LITMIR.BIZ

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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 belvidere 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 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 February; she ought to have been here a month ago.”

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

      “Oh, oh!” 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 than 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 tarpaulin 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.”

      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-sl’s 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 mains’l!’ Five minutes after, it was down; and we sailed under mizzen-tops’ls and to’gall’nt 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 tops’ls,’ cried the captain; `let go the bowlin’s, haul the brace, lower the to’gall’nt sails, haul out the reef-tackles on the yards.’”

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

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