A fortnight later, we returned to London, and I began to prepare for my battle with the Count, was now early May and the rental agreement for his house ended in June. In my new happiness with Laura (to whom we never mentioned the Count's name), I was sometimes tempted to change my mind and to leave things as they were. But she still had dreams, terrible dreams that made her cry out in her sleep, and I knew I had to go on.
First, I tried to find out more about the Count. Marian told me that he had not been back to Italy for many years. Had he been obliged to leave Italy for political reasons, I wondered? But Marian also said that at Blackwater Park he had received official-looking letters with Italian stamps on, which would seem to contradict this idea. Perhaps he was a spy, I thought. That might explain why he had stayed in England so long after the successful completion of his plot. Who could I ask who might know something? Another Italian, perhaps - and I suddenly thought of my old friend, Professor Pesca.
Before I did that, I decided to have a look at the Count, as up to this time I had never once set eyes on him. So one morning I went to Forest Road, St John's Wood, and waited near his house. Eventually, he came our and I followed behind him as he walked towards the centre of London. Marian had prepared me for his enormous size and fashionable clothes, but not for the horrible freshness and cheerfulness and energy of the man.
Near Oxford Street he stopped to read a sign announcing an opera, and then went into the opera ticket office, which was nearby. I went over to read the sign. The opera was being performed that evening, and it seemed likely that the Count would be in the audience.
If I invite Pesca to the opera, I thought, I can point the Count out to him and find out if he knows him. So I bought two tickets myself, sent Pesca a note, and that evening called to take him with me to the opera.
The music had already started when we went in, and all the seats were filled. However, there was room to stand at the sides. I looked around and saw the Count sitting in a seat half-way down, so I placed myself exactly on a line with him, with Pesca standing at my side. When the first part finished, the audience, including the Count, rose to look about them.
When the Count was looking in our direction, I nudged Pesca with my elbow. 'You see that tall fat man? Do you know him?'
'No,' said Pesca. 'Is he famous? Why do you point him out?
Because I have a reason for wanting to know more about him. He's an Italian, and his name is Count Fosco. Do you know that name? Look — stand on this step so that you can see him better.'
A slim, fair-haired man, with a scar on his left cheek, was standing near us. I saw him look at Pesca, and then follow the direction of his eyes to the Count. Pesca repeated that he did not know him, and as he spoke, the Count looked our way again.
The eyes of the two Italians met.
In that second I was suddenly convinced that, while Pesca may not have known the Count, the Count certainly knew Pesca!
Not only knew him, but - more surprising still - feared him as well. The Count's face had frozen into a dreadful stillness, the cheeks as pale as death, the cold grey eyes staring in terror.
Nearby, the man with the scar also seemed to be watching with interest the effect that Pesca had had on the Count.
'How the fat man stares!' Pesca said, looking round at me. 'But I've never seen him before in my life.'
As Pesca looked away, the Count turned, moving quickly towards the back of the theatre, where the crowd was thickest. I caught Pesca's arm and, to his great surprise, hurried him with me after the Count. The slim man with the scar had apparently also decided to leave, and was already ahead of us. By the time Pesca and I reached the entrance neither the Count nor the slim man was in sight.
'Pesca,' I said urgently, I must speak to you in private. May we go to your lodgings to talk?'
'What on earth is the matter?' cried Pesca.
I hurried him on without answering. The way the Count had left the theatre, his extraordinary anxiety to avoid Pesca, made me fear that he might go even further - and out of my reach.
In Pesca's lodgings, I explained everything as fast as I could, while Pesca stared at me in great confusion and amazement.
'He knows you - he's afraid of you. He left the theatre to escape you/ I said. 'There must be a reason, Pesca! Think of your own life before you came to England. You left Italy for political reasons. I don't ask what they were. But could that man's terror be connected with your past in some way?'
To my inexpressible surprise, these harmless words seemed to terrify Pesca. His face went white and he started to tremble.
'Walter!' he whispered. 'You don't know what you ask.'
I stared at him. 'Pesca, forgive me, I didn't mean to cause you pain. I spoke only because of what my wife has suffered from that man's cruel actions. You must forgive me.'
I rose to go. He stopped me before I reached the door.
'Wait/ he said. 'You saved my life once. You have a right to hear from me what you want to know, even though I could be killed for it. I only ask that, if you find the connection between my past and that man Fosco, you do not tell me.1
Then, his face still pale as the memories of the past crowded in on him, he told me the story.
'In my youth I belonged - and still belong - to a secret political society. Let's call it the Brotherhood, I can't tell you its real name. But I took too many risks and did something which put other members in danger. So I was ordered to go and live in England and to wait, I went — I have waited — I still wait. I could be called away tomorrow, or in ten years. I cannot know.
