Unfortunately, whether through hatred or blindness, not all M. Morrel's associates thought in that way; some even thought the opposite. The bills that Morrel had signed were consequently presented at the till with scrupulous punctuality but, thanks to the time that had been allowed them by the Englishman, were paid on the nail by Coclès. The latter consequently went on in his state of fateful indifference. Only M. Morrel could appreciate, with horror, that if he had had to reimburse the fifty thousand francs to de Boville on the 15th and, on the 30th, the thirty-two thousand five hundred francs of bills for which (as for his debt to the inspector of prisons) he had obtained a stay, he would have been a lost man that very month.
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The stay granted by the representative of Thomson and French, just when M. Morrel least expected it, seemed to the poor shipowner like one of those changes of fortune which tell a man that fate has at last tired of hounding him. The same day, he told his daughter, his wife and Emmanuel what had happened, and a modicum of hope, if not peace of mind, descended on the family. But unfortunately Morrel did not only have to deal with Thomson and French, who appeared so well disposed towards him. As he himself said, in business one has associates, but no friends. When he thought seriously about it, he could not even understand the generosity of Messrs Thomson and French. The only explanation he could find was that the firm had made the following self-interested calculation: "it is better to support a man who owes us nearly three hundred thousand francs, and have the money at the end of three months, than to precipitate his ruin and have only six or eight per cent of the original sum."
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No one, as it happened, had seen the representative of Thomson and French again in Marseille. The day after his visit to Morrel, or the day after that, he had vanished. As he had not been in contact with anyone in Marseille except the mayor, the inspector of prisons and M. Morrel, his stay had left no trace behind it other than the different memories that these three people had of him. As for the sailors of the Pharaon, it appeared that they had found another ship to sign on, because they too had vanished.
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The month passed in extraordinary efforts on Morrel's part to muster all his resources. At one time his paper, whatever the term on it, had been accepted with confidence and even sought out. Morrel tried to issue some bills for ninety days but found the doors of the banks closed. Luckily, Morrel himself had some bills due that he could call in; he did so successfully, and so found himself once more able to meet his obligations at the end of July.
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The conclusion in business circles in Marseille was that Morrel would not be able to ride out the succession of disasters that were befalling him. There was consequently great astonishment at seeing him pay his debts at the end of the month with his habitual promptitude. However, this was not enough to restore confidence, and there was unanimous agreement that the end of the following month would see the unfortunate man bankrupt.
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Captain Gaumard had recovered from the illness that kept him in Palma and returned to Marseille. He was reluctant to go to see M. Morrel, but the shipowner heard of his arrival and went himself to find him. He already knew, from Penelon's story, how courageously the captain had behaved throughout the shipwreck, and it was he who tried to console the other man. He brought him his salary, which Captain Gaumard had not dared to draw.
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As he was coming down the stairs, Morrel met Penelon coming up. It appeared that the helmsman had made good use of his money, because he was kitted out in entirely new clothes. He seemed quite embarrassed on meeting his owner; he drew back into the further corner of the landing, shifted his quid of tobacco from left to right and right to left, rolling his eyes and only replying with a feeble handshake to the one that M. Morrel, with his habitual warmth, had offered him. Morrel attributed Penelon's embarrassment to the elegance of his dress: it was clear that the good man had not indulged in such luxury out of his last pay, so he must clearly have signed on with another ship, and his shame must be for not having, so to speak, gone into a longer period of mourning for the Pharaon. Perhaps he had even been to tell Captain Gaumard of his good fortune and let him know what his new master was offering.
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"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!"
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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.
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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.
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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.
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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.
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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.
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"This time," the two women said to Emmanuel, "we are done for."
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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.
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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!"
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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.
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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.
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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.
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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.
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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.
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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.
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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.
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"He's writing," she said, going up to her mother.
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The two women had read each other's thoughts.
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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.
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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.
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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!
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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.
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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.
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She looked at him. "What have I done wrong, father," she said, "for you to take back the study key?"
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She tried to question him, but Emmanuel either knew nothing more or else wished to say nothing.
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"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."
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"Nothing, child," the unhappy Morrel replied, tears brimming in his eyes at this simple question. "It is only that I need it."
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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.
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The two women spent the night together. They had been waiting for Maximilien since the previous evening.
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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.
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She tried to protest.
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"I insist!" said Morrel.
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"Maximilien! Brother!" she exclaimed.
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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.
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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.
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Hearing this, Mme Morrel ran in and threw herself into her son's arms.
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"Julie," Mme Morrel said, motioning to the young man. "Go and tell your father that Maximilien has just arrived."
