The Club Dumas

Replinger frowned. “Maquet. His collaborator, Auguste Maquet. They are corrections made by Dumas to the original text.” He stroked his mustache. Then he bent over and read aloud in a theatrical voice: “Horrifying! Horrifying!” murmured Athas, as Porthos shattered the bottles and Aramis gave somewhat belated orders to send for a confessor.... Replinger broke off with a sigh. He nodded, satisfied, and then showed Corso the page. “Look: all Maquet wrote was: And he expired before d’Artagnan’s terrified companions. Dumas crossed out that line and added others above it, fleshing out the passage with more dialogue.”

“What can you tell me about Maquet?” Replinger shrugged his powerful shoulders, hesitating. “Not a great deal.” Once again he sounded evasive. “He was ten years younger than Dumas. A mutual friend, Gerard de Nerval, recommended him. Maquet wrote historical novels without success. He showed Dumas the original version of one, Buvat the Good, or the Conspiracy of Cellamare. Dumas turned the story into The Chevalier d’Harmental and had it published under his name. In return Maquet was paid twelve hundred francs.”

“Can you tell from the handwriting and the style of writing when ‘The Anjou Wine’ was written?”

“Of course I can. It’s similar to other documents from 1844, the year of The Three Musketeers.... These white and blue pages fit in with his way of working. Dumas and his associate would piece the story together. From Courtilz’s D’Artagnan they took the names of their heroes, the journey to Paris, the intrigue with Milady, and the character of the innkeeper’s wife— Dumas gave Madame Bonacieux the features of his mistress, Belle Krebsamer. Constance’s kidnapping came from the Mem­oirs of De la Porte, a man in the confidence of Anne of Austria. And they obtained the famous story of the diamond tags from La Rochefoucauld and from a book by Roederer, Political and Romantic Intrigues from the Court of France. At that time, in addition to The Three Musketeers, they were also writing Queen Margot and The Chevalier de la Maison Rouge.”

Replinger paused again for breath. He was becoming more and more flushed and animated as he spoke. He mentioned the last few titles in a rush, stumbling a little over the words. He was afraid of boring Corso, but at the same time he wanted to give him all the information he could.

“There’s an amusing anecdote about The Chevalier de la Maison Rouge,” he went on when he’d caught his breath.

“When the serial was announced with its original title, The Knight of Rougeville, Dumas received a letter of complaint from a marquis of the same name. This made him change the title, but soon afterward he received another letter. ‘My dear Sir,’ wrote the marquis. ‘Please give your novel whatever title you wish. I am the last of my family and will blow my brains out in an hour.’ And the Marquis de Rougeville did indeed commit suicide, over some woman.”

He gasped for air. Large and pink-cheeked, he smiled apol­ogetically and leaned one of his strong hands on the table next to the blue pages. He looked like an exhausted giant, thought Corso. Porthos in the cave at Locmaria.

“Boris Balkan didn’t do you justice. You’re an expert on Dumas. I’m not surprised you’re friends.”

“We respect each other. But I’m only doing my job.” Replinger looked down, embarrassed. “I’m a conscientious Frenchman who works with annotated books and documents and handwritten dedications. Always by nineteenth-century French authors. I couldn’t evaluate the things that come to me if I wasn’t sure who wrote them and how. Do you understand?” “Perfectly,” answered Corso. “It’s the difference between a professional and a vulgar salesman.”

Replinger looked at him with gratitude. “You’re in the pro­fession. It’s obvious.”

“Yes,” Corso grimaced. “The oldest profession.” Replinger’s laugh ended in another asthmatic wheeze. Corso took advantage of the pause to turn the conversation to Maquet again.

“Tell me how they did it,” he said.