Marian loved Paris. There was always something to do, somewhere to see, or someone to meet. Her gypsy-dark coloring and manly features, if noticed by anyone, were never acknowledged. She felt that finally she was on the adventure she'd always secretly dreamed of having. Sometimes, amid the rush of sights and sounds, she had to stop and reflect on everything that had happened.
Walter had been angry when she had finally found him in London. He had a right to be, no one could deny that. She had pleaded with him to help her. Laura was dead, but the two of them, working together, could make her memory live on. Glyde cannot get away with this, she remembered shouting at him. Finally he had been soothed over, and they had talked. And talked. And talked.
A lot of talk and no action never accomplished anything. So, finally, they came up with a plan. Well, thought Marian, I came up with a plan. Walter had tried desperately to dissuade her from it. Confronting Count Fosco is far too dangerous, if anyone is going to go, it will not be you, Walter had argued. They had fought about it.
Things had obviously not gone quite they way they had hoped, but they had really gone the best they could have given the circumstances, Marian reflected. And now it was all behind them. Here was Paris, the famed "city of love", and nothing from the past could touch them again. Rather unlike the countryside where she had lived so long with her sister, there was always something happening. Daily newspaper readings were a must. She'd take the English paper, he'd take the French, and over breakfast they would keep themselves informed of the many happenings of both countries.
As the initial excitement of their arrival settled, Marian quickly discovered one of her favorite pastimes was visiting the many museums and historic buildings there. Even if she had never been able to draw a passable still-life, she was a lover of art and elegance. The thought struck her once that perhaps her love of such things came from them being so little like her. Art, beauty, elegance-those had always been Laura. They should have been a constant reminder of her fair sister, but Marian found that as time passed the wound healed. She thought of Laura less and less. She would never fully be gone from memory, but neither did she fill every waking moment as she once had.
The only thing to shatter this idyllic new existence was a short article which ran in the English paper one morning. It so startled Marian that she cried out a little, and her companion dropped his paper and rush to read over her shoulder and see what had upset her so. The article read:
"A young man has been arrested for the attempted murder of Sir Percival Glyde. The young man spent only one night in a nearby gaole before the decision was made to have him moved to the asylum. Reports say that since his committal, the man had not stopped raving that Sir Percival 'owes him two lives over, one for each of them'. The man's identity and his meaning in his ravings is yet undetermined."
Marian's companion patted her shoulder gently. "Don't fret, mea cara. I'm sure they'll all be dealt with soon. Poor man."
Walter Hartwright never could find out what had happened that night. All he knew was what the butler had told him the next morning: that the Count, instead of leaving on the 6 o'clock train, had stayed the whole night, and had left early the next morning with a dark-haired woman. His one comfort in the asylum was that sometimes he caught glimpse of a pretty girl there who reminded him greatly of Laura.