“Unfortunately your fears are only too well founded, monsieur,” exclaimed M. de Boville, “and you see before you a ruined man. I have two hundred thousand francs in that firm and they were to constitute the dowry of my daughter, who is to be married in a fortnight. One hundred thousand francs of this sum was redeemable on the fifteenth of this month, and another hundred thousand francs on the fifteenth of next month. I notified Monsieur Morrel of the fact that I desired to have the payment punctually made, and here he comes hardly an hour back and tells me that if his ship, the Pharaon, does not return by the fifteenth, he will find it impossible to effect the payment. It looks very much like bankruptcy.”
“Then, monsieur, you fear for your money?”
“I consider it as good as lost.”
“Well, then, I will buy it from you.”
“You will? But at an enormous discount, I presume.”
“No, for two hundred thousand francs. Our firm does not conduct business in that way,” he added with a smile. “What is more, I will pay you cash down.”
The Englishman took from his pocket a bundle of banknotes amounting to about double the sum M. de Boville was fearful of losing. An expression of joy lit up M. de Boville’s face, but he restrained his feelings and said: “I must warn you, monsieur, that in all probability, you will not get six per cent. of that sum.”
“That has nothing to do with me,” was the reply. “It is the affair of Thomson and French for whom I am acting. It may be that it is to their interest to hasten the ruin of a rival firm. What I do know, monsieur, is that I am ready to hand over this sum in exchange for a deed of assignment; all I require of you is a commission.”
“That is but just, monsieur!” exclaimed M. de Boville. “The commission is generally one and a half. Do you want two . . . three . . . five . . . per cent., or even more? You have only to say the word.”
“I am like my firm, monsieur,” replied the Englishman with a smile. “I do not conduct business on those lines. My commission is something entirely different. You are the Inspector of Prisons, are you not?”
“I have been for the last fourteen years and more.”
“Do you keep a register of entrances and dismissals?”
“Of course.”
“Are there any notes in the register pertaining to the different prisoners?”
“Each prisoner has his dossier.”
“Well, monsieur, I was educated at Rome by a poor old abbé who suddenly disappeared. Later I learned that he had been detained in the Château d’If, and I should like to have some details in regard to his death.”
“What was his name?”
“The Abbé Faria.”
“Oh, yes, I remember him perfectly. He died last February.”
“You have a good memory, monsieur.”
“I remember this case because the poor fellow’s death was accompanied by a very peculiar circumstance. The abbé’s dungeon was about forty-five or fifty feet from that of a Bonapartist agent, one of those who had greatly contributed to the return of the usurper in eighteen-fifteen. He was a very determined and dangerous man.”
“Really?” said the Englishman.
“Yes,” was the reply. “I had an opportunity of seeing this man myself in eighteen-sixteen or seventeen. We could only go down to his dungeon accompanied by a file of soldiers. He made a deep impression on me, and I shall never forget his face.”
The Englishman gave the ghost of a smile.
“Edmond Dantès was the man’s name,” continued the inspector, “and he must have either procured some tools or else made some, for a passage was found by means of which the two prisoners communicated with one another.”
“The passage was doubtless made with a view to escape?”
“Exactly, but unfortunately for the prisoners, the abbé was seized with an attack of epilepsy and died.”
“I understand; that must have put an end to their plans.”
“As far as the dead man was concerned, it certainly did, but not for the one who lived. On the contrary, Dantès saw a means of effecting his escape more easily. He doubtless thought that the prisoners who die in the Château d’If are buried in an ordinary cemetery, so he carried the corpse into his own cell and took its place in the sack in which it had been sewn up, and waited for the burial. The Château d’If has no cemetery, however. The dead are simply thrown into the sea with a cannon ball attached to their feet.”
“Is that really so?” exclaimed the Englishman.
“Yes, monsieur,” continued the inspector. “You may imagine the fugitive’s astonishment when he felt himself being hurled down the rocks. I should like to have seen his face at that moment.”