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"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."
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SINBAD THE SAILOR.
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She hesitated.
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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."
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The girl ran out but, at the top of the stairs, found a man with a letter in his hand.
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"Your father's life depends on it," said the messenger.
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She tore the letter from his hands, opened it hastily and read as follows:
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"Are you Mademoiselle Julie Morrel?" he asked, in a strong Italian accent.
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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.
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It is essential that he should have it before eleven o'clock.
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"Yes, Monsieur," she stammered. "But what do you want of me? I don't know you."
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"Read this letter," the man said, handing a note to her.
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You promised to obey me unquestioningly, and I am holding you to that promise.
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"Go?" Julie murmured.
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"You must go, Mademoiselle," said Emmanuel.
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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.
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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.
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"Yes, I shall accompany you."
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"But can't you see where it says I must be alone?"
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"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."
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Emmanuel paused for a moment, but the wish to make up the girl's mind at once overcame his hesitation.
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"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."
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"And today, at eleven o'clock, your father has nearly three hundred thousand francs to pay."
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"Listen," he said. "Today is the fifth of September, isn't it?"
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"Yes."
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"We know that."
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"Well," Emmanuel said, "he doesn't have even fifteen thousand in his cashbox."
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"So what will happen?"
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"Yes. Didn't the messenger tell you that your father's life was at stake?"
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"You mean, Emmanuel," said the girl, still undecided, "that you think I should do as it says here?"
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"Come, come quickly!" the girl cried, pulling him along with her.
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"But, Emmanuel, what risk is there to his life then?"
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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.
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"Father," he said, deathly pale, "why have you a pair of pistols under your coat?"
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As he was at the door of the study, he heard that of the apartment open and turned around to see his father. Instead of going directly up to his study, M. Morrel had gone into his room, from which he was only now emerging.
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"This is what I feared!" said Morrel.
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"Father, father! In heaven's name!" the young man exclaimed. "What are these weapons for?"
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He gave a cry of surprise on seeing Maximilien. He did not know that the young man had returned. He stayed motionless on the spot, clasping something hidden under his frock-coat with his left arm. Maximilien quickly came down the stairs and embraced his father but suddenly started back, leaving only his right hand resting on his father's chest.
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"Maximilien," Morrel replied, looking directly at his son, "you are a man, and a man of honour. Come with me and I shall tell you."
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Morrel walked with a firm step up to his study while Maximilien followed him, his knees trembling.
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Morrel opened the door and closed it behind his son. Then he crossed the antechamber, went into the office, placed his pistols on a corner of the table and pointed to the open register. Here was a precise summary of the situation. In half an hour Morrel would have to pay two hundred and eighty-seven thousand five hundred francs.
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"You are expecting no funds to be paid in?"
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"Blood washes away dishonour," said Morrel.
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"None."
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"And in half an hour," Maximilien said in a dull voice, "your name will be dishonoured."
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The young man read and for a moment appeared to be crushed. Morrel said nothing: what was there to say that would add anything to the inexorable verdict of the figures?
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"Father," he said, "are you asking me to live?"
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The young man's body shook from head to toe.
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"Every one."
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"You have exhausted every possible resource?"
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"Father, have you done everything," the young man said, after a moment's pause, "to stave off this misfortune?"
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Morrel clasped his hand. "Your mother… your sister… who will feed them?"
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His total assets amounted to fifteen thousand, two hundred and fifty-seven francs.
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"Read it," he said.
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"Yes, I tell you to. It is your duty. Your mind is calm and strong, Maximilien. You are no ordinary man. I am not ordering you, I am not instructing you, I am just saying: consider your situation as if you were an outsider looking at it, and judge for yourself."
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"Yes," said Morrel.
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"You are right, father. I take your meaning." Then, stretching his hand out towards the pistols: "There is one for you and one for me. Thank you!"
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"Very well," he said, offering Morrel his hand. "Die in peace, father! I shall live!"
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The young man thought for a moment, then an expression of sublime resignation passed across his eyes. But, with a slow, sad gesture, he took off his epaulettes, the marks of his rank.
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Morrel made as if to throw himself at his son's feet. Maximilien drew his father to him, and for a moment these two noble hearts beat, one against the other.
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"You know it is not my fault?" said Morrel.
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Maximilien smiled. "I do know, father that you are the most honest man I have ever met."
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"Very well, there is nothing more to say. Now go back to your mother and your sister."
