The Club Dumas

“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.”

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, igno-miniously 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.

“Picta 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.