The Club Dumas

XV. CORSO AND RICHELIEU

The time has come to reveal the narrator. Faithful to the tradition that the reader of a mystery novel must possess the same information as the protagonist, I have presented the events only from Lucas Corso's perspective, except on two occasions: chapters 1 and 5 of this story, when I had no choice but to appear myself. In both these cases, and as now for the third and final time, I used the first person for the sake of coherence. It would have been absurd to refer to myself as "he," a publicity stunt that may have yielded dividends for Julius Caesar in his campaign in Gaul but would have been judged, in my case, and quite rightly, as unpardonable pedantry. There is another, more perverse reason: telling the story as if I were Dr. Sheppard addressing Poirot struck me as, if not ingenious (everybody does that sort of thing now), then an amusing device. After all, people write for amusement, or excitement, or out of self-love, or to have others love them. I write for some of the same reasons. To quote Eugene Sue, villains who are all of a piece, if you'll permit me the expression, are very rare phenomena. Assuming—and it may be too much to assume—that I am a villain.

The fact is that I, the undersigned, Boris Balkan, was there in the library, awaiting our guest. Corso entered suddenly, knife in hand and an avenging gleam in his eye. I noticed that he had no escort, which worried me slightly, although I retained my mask of imperturbability. Otherwise I had set the stage well: the library in darkness, a candelabrum burning on the desk before me, a copy of The Three Musketeers in my hands ... I even wore a red velvet jacket that was—it must have seemed like pure coincidence to Corso but was in fact nothing of the sort—strongly reminiscent of a cardinal's purple.

My big advantage was that I was expecting Corso, with or without an escort, but he wasn't expecting me. I made the most of his surprise. The knife he held was worrying, together with the menacing look in his eyes, so I decided to speak to forestall any move from him.

"Congratulations," I said, closing the book as if his arrival had interrupted my reading. "You've managed to play the game right to the end."

He stood staring at me from the other end of the room, and I have to say that I found his look of disbelief highly amusing.

"Game?" he managed to say hoarsely.

"Yes, game. Suspense, uncertainty, a high level of skill ... The possibility of acting freely yet according to rules, as an end in itself. With a sense of tension and pleasure at the difference from ordinary life...." These were not my own words, but Corso wouldn't know that. "Do you think that's an adequate definition? As the second book of Samuel says: 'Let the young men now arise, and play before us.' Children are the perfect players and readers: they do everything with the utmost seriousness. In essence, games are the only universally serious activity. They leave no room for skepticism, wouldn't you agree? However incredulous or doubting you might be, if you want to play, you have no choice but to follow the rules. Only the person who respects the rules, or at least knows and applies them, can win. Reading a book is the same: you have to accept the plot and the characters to enjoy the story." I paused, trusting that my flow of words had had a sufficiently calming effect. "By the way, you didn't get here on your own. Where is he?"

"Rochefort?" Corso was grimacing in a very unpleasant way. "He had an accident."

"You call him Rochefort, do you? How amusing and appropriate. I see you've followed the rules. I don't know why it should surprise me."

Corso treated me to a rather unnerving smile. "He certainly looked surprised the last time I saw him."

"That sounds rather alarming." I smiled coolly, although I actually was alarmed. "I hope nothing serious happened."

"He fell down the stairs."

"What?"

"You heard me. But don't worry. Your henchman was still breathing when I left him."

"Thank God." I managed to smile again and hide my unease. This went beyond what I had planned. "So you've done a touch of cheating, have you? Well," I said, spreading my hands magnanimously, "no need to worry about it."

"I'm not. You're the one who should be worried."

I pretended not to hear this. "The important thing is that you've arrived," I went on, although I'd lost the thread momentarily. "As far as cheating goes, you have illustrious predecessors. Theseus escaped from the labyrinth thanks to Ariadne's thread, Jason stole the golden fleece with Medea's help.... The Kaurabas used subterfuge to win at dice in the Mahabharata, and the Achaeans checkmated the Trojans by moving a wooden horse. Your conscience is clear."

"Thanks, but my conscience is my business."

From his pocket he took Milady's letter folded in four, and he threw it on the table. I immediately recognized my own handwriting, with the slightly affected capitals. It is by my order and for the benefit of the State that the bearer of this note, etc.

"I hope, at least, that the game was enjoyable," I said, holding the paper in the candle flame.

"At times."

"I'm glad." I dropped the letter in the ashtray, and we both watched it burn. "In matters of literature, the intelligent reader may even enjoy the strategy used to turn him into the victim. I believe that enjoyment is an excellent reason for playing. Or for reading a story, or writing one."

