“Wonderful evening,” said Rochefort, inclining his head to Corso to make himself heard above the roar.
He seemed to know his way. He walked confidently, turning occasionally to make sure his companion was still there. He didn’t need to, because at that moment Corso would have followed him to the very gates of hell. And Corso didn’t rule out the possibility that this in fact might be their ultimate destination. With each successive flash of lightning he saw a medieval archway, a bridge over an ancient moat, a sign saying BOULANGERIE-PATISSERIE, a deserted square, a conical tower, and finally an iron gate with the sign CHATEAU DE MEUNG-SUR-LOIRE. XIIIEME-XIIIIEME SIECLE.
A window was lit up in the distance, beyond the gate, but Rochefort went right, and Corso followed. They walked along a stretch of ivy-clad wall until they reached a half-hidden door in the wall. Rochefort took out a huge, ancient iron key and put it in the lock.
“Joan of Arc came through this door,” he told Corso as he turned the key. One final flash of lightning revealed steps descending into darkness. In the momentary brightness Corso also saw Rochefort’s smile, his dark eyes shining beneath the hat, the livid scar on his cheek. At least the man was a worthy opponent, he thought. Nobody could complain about the staging; it was impeccable. In spite of himself he was beginning to feel a kind of twisted sympathy for this Rochefort—whoever he was—playing the villain so conscientiously. Alexandre Dumas would have approved.
Rochefort now held a small flashlight that lit up the long, narrow staircase disappearing into the cellar.
“You first,” he said.
Their steps echoed around the turns of the passageway. Corso was soon shivering inside his wet coat. Cold, musty air, smelling of the damp of centuries, rose to meet them. The beam of light showed worn steps, water stains on the vaulted ceiling. The staircase ended in a narrow corridor with rusty railings. For a moment Rochefort shone the flashlight on a circular pit to their left.
“These are the ancient dungeons of Bishop Thibault D’Aussigny,” he told Corso. “From there they threw the corpses into the Loire. Francois Villon was a prisoner here.” And he muttered the following line melodramatically: Ayez pitie, ayez pita de moi... Definitely a well-educated villain. Self-assured and with a hint of didacticism. Corso couldn’t decide whether this made the situation better or worse. But a thought had been going through his head since they entered the passageway: If all is lost, we may as well jump in the river. But he didn’t find his joke funny.
The passageway now rose beneath the dripping arches. The bright eyes of a rat glittered at the end of the gallery, and the animal disappeared with a cry. The passageway widened into a circular room whose ceiling, supported by pointed ribs, rested on a thick central column.
“The crypt,” said Rochefort, moving the flashlight beam around. He was becoming talkative. “Twelfth century. The women and children hid here when the castle was attacked.”
Very interesting. But Corso wasn’t in the mood to appreciate the information provided by his outlandish guide. He was tense and alert, waiting for the right moment. They now climbed a spiral staircase, the storm still flashing and booming beyond the castle walls, filtered through the slot windows.
“Only a few meters more and we’re there,” said Rochefort from behind and below. He sounded quite conciliatory. The flashlight shone between Corso’s legs. “Now that this business is nearly over,” he added, “I must tell you something. In spite of everything, you did well. The proof is that you got this far.... I hope you aren’t too sore about what happened by the Seine and at the Hotel Crillon. Occupational hazards.”
He didn’t say which occupation, but it didn’t matter. Corso turned casually and stopped, as if to answer or ask him a question. The movement wasn’t in the least suspicious, so Rochefort didn’t object and wasn’t at all ready when Corso, in the same motion, fell on him, his arms and legs braced against the wall so he wouldn’t be dragged down the stairs. Rochefort’s position was different—the steps were narrow, the wall smooth and without handholds, and in addition he had been caught off guard. The flashlight, miraculously intact, illuminated the scene for several moments as it rolled down the staircase: Rochefort with his eyes wide and a stunned look on his face, flailing wildly, trying desperately to grab something, falling down the spiral staircase, his hat rolling until it stopped on one of the steps... Then, six or seven meters farther down, a muffled sound, something like thump or maybe thud, Corso, still gripping the walls with his arms and legs so he wouldn’t accompany his opponent on his uncomfortable journey, now sprang into action. His heart pounded uncontrollably as he ran down the stairs, taking three steps at a time. He picked up the flashlight on his way. At the bottom lay Rochefort rolled into a ball, moving weakly, in pain.
