My end is nigh!
The second day of the second month in eighteen hundred and fifty one shall be my last day upon this Earth. He is here, my angel of death, standing over me as I write these words. The last kindness he has permitted me is to weild my pen one last time. Even the most ruthless of men have some decency; am I, Fosco, not an example of such a man?
Let it be known that I have accepted my fate; perhaps, on some level, I even welcome it. No more running, no more hiding, no more pining for a woman whom will never love me as I love her. Oh dear Marian, how I wish our destinies had been joined instead of merely intertwined! Perhaps, had I been a better man, not to mention a single man – my dear wife I cry your pardon – we could have been together. Alas, it was not to be. What a cruel world we mortals live in!
Perhaps I deserve this cruelty; I was never the kindest, nor the most noble of men. The title of Count – a mere formality – does nothing to disguise the wickedness that plagues my soul. But at the very least I realise that wickedness. Perhaps that will earn me forgiveness when I arrive at the gates of the next world.
I often wonder; how is my magnificent Marian? I have faith that Mister Walter Hartright will take care of her, as I requested. I can rest easy if I know she is safe and well. I must praise Mister Hartright for his courage and tenacity; outside the Brotherhood, few men are courageous enough to challenge a man such as myself. The treachery I committed towards the Brotherhood shames me so greatly that I dare not inscribe it upon this paper. That shall remain my deepest, darkest secret until the moment my angel decides to eliminate my existance. If only the Brotherhood were as weak as that pathetic little man Frederick Fairlie. The incompetent, self-centred little worm could have prevented all the suffering his niece Laura suffered at mine and Sir Percival's hands. Of course the blame cannot be stacked entirely on Fairlie's shoulders – I neglect the title of Mister because he is more of a woman than dear Marian – but surely this whole sorry story could have been evaded had he actually made the effort to take some responsibility. Perhaps Laura would not have suffered due to the unfortunate necessity of money. Perhaps Marian would have remained as charmed by my charisma as she was when we first met. Perhaps Percival would still be among us, in the land of the living.
Ah Percival. A dear friend and yet a vicious villain; how can one be both? His death was an unfortunate tragedy, one that still saddens me as I near the end of my own time in this world. At least I had sixty one years to enjoy and endure the gifts and curses of life. Poor Percival was so much younger, could have had so much more time ahead of him. A life cut short, like poor, youthful Anne Catherick.
Anne Catherick's date of death was the fatal weakness in my wonderful plan. The one flaw that brought the entire formidable structure Percival and I had built, crashing down and burning like the Church in which Percival perished. And yet I am not angry that my brilliant scheme was defeated. A man cannot always succeed and sometimes circumstances work against him. Poor Anne's death was one such miserable circumstance. Had she lived, things would have been different. Perhaps the difference would have been minimal; perhaps I would still be sat at a desk with a man standing over me whilst twirling a knife between his fingers, but at least I would have succeeded in my intelligent, yet wicked scheme. But then again, do I want to have succeeded? In some strange way, it is almost a relief that I failed.
And so I, Isidor Ottavio Baldassare Fosco, shall set down my pen, stand upon my feet, and face my demise as a true man should. With dignity, with courage and with the hope that perhaps my sins will be forgiven once I depart from this world and awaken in the next.