VII (1/2)

by Wilkie Collins

There was no light in the hallway, but the dim glow of a kitchen candle, which the girl had brought upstairs, illuminated the space just enough for me to see an elderly woman quietly emerge from a back room on the ground floor. She shot me a sharp, venomous glance as I stepped into the hall, but said nothing. Instead, she slowly made her way upstairs, ignoring my attempt at a polite nod. My familiarity with Marian’s journal made it clear that this elderly woman was Madame Fosco.

The servant guided me to the room the Countess had just vacated. As I entered, I found myself face to face with the Count.

He was still dressed for the evening, though his coat lay draped over a chair. His shirt sleeves were rolled up at the wrists, but not any higher. A carpet bag rested beside him, and a box sat on the other side. Books, papers, and various articles of clothing were scattered around the room. On a table near the door stood the cage I recognized from descriptions, containing his white mice. The canaries and the cockatoo were likely in another room. The Count was seated in front of the box, packing it, when I walked in. He stood up, papers in hand, to greet me. His face still showed clear signs of the shock he had experienced at the opera. His cheeks sagged, his cold gray eyes darted around suspiciously, and his voice, demeanor, and gaze all radiated wariness as he stepped closer and politely gestured for me to take a seat.

“Are you here on business, sir?” he asked. “I’m not sure what that business could possibly be.”

The way he scrutinized my face while speaking made it clear that he hadn’t noticed me at the opera. He had focused entirely on Pesca, and from that moment until he left the theater, it seemed he had seen nothing else. My name would suggest to him that I hadn’t come with anything but hostile intentions, yet he appeared completely unaware of the true nature of my visit.

“I’m fortunate to find you here tonight,” I said. “It seems you’re about to leave for a journey?”

“Is your business related to my journey?”

“To some extent.”

“In what way? Do you know where I’m headed?”

“No. I only know why you’re leaving London.”

In a flash, he slipped past me, locked the door, and pocketed the key.

“You and I, Mr. Hartright, are quite well acquainted by reputation,” he said. “Did it ever occur to you when you came to this house that I’m not someone you can easily toy with?”

“It did cross my mind,” I replied. “And I’m not here to toy with you. I’m here on a matter of life and death, and if that door you just locked were open right now, nothing you could say or do would make me walk through it.”

I stepped further into the room, positioning myself on the rug in front of the fireplace. He pulled a chair in front of the door and sat down, resting his left arm on the table. The cage with the white mice was close by, and as his heavy arm shook the table, the little creatures scurried out of their sleeping spots, peering at him through the gaps in the brightly painted wires.

“A matter of life and death,” he repeated to himself. “Those words carry more weight than you might realize. What do you mean by that?”

“What I say.”

Sweat began to bead on his broad forehead. His left hand crept over the edge of the table. There was a drawer with a lock, and the key was still in it. His fingers closed around the key, but he didn’t turn it.

“So you know why I’m leaving London?” he continued. “Please, tell me the reason.” He turned the key and unlocked the drawer as he spoke.

“I can do better than that,” I replied. “I can SHOW you the reason, if you’re interested.”

“How can you show it?”

“You’ve taken off your coat,” I said. “Roll up the sleeve of your left arm, and you’ll see it there.”

The same ashen pallor I had seen at the theater washed over his face. The deadly glint in his eyes locked onto mine. He remained silent, but his left hand slowly opened the drawer and slipped inside. I heard the harsh scraping sound of something heavy being moved out of sight, then it stopped. The silence that followed was so profound that I could distinctly hear the faint nibbling of the white mice at their wires.

My life hung by a thread, and I was acutely aware of it. In that moment, I thought like him, felt like him—I was as certain as if I had seen it what he was hiding in that drawer.

“Just wait a moment,” I said. “You’ve locked the door—you see I’m not moving—you see my hands are empty. Just wait a moment. I have something more to say.”

“You’ve said enough,” he replied, his sudden calmness so eerie that it rattled me more than any violent outburst could have. “I need a moment to gather my thoughts. Do you have any idea what I’m thinking?”

“Maybe I do.”

“I’m considering,” he said quietly, “whether I should add to the chaos in this room by splattering your brains across the fireplace.”

In that moment, I could see in his eyes that if I made a move, he would follow through.

“I suggest you read a couple of lines I have with me,” I countered, “before you make that decision.”

