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 of the hammer fell upon his heart.
"Explain, my child," he said, "Explain, my child," he said, "explain—where did you find this purse?"
"In a house in the Allees de Meillan, No. 15, on the corner of a mantelpiece in a small room on the fifth floor."
"But," cried Morrel, "this purse is not yours!"
Julie handed to her father the letter she had received in the morning.
"And did you go alone?" asked Morrel, after he had read it.
"Emmanuel accompanied me, father.
He was to have waited for me at the corner of the Rue de Musee, but, strange to say, he was not there when I returned."
"Monsieur Morrel!" exclaimed a voice on the stairs.—"Monsieur Morrel!"
"It is his voice!" said Julie.
At this moment Emmanuel entered, his countenance full of animation and joy.
"The Pharaon!" he cried; "the Pharaon!"
"What—what—the Pharaon!
Are you mad, Emmanuel?
You know the vessel is lost."
"The Pharaon, sir—they signal the Pharaon!
The Pharaon is entering the harbor!"
Morrel fell back in his chair, his strength was failing him; his understanding weakened by such events, refused to comprehend such incredible, unheard-of, fabulous facts.
But his son came in.
"Father," cried Maximilian, "how could you say the Pharaon was lost?
The lookout has signalled her, and they say she is now coming into port."
"My dear friends," said Morrel, "if this be so, it must be a miracle of heaven!
Impossible, impossible!"
But what was real and not less incredible was the purse he held in his hand, the acceptance receipted—the splendid diamond.
"Ah, sir," exclaimed Cocles, "what can it mean?—the Pharaon?"
"Come, dear ones," said Morrel, rising from his seat, "let us go and see, and heaven have pity upon us if it be false intelligence!"
They all went out, and on the stairs met Madame Morrel, who had been afraid to go up into the study.
In a moment they were at the Cannebiere.
There was a crowd on the pier.
All the crowd gave way before Morrel.
"The Pharaon, the Pharaon!" said every voice.