'The purpose of the Brotherhood is to fight for the rights of the people. There is a president in Italy, and presidents abroad. Each of these has his secretary. The presidents and secretaries know the members, but members don't know each other, until it's considered necessary. Every member of the Brotherhood is identified by a small round mark burnt into the skin, high up on the inside of their left arm.'
He rolled up his sleeve and showed me his own mark.
'If anyone betrays the Brotherhood,' he went on, 'he is a dead man. Another member, a distant stranger or a neighbour, will be ordered to kill him. No one can leave the society — ever.'
Pesca paused then continued. 'In Italy I was chosen to be secretary. The members at that time were brought face to face with the president, and were also brought face to face with me. You understand me - I see it in your face. But tell me nothing, I beg you! Let me stay free of a responsibility which horrifies me.
I do not know the man at the opera,' he said finally. 'If he knows me, he is so changed, or disguised, that I do not know him. Leave me now, Walter. I have said enough.'
'T thank you with all my heart, Pesca,' T said. 'You will never, never regret the trust you have placed in me.'
Walking home, my heart beat with excitement. Here at last, surely, was my weapon against the Count! I was convinced he was a member of the Brotherhood, had betrayed it, and believed that he had been recognized tonight. His life was now in danger. What else could explain his extreme terror at seeing Pesca?
And what would he do next? Leave London as fast as he could. If I went to his house and tried to stop him, he would not hesitate to kill me. To protect myself, I had to make his safety depend on mine. I hurried home and wrote this letter to Pesca:
The man at the opera, Fosco, is a member of your society and has betrayed it. Go instantly to his house at 5 Forest Road, St John's Wood. I am already dead. Use your power against him without delay.
I signed and dated the letter, and wrote on the envelope: Keep until nine o'clock tomorrow morning. If you do not hear from me before then, open the envelope and read the contents.
I then found a messenger, told him to deliver the letter and bring back a note from Professor Pesca to say he had received it. Twenty minutes later I had the note, and as I was leaving, Marian came to the door, looking anxious.
'It's tonight, isn't it?' she said. 'You're going to the Count.'
'Yes, it's the last chance, and the best.'
Oh, "Walter, not alone! Let me go with you. Don't go alone!'
No, Marian. You must stay here and guard Laura for me. Then I will be easy in my mind when I face the Count.'
A fortnight later, we returned to London, and I began to prepare for my battle with the Count, was now early May and the rental agreement for his house ended in June. In my new happiness with Laura (to whom we never mentioned the Count's name), I was sometimes tempted to change my mind and to leave things as they were. But she still had dreams, terrible dreams that made her cry out in her sleep, and I knew I had to go on.
First, I tried to find out more about the Count. Marian told me that he had not been back to Italy for many years. Had he been obliged to leave Italy for political reasons, I wondered? But Marian also said that at Blackwater Park he had received official-looking letters with Italian stamps on, which would seem to contradict this idea. Perhaps he was a spy, I thought. That might explain why he had stayed in England so long after the successful completion of his plot. Who could I ask who might know something? Another Italian, perhaps - and I suddenly thought of my old friend, Professor Pesca.
Before I did that, I decided to have a look at the Count, as up to this time I had never once set eyes on him. So one morning I went to Forest Road, St John's Wood, and waited near his house. Eventually, he came our and I followed behind him as he walked towards the centre of London. Marian had prepared me for his enormous size and fashionable clothes, but not for the horrible freshness and cheerfulness and energy of the man.
Near Oxford Street he stopped to read a sign announcing an opera, and then went into the opera ticket office, which was nearby. I went over to read the sign. The opera was being performed that evening, and it seemed likely that the Count would be in the audience.
If I invite Pesca to the opera, I thought, I can point the Count out to him and find out if he knows him. So I bought two tickets myself, sent Pesca a note, and that evening called to take him with me to the opera.
The music had already started when we went in, and all the seats were filled. However, there was room to stand at the sides. I looked around and saw the Count sitting in a seat half-way down, so I placed myself exactly on a line with him, with Pesca standing at my side. When the first part finished, the audience, including the Count, rose to look about them.
When the Count was looking in our direction, I nudged Pesca with my elbow. 'You see that tall fat man? Do you know him?'
'No,' said Pesca. 'Is he famous? Why do you point him out?
Because I have a reason for wanting to know more about him. He's an Italian, and his name is Count Fosco. Do you know that name? Look — stand on this step so that you can see him better.'
A slim, fair-haired man, with a scar on his left cheek, was standing near us. I saw him look at Pesca, and then follow the direction of his eyes to the Count. Pesca repeated that he did not know him, and as he spoke, the Count looked our way again.