His curiosity was piqued. He nodded slightly. I pulled out Pesca’s acknowledgment of my letter from my wallet, held it out to him at arm’s length, and returned to my previous spot in front of the fireplace.

He read the note aloud: “Your letter is received. If I don’t hear from you before the time you mentioned, I will break the seal when the clock strikes.”

Any other man in his position might have needed some explanation, but the Count felt no such need. One glance at the note made it clear to him what precaution I had taken, as if he had been there when I wrote it. His expression shifted instantly, and his hand came out of the drawer empty.

“I don’t lock my drawer, Mr. Hartright,” he said. “And I won’t deny that I might still scatter your brains across the fireplace. But I am a fair man, even to my enemies, and I’ll admit that your brains are cleverer than I expected. Now, let’s get to the point! What do you want from me?”

“I want something, and I intend to get it.”

“Under certain conditions?”

“Under no conditions.”

His hand slipped back into the drawer.

“Bah! We’re going in circles,” he said, his tone growing sharper. “Your clever brains are in danger again. Your tone is dangerously reckless—adjust it immediately! The risk of shooting you where you stand is less to me than the risk of letting you leave this house without conditions that I set and approve. You’re not dealing with my late friend anymore—you’re face to face with Fosco! If the lives of twenty Mr. Hartrights were the stepping stones to my safety, I would walk over them, sustained by my indifference and balanced by my calm. Respect me, if you value your life! I demand you answer three questions before you speak again. Listen closely—they’re crucial to this conversation. Answer them—they’re crucial to ME.” He raised one finger of his right hand. “First question! You come here with information that may be true or false—where did you get it?”

“I refuse to tell you.”

“Doesn’t matter—I’ll find out. If that information is true—mind you, I say if—you’re trying to play me here, either by your own treachery or someone else’s. I’ll remember that for later and move on.” He raised another finger. “Second question! Those lines you asked me to read are unsigned. Who wrote them?”

“A man I trust completely, and one you should fear.”

My answer struck a chord. I noticed his left hand tremble in the drawer.

“How long do you give me,” he asked, his tone quieter now, “before the clock strikes and the seal is broken?”

“Long enough for you to agree to my terms,” I replied.

“Be clearer, Mr. Hartright. What time will the clock strike?”

“Nine tomorrow morning.”

“Nine tomorrow morning? Yes, yes—your trap is set before I can get my passport sorted and leave London. I assume it’s not earlier? We’ll see about that soon—I can keep you here as a hostage and negotiate for your letter before I let you go. In the meantime, please state your terms.”

“You’ll hear them. They’re straightforward. You know whose interests I represent by coming here?”

He smiled with an air of supreme confidence and waved his right hand dismissively.

“I’ll take a guess,” he said mockingly. “A lady’s interests, of course!”

“My wife’s interests.”

For the first time, I saw a genuine expression of surprise cross his face—an expression of sheer disbelief. I could tell that at that moment, I had shifted in his mind from a mere annoyance to a real threat. He closed the drawer, folded his arms across his chest, and listened to me with a sardonic smile.

“You’re well aware,” I continued, “of the path my inquiries have taken over the past few months. Any attempt to deny the obvious will be futile in my presence. You are guilty of a despicable conspiracy! And the lure of a fortune of ten thousand pounds was your motive.”

He didn’t respond. But I could see his face darken with a sudden wave of anxiety.

“Keep your money,” I said.

His expression shifted instantly, surprise widening his eyes as he looked at me.

“I’m not here to humiliate myself by negotiating for cash that’s already passed through your hands, especially when it’s the result of a despicable crime—”

“Now, now, Mr. Hartright. Your moralizing might work well in England, but I’d prefer you keep it for yourself and your fellow countrymen. The ten thousand pounds was a legacy left to my wonderful wife by the late Mr. Fairlie. If we can frame this discussion around that, I’m open to talking. But honestly, to someone like me, this topic is painfully sordid. I’d rather move on. Let’s get back to your terms. What do you want?”

“First, I want a full confession of the conspiracy, written and signed by you in my presence.”

He raised a finger. “One!” he said, marking it off like a practical man.

“Second, I want clear proof—not just your word—of when my wife left Blackwater Park and went to London.”

“Ah! I see you’ve found the weak spot,” he said calmly. “Anything else?”

