The Club Dumas

XIV. THE CELLARS OF MEUNG

It was a dismal night. The Loire, turbulent, was rising, threatening to flood the old dikes in the small town of Meung. The storm had been raging since late afternoon. Occasionally a flash of lightning illuminated the black mass of the castle, and bright zigzags cracked like whips on the deserted wet pavements of the medieval town. Across the river, in the distance, amid the wind, rain, and leaves torn from the trees, as if the gale had drawn a line between the recent past and a distant present, the headlights of cars could be seen moving silently along the highway from Tours to Orleans.

At the Auberge Saint-Jacques, the only hotel in Meung, a window was lit. It gave onto a small terrace which could be reached from the street. Inside the room, a tall, attractive blonde, her hair tied back, was dressing in front of the mirror. She had just zipped up her skirt, covering the small tattoo of a fleur-de-lis on her hip. She stood up straight, her hands behind her back to fasten the bra supporting her white, voluminous bust, which shook gently as she moved. Then she put on a silk blouse. As she buttoned it, she smiled to herself in the mirror, no doubt finding herself beautiful. She must have been preparing for a date, because nobody dresses at eleven at night unless they're going to meet someone. Although maybe her smile, with its hint of cruelty, was due to the new leather folder that lay on the bed, containing the pages of the manuscript of "The Anjou Wine" by Alexandre Dumas, père.

A flash of lightning lit up the small terrace outside. There, under the dripping eaves, Lucas Corso finished his damp cigarette and threw it on the ground. He turned up his collar against the wind and rain. During the next bolt of lightning, as intense as a giant camera flash, he saw Flavio La Ponte's deathly-pale face, drawn in light and dark, his hair and beard dripping wet. La Ponte resembled a tormented monk, or maybe Athos, taciturn as desperation, somber as punishment. There were no more flashes for a time, but Corso could distinguish, in the third shadow crouching beside them beneath the eaves the slender shape of Irene Adler wrapped in her duffel coat. When at last another flash of lightning tore diagonally across the night sky and thunder rolled across the slate roofs, her bright green eyes were suddenly lit up beneath the hood of her coat.

The journey to Meung had been short and tense. An interval of appalling visibility, in a car hired by La Ponte: the highway from Paris to Orleans, then sixteen kilometers toward Tours. La Ponte sat in the passenger seat and by the flame of a cigarette lighter studied the Michelin map they'd bought at a gas station. La Ponte was fuddled. Not far to go now, I think we're on the right road. Yes, I'm sure we are. The girl was in the back, silent. She watched Corso intently, and he met her eyes in the mirror every time they were passed by the dazzling lights of an oncoming car. La Ponte got it wrong, of course. They missed the turn and went in the direction of Blois. When they realized their mistake, they had to go back, driving in the wrong direction on the highway to get off it. Corso gripped the steering wheel, praying that the storm was keeping all the gendarmes indoors. Beaugency. La Ponte insisted they cross the river and turn left, but luckily they ignored him. They retraced their steps, this time on the Nationale 152—the same route d'Artagnan took in chapter one—amid gusts of wind and rain, the black, roaring expanse of the Loire to their right, the windshield wipers working furiously, and hundreds of little black dots, the shadows of raindrops, dancing in front of Corso's eyes as they passed other cars. At last they were driving through deserted streets, an old district of medieval rooftops, facades with thick beams in the shape of crosses: Meung-sur-Loire. Journey's end.

"She's about to leave," whispered La Ponte. He was soaked through, and his voice trembled from the cold. "Why don't we go in now?"

Corso leaned over to take another look. Liana Taillefer had put on a tight-fitting sweater over her blouse, emphasizing her spectacular figure, and from the closet she took a long, dark cape fit for a masked ball. She hesitated a moment, looked around, then put the cape over her shoulders and picked up the folder with the manuscript from the bed. At that instant she noticed the open window and went to close it.

