The Club Dumas

Corso hung up. The girl was back, standing next to La Ponte. Corso went to them. “The police have my name. Some­body gave it to them.”

“Don’t look at me,” said La Ponte. “This whole thing has been beyond me for some time.”

Corso thought bitterly that it was beyond him too. He was in a boat, in a rough sea, with no one at the helm.

“Can you think of anything?” he asked the girl. She was the only strand of the mystery that was still in his hands. His last hope.

She looked over Corso’s shoulder at the traffic and the nearby railings of the Palais Royal. She had taken off her ruck­sack and put it down by her feet. She was frowning, silent as usual, absorbed in her thoughts. She looked obstinate, like a little boy refusing to do what he’s told.

Corso smiled like a tired wolf. “I don’t know what to do,” he said.

He saw her nod slowly, possibly as a conclusion to some line of reasoning. Or maybe she was just agreeing that, indeed, he didn’t know what to do.

“You’re your own worst enemy,” she said at last, distantly. She looked tired too, as she had the night before when they returned to the hotel. “Your imagination.” She tapped her fore­head. “You can’t see the forest for the trees.”

La Ponte grunted. “Let’s leave the botany for later, shall we?” He was becoming increasingly worried about the possi­bility of gendarmes appearing. “We should get out of here. I can hire a car. If we hurry, we can be across the border by tomorrow. Which is April first, by the way.”

“Shut up, Flavio.” Corso was looking into the girl’s eyes, searching for an answer. All he saw were reflections—the light of the square, the passing traffic, his own image, misshapen and grotesque. The defeated soldier. But defeat was no longer he­roic. It hadn’t been for a long time.

The girl’s expression changed. She stared at La Ponte now, as if for the first time he was worth looking at.

“Say that again,” she said.

La Ponte stuttered, surprised. “You mean, about hiring a car?” His mouth was open. “It’s obvious. On planes they have passenger lists. And on the train they can look at your passport....”

“I didn’t mean that. Tell us what date it is tomorrow.”

“The first of April. Monday.” La Ponte fiddled with his tie, confused. “My birthday.”

But she was no longer paying attention. She was bending over her rucksack, searching for something inside it. When she straightened up, she held The Three Musketeers.

“You haven’t paid enough attention to your reading,” she said to Corso, handing it to him. “Chapter one, first line.”

Corso, surprised, took the book and glanced at it. “The Three Gifts of Monsieur d’Artagnan the Elder.” As soon as he read the first line, he knew where they had to go to find Milady.

 XIV. THE CELLARS OF MEUNG

It was a dismal night.

—P. du Terrail, ROCAMBOLE

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, pere.