“Not for now.”

“Good! You’ve stated your terms, now listen to mine. The responsibility of admitting what you call a ‘conspiracy’ is perhaps less burdensome than the responsibility of leaving you dead on that hearthrug. Let’s say I agree to your proposal—but on my own terms. I will provide the statement you want, and I can produce the proof. I assume you consider a letter from my late friend, detailing the day and time of his wife’s arrival in London, written, signed, and dated by him, to be proof? I can provide that. I can also direct you to the man I hired to bring my visitor from the train station on the day she arrived—his order book should help you establish the date, even if his coachman proves unhelpful. I can do all this, but only under certain conditions. Here they are:

First condition! Madame Fosco and I will leave this house whenever and however we choose, without any interference from you.

Second condition! You will stay here with me to meet my agent, who is coming at seven in the morning to sort out my affairs. You will give my agent a written order to the man who has your sealed letter, instructing him to relinquish it. You will wait here until my agent hands me that letter unopened, and then you will allow me a clear half-hour to leave the house—after which you can go wherever you like.

Third condition! You will give me the satisfaction of a gentleman for your intrusion into my private matters and for the language you’ve used during this meeting. The time and place will be arranged in a letter from me once I’m safely on the Continent, and that letter will include a strip of paper measuring the exact length of my sword. Those are my terms. Let me know if you accept—yes or no.”

The strange mix of decisive action, cleverness, and theatrical bravado in his speech stunned me for a moment—but only for a moment. The real question was whether I was justified in obtaining the means to prove Laura’s identity at the cost of letting the scoundrel who had robbed her of it escape without consequence. I understood that my desire to secure my wife’s rightful recognition, to erase the lie that still tarnished her mother’s grave, was far nobler than the vengeful feelings that had crept into my intentions from the start.

Yet, I couldn’t honestly say that my moral convictions were strong enough to resolve my internal struggle on their own. They were bolstered by my memory of Sir Percival’s death. How terribly, at the last moment, had the chance for retribution been snatched from my grasp! What right did I have to decide, in my limited human understanding of the future, that this man should also escape without punishment just because he had evaded me?

I pondered these thoughts—perhaps with a hint of superstition, perhaps with a sense of purpose more worthy than mere superstition. It was difficult to finally have a hold on him and then willingly let go—but I forced myself to make that sacrifice. In clearer terms, I resolved to follow the one higher motive I was certain of: the motive of serving Laura and the cause of Truth.

“I accept your conditions,” I said. “With one reservation on my part.”

“What reservation is that?” he asked.

“It concerns the sealed letter,” I replied. “I need you to destroy it unopened in my presence as soon as it’s in your hands.”

I wanted to make sure he couldn’t take away any written proof of my conversation with Pesca. He would find out about our communication when I gave his agent the address in the morning, but without any evidence to back him up, he couldn’t use it against me—if he even dared to try, which didn’t concern me in the slightest when it came to Pesca.

“I accept your condition,” he replied, after mulling it over for a moment. “It’s not worth arguing about—the letter will be destroyed when it’s in my possession.”

As he spoke, he stood up from the chair where he had been sitting across from me. With a deep breath, he seemed to shake off the tension of our conversation. “Ah!” he exclaimed, stretching his arms as if to release the pressure, “that was quite the battle while it lasted. Please, Mr. Hartright, take a seat. From now on, we’ll be like mortal enemies—so let’s be gentlemen and exchange some polite pleasantries in the meantime. Allow me to call for my wife.”

He unlocked the door and called out, “Eleanor!” His voice was deep and commanding. The woman with the sharp features entered. “Madame Fosco—Mr. Hartright,” he introduced us with an air of casual elegance. Turning to his wife, he continued, “My dear, will your packing allow you to make me a strong cup of coffee? I have some writing to do with Mr. Hartright, and I need my full wits about me.”

Madame Fosco nodded her head twice—once with a stern look at me, and once more submissively to her husband—before gliding out of the room.

The Count moved to a writing desk by the window, opened his drawer, and pulled out several stacks of paper and a bundle of quill pens. He scattered the pens across the table, making them easily accessible, and cut the paper into narrow slips, the kind used by professional writers. “I’m going to make this a remarkable document,” he said, glancing back at me. “I’m quite familiar with the art of writing. One of the rarest skills a person can have is the ability to organize their thoughts. It’s a great privilege! I have it. Do you?”