I stood up, holding The Three Musketeers, and paced around the room, glancing discreetly at the clock on the wall. There were still twenty long minutes to go before twelve. The gilding shone on the spines of the ancient books lined up on their shelves. I looked at them a moment, as if forgetting Corso, then turned to him.

"There they are." I made a sweeping gesture to include the whole library. "They are silent and yet talk among themselves. They communicate through their authors, just as the egg uses the hen to produce another egg."

I put The Three Musketeers back on its shelf. Dumas was in good company: between Los Pardellanes by Zevaco and The Knight with the Yellow Doublet by Lucas de René. As there was time to spare, I opened The Knight at the first page and began to read aloud:

As Saint Germain l'Auxerrois struck twelve, three horsemen descended the Rue des Astruces, each wrapped in a cape, seemingly as sure as the stride of their horses....

"The first lines," I said. "Always those extraordinary first lines. Do you remember our conversation about Scaramouche? He was born with the gift of laughter.... Some opening sentences leave their mark a whole lifetime, don't you agree? Of arms and the man I sing. Have you never played this game with someone you trust? A modest young man headed in midsummer, or that other one, For a long time I used to go to bed early. And of course, On the 15th of May 1796, General Bonaparte entered Milan."

Corso frowned.

"You're forgetting the one that brought me here: On the first Monday of April 1625, the market town of Meung, the birthplace of the author of Roman de la Rose, was in a state of commotion."

"Indeed, chapter one," I said. "You have done very well."

"That's what Rochefort said before he fell down the stairs."

There was silence, broken only by the clock striking a quarter to twelve. Corso pointed at the clock face. "Fifteen minutes to go, Balkan."

"Yes," I said. The man was devilishly intuitive. "Fifteen minutes till the first Monday in April."

I put The Knight with the Yellow Doublet back on the shelf and continued pacing. Corso stood watching me, holding the knife.

"You could put that away," I ventured.

He hesitated a moment before shutting the blade and putting it away in his pocket, still watching me. I smiled approvingly and again indicated the library.

"One is never alone with a book nearby, don't you agree?" I said, to be conversational. "Every page reminds us of a day that has passed and makes us relive the emotions that filled it. Happy hours underlined in red pencil, dark ones in black ... Where was I, then? What prince called me his friend, what beggar called me his brother?" I hesitated, searching for another phrase to round off the idea.

"What son of a bitch called you his buddy?" suggested Corso.

I looked at him reprovingly. The wet blanket insisted on bringing down the tone. "No need to be unpleasant."

"I'll do what I please. Your Eminence."

"I detect sarcasm," I said, offended. "From that I deduce that you have given in to prejudice, Mr. Corso. It was Dumas who made Richelieu a villain when he wasn't one, and falsified reality for literary expediency. I thought I'd explained that at our last meeting at the café in Madrid."

"A dirty trick," said Corso, not specifying whether he meant Dumas or me.

I raised a finger, ready to state my case. "A legitimate device," I objected, "inspired by the shrewdness and genius of the greatest novelist who ever lived. And yet..." I smiled bitterly. "Sainte-Beuve respected him but didn't accept him as a man of letters. His friend, Victor Hugo, praised his capacity for dramatic action, but nothing more. Prolific, long-winded, they said. With little style. They accused him of not delving into the anxieties of human beings, of lacking subtlety.... Lacking subtlety!" I touched the volumes of The Three Musketeers lined up on the shelf. "I agree with our good father Stevenson—there is no paean to friendship as long, eventful, or beautiful. In Twenty Years After, when the protagonists reappear, they are distanced at first. They are now men of mature years, selfish, with all the pettiness that life imposes. They even belong to opposing camps. Aramis and d'Artagnan lie and dissemble, Porthos fears being asked for money.... When they agree to meet at the Place Royale, they come armed and almost fight. And in England, when Athos's imprudence puts them all in danger, d'Artagnan refuses to shake his hand. In The Vicomte de Bragelonne, with the mystery of the iron mask, Aramis and Porthos stand against their old comrades. This happens because they're alive, because they're human, full of contradictions. But always, at the moment of truth, friendship wins out. A great thing, friendship! Do you have friends, Corso?"

"That's a good question."

"For me, Porthos in the cave at Locmaria has always embodied friendship: the giant struggling beneath a rock to save his friends ... Do you remember his last words?"

"It's too heavy?"

"Exactly!"

