Is it necessary to say what my first impression was when I looked at my visitor's card? Surely not! My sister having married a foreigner, there was but one impression that any man in his senses could possibly feel. Of course the Count had come to borrow money of me.
`Louis,' I said, `do you think he would go away if you gave him five shillings?'
Louis looked quite shocked. He surprised me inexpressibly by declaring that my sister's foreign husband was dressed superbly, and looked the picture of prosperity. Under these circumstances my first impression altered to a certain extent. I now took it for granted that the Count had matrimonial difficulties of his own to contend with, and that he had come, like the rest of the family, to cast them all on my shoulders.
`Did he mention his business?' I asked.
`Count Fosco said he had come here, sir, because Miss Halcombe was unable to leave Blackwater Park.'
Fresh troubles, apparently. Not exactly his own, as I had supposed, but dear Marian's. Troubles, anyway. Oh dear!
`Show him in,' I said resignedly.
The Count's first appearance really startled me. He was such an alarmingly large person that I quite trembled- I felt certain that he would shake the floor and knock down my art-treasures. He did neither the one nor the other. He was refreshingly dressed in summer costume -- his manner was delightfully self-possessed and quiet -- he had a charming smile. My first impression of him was highly favourable. It is not creditable to my penetration -- as the sequel will show -- to acknowledge this, but I am a naturally candid man, and I do acknowledge it notwithstanding.
`Allow me to present myself, Mr Fairlie,' he said. `I come from Blackwater Park, and I have the honour and the happiness of being Madame Fosco's husband. Let me take my first and last advantage of that circumstance by entreating you not to make a stranger of me. I beg you will not disturb yourself -- I beg you will not move.'
`You are very good,' I replied. `I wish I was strong enough to get up. Charmed to see you at Limmeridge. Please take a chair.'
`I am afraid you are suffering today,' said the Count.
`As usual,' I said. `I am nothing but a bundle of nerves dressed up to look like a man.'
`I have studied many subjects in my time,' remarked this sympathetic person. `Among others the inexhaustible subject of nerves. May I make a suggestion, at once the simplest and the most profound? Will you let me alter the light in your room?'
`Certainly -- if you will be so very kind as not to let any of it in on me.'
He walked to the window. Such a contrast to dear Marian! so extremely considerate in all his movements!
`Light,' he said, in that delightful confidential tone which is so soothing to an invalid, `is the first essential. Light stimulates. nourishes, preserves. You can no more do without it, Mr Fairlie, than if you were a flower. Observe. Here, where you sit, I close the shutters to compose you. There, where you do not sit, I draw up the blind and let in the invigorating sun. Admit the light into your room if you cannot bear it on yourself. Light, sir, is the grand decree of Providence. You accept Providence with your own restrictions. Accept light on the same terms.'
I thought this very convincing and attentive. He had taken me in up to that point about the light, he had certainly taken me in.
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