The young man remained standing and motionless, having but the force of will and not the power of execution.
"Hear me, Maximilian," said his father. "Suppose I were a soldier like you, and ordered to carry a certain redoubt, and you knew I must be killed in the assault, would you not say to me, as you said just now, 'Go, father; for you are dishonored by delay, and death is preferable to shame?'"
"Yes, yes!" said the young man, "yes." And once again embracing his father with convulsive pressure, he said, "Be it so, my father."
And he rushed out of the cabinet. When his son had left him, Morrel remained an instant standing with his eyes fixed on the door; then putting forth his arm, he pulled the bell. After a moment's interval, Cocles appeared.
It was no longer the same man — the fearful convictions of the three last days had crushed him. This thought — the house of Morrel is about to stop payment — bent him to the earth more than twenty years would otherwise have done.
"My worthy Cocles," said Morrel, in a tone impossible to describe, "do you remain in the antechamber. When the gentleman who came three months ago — the agent of the house of Thomson and French — arrives, announce his arrival to me."
Cocles made no reply; he made a sign with his head, went into the anteroom, and seated himself. Morrel fell back in his chair, his eyes fixed on the clock: there were seven minutes left; that was all. The hand moved on with incredible rapidity; it seemed to him as if he saw it progress.
What then passed, at this final moment of time, in the mind of this man, who, still young, by a course of reasoning, false perhaps, but at least specious, was about to separate himself from all he loved in the world, and quit life, which possessed for him all domestic delights, it is impossible to express. To form the slightest idea of his feelings, he must have been seen with his brow bathed in perspiration, yet resigned; his eyes moistened with tears, and yet raised to heaven. The clock-hand moved on; the pistols were cocked; he stretched forth his hand, took one up, and murmured his daughter's name. Then he laid down the mortal weapon, took up 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; he no longer counted by minutes, but by seconds.
He took up the deadly weapon again, his mouth half opened 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 agony, a damp colder than death passed over his brow, an agony stronger than death
