Kabanata Kabanata 30 · The Fifth of September

The extension provided for by the agent of Thomson & French, at the

moment when Morrel expected it least, was to the poor shipowner so

decided a stroke of good fortune that he almost dared to believe that

fate was at length grown weary of wasting her spite upon him. The same

day he told his wife, Emmanuel, and his daughter all that had occurred;

and a ray of hope, if not of tranquillity, returned to the family.

Unfortunately, however, Morrel had not only engagements with the house

of Thomson & French, who had shown themselves so considerate towards

him; and, as he had said, in business he had correspondents, and not

friends. When he thought the matter over, he could by no means account

for this generous conduct on the part of Thomson & French towards him;

and could only attribute it to some such selfish argument as this: “We

had better help a man who owes us nearly 300,000 francs, and have those

300,000 francs at the end of three months than hasten his ruin, and get

only six or eight per cent of our money back again.”

Unfortunately, whether through envy or stupidity, all Morrel’s

correspondents did not take this view; and some even came to a contrary

decision. The bills signed by Morrel were presented at his office with

scrupulous exactitude, and, thanks to the delay granted by the

Englishman, were paid by Cocles with equal punctuality. Cocles thus

remained in his accustomed tranquillity. It was Morrel alone who

remembered with alarm, that if he had to repay on the 15th the 50,000

francs of M. de Boville, and on the 30th the 32,500 francs of bills,

for which, as well as the debt due to the inspector of prisons, he had

time granted, he must be a ruined man.

The opinion of all the commercial men was that, under the reverses

which had successively weighed down Morrel, it was impossible for him

to remain solvent. Great, therefore, was the astonishment when at the

end of the month, he cancelled all his obligations with his usual

punctuality. Still confidence was not restored to all minds, and the

general opinion was that the complete ruin of the unfortunate shipowner

had been postponed only until the end of the month.

The month passed, and Morrel made extraordinary efforts to get in all

his resources. Formerly his paper, at any date, was taken with

confidence, and was even in request. Morrel now tried to negotiate

bills at ninety days only, and none of the banks would give him credit.

Fortunately, Morrel had some funds coming in on which he could rely;

and, as they reached him, he found himself in a condition to meet his

engagements when the end of July came.

The agent of Thomson & French had not been again seen at Marseilles;

the day after, or two days after his visit to Morrel, he had

disappeared; and as in that city he had had no intercourse but with the

mayor, the inspector of prisons, and M. Morrel, his departure left no

trace except in the memories of these three persons. As to the sailors

of the _Pharaon_, they must have found snug berths elsewhere, for they

also had disappeared.

Captain Gaumard, recovered from his illness, had returned from Palma.

He delayed presenting himself at Morrel’s, but the owner, hearing of

his arrival, went to see him. The worthy shipowner knew, from Penelon’s

recital, of the captain’s brave conduct during the storm, and tried to

console him. He brought him also the amount of his wages, which Captain

Gaumard had not dared to apply for.

As he descended the staircase, Morrel met Penelon, who was going up.

Penelon had, it would seem, made good use of his money, for he was

newly clad. When he saw his employer, the worthy tar seemed much

embarrassed, drew on one side into the corner of the landing-place,

passed his quid from one cheek to the other, stared stupidly with his

great eyes, and only acknowledged the squeeze of the hand which Morrel

as usual gave him by a slight pressure in return. Morrel attributed

Penelon’s embarrassment to the elegance of his attire; it was evident

the good fellow had not gone to such an expense on his own account; he

was, no doubt, engaged on board some other vessel, and thus his

bashfulness arose from the fact of his not having, if we may so express

ourselves, worn mourning for the _Pharaon_ longer. Perhaps he had come

to tell Captain Gaumard of his good luck, and to offer him employment

from his new master.

“Worthy fellows!” said Morrel, as he went away, “may your new master

love you as I loved you, and be more fortunate than I have been!”