“Occupational hazard,” said Corso, shining the flashlight on his own face so that, from the floor, Rochefort could see his friendly smile. Then he kicked him in the head and heard it slam hard against the bottom step. He raised his foot to kick again, just to make sure, but one look told him it wasn’t necessary: Rochefort was lying with his mouth open and blood was trickling from his ear. Corso leaned over to see if the man was breathing and saw that he was. Then he opened his raincoat and rifled through his pockets. He took the switchblade, a wallet full of money, a French ID, and the folder with the Dumas manuscript, which he put under his coat, between his belt and shirt. Then he pointed the flashlight beam at the staircase and went back up, to the top this time, where there was a landing with a door that had thick iron hinges and hexagonal nailheads. A crack of light filtered from beneath it. He stood motionless for some thirty seconds, trying to catch his breath and calm the beating of his heart. The solution to the mystery lay on the other side of the door, and he prepared to face it with his teeth clenched, the flashlight in one hand and Rochefort’s knife, which opened with a menacing click, in the other.
Knife in hand, hair soaked and disheveled, and eyes shining with homicidal determination—that’s how I saw Corso enter the library.
XV. CORSO AND RICHELIEU
And I, who had created a short novel around him,
had been completely mistaken.
—Souvestre et Allain, FANTOMAS
The time has come to reveal the narrator. Faithful to the tradition that the reader of a mystery novel must possess the same information as the protagonist, I have presented the events only from Lucas Corso’s perspective, except on two occasions: chapters 1 and 5 of this story, when I had no choice but to appear myself. In both these cases, and as now for the third and final time, I used the first person for the sake of coherence. It would have been absurd to refer to myself as “he,” a publicity stunt that may have yielded dividends for Julius Caesar in his campaign in Gaul but would have been judged, in my case, and quite rightly, as unpardonable pedantry. There is another, more perverse reason: telling the story as if I were Dr. Sheppard addressing Poirot struck me as, if not ingenious (everybody does that sort of thing now), then an amusing device. After all, people write for amusement, or excitement, or out of self-love, or to have others love them. I write for some of the same reasons. To quote Eugene Sue, villains who are all of a piece, if you’ll permit me the expression, are very rare phenomena. Assuming—and it may be too much to assume—that I am a villain.
The fact is that I, the undersigned, Boris Balkan, was there in the library, awaiting our guest. Corso entered suddenly, knife in hand and an avenging gleam in his eye. I noticed that he had no escort, which worried me slightly, although I retained my mask of imperturbability. Otherwise I had set the stage well: the library in darkness, a candelabrum burning on the desk before me, a copy of The Three Musketeers in my hands ... I even wore a red velvet jacket that was—it must have seemed like pure coincidence to Corso but was in fact nothing of the sort—strongly reminiscent of a cardinal’s purple.
My big advantage was that I was expecting Corso, with or without an escort, but he wasn’t expecting me. I made the most of his surprise. The knife he held was wor
rying, together with the menacing look in his eyes, so I decided to speak to forestall any move from him.
“Congratulations,” I said, closing the book as if his arrival had interrupted my reading. “You’ve managed to play the game right to the end.”
He stood staring at me from the other end of the room, and I have to say that I found his look of disbelief highly amusing.
“Game?” he managed to say hoarsely.
“Yes, game. Suspense, uncertainty, a high level of skill... The possibility of acting freely yet according to rules, as an end in itself. With a sense of tension and pleasure at the difference from ordinary life....” These were not my own words, but Corso wouldn’t know that. “Do you think that’s an adequate definition? As the second book of Samuel says: ‘Let the young men now arise, and play before us.’ Children are the perfect players and readers: they do everything with the utmost seriousness. In essence, games are the only universally serious activity. They leave no room for skepticism, wouldn’t you agree? However incredulous or doubting you might be, if you want to play, you have no choice but to follow the rules. Only the person who respects the rules, or at least knows and applies them, can win. Reading a book is the same: you have to accept the plot and the characters to enjoy the story.” I paused, trusting that my flow of words had had a sufficiently calming effect. “By the way, you didn’t get here on your own. Where is he?”
“Rochefort?” Corso was grimacing in a very unpleasant way. “He had an accident.”
“You call him Rochefort, do you? How amusing and appropriate. I see you’ve followed the rules. I don’t know why it should surprise me.”
Corso treated me to a rather unnerving smile. “He certainly looked surprised the last time I saw him.”
“That sounds rather alarming.” I smiled coolly, although I actually was alarmed. “I hope nothing serious happened.”
“He fell down the stairs.”
“What?”
“You heard me. But don’t worry. Your henchman was still breathing when I left him.”
“Thank God.” I managed to smile again and hide my unease. This went beyond what I had planned. “So you’ve done a touch of cheating, have you? Well,” I said, spreading my hands magnanimously, “no need to worry about it.”
“I’m not. You’re the one who should be worried.”
I pretended not to hear this. “The important thing is that you’ve arrived,” I went on, although I’d lost the thread momentarily. “As far as cheating goes, you have illustrious predecessors. Theseus escaped from the labyrinth thanks to Ariadne’s thread, Jason stole the golden fleece with Medea’s help.... The Kaurabas used subterfuge to win at dice in the Mahabharata, and the Achaeans checkmated the Trojans by moving a wooden horse. Your conscience is clear.”
