relieved her of all further embarrassment and alarm.
Additional applications, later in the
evening, procured her the inestimable blessing
of a good night's rest. Madame Rubelle arrived
in time to preside at Lady Clyde's toilet. Her
own clothes were taken away from her at night,
and Anne Catherick's were put on her in the
morning, with the strictest regard to propriety,
by the matronly hands of the good Rubelle.
Throughout the day, I kept our patient in a
state of partially-suspended consciousness, until
the dexterous assistance of my medical friends
enabled me to procure the necessary order, rather
earlier than I had ventured to hope. That
evening (the evening of the 30th) Madame
Rubelle and I took our revived "Anne Catherick"
to the Asylum. She was received, with great
surprise—but without suspicion; thanks to the
order and certificates, to Percival's letter, to the
likeness, to the clothes, and to the patient's own
confused mental condition at the time. I
returned at once to assist Madame Fosco in the
preparations for the burial of the false "Lady
Glyde," having the clothes of the true "Lady
Glyde" in my possession. They were afterwards
sent to Cumberland by the conveyance which
was used for the funeral. I attended the funeral,
with becoming dignity, attired in the deepest
mourning.

My narrative of these remarkable events,
written under equally remarkable circumstances,
closes here. The minor precautions which I
observed, in communicating with Limmeridge
House, are already known—so is the magnificent
success of my enterprise—so are the solid
pecuniary results which followed it. I have to
assert, with the whole force of my conviction,
that the one weak place in my scheme, would
never have been found out, if the one weak
place in my heart had not been discovered first.
Nothing but my fatal admiration for Marian
restrained me from stepping in to my own
rescue, when she effected her sister's escape.
I ran the risk, and trusted in the complete
destruction of Lady Clyde's identity. If either
Marian or Mr. Hartright attempted to assert
that identity, they would publicly expose
themselves to the imputation of sustaining a rank
deception; they would be distrusted and
discredited accordingly; and they would, therefore,
be powerless to place my interests or
Percival's secret in jeopardy. I committed one
error in trusting myself to such a blindfold
calculation of chances as this. I committed
another when Percival had paid the penalty of
his own obstinacy and violence, by granting
Lady Glyde a second reprieve from the
madhouse, and allowing Mr. Hartright a second
chance of escaping me. In brief, Fosco, at this
serious crisis, was untrue to himself.
Deplorable and uncharacteristic fault! Behold the
cause, in my Heart—behold, in the image of
Marian Halcombe, the first and last weakness
of Fosco's life!

At the ripe age of sixty, I make this unparalleled
confession. Youths! I invoke your
sympathy. Maidens! I claim your tears.

A word more—and the attention of the reader
(concentrated breathlessly on myself) shall be
released.

My own mental insight informs me that three
inevitable questions will be asked, here, by
persons of inquiring minds. They shall be stated;
they shall be answered.

First question. What is the secret of Madame
Fosco's unhesitating devotion of herself to the
fulfilment of my boldest wishes, to the furtherance
of my deepest plans? I might answer this,
by simply referring to my own character, and by
asking, in my turn:—Where, in the history of
the world, has a man of my order ever been
found without a woman in the background,
self-immolated on the altar of his life? But, I
remember that I am writing in England; I remember
that I was married in England—and I ask,
if a woman's marriage-obligations, in this country,
provide for her private opinion of her
husband's principles? No! They charge her
unreservedly, to love, honour, and obey him.
That is exactly what my wife has done. I
stand, here, on a supreme moral elevation; and
I loftily assert her accurate performance of her
conjugal duties. Silence, Calumny! Your sympathy,
Wives of England, for Madame Fosco!

Second question. If Anne Catherick had not
died when she did, what should I have done?
I should, in that case, have assisted worn-out
Nature in finding permanent repose. I should
have opened the doors of the Prison of Life, and
have extended to the captive (incurably afflicted
in mind and body both) a happy release.

Third question. On a calm revision of all the
circumstances—Is my conduct worthy of any
serious blame? Most emphatically, No! Have
I not carefully avoided exposing myself to the
odium of committing unnecessary crime? With
my vast resources in chemistry, I might have
taken Lady Glyde's life. At immense personal
sacrifice, I followed the dictates of my own
ingenuity, my own humanity, my own caution—
and took her identity, instead. Judge me by
what I might have done. How comparatively
innocent! how indirectly virtuous I appear, in
what I really did!

I announced, on beginning it, that this narrative
would be a remarkable document. It has
entirely answered my expectations. Receive
these fervid lines—my last legacy to the country
I leave for ever. They are worthy of the
occasion, and worthy of

FOSCO.

PART THE THIRD. HARTRIGHT'S NARRATIVE,
CONCLUDED.

I.

WHEN I closed the last leaf of the Count's
manuscript, the half-hour during which I had
engaged to remain at Forest-road had expired.
Monsieur Rubelle looked at his watch, and
bowd. I rose immediately, and left the agent