V

by Wilkie Collins

As the last notes of the opera's introduction faded away, the theater was buzzing with excitement, and Pesca and I arrived just in time.

There was still plenty of space in the passage that wrapped around the pit, which was perfect for what I had in mind for the evening. I made my way to the barrier that separated us from the stalls, scanning the area for the Count. He wasn’t there. I turned back, moving along the passage on the left side of the stage, and soon spotted him in the pit. He had a prime seat, about twelve or fourteen spots from the end of a bench, just a few rows from the stalls. I positioned myself directly in line with him, with Pesca standing beside me. The Professor was still unaware of my intentions for bringing him to the theater, and he seemed puzzled that we weren’t moving closer to the stage.

The curtain rose, and the opera began.

We stayed in our spot throughout the first act. The Count was completely absorbed in the music and the performance, not once glancing our way. He was in his element, high above the crowd, smiling and occasionally nodding his large head in enjoyment. When the audience around him erupted in applause at the end of a piece—something an English crowd is always eager to do—he looked at them with a mix of pity and disapproval, raising a hand in a polite gesture to ask for silence.

During the more refined moments of the singing, when others remained quiet, his well-manicured hands, clad in perfectly fitting black gloves, gently applauded each other, a sign of his cultivated taste. At those times, his soft murmur of approval, “Bravo! Bra-a-a-a!” resonated through the air like the purring of a contented cat. His neighbors—jolly, rosy-faced folks from the countryside, basking in the glow of fashionable London—began to mimic his enthusiasm. Many rounds of applause that night stemmed from the gentle patting of his gloved hands. The Count’s insatiable vanity thrived on this unspoken acknowledgment of his local influence, and he reveled in it. A satisfied smile spread across his round face as he surveyed the audience during the pauses in the music, feeling pleased with himself and the people around him. “Yes! Yes! These uncultured English are learning something from ME. Here, there, and everywhere, I—Fosco—am a force to be reckoned with, a man of significance!” His face spoke volumes, and that was its message.

When the curtain fell after the first act, the audience rose to stretch and look around. This was the moment I had been waiting for—the chance to see if Pesca recognized the Count.

He stood up with the rest of the crowd, grandly surveying the boxes with his opera glasses. At first, his back was to us, but he soon turned, glancing toward our side of the theater and focusing on the boxes above us. This was my opportunity. I directed Pesca’s attention to the Count just as his full face came into view.

“Do you know that man?” I asked.

“Which man, my friend?”

“The tall, heavyset man standing there, facing us.”

Pesca stood on tiptoe to get a better look at the Count.

“No,” he replied. “The big man is a stranger to me. Is he someone important? Why do you point him out?”

“I have specific reasons for wanting to know about him. He’s a countryman of yours—his name is Count Fosco. Does that name ring a bell?”

“Not at all, Walter. I don’t know either the name or the man.”

“Are you sure you don’t recognize him? Look again—really look. I’ll explain why I’m so curious after the show. Wait! Let me help you up here so you can see him better.”

I assisted the little man in climbing onto the edge of the raised platform where the pit seats were arranged. His short stature wasn’t a problem here; he could easily see over the heads of the ladies seated at the edge of the bench.

A slender, light-haired man standing nearby, someone I hadn’t noticed before—a man with a scar on his left cheek—watched Pesca intently as I helped him up, then turned his gaze to the Count, clearly intrigued by our conversation.

Meanwhile, Pesca focused intently on the Count’s broad, smiling face, which was tilted slightly upward, directly across from him.

“No,” he said finally, “I’ve never seen that big man in my life.”

As he spoke, the Count glanced down at the boxes behind us on the pit tier.

The eyes of the two Italians locked for a moment.

Just a second ago, I had been completely convinced, based on his repeated claims, that Pesca didn’t know the Count. But now, I was equally sure that the Count recognized Pesca!