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Morrel grasped his son's head between both hands, drew him to him and, kissing him over and over, said: "Oh, yes, yes! I bless you in my name and in the name of three generations of men of impeccable reputation; listen to what they are saying in my voice: the edifice which misfortune has destroyed, Providence can rebuild. When they see me dead in this manner, even the most inexorable will take pity on you. Perhaps you will be given the time that has been refused me. Try to ensure that the word infamy is not spoken. Go to work, young man, struggle eagerly and bravely: live, you, your mother and your sister, on the basic minimum so that, day by day, the wealth of those in whose debt I am should grow and bear fruit in your hands. Consider that a fine day is coming, a great day, the solemn day when the bankruptcy will be discharged, the day when, in this same office, you will say: 'My father died because he could not do what I am doing today; but he died with calm and peace of mind, because he knew as he died that I would do it.'"
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"Father, give me your blessing!" The young man knelt.
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"Oh, father, father!" cried the young man. "If only you could live!"
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The young man groaned, but he appeared resigned. This was the second time that certainty had descended, not on his heart, but on his mind.
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"If I live, everything will change. Concern will change to doubt, pity to implacability. If I live, I shall be no more than a man who failed to keep his word, who could not live up to his promises -- in short, a bankrupt. But think: if I die, Maximilien, my body will be that of an unfortunate but honest man. If I live, my best friends will shun my house; if I die, all Marseille will follow me, weeping, to my final rest. If I live, you will be ashamed of my name; if I die, you can hold up your head and say: 'I am the son of a man who killed himself because, for the first time, he was obliged to break his word.'"
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"Do you not wish to see my sister?" Maximilien asked.
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"And now," Morrel said, "leave me and try to keep the women away from here."
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The young man saw a vague last hope in this meeting, which is why he suggested it. M. Morrel shook his head, saying: "I saw her and said farewell this morning."
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"Don't you have any particular requests for me, father?" Maximilien asked in a strained voice.
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"The firm of Thomson and French is the only one which, out of humanity, perhaps out of self-interest -- but it is not for me to read into the hearts of men -- took pity on me. Its representative is the man who in ten minutes will come here to cash a bill for two hundred and eighty-seven thousand five hundred francs, and he -- I won't say he granted me, but he offered me three months' grace. Let this firm be repaid first of all, my son; let this man be sacred to you."
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"Yes, father," said Maximilien.
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"I do, my son, a sacred request."
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"Tell me, father."
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"And now, once more, adieu," said Morrel. "Go now, I need to be alone. You will find my will in the writing-table in my bedroom."
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The young man stayed, not moving, feeling the wish to do so but not the power to carry out the wish.
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"Listen, Maximilien," said his father. "Suppose I were a soldier like you, and I had received an order to capture a redoubt and you knew that I would be killed in doing so, wouldn't you say to me what you said a short while ago: 'Go on, father, because you will be dishonoured if you stay, and death is better than shame'?"
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He was no longer the same man. These three days of certainty had broken him. This thought: the House of Morrel could not meet its obligations, bent him closer to the ground than the weight of another twenty years on his back.
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"Yes," said the young man. "Yes, yes." And, clasping his father in his arms with a convulsive movement, he said: "Farewell, father!" and dashed out of the study.
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When his son had left, Morrel remained for a moment standing, staring at the door. Then he reached out his hand, found the rope of a bell-pull and rang. A moment later Coclès appeared.
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"My dear Coclès," said Morrel, in an indescribable tone of voice. "Please remain in the antechamber. When the gentleman who was here three months ago -- you know, the representative of Thomson and French -- when he arrives, you will announce him."
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Coclès said nothing. He nodded, went into the antechamber and waited.
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Morrel fell back into his chair. His eyes turned to the clock. He had seven minutes left, no more. The hand was turning at an incredible speed: he even thought he could see it move.
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It is impossible to say what was going on in these final moments in the mind of this man who, still young, perhaps as the result of misguided reasoning, however persuasive it might be, was about to separate himself from all that he loved in the world and leave this existence, which offered him all the joys of family life. In order to gain some idea of it, one would need to see his forehead bathed in sweat, but resigned; his eyes wet with tears, yet raised heavenwards.
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The hand moved on, the pistols were loaded. He reached out, took one of them and murmured his daughter's name.
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Then he turned back to the clock. The time could no longer be counted in minutes, but in seconds.
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After that he put down the fatal weapon, took a pen and wrote a few words. He felt that he had still not said a sufficient farewell to his dear child.
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He picked up the weapons again, his mouth half open and his eyes on the hands of the clock. Then he shuddered at the noise he himself made in cocking the gun.
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At that moment a colder sweat broke out on his brow and a more terrible agony gripped his heart.
