Memories brought other memories in their wake. Corso tried to hold a fleeting, familiar image that had crossed his mind. He managed to capture it just before it faded, and once again it was the man in the black suit, the chauffeur of the Jaguar outside Liana Taillefer’s house, at the wheel of the Mercedes in Toledo.... The man with the scar. And it was Milady who had stirred that memory.
He thought it over, disconcerted. And suddenly the image became perfectly sharp. Milady, of course. Milady de Winter as d’Artagnan first sees her at the window of her carriage in the opening chapter of the novel, outside the inn at Meung. Milady in conversation with a stranger. Corso quickly turned the pages, searching for the passage. He found it easily:
A man of forty to forty-five years of age, with black, piercing eyes, a pale complexion, a strongly pronounced nose, and a perfectly trimmed, black mustache...
Rochefort. The Cardinal’s sinister agent and d’Artagnan’s enemy, who has him beaten in the first chapter, steals the letter of recommendation to Monsieur de Treville and is indirectly responsible for the Gascon’s almost fighting duels with Athos, Porthos, and Aramis.... Following this somersault of his memory, Corso scratched his head, puzzled by the unusual association of ideas and characters. What link was there between Milady’s companion and the driver who tried to run him down in Toledo? Then there was the scar. The paragraph didn’t mention a scar, but he remembered clearly that Rochefort always had a mark on his face. He turned more pages until he found the confirmation of this in chapter 3, where d’Artagnan is recounting his adventure to Treville:
“Tell me,” he replied, “did this gentleman have a faint scar on his temple?”
“Yes, the sort of mark that might have been made by a bullet grazing it...”
A faint scar on his temple. There was his confirmation, but as Corso remembered it, Rochefort’s scar was bigger, and not on his temple but on his cheek, like that of the chauffeur dressed in black. Corso went over it all until at last he let out a laugh. The picture was now complete, and in full color: Lana Turner in The Three Musketeers, at her carriage window, beside a suitably sinister Rochefort, not pale as in Dumas’s novel, but dark, with a plumed hat and a long scar—it was definite this time—cutting his right cheek from top to bottom. He remembered it as a film, not a novel, and his exasperation at this both amused and irritated him. Goddamn Hollywood.
Film scenes aside, he had at last managed to find some order to all of this, a common, if secret, thread, a tune composed of disparate, mysterious notes. Through the vague uneasiness that Corso had experienced since his visit to Taillefer’s widow, he could now glimpse outlines, faces, an atmosphere and characters, halfway between reality and fiction, and all linked in strange, as yet unclear ways. Dumas and a seventeenth-century book. The devil and The Three Musketeers. Milady and the bonfires of the Inquisition ... Although it was all more absurd than definite, more like a novel than real life.
He turned out the light and went to bed. But it took him some time to fall asleep, because one image wouldn’t leave his mind. It floated in the darkness before his open eyes. A distant landscape, that of his reading as a boy, filled with shadows which reappeared now twenty years later, materialized as ghosts that were so close, he could almost feel them. The scar. Rochefort. The man from Meung. His Eminence’s mercenary.
V. REMEMBER
He was sitting just as he had left him, in front of the fireplace.
—A. Christie, THE MURDER OF ROGER ACKROYD
This is the point at which I enter the stage for the second time. Corso came to me again, and he did so, I seem to remember, a few days before leaving for Portugal. As he told me later, by then he already suspected that the Dumas manuscript and Varo Borja’s Nine Doors were only the tip of the iceberg. To understand it all he first needed to locate the other stories, all knotted together like the tie Enrique Taillefer used to hang himself. It wouldn’t be easy, I told him, because in literature there are never any clear boundaries. Everything is dependent on everything else, and one thing is superimposed on top of another. It all ends up as a complicated intertextual game, like a hall of mirrors or those Russian dolls. Establishing a specific fact or the precise source involves risks that only some of my very stupid or very confident colleagues would dare take. It would be like saying that you can see the influence of Quo Vadis, but not Suetonius or Appollonius of Rhodes, on Robert Graves. As for me, all I know is that I know nothing. And when I want to know something, I look it up in books—their memory never fails.
