“How did it happen?” asked Morrel.
“Draw nearer, Penelon,” said the young man, “and relate all that happened.”
An old sailor, bronzed by tropical suns, advanced, twirling the remains of a hat in his hand.
“Good day, my friend,” said the shipowner, unable to refrain from smiling through his tears. “What has become of your captain?”
“The captain, monsieur, has stayed behind sick at Palma, but there is nothing serious the matter, and, God willing, you will see him here in a few days as well as you or I.”
“I am glad of that. Now, Penelon, say what you have to say.”
Penelon rolled his quid of tobacco from his left to his right cheek, put his hand before his mouth, turned round and shot a long jet of dark saliva into the antechamber; then he drew nearer and, with arms akimbo, said:
“Well, then, Monsieur Morrel, we were somewhere between Cape Blanc and Cape Boyador, sailing along with a good south-south-westerly breeze, after dawdling along under eight days’ calm, when Captain Gaumard comes up to me—I must explain that I was at the helm—and says: ‘Daddy Penelon, what do you make of those clouds rising on the horizon?’
“I was just looking at them myself. ‘What do I make of them, captain? I think they are rising faster than they have any business to do, and they are too black for clouds that mean no mischief.’
“‘I think so too,’ says the captain, ‘and I am going to be prepared. We have too much canvas for the gale we shall have in a very short time.’
“‘A gale,’ says I. ‘He who bets that what we are going to have is a gale will get more than he bargained for. We are in for a downright good hurricane, or I know nothing about it.’
“You could see the wind coming just as you can see the dust at Montredon; luckily, it had someone to deal with it who had met it before.
“‘All hands take in two reefs in the topsails,’ bawls the captain. ‘Let go the bowlines, brace to, lower the top-gallant sails, haul out the reef-tackles on the yards!’
“Well, after being tossed about for twelve hours, we sprung a leak. ‘Penelon,’ says the captain to me, ‘I believe we are sinking. Give me the helm and go down to the hold.’
“I gave him the helm and went down. We had already shipped three feet of water. I came up again, crying out: ‘To the pumps! To the pumps!’ But it was too late. We all set to work, but the faster we pumped, the more water she seemed to take.
“‘Well, since we are sinking,’ says I, ‘let us sink. One can die but once!’
“‘Is that the example you set, Master Penelon?’ says the captain. ‘Just wait a bit!’
“He went to his cabin and fetched a brace of pistols.
“‘I will blow the brains out of the first man who leaves the pumps!’ he bellows out.
“There is nothing like common sense to put courage into a man,” continued the sailor, “especially as by that time the wind had abated and the sea gone down. Still the water continued to rise, not much it is true, about two inches an hour. Nevertheless it rose. Two inches an hour does not seem much, but in twelve hours that is no less than twenty-four inches, and twenty-four inches are two feet. Two feet added to the three we had before made five. When a ship has got five feet of water inside her, she is as much good as a man with the dropsy.
“‘Come along now,’ says the captain. ‘We have had enough of this. We have done what we could to save the ship, now we must try to save ourselves. To the boats, boys, as quick as you can!’
“You see, Monsieur Morrel,” continued Penelon, “we loved the Pharaon well enough, but, much as a sailor may love his ship, he loves his life more. We required no second telling, especially as the boat seemed to moan and call out to us: ‘Get along, save your lives!’ And the poor Pharaon told no lie, we literally felt her sink under our feet. We had the boat out in a trice, with eight of us in it.
“The captain was the last to leave the ship, or rather he would not leave her, so I takes hold of him and throws him down to my comrades, and then I jumps down after him. We were only just in time, for I had no sooner jumped into the boat than the deck burst with a noise like the broadside of a man-of-war. Ten minutes later she pitched forward, then she pitched the other way, and finally began to spin round like a dog after its tail. Then it was good-bye to the Pharaon!