20049m

August rolled by in unceasing efforts on the part of Morrel to renew

his credit or revive the old. On the 20th of August it was known at

Marseilles that he had left town in the mailcoach, and then it was said

that the bills would go to protest at the end of the month, and that

Morrel had gone away and left his chief clerk Emmanuel, and his cashier

Cocles, to meet the creditors. But, contrary to all expectation, when

the 31st of August came, the house opened as usual, and Cocles appeared

behind the grating of the counter, examined all bills presented with

the usual scrutiny, and, from first to last, paid all with the usual

precision. There came in, moreover, two drafts which M. Morrel had

fully anticipated, and which Cocles paid as punctually as the bills

which the shipowner had accepted. All this was incomprehensible, and

then, with the tenacity peculiar to prophets of bad news, the failure

was put off until the end of September.

On the 1st, Morrel returned; he was awaited by his family with extreme

anxiety, for from this journey to Paris they hoped great things. Morrel

had thought of Danglars, who was now immensely rich, and had lain under

great obligations to Morrel in former days, since to him it was owing

that Danglars entered the service of the Spanish banker, with whom he

had laid the foundations of his vast wealth. It was said at this moment

that Danglars was worth from six to eight millions of francs, and had

unlimited credit. Danglars, then, without taking a crown from his

pocket, could save Morrel; he had but to pass his word for a loan, and

Morrel was saved. Morrel had long thought of Danglars, but had kept

away from some instinctive motive, and had delayed as long as possible

availing himself of this last resource. And Morrel was right, for he

returned home crushed by the humiliation of a refusal.

Yet, on his arrival, Morrel did not utter a complaint, or say one harsh

word. He embraced his weeping wife and daughter, pressed Emmanuel’s

hand with friendly warmth, and then going to his private room on the

second floor had sent for Cocles.

“Then,” said the two women to Emmanuel, “we are indeed ruined.”

It was agreed in a brief council held among them, that Julie should

write to her brother, who was in garrison at Nîmes, to come to them as

speedily as possible. The poor women felt instinctively that they

required all their strength to support the blow that impended. Besides,

Maximilian Morrel, though hardly two-and-twenty, had great influence

over his father.

He was a strong-minded, upright young man. At the time when he decided

on his profession his father had no desire to choose for him, but had

consulted young Maximilian’s taste. He had at once declared for a

military life, and had in consequence studied hard, passed brilliantly

through the Polytechnic School, and left it as sub-lieutenant of the

53rd of the line. For a year he had held this rank, and expected

promotion on the first vacancy. In his regiment Maximilian Morrel was

noted for his rigid observance, not only of the obligations imposed on

a soldier, but also of the duties of a man; and he thus gained the name

of “the stoic.” We need hardly say that many of those who gave him this

epithet repeated it because they had heard it, and did not even know

what it meant.

This was the young man whom his mother and sister called to their aid

to sustain them under the serious trial which they felt they would soon

have to endure. They had not mistaken the gravity of this event, for

the moment after Morrel had entered his private office with Cocles,

Julie saw the latter leave it pale, trembling, and his features

betraying the utmost consternation. She would have questioned him as he

passed by her, but the worthy creature hastened down the staircase with

unusual precipitation, and only raised his hands to heaven and

exclaimed:

“Oh, mademoiselle, mademoiselle, what a dreadful misfortune! Who could

ever have believed it!”

A moment afterwards Julie saw him go upstairs carrying two or three

heavy ledgers, a portfolio, and a bag of money.

Morrel examined the ledgers, opened the portfolio, and counted the

money. All his funds amounted to 6,000 or 8,000 francs, his bills

receivable up to the 5th to 4,000 or 5,000, which, making the best of

everything, gave him 14,000 francs to meet debts amounting to 287,500

francs. He had not even the means for making a possible settlement on

account.

However, when Morrel went down to his dinner, he appeared very calm.

This calmness was more alarming to the two women than the deepest

dejection would have been. After dinner Morrel usually went out and

used to take his coffee at the club of the Phocéens, and read the

_Semaphore_; this day he did not leave the house, but returned to his

office.