He paced back and forth in the room until the coffee arrived, humming to himself and occasionally tapping his forehead with his palm as if to mark the moments when his thoughts stumbled. Despite my deep loathing for him, I couldn’t help but be struck by the sheer force of his character, even in its most trivial moments.

Madame Fosco returned with the coffee. He kissed her hand in gratitude and escorted her to the door before returning to pour himself a cup and take it back to the writing table.

“Would you like some coffee, Mr. Hartright?” he asked before sitting down.

I declined.

“What? You think I might poison you?” he said playfully. “The English mind is sound, but it has one serious flaw—it’s cautious in all the wrong places.”

He dipped his pen into the ink, slammed the first slip of paper down on the desk, cleared his throat, and began writing. He wrote quickly and loudly, with a bold hand and wide spaces between the lines, finishing the first slip in just a couple of minutes. Each completed slip was paged and tossed over his shoulder, landing on the floor behind him. When his first pen wore out, he tossed it aside and grabbed another from the scattered supply on the table.

Slip after slip flew over his shoulders, piling up around his chair until he was surrounded by a sea of paper. Hours passed, and I sat there watching him write. He didn’t stop except to sip his coffee, and when that was gone, he would smack his forehead occasionally. One o’clock struck, then two, three, four—and still the slips kept flying around him; still his pen moved tirelessly from top to bottom of the page, creating a growing chaos of paper around his chair. At four o’clock, I heard a sudden splatter of ink, signaling the flourish with which he signed his name.

“Bravo!” he exclaimed, jumping to his feet with the energy of a young man, looking me straight in the eye with a triumphant smile.

“It's done, Mr. Hartright!” he declared, thumping his chest with a self-satisfied grin. “Done, to my own deep satisfaction—and to YOUR utter astonishment when you read what I’ve written. The topic is exhausted, but the man—Fosco—is not. Now, I’ll organize my notes, revise them, and read them to you, all meant just for your ears. It’s just struck four o’clock. Perfect! I’ll arrange, revise, and read from four to five. A quick nap for myself from five to six. Final touches from six to seven. Then, from seven to eight, I’ll deal with the agent and seal the letter. By eight, I’ll be on my way. There’s the plan!”

He settled cross-legged on the floor among his papers, tying them together with a needle and string. He revised them, wrote down all his titles and honors at the top of the first page, and then read the manuscript to me with exaggerated theatrical flair and grand gestures. Soon enough, you’ll have the chance to form your own opinion about the document. For now, I’ll just say it served my purpose well.

Next, he wrote down the address of the person from whom he had hired the carriage and handed me Sir Percival’s letter. Dated July 25th from Hampshire, it announced that “Lady Glyde” would be traveling to London on the 26th. So, on the very day (the 25th) when the doctor’s certificate claimed she had died in St. John’s Wood, she was, according to Sir Percival, alive and well at Blackwater—and was set to travel the next day! Once I got proof of that journey from the carriage driver, the evidence would be undeniable.

“It’s a quarter past five,” the Count said, glancing at his watch. “Time for my restorative nap. You may have noticed, Mr. Hartright, that I resemble Napoleon the Great—I also share his remarkable ability to command sleep at will. Excuse me for a moment. I’ll call for Madame Fosco to keep you entertained while I rest.”

Knowing full well he was summoning Madame Fosco to ensure I wouldn’t leave the house while he slept, I said nothing and busied myself with the papers he had given me.

She entered, cool and pale, with a venomous air. “Amuse Mr. Hartright, my dear,” the Count instructed. He pulled out a chair for her, kissed her hand again, then retreated to the sofa. Within three minutes, he was sound asleep, looking as peaceful as the most virtuous man alive.

Madame Fosco picked up a book from the table, sat down, and fixed her gaze on me with the steady, vindictive malice of a woman who never forgot and never forgave.

“I overheard your conversation with my husband,” she said. “If I were in HIS position, I would have killed you right here on the hearthrug.”

With that, she opened her book and didn’t look at me or speak to me again until her husband woke.

He opened his eyes and rose from the sofa exactly an hour after he had fallen asleep.

