And the magician who has wrought this wonderful transformation—­ the foreign husband who has tamed this once wayward English woman till her own relations hardly know her again—­the Count himself?  What of the Count?

This in two words:  He looks like a man who could tame anything.  If he had married a tigress, instead of a woman, he would have tamed the tigress.  If he had married me, I should have made his cigarettes, as his wife does—­I should have held my tongue when he looked at me, as she holds hers.

I am almost afraid to confess it, even to these secret pages.  The man has interested me, has attracted me, has forced me to like him.  In two short days he has made his way straight into my favourable estimation, and how he has worked the miracle is more than I can tell.

It absolutely startles me, now he is in my mind, to find how plainly I see him!—­how much more plainly than I see Sir Percival, or Mr. Fairlie, or Walter Hartright, or any other absent person of whom I think, with the one exception of Laura herself!  I can hear his voice, as if he was speaking at this moment.  I know what his conversation was yesterday, as well as if I was hearing it now.  How am I to describe him?  There are peculiarities in his personal appearance, his habits, and his amusements, which I should blame in the boldest terms, or ridicule in the most merciless manner, if I had seen them in another man.  What is it that makes me unable to blame them, or to ridicule them in him?

For example, he is immensely fat.  Before this time I have always especially disliked corpulent humanity.  I have always maintained that the popular notion of connecting excessive grossness of size and excessive good-humour as inseparable allies was equivalent to declaring, either that no people but amiable people ever get fat, or that the accidental addition of so many pounds of flesh has a directly favourable influence over the disposition of the person on whose body they accumulate.  I have invariably combated both these absurd assertions by quoting examples of fat people who were as mean, vicious, and cruel as the leanest and the worst of their neighbours.  I have asked whether Henry the Eighth was an amiable character?  Whether Pope Alexander the Sixth was a good man?  Whether Mr. Murderer and Mrs. Murderess Manning were not both unusually stout people?  Whether hired nurses, proverbially as cruel a set of women as are to be found in all England, were not, for the most part, also as fat a set of women as are to be found in all England?—­and so on, through dozens of other examples, modern and ancient, native and foreign, high and low.  Holding these strong opinions on the subject with might and main as I do at this moment, here, nevertheless, is Count Fosco, as fat as Henry the Eighth himself, established in my favour, at one day’s notice, without let or hindrance from his own odious corpulence.  Marvellous indeed!