“That would have been somewhat difficult.”
“Never mind,” said M. de Boville, whom the certainty of getting his two hundred thousand francs had put into a good humour. “Never mind, I can imagine it.” And he burst out laughing.
“I can also imagine it,” said the Englishman, with a forced laugh. “So I suppose the fugitive was drowned. But if he was, no doubt some official report must have been made on the occurrence.”
“Oh, yes, a death certificate was made out. You see, his relatives, if he had any, might be interested to know whether he was dead or alive. Would you like to see what documents we have relating to the poor abbé?”
“It would give me great pleasure,” replied his companion.
“Let us go to my office then.”
And they both passed into the office of M. de Boville. Everything was in perfect order; each register had its number, each dossier had its file. The inspector gave the Englishman his easy-chair, set before him the register and the dossier relating to the Château d’If, and let him look through them at his leisure, while he himself sat in a corner of the room and read his paper.
The Englishman had no difficulty in finding the dossier relating to the Abbé Faria. It appeared as though the story which the inspector had related greatly interested him, for, after having perused the first documents, he turned over the leaves until he reached the deposition respecting Edmond Dantès. There he found everything arranged in due order—the denunciation, the examination, Morrel’s petition, Monsieur de Villefort’s marginal notes. He folded up the denunciation noiselessly and put it into his pocket, read the examination, and noted that the name of Noirtier was not mentioned in it; perused, too, the application dated the 10th of April, 1815, in which Morrel, on the Deputy’s advice, exaggerated with the best intentions (for Napoleon was then on the throne) the services Dantès had rendered to the imperial cause—services which Villefort’s certificate rendered incontestable. Then he saw through it all. The petition to Napoleon, kept back by Villefort, had become under the Second Restoration, a terrible weapon against him in the hands of the Procureur du Roi. On searching further he was no longer astonished to find in the register the following remarks placed in brackets against his name:
3
He compared the writing of the bracketed remarks with that of the certificate placed beneath Morrel’s petition and felt convinced that they were both in the same handwriting: they were both written by Villefort.
“Thanks!” said the Englishman, closing the register with much noise. “I have all I want; now it is my turn to perform my promise. Give me a simple assignment of your credit; acknowledge therein receipt of the cash, and I will hand you over the money.”
He rose, gave his seat at the desk to M. de Boville, who took it without ceremony, and drew up the required assignment, while the Englishman counted out the banknotes on the ledge of the filing-cabinet.
Chapter XXIV
MORREL AND SON
Anyone who had left Marseilles a few years back knowing the interior workings of the firm of Morrel and Son and returned at this period would have noted a great change. Instead of the animation, comfort, and happiness that seem to radiate from a prosperous house, instead of the merry faces seen from behind the window curtains, of the busy-clerks hurrying to and fro wit
h their pens behind their ears, instead of the yard filled with bales of goods and echoing with the shouts and laughter of the porters, he would at once have perceived a certain sadness and a gloomy listlessness. The corridor was deserted and the yard empty; of the numerous employees who formerly filled the office two only remained; the one a young man of twenty-three or twenty-four, named Emmanuel, who was in love with Morrel’s daughter and had stayed with the firm in spite of his relatives’ efforts to get him to resign; the other an old one-eyed cashier, called Coclès, a nickname which had been given him by the young people who used to throng this buzzing hive, now almost uninhabited, and which had so completely taken the place of his real name that in all probability he would now not have answered to the latter.
Coclès had remained in M. Morrel’s service, and a singular change had been effected in his position. He had been raised to the rank of cashier, and at the same time lowered to that of servant. Nevertheless, it was the same good, patient Coclès, inflexible where arithmetic was concerned, the only point on which he would stand his ground against the whole world; if need be, even against M. Morrel himself.