Corso put out his hand to stop her. There was a flash of lightning almost above his head, and his dripping face was lit up. He was framed in the window, his hand held out as if accusingly at the woman who stood paralyzed with surprise. Milady screamed in wild terror, as if she had just seen the devil himself.

Corso jumped over the ledge and hit her so hard with the back of his hand that she stopped screaming and fell on the bed, scattering the pages of "The Anjou Wine." The change in temperature made his glasses steam up, so he took them off quickly, threw them on the bedside table, and flung himself at Liana Taillefer, who was trying to get up and reach the door. He grabbed her first by her leg and then pinned her to the bed by the waist while she struggled and kicked. She was strong, and he wondered where the hell La Ponte and the girl were. While he waited for them to help, he tried to hold the woman down by the wrists, keeping his face away from her clawing nails. Entwined, they rolled on the bedcover, and Corso ended up with his leg between hers and his face buried in her breasts. Up so close, feeling them through her fine wool sweater, he thought again how incredibly resilient they were. He felt an unmistakable erection and cursed in exasperation while he struggled with this Milady with the physique of a champion swimmer. Where are you when I need you, he thought bitterly. Then La Ponte arrived, shaking himself like a wet dog, seeking revenge for his wounded pride and, above all, for the hotel bill burning a hole in his wallet. The battle was beginning to resemble a lynching.

"I presume you're not going to rape her," said the girl.

She was sitting on the window ledge, still wearing her hood, watching the scene. Liana Taillefer had stopped struggling and was now motionless. Corso was on top of her, and La Ponte was holding her down by one arm and one leg.

"Pigs," she said loudly and clearly.

"Whore," grunted La Ponte, out of breath from the struggle.

After this brief exchange they all calmed down. Certain that she could not escape, they let her sit up. She flashed venomous looks at both Corso and La Ponte as she rubbed her wrists. Corso stood between her and the door. The girl was still at the window, now closed. She had lowered her hood and was regarding Liana Taillefer with curiosity. La Ponte, after toweling his hair and beard on the bedcover, started to gather the pages of the manuscript scattered about the room.

"We need to have a little talk," said Corso. "Like reasonable people."

Liana Taillefer glared at him. "We have nothing to talk about."

"That's where you're wrong, beautiful lady. Now that we've got you, I don't mind going to the police. Either you talk to us or you'll have to explain things to them. Your choice."

She frowned. She looked around like a hunted animal searching for any way out of a trap.

"Careful," said La Ponte. "She's up to something."

Her eyes shot glances as sharp as needles. Corso twisted his mouth theatrically. "Liana Taillefer," he said. "Or maybe we should call you Anne de Breuil, Comtesse de la Fere. You also go by the names of Charlotte Backson, Baroness Sheffield, and Lady de Winter. You betray your husbands and your lovers. A murderess and poisoner, as well as Richelieu's agent. Better known by your alias"—he paused dramatically—"Milady."

He stopped, because he'd just tripped on the strap of his bag, which was protruding from under the bed. He pulled it out, not taking his eyes off Liana Taillefer or the door. She obviously intended to escape at the first opportunity. He checked the contents of the bag, and his sigh of relief made all of them, including Liana Taillefer, look at him with surprise. Varo Borja's copy of The Nine Doors was there, intact.

"Bingo," he said, holding it up. La Ponte looked triumphant, as if Queequeg had just harpooned the whale. But the girl showed no emotion, an indifferent spectator. Corso returned the book to the bag. The wind whistled at the window, where the girl still stood. At intervals she was silhouetted by a flash of lightning, which was followed by a rumble of thunder, dull and muffled, that made the rain-spattered glass vibrate.

"Fitting weather," he said. "As you can see, Milady, we didn't want to miss our appointment.... We've come prepared to do justice."

"In a group and at night, like cowards," she answered, spitting out the words. "Just as they did to the other Milady. The only one missing is the executioner of Lille."

"All in good time," said La Ponte.

