The Club Dumas

Victor Coutinho Fargas, Identity Card No. 3554712, address: Quinta da Soledade, Carretera de Colares, km. 4, Sintra, Received with thanks the sum of 800,000 escudosfor the work in my possession,  ‘Virgil  Opera nunc recens accuratissime castigata... Venezia, Giunta, 1544.” (Essling 61. Sander 7671.) Folio, 10.587, Ic, 113 woodcuts. Complete and in good con­dition. The buyer...

There was no name or signature. The receipt had never been completed. Corso put the paper back and shut the book. Then he went to the room where he’d spent the previous afternoon, to make sure he’d left no trace, no papers with his handwriting, or anything like that. He also removed his cigarette butts from the ashtray and put them in his pocket, wrapped in another piece of newspaper. He looked around for a little while longer. His steps echoed through the empty house. No sign of the owner.

As he again passed the books on the floor, he stopped, tempted. It would have been so easy—a couple of conveniently small Elzevirs attracted his attention. But Corso was a sensible man. It would only complicate matters if things got nasty. So, with a sigh, he bade farewell to the Fargas collection.

He went out through the French window into the garden to look for the girl, dragging his feet through the leaves. He found her sitting on a short flight of steps that led to the pond. He could hear the water trickling from the chubby angel’s mouth onto the greenish surface covered with floating plants. She was staring, engrossed, at the pond. Only the sound of his steps interrupted her contemplation and made her turn her head.

Corso put his canvas bag on the bottom step and sat down next to her. He lit the cigarette he’d had in his mouth for some time. He inhaled, his head to one side, and threw away the match. He turned to the girl.

“Now tell me everything.”

Still staring at the pond, she gently shook her head. Not abruptly or unpleasantly. On the contrary, the movement of her head, her chin, and the corners of her mouth was sweet and thoughtful, as if Corso’s presence, the sad, neglected garden, and the sound of the water were all peculiarly moving. She looked incredibly young. Almost defenseless. And very tired.

“We have to go,” she said so low that Corso scarcely heard her. “To Paris.”

“First tell me what your link is with Fargas. With all of this.”

She shook her head again, in silence. Corso blew out some smoke. The air was so damp that the smoke floated in front of him for a moment before gradually disappearing. He looked at the girl.

“Do you know Rochefort?”

“Rochefort?”

“Whatever his name is. He’s dark, with a scar. He was lurk­ing around here last night.” As he spoke, Corso was aware of how silly it all was. He ended with an incredulous grimace, doubting his own memories. “I even spoke to him.”

The girl again shook her head, still staring at the pond.

“I don’t know him.”

“What are you doing here, then?”

“I’m looking after you.”

Corso stared at the tips of his shoes, rubbing his numb hands The tinkle of the water in the pond was beginning to get on his nerves. He took a last drag on his cigarette. It was about to burn his lips and tasted bitter.

“You’re mad, girl.”

He threw away the butt, stared at the smoke fading before his eyes.

“Completely mad,” he added.

She still said nothing. After a moment, Corso brought out his flask of gm and took a long swig, without offering her any He looked at her again.

“Where’s Fargas?”

She took a moment to answer, still absorbed, lost. At last she indicated with her chin. “Over there “

Corso followed the direction of her g_aze. In the pond be­neath the thread of water from the mouth of the mutilated angel with empty eyes, he saw the vague outline of a man floating facedown among the water lilies and dead leaves

 IX. THE BOOKSELLER ON THE RUE BONAPARTE

“My friend,” Athos said gravely, “remember that the dead are the only ones whom one does not risk

meeting again on this earth.”

—A. Dumas, THE THREE  MUSKETEERS