He recognized him—and, even more shockingly, FEARED him! The transformation in the Count’s expression was unmistakable. The pallor that washed over his yellow complexion, the sudden stiffness in his features, the cold, calculating gaze of his grey eyes, and the way he froze in place from head to toe all told a clear story. A deep, paralyzing fear had taken hold of him, and it was Pesca’s presence that triggered it!

The slender man with the scar on his cheek was still nearby. He seemed to have drawn the same conclusion about the Count’s reaction to Pesca as I had. He was a mild, gentlemanly figure, looking distinctly foreign, and his interest in our situation was evident but not intrusive.

I was so taken aback by the change in the Count’s face and the unexpected turn of events that I didn’t know what to say or do next. Pesca jolted me back to reality by stepping back to my side and speaking first.

“Look at how that fat man is staring!” he exclaimed. “Is it at ME? Am I famous? How can he know me when I don’t know him?”

I kept my gaze fixed on the Count, who finally moved when Pesca did, trying not to lose sight of the little man now standing below him. I was curious to see what would happen if Pesca’s attention shifted away from him, so I asked the Professor if he recognized any of his students among the ladies in the boxes that evening.

Pesca immediately raised his opera glasses to his eyes, scanning the upper tier of the theater with utmost diligence.

As soon as he became engrossed in his search, the Count turned, slipped past the people seated beside him, and vanished down the central aisle of the pit. I grabbed Pesca’s arm and, to his utter shock, hurried him toward the back of the pit to intercept the Count before he could reach the exit. To my surprise, the slim man hurried out ahead of us, avoiding a bottleneck caused by some patrons leaving their seats, which delayed Pesca and me. By the time we reached the lobby, the Count had disappeared, along with the foreigner with the scar.

“Let’s go home,” I said. “Come on, Pesca, to your place. I need to talk to you privately—right away.”

“My goodness!” the Professor exclaimed, utterly bewildered. “What on earth is going on?”

I walked on quickly without answering. The way the Count had left the theater made me think that his desperate need to escape Pesca could lead him to take even more drastic actions. He might even flee London entirely. I couldn’t let him have a single day of freedom to act as he pleased. And I was wary of that foreign stranger who had gotten ahead of us, whom I suspected was intentionally following the Count.

With these two concerns weighing on my mind, I quickly made Pesca understand what I needed. As soon as we were alone in his room, I heightened his confusion and astonishment a hundredfold by explaining my intentions as clearly and openly as I could.

“My friend, what can I do?” the Professor exclaimed, his hands raised in desperation. “What on earth can I do to help you, Walter, when I don’t even know the man?”

“HE knows YOU—he’s afraid of you—he left the theater to avoid you. Pesca! There has to be a reason for this. Think back to your life before you came to England. You left Italy, as you’ve told me, for political reasons. You’ve never shared those reasons with me, and I’m not asking you to now. I just want you to reflect on your memories and see if anything comes to mind that could explain the terror that man felt at the sight of you.”

To my utter astonishment, these seemingly harmless words had the same shocking effect on Pesca as his presence had on the Count. My little friend’s rosy face drained of color in an instant, and he slowly stepped back from me, trembling all over.

“Walter!” he said. “You don’t know what you’re asking.”

He spoke in a whisper, his eyes fixed on me as if I had just revealed a hidden threat to both of us. In less than a minute, he transformed from the easygoing, lively little man I had always known into someone so different that if I had encountered him on the street in this state, I wouldn’t have recognized him.

“Forgive me if I’ve unintentionally hurt you,” I replied. “You must remember the terrible wrong my wife has suffered at Count Fosco’s hands. That wrong can never be righted unless I can force him to give her justice. I spoke for HER sake, Pesca—I ask you again to forgive me. I can say no more.”

I stood to leave, but he stopped me before I reached the door.

“Wait,” he said. “You’ve shaken me to my core. You don’t know why I left my country or how I left it. Let me gather myself, let me think, if I can.”