The woman was gradually recovering her confidence. Her own mention of the executioner didn't seem to have cowed her. She stared back at La Ponte defiantly. "I see that you've all got into your respective parts," she added.

"You shouldn't be surprised," answered Corso. "You and your accomplices have made sure of that." His face twisted into a wolflike smile that held neither humor nor pity. "We've all had such fun."

The woman tensed her lips. She slid one of her blood-red nails across the bedcover. Corso followed it with his eyes, fascinated, as if it were a blade, and he shuddered at the thought of how close it had come to his face during their struggle.

"You have no right to do this," she said. "You're intruders."

"You're wrong. We're part of the game, just as you are."

"But you don't know the rules."

"Wrong again, Milady. The proof is, we're here." Corso took his glasses from the bedside table, put them on, and pushed them up with his finger. "That's what was so tricky—accepting the nature of the game. Accepting the fiction by entering the story and following the logic of the text, not of the outside world ... After that, it's easy. In the real world, many things happen by chance, but in fiction nearly everything is logical."

Liana Taillefer's red fingernail stopped moving. "In novels?"

"Especially in novels. If the protagonist follows the internal logic of the criminal, he'll arrive at the criminal. That's why hero and villain, detective and murderer always meet in the end." He smiled, pleased with his reasoning. "What do you think?"

"Brilliant," said Liana Taillefer sarcastically while La Ponte stared at Corso with openmouthed admiration. "Brother William Baskerville, I presume," she sneered.

"Don't be superficial, Milady. You're forgetting Edgar Allan Poe. And Dumas himself ... I thought you were better read."

"As you can see, you're wasting your talent on me," she said. "I'm not the right audience."

"I know. That's exactly why I've come here—for you to take us to him." He looked at his watch. "In a little over an hour, it'll be the first Monday in April."

"I'd like to know how you guessed that too."

"I didn't guess." He turned to the girl who was at the window. "She put the book under my nose. And in an investigation like this, a book is more helpful than the outside world. It's a self-contained world, with no annoying interruptions. Like Sherlock Holmes's laboratory."

"Stop showing off, Corso," said the girl, annoyed. "You've impressed her enough."

The woman arched an eyebrow and looked at the girl, as if seeing her for the first time. "Who's she?"

"Don't tell me you don't know. You haven't seen her before?"

"No. They mentioned a young woman, but not where she came from."

"Who mentioned her?"

"A friend."

"Tall, dark, with a mustache and a scar on his face? And a split lip? Our good friend Rochefort! I'd really like to know where he is. Not far away, I hope. The two of you chose worthy characters, didn't you?"

At this, Liana Taillefer dug her blood-red nails into the bedcover as if it were Corso's flesh, and her eyes glinted with fury. "Are the other characters in the novel any better?" There was disdain and an arrogance in the way Milady threw back her head and stared at them one after another. "Athos, a drunk. Porthos, an idiot. Aramis, a hypocritical conspirator..."

"That's one way of looking at it," said Corso.

"Shut up. What do you know?" She paused, jutting out her chin, her eyes fixed on Corso as if it was his turn now. "And as for d'Artagnan, he's the worst of the lot. A swordsman? He has only four duels in The Three Musketeers. He wins one because Jussac is getting to his feet, another because Bernajoux, in a blind attack, impales himself on d'Artagnan's sword. In his attack on the Englishmen all he does is disarm the baron. And it takes three thrusts to bring down the Comte de Wardes. As far as generosity goes—" she jerked her chin in La Ponte's direction—"d'Artagnan is even more of a miser than your friend here. He buys his friends a drink for the first time in England, after the Monk affair. Thirty years later."

And on the other side of the river, the executioner raising his sword ...

"I see you're an expert, although I should have guessed you would be. All those serials you claimed to hate so much ... Congratulations. You played to perfection the part of the widow sick of her husband's extravagances."