I confess I felt almost moved. Like the young man in a cloud of pipe smoke described by Captain Marlow, Corso was one of us. But he was also a bitter, stubborn man determined not to feel.

"You're Liana Taillefer's lover," he said.

"Yes," I admitted, reluctantly leaving thoughts of good Porthos aside. "Isn't she a splendid woman? With her own particular obsessions ... Beautiful and loyal, like Milady in the novel. It's strange. There are characters in literature who have a life of their own, familiar to millions of people who haven't even read the books in which they appear. In English literature there are three: Sherlock Holmes, Romeo, and Robinson Crusoe. In Spanish, two: Don Quixote and Don Juan. And in French literature there is one: d'Artagnan. But you see that I..."

"Let's not go off on a tangent again, Balkan."

"I'm not. I was about to add the name of Milady to d'Artagnan's. An extraordinary woman. Like Liana, in her own way. Her husband never measured up to her."

"Do you mean Athos?"

"No, I mean poor old Enrique Taillefer."

"Was that why you murdered him?"

My amazement must have looked sincere. It was sincere. "Enrique murdered? Don't be ridiculous. He hanged himself. He committed suicide. I should imagine that, with his way of looking at the world, he thought it a heroic gesture. Very regrettable."

"I don't believe you."

"Suit yourself. But his death was the starting point for this entire story and, indirectly, the reason you are here."

"Explain it to me then. Nice and slowly."

He had certainly earned it. As I said earlier, Corso was one of us, although he didn't know it. And anyway—I looked at the clock—it was almost twelve.

"Do you have 'The Anjou Wine' with you?"

He looked at me alertly, trying to guess my intentions. Then I saw him give in. Reluctantly, he took the folder from under his coat, then hid it again.

"Excellent," I said. "And now follow me."

He must have been expecting a secret passage leading from the library, some sort of diabolical trap. I saw him put his hand in his pocket for the knife.

"You won't be needing that," I assured him.

He didn't look convinced but said nothing. I held the candelabrum high, and we walked down the Louis XIII—style corridor. A magnificent tapestry hung on one of the walls: Ulysses, bow in hand, recently returned to Ithaca, Penelope and the dog rejoicing, the suitors drinking wine in the background, unaware of what awaits them.

"This is an ancient castle, full of history," I said. "It has been plundered by the English, by the Huguenots, by revolutionaries. Even the Germans set up a command post here during the war. It was very dilapidated when the present owner—a British millionaire, a charming man and a gentleman—acquired it. He restored and furnished it with extraordinary good taste. He even agreed to open it to the public."

"So what are you doing here outside of visiting hours?"

As I passed a leaded window, I glanced out. The storm was dying down at last, the glow of lightning fading beyond the Loire, to the north.

"An exception is made once a year," I explained. "After all, Meung is a special place. A novel like The Three Musketeers doesn't open just anywhere."

The wooden floors creaked beneath our feet. A suit of armor, genuine sixteenth-century, stood in a bend in the corridor. The light from the candelabrum was reflected in the smooth, polished surfaces of the cuirass. Corso glanced at it as he walked past, as if there might be someone hidden inside.

"I'll tell you a story. It began ten years ago," I said, "at an auction in Paris, of a lot of uncatalogued documents. I was writing a book on the nineteenth-century popular novel in France, and the dusty packages fell into my hands quite by chance. When I went through them, I saw they were from the old archives of Le Siècle. Almost all consisted of printing proofs of little value, but one package of blue and white sheets attracted my attention. It was the original text, handwritten by Dumas and Maquet, of The Three Musketeers. All sixty-seven chapters, just as they were sent to the printer. Someone, possibly Baudry, the editor of the newspaper, had kept them after composing the galley proofs and then forgot all about them...."

I slowed and stopped in the middle of the corridor. Corso was very still, and the light from the candelabrum I held lit up his face from below, making shadows dance in his eye sockets. He listened intently to my story, seemed to be unaware of anything else. Solving the mystery that had brought him was the only thing that mattered to him. But he still kept his hand on the knife in his pocket.

"My discovery," I went on, pretending not to notice, "was of extraordinary importance. We knew of a few fragments of the original draft from Dumas and Maquet's notes and papers, but we were unaware of the existence of the complete manuscript. At first I thought to make my finding public, in the form of an annotated facsimile edition. But then I encountered a serious moral dilemma."

The light and shadow on Corso's face moved, and a dark line crossed his mouth. He was smiling. "I don't believe it. A moral dilemma, after all this."