Nothing had yet occurred to shake Coclès’ belief in the firm; last month’s payments had been effected with rigorous punctuality. Coclès had detected an error of seventy centimes made by M. Morrel to his own disadvantage, and the same day he had brought the money to his chief who took it and, with a sad smile, dropped it into the almost empty drawer, saying: “Thanks, Coclès, you are a pearl among cashiers.”
No man could have been happier than Coclès was at hearing his master speak thus, for praise from M. Morrel, the pearl of all honest men of Marseilles, counted more with Coclès than a gift of fifty crowns.
M. Morrel had spent many a cruel hour since the end of the month. To enable him to meet his liabilities he had been obliged to gather in all his resources, and, fearing lest a rumour of his difficulties should be spread about the town of Marseilles when it was known that he had had recourse to such extremities, he had himself gone to the Fair at Beaucaire to sell some of his wife’s and daughter’s jewellery and some of his silverware. By means of this sacrifice the honour of the firm had been preserved, but funds were now exhausted. Following the reports that had been noised abroad, credit was no longer to be had, and M. Morrel’s only hope of meeting the payment of a hundred thousand francs, due to M. Boville on the 15th of that month and the hundred thousand due on the 15th of the following month, lay in the return of the Pharaon. He had had news of her departure from another ship that had weighed anchor at the same time and had arrived safely in port. This was more than a fortnight ago, and yet there was still no further news of the Pharaon.
Such was the state of affairs when the representative of Thomson and French of Rome called on M. Morrel. Emmanuel received him. Every fresh face was a new cause of alarm to the young man, for it suggested yet one more anxious creditor come to question the head of the firm, and he was ever desirous of sparing his employer an embarrassing interview. He now questioned the newcomer, but the stranger would have nothing to do with M. Emmanuel and wished to see M. Morrel in person. Emmanuel rose with a sigh, and, summoning Coclès, bade him conduct the stranger to M. Morrel.
Coclès walked in front and the stranger followed. On the staircase they met a pretty girl of sixteen or seventeen who looked at the stranger with an uneasy expression.
“Is Monsieur Morrel in his office, Mademoiselle Julie?” asked the cashier.
“Yes, at least I think so,” answered the girl hesitatingly. “Go first and see whether my father is there, Coclès, and announce the gentleman.”
“It would be useless to announce me, mademoiselle,” replied the Englishman; “Monsieur Morrel does not know my name. All that this good man can say is that I am the head clerk of Messrs Thomson and French of Rome, with whom your father has business connexions.”
The girl turned pale, and passed downstairs, while Coclès and the Englishman went up.
On seeing the stranger enter his office, M. Morrel closed the ledger he had before him, rose and offered him a chair. Fourteen years had worked a great change in the worthy merchant, who, but thirty-six at the beginning of this story, was now nearing fifty. His hair had turned white, anxiety and worry had ploughed deep furrows on his brow and the look in his eyes, once so firm and staunch, had now become vague and irresolute.
The Englishman looked at him with a feeling of curiosity mingled with interest.
“You wished to speak with me, monsieur?” said Morrel, becoming embarrassed under the stranger’s steady gaze.
“Yes, monsieur. Messrs Thomson and French of Rome have to pay three or four hundred thousand francs in France during the course of the present month and the next, and, knowing your strict promptitude in regard to payments, they have collected all the bills bearing your signature and have charged me to collect the money from you as it falls due, and to make appropriate use of the money.”
M. Morrel heaved a deep sigh, and passed his hand over his sweat-bedewed forehead.
“You hold bills signed by me, monsieur?” asked Morrel.
“Yes, monsieur, for a considerable sum. But first of all,” he continued, taking a bundle of papers from his pocket, “I have here an assignment for two hundred thousand francs, made over to our firm by Monsieur de Boville, the Inspector of Prisons. Do you acknowledge this debt?”
“Yes, monsieur. He invested the money with me at four and a half per cent. nearly five years ago, half of it being redeemable on the fifteenth of the present month, and the other half on the fifteenth of the coming month.”