As to Cocles, he seemed completely bewildered. For part of the day he

went into the courtyard, seated himself on a stone with his head bare

and exposed to the blazing sun. Emmanuel tried to comfort the women,

but his eloquence faltered. The young man was too well acquainted with

the business of the house, not to feel that a great catastrophe hung

over the Morrel family. Night came, the two women had watched, hoping

that when he left his room Morrel would come to them, but they heard

him pass before their door, and trying to conceal the noise of his

footsteps. They listened; he went into his sleeping-room, and fastened

the door inside. Madame Morrel sent her daughter to bed, and half an

hour after Julie had retired, she rose, took off her shoes, and went

stealthily along the passage, to see through the keyhole what her

husband was doing.

In the passage she saw a retreating shadow; it was Julie, who, uneasy

herself, had anticipated her mother. The young lady went towards Madame

Morrel.

“He is writing,” she said.

They had understood each other without speaking. Madame Morrel looked

again through the keyhole, Morrel was writing; but Madame Morrel

remarked, what her daughter had not observed, that her husband was

writing on stamped paper. The terrible idea that he was writing his

will flashed across her; she shuddered, and yet had not strength to

utter a word.

Next day M. Morrel seemed as calm as ever, went into his office as

usual, came to his breakfast punctually, and then, after dinner, he

placed his daughter beside him, took her head in his arms, and held her

for a long time against his bosom. In the evening, Julie told her

mother, that although he was apparently so calm, she had noticed that

her father’s heart beat violently.

The next two days passed in much the same way. On the evening of the

4th of September, M. Morrel asked his daughter for the key of his

study. Julie trembled at this request, which seemed to her of bad omen.

Why did her father ask for this key which she always kept, and which

was only taken from her in childhood as a punishment? The young girl

looked at Morrel.

“What have I done wrong, father,” she said, “that you should take this

key from me?”

“Nothing, my dear,” replied the unhappy man, the tears starting to his

eyes at this simple question,—“nothing, only I want it.”

Julie made a pretence to feel for the key. “I must have left it in my

room,” she said.

And she went out, but instead of going to her apartment she hastened to

consult Emmanuel.

“Do not give this key to your father,” said he, “and tomorrow morning,

if possible, do not quit him for a moment.”

She questioned Emmanuel, but he knew nothing, or would not say what he

knew.

During the night, between the 4th and 5th of September, Madame Morrel

remained listening for every sound, and, until three o’clock in the

morning, she heard her husband pacing the room in great agitation. It

was three o’clock when he threw himself on the bed. The mother and

daughter passed the night together. They had expected Maximilian since

the previous evening. At eight o’clock in the morning Morrel entered

their chamber. He was calm; but the agitation of the night was legible

in his pale and careworn visage. They did not dare to ask him how he

had slept. Morrel was kinder to his wife, more affectionate to his

daughter, than he had ever been. He could not cease gazing at and

kissing the sweet girl. Julie, mindful of Emmanuel’s request, was

following her father when he quitted the room, but he said to her

quickly:

“Remain with your mother, dearest.” Julie wished to accompany him. “I

wish you to do so,” said he.

This was the first time Morrel had ever so spoken, but he said it in a

tone of paternal kindness, and Julie did not dare to disobey. She

remained at the same spot standing mute and motionless. An instant

afterwards the door opened, she felt two arms encircle her, and a mouth

pressed her forehead. She looked up and uttered an exclamation of joy.

20053m

“Maximilian, my dearest brother!” she cried.

At these words Madame Morrel rose, and threw herself into her son’s

arms.

“Mother,” said the young man, looking alternately at Madame Morrel and

her daughter, “what has occurred—what has happened? Your letter has

frightened me, and I have come hither with all speed.”

“Julie,” said Madame Morrel, making a sign to the young man, “go and

tell your father that Maximilian has just arrived.”

The young lady rushed out of the apartment, but on the first step of

the staircase she found a man holding a letter in his hand.

“Are you not Mademoiselle Julie Morrel?” inquired the man, with a

strong Italian accent.