“Count Rochefort is one of the most important secondary characters in The Three Musketeers” I explained to Corso when he came to see me. “He is the cardinal’s agent, a friend of Milady’s, and the first enemy that d’Artagnan makes. I can pinpoint the exact date: the first Monday of April 1625, in Meung-sur-Loire.... I refer to the fictional Rochefort of course, although a similar character did exist. Gatien de Courtilz described him, in the supposed Memoirs of the real d’Artagnan, a man with the name of Rosnas. But the Rochefort with the scar didn’t exist in real life. Dumas took the character from another book, the Memoires de MLCDR (Monsieur le comte de Rochefort), possibly apocryphal and also attributed to Courtilz. Some say that that book could refer to Henri Louis d’Aloigny, Marquis de Rochefort, born around 1625, but that’s stretching things.”
I looked out at the lights of the evening traffic in the avenues beyond the window of the cafe where I meet with my literary friends. A few of them were sitting with us around a table covered with newspapers, cups, and smoking ashtrays— two writers, a painter down on his luck, a woman journalist on the rise, a stage actor, and four or five students, the kind who sit in a corner and don’t open their mouths, watching you as if you were God. Corso sat among them, still in his coat. He leaned against the window, drank gin, and occasionally took notes.
“To be sure,” I added, “the reader who goes through the sixty-seven chapters of The Three Musketeers waiting for the duel between Rochefort and d’Artagnan is in for a disappointment. Dumas settles the matter in three lines, and is rather underhand about it. Because when we next meet Rochefort in Twenty Years After, he and d’Artagnan have fought three times, and Rochefort bears as many scars as a result. Nevertheless no hatred remains between them. Instead they have the twisted respect for each other that is possible only between two old enemies. Once again fate has decreed that they fight on different sides, but now they are friendly, complicit, two gentlemen who have known each other for twenty years.... Rochefort falls out of favor with Mazarin, breaks out of the Bastille, and helps the Duke of Beaufort escape. He conspires in the Fronde rebellion and dies in the arms of d’Artagnan, who has stabbed him with his sword, failing to recognize him in all the confusion. ‘You were my fate,’ Rochefort more or less says to the Gascon. ‘I recovered from three of your sword wounds, but I will not recover from the fourth.’ And he dies. ‘I have just killed an old friend,’ d’Artagnan later tells Porthos. This is the only epitaph Richelieu’s former agent is given.”
My words provoked a lively discussion with several factions. The actor hadn’t taken his eyes off the woman journalist all afternoon. He was an old heartthrob who’d played Monte Cristo in a television series. Encouraged by the painter and the two writers, he launched into a brilliant account of his recollections of the characters. In this way we moved from Dumas to Zevaco and Paul Feval, and ended by once again confirming Sabatini’s indisputable influence on Salgari. I seem to recall that somebody timidly mentioned Jules Verne but was shouted down by all present. Verne’s cold, soulless heroes had no place in a discussion of passionate tales of cloak and dagger.
As for the journalist, one of those fashionable young ladies with a column in a leading Sunday newspaper, her literary memory began with Milan Kundera. So she remained in a state of cautious expectation, agreeing with relief whenever a title, anecdote, or character (the Black Swan, Yanez, Nevers’s sword wound) stirred some memory of a film glimpsed on TV. Meanwhile, Corso, with a hunter’s calm patience,
looked steadily at me over his glass of gin, waiting for a chance to return the conversation to the original subject. And he succeeded, making the most of an awkward silence that fell when the journalist said that, anyway, she found these adventure stories rather lightweight, I mean kind of superficial, don’t you think?
Corso chewed the end of his pencil:
“And how do you see Rochefort’s role in history, Mr. Balkan?” he asked.
They all looked at me, in particular the students, two of them girls. I don’t know why, but in certain circles I’m considered a high priest of letters and every time I open my mouth, people expect to hear pearls of wisdom. A review of mine, in the appropriate literary magazine, can make or break a writer who’s starting out. Absurd, certainly, but that’s life. Think of the last Nobel prizewinner, the author of /, Onan and In Search of Myself and the ultrasuccessful Oui, C’est MoL It was I who made him a household name fifteen years ago, with a page and a half in Le Monde on April Fools’ Day. I’ll never forgive myself, but that’s how things work.