“As for us, we were three days without food or drink. We had already spoken about drawing lots as to which of us should serve as food for the others, when we sighted the Gironde. We made signals to her, she sighted us, made towards us, put out her boat, and took us on board. There now, Monsieur Morrel, that is exactly how it all happened, on my word of honour as a sailor. Speak up, you others, and say whether it is the truth.”
A general murmur of assent indicated that the narrator had their votes as to the verity of the subject and the picturesqueness of the details.
“Well done, my friends,” said M. Morrel; “you are good fellows. I felt sure I had nothing to blame for what has happened but my own bad luck. It is God’s will and not man’s doing! Let us submit to the will of God. Now, what pay is due to you?”
“Oh, don’t let us speak of that, Monsieur Morrel.”
“On the contrary, we must,” said the shipowner with a sad smile.
“Well, then, there is three months’ pay due to us.”
“Coclès, pay each of these good men two hundred francs. At another time,” continued M. Morrel, “I should have added: ‘Give each one an extra two hundred!’ But times are hard, my friends, and the little bit of money I have left does not belong to me. Excuse me, therefore, and don’t think any the worse of me for that.”
Penelon was visibly and deeply moved, and, turning toward his comrades, he exchanged a few words with them.
“As far as that goes, Monsieur Morrel,” said he, rolling his quid to the other side of his mouth and shooting a second jet of saliva into the antechamber, “as far as that goes, my ship-mates and I say that for the time being fifty francs is quite enough for us, and that we will wait for the rest.”
“Thank you, my friends, thank you,” M. Morrel exclaimed, deeply touched. “You are dear, good fellows. Take the money though, and if you find another employer, enter his service. You are free to do so. I have no more ships and therefore have no further use for sailors.”
“You have no more ships?” said Penelon. “Well, then, you will build some, and we will wait. A spell of short commons won’t hurt us, thank Heaven!”
“I have no money to build other ships, Penelon,” said the shipowner with a sad smile, “so I cannot accept your offer, much as I appreciate it.”
“If you have no money, you surely shall not pay us; like the Pharaon, we can go under bare poles.”
“Enough, enough, my friends!” said Morrel, choking with emotion. “Leave me, I beg you. We will see each other again at a happier time. Emmanuel,” he continued, “accompany them and see to it that my wishes are carried out.”
He made a sign to Coclès, who went on in front, followed by the sailors and finally by Emmanuel.
“Now,” said the shipowner to his wife and daughter, “leave me awhile. I wish to speak with this gentleman.”
The two ladies looked at the stranger, whom they had entirely forgotten, and withdrew. When going out, however, the girl cast an entreating look on the Englishman, to which he responded with a smile, such as one would hardly expect to see on those stern features. The two men were left alone.
“Well, monsieur,” said Morrel, sinking into his chair. “You have seen and heard all. I have nothing further to tell you.”
“Yes, monsieur, I have learnt that you are the victim of fresh misfortune, as unmerited as the rest. This has only confirmed my desire to render you a service. I am one of your principal creditors, am I not?”
“In any case, you are in possession of the bills that will fall due first.”
“Would you like the date of payment prolonged?”
“It would certainly save my honour and co
nsequently my life.”
“How long do you ask?”
Morrel hesitated a moment and then he said: “Three months. But do you think Messrs Thomson and French . . .”
“Do not worry about that. I will take all responsibility upon myself. Today is the fifth of June. Renew these bills up to the fifth of September, and at eleven o’clock” (at that moment the clock struck eleven) “on the fifth of September, I shall present myself.”
“I shall await you, monsieur,” said Morrel, “and you will be paid or else I shall be dead.”
These last words were said in such a low voice that the stranger did not hear them.
The bills were renewed and the old ones destroyed so that the unfortunate shipowner was given another three months in which to gather together his last resources.
The Englishman received his thanks with the coldness peculiar to his race and bade farewell to Morrel, who, calling down blessings on him, accompanied him to the door.
On the stairs he met Julie. She pretended to be going down, but in reality she was waiting for him.