“Yes, sir,” replied Julie with hesitation; “what is your pleasure? I do

not know you.”

“Read this letter,” he said, handing it to her. Julie hesitated. “It

concerns the best interests of your father,” said the messenger.

The young girl hastily took the letter from him. She opened it quickly

and read:

“Go this moment to the Allées de Meilhan, enter the house No. 15, ask

the porter for the key of the room on the fifth floor, enter the

apartment, take from the corner of the mantelpiece a purse netted in

red silk, and give it to your father. It is important that he should

receive it before eleven o’clock. You promised to obey me implicitly.

Remember your oath.

“Sinbad the Sailor.”

The young girl uttered a joyful cry, raised her eyes, looked round to

question the messenger, but he had disappeared. She cast her eyes again

over the note to peruse it a second time, and saw there was a

postscript. She read:

“It is important that you should fulfil this mission in person and

alone. If you go accompanied by any other person, or should anyone else

go in your place, the porter will reply that he does not know anything

about it.”

This postscript decreased greatly the young girl’s happiness. Was there

nothing to fear? was there not some snare laid for her? Her innocence

had kept her in ignorance of the dangers that might assail a young girl

of her age. But there is no need to know danger in order to fear it;

indeed, it may be observed, that it is usually unknown perils that

inspire the greatest terror.

Julie hesitated, and resolved to take counsel. Yet, through a singular

impulse, it was neither to her mother nor her brother that she applied,

but to Emmanuel. She hastened down and told him what had occurred on

the day when the agent of Thomson & French had come to her father’s,

related the scene on the staircase, repeated the promise she had made,

and showed him the letter.

“You must go, then, mademoiselle,” said Emmanuel.

“Go there?” murmured Julie.

“Yes; I will accompany you.”

“But did you not read that I must be alone?” said Julie.

“And you shall be alone,” replied the young man. “I will await you at

the corner of the Rue du Musée, and if you are so long absent as to

make me uneasy, I will hasten to rejoin you, and woe to him of whom you

shall have cause to complain to me!”

“Then, Emmanuel?” said the young girl with hesitation, “it is your

opinion that I should obey this invitation?”

“Yes. Did not the messenger say your father’s safety depended upon it?”

“But what danger threatens him, then, Emmanuel?” she asked.

Emmanuel hesitated a moment, but his desire to make Julie decide

immediately made him reply.

“Listen,” he said; “today is the 5th of September, is it not?”

“Yes.”

“Today, then, at eleven o’clock, your father has nearly three hundred

thousand francs to pay?”

“Yes, we know that.”

“Well, then,” continued Emmanuel, “we have not fifteen thousand francs

in the house.”

“What will happen then?”

“Why, if today before eleven o’clock your father has not found someone

who will come to his aid, he will be compelled at twelve o’clock to

declare himself a bankrupt.”

“Oh, come, then, come!” cried she, hastening away with the young man.

During this time, Madame Morrel had told her son everything. The young

man knew quite well that, after the succession of misfortunes which had

befallen his father, great changes had taken place in the style of

living and housekeeping; but he did not know that matters had reached

such a point. He was thunderstruck. Then, rushing hastily out of the

apartment, he ran upstairs, expecting to find his father in his study,

but he rapped there in vain.

While he was yet at the door of the study he heard the bedroom door

open, turned, and saw his father. Instead of going direct to his study,

M. Morrel had returned to his bedchamber, which he was only this moment

quitting. Morrel uttered a cry of surprise at the sight of his son, of

whose arrival he was ignorant. He remained motionless on the spot,

pressing with his left hand something he had concealed under his coat.

Maximilian sprang down the staircase, and threw his arms round his

father’s neck; but suddenly he recoiled, and placed his right hand on

Morrel’s breast.

“Father,” he exclaimed, turning pale as death, “what are you going to

do with that brace of pistols under your coat?”

“Oh, this is what I feared!” said Morrel.

“Father, father, in Heaven’s name,” exclaimed the young man, “what are

these weapons for?”