I returned to my chair as he paced the room, muttering to himself in his native language. After several laps back and forth, he suddenly approached me and placed his small hands on my chest with an unexpected tenderness and seriousness.

“On your heart and soul, Walter,” he said, “is there really no other way to reach that man except through ME?”

“There is no other way,” I answered.

He stepped away, opened the door cautiously to check the hallway, then closed it again and returned.

“You won your claim over me, Walter,” he said, “the day you saved my life. It was yours from that moment, whenever you chose to take it. Take it now. Yes! I mean what I say. My next words, as surely as God is above us, will put my life in your hands.”

The urgency with which he delivered this extraordinary warning convinced me he was speaking the truth.

“Remember this!” he continued, shaking his hands at me in his agitation. “I hold no connection in my mind between that man Fosco and the past I recall for your sake. If you find that connection, keep it to yourself—tell me nothing. I beg you, let me remain ignorant, let me be innocent, let me be blind to the future as I am now!”

He hesitated, struggling to find the right words, then fell silent again.

I could see that the effort to express himself in English, especially on such a serious occasion, was making it increasingly difficult for him. Having learned to read and understand his native language (though not to speak it) during our earlier days of friendship, I suggested he speak in Italian while I used English for any questions I needed to ask. He agreed.

In his flowing language, spoken with a fervent agitation that showed in the constant movement of his features and the wildness of his gestures, but never in the volume of his voice, he began to share the words that would prepare me for the final struggle this story had yet to reveal.

“You know nothing of my reasons for leaving Italy,” he started, “other than that it was for political reasons. If I had fled this country due to my government’s persecution, I wouldn’t have kept those reasons a secret from you or anyone else. I’ve hidden them because no official decree has been issued for my exile. You’ve heard, Walter, of the political societies that operate in secret in every major city across Europe? I belonged to one of those societies in Italy—and I still belong to it here in England. When I came to this country, I did so under the direction of my leader. I was too eager in my youth—I risked compromising myself and others. For that reason, I was ordered to emigrate to England and wait. I emigrated—I have waited—and I continue to wait. Tomorrow I might be called away—ten years from now, I might be called away. It makes no difference to me—I’m here, I support myself by teaching, and I wait. I break no oath (you’ll understand why shortly) by fully confiding in you the name of the society to which I belong. All I do is put my life in your hands. If what I tell you now ever becomes known to others, as surely as we sit here, I will be a dead man.”

He leaned in close and whispered the next words in my ear. I’ve kept the secret he shared with me. For the sake of this story, I’ll refer to the group he belonged to as “The Brotherhood” whenever I need to mention it.

“The Brotherhood’s goal,” Pesca continued, “is pretty straightforward, similar to that of other political groups: to overthrow tyranny and uphold the rights of the people. The principles of the Brotherhood are twofold. As long as a person’s life is beneficial or at least harmless, they have the right to live it. But if their existence harms the well-being of others, they lose that right. In such cases, it’s not a crime but a moral duty to take that life away.

I won’t delve into the horrific circumstances that led to the formation of this society. And you, as Englishmen, who secured your freedom so long ago that you’ve conveniently forgotten the bloodshed and extremes you went through to achieve it, you can’t truly grasp how far the worst oppression can push the desperate people of a subjugated nation. The pain that has seeped into our souls runs too deep for you to comprehend. Leave the refugee be! Mock him, distrust him, marvel at the hidden turmoil that simmers beneath the everyday respectability and calm of someone like me—or beneath the crushing poverty and fierce despair of those less fortunate, less adaptable, less patient than I am—but don’t judge us! In the time of your first King Charles, you might have understood our plight. But the long luxury of your freedom has made you incapable of seeing us clearly now.”

His words poured out, revealing the deepest parts of his soul for the first time. Yet, his voice remained low, and the fear of the terrible truth he was sharing never left him.

