The Club Dumas

He seemed to know his way. He walked confidently, turning occasionally to make sure his companion was still there. He didn’t need to, because at that moment Corso would have fol­lowed him to the very gates of hell. And Corso didn’t rule out the possibility that this in fact might be their ultimate desti­nation. With each successive flash of lightning he saw a me­dieval archway, a bridge over an ancient moat, a sign saying BOULANGERIE-PATISSERIE, a deserted square, a conical tower, and finally an iron gate with the sign CHATEAU DE MEUNG-SUR-LOIRE. XIIIEME-XIIIIEME SIECLE.

A window was lit up in the distance, beyond the gate, but Rochefort went right, and Corso followed. They walked along a stretch of ivy-clad wall until they reached a half-hidden door in the wall. Rochefort took out a huge, ancient iron key and put it in the lock.

“Joan of Arc came through this door,” he told Corso as he turned the key. One final flash of lightning revealed steps de­scending into darkness. In the momentary brightness Corso also saw Rochefort’s smile, his dark eyes shining beneath the hat, the livid scar on his cheek. At least the man was a worthy opponent, he thought. Nobody could complain about the stag­ing; it was impeccable. In spite of himself he was beginning to feel a kind of twisted sympathy for this Rochefort—whoever he was—playing the villain so conscientiously. Alexandre Du­mas would have approved.

Rochefort now held a small flashlight that lit up the long, narrow staircase disappearing into the cellar.

“You first,” he said.

Their steps echoed around the turns of the passageway. Corso was soon shivering inside his wet coat. Cold, musty air, smelling of the damp of centuries, rose to meet them. The beam of light showed worn steps, water stains on the vaulted ceiling. The staircase ended in a narrow corridor with rusty railings. For a moment Rochefort shone the flashlight on a circular pit to their left.

“These are the ancient dungeons of Bishop Thibault D’Aussigny,” he told Corso. “From there they threw the corpses into the Loire. Francois Villon was a prisoner here.” And he muttered the following line melodramatically: Ayez pitie, ayez pita de moi... Definitely a well-educated villain. Self-assured and with a hint of didacticism. Corso couldn’t decide whether this made the situation better or worse. But a thought had been going through his head since they entered the passageway: If all is lost, we may as well jump in the river. But he didn’t find his joke funny.

The passageway now rose beneath the dripping arches. The bright eyes of a rat glittered at the end of the gallery, and the animal disappeared with a cry. The passageway widened into a circular room whose ceiling, supported by pointed ribs, rested on a thick central column.

“The crypt,” said Rochefort, moving the flashlight beam around. He was becoming talkative. “Twelfth century. The women and children hid here when the castle was attacked.”

Very interesting. But Corso wasn’t in the mood to appreciate the information provided by his outlandish guide. He was tense and alert, waiting for the right moment. They now climbed a spiral staircase, the storm still flashing and booming beyond the castle walls, filtered through the slot windows.

“Only a few meters more and we’re there,” said Rochefort from behind and below. He sounded quite conciliatory. The flashlight shone between Corso’s legs. “Now that this business is nearly over,” he added, “I must tell you something. In spite of everything, you did well. The proof is that you got this far.... I hope you aren’t too sore about what happened by the Seine and at the Hotel Crillon. Occupational hazards.”

He didn’t say which occupation, but it didn’t matter. Corso turned casually and stopped, as if to answer or ask him a ques­tion. The movement wasn’t in the least suspicious, so Rochefort didn’t object and wasn’t at all ready when Corso, in the same motion, fell on him, his arms and legs braced against the wall so he wouldn’t be dragged down the stairs. Rochefort’s position was different—the steps were narrow, the wall smooth and without handholds, and in addition he had been caught off guard. The flashlight, miraculously intact, illuminated the scene for several moments as it rolled down the staircase: Rochefort with his eyes wide and a stunned look on his face, flailing wildly, trying desperately to grab something, falling down the spiral staircase, his hat rolling until it stopped on one of the steps... Then, six or seven meters farther down, a muffled sound, something like thump or maybe thud, Corso, still grip­ping the walls with his arms and legs so he wouldn’t accompany his opponent on his uncomfortable journey, now sprang into action. His heart pounded uncontrollably as he ran down the stairs, taking three steps at a time. He picked up the flashlight on his way. At the bottom lay Rochefort rolled into a ball, moving weakly, in pain.