“Maximilian,” replied Morrel, looking fixedly at his son, “you are a

man, and a man of honor. Come, and I will explain to you.”

And with a firm step Morrel went up to his study, while Maximilian

followed him, trembling as he went. Morrel opened the door, and closed

it behind his son; then, crossing the anteroom, went to his desk on

which he placed the pistols, and pointed with his finger to an open

ledger. In this ledger was made out an exact balance-sheet of his

affairs. Morrel had to pay, within half an hour, 287,500 francs. All he

possessed was 15,257 francs.

“Read!” said Morrel.

The young man was overwhelmed as he read. Morrel said not a word. What

could he say? What need he add to such a desperate proof in figures?

“And have you done all that is possible, father, to meet this

disastrous result?” asked the young man, after a moment’s pause.

“I have,” replied Morrel.

“You have no money coming in on which you can rely?”

“None.”

“You have exhausted every resource?”

“All.”

“And in half an hour,” said Maximilian in a gloomy voice, “our name is

dishonored!”

“Blood washes out dishonor,” said Morrel.

“You are right, father; I understand you.” Then extending his hand

towards one of the pistols, he said, “There is one for you and one for

me—thanks!”

Morrel caught his hand. “Your mother—your sister! Who will support

them?”

A shudder ran through the young man’s frame. “Father,” he said, “do you

reflect that you are bidding me to live?”

“Yes, I do so bid you,” answered Morrel, “it is your duty. You have a

calm, strong mind, Maximilian. Maximilian, you are no ordinary man. I

make no requests or commands; I only ask you to examine my position as

if it were your own, and then judge for yourself.”

The young man reflected for a moment, then an expression of sublime

resignation appeared in his eyes, and with a slow and sad gesture he

took off his two epaulets, the insignia of his rank.

“Be it so, then, my father,” he said, extending his hand to Morrel,

“die in peace, my father; I will live.”

Morrel was about to cast himself on his knees before his son, but

Maximilian caught him in his arms, and those two noble hearts were

pressed against each other for a moment.

“You know it is not my fault,” said Morrel.

20057m

Maximilian smiled. “I know, father, you are the most honorable man I

have ever known.”

“Good, my son. And now there is no more to be said; go and rejoin your

mother and sister.”

“My father,” said the young man, bending his knee, “bless me!” Morrel

took the head of his son between his two hands, drew him forward, and

kissing his forehead several times said:

“Oh, yes, yes, I bless you in my own name, and in the name of three

generations of irreproachable men, who say through me, ‘The edifice

which misfortune has destroyed, Providence may build up again.’ On

seeing me die such a death, the most inexorable will have pity on you.

To you, perhaps, they will accord the time they have refused to me.

Then do your best to keep our name free from dishonor. Go to work,

labor, young man, struggle ardently and courageously; live, yourself,

your mother and sister, with the most rigid economy, so that from day

to day the property of those whom I leave in your hands may augment and

fructify. Reflect how glorious a day it will be, how grand, how solemn,

that day of complete restoration, on which you will say in this very

office, ‘My father died because he could not do what I have this day

done; but he died calmly and peaceably, because in dying he knew what I

should do.’”

“My father, my father!” cried the young man, “why should you not live?”

“If I live, all would be changed; if I live, interest would be

converted into doubt, pity into hostility; if I live I am only a man

who has broken his word, failed in his engagements—in fact, only a

bankrupt. If, on the contrary, I die, remember, Maximilian, my corpse

is that of an honest but unfortunate man. Living, my best friends would

avoid my house; dead, all Marseilles will follow me in tears to my last

home. Living, you would feel shame at my name; dead, you may raise your

head and say, ‘I am the son of him you killed, because, for the first

time, he has been compelled to break his word.’”

The young man uttered a groan, but appeared resigned.

“And now,” said Morrel, “leave me alone, and endeavor to keep your

mother and sister away.”