“Just so; then I have here thirty-two thousand five hundred francs payable at the end of the month; these are bills signed by you and assigned to our firm by the holders.”
“I recognize them,” said Morrel, whose face became red with shame at the thought that for the first time in his life he would in all probability not be able to honour his signature. “Is that all?”
“No, monsieur. I have these bills for the end of the month assigned to us by Pascal and Wild and Turner of Marseilles—about fifty-five thousand francs in all, making a total of two hundred and eighty-seven thousand five hundred francs.”
What M. Morrel suffered during this enumeration is impossible to describe.
“Two hundred and eighty-seven thousand five hundred francs,” he repeated automatically.
“Yes, monsieur,” replied the Englishman. “But,” he continued after a moment’s silence, “I will not conceal from you, Monsieur Morrel, that though I am fully aware of your blameless probity up to the present, public report is rife in Marseilles that you are not in a position to meet your obligations.”
At this almost brutal frankness Morrel turned pale.
“Up to the present, monsieur,” said he, “and it is more than twenty-four years since I took over the directorship of the firm from my father, who had himself managed it for thirty-five years—until now not one bill signed by Morrel and Son has ever been presented for payment that has not been duly honoured.”
“I am fully aware of that,” replied the Englishman, “but as one man of honour to another, tell me quite frankly, shall you pay these with the same exactitude?”
Morrel started and looked at this man who spoke to him with more assurance than he had hitherto shown.
“To questions put with such frankness,” said he, “a straightforward answer must be given. Yes, monsieur, I shall pay if, as I hope, my ship arrives safely, for its arrival will restore to me the credit which one stroke of ill-fortune after another has deprived me of. But should, by some ill-chance, this, my last resource, the Pharaon, fail me, I fear, monsieur, I shall be compelled to suspend payment.”
“The Pharaon is your last hope, then?”
“Absolutely the last. And,” he continued, “her delay is not natural. She left Calcutta on February the fifth and should have been here more than a month ago.”
“What is that?” exclaimed the Englishman, listening intently. “What is
the meaning of this noise?”
“Oh, heavens!” cried Morrel, turning a ghastly colour. “What fresh disaster is this?”
In truth, there was much noise on the staircase. People were running hither and thither, and now and then a cry of distress was heard. Morrel rose to open the door, but his strength failed him and he sank into his chair. The two men sat facing each other: Morrel was trembling in every limb, while the stranger was looking at him with an expression of profound pity. The noise ceased, but, nevertheless, it was apparent that Morrel was simply awaiting events; the hubbub was not without reason and would naturally have its sequel.
The stranger thought he heard several people come up the stairs quietly and stop on the landing. A key was inserted in the lock of the first door, which creaked on its hinges. Julie entered, her cheeks bathed with tears. Supporting himself on the arm of his chair, Morrel rose unsteadily. He wanted to speak, but his voice failed him.
“Oh, Father! Father!” exclaimed the girl clasping her hands. “Forgive your daughter for being the bearer of bad news. Father, be brave!”
Morrel turned deadly pale. “So the Pharaon is lost?” he asked in a choked voice.
The girl made no answer, but she nodded her head and fell into his arms.
“And the crew?”
“Saved!” said the young girl. “Saved by the Bordeaux vessel that has just entered the port.”
“Thank God!” said he. “At least Thou strikest me alone!”
Scarcely had he uttered these words when Mme Morrel came in sobbing, followed by Emmanuel. Standing in the background were to be seen the stalwart forms of seven or eight half-naked sailors. The Englishman started at sight of these men; he took a step toward them, but then restrained himself and withdrew to the farthest and darkest corner of the room.
Mme Morrel seated herself in a chair and took her husband’s hand in hers, whilst Julie still lay with her head on her father’s shoulder. Emmanuel remained in the middle of the room like a link between the Morrel family and the sailors at the door.
Count of Monte Cristo (abridged) (Barnes & Noble Classics Series) Page 19