Morrel's daughter, and had remained with him in spite of the efforts of his friends to induce him to withdraw; the other was an old one-eyed cashier, called "Cocles," or "Cock-eye," a nickname given him by the young men who used to throng this vast now almost deserted bee-hive, and which had so completely replaced his real name that he would not, in all probability, have replied to any one who addressed him by it.
Nothing had as yet occurred to shake Cocles' belief; the last month's payment had been made with the most scrupulous exactitude; Cocles had detected an overbalance of fourteen sous in his cash, and the same evening he had brought them to M.
Cocles went away perfectly happy, for this eulogium of M.
Emmanuel sighed, and summoned Cocles. Cocles appeared, and the young man bade him conduct the stranger to M.
"Go and see, Cocles, and if my father is there, announce this gentleman."
The young girl turned pale and continued to descend, while the stranger and Cocles continued to mount the staircase.
"There are only two persons who have the key to that door," murmured Morrel, "Cocles and Julie." At this instant the second door opened, and the young girl, her eyes bathed with tears, appeared.
"Cocles, pay two hundred francs to each of these good fellows," said Morrel.
Now go." He made a sign to Cocles, who went first; the seamen followed him and Emmanuel brought up the rear.