“I am ruined,—completely ruined!”
“As I was on my way here, a vessel was coming into port.”
“I know it, sir; a young man, who still adheres to my fallen fortunes, passes a part of his time in a belvedere at the top of the house, in hopes of being the first to announce good news to me; he has informed me of the arrival of this ship.”
“And it is not yours?”
“No, she is a Bordeaux vessel, La Gironde; she comes from India also; but she is not mine.”
“Perhaps she has spoken to the Pharaon, and brings you some tidings of her?”
“Shall I tell you plainly one thing, sir? I dread almost as much to receive any tidings of my vessel as to remain in doubt. Uncertainty is still hope.” Then in a low voice Morrel added,—“This delay is not natural. The Pharaon left Calcutta the 5th of February; she ought to have been here a month ago.”
“What is that?” said the Englishman. “What is the meaning of that noise?”
“Oh, my God!” cried Morrel, turning pale, “what is it?”
A loud noise was heard on the stairs of people moving hastily, and half-stifled sobs. Morrel rose and advanced to the door; but his strength failed him and he sank into a chair. The two men remained opposite one another, Morrel trembling in every limb, the stranger gazing at him with an air of profound pity. The noise had ceased; but it seemed that Morrel expected something—something had occasioned the noise, and something must follow. The stranger fancied he heard footsteps on the stairs; and that the footsteps, which were those of several persons, stopped at the door. A key was inserted in the lock of the first door, and the creaking of hinges was audible.