IV

by Wilkie Collins

As I reflect on our story, I find myself moving away from the bright beginnings of our marriage and toward the challenges that lay ahead.

Just two weeks later, the three of us returned to London, and the weight of the impending struggle began to settle over us.

Marian and I made sure to keep Laura unaware of the reason for our hasty return—the urgent need to track down the Count. It was now early May, and his lease on the house in Forest Road was set to expire in June. I had reasons to believe he would renew it, which meant I could keep tabs on him. But if he decided to leave the country, I had to prepare myself to confront him as best as I could.

In the early days of my newfound happiness, there were moments when my resolve wavered. I found myself tempted to relax, now that I had achieved the greatest dream of my life—Laura’s love. For the first time, I hesitated, considering the enormity of the risk ahead, the obstacles that lay in wait, the bright promise of our new life, and the danger to the happiness we had fought so hard to attain. Yes, I admit it. For a brief time, I strayed from the path I had committed to during darker days, led astray by the sweet allure of love. Innocently, Laura had drawn me away from my purpose—innocently, she would lead me back.

Sometimes, fragments of her traumatic past would surface in her dreams, moments that her waking mind had forgotten. One night, just two weeks after our wedding, as I watched her sleep, I noticed tears slowly escaping her closed eyelids. I heard her softly murmur words that revealed her spirit was once again on that fateful journey from Blackwater Park. That unconscious plea, so poignant and haunting in the sanctity of her sleep, ignited a fire within me. The following day, as we returned to London, my determination surged back with renewed strength.

The first step was to learn more about the man who haunted our lives. So far, the true story of his existence remained a complete mystery to me.

I began with the limited information I had at hand. The important account written by Mr. Frederick Fairlie, which Marian had obtained following my winter instructions, turned out to be of little help for my current purpose. As I read it, I recalled what Mrs. Clements had revealed about the series of deceptions that had brought Anne Catherick to London, where she became entangled in the conspiracy. Once again, the Count had managed to keep himself hidden—once again, he was, for all practical purposes, beyond my reach.

Next, I turned to Marian’s journal from Blackwater Park. At my request, she read to me a section that detailed her earlier curiosity about the Count and the few details she had uncovered about him.

In her journal, she described him as someone who hadn’t left his home country in years, someone eager to know if any Italian gentlemen had settled in the nearest town to Blackwater Park. She noted that he received letters with unusual stamps, including one with a large, official-looking seal. She speculated that his long absence from his homeland might indicate he was a political exile. Yet, she found it hard to reconcile this idea with the letter bearing the large seal, as letters from abroad to political exiles were typically the last to attract attention from foreign postal services.

The insights from her diary, combined with my own growing suspicions, led me to a conclusion I wondered why I hadn’t reached sooner. I told myself what Laura had once said to Marian at Blackwater Park, what Madame Fosco had overheard— the Count is a spy!

Laura had called him that in a moment of anger, but I now believed it with conviction. If he was indeed a spy, it made sense why he had lingered in England long after the conspiracy’s goals had been achieved.

The year I’m writing about was marked by the famous Crystal Palace Exhibition in Hyde Park. A remarkable number of foreigners had already arrived in England, and more were still coming. Among them were hundreds of men, shadowed by the constant suspicion of their governments, who had sent agents to keep tabs on them. I didn’t think for a second that someone like Count Fosco, with his skills and social standing, was just another foreign spy. I suspected he held a position of authority, tasked by the government he secretly served with organizing and managing agents in this country—both men and women. I believed Mrs. Rubelle, who had conveniently shown up to act as a nurse at Blackwater Park, was likely one of those agents.

If my theory had any truth to it, then the Count’s position might be more vulnerable than I had dared to hope. Who could I turn to for more information about him and his background?

In this situation, it made sense to reach out to someone from his own country whom I could trust. The first person who came to mind was my only close Italian friend—my quirky little companion, Professor Pesca.

It had been a while since Pesca had appeared in my story, and I worried he might be forgotten.

In a tale like mine, characters only show up when the events call for them. They come and go, not because of my personal preferences, but due to their direct connection to the unfolding circumstances. That’s why Pesca, along with my mother and sister, had been left in the background. My visits to the cottage in Hampstead, my mother’s belief in the conspiracy that had denied Laura’s identity, my futile attempts to change their minds, and the painful necessity of hiding my marriage from them until they could accept my wife—all of these personal struggles had been left unmentioned because they didn’t contribute to the main story. They added to my worries and deepened my disappointments, but the relentless flow of events had moved past them.