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Morrel did not turn around. He was waiting for Coclès to say: "The representative of Thomson and French…"
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At that moment the clock struck eleven. It struck for him as if each blow of the hammer was striking on his very heart.
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He put the gun to his mouth…
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He turned around and saw Julie. The gun dropped from his hand.
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In the other side was a diamond the size of a hazelnut, with these words written on a small piece of parchment: "Julie's dowry".
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"Yes, saved! Look, look!"
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"Father!" the girl cried, breathless and almost fainting with joy. "Saved! You are saved!"
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Morrel wiped his brow. He thought he was dreaming.
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In one side was the bill for two hundred and eighty-seven thousand five hundred francs. The bill was acquitted.
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"Saved, child! What do you mean?"
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And she flung herself into his arms, brandishing in one hand a red silk purse.
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Morrel took the purse and shivered, because he vaguely recalled it as something that had once belonged to him.
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He heard the door to the stairway creak on its hinges. The door of his study opened. The clock was about to strike eleven.
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Suddenly he heard a cry: it was his daughter's voice.
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"Monsieur Morrel!" cried a voice on the stairs. "Monsieur Morrel!"
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"The Pharaon!" he shouted. "The Pharaon!"
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"In a house in the Allées de Meilhan, at number fifteen, on the mantelpiece of a poor little room on the fifth floor."
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Julie handed her father the letter she had received that morning.
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"That's his voice," said Julie.
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At the same moment Emmanuel came in, his face contorted with joy and emotion.
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Morrel slumped backwards into his chair, drained of all strength, his mind refusing to accept this succession of incredible… unheard of… fabulous events.
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"And you went to this house alone?" he said, after reading it.
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"What is this? The Pharaon? Are you mad, Emmanuel? You know very well that she is lost."
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"Emmanuel came with me, father. He agreed to wait for me on the corner of the Rue du Musée. But the strange thing is that, when I came back, he was no longer there."
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"Come now, my child," he said. "Explain this: where did you find this purse?"
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"But this purse does not belong to you!" he cried.
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"The Pharaon, Monsieur! They have signalled the Pharaon. She is coming into port."
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"My friends," said Morrel, "if this is so, we must believe in a divine miracle. It is impossible, impossible!"
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"Come on, children," said Morrel, getting up, "let us go and see; and God have pity on us if this is a false rumour."
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Then his son came in, exclaiming: "Father, why did you say the Pharaon was lost? The lookout has announced its arrival and it is sailing into port."
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They went down. Mme Morrel was waiting on the stairs; the poor woman had not dared to come up.
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"Oh, Monsieur!" said Coclès. "What does it mean? The Pharaon?"
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In a moment they were on the Canebière.
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But what was real, but no less incredible, was the purse that he held in his hands, the bill of exchange acquitted and this splendid diamond.
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And, indeed, something wonderful, unimaginable: off the Tour Saint-Jean, a ship with these words in white letters inscribed on its prow: "Pharaon (Morrel and Son of Marseille)", exactly like the other Pharaon, laden like the other with cochineal and indigo, was lowering its anchor and furling its sails. On deck, Captain Gaumard was giving orders and Master Penelon was waving to M. Morrel.
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There was a large crowd in the port, and it parted to make way for Morrel. Every voice was crying: "The Pharaon! The Pharaon!"
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As Morrel and his son were embracing on the jetty, to the applause of the whole town which had come to see this extraordinary event, a man, his face half covered by a black beard, who had been hiding behind a sentry box and observing the scene with obvious emotion, muttered the following words: "Be happy, noble heart. Be blessed for all the good you have done and will yet do. Let my gratitude remain hidden in the shadows like your good deeds."
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There could be no further doubt: the evidence of his senses was supported by ten thousand witnesses.
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At this, a boat rowed over to him, took him aboard and carried him out to a yacht, superbly fitted out, on to the deck of which he leapt with the agility of a sailor. From there, he looked once again towards Morrel who, weeping with joy, was shaking the hands of everyone in the crowd and vaguely thanking his unknown benefactor whom he seemed to be searching for in the sky.
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With a smile in which joy and happiness mingled, he left his hiding-place, without anyone paying any attention to him, so preoccupied were they with the events of the day, and went down one of those small flights of steps that serve as a landing-stage, crying three times: "Jacopo! Jacopo! Jacopo!"
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"And now," said the stranger, "farewell, goodness, humanity, gratitude… Farewell all those feelings that nourish and illuminate the heart! I have taken the place of Providence to reward the good; now let the avenging God make way for me to punish the wrongdoer!"
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At this, he gave a sign and, as if it had been waiting just for this to set sail, the yacht headed out to sea.
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