“Oh, monsieur!” she exclaimed, clasping her hands.
“Mademoiselle,” said the stranger, “one day you will receive a letter signed Sindbad the Sailor. Do exactly what the letter bids you to do, no matter how extraordinary the instructions may appear. Will you promise me to do this?”
“I promise.”
“Very good, then. Farewell, mademoiselle, always remain as good and virtuous as you are now, and I am sure God will reward you by giving you Emmanuel as your husband.”
Julie uttered a faint exclamation and blushed like a rose, while the stranger nodded a farewell and went on his way.
In the yard he met Penelon, who had a roll of a hundred francs in each hand, and seemed as though he could not make up his mind to keep them.
“Come along with me, my friend,” the Englishman said to him. “I should like to have a word with you.”
Chapter XXV
THE FIFTH OF SEPTEMBER
The extension of time granted by Messrs Thomson and French’s agent, at a time when Morrel least expected it, seemed to the poor shipowner like one of those returns to good fortune which announce to man that fate has at last become weary of spending her fury on him. The same day he related to his daughter, his wife, and Emmanuel all that had occurred, and a ray of hope, one might almost say of peace, once more entered their hearts.
Unfortunately, however, Morrel had other engagements than those with Thomson and French, who had shown themselves so considerate toward him, and, as he has said, one had correspondents only in business, and not friends. Any bill signed by Morrel was presented with the most scrupulous exactitude, and, thanks to the extension granted by the Englishman, each one was paid by Coclès at sight.
Coclès therefore maintained his prophetic calmness and his hope in a better future. Morrel alone realized with terror that if he had to repay 100,000 francs to de Boville on the 15th as also the 32,500 francs which would fall due on the 30th, he would be a ruined man. He spent the next three months in strenuous efforts to gather in all his outstanding resources.
Thomson and French’s agent had been seen no more at Marseilles. He disappeared a couple of days after his visit to M. Morrel, and, as he had had nothing to do with anyone except the Mayor, the Inspector of Prisons, and M. Morrel, his sojourn there had left no other trace than the different memories these three people had retained of him.
August rolled by in untiring and unsuccessful attempts on the part of Morrel to renew his old credit or to open up fresh ones. Then he remembered Danglars, who was now a millionaire and could save Morrel without taking a penny from his pocket by guaranteeing a loan; but there are times when one feels a repugnance one cannot master, and Morrel had delayed as long as possible before having recourse to this. His feeling of repugnance was justified, for he returned from Paris borne down by the humiliation of a refusal. Yet he uttered no complaint and spoke no harsh word. He embraced his weeping wife and daughter, shook hands with Emmanuel, and closeted himself in his office with Coclès.
When he appeared for dinner, he was outwardly quite calm. This apparent calmness, however, alarmed his wife and daughter more than the deepest dejection would have done. Emmanuel tried to reassure them, but his eloquence failed him. He was too well acquainted with the business of the firm not to realize that a terrible catastrophe was pending for the Morrel family.
Night came. The two women watched, hoping that when Morrel left his office he would rejoin them, but they heard him pass by their door, stepping very lightly, no doubt lest they should hear and call him. They heard him go to his room and lock the door.
Mme Morrel sent her daughter to bed, and an hour later, taking off her shoes, she crept down the landing and peeped through the keyhole to see what her husband was doing. She saw a retreating figure on the landing. It was Julie, who, being anxious, had anticipated her mother.
“He is writing,” she said to her mother. They understood each other without speaking. Mme Morrel stooped down to the keyhole. Morrel was indeed writing. The terrible idea flashed across her mind that he was making his will. It made her shudder, yet she had strength enough to say nothing.
Two days passed. On the morning of the 5th of September Morrel came down, calm as usual, but the agitation of the previous days had left its mark on his pale and careworn face. He was more affectionate toward his wife and daughter than he had ever been; he gazed fondly on the poor child and embraced her again and again. When he left the room Julie made as if to accompany him; but he pushed her back gently, saying:
“Stay with your mother.”