I moved the candelabrum to make invisible the skeptical smile on his face, unsuccessfully.

"I'm quite serious," I protested as we moved on. "On examining the manuscript, I concluded that the real creator of the story was Auguste Maquet. He had done all the research and outlined the story in broad strokes. Dumas, with his enormous talent, his genius, had then brought the raw material to life and turned it into a masterpiece. Although obvious to me, this might not have been so obvious to detractors of the author and his work." I gestured with my free hand, as if to sweep them all aside. "I had no intention of throwing stones at my hero. Particularly now, in these times of mediocrity and lack of imagination ... Times in which people no longer admire marvels, as theater audiences and the readers of serials used to. They hissed at the villains and cheered on the heroes with no inhibitions." I shook my head sadly. "That applause unfortunately can no longer be heard. It's become the exclusive domain of innocents and children."

Corso was listening with an insolent, mocking expression. He might have agreed with me, but he was the grudge-bearing type and refused to allow my explanation to grant me any sort of moral alibi.

"In short," he said, "you decided to destroy the manuscript."

I smiled smugly. He was trying to be too clever.

"Don't be ridiculous. I decided to do something better: to make a dream come true."

We had stopped in front of the closed door to the reception room. Through it the muffled sound of music and voices could be heard. I put the candelabrum down on a console table while Corso watched me, again suspicious. He was probably wondering what new trick was hidden there. He didn't understand, I realized, that we really had reached the solution to the mystery.

"Please allow me to introduce you," I said, opening the door, "to the members of the Club Dumas."

ALMOST EVERYONE WAS THERE. Through the French windows opening onto the castle terrace, late arrivals entered a room full of people, cigarette smoke, and the murmur of conversation above a background of gentle music. On the central table covered with a white linen cloth, there was a cold buffet: bottles of Anjou wine, sausages and hams from Amiens, oysters from La Rochelle, boxes of Montecristo cigars. Groups of guests, about fifty men and women, were drinking and conversing in several languages. Among them were well-known faces from the press, cinema, and television. I saw Corso touch his glasses.

"Surprised?" I asked, looking to see his reaction.

He nodded, disconcerted, surly. Several guests came to greet me, so I shook hands, exchanged amenities and jokes. The atmosphere was cordial. Corso looked like someone who had fallen out of bed and woken up. Highly amused, I introduced him to some of the guests and watched with perverse satisfaction as he greeted them, confused and unsure of the terrain he was crossing. His customary composure was in shreds, and this was my small revenge. After all, it was he who first came to me with "The Anjou Wine" under his arm, determined to complicate things.

"Allow me to introduce Mr. Corso.... Bruno Lostia, an antique dealer from Milan. Permit me. This is Thomas Harvey, of Harvey's Jewelers: New York, London, Paris, Rome. And Count von Schlossberg, owner of the most famous collection of paintings in Europe. As you can see, we have a little of everything here: a Venezuelan Nobel laureate, an Argentine ex-president, the crown prince of Morocco ... Did you know that his father is an avid reader of Alexandre Dumas? Look who's arrived. You know him, don't you? Professor of semiotics in Bologna ... The blond lady talking to him is Petra Neustadt, the most influential literary critic in Central Europe. In the group next to the duchess of Alba there's the financier Rudolf Villefoz and the English writer Harold Burgess. Amaya Euskal, of the Alpha Press group, with the most powerful publisher in the USA, Johan Cross, of O&O Papers, New York. And I assume you remember Achille Replinger, the book dealer from Paris."

This was the last straw. I savored Corso's shaken expression, almost pitying him. Replinger was holding an empty glass and smiling pleasantly beneath his musketeer's mustache, just as he had smiled when he identified the Dumas manuscript at his shop on the Rue Bonaparte. He greeted me with a huge bear hug and then warmly patted Corso on the back before going off in search of another drink, puffing away like a jovial, rosy-cheeked Porthos.

"Damn this," muttered Corso, drawing me aside. "What's going on here?"

"I told you it's a long story."

"Well, finish telling it, will you?"

We had moved close to the table. I poured us a couple of glasses of wine, but he shook his head. "Gin," he muttered. "Don't you have any gin?"

I indicated the liquor cabinet at the other end of the room. We walked over to it, stopping three or four times on the way to exchange more greetings: a well-known film director, a Lebanese millionaire, a Spanish minister of the interior ... Corso grabbed a bottle of Beefeater and filled a glass to the brim, swallowing half of it in one gulp. He shuddered, and his eyes shone behind his glasses (one lens broken, the other intact). He held the bottle to his chest, as if afraid to lose it.