“I feel completely refreshed,” he said. “Eleanor, my dear wife, are you ready upstairs? Good. I can finish my packing here in ten minutes and get into my traveling clothes in another ten. What else do we need to do before the agent arrives?” He scanned the room and noticed the cage with his white mice. “Ah!” he exclaimed, a note of distress in his voice. “A final pang of sympathy remains. My innocent pets! My little cherished children! What will become of them? For now, we have no home; we’re constantly on the move—the less baggage we carry, the better. My cockatoo, my canaries, and my little mice—who will care for them when their good Papa is gone?”

He paced the room, deep in thought. He seemed unfazed by the task of writing his confession, but the fate of his pets clearly troubled him. After a moment, he suddenly sat back down at the writing table.

“I have an idea!” he exclaimed. “I’ll offer my canaries and my cockatoo to this grand Metropolis—my agent will present them in my name to the Zoological Gardens of London. I’ll draft the document right now.”

He began to write, repeating the words as they flowed from his pen.

“Number one. Cockatoo of extraordinary plumage: an attraction for all discerning visitors. Number two. Canaries of unmatched vivacity and intelligence: worthy of the Garden of Eden, and also of the gardens in Regent’s Park. A tribute to British Zoology. Offered by Fosco.”

The pen splattered ink as he added a flourish to his signature.

“Count! You haven’t included the mice,” Madame Fosco pointed out.

He stepped away from the table, took her hand, and placed it over his heart.

“All human determination has its limits, Eleanor,” he said earnestly. “My limits are laid out in that Document. I can’t part with my white mice. Please, my dear, take them to their travel cage upstairs.”

“Such admirable tenderness!” Madame Fosco remarked, casting one last venomous glance in my direction as she carefully picked up the cage and left the room.

The Count glanced at his watch. Despite his calm demeanor, he was clearly anxious for the agent’s arrival. The candles had long burned out, and the bright morning sunlight flooded the room. It wasn’t until five minutes past seven that the gatebell rang, announcing the agent’s arrival. He was a foreigner with a dark beard.

“Mr. Hartright—Monsieur Rubelle,” the Count introduced us. He pulled the agent, a man whose face screamed “foreign spy,” into a corner of the room, whispered some instructions, and then left us alone. Once we were by ourselves, Monsieur Rubelle politely asked me for my instructions. I quickly wrote a note to Pesca, authorizing him to hand my sealed letter “to the bearer,” addressed it, and handed it to Monsieur Rubelle.

The agent waited with me until the Count returned, now dressed for travel. The Count examined the address on my letter before dismissing the agent. “I thought so!” he said, turning to me with a dark expression, and from that moment, his demeanor shifted again.

He finished packing, then sat down with a travel map, jotting notes in his pocketbook while glancing impatiently at his watch. Not another word was spoken to me. The impending hour of his departure and the evidence of communication between Pesca and me had clearly drawn his focus back to the necessary steps for his escape.

Just before eight o’clock, Monsieur Rubelle returned, holding my unopened letter. The Count scrutinized the address and the seal, lit a candle, and burned the letter. “I keep my promise,” he said, “but this matter, Mr. Hartright, is far from over.”

The agent had kept the cab he arrived in waiting at the door. He and the maid were busy moving the luggage. Madame Fosco came downstairs, heavily veiled, carrying the travel cage with the white mice. She didn’t speak to me or even glance my way. Her husband escorted her to the cab. “Follow me to the passage,” he whispered in my ear. “I might need to speak with you at the last moment.”

I stepped outside, with the agent waiting for me in the front garden. The Count returned alone and pulled me a few steps inside the passage.

“Remember the Third condition!” he whispered. “You’ll hear from me, Mr. Hartright—I may ask for a gentleman’s satisfaction sooner than you expect.” He grabbed my hand unexpectedly and squeezed it tightly, then turned to leave, paused, and came back to me.

“One more thing,” he said confidentially. “When I last saw Miss Halcombe, she looked pale and unwell. I’m worried about that remarkable woman. Please take care of her! With my hand on my heart, I earnestly implore you to look after Miss Halcombe!”

Those were his last words to me before he squeezed his large frame into the cab and drove away.

The agent and I stood at the door for a moment, watching him go. While we were waiting, another cab appeared from a side street. It followed the same route the Count’s cab had taken, and as it passed the house and the open garden gate, someone inside glanced out the window. It was the stranger from the Opera again—the foreigner with a scar on his left cheek.