"I wasn't pretending. Most of his stuff was mediocre—useless old paper. Like Enrique himself. My husband was a fool. He never knew how to read between the lines, or appreciate quality. He was one of those idiots who go around collecting postcards of monuments and understand nothing."

"Unlike you."

"Of course. Do you know which were the first two books I ever read? Little Women and The Three Musketeers. Each book, in a different way, made a deep impression."

"How moving."

"Don't be stupid. You asked questions and I'm giving you answers. There are unsophisticated readers, like poor Enrique, and readers who go into things in more depth, looking beyond stereotypes: the brave d'Artagnan, chivalrous Athos, kind-hearted Porthos, faithful Aramis ... It makes me laugh!" And her laughter actually did ring out, as dramatic and sinister as Milady's. "Nobody has any idea. Do you know what my most enduring image is, the one I've always admired most? Of the woman fighting alone, faithful to an idea of herself and to the man she's chosen as her master, relying only on herself, ignominiously murdered by four heroes who are no more than cardboard cutouts. And what about her long-lost son, an orphan, who appears twenty years later!" She bowed her head, somber, and there was so much hatred in her eyes that Corso almost took a step back. "I can picture the engraving as if it were in front of me now—the river at night, the four scoundrels kneeling in prayer but without mercy. And on the other side of the river, the executioner raising his sword above the woman's bare neck..."

A flash of lightning suddenly cast its brutal light across her distorted face—the delicate white flesh of her neck, her eyes full of the tragic scene she described as vividly as if she had experienced it herself. Then the windowpanes shook as the thunder rumbled.

"Bastards," she whispered, absorbed, and Corso didn't know whether she meant him and his companions, or d'Artagnan and his friends.

The girl rummaged in her rucksack and pulled out The Three Musketeers. Like a neutral spectator she searched for a page. When she found it, she threw the book on the bed without a word. It was the engraving described by Liana Taillefer.

"Victa iacet Virtus," murmured Corso, shivering at the scene's similarity to the eighth illustration in The Nine Doors.

The woman calmed down at the sight of the engraving. She arched an eyebrow, cold and imperious once again.

"It's true," she admitted. "You can't tell me that d'Artagnan symbolizes virtue. He's just an opportunist. And don't mention his skills as a seducer. In the entire novel he conquers only three women, and two of them through deceit. His great love is a little bourgeoise with big feet, lady-in-waiting to the queen. The other is an English maid of whom he ignominiously takes advantage." Liana Taillefer's laughter rang out like an insult. "And what about his love life in Twenty Years After? Living with the landlady of a guesthouse to save himself the rent... What fine conquests! Maids, landladies, and servants!"

"But d'Artagnan does seduce Milady," Corso pointed out mischievously.

A flash of anger again cracked the ice in Liana Taillefer's eyes. If looks could kill, Corso would have died at her feet that instant.

"He doesn't seduce her," answered the woman. "The bastard crawls into her bed by deceit, passing himself off as another man." Her manner was cold again. "You and he would have made a good pair."

La Ponte was listening attentively. One could almost hear his brain working. He frowned. "You don't mean to say that you two..."

He turned to the girl for help. He was always the last to find out what was going on. But she remained impassive, watching as if none of this had anything to do with her.

"I'm an idiot," concluded La Ponte. He went to the window and started banging his head against the frame.

Liana Taillefer gave him a contemptuous look, then said to Corso, "Did you have to bring him?"

La Ponte was repeating, "I'm an idiot," banging his head hard.

"He thought he was Athos," Corso explained.

"Aramis, rather. Fatuous and conceited. Did you know he admires his shadow on the wall while he's making love?"

"I don't believe it."

"I assure you he does."

La Ponte forgot about the window. "We've gone off the subject," he said, red in the face.

"True," said Corso. "We were talking about virtue, Milady. You were giving us lessons on the subject with regard to d'Artagnan and his friends."

