The Club Dumas

“Rochefort?” Corso was grimacing in a very unpleasant way. “He had an accident.”

“You call him Rochefort, do you? How amusing and appro­priate. I see you’ve followed the rules. I don’t know why it should surprise me.”

Corso treated me to a rather unnerving smile. “He certainly looked surprised the last time I saw him.”

“That sounds rather alarming.” I smiled coolly, although I actually was alarmed. “I hope nothing serious happened.”

“He fell down the stairs.”

“What?”

“You heard me. But don’t worry. Your henchman was still breathing when I left him.”

“Thank God.” I managed to smile again and hide my un­ease. This went beyond what I had planned. “So you’ve done a touch of cheating, have you? Well,” I said, spreading my hands magnanimously, “no need to worry about it.”

“I’m not. You’re the one who should be worried.”

I pretended not to hear this. “The important thing is that you’ve arrived,” I went on, although I’d lost the thread mo­mentarily. “As far as cheating goes, you have illustrious pred­ecessors. Theseus escaped from the labyrinth thanks to Ariadne’s thread, Jason stole the golden fleece with Medea’s help.... The Kaurabas used subterfuge to win at dice in the Mahabharata, and the Achaeans checkmated the Trojans by moving a wooden horse. Your conscience is clear.”

“Thanks, but my conscience is my business.”

From his pocket he took Milady’s letter folded in four, and he threw it on the table. I immediately recognized my own handwriting, with the slightly affected capitals. It is by my order and for the benefit of the State that the bearer of this note, etc.

“I hope, at least, that the game was enjoyable,” I said, hold­ing the paper in the candle flame.

“At times.”

“I’m glad.” I dropped the letter in the ashtray, and we both watched it burn. “In matters of literature, the intelligent reader may even enjoy the strategy used to turn him into the victim. I believe that enjoyment is an excellent reason for playing. Or for reading a story, or writing one.”

I stood up, holding The Three Musketeers, and paced around the room, glancing discreetly at the clock on the wall. There were still twenty long minutes to go before twelve. The gilding shone on the spines of the ancient books lined up on their shelves. I looked at them a moment, as if forgetting Corso, then turned to him.

“There they are.” I made a sweeping gesture to include the whole library. “They are silent and yet talk among themselves. They communicate through their authors, just as the egg uses the hen to produce another egg.”

I put The Three Musketeers back on its shelf. Dumas was in good company: between Los Pardellanes by Zevaco and The Knight with the Yellow Doublet by Lucas de Rene. As there was time to spare, I opened The Knight at the first page and began to read aloud:

As Saint Germain I’Auxerrois struck twelve, three horsemen descended the Rue des Astruces, each wrapped in a cape, seem­ingly as sure as the stride of their horses....

“The first lines,” I said. “Always those extraordinary first lines. Do you remember our conversation about Scaramouche? He was born with the gift of laughter.... Some opening sentences leave their mark a whole lifetime, don’t you agree? Of arms and the man I sing. Have you never played this game with someone you trust? A modest young man headed in midsummer, or that other one, For a long time I used to go to bed early. And of course, On the 15th of May 1796, General Bonaparte entered Milan.”

Corso frowned.

“You’re forgetting the one that brought me here: On the first Monday of April 1625, the market town ofMeung, the birth­place of the author of Roman de la Rose, was in a state of commotion.”

“Indeed, chapter one,” I said. “You have done very well.”

“That’s what Rochefort said before he fell down the stairs.”

There was silence, broken only by the clock striking a quar­ter to twelve. Corso pointed at the clock face. “Fifteen minutes to go, Balkan.”

“Yes,” I said. The man was devilishly intuitive. “Fifteen minutes till the first Monday in April.”

I put The Knight with the Yellow Doublet back on the shelf and continued pacing. Corso stood watching me, holding the knife.

“You could put that away,” I ventured.

He hesitated a moment before shutting the blade and put­ting it away in his pocket, still watching me. I smiled approv­ingly and again indicated the library.