The Club Dumas

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’Artag-nan 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.