The Club Dumas

“Which one would you choose?” she asked. She was hesi­tating between a sepia postcard of Tristan and Isolde embracing and another of Daumier’s The Picture Hunter. Undecided, she held them out in front of her.

“Take both,” suggested Corso. In the corner of his eye he caught sight of a man who had stopped at the stall and was about to reach for a thick bundle of cards held together by a rubber band. Corso, with the reflex of a hunter, grabbed the packet. The man left, muttering. Corso looked through the cards and chose several with a Napoleonic theme: Empress Marie Louise, the Bonaparte family, the death of the Emperor, and his final victory—a Polish lancer and two hussars on horse­back in front of the cathedral at Reims, during the French campaign of 1814, waving flags snatched from the enemy. After hesitating a moment, he added one of Marshall Ney in dress uniform and another of an elderly Wellington, posing for pos­terity. Lucky old devil.

The girl’s long tanned hands moved deftly through the cards and yellowed printed paper. She chose a few more postcards: Robespierre, Saint-Just, and an elegant portrait of Richelieu in his cardinal’s habit and wearing the insignia of the Order of the Holy Spirit.

“How appropriate,” remarked Corso acidly.

She didn’t answer. She moved on toward a pile of books, and the sun slid across her shoulders, enveloping Corso in a golden haze. Dazzled, he closed his eyes. When he opened them again, the girl was showing him a thick volume in quarto.

“What do you think?”

He glanced at it: The Three Musketeers, with the original illustrations by Leloir, bound in cloth and leather, in good con­dition. Looking at her, he saw that she had a lopsided smile and was waiting, watching him intently.

“Nice edition,” was all he said. “Are you intending to read it?”

“Of course. Don’t tell me the ending.”

Corso laughed halfheartedly.

“As if I could tell you the ending,” he said, sorting the bundles of cards.

“I HAVE A PRESENT for you,” said the girl.

They were walking along the Left Bank, past the stalls of the bouquinistes with their prints hanging in plastic and cello­phane covers and their secondhand books lined up along the parapet. A bateau-mouche was heading slowly upriver, straining under the weight of what Corso estimated to be five thousand Japanese and as many Sony camcorders. Across the street, be­hind exclusive shopwindows covered with Visa and American Express stickers, snooty antique dealers scanned the horizon for a Kuwaiti, a black marketeer, or an African minister of state to whom they might sell Eugenic Grandet’s Sevres porcelain bidet. Their sales patter delivered in the most proper accent, of course.

“I don’t like presents,” muttered Corso sullenly. “Some guys once accepted a wooden horse. Handcrafted by the Achaeans, it said on the label. The fools.”

“Weren’t there any dissenters?”

“One, with his sons. But some beasts came out of the sea and made a lovely sculpture of them. Hellenistic, I seem to remember. Rhodes school. In those days, the gods took sides.” “They always have.” The girl was staring at the muddy river as if it were carrying away her memories. Corso saw her smile thoughtfully, absently. “I never knew an impartial god. Or devil.” She turned to him suddenly—her earlier thoughts seemed to have been washed downstream. “Do you believe in the devil, Corso?”

He looked at her intently, but the river had also washed away the images that filled her eyes seconds before. All he could see there now was liquid green, and light.

“I believe in stupidity and ignorance.” He smiled wearily at the girl. “And I think that the best cut of all is the one you get here. See?” He pointed at his groin. “In the femoral artery. While you’re in somebody’s arms.”

“What are you so afraid of, Corso? That I’ll put my arms around you? That the sky’ll fall on you?”

“I’m afraid of wooden horses, cheap gin, and pretty girls. Especially when they give me presents. And when they go by the name of the woman who defeated Sherlock Holmes.”

They continued walking and were now on the wooden planks of the Pont des Arts. The girl stopped and leaned on the metal rail, by a street artist selling tiny watercolors.

“I like this bridge,” she said. “No cars. Only lovers and old ladies in hats. People with nothing to do. This bridge has ab­solutely no common sense.”