"And why not? Why should a bunch of show-offs who use women, accept money from them, and think only of getting ahead and making their fortune be more virtuous than Milady, who is intelligent and courageous, who chooses to work for Richelieu and serve him faithfully, and risk her life for him?"

"And commit murder for him."

"You said it yourself a moment ago—the internal logic of the narrative."

"Internal? It depends on your point of view. Your husband's murder happened outside the novel, not in it. His death was real."

"You're mad, Corso. Nobody murdered Enrique. He hanged himself."

"And I suppose Victor Fargas drowned himself? And Baroness Ungern got carried away with the microwave last night, did she?"

Liana Taillefer turned to La Ponte and the girl, waiting for someone to confirm what she'd just heard. She looked disconcerted for the first time since they'd come in through the window.

"What are you talking about?"

"About the nine correct engravings," said Corso, "from The Nine Doors of the Kingdom of Shadows."

The sound of a clock striking could be heard outside the closed window, through the wind and rain. Almost simultaneously a clock inside the building, downstairs, struck eleven times.

"I see there are more madmen in this affair," said Liana Taillefer. She was watching the door. There had been a noise behind it as the final chime struck. A glint of triumph flashed in her eyes.

"Careful," whispered La Ponte with a start. Corso knew what was going to happen. Out of the corner of his eye he saw the girl stand up straight, tense and alert, and he felt a rush of adrenaline.

They all looked at the door handle. It was turning very slowly, as in the movies.

"GOOD EVENING," SAID ROCHEFORT.

He was wearing a raincoat buttoned to the neck, shiny with rain. His dark eyes shone intensely beneath his felt hat. The pale zigzag of the scar stood out against his dark face. The bushy black mustache accentuated his southern looks. He stood motionless at the door for some fifteen seconds, his hands in his coat pockets, a puddle forming around his shoes. Nobody said a word.

"I'm glad you're here," said Liana Taillefer at last. Rochefort nodded briefly but didn't answer. Still sitting on the bed, she pointed at Corso. "They were becoming impertinent."

"Not too much, I hope," said Rochefort. His voice, as Corso remembered it from the Sintra road, was pleasant, educated, and had no definite accent. He didn't move from the doorway, his eyes fixed on Corso, as if La Ponte and the girl didn't exist. His lower lip still looked swollen, with traces of Mercurochrome, two stitches holding the recent wound together. Souvenir from the banks of the river Seme, thought Corso malevolently. He looked with interest to see the girl's reaction. But after her initial surprise, she had resumed the role of detached spectator.

Not taking his eyes off Corso, Rochefort asked Milady, "How did they get here?"

Milady gestured vaguely. "They're smart." A quick look at La Ponte. "One of them, anyway."

Rochefort nodded. His eyes half-closed, he seemed to be analyzing the situation. "This complicates things," he said. He took off his hat and threw it on the bed.

Liana Taillefer smoothed down her skirt and stood up with a sigh of agreement. Corso half turned toward her, tense and hesitant. Then Rochefort took his hand out of his coat pocket, and Corso deduced that the man was left-handed. The discovery didn't do him much good—the left hand held a snub-nosed revolver, small and dark blue, almost black. Meanwhile, Liana Taillefer went over to La Ponte and took the Dumas manuscript from his hands.

"Now call me a whore again." She was so close, she could have spat in his face. "If you have the guts."

La Ponte didn't. He was a born survivor. His intrepid harpooner act was reserved for moments of alcohol-induced euphoria. "I was just passing through," he said placatingly, wanting to wash his hands of the whole business.

"What would I do without you, Flavio?" said Corso, resigned.

La Ponte looked injured. "You're being unfair," he said, and went and stood by the girl, which must have seemed to him the safest place in the room. "From a certain point of view, this is your adventure, Corso. And what's death to a guy like you? Nothing. A formality. Anyway, you're getting paid a fortune. And life is basically unpleasant." Looking down the barrel of Rochefort's revolver, he put his arm around the girl's shoulder and gave a melancholy sigh. "I hope nothing happens to you. But if it does, it'll be harder for us: we have to go on living."

