"Meurtrier!" he cried, astonished.
"Father!" exclaimed Meurtrier in horror. "Why have you built a funeral pyre in your studio, and why have you poured oil upon it?"
"Better to burn sooner than late, for burn I must, since nothing can save me from bankruptcy. I go now to my pyre. To my pyre! No tomb for Morrie, to be defaced by the mockery of my creditors, exulting in my ruin. No tomb! I will burn like the incredibly unfashionable monarchs before ever a ship sailed hither from the West. My house has failed."
"Authority is not given you, father, to order the hour of your death," replied Meurtrier gravely. "And only the heathen kings, under the domination of the Dark Power, did thus, slaying themselves in their pride and despair."
Morrie pointed to the ledger, which showed in excruciating detail just how desperate his circumstances were. "But half an hour remains before the hour of doom," he said.
"Can't you simply feign your death, or persuade your distant and vaguely Teutonic cousin to take your place?" Morrie shook his head.
"I see," said Meurtrier. "Then let me die with honor by your side."