Julie tried to insist.
“I wish it!” said Morrel.
It was the first time Morrel had ever said “I wish it” to his daughter, but he said it in a tone of such paternal fondness that Julie dared not advance a step. She remained rooted to the spot, and spake never a word.
An instant later the door opened again. Julie felt two strong arms about her and a mouth pressing a kiss on her forehead. She looked up with an exclamation of joy: “Maximilian! my brother!”
At these words Mme Morrel sprang up, and, running toward her son, threw herself in his arms.
“Mother, what has happened?” said the young man, looking alternately at Mme Morrel and her daughter. “Your letter made me feel very anxious, so I hastened to you.”
“Julie, go and tell your father that Maximilian has come,” said Mme Morrel, making a sign to the young man.
The girl hastened to obey, but, on the first stair, she met a young man with a letter in his hand.
“Are you not Mademoiselle Julie Morrel?” he said with a very pronounced Italian acent.
“Yes, monsieur,” stammered Julie. “What do you wish of me? I do not know you.”
“Read this letter,” said the man, handing her a note.
The girl snatched the note from his hands, opened it hastily, and read:
Go this moment to No. 15 Allées de Meilhan, ask the porter for the key to the room on the fifth floor. Enter the room, take a red silk purse that is on the corner of the mantelshelf and give it to your father. It is important that he should have it before eleven o’clock. You promised me blind obedience, and I now remind you of that promise.
Sindbad the Sailor
Julie uttered an exclamation of joy, yet even in her joy she felt a certain uneasiness. Was there nothing to fear? Was this not all a trap that had been laid for her? She hesitated and decided to ask advice, but a strange feeling urged her to apply to Emmanuel rather than to her brother or her mother. She told him all that had happened the day Thomson and French’s agent came to see her father, repeated the promise she had made and showed him the letter.
“You must go, mademoiselle,” Emmanuel said, “and I shall go with you.”
“Then it is your opinion, Emmanuel,” said the girl with some misgiving, “that I should carry out these instructions?”
“Listen,” he said. “Today is the
fifth of September, and at eleven o’clock your father must pay out nearly three hundred thousand francs, whereas he does not possess fifteen thousand.”
“What will happen then?”
“If your father has not found someone to come to his aid by eleven o’clock, he will be obliged by twelve o’clock to declare himself bankrupt.”
“Come along then, come!” cried Julie, pulling Emmanuel after her.
In the meantime Mme Morrel had told her son everything. He knew that after his father’s successive misfortunes all expenditure in the house had been rigidly cut down, but he was unaware that matters had come to such a pass. He was horrorstruck.
Then he suddenly rushed out of the room and ran upstairs, expecting to find his father in the office, but he received no answer to his repeated knocks. As he was waiting at the door, however, his father came from his bedroom. He uttered a cry of surprise on seeing Maximilian; he did not know of his arrival. He stood where he was, pressing with his left hand something he was trying to conceal under his coat. Maximilian ran down the stairs quickly and threw himself round his father’s neck. Suddenly he drew back, and stood there as pale as death.
“Father,” said he, “why have you a brace of pistols under your coat?”
“Ah, I feared as much,” murmured Morrel.
“Father! Father!” cried the young man. “In God’s name, why have you got those weapons?”
“Maximilian, you are a man and a man of honour,” replied Morrel, looking at his son with a fixed stare. “Come with me and I will tell you.”
With a firm step Morrel went up to his office followed by Maximilian in great agitation. Morrel closed the door behind his son, then crossing the antechamber, went to his desk, placed the pistols on a corner of the table and pointed to an open ledger. This ledger gave an exact statement of his affairs.
“Read that,” said Morrel.
The young man read, and for a moment was quite overcome. Morrel did not speak. What could he have said in face of the damning figures?
Count of Monte Cristo (abridged) (Barnes & Noble Classics Series) Page 20