“So far,” he continued, “you might think of the Brotherhood as just another group. In your English view, its aim is chaos and revolution. It targets a bad king or a corrupt minister as if they were dangerous animals to be hunted down. I won’t argue with that. But the laws of the Brotherhood are unlike any other political organization in the world. The members don’t know each other. There’s a president in Italy and others abroad, each with a secretary. The presidents and secretaries know the members, but the members themselves remain strangers until the leaders decide it’s necessary to introduce them, either for political reasons or for the society’s needs.

With this level of secrecy, there’s no oath upon joining. We’re marked by a secret symbol that lasts for our entire lives. We’re expected to go about our daily lives and check in with the president or secretary four times a year, in case our services are needed. We’re warned that if we betray the Brotherhood or serve other interests, we will die by its principles—either at the hands of a stranger sent from across the globe or by the hand of a close friend who may have been a member all along, unbeknownst to us. Sometimes, death comes quickly after betrayal; other times, it’s delayed. Our first duty is to learn how to wait; our second is to obey when the call comes. Some of us may wait our entire lives without being called to action. Others might be summoned to work or preparation on the very day they join.

As for me—the cheerful, easygoing man you know, who wouldn’t even swat a fly—I, under circumstances so horrific I won’t recount them, joined the Brotherhood in a moment of impulse, just as I might have taken my own life in a moment of despair. I’m bound to it now, no matter how I feel about it in calmer moments. While I was still in Italy, I was appointed secretary, and all the members from that time who met my president also met me.”

I began to grasp the weight of what he was saying. I could see where his extraordinary revelation was leading. He paused for a moment, studying me intently, clearly trying to read my thoughts before he continued.

“You’ve already made up your mind, haven’t you?” he said, his gaze piercing through me. “I can see it on your face. Don’t say a word—keep your thoughts to yourself. Let me make this final sacrifice for you, and then let’s never speak of it again.”

He gestured for me to stay silent, then stood up, took off his coat, and rolled up the sleeve of his left arm.

“I promised you complete honesty,” he whispered, leaning in close, his eyes darting to the door. “Whatever happens, you won’t be able to blame me for hiding anything you need to know. I told you the Brotherhood marks its members with a sign that lasts a lifetime. Look for yourself.”

He lifted his bare arm, revealing a brand seared into the flesh on the inner side, a vivid blood-red mark high on his upper arm. I won’t describe the symbol itself, but it was small and circular, easily covered by a shilling.

“A man with this mark in this spot,” he said, covering his arm again, “is part of the Brotherhood. If someone betrays the Brotherhood, the leaders—presidents or secretaries—will find out eventually. And when they do, that person is as good as dead. NO HUMAN LAWS CAN SAVE HIM. Remember what you’ve seen and heard—draw your own conclusions—act as you wish. But for the love of God, whatever you find out, whatever you do, don’t tell me! I can’t bear the thought of being responsible for it, a burden I know isn’t mine to carry. For the last time, I swear on my honor as a gentleman and my oath as a Christian, if the man you pointed out at the Opera knows me, he’s so changed or disguised that I don’t recognize him. I don’t know his actions or intentions in England. I’ve never seen him, and I’ve never heard the name he goes by, to my knowledge, until tonight. That’s all I’ll say. Just leave me for a bit, Walter. I’m overwhelmed by everything that’s happened—I need to gather myself before we meet again.”

He sank into a chair, turning away from me and burying his face in his hands. I quietly opened the door, careful not to disturb him, and spoke my farewell in a hushed tone, hoping he would hear.

“I’ll keep tonight’s memory close to my heart,” I said. “You won’t regret trusting me. Can I come by tomorrow? Would nine o’clock be too early?”

“Yes, Walter,” he replied, looking up at me with warmth, slipping back into English as if eager to restore our previous rapport. “Join me for a little breakfast before I head off to teach my students.”

“Goodnight, Pesca.”

“Goodnight, my friend.”