"Traitor."

La Ponte looked saddened. "My friend, I'll ignore that last remark. You're overwrought."

"Of course I'm overwrought, you sewer rat."

"I'll ignore that too."

"Son of a bitch."

"I get the message, old buddy. Friendship is made up of little touches like that."

"Nice to see you've kept your team spirit," said Milady caustically.

Corso was thinking fast, even though there was nothing he could do. No amount of thinking could get the gun out of Rochefort's hand, although it wasn't pointing at anyone in particular. Rochefort seemed rather halfhearted, as if just showing the gun was all that was needed to get the desired effect. But however intense Corso's desire to settle a few scores with the man with the scar, he didn't possess the technical skill to do so. With La Ponte not in the running, the girl was his only hope of shifting the balance of power. But unless she was an extremely accomplished actress, he couldn't hope for anything on that flank. Irene Adler had shaken herself free of La Ponte's arm and sat down on the window ledge, from where she observed them all with inexplicable indifference. She seemed determined to stay out of it.

Liana Taillefer went over to Rochefort, holding the Dumas manuscript, delighted to have retrieved it so quickly. Corso found it strange that she showed no similar interest in The Nine Doors, which still lay inside the canvas bag at the foot of the bed.

"What do we do now?" he heard her whisper to Rochefort.

To Corso's surprise, Rochefort looked unsure. He moved the revolver from side to side, as if he not knowing where to point it. Exchanging a long and meaningful look with Milady, he took his right hand out of his pocket and passed it over his face, hesitant. "We can't leave them here," he said.

"We can't take them with us either," she said.

He nodded slowly. Judging by his renewed grip on the revolver, his indecision vanished. Corso felt his abdominal muscles tense as Rochefort aimed the gun at him. He tried to make some sort of syntactically coherent protest, but all he managed was an indistinct, guttural sound.

"You're not going to kill him, are you?" asked La Ponte.

"Flavio," Corso managed to say in spite of the dryness in his mouth. "If I get out of this, I swear I'll smash your face in. Completely."

"I was just trying to help."

"Better help your mother get off the streets."

"OK, OK, I'll shut up."

"Yes, shut up," said Rochefort. Keeping the revolver on Corso, he locked the door behind him and put the key in his coat pocket. What is there to lose, thought Corso, his pulse throbbing at his temples and wrists. The drums of Waterloo rolled somewhere in his memory, when, in the final moment of clarity before desperation set in, he found himself working out the distance between him and the gun and how long it would take him to cross it. He wondered when the first shot would be fired and where it would hit him. The chances of not being hit were minimal, but if he waited five seconds longer, he might have no chance at all. So the bugle sounded. The last charge with Ney at the head, the bravest of the brave, before the emperor's weary eyes. Against Rochefort instead of the Scots Guards, but a bullet was still a bullet. This is ridiculous, he told himself just before he went into action. And he wondered if the bullet in his chest would be real or imaginary, wondered if he'd find himself floating in the void or in the Valhalla for fictional heroes. If only the luminous eyes he felt staring intently at his back—the emperor? The devil in love?—would be waiting for him in the darkness to guide him to the other side.

Then Rochefort did something odd. He raised his free hand, as if to say, "Give me time," and started to put the revolver back in his pocket. The movement lasted only a moment, and he aimed the gun at Corso once again, but without conviction. And Corso, his pulse racing, his muscles taut, about to leap blindly forward, held back, bewildered, realizing it wasn't time for him to die.

Stunned, he watched Rochefort cross the room, press the button for an outside line, then dial a long number. From where he stood, he could hear the sound of the phone ringing on the line and then a click.

"I've got Corso here," said Rochefort. He waited, still lazily pointing the gun at a vague point in space. He said yes twice. Then he listened, motionless, and muttered OK before finally hanging up.

