The Club Dumas

We both laughed, Corso in a peculiar way, almost under his breath, like someone who is not sure whether he and his companion are laughing at the same thing. An oblique, distant laugh, with a hint of insolence, the kind of laugh that lingers in the air after it stops. Even after its owner has been gone for a while.

“Let’s take this a step at a time,” I went on. “Does the manuscript belong to you?”

“I’ve already told you that it doesn’t. A client of mine has just acquired it, and he finds it strange that no one should have heard of this complete, original chapter of The Three Muske­teers until now.... He wants it authenticated by an expert, so that’s what I’m working on.”

“I’m surprised at your dealing with such a minor matter.” This was true. I’d heard of Corso before this meeting. “I mean, after all, nowadays Dumas ...”

I let the sentence hang and smiled with the appropriate expression of bitter complicity. But Corso didn’t take up my invitation and stayed on the defensive. “The client’s a friend of mine,” he said evenly. “It’s a personal favor.”

“I see, but I’m not sure that I can be of any help to you. I have seen some of the original manuscripts, and this one could be authentic. However, certifying it is another matter. For that you’d need a good graphologist... I know an excellent one in Paris, Achille Replinger. He owns a shop that specializes in autographs and historical documents, near Saint Germain des Pres. He’s an expert on nineteenth-century French writers, a charming man and a good friend of mine.” I pointed to one of the frames on the wall. “He sold me that Balzac letter many years ago. For a very high price.”

I took out my datebook and copied the address for Corso on a card. He put the card in an old worn wallet full of notes and papers. Then he brought out a notepad and pencil from one of his coat pockets. The pencil had a chewed eraser at one end, like a schoolboy’s pencil.

“Could I ask you a few questions?” he said.

“Yes, of course.”

“Did you know of any complete handwritten chapter of The Three Musketeers?”

I shook my head and replaced the cap on my Mont Blanc.

“No. The novel came out in installments in Le Siecle be­tween March and July 1844 ... Once the text was typeset by a compositor, the original manuscript was discarded. A few frag­ments remained, however. You can see them in an appendix to the 1968 Garnier edition.”

“Four months isn’t very long.” Corso chewed the end of his pencil thoughtfully. “Dumas wrote quickly.”

“They all did in those days. Stendhal wrote The Charter­house of Parma in seven weeks. And in any case Dumas used collaborators, ghostwriters. The one for The Three Musketeers was called Auguste Maquet. They worked together on the se­quel, Twenty Years After, and on The Vicomte de Bragelonne, which completes the cycle. And on The Count of Monte Cristo and a few other novels. You have read those, I suppose.”

“Of course. Everybody has.”

“Everybody in the old days, you mean.” I leafed respectfully through the manuscript. “The times are long gone when Dumas’s name increased print runs and made publishers rich. Almost all his novels came out in installments that ended with ‘to be continued....’ The readers would be on tenterhooks until the next episode. But of course you know all that.”

“Don’t worry. Go on.”

“What more can I tell you? In the classic serial, the recipe for success is simple: the hero and heroine have qualities or features that make the reader identify with them. If that hap­pens nowadays in TV soaps, imagine the effect in those days, when there was no television or radio, on a middle class hungry for surprise and entertainment, and undiscriminating when it came to formal quality or taste.... Dumas was a genius, and he understood this. Like an alchemist in his laboratory, he added a dash of this, a dash of that, and with his talent com­bined it all to create a drug that had many addicts.” I tapped my chest, not without pride. “That has them still.”

Corso was taking notes. Precise, unscrupulous, and deadly as a black mamba was how one of his acquaintances described him later when Corso’s name came up in conversation. He had a singular way of facing people, peering through his crooked glasses and slowly nodding in agreement, with a reasonable, well-meaning, but doubtful expression, like a whore tolerantly listening to a romantic sonnet. As if he was giving you a chance to correct yourself before it was too late.

After a moment he stopped and looked up. “But your work doesn’t only deal with the popular novel. You’re a well-known literary critic of other, more ...” He hesitated, searching for a word. “More serious works. Dumas himself described his nov­els as easy literature. Sounds rather patronizing toward his readers.”