The eyes of the two Italians met.
In that second I was suddenly convinced that, while Pesca may not have known the Count, the Count certainly knew Pesca!
Not only knew him, but - more surprising still - feared him as well. The Count's face had frozen into a dreadful stillness, the cheeks as pale as death, the cold grey eyes staring in terror.
Nearby, the man with the scar also seemed to be watching with interest the effect that Pesca had had on the Count.
'How the fat man stares!' Pesca said, looking round at me. 'But I've never seen him before in my life.'
As Pesca looked away, the Count turned, moving quickly towards the back of the theatre, where the crowd was thickest. I caught Pesca's arm and, to his great surprise, hurried him with me after the Count. The slim man with the scar had apparently also decided to leave, and was already ahead of us. By the time Pesca and I reached the entrance neither the Count nor the slim man was in sight.
'Pesca,' I said urgently, I must speak to you in private. May we go to your lodgings to talk?'
'What on earth is the matter?' cried Pesca.
I hurried him on without answering. The way the Count had left the theatre, his extraordinary anxiety to avoid Pesca, made me fear that he might go even further - and out of my reach.
In Pesca's lodgings, I explained everything as fast as I could, while Pesca stared at me in great confusion and amazement.
'He knows you - he's afraid of you. He left the theatre to escape you/ I said. 'There must be a reason, Pesca! Think of your own life before you came to England. You left Italy for political reasons. I don't ask what they were. But could that man's terror be connected with your past in some way?'
To my inexpressible surprise, these harmless words seemed to terrify Pesca. His face went white and he started to tremble.
'Walter!' he whispered. 'You don't know what you ask.'
I stared at him. 'Pesca, forgive me, I didn't mean to cause you pain. I spoke only because of what my wife has suffered from that man's cruel actions. You must forgive me.'
I rose to go. He stopped me before I reached the door.
'Wait/ he said. 'You saved my life once. You have a right to hear from me what you want to know, even though I could be killed for it. I only ask that, if you find the connection between my past and that man Fosco, you do not tell me.1
Then, his face still pale as the memories of the past crowded in on him, he told me the story.
'In my youth I belonged - and still belong - to a secret political society. Let's call it the Brotherhood, I can't tell you its real name. But I took too many risks and did something which put other members in danger. So I was ordered to go and live in England and to wait, I went — I have waited — I still wait. I could be called away tomorrow, or in ten years. I cannot know.
'The purpose of the Brotherhood is to fight for the rights of the people. There is a president in Italy, and presidents abroad. Each of these has his secretary. The presidents and secretaries know the members, but members don't know each other, until it's considered necessary. Every member of the Brotherhood is identified by a small round mark burnt into the skin, high up on the inside of their left arm.'
He rolled up his sleeve and showed me his own mark.
'If anyone betrays the Brotherhood,' he went on, 'he is a dead man. Another member, a distant stranger or a neighbour, will be ordered to kill him. No one can leave the society — ever.'
Pesca paused then continued. 'In Italy I was chosen to be secretary. The members at that time were brought face to face with the president, and were also brought face to face with me. You understand me - I see it in your face. But tell me nothing, I beg you! Let me stay free of a responsibility which horrifies me.
I do not know the man at the opera,' he said finally. 'If he knows me, he is so changed, or disguised, that I do not know him. Leave me now, Walter. I have said enough.'
'T thank you with all my heart, Pesca,' T said. 'You will never, never regret the trust you have placed in me.'
Walking home, my heart beat with excitement. Here at last, surely, was my weapon against the Count! I was convinced he was a member of the Brotherhood, had betrayed it, and believed that he had been recognized tonight. His life was now in danger. What else could explain his extreme terror at seeing Pesca?
And what would he do next? Leave London as fast as he could. If I went to his house and tried to stop him, he would not hesitate to kill me. To protect myself, I had to make his safety depend on mine. I hurried home and wrote this letter to Pesca:
The man at the opera, Fosco, is a member of your society and has betrayed it. Go instantly to his house at 5 Forest Road, St John's Wood. I am already dead. Use your power against him without delay.
I signed and dated the letter, and wrote on the envelope: Keep until nine o'clock tomorrow morning. If you do not hear from me before then, open the envelope and read the contents.
I then found a messenger, told him to deliver the letter and bring back a note from Professor Pesca to say he had received it. Twenty minutes later I had the note, and as I was leaving, Marian came to the door, looking anxious.
'It's tonight, isn't it?' she said. 'You're going to the Count.'
'Yes, it's the last chance, and the best.'
Oh, "Walter, not alone! Let me go with you. Don't go alone!'
No, Marian. You must stay here and guard Laura for me. Then I will be easy in my mind when I face the Count.'
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