"He wants to see him," he said to Milady. They both turned to look at Corso. Milady was annoyed, Rochefort anxious.

"This is ridiculous," she complained.

"He wants to see him," Rochefort said again.

Milady shrugged, took a step, and angrily turned a few pages of "The Anjou Wine."

"As for us..." La Ponte began.

"You're staying here," said Rochefort, pointing the gun at him. He licked the wound on his lip. "The girl too."

In spite of his split lip he didn't seem to bear her any grudge. Corso even thought he saw a gleam of curiosity as Rochefort looked at her. Rochefort then handed Liana Taillefer the revolver. "Make sure they don't get out."

"Why don't you stay here?"

"He wants me to take him. It's safer."

Milady nodded sullenly. She'd obviously imagined herself playing a different part that evening. But like her fictional namesake, she was a disciplined hired assassin. In exchange for the weapon she gave Rochefort the Dumas manuscript. She scrutinized Corso. "I hope he doesn't give you any trouble."

Rochefort smiled confidently. He took a large switchblade from his pocket and stared at it thoughtfully, as if he'd only just remembered it was there. His white teeth were bright against his dark, scarred face. "I don't think he will," he answered, putting back the knife unopened and gesturing to Corso in a way that was both friendly and sinister. He took his hat from the bed, turned the key in the lock, and motioned toward the corridor with an exaggerated bow, as if he were holding a large plumed hat.

"His Eminence awaits, sir," he said, and gave a short, dry laugh that perfectly befitted a skilled henchman.

Before leaving the room, Corso looked at the girl. Milady was pointing the gun at her and La Ponte, but the girl had turned her back and was paying no attention. She was leaning against the window, looking out at the wind and rain, silhouetted against a night sky illuminated by flashes of lightning.

THEY WENT OUT INTO the storm. Rochefort held the folder with the Dumas manuscript under his raincoat to protect it from the rain. He led Corso through narrow streets to the old part of town. Blasts of rain shook the branches of the trees and splashed noisily in the puddles and on the paving stones. Large drops poured through Corso's hair and down his face. He turned up his collar. The town was in darkness, and there was not a soul to be seen. Only the brightness of the storm lit up the streets now and then, showing the medieval roofs, Rochefort's dark profile beneath his dripping hat, the shadows of the two men on the wet ground. The electrical discharges, like thunder from hell, struck the turbulent current of the Loire with a sound like the cracking of whips.

"Wonderful evening," said Rochefort, inclining his head to Corso to make himself heard above the roar.

He seemed to know his way. He walked confidently, turning occasionally to make sure his companion was still there. He didn't need to, because at that moment Corso would have followed him to the very gates of hell. And Corso didn't rule out the possibility that this in fact might be their ultimate destination. With each successive flash of lightning he saw a medieval archway, a bridge over an ancient moat, a sign saying BOULANGERIE-PATISSERIE, a deserted square, a conical tower, and finally an iron gate with the sign CHÂTEAU DE MEUNG-SUR-LOIRE. XIIIÈME-XIIIIÈME SIÈCLE.

A window was lit up in the distance, beyond the gate, but Rochefort went right, and Corso followed. They walked along a stretch of ivy-clad wall until they reached a half-hidden door in the wall. Rochefort took out a huge, ancient iron key and put it in the lock.

"Joan of Arc came through this door," he told Corso as he turned the key. One final flash of lightning revealed steps descending into darkness. In the momentary brightness Corso also saw Rochefort's smile, his dark eyes shining beneath the hat, the livid scar on his cheek. At least the man was a worthy opponent, he thought. Nobody could complain about the staging; it was impeccable. In spite of himself he was beginning to feel a kind of twisted sympathy for this Rochefort—whoever he was—playing the villain so conscientiously. Alexandre Dumas would have approved.

Rochefort now held a small flashlight that lit up the long, narrow staircase disappearing into the cellar.

"You first," he said.

