?”

“A delay would save my honor, and consequently my life.”

“How long a delay do you wish for?”

Morrel reflected. “Two months,” said he.

“I will give you three,” replied the stranger.

“But,” asked Morrel, “will the house of Thomson & French consent?”

“Oh, I take everything on myself. Today is the 5th of June.”

“Yes.”

“Well, renew these bills up to the 5th of September; and on the 5th of

September at eleven o’clock (the hand of the clock pointed to eleven),

I shall come to receive the money.”

“I shall expect you,” returned Morrel; “and I will pay you—or I shall

be dead.” These last words were uttered in so low a tone that the

stranger could not hear them. The bills were renewed, the old ones

destroyed, and the poor ship-owner found himself with three months

before him to collect his resources. The Englishman received his thanks

with the phlegm peculiar to his nation; and Morrel, overwhelming him

with grateful blessings, conducted him to the staircase. The stranger

met Julie on the stairs; she pretended to be descending, but in reality

she was waiting for him. “Oh, sir”—said she, clasping her hands.

“Mademoiselle,” said the stranger, “one day you will receive a letter

signed ‘Sinbad the Sailor.’ Do exactly what the letter bids you,

however strange it may appear.”

“Yes, sir,” returned Julie.

“Do you promise?”

“I swear to you I will.”

“It is well. Adieu, mademoiselle. Continue to be the good, sweet girl

you are at present, and I have great hopes that Heaven will reward you

by giving you Emmanuel for a husband.”

Julie uttered a faint cry, blushed like a rose, and leaned against the

baluster. The stranger waved his hand, and continued to descend. In the

court he found Penelon, who, with a rouleau of a hundred francs in

either hand, seemed unable to make up his mind to retain them. “Come

with me, my friend,” said the Englishman; “I wish to speak to you.”