"You were going to tell me," he said.

I suggested we go out on the terrace beyond the French windows, where we could talk without interruption. Corso filled his glass again before following me. The storm had died down. Stars shone above us.

"I'm all ears," he announced after another large gulp.

I leaned on the balustrade still damp from the rain and took a sip from my glass of Anjou wine.

"Owning the manuscript of The Three Musketeers gave me the idea," I said. "Why not form a literary society, a sort of club for devoted admirers of the novels of Alexandre Dumas and the classic adventure serial? Through my work I already had contact with several ideal candidates for membership...." I gestured toward the brightly lit salon. In the tall French windows the guests could be seen coming and going, chatting animatedly. It was proof of my success, and I didn't conceal my authorial pride. "A society dedicated to studying novels of that kind, rediscovering writers and forgotten works, promoting their republication and sale under an imprint with which you may be familiar: Dumas & Co."

"I know it," said Corso. "They're based in Paris and have just published the entire works of Ponson du Terrail. Last year it was Fantomas. I didn't know you had a part in it."

I smiled. "That's the rule: no names, no starring roles ... As you can see, the matter is scholarly and slightly childish at the same time. A nostalgic literary game that rediscovers long-lost novels and returns us to our innocence, to how we used to be. As we mature, we admire Flaubert or prefer Stendhal, or Faulkner, Lampedusa, Garcia Marquez, Durrell, Kafka. We become different from each other, opponents even. But we all share a conspiratorial wink when we talk about certain magical authors and books. Those that made us discover literature without weighing us down with dogma or teaching us rules. This is our true common heritage: stories faithful not to what people see but to what people dream."

I let the words hang and paused, awaiting their effect. But Corso just raised his glass to look at it against the light. His homeland was in there.

"That was before," he answered. "Now neither children nor young people nor anyone has a spiritual heritage. They all watch TV."

I shook my head. I had written something on this very subject for the literary supplement of the ABC newspaper a couple of weeks before. "I don't agree. Even then they're treading, unknowingly, in old footsteps. Films on television, for instance, maintain the link. Those old movies. Even Indiana Jones is the direct descendant of all that."

Corso grimaced in the direction of the French windows. "It's possible. But you were telling me about these people. I'd like to know how you ... recruited them."

"It's no secret," I answered. "I've been running this select society, the Club Dumas, for ten years now. It holds its annual meeting here in Meung. As you can see, the members arrive punctually from all corners of the globe. Every last one of them is a reader—"

"Of serials? Don't make me laugh."

"I don't have the slightest intention of making you laugh, Corso. Why are you looking at me like that? You know yourself that a novel, or a film made for pure consumption, can turn into an exquisite work, from The Pickwick Papers to Casablanca and Goldfinger. Audiences turn to these archetype-packed stories to enjoy, whether consciously or unconsciously, the device of repeated plots with small variations. Dispositio rather than elocutio... That's why the serial, even the most trite television serial, can become a cult both for a naive audience and for a more sophisticated one. There are people who find excitement in Sherlock Holmes's risking his life, while others go for the pipe, the magnifying glass, and the 'Elementary, my dear Watson,' which, by the way Conan Doyle, never actually wrote. The plot devices, the variations and repetition, are so ancient that they're mentioned in Aristotle's Poetics. And what is a television serial if not an updated version of a classic tragedy, a great romantic drama, or a Dumas novel? That's why an intelligent reader can obtain great enjoyment from all this, an exception to the rule. For exceptions to the rule are based on rules."

I thought Corso would be interested in what I was saying, but he shook his head, a gladiator refusing to accept the challenge offered by his opponent.

"Cut the literature lecture and get back to your Club Dumas, will you?" he said impatiently. "To that loose chapter that's been floating around ... Where's the rest?"

"In there," I answered, looking at the salon. "I based the organization of the society on the sixty-seven chapters of the manuscript—a maximum of sixty-seven members, each having a chapter as a registered share. Allocation is strictly based on a list of applicants, and changes in membership require the approval of the executive board, which I chair. Each applicant is discussed in depth before his admission is approved."

"How are shares transferred?"

"On no account are the shares transferred. If a member dies or wishes to leave the society, his chapter must be returned. The board then allocates it to another applicant. A member may never freely dispose of it."

"Is that what Enrique Taillefer tried to do?"

"In a way. He was an ideal applicant, and a model member of the Club Dumas until he broke the rules."

Corso finished his gin. He put the glass down on the mossy balustrade and said nothing for a moment, staring intently at the lights of the reception room. He shook his head.

