The Club Dumas

“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 Mercuro-chrome, two stitches holding the recent wound together. Sou­venir from the banks of the river Seine, 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?”