that from day to day the property of those whom I leave in your
hands may augment and fructify. Reflect how glorious a day it will
be, how grand, how solemn, that day of complete restoration, on
which you will say in this very office, `My father died because he
could not do what I have this day done; but he died calmly and
peaceably, because in dying he knew what I should do.'"
"My father, my father!" cried the young man, "why should you not
live?"
"If I live, all would be changed; if I live, interest would be
converted into doubt, pity into hostility; if I live I am only a
man who his broken his word, failed in his engagements — in fact,
only a bankrupt. If, on the contrary, I die, remember, Maximilian,
my corpse is that of an honest but unfortunate man. Living, my best
friends would avoid my house; dead, all Marseilles will follow me
in tears to my last home. Living, you would feel shame at my name;
dead, you may raise your head and say, `I am the son of him you
killed, because, for the first time, he has been compelled to break
his word.'"
The young man uttered a groan, but appeared resigned.
"And now," said Morrel, "leave me alone, and endeavor to keep
your mother and sister away."
"Will you not see my sister once more?" asked Maximilian. A last
but final hope was concealed by the young man in the effect of this
interview, and therefore he had suggested it. Morrel shook his
head. "I saw her this morning, and bade her adieu."
"Have you no particular commands to leave with me, my father?"
inquired Maximilian in a faltering voice.
"Yes; my son, and a sacred command."
"Say it, my father."
"The house of Thomson & French is the only one who, from
humanity, or, it may be, selfishness — it is not for me to read
men's hearts — has had any pity for me. Its agent, who will in ten
minutes present himself to receive the amount of a bill of 287,500
francs, I will not say granted, but offered me three months. Let
this house be the first repaid, my son, and respect this man."
"Father, I will," said Maximilian.this house be the first repaid, my son, and respect this man."
"Father, I will," said Maximilian.
"And now, once more, adieu," said Morrel. "Go, leave me; I would
be alone. You will find my will in the secretary in my
bedroom."
The young man remained standing and motionless, having but the
force of will and not the power of execution.
"Hear me, Maximilian," said his father. "Suppose I was a soldier
like you, and ordered to carry a certain redoubt, and you knew I
must be killed in the assault, would you not say to me, as you said
just now, `Go, father; for you are dishonored by delay, and death
is preferable to shame!'"
"Yes, yes," said the young man, "yes;" and once again embracing
his father with convulsive pressure, he said, "Be it so, my
father."
And he rushed out of the study. When his son had left him,
Morrel remained an instant standing with his eyes fixed on the
door; then putting forth his arm, he pulled the bell. After a
moment's interval, Cocles appeared.
It was no longer the same man — the fearful revelations of the
three last days had crushed him. This thought — the house of Morrel
is about to stop payment — bent him to the earth more than twenty
years would otherwise have done.
"My worthy Cocles," said Morrel in a tone impossible to
describe, "do you remain in the ante-chamber. When the gentleman
who came three months ago — the agent of Thomson & French —
arrives, announce his arrival to me." Cocles made no reply; he made
a sign with his head, went into the anteroom, and seated himself.
Morrel fell back in his chair, his eyes fixed on the clock; there
were seven minutes left, that was all. The hand moved on with
incredible rapidity, he seemed to see its motion.
What passed in the mind of this man at the supreme moment of his
agony cannot be told in words. He was still comparatively young, he
was surrounded by the loving care of a devoted family, but he had
convinced himself by a course of reasoning, illogical perhaps, yet
certainly plausible, that he must separate himself from all he heldcertainly plausible, that he must separate himself from all he held
dear in the world, even life itself. To form the slightest idea of
his feelings, one must have seen his face with its expression of
enforced resignation and its tear-moistened eyes raised to heaven.
The minute hand moved on. The pistols were loaded; he stretched
forth his hand, took one up, and murmured his daughter's name. Then
he laid it down seized his pen, and wrote a few words. It seemed to
him as if he had not taken a sufficient farewell of his beloved
daughter. Then he turned again to the clock, counting time now not
by minutes, but by seconds. He took up the deadly weapon again, his
lips parted and his eyes fixed on the clock, and then shuddered at
the click of the trigger as he cocked the pistol. At this moment of
mortal anguish the cold sweat came forth upon his brow, a pang
stronger than death clutched at his heart-strings. He heard the
door of the staircase creak on its hinges — the clock gave its
warning to strike eleven — the door of his study opened; Morrel did
not turn round — he expected these words of Cocles, "The agent of
Thomson & French."
He placed the muzzle of the pistol between his teeth. Suddenly
he heard a cry — it was his daughter's voice. He turned and saw
Julie. The pistol fell from his hands. "My father!" cried the young
girl, out of breath, and half dead with joy — "saved, you are
saved!" And she threw herself into his arms, holding in her
extended hand a red, netted silk purse.
"Saved, my child!" said Morrel; "what do you mean?"
"Yes, saved — saved! See, see!" said the young girl.
Morrel took the purse, and started as he did so, for a vague
remembrance reminded him that it once belonged to himself. At one
end was the receipted bill for the 287,000 francs, and at the other
was a diamond as large as a hazel-nut, with these words on a small
slip of parchment: — Julie's Dowry.
Morrel passed his hand over his brow; it seemed to him a dream.
At this moment the clock struck eleven. He felt as if each stroke