Part 48

20033m 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. 20035m “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.” 20039m 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.’”