The young man stood motionless, having the will but not the power to act.
"Listen, Maximilian," his father said. "Suppose I were a soldier like you, ordered to take a certain position, and you knew I’d be killed in the assault. Wouldn’t you say to me, as you just did, ’Go, Father, for delay dishonors you, and death is preferable to shame’?"
"Yes," the young man said. "Yes." Once again embracing his father with convulsive pressure, he said, "So be it, Father."
He rushed from the study. The most update n0vels are published on ɴovelfire.net
When his son had left, Morrel remained standing for a moment, staring at the door. Then he rang the bell. After a brief interval, Coclès appeared.
He was no longer the same man, the terrible revelations of the past three days had crushed him. The thought that the House of Morrel was about to fail had aged him more than twenty years would have otherwise.
"My faithful Coclès," Morrel said in an indescribable tone, "remain in the anteroom. When the gentleman who came three months ago, Thomson & French’s agent, arrives, announce him to me."
Coclès made no reply but nodded, went to the anteroom, and sat down. Morrel collapsed in his chair, eyes fixed on the clock. Seven minutes remained, that was all. The hand moved with incredible speed; he seemed to see every tick.
What passed through this man’s mind in his final moments of agony cannot be described in words. Still relatively young, surrounded by a loving family’s devoted care, he had convinced himself through reasoning that was perhaps illogical but certainly understandable, that he must separate himself from everything he held dear in the world, even life itself.
To understand his feelings, one would have to see his face with its expression of forced resignation and his tear-moistened eyes raised to heaven. The minute hand advanced. The pistols were loaded. He reached out, took one, and murmured his daughter’s name. Then he set it down, seized his pen, and wrote a few words. It seemed he hadn’t taken sufficient farewell of his beloved daughter.
He turned back to the clock, now counting time in seconds rather than minutes. He picked up the deadly weapon again, lips parted, eyes fixed on the clock. He shuddered at the click as he cocked the pistol. In this moment of mortal anguish, cold sweat broke out on his brow, and a pain stronger than death gripped his heart.
He heard the staircase door creak on its hinges. The clock prepared to strike eleven. His study door opened. Morrel didn’t turn around, he expected to hear Coclès announce, "Thomson & French’s agent."
He placed the pistol’s muzzle between his teeth. Suddenly he heard a cry, his daughter’s voice. He spun around and saw Julie. The pistol fell from his hands.
"Father!" cried the young woman, breathless and half-dead with joy. "Saved! You’re saved!" She threw herself into his arms, holding a red silk mesh purse in her outstretched hand.
"Saved, my child! What do you mean?"
"Yes, saved! Look, look!" said the young woman.
Morrel took the purse and started, for a vague memory told him it had once belonged to him. At one end was a receipt for the 287,000 francs, and at the other was a diamond as large as a hazelnut, with these words on a small slip of parchment: "Julie’s Dowry."
Morrel passed his hand over his brow; it seemed like a dream. At that moment, the clock struck eleven. He felt each stroke of the hammer fall upon his heart.
"Explain, my child," he said. "Where did you find this purse?"
"In a house on Meillan Walkways, number 15, on the corner of a mantelpiece in a small room on the fifth floor."
"But," cried Morrel, "this purse isn’t yours!"
Julie handed her father the letter she’d received that morning.
"Did you go alone?" Morrel asked after reading it.
"Emmanuel accompanied me, Father. He was supposed to wait for me at the corner of Museum Street, but strangely, he wasn’t there when I returned."
"Mr. Morrel!" exclaimed a voice on the stairs. "Mr. Morrel!"
"That’s his voice!" said Julie.
At that moment, Emmanuel burst in, his face full of excitement and joy.
"The Pharaon!" he cried. "The Pharaon!"
"What, what about the Pharaon? Are you mad, Emmanuel? You know the ship was lost."
"The Pharaon, sir, they’re signaling the Pharaon
Morrel fell back in his chair, his strength failing. His mind, weakened by such events, refused to comprehend such incredible, unheard-of, fabulous facts.
But his son entered. "Father," cried Maximilian, "how could you say the Pharaon was lost? The lookout has signaled her, and they say she’s now entering port."
"My dear friends," said Morrel, "if this is true, it must be a miracle from heaven! Impossible, impossible!"
But what was real and no less incredible was the purse in his hand, the receipted bill, the splendid diamond.
"Oh, sir," exclaimed Coclès, "what can it mean, the Pharaon?"
"Come, dear ones," said Morrel, rising from his seat. "Let’s go see, and may heaven have pity on us if this is false news!"
They all went out and on the stairs met Madame Morrel, who had been afraid to enter the study. In moments, they were at the waterfront. A crowd filled the pier, but everyone gave way before Morrel.
"The Pharaon, the Pharaon!" every voice said.
And there, wonderful to behold, in front of the harbor tower, was a ship bearing on her stern these words in white letters: "The Pharaon, Morrel & Son, Port City." She was an exact duplicate of the lost Pharaon, loaded with the same valuable cargo of cochineal and indigo. She dropped anchor and furled sails, and on deck stood Captain Gaumard giving orders while good old Penelon signaled to Mr. Morrel.
To doubt any longer was impossible. Here was evidence for the senses, and ten thousand people corroborated the testimony. As Morrel and his son embraced on the pier amid the applause of the entire city witnessing this event, a man with his face half-covered by a black beard, concealed behind a guard post, watched the scene with delight and uttered these words in a low tone:
"Be happy, noble heart. Be blessed for all the good you have done and will do hereafter. Let my gratitude remain in obscurity like your good deeds."
With a smile expressing supreme contentment, he left his hiding place and, without being observed, descended one of the flights of steps provided for disembarkation. Hailing three times, he shouted, "Jacopo! Jacopo! Jacopo!"
A launch came to shore, took him aboard, and conveyed him to a splendidly fitted yacht. He sprang onto the deck with a sailor’s agility, then looked once more toward Morrel, who was weeping with joy, shaking hands cordially with the crowd around him, and thanking with a glance the unknown benefactor he seemed to be seeking in the skies.
"And now," said the unknown man, "farewell kindness, humanity, and gratitude! Farewell to all the feelings that expand the heart! I have been heaven’s substitute to reward the good, now the god of vengeance yields to me his power to punish the wicked!"
At these words, he gave a signal. As if awaiting only this command, the yacht instantly put out to sea.