Their steps echoed around the turns of the passageway. Corso was soon shivering inside his wet coat. Cold, musty air, smelling of the damp of centuries, rose to meet them. The beam of light showed worn steps, water stains on the vaulted ceiling. The staircase ended in a narrow corridor with rusty railings. For a moment Rochefort shone the flashlight on a circular pit to their left.

"These are the ancient dungeons of Bishop Thibault D'Aussigny," he told Corso. "From there they threw the corpses into the Loire. Francois Villon was a prisoner here." And he muttered the following line melodramatically: Ayez pitié, ayez pitié de moi... Definitely a well-educated villain. Self-assured and with a hint of didacticism. Corso couldn't decide whether this made the situation better or worse. But a thought had been going through his head since they entered the passageway: If all is lost, we may as well jump in the river. But he didn't find his joke funny.

The passageway now rose beneath the dripping arches. The bright eyes of a rat glittered at the end of the gallery, and the animal disappeared with a cry. The passageway widened into a circular room whose ceiling, supported by pointed ribs, rested on a thick central column.

"The crypt," said Rochefort, moving the flashlight beam around. He was becoming talkative. "Twelfth century. The women and children hid here when the castle was attacked."

Very interesting. But Corso wasn't in the mood to appreciate the information provided by his outlandish guide. He was tense and alert, waiting for the right moment. They now climbed a spiral staircase, the storm still flashing and booming beyond the castle walls, filtered through the slot windows.

"Only a few meters more and we're there," said Rochefort from behind and below. He sounded quite conciliatory. The flashlight shone between Corso's legs. "Now that this business is nearly over," he added, "I must tell you something. In spite of everything, you did well. The proof is that you got this far.... I hope you aren't too sore about what happened by the Seine and at the Hotel Crillon. Occupational hazards."

He didn't say which occupation, but it didn't matter. Corso turned casually and stopped, as if to answer or ask him a question. The movement wasn't in the least suspicious, so Rochefort didn't object and wasn't at all ready when Corso, in the same motion, fell on him, his arms and legs braced against the wall so he wouldn't be dragged down the stairs. Rochefort's position was different—the steps were narrow, the wall smooth and without handholds, and in addition he had been caught off guard. The flashlight, miraculously intact, illuminated the scene for several moments as it rolled down the staircase: Rochefort with his eyes wide and a stunned look on his face, flailing wildly, trying desperately to grab something, falling down the spiral staircase, his hat rolling until it stopped on one of the steps ... Then, six or seven meters farther down, a muffled sound, something like thump or maybe thud. Corso, still gripping the walls with his arms and legs so he wouldn't accompany his opponent on his uncomfortable journey, now sprang into action. His heart pounded uncontrollably as he ran down the stairs, taking three steps at a time. He picked up the flashlight on his way. At the bottom lay Rochefort rolled into a ball, moving weakly, in pain.

"Occupational hazard," said Corso, shining the flashlight on his own face so that, from the floor, Rochefort could see his friendly smile. Then he kicked him in the head and heard it slam hard against the bottom step. He raised his foot to kick again, just to make sure, but one look told him it wasn't necessary: Rochefort was lying with his mouth open and blood was trickling from his ear. Corso leaned over to see if the man was breathing and saw that he was. Then he opened his raincoat and rifled through his pockets. He took the switchblade, a wallet full of money, a French ID, and the folder with the Dumas manuscript, which he put under his coat, between his belt and shirt. Then he pointed the flashlight beam at the staircase and went back up, to the top this time, where there was a landing with a door that had thick iron hinges and hexagonal nailheads. A crack of light filtered from beneath it. He stood motionless for some thirty seconds, trying to catch his breath and calm the beating of his heart. The solution to the mystery lay on the other side of the door, and he prepared to face it with his teeth clenched, the flashlight in one hand and Rochefort's knife, which opened with a menacing click, in the other.

Knife in hand, hair soaked and disheveled, and eyes shining with homicidal determination—that's how I saw Corso enter the library.