“Will you not see my sister once more?” asked Maximilian. A last but

final hope was concealed by the young man in the effect of this

interview, and therefore he had suggested it. Morrel shook his head. “I

saw her this morning, and bade her adieu.”

“Have you no particular commands to leave with me, my father?” inquired

Maximilian in a faltering voice.

“Yes; my son, and a sacred command.”

“Say it, my father.”

“The house of Thomson & French is the only one who, from humanity, or,

it may be, selfishness—it is not for me to read men’s hearts—has had

any pity for me. Its agent, who will in ten minutes present himself to

receive the amount of a bill of 287,500 francs, I will not say granted,

but offered me three months. Let this house be the first repaid, my

son, and respect this man.”

“Father, I will,” said Maximilian.

“And now, once more, adieu,” said Morrel. “Go, leave me; I would be

alone. You will find my will in the secretaire in my bedroom.”

The young man remained standing and motionless, having but the force of

will and not the power of execution.

“Hear me, Maximilian,” said his father. “Suppose I were a soldier like

you, and ordered to carry a certain redoubt, and you knew I must be

killed in the assault, would you not say to me, as you said just now,

‘Go, father; for you are dishonored by delay, and death is preferable

to shame!’”

“Yes, yes,” said the young man, “yes;” and once again embracing his

father with convulsive pressure, he said, “Be it so, my father.”

And he rushed out of the study. When his son had left him, Morrel

remained an instant standing with his eyes fixed on the door; then

putting forth his arm, he pulled the bell. After a moment’s interval,

Cocles appeared.

It was no longer the same man—the fearful revelations of the three last

days had crushed him. This thought—the house of Morrel is about to stop

payment—bent him to the earth more than twenty years would otherwise

have done.

“My worthy Cocles,” said Morrel in a tone impossible to describe, “do

you remain in the antechamber. When the gentleman who came three months

ago—the agent of Thomson & French—arrives, announce his arrival to me.”

Cocles made no reply; he made a sign with his head, went into the

anteroom, and seated himself. Morrel fell back in his chair, his eyes

fixed on the clock; there were seven minutes left, that was all. The

hand moved on with incredible rapidity, he seemed to see its motion.

What passed in the mind of this man at the supreme moment of his agony

cannot be told in words. He was still comparatively young, he was

surrounded by the loving care of a devoted family, but he had convinced

himself by a course of reasoning, illogical perhaps, yet certainly

plausible, that he must separate himself from all he held dear in the

world, even life itself. To form the slightest idea of his feelings,

one must have seen his face with its expression of enforced resignation

and its tear-moistened eyes raised to heaven. The minute hand moved on.

The pistols were loaded; he stretched forth his hand, took one up, and

murmured his daughter’s name. Then he laid it down, seized his pen, and

wrote a few words. It seemed to him as if he had not taken a sufficient

farewell of his beloved daughter. Then he turned again to the clock,

counting time now not by minutes, but by seconds.

He took up the deadly weapon again, his lips parted and his eyes fixed

on the clock, and then shuddered at the click of the trigger as he

cocked the pistol. At this moment of mortal anguish the cold sweat came

forth upon his brow, a pang stronger than death clutched at his

heart-strings. He heard the door of the staircase creak on its

hinges—the clock gave its warning to strike eleven—the door of his

study opened. Morrel did not turn round—he expected these words of

Cocles, “The agent of Thomson & French.”

He placed the muzzle of the pistol between his teeth. Suddenly he heard

a cry—it was his daughter’s voice. He turned and saw Julie. The pistol

fell from his hands.

“My father!” cried the young girl, out of breath, and half dead with

joy—“saved, you are saved!” And she threw herself into his arms,

holding in her extended hand a red, netted silk purse.

20061m

“Saved, my child!” said Morrel; “what do you mean?”

“Yes, saved—saved! See, see!” said the young girl.

Morrel took the purse, and started as he did so, for a vague

remembrance reminded him that it once belonged to himself. At one end

was the receipted bill for the 287,000 francs, and at the other was a

diamond as large as a hazel-nut, with these words on a small slip of

parchment: _Julie’s Dowry_.

