The Club Dumas

“Yes, shut up,” said Rochefort. Keeping the revolver on Corso, he locked the door behind him and put the key in his coat pocket. What is there to lose, thought Corso, his pulse throbbing at his temples and wrists. The drums of Waterloo rolled somewhere in his memory, when, in the final moment of clarity before desperation set in, he found himself working out the distance between him and the gun and how long it would take him to cross it. He wondered when the first shot would be fired and where it would hit him. The chances of not being hit were minimal, but if he waited five seconds longer, he might have no chance at all. So the bugle sounded. The last charge with Ney at the head, the bravest of the brave, before the emperor’s weary eyes. Against Rochefort instead of the Scots Guards, but a bullet was still a bullet. This is ridiculous, he told himself just before he went into action. And he wondered if the bullet in his chest would be real or imaginary, wondered if he’d find himself floating in the void or in the Valhalla for fictional heroes. If only the luminous eyes he felt staring in­tently at his back—the emperor? The devil in love?—would be waiting for him in the darkness to guide him to the other side.

Then Rochefort did something odd. He raised his free hand, as if to say, “Give me time,” and started to put the revolver back in his pocket. The movement lasted only a moment, and he aimed the gun at Corso once again, but without conviction. And Corso, his pulse racing, his muscles taut, about to leap blindly forward, held back, bewildered, realizing it wasn’t time for him to die.

Stunned, he watched Rochefort cross the room, press the button for an outside line, then dial a long number. From where he stood, he could hear the sound of the phone ringing on the line and then a click.

“I’ve got Corso here,” said Rochefort. He waited, still lazily pointing the gun at a vague point in space. He said yes twice, Then he listened, motionless, and muttered OK before finally hanging up.

“He wants to see him,” he said to Milady. They both turned to look at Corso. Milady was annoyed, Rochefort anxious. “This is ridiculous,” she complained. “He wants to see him,” Rochefort said again. Milady shrugged, took a step, and angrily turned a few pages of “The Anjou Wine.”

“As for us ...” La Ponte began.

“You’re staying here,” said Rochefort, pointing the gun at him. He licked the wound on his lip. “The girl too.”

In spite of his split lip he didn’t seem to bear her any grudge. Corso even thought he saw a gleam of curiosity as Rochefort looked  at  her.  Rochefort  then  handed  Liana Taillefer the revolver. “Make sure they don’t get out.” “Why don’t you stay here?” “He wants me to take him. It’s safer.”

Milady nodded sullenly. She’d obviously imagined herself playing a different part that evening. But like her fictional namesake, she was a disciplined hired assassin. In exchange for the weapon she gave Rochefort the Dumas manuscript. She scrutinized Corso. “I hope he doesn’t give you any trouble.” Rochefort smiled confidently. He took a large switchblade from his pocket and stared at it thoughtfully, as if he’d only just remembered it was there. His white teeth were bright against his dark, scarred face. “I don’t think he will,” he an­swered, putting back the knife unopened and gesturing to Corso

in a way that was both friendly and sinister. He took his hat from the bed, turned the key in the lock, and motioned toward the corridor with an exaggerated bow, as if he were holding a large plumed hat.

“His Eminence awaits, sir,” he said, and gave a short, dry laugh that perfectly befitted a skilled henchman.

Before leaving the room, Corso looked at the girl. Milady was pointing the gun at her and La Ponte, but the girl had turned her back and was paying no attention. She was leaning against the window, looking out at the wind and rain, silhou­etted against a night sky illuminated by flashes of lightning.

they went out into the storm. Rochefort held the folder with the Dumas manuscript under his raincoat to protect it from the rain. He led Corso through narrow streets to the old part of town. Blasts of rain shook the branches of the trees and splashed noisily in the puddles and on the paving stones. Large drops poured through Corso’s hair and down his face. He turned up his collar. The town was in darkness, and there was not a soul to be seen. Only the brightness of the storm lit up the streets now and then, showing the medieval roofs, Roche-fort’s dark profile beneath his dripping hat, the shadows of the two men on the wet ground. The electrical discharges, like thunder from hell, struck the turbulent current of the Loire with a sound like the cracking of whips.

“Wonderful evening,” said Rochefort, inclining his head to Corso to make himself heard above the roar.