Anyone who had visited the Morrel shipping company’s headquarters in Marseilles just a few years ago would barely recognize it now. Where once the building buzzed with activity, employees rushing through hallways, the courtyard packed with cargo, workers shouting and laughing as they loaded ships, now only silence and gloom remained.
Of all the clerks who used to fill these now-empty corridors, only two remained. The first was a young man in his early twenties who had stayed out of love for Morrel’s daughter, despite his friends begging him to find work elsewhere. The second was an elderly one-eyed accountant everyone called "Cocles", a nickna that had completely replaced his real na over the years.
Cocles had worked for the Morrel family through everything. He’d been promoted to head cashier while simultaneously becoming more like a personal servant to Mr. Morrel. But he remained the sa dedicated, patient man he’d always been, completely inflexible when it ca to numbers. Mathematics was his religion, and in twenty years of service, he’d never seen a single paynt missed. To him, the idea that Morrel & Son could go bankrupt was as impossible as a river suddenly stopping its flow.
Just last month, Cocles had found a small accounting error, an extra fourteen cents in the cash drawer, and imdiately brought it to his boss. Morrel had smiled sadly and tossed the coins into a nearly empty desk drawer.
"Thank you, Cocles," he’d said. "You’re the most honest accountant in all of France."
Those words had made Cocles happier than a bonus ever could.
But behind that lancholy smile, Morrel was drowning in debt. To make last month’s paynts, he’d sold his wife’s jewelry and their family silverware at a market in another city, too ashad to let anyone in Marseilles know how desperate things had beco. Now even that money was gone.
The numbers were brutal. 100,000 francs due in four days, another 100,000 due next month. His only hope was the return of his rchant ship, the Pharaon, which should have arrived weeks ago. Another vessel from the sa route had already docked, but there was still no sign of his ship.
The day after eting with one of his major creditors, a man arrived claiming to represent Thomson & French, a banking house from Ro. Emmanuel, the young clerk in love with Morrel’s daughter, received him nervously, every new face could an another creditor demanding paynt.
When the stranger insisted on speaking only to Morrel himself, Emmanuel sighed and called for Cocles to escort him upstairs. On the way up, they passed Julie, Morrel’s seventeen-year-old daughter, who looked anxiously at the visitor.
"Is my father in his office?" she asked Cocles.
"I think so, miss," the old accountant replied. "Go check, and if he’s there, announce this gentleman."
"No need for an announcent," the Englishman interrupted smoothly. "Just tell him the representative from Thomson & French is here, he’ll know what it’s about."
Julie’s face went pale as she continued downstairs, while the stranger and Cocles climbed to the second floor.
Morrel sat hunched over his ledger, staring at the columns of debts that seed to grow longer each day. Fourteen years of financial strain had transford him from a confident rchant into a hollow-eyed man who jumped at shadows. His hair had gone completely white, deep lines creased his face, and his once-sharp gaze now wandered anxiously.
The Englishman studied him with obvious curiosity mixed with sympathy.
"You wanted to see ?" Morrel asked, his voice shaky.
"Indeed. I believe you know why I’m here, Thomson & French sent ."
Morrel’s heart sank. "Yes, my accountant ntioned that."
"We have several hundred thousand francs in paynts due this month in France. Knowing your... reputation for punctuality, we’ve collected all the bills bearing your signature. I’m here to present them for imdiate paynt."
The color drained from Morrel’s face. "You’re holding my debts?"
"A considerable amount, yes." The Englishman pulled out a thick stack of papers. "First, we have 200,000 francs assigned to us by Inspector Boville. You acknowledge this debt?"
"Yes," Morrel whispered. "He invested with at four and a half percent interest, almost five years ago."
"Paynt is due half on the 15th of this month, half on the 15th of next month. Correct?"
"Correct."
"Then we have these smaller bills totaling 32,500 francs, all due shortly." More papers rustled. "And finally, bills assigned to us by Pascal Company and Wild & Turner, totaling approximately 55,000 francs. In total: 287,500 francs."
The number hit Morrel like a physical blow. He repeated it numbly, "Two hundred and eighty-seven thousand, five hundred francs."
"I won’t lie to you," the Englishman continued coldly. "While your honesty has been beyond question until now, rumors are circulating in Marseilles that you can’t et your obligations."
Morrel went deathly pale. "Sir, in more than twenty-four years of running this business, which my father operated for thirty-five years before , nothing bearing the signature of Morrel & Son has ever been dishonored."
"I know. But I need a straight answer. Will you pay these debts on ti?"
Morrel trembled. "If my ship returns safely, yes. The Pharaon’s arrival would restore my credit and give the resources I need. But if she’s lost..." His eyes filled with tears. "If that happens, I’ll be forced to declare bankruptcy."
"You have no friends who could help?"
Morrel smiled bitterly. "In business, sir, you have no friends, only business partners."
"Then you have only one hope left."
"Only one."
"And if that fails?"
"I’ll be completely ruined."
The Englishman nodded thoughtfully. "I saw a ship entering the harbor on my way here."
"I know. A young man who still believes in keeps watch from our roof, hoping to bring good news. But that ship isn’t mine, it’s from Bordeaux, returning from India."
"Perhaps she encountered your vessel and has news?"
Morrel shook his head. "Honestly, sir, I’m almost afraid to hear news about the Pharaon. As long as there’s uncertainty, there’s still hope. But this delay... it’s not normal. She left Calcutta in early February and should have been here a month ago."
Suddenly, noise erupted from downstairs. Running footsteps, muffled sobs, voices shouting. Morrel tried to stand but collapsed back into his chair, his strength gone.
The two n stared at each other, Morrel shaking uncontrollably while the Englishman watched with obvious pity. Footsteps approached the door, and a key turned in the lock.
"Only two people have keys to that door," Morrel whispered. "Cocles and Julie."
The inner door opened, and Julie appeared, tears streaming down her face.
"Oh, father!" she cried, clasping her hands together. "Please forgive for bringing terrible news!"
Morrel’s face went ashen. Julie threw herself into his arms.
"Father, please be strong!"
"The Pharaon... she’s gone down?" he asked in a hoarse whisper.
Julie couldn’t speak, but she nodded against his chest.
"The crew?"
"Saved," she managed. "Rescued by the ship that just arrived in port."
Morrel raised his hands toward heaven. "Thank God. At least you strike only ."
Even the stoic Englishman’s eyes moistened at the scene.
"Co in," Morrel called weakly. "I assu you’re all waiting outside."
His wife entered, weeping. Emmanuel followed, and behind them crowded seven or eight weathered sailors, their clothes torn and sun-darkened faces grim. The Englishman started at the sight of them, took a step forward, then retreated to the far corner of the room.
"How did this happen?" Morrel asked.
"Co forward, Penelon," Emmanuel said to an old sailor. "Tell us everything."
The grizzled seaman stepped forward, nervously turning his cap in his hands. "Good day, Mr. Morrel," he said, as casually as if he’d just returned from a short trip.
"Hello, Penelon," Morrel replied, managing a sad smile through his tears. "Where’s the captain?"
"Captain’s sick in Palma, sir, but God willing, he’ll be fine. You’ll see him soon enough, alive and well."
"Tell what happened."
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