"That's no reason to murder someone," he said quietly, as if to himself. "I can't believe that all these people..." He looked at me stubbornly. "They're all well known, respectable. They'd never get mixed up in something like this."

I suppressed my impatience. "You're blowing things out of all proportion.... Enrique and I were friends for some time. We shared a fascination for this kind of fiction, although his taste in literature wasn't on a level with his enthusiasm. The fact is, his success as a publisher of bestselling cookbooks meant he could spend time and money on his hobby. And to be fair, if anybody deserved to be a member of the club, it was Enrique. That's why I recommended his admission. As I said, we shared, if not in our tastes, at least in our enthusiasm."

"You shared more than that, I seem to remember."

Corso's sarcastic smile had returned, and I found it highly irritating. "I could tell you that that's none of your business," I retorted. "But I want to explain. Liana has always been very special, as well as very beautiful. She was a precocious reader. Do you know that at sixteen she had a fleur-de-lis tattooed on her hip? Not on the shoulder, like her idol, Milady de Winter, so that her family and the nuns at her boarding school wouldn't find out. What do you think of that?"

"Very moving."

"You don't seem very moved. But I assure you she's an admirable person. The fact is that, well ... we became intimate. You'll recall that earlier I mentioned the heritage that is the lost paradise of childhood. Well Liana's heritage is The Three Musketeers. She was fascinated by the world depicted in its pages. She decided to marry Enrique after meeting him by chance at a party where they spent the evening exchanging quotes from the novel. He was already a very wealthy publisher."

"It was love at first sight," said Corso.

"I don't know why you say it like that. They married for the most sincere reasons. The thing is that, in the long run, even for someone as good-natured as his wife, Enrique could be tiresome.... We were good friends, and I often visited them. Liana..." I put my glass on the balustrade next to his empty one. "Anyway. You can imagine the rest."

"Yes, I can. Very clearly."

"I wasn't talking about that. She became an excellent collaborator. So much so that, four years ago, I sponsored her entry to the society. She owns chapter 37, 'Milady's Secret.' She chose it herself."

"Why did you set her on me?"

"Let's take this one step at a time. Not long ago, Enrique became a problem. Instead of limiting himself to the very profitable business of cookbooks, he decided to write a serial. But the novel was awful. That is a fact. Absolutely awful, believe me. He brazenly plagiarized all the plots of the genre. It was called—"

"The Dead Man's Hand."

"Exactly. Even the title wasn't his. And what's worse, unbelievably, he wanted Dumas & Co. to publish it. I refused, of course. His monstrous creation would never have been approved by the board. Anyway, Enrique had more than enough money to publish it himself, and I told him so."

"I assume he took it badly. I saw his library."

"Badly? That is something of an understatement. The argument took place in his study. I can still picture him, small and chubby, standing very straight, on tiptoe, staring at me with wild eyes. He looked as if he might burst a blood vessel. All very unpleasant. He said he'd decided to devote his whole life to writing. And who was I to judge it. That was up to posterity. I was a biased critic, an insufferable pedant, and on top of everything I was playing around with his wife. This absolutely stunned me—I didn't realize he knew. But apparently Liana talks in her sleep, and between cursing d'Artagnan and his friends (whom, by the way, she hates as if she had known them personally) she'd revealed the whole affair to her husband.... You can imagine my predicament."

"Very difficult for you."

"Extremely. Although the worst was yet to come. Enrique stormed. He said that if he was mediocre, Dumas wasn't much of a writer either. Where would Dumas have been without Auguste Maquet, whom he wretchedly exploited? The proof lay in the white and blue pages of 'The Anjou Wine,' which Enrique kept in his safe.... The argument became even more heated. He called me an adulterer—rather an old-fashioned insult—and I called him a moron, adding a few snide comments about his latest cookbook successes. I ended up comparing him to the baker in Cyrano.... 'I'll get my revenge,' he said, sounding rather like the Count of Monte Cristo. 'I'll publicize the fact that your beloved Dumas was a big cheat who appropriated other people's work. I'll make the manuscript public, and everyone will see how the old fraud produced his serials. I don't give a damn about the rules of the society. That chapter's mine, and I'll sell it to whoever I like. And you can go to hell.'"

"He got nasty."

"You don't know how furious a spurned author can become. My remonstrations were to no avail. He threw me out. Later I learned from Liana that he'd called that bookseller, La Ponte, to offer him the manuscript. He must have thought himself very clever and devious, like Edmond Dantes. He wanted to create a scandal without being directly implicated; he wanted to keep his reputation intact. That's how you became involved. You can understand my surprise when you came to see me with 'The Anjou Wine.'"

