There he lay, unowned, unknown; exposed
to the flippant curiosity of a French mob—there
was the dreadful end of that long life of
degraded ability and heartless crime! Hushed
in the sublime repose of death, the broad, firm,
massive face and head fronted us so grandly,
that the chattering Frenchwomen about me
lifted their hands in admiration, and cried, in
shrill chorus, "Ah, what a handsome man!" The
wound that had killed him had been struck
wiih a knife or dagger exactly over his heart.
No other traces of violence appeared about the
body, except on the left arm; and there, exactly
in the place where I had seen the brand on
Pesca's arm, were two deep cuts in the shape of
the letter T, which entirely obliterated the mark
of the Brotherhood. His clothes hung above
him, showed that he had been himself conscious
of his danger—they were clothes that had
disguised him as a French artisan. For a few
moments, but not for longer, I forced myself to see
these things through the glass screen. I can
write of them at no greater length, for I saw
no more.

The few facts, in connexion with his death
which I subsequently ascertained (partly from
Pesca and partly from other sources), may be
stated here, before the subject is dismissed trom
these pages.

His body was taken out of the Seine, in the
disguise which I have described; nothing being
found on him which revealed his name, his rank,
or his place of abode. The hand that struck
him was never traced; and the circumstances
under which he was killed were never discovered.
I leave others to draw their own conclusions, in
reference to the secret of the assassination, as I
have drawn mine. When I have intimated that
the foreigner with the scar was a Member of
the Brotherhood (admitted in Italy, after Pesca's
departure from his native country), and when
I have further added that the two cuts, in the
form of a T, on the left arm of the dead man,
signified the Italian word, "Traditore," and
showed that justice had been done by the
Brotherhood on a Traitor, I have contributed all
that I know towards elucidating the mystery of
Count Fosco's death.

The body was identified, the day after I had
seen it, by means of an anonymous letter
addressed to his wife. He was buried, by Madame
Fosco, in the cemetery of Père la Chaise. Fresh
funeral wreaths continue, to this day, to be hung
on the ornamental bronze-railings round the
tomb, by the Countess's own hand. She lives,
in the strictest retirement, at Versailles. Not
long since, she published a Biography of her
deceased husband. The work throws no light
whatever on the name that was really his
own, or on the secret history of his life: it is
almost entirely devoted to the praise of his
domestic virtues, the assertion of his rare
abilities, and the enumeration of the honours
conferred on him. The circumstances attending
his death are very briefly noticed; and and
summed up, on the last page, in this sentence:
—His life was one long assertion of the rights
of the aristocracy, and the sacred principles of
Order—and he died a Martyr to his cause."

III

THE summer and autumn passed, after my
return from Paris, and brought no changes with
them which need be noticed here. We lived
so simply and quietly, that the income which
I was now steadily earning sufficed for all our
wants.

In the February of the new year, our first
child was born—a son. My mother and sister
and Mrs. Vesey, were our guests at the little
christening party; and Mrs. Clements was
present, to assist my wife, on the same occasion.
Marian was our boy's godmother; and Pesca
and Mr. Gilmore (the latter acting by proxy)
were his godfathers. I may add here, that,
when Mr. Gilmore returned to us, a year later,
he assisted the design of these pages, at my
request, by writing the Narrative which appears
early in the story under his name, and which,
though the first in order of precedence, was
thus, in order of time, the last that I received.

The only event in our lives which now
remains to be recorded, occurred when our little
Walter was six months old.

At that time, I was sent to Ireland, to make
sketches for certain forthcoming illustrations in
the newspaper to which I was attached. I was
away for nearly a fortnight, corresponding
regularly with my wife and Marian, except during
the last three days of my absence, when my
movements were too uncertain to enable me to
receive letters. I performed the latter part of
my journey back, at night; and when I reached
home in the morning, to my utter astonishment,
there was no one to receive me. Laura and
Marian and the child had left the house on the
day before my return.

A note from my wife, which was given to me
by the servant, only increased my surprise, by
informing me that they had gone to Limmeridge
House. Marian had prohibited any attempt at
written explanations—I was entreated to follow
them the moment I came back—complete
enlightenment awaited me on my arrival in
Cumberland and I was forbidden to feel the slightest
anxiety, in the mean time. There the note
ended.

It was still early enough to catch the morning
train. I reached Limmeridge House the
same afternoon.

My wife and Marian were both up-stairs.
They had established themselves (by way of
completing my amazement) in the little room
which had once been assigned to me for a studio,
when I was employed on Mr. Fairlie's drawings.
On the very chair which I used to occupy when
I was at work, Marian was sitting now, with the
child industriously sucking his coral upon her
lap—while Laura was standing by the well-
remembered drawing-table which I had so often
used, with the little album that I had filled for
her, in past times, open under her hand.

"What in the name of heaven has brought