Morrel passed his hand over his brow; it seemed to him a dream. At this

moment the clock struck eleven. He felt as if each stroke of the hammer

fell upon his heart.

“Explain, my child,” he said, “Explain, my child,” he said,

“explain—where did you find this purse?”

“In a house in the Allées de Meilhan, No. 15, on the corner of a

mantelpiece in a small room on the fifth floor.”

“But,” cried Morrel, “this purse is not yours!” Julie handed to her

father the letter she had received in the morning.

“And did you go alone?” asked Morrel, after he had read it.

“Emmanuel accompanied me, father. He was to have waited for me at the

corner of the Rue du Musée, but, strange to say, he was not there when

I returned.”

“Monsieur Morrel!” exclaimed a voice on the stairs; “Monsieur Morrel!”

“It is his voice!” said Julie. At this moment Emmanuel entered, his

countenance full of animation and joy.

“The _Pharaon_!” he cried; “the _Pharaon_!”

“What!—what!—the _Pharaon_! Are you mad, Emmanuel? You know the vessel

is lost.”

“The _Pharaon_, sir—they signal the _Pharaon_! The _Pharaon_ is

entering the harbor!”

Morrel fell back in his chair, his strength was failing him; his

understanding weakened by such events, refused to comprehend such

incredible, unheard-of, fabulous facts. But his son came in.

“Father,” cried Maximilian, “how could you say the _Pharaon_ was lost?

The lookout has signalled her, and they say she is now coming into

port.”

20063m

“My dear friends,” said Morrel, “if this be so, it must be a miracle of

heaven! Impossible, impossible!”

But what was real and not less incredible was the purse he held in his

hand, the acceptance receipted—the splendid diamond.

“Ah, sir,” exclaimed Cocles, “what can it mean?—the _Pharaon_?”

“Come, dear ones,” said Morrel, rising from his seat, “let us go and

see, and Heaven have pity upon us if it be false intelligence!”

They all went out, and on the stairs met Madame Morrel, who had been

afraid to go up into the study. In a moment they were at the Canebière.

There was a crowd on the pier. All the crowd gave way before Morrel.

“The _Pharaon_! the _Pharaon_!” said every voice.

And, wonderful to see, in front of the tower of Saint-Jean, was a ship

bearing on her stern these words, printed in white letters, “The

_Pharaon_, Morrel & Son, of Marseilles.” She was the exact duplicate of

the other _Pharaon_, and loaded, as that had been, with cochineal and

indigo. She cast anchor, clued up sails, and on the deck was Captain

Gaumard giving orders, and good old Penelon making signals to M.

Morrel. To doubt any longer was impossible; there was the evidence of

the senses, and ten thousand persons who came to corroborate the

testimony.

As Morrel and his son embraced on the pier-head, in the presence and

amid the applause of the whole city witnessing this event, a man, with

his face half-covered by a black beard, and who, concealed behind the

sentry-box, watched the scene with delight, uttered these words in a

low tone:

“Be happy, noble heart, be blessed for all the good thou hast done and

wilt do hereafter, and let my gratitude remain in obscurity like your

good deeds.”

20064m

And with a smile expressive of supreme content, he left his

hiding-place, and without being observed, descended one of the flights

of steps provided for debarkation, and hailing three times, shouted

“Jacopo, Jacopo, Jacopo!”

Then a launch came to shore, took him on board, and conveyed him to a

yacht splendidly fitted up, on whose deck he sprung with the activity

of a sailor; thence he once again looked towards Morrel, who, weeping

with joy, was shaking hands most cordially with all the crowd around

him, and thanking with a look the unknown benefactor whom he seemed to

be seeking in the skies.

“And now,” said the unknown, “farewell kindness, humanity, and

gratitude! Farewell to all the feelings that expand the heart! I have

been Heaven’s substitute to recompense the good—now the god of

vengeance yields to me his power to punish the wicked!”

At these words he gave a signal, and, as if only awaiting this signal,

the yacht instantly put out to sea.