"You certainly didn't show it."

"I had my reasons. With Enrique dead, Liana and I had assumed that the manuscript was lost."

I saw Corso search his coat for one of his crumpled cigarettes. He put it in his mouth but didn't light it. He paced the terrace. "Your story's ridiculous," he said at last. "No Edmond Dantes would commit suicide before savoring his revenge."

I nodded, although he had his back to me and couldn't see my gesture.

"Well, more than that happened," I admitted. "The day after our conversation, Enrique came to my house in a final attempt to persuade me. I'd had enough. And I won't put up with blackmail. So, not quite realizing what I was doing, I dealt him the death blow. His serial was not only very bad, it felt familiar. I went to my library, searched for an old edition of The Popular Illustrated Novel, a little-known late-nineteenth-century publication, and opened it at the first page of a story written by a certain Amaury de Verona and titled 'Angeline de Gravaillac, or Unsullied Virtue.' Well, you can imagine the sort of thing. As I read the first paragraph aloud, Enrique went pale, as if the ghost of Angeline had risen from the grave. Which it more or less had. Assuming nobody would remember the story, he had plagiarized it, copied it almost word for word, except for one chapter he took whole from Fernandez y Gonzalez, in fact the best part of the story. I was sorry I didn't have my camera to take a picture of Enrique. He put his hand to his forehead as if to exclaim, 'Curses!' but couldn't actually get the word out. He just made a kind of gurgling sound, as if he was suffocating. Then he turned, went home, and hanged himself from the light fixture."

Corso was listening. The forgotten cigarette was still in his mouth, unlit.

"Then things became complicated," I went on, sure that he was now starting to believe me. "You already had the manuscript, and your friend La Ponte wasn't willing, at first, to part with it. I couldn't go around playing Arsène Lupin, I have a reputation to protect. That's why I gave Liana the task of retrieving the chapter. The date of the annual meeting was approaching, and we had to find a new member to replace Enrique. I admit, Liana did make a few mistakes. First, she went to see you...." I cleared my throat, embarrassed. I didn't want to go into details. "Then she tried to enlist La Ponte, to have him get 'The Anjou Wine' back. But I didn't know how tenacious you could be.... The problem is that Liana had always dreamed of an adventure like her heroine's, full of deception, amorous trysts, and persecution. And this episode, based on the stuff of her dreams, gave such an opportunity. So she went after you enthusiastically. 'I'll bring you the manuscript bound in the skin of that Corso,' she promised. I told her not to get carried away. I realize now that the mistake was mine: I encouraged her in her fantasy, releasing the Milady that had been inside her ever since she first read The Three Musketeers."

"I wish she'd read something else. Like Gone with the Wind. She could have identified with Scarlett O'Hara and pestered Clark Gable instead of me."

"Yes, she went a bit over the top. It's a pity you took it so seriously."

Corso rubbed a spot behind his ear. I could imagine what he was thinking: the one who really took it seriously was the man with the scar.

"Who's Rochefort?"

"His name is Laszlo Nicolavic. He's a character actor who specializes in villains. He played Rochefort in the series Andreas Frey made for British television a couple of years ago. He's played Gonzaga in Lagardère, Levasseur in Captain Blood, La Tour d'Azyr in Scaramouche, Rupert de Hentzau in The Prisoner of Zenda. He's fascinated by the genre, and has applied to join the Club Dumas. Liana was quite taken with him and insisted he work with her."

"Laszlo certainly took his part seriously."

"I'm afraid he did. I suspect he's trying to gain points so his admission is approved quickly. I also suspect that he serves as her occasional lover." I smiled like a man of the world, hoping it was convincing. "Liana is young, beautiful, and passionate. Let's say I stimulate her intellectual side and that Laszlo takes care of her impetuous nature's more down-to-earth needs."

"What else?"

"That's almost all. Nicolavic, or Rochefort, took charge of getting the Dumas manuscript from you. That's why he followed you from Madrid to Toledo and Sintra, while Liana headed for Paris, taking La Ponte with her as a backup in case their original plan failed and you didn't see reason. You know the rest: you didn't let them snatch the manuscript from you, Milady and Rochefort got slightly carried away, and that brought you here." I paused, reflecting on the events. "Do you know something? I wonder whether instead of Laszlo Nicolavic I shouldn't recommend you as a member of the club."

