The Count of Monte Cristo (Unabridged Penguin) (51 page)

‘Fine men, brave men,’ Morrel said as he walked away. ‘I hope your new master feels as much affection for you as I did, and enjoys more luck than I do!’

August passed with continued and repeated attempts by Morrel
to increase his old credit or open a new account. On 20 August it was learned in Marseille that he had reserved a place on the stage-coach, and as a result they said that it must be at the end of that current month that he would declare his bankruptcy: he had already left, so that he would not have to be present in these awful circumstances, leaving his head clerk, Emmanuel, and his cashier, Coclès, to take care of it on his behalf. But, against all expectations, when 31 August came, the office opened for payment as usual. Coclès appeared behind the grille, as calm as Horace’s just man, examined the paper that was presented to him with the same attention as ever and, from first to last, settled the bills with his usual precision. There were even two reimbursements which had been foreseen by M. Morrel, which Coclès paid as scrupulously as the bills which were personally drawn on the shipowner. No one could understand what was happening but, with the usual tenacity of prophets of doom, they postponed the bankruptcy until the end of September.

Morrel returned on the first of the month. His whole family had been waiting anxiously for him, because in this trip to Paris lay his last hope of salvation. Morrel had thought of Danglars, now a millionaire but once indebted to him, because it was on Morrel’s recommendation that Danglars had entered the service of the Spanish banker in whose firm he had started to build his vast fortune. Today, it was said that Danglars had six or eight million of his own, and limitless credit. Without taking a single
écu
from his own pocket, Danglars could rescue Morrel: he had only to guarantee a loan and Morrel was safe. Morrel had thought of Danglars a long time ago, but one has certain instinctive and uncontrollable aversions… so Morrel had waited as long as possible before turning to this last resort. He had been right to do so, because he returned broken by the humiliation of a refusal.

Despite that, Morrel had not voiced the slightest complaint on his return or the least recrimination. He had wept as he embraced his wife and daughter, proffered a friendly hand to Emmanuel, shut himself up in his study on the second floor and asked for Coclès.

‘This time,’ the two women said to Emmanuel, ‘we are done for.’

Then they put their heads together and quickly agreed that Julie should write to her brother, who was with the army at Nîmes, to tell him to come immediately. Instinctively the poor women felt that they would need all their strength to bear the coming troubles.

In any case, Maximilien Morrel, though barely twenty-two, already had a considerable influence over his father. He was a firm, upright young man. When the time came for him to take up a career, his father had not tried to impose upon him and asked young Maximilien how he felt. The lad replied that he wanted to follow a military career. He had consequently studied successfully, taken the competitive exam to enter the Ecole Polytechnique and graduated from there as a sub-lieutenant in the 53rd regiment of the line. He had been at this rank for the past year, but was promised a promotion to lieutenant at the first opportunity. In the regiment, Maximilien Morrel was often cited as strictly observing, not only all his obligations as a soldier but also all his duties as a man, and he was nicknamed The Stoic. Naturally, many of those who called him by this name repeated it because they had heard it, without knowing what it meant.

This was the young man whose mother and sister were about to call him to their aid, to support them through what they guessed would be difficult times. They were not mistaken about the difficulty. A moment after M. Morrel went into his study with Coclès, Julie saw the cashier come out, pale, trembling, his face expressing utter dismay. She wanted to question him as he went past, but the good man, plunging down the staircase at what was for him an unprecedented speed, only cried out, raising his arms to heaven: ‘Oh, Mademoiselle! Mademoiselle! What a terrible disaster! I would never have believed it!’

Shortly afterwards Julie saw him return, carrying two or three thick registers, a pocket book and a bag of money. Morrel examined the registers, opened the pocket book and counted the money.

His entire fortune amounted to six or eight thousand francs, and his expected revenue, up to the fifth, to four or five thousand, making – at the very most – total assets of fourteen thousand francs with which to pay outgoings of two hundred and eighty-seven thousand, five hundred francs. It was not possible even to consider an interim payment.

However, when M. Morrel came down to dinner, he seemed quite calm. The two women were more terrified by this calm exterior than they would have been by the most abject depression.

After dinner, Morrel was accustomed to go out: he went to take coffee at the Cercle des Phocéens, where he read
Le Sémaphore
. That day, he stayed in and went back to his office.

As for Coclès, he appeared totally numb. For part of the day he remained in the courtyard, sitting on a stone, bareheaded, under the blazing sun.

Emmanuel tried to reassure the women, but he could not find the right words. He knew too much about the affairs of the firm not to realize that a great catastrophe was about to descend on the Morrel family.

Night came. The two women had stayed up, hoping that Morrel would come and see them on his way back from his study, but they heard him tiptoe past their door, no doubt fearing that they would call out to him. They listened as he went into his room and locked the door from inside.

Mme Morrel sent her daughter to bed and, half an hour later, got up, took off her shoes and crept out into the corridor to look through the keyhole and see what her husband was doing. In the corridor she saw a shadow moving away: it was Julie who, also worried, had been there before her.

‘He’s writing,’ she said, going up to her mother.

The two women had read each other’s thoughts.

Mme Morrel bent over to the keyhole. M. Morrel was indeed writing, but Mme Morrel saw something that her daughter had not noticed, which was that her husband was writing on headed paper. The awful idea came to her that he was making his will. She shuddered uncontrollably, yet had the strength to say nothing.

The next day, M. Morrel appeared altogether calm. He went to his office as usual and came down to lunch as usual; only, today, after dining, he made his daughter sit next to him, took her head in his arms and pressed it for a long time against his breast.

In the evening Julie told her mother that, however calm he might seem on the outside, she had noticed that her father’s heart was beating furiously.

