The Count of Monte Cristo. Alexandre Dumas

Чтение книги онлайн.

СКАЧАТЬ in all, 287,500 francs (£11,500).”

      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 whilst 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 engagements.”

      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 and Son been dishonoured.”

      “I know that,” replied the Englishman. “But as a man of honour 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 straight-forward 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 my payments.”

      “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 came here a vessel was entering the 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 entrance of this ship.”

      “And it is not yours?”

      “No, it is a vessel of Bordeaux, La Gironde; it comes from India also; but it is not mine.”

      “Perhaps it has spoken the Pharaon, and brings you some tidings of it?”

      “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. Incertitude is still hope.”

      Then in a low voice Morrel added:

      “This delay is not natural. The Pharaon left Calcutta the 5th of February; it ought to have been here a month ago.”

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

      “Oh! oh!” cried Morrel, turning pale, “what is this?”

      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 steps, which were of those 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 of the door,” murmured Morrel, “Coclès 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 messenger of ill.”

      Morrel again changed colour. Julie threw herself into his arms.

      “Oh, father, father!” murmured she, “courage!”

      “The Pharaon has then perished?” 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 harbour.”

      Morrel raised his two hands to heaven with an expression of resignation and sublime gratitude.

      “Thanks, my God,” said he, “at least you strike but me alone.”

      Spite of his phlegm a tear moistened the eye of the Englishman.

      “Come in, come in,” said Morrel, “for I presume you are all at the door.”

      Scarcely had he uttered these 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 relate all.”

      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 to Toulon.

      “Good-day, СКАЧАТЬ