He didn't even ask whether I really meant it or was only being sarcastic. He removed his battered glasses and cleaned them mechanically, absorbed in his thoughts. "Is that all?" he said at last.

"Of course." I pointed to the reception room. "There's your proof."

He put his glasses on and took a deep breath. I didn't at all like the look on his face.

"What about the Delomelanicon? What about Richelieu's connection with The Nine Doors of the Kingdom of Shadows?" He came closer, tapping me on the chest until I had to take a step back. "Do you take me for a fool? You're not going to tell me that you knew nothing about the link between Dumas and that book, his pact with the devil and all the rest of it—Victor Fargas's murder in Sintra and the fire at Baroness Ungern's apartment in Paris. Did you give my name to the police yourself? And what about the book hidden in the three copies? Or the nine prints engraved by Lucifer, reprinted by Aristide Torchia on his return from Prague 'by authority and permission of the superiors,' and the whole damn business...."

He said it all in a torrent, his chin jutting aggressively, his eyes piercing into me. I took another step back, open-mouthed.

"You've gone mad!" I protested indignantly. "Can you tell me what you're talking about?"

He took out a box of matches and lit his cigarette, cupping a hand around the flame. Through the glare reflected in his glasses, he kept his eyes fixed on me. Then he told me his version of events.

WHEN HE FINISHED, WE both stood in silence. We were leaning on the damp balustrade, next to each other, watching the lights of the reception room. Corso's story had lasted for the duration of the cigarette, and he now stubbed it out on the ground.

"I suppose," I said, "I should now confess, say, 'Yes, it's all true,' and hold out my hands for you to handcuff them. Is that what you're expecting?"

He hesitated. His recital of the story didn't seem to have given him confidence in his conclusions.

"But there is a link," he muttered.

I looked at his narrow shadow on the marble flagstones of the terrace floor, dark against the rectangles of light cast from the reception room and stretching beyond the steps into the darkness of the garden.

"I'm afraid," I said, "that your imagination has been playing tricks on you."

He shook his head slowly. "I didn't imagine that Victor Fargas was drowned in the pond, or that Baroness Ungern was burned with her books. Those things happened. They were real. The two stories are mixed up."

"You've just said it yourself—there are two stories. Maybe all that links them is your own intertextual reading."

"Spare me the technical jargon. The Dumas chapter triggered everything." He looked at me resentfully. "Your goddamn club and all your little games."

"Don't lay the blame on me. Games are perfectly valid. If this were a work of fiction and not a real story, you as the reader would be principally responsible."

"Don't be absurd."

"I'm not. From what you've just told me I deduce that, playing with facts and literary references, you constructed a theory and drew fantastic conclusions. But facts are objective, and you can't overlay them with your personal ideas. The story of 'The Anjou Wine' and the story about this mysterious book, The Nine Doors, are completely unrelated."

"You all led me to believe..."

"We, and by we I mean Liana Taillefer, Laszlo Nicolavic, and myself, did nothing of the sort. It was you who filled in the blanks on your own, as if what happened were a novel based on trickery, with Lucas Corso the reader too clever for his own good. Nobody ever told you that things were actually as you thought. No, the responsibility is entirely yours, my friend. The real villain in the piece is your excessive intertextual reading and linking of literary references."

"What else could I do? To take action, I needed some strategy, I couldn't just sit there waiting. In any strategy, one builds a picture of one's opponent, and the picture influences one's next move.... Wellington did such-and-such, thinking that Napoleon was thinking of doing such-and-such. And Napoleon..."

"Napoleon made the mistake of confusing Blucher with Grouchy. Military strategy is as risky as literary strategy. Listen, Corso, there are no innocent readers anymore. Each overlays the text with his own perverse view. A reader is the total of all he's read, in addition to all the films and television he's seen. To the information supplied by the author he'll always add his own. And that's where the danger lies: an excess of references caused you to create the wrong opponent, or an imaginary opponent."

"The information was false."

"No. The information a book provides is an objective given. It may be presented by a malevolent author who wishes to mislead, but it is never false. It is the reader who makes a false reading."

Corso seemed to be thinking carefully. He shifted to face the garden in darkness. "Then there must be another author," he said quietly.

He stood motionless. After a time he took the folder with "The Anjou Wine" from under his coat and put it to one side, on the moss-covered stone.

"This story has two authors," he insisted.

"That's possible," I said, taking the Dumas manuscript. "And maybe one is more malevolent than the other. My story was the serial. You'll have to look for the crime novel elsewhere."