The following two days went by in almost the same way. On 4 September, in the evening, M. Morrel once more asked his daughter to give him back the key of his study. She shivered: the request seemed ominous to her. Why should her father ask her to return this key, which she had always held – and which, even when she was a child, he had taken away from her only as a punishment!

She looked at him. ‘What have I done wrong, father,’ she said, ‘for you to take back the study key?’

‘Nothing, child,’ the unhappy Morrel replied, tears brimming in his eyes at this simple question. ‘It is only that I need it.’

Julie pretended to look for the key. ‘I must have left it in my room,’ she said. She went out but, instead of going to her room, she went down to look for Emmanuel.

‘On no account give your father back that key,’ he told her. ‘And tomorrow morning, as far as is possible, don’t leave him alone.’

She tried to question him, but Emmanuel either knew nothing more or else wished to say nothing.

Throughout the night of 4th to 5th September, Mme Morrel stayed with her ear pressed against the panelling. Until three o’clock in the morning she heard her husband pacing nervously around his room. It was only at three o’clock that he threw himself on his bed.

The two women spent the night together. They had been waiting for Maximilien since the previous evening.

At eight o’clock, M. Morrel came into their room. He was calm, but the torments of the previous night could be read on his pale and haggard face. The women did not dare ask if he had slept well.

Morrel was kinder to his wife and more paternal towards his daughter than he had ever been: he could not have his fill of looking at the poor child and embracing her. She recalled Emmanuel’s injunction and tried to follow her father when he went out, but he gently pushed her aside.

‘Stay with your mother,’ he said.

She tried to protest.

‘I insist!’ said Morrel.

This was the first time that he had ever said ‘I insist’ to his daughter, but he did so in a voice so full of paternal affection that Julie did not dare take a step forward. She remained standing where she was, motionless and speechless. A moment later the door opened again and she felt two arms enfold her and a mouth pressed against her brow. She looked up and gave a cry of joy.

‘Maximilien! Brother!’ she exclaimed.

Hearing this, Mme Morrel ran in and threw herself into her son’s arms.

‘Mother,’ the young man said, looking from Mme Morrel to her daughter, ‘what has happened? What is wrong? Your letter terrified me; I came straight away.’

‘Julie,’ Mme Morrel said, motioning to the young man. ‘Go and tell your father that Maximilien has just arrived.’

The girl ran out but, at the top of the stairs, found a man with a letter in his hand.

‘Are you Mademoiselle Julie Morrel?’ he asked, in a strong Italian accent.

‘Yes, Monsieur,’ she stammered. ‘But what do you want of me? I don’t know you.’

‘Read this letter,’ the man said, handing a note to her.

She hesitated.

‘Your father’s life depends on it,’ said the messenger.

She tore the letter from his hands, opened it hastily and read as follows:

Go immediately to the Allées de Meilhan, enter the house at number 15, ask the concierge for the key to the room on the fifth floor, go into this room, take the purse knitted in red silk that you will find on the corner of the mantelpiece and take this purse to your father.

It is essential that he should have it before eleven o’clock.

You promised to obey me unquestioningly, and I am holding you to that promise.

SINBAD THE SAILOR
.

The girl cried out for joy and looked around for the man who had given her the letter, to ask him some questions, but he had disappeared. So she looked back again at the paper and noticed that there was a postscript. She read: ‘It is important that you should carry out this mission yourself, and alone. If you are accompanied, or if anyone except you comes in your place, the concierge will reply that he knows nothing about it.’

This postscript dampened the girl’s happiness. Perhaps there was some risk, perhaps this was a trap? Because of her innocence, she was ignorant of exactly what might threaten a young girl of her age; but one does not need to identify a danger to fear it. Indeed, it is noticeable that it is precisely the danger that is unknown which one fears most.

Julie hesitated and decided to ask for advice. But, for some reason, it was not either to her mother or to her brother that she turned, but to Emmanuel.

She went down, told him what had happened on the day when
the representative of Thomson and French had come to her father’s, told him about the scene on the stairs, repeated the promise that she had made and showed him the letter.

‘You must go, Mademoiselle,’ said Emmanuel.

‘Go?’ Julie murmured.

‘Yes, I shall accompany you.’

‘But can’t you see where it says I must be alone?’

‘And so you shall be. I shall wait for you on a corner of the Rue du Musée. If you are away long enough to give me any anxiety, I shall follow you and, I promise you this, it will be the worse for anyone against whom you may have any complaint.’

‘You mean, Emmanuel,’ said the girl, still undecided, ‘that you think I should do as it says here?’

‘Yes. Didn’t the messenger tell you that your father’s life was at stake?’

‘But, Emmanuel, what risk is there to his life then?’

Emmanuel paused for a moment, but the wish to make up the girl’s mind at once overcame his hesitation.

‘Listen,’ he said. ‘Today is the fifth of September, isn’t it?’

‘Yes.’

‘And today, at eleven o’clock, your father has nearly three hundred thousand francs to pay.’

‘We know that.’

‘Well,’ Emmanuel said, ‘he doesn’t have even fifteen thousand in his cashbox.’

‘So what will happen?’

‘What will happen is that today, if your father has not found someone to help him before eleven o’clock, by midday he will have to declare himself bankrupt.’

‘Come, come quickly!’ the girl cried, pulling him along with her.

Meanwhile Mme Morrel had told everything to her son. He had known that there had been serious reforms in the economy of the household as a result of his father’s misfortunes, but he did not realize that things had reached such a pass. He was completely overwhelmed. Then, suddenly, he rushed out of the apartment and ran up the stairs, thinking his father was in his study, but there was no answer to his knock.