“At first, Rochefort is the enemy,” I said. “He symbolizes the hidden forces, darkness.... He is the agent of the satanic conspiracy surrounding d’Artagnan and his friends, of the cardinal’s plot growing in the shadows, threatening their lives....”
I saw one of the students smile, but I couldn’t tell if her absorbed, slightly mocking expression was a result of my comments or of private thoughts that had nothing to do with the discussion. I was surprised because, as I’ve said, students tend to listen to me with the awe of an editor of the Osservatore Romano getting the exclusive rights to one of the Pope’s encyclicals. So it made me look at her with interest. Although she’d already caught my eye at the beginning, when she joined us, because of her unsettling green eyes. She was wearing a blue duffel coat and carried a pile of books under her arm. Her chestnut hair was cut short, like a boy’s. Now she sat at a slight distance, not quite part of the group. There are always a few young people at our table, literature students that I invite for a coffee. But this girl had never attended before. It was impossible to forget her eyes. In contrast to her tanned face, their color was so light, it was almost transparent. A slender, supplegirl, one could tell she spent a lot of time outdoors. Under her jeans her long legs were no doubt also tanned. And I noticed another thing about her: she wore no rings, no watch, no earrings. Her ears weren’t pierced.
“Rochefort is also the man glimpsed, never caught,” I went on. “A mysterious mask with a scar. He stands for paradox and d’Artagnan’s powerlessness. D’Artagnan is always in pursuit but never quite catches up with him. He tries to kill him but only manages to do so by mistake twenty years later. By then Rochefort is not an adversary but a friend.”
“Your d’Artagnan’s a bit jinxed,” said one of my circle, the older of the two writers. He’d sold only five hundred copies of his last novel, but he earned a fortune writing mysteries under the perverse pseudonym of Emilia Forster. I looked at him gratefully, pleased by his opportune remark.
“Absolutely. The love of his life gets poisoned. Despite all his exploits and services to the crown of France, he spends twenty years as an obscure lieutenant in the musketeers. And in the last lines of The Vicomte de Bragelonne, when he is finally awarded the marshal’s staff, which has taken him four voluro.es and four hundred and twenty-five chapters to achieve, he is killed by a Dutch bullet.”
“Like the real d’Artagnan,” said the actor, who had managed to place his hand on the fashionable woman columnist’s thigh.
I took a sip of coffee before nodding. Corso was staring at me intently.
“There are three d’Artagnans,” I explained. “Of the first, Charles de Batz Castlemore, we know that he died on the twenty-third of June 1673, from a shot in the throat during the siege of Maastricht, as reported in the Gazette de France at the time. Half his men fell with him. Apart from this posthumous detail, in life he was only slightly more fortunate than his fictional namesake.”
“Was he a Gascon too?”
“Yes, from Lupiac. The village still exists, and he is commemorated by a stone plaque there: ‘D’Artagnan, whose real name was Charles de Batz, was born here around 1615. He died in the siege of Maastricht in 1675.’ “
“It doesn’t quite fit historically,” said Corso, looking at his notes. “According to Dumas, d’Artagnan was eighteen at the start of the novel, around 1625. At that time the real d’Artagnan would have been only ten years old.” He smiled like a clever, skeptical little rabbit. “Too young to handle a sword.”
I agreed. “Yes. Dumas altered things so d’Artagnan could take part in the adventure of the diamond tags under Richelieu and Louis XIII. Charles de Batz must have arrived in Paris very young: he was listed among the guards of Monsieur Des Essarts’s company in documents on the siege of Arras in 1640, and two years later in the Roussillon campaign. But he never served as a musketeer under Richelieu, because he joined the elite regiment only after Louis XIII’s death. His real protector was Cardinal Jules Mazarin. There is indeed a gap of ten or fifteen years between the two d’Artagnans. But following the success of The Three Musketeers, Dumas extended the action to cover almost forty years of France’s history. In later volumes he adjusted his story to coincide better with real events.”
“Which events have been verified? I mean, historical events in which the real d’Artagnan was involved?”