For the same reason, I haven’t mentioned the comfort I found in Pesca’s brotherly affection when I saw him again after I abruptly left Limmeridge House. I didn’t record how faithfully my warm-hearted little friend accompanied me to the docks when I set off for Central America, or the joyful uproar with which he welcomed me back when we met again in London. If I had felt it was right to accept his offers of help upon my return, he would have been back in the narrative long ago. But while I knew I could count on his honor and bravery, I wasn’t so sure about his discretion. For that reason, I chose to pursue my inquiries alone. It should be clear now that Pesca hadn’t been completely cut off from my life, even if he hadn’t been involved in the events of this story until now. He remained as loyal and ready a friend as he had ever been.

Before I called on Pesca for help, I needed to see for myself what kind of man I was dealing with. Up until that point, I had never laid eyes on Count Fosco.

Three days after Laura, Marian, and I returned to London, I set out alone for Forest Road in St. John’s Wood, between ten and eleven in the morning. It was a beautiful day, and I had some time to kill. I thought that if I waited a bit, the Count might be tempted to step out. I didn’t worry too much about him recognizing me during the day, as the only time he had seen me was when he had followed me home at night.

No one was at the front windows of the house. I walked down a side street and peered over the low garden wall. One of the back windows on the ground floor was open, and a net was stretched across it. I didn’t see anyone, but I heard a sharp whistling and the cheerful singing of birds coming from inside. Then I recognized the deep voice that Marian had described to me.

“Come out on my little finger, my pretties!” the voice called. “Come out and hop upstairs! One, two, three—and up! Three, two, one—and down! One, two, three—twit-twit-twit-tweet!” The Count was exercising his canaries just like he used to when Marian was at Blackwater Park.

I waited for a moment, and the singing and whistling stopped. “Come, kiss me, my pretties!” the deep voice said. There was a flurry of chirping in response, a low, oily laugh, a brief silence, and then I heard the sound of the house door opening. I turned and retraced my steps.

The grand melody of the Prayer from Rossini’s Moses filled the quiet suburban air, sung in a rich bass voice. The front garden gate creaked open and shut. The Count had come out.

He crossed the street and headed toward the western edge of Regent’s Park. I stayed on my side of the road, trailing a little behind him as I followed in the same direction.

Marian had warned me about his tall stature, his enormous bulk, and his showy mourning clothes, but nothing could have prepared me for the unsettling vitality and cheerfulness of the man. He carried his sixty years as if they were barely forty. He strolled along with his hat tilted slightly to one side, swinging his large cane, humming to himself, and occasionally glancing up at the houses and gardens around him with an air of grand, smiling superiority. Anyone who didn’t know better might have thought the entire neighborhood belonged to him. He never looked back, showed no interest in me, or in anyone else passing by, except for the occasional smile and smirk directed at the nursery maids and children he encountered.

In this manner, he led me to a cluster of shops outside the western terraces of the Park.

Here, he paused at a pastry shop, went inside—probably to place an order—and quickly emerged with a tart in hand. An Italian man was grinding an organ in front of the shop, and a tiny, shriveled monkey sat on the instrument. The Count stopped, took a bite of the tart, and then solemnly offered the rest to the monkey. “My poor little man!” he said with exaggerated tenderness. “You look hungry. In the sacred name of humanity, I offer you some lunch!” The organ-grinder pitifully asked for a penny from the generous stranger, but the Count shrugged him off and continued on his way.

We moved on to the streets with better shops between the New Road and Oxford Street. The Count stopped again, this time entering a small optician’s shop with a sign in the window boasting of neat repairs. He came out shortly after, holding an opera-glass, walked a few steps, and paused to read an opera bill displayed outside a music shop. He studied the bill carefully, thought for a moment, and then hailed an empty cab as it passed. “Opera Box-office,” he instructed the driver, and was whisked away.

I crossed the street and examined the bill myself. The performance listed was Lucrezia Borgia, scheduled for that evening. The opera-glass in the Count’s hand, his attentive reading of the bill, and his direction to the cab driver all indicated that he planned to attend.

I had a way to get tickets for myself and a friend by reaching out to one of the scene-painters at the theater, someone I had known well in the past. There was a good chance I could spot the Count in the audience, and if I did, I could find out that night whether Pesca recognized his fellow countryman.

This thought quickly determined how I would spend my evening. I secured the tickets, leaving a note at the Professor’s lodgings on my way. At a quarter to eight, I went to pick him up for the theater. My little friend was buzzing with excitement, a festive flower pinned to his lapel, and the largest opera-glass I had ever seen tucked under his arm.

“Are you ready?” I asked.

“Right-all-right,” Pesca replied.

And off we went to the theater.