“Quite a few. His name appears in Mazarin’s letters and in the correspondence of the Ministry of War. Like the fictional hero, he was the cardinal’s agent during the Fronde rebellion, with important responsibilities at the court of Louis XIV. He was even entrusted with the delicate matter of detaining and escorting the finance minister Fouquet. All these events were confirmed in the letters of Madame de Sevigne. He could even have met the painter Velazquez on the Isle of Pheasants when he accompanied Louis XIV on the king’s journey to meet his bride-to-be, Maria Theresa of Austria....”
“He was quite a man of the court then. Very different from Dumas’s swashbuckling d’Artagnan.”
I raised my hand in defense of Domas’s respect for the facts.
“Don’t be fooled. Charles de Batz, or d’Artagnan, went on fighting to the end of his life. He served under Turenne in Flanders, and in 1657 was appointed lieutenant in the gray musketeers, which was equivalent to commander. Ten years later he became a captain in the musketeers and fought in Flanders, a post equivalent to cavalry general.”
Corso was squinting behind his glasses.
“Excuse me.” He leaned across the table toward me, pencil in hand. He’d been writing down a name or date. “In what year did this happen?”
“His promotion to general? 1667. Why did that draw your attention?”
He showed his incisors as he bit his lower lip. But only for an instant. “No reason.” As he spoke, his face regained its impassivity. “That same year a certain person was burned at the stake in Rome. A strange coincidence....” Now he was staring at me blankly. “Does the name Aristide Torchia mean anything to you?”
I tried to remember. I had no idea. “Not a thing,” I answered. “Does he have anything to do with Dumas?”
He hesitated. “No,” he said at last, although he didn’t seem very convinced. “I don’t think so. But please go on. You were talking about the real d’Artagnan in Flanders.”
“He died at Maastricht, as I’ve said, at the head of his men. A heroic death. The English and the French were besieging the town. They needed to cross a dangerous pass, and d’Artagnan offered to go first put of courtesy to his allies. A musket bullet tore through his jugular.”
“He never got to be marshal, then.”
“No. Alexandre Dumas deserves sole credit for giving the fictional d’Artagnan what a miserly Louis XIV refused his flesh-and-blood predecessor.... There are a couple of interesting books on the subject. You can take down the titles if you want. One is by Charles Samaran, D’Artagnan, capitaine des mousquetaires du roi, histoire veridique d’un her
os de roman, published in 1912. The other one is Le vrai d’Artagnan, written by the Duke of Montesquieu-Fezensac, a direct descendant of the real d’Artagnan. Published in 1963, I think.”
None of this information was obviously related to the Dumas manuscript, but Corso noted it down as if his life depended on it. Occasionally he looked up from his notepad and glanced at me inquisitively through his crooked glasses. Or he put his head to one side as if he were no longer listening, absorbed in his own thoughts. At that time, I knew all the facts about “The Anjou Wine,” even certain keys to the mystery of which Corso was unaware. But I had no idea of the complex implications that The Nine Doors would have for this story. Despite his logical turn of mind, Corso was already beginning to glimpse sinister links between the facts at his disposal and—how shall I put it—the literary source of those facts. This may all appear rather confused, but we must remember that this was how it seemed to Corso at the time. And although I am narrating the story after the resolution of its momentous events, the very nature of the loop—think of Escher’s paintings, or the work of that old trickster, Bach—forces us to return continually to the beginning and limit ourselves to the narrow confines of Corso’s knowledge. The rule is to know and keep silent. Even if there is foul play, without the rule there is no game.
“OK,” said Corso once he’d written down the recommended titles. “That’s the first d’Artagnan, the real one. And Dumas’s fictional character is the third one. I’m assuming the connection between them is the book by Gatien de Courtilz you showed me the other day, the Memoirs of M. d’Artagnan.”
“Correct. We can call him the missing link, the least famous of the three. A Gascon who is an intermediary, a literary character and a real person in one. The very same that Dumas used to create his character... The writer Gatien de Courtilz de Sandras was a contemporary of d’Artagnan. He recognized the novelistic potential of the character and set to work. A century and a half later, Dumas found out about the book during a trip to Marseilles. His landlord had a brother who ran the municipal library. Apparently the brother showed Dumas the book, edited in Cologne in 1700. Dumas saw that he could make use of the story and asked to borrow the book. He never returned it.”
The Dumas Club: The Ninth Gate Page 9