“Thanks, but my conscience is my business.”
From his pocket he took Milady’s letter folded in four, and he threw it on the table. I immediately recognized my own handwriting, with the slightly affected capitals. It is by my order and for the benefit of the State that the bearer of this note, etc.
“I hope, at least, that the game was enjoyable,” I said, holding the paper in the candle flame.
“At times.”
“I’m glad.” I dropped the letter in the ashtray, and we both watched it burn. “In matters of literature, the intelligent reader may even enjoy the strategy used to turn him into the victim. I believe that enjoyment is an excellent reason for playing. Or for reading a story, or writing one.”
I stood up, holding The Three Musketeers, and paced around the room, glancing discreetly at the clock on the wall. There were still twenty long minutes to go before twelve. The gilding shone on the spines of the ancient books lined up on their shelves. I looked at them a moment, as if forgetting Corso, then turned to him.
“There they are.” I made a sweeping gesture to include the whole library. “They are silent and yet talk among themselves. They communicate through their authors, just as the egg uses the hen to produce another egg.”
I put The Three Musketeers back on its shelf. Dumas was in good company: between Los Pardellanes by Zevaco and The Knight with the Yellow Doublet by Lucas de Rene. As there was time to spare, I opened The Knight at the first page and began to read aloud:
As Saint Germain I’Auxerrois struck twelve, three horsemen descended the Rue des Astruces, each wrapped in a cape, seemingly as sure as the stride of their horses....
“The first lines,” I said. “Always those extraordinary first lines. Do you remember our conversation about Scaramouche? He was born with the gift of laughter.... Some opening sentences leave their mark a whole lifetime, don’t you agree? Of arms and the man I sing. Have you never played this game with someone you trust? A modest young man headed in midsummer, or that other one, For a long time I used to go to bed early. And of course, On the 15th of May 1796, General Bonaparte entered Milan.”
Corso frowned.
“You’re forgetting the one that brought me here: On the first Monday of April 1625, the market town ofMeung, the birthplace of the author of Roman de la Rose, was in a state of commotion.”
“Indeed, chapter one,” I said. “You have done very well.”
“That’s what Rochefort said before he fell down the stairs.”
There was silence, broken only by the clock striking a quarter to twelve. Corso pointed at the clock face. “Fifteen minutes to go, Balkan.”
“Yes,” I said. The man was devilishly intuitive. “Fifteen minutes till the first Monday in April.”
I put The Knight with the Yellow Doublet back on the shelf and continued pacing. Corso stood watching me, holding the knife.
“You could put that away,” I ventured.
He hesitated a moment before shutting the blade and putting it away in his pocket, still watching me. I smiled approvingly and again indicated the library.
“One is never alone with a book nearby, don’t you agree?” I said, to be conversational. “Every page reminds us of a day that has passed and makes us relive the emotions that filled it. Happy hours underlined in red pencil, dark ones in black... Where was I, then? What prince called me his friend, what beggar called me his brother?” I hesitated, searching for another phrase to round off the idea.
“What son of a bitch called you his buddy?” suggested Corso.
I looked at him reprovingly. The wet blanket insisted on bringing down the tone. “No need to be unpleasant.”
“I’ll do what I please. Your Eminence.”
“I detect sarcasm,” I said, offended. “From that I deduce that you have given in to prejudice, Mr. Corso. It was Dumas who made Richelieu a villain when he wasn’t one, and falsified reality for literary expediency. I thought I’d explained that at our last meeting at the cafe in Madrid.”
“A dirty trick,” said Corso, not specifying whether he meant Dumas or me.
I raised a finger, ready to state my case. “A legitimate device,” I objected, “inspired by the shrewdness and genius of the greatest novelist who ever lived. And yet...” I smiled bitterly. “Sainte-Beuve respected him but didn’t accept him as a man of letters. His friend, Victor Hugo, praised his capacity for dramatic action, but nothing more. Prolific, long-winded, they said. With little style. They accused him of not delving into the anxieties of human beings, of lacking subtlety.... Lacking subtlety!” I touched the volumes of The Three Musketeers lined up on the shelf. “I agree with our good father Stevenson— there is no paean to friendship as long, eventful, or beautiful. In Twenty Years After, when the protagonists reappear, they are distanced at first. They are now men of mature years, selfish, with all the pettiness that life imposes. They even belong to opposing camps. Aramis and d’Artagnan lie and dissemble, Porthos fears being asked for money.... When they agree to meet at the Place Royale, they come armed and almost fight. And in England, when Athos’s imprudence puts them all in danger, d’Artagnan refuses to shake his hand. In The Vicomte de Bragelonne, with the mystery of the iron mask, Aramis a
nd Porthos stand against their old comrades. This happens because they’re alive, because they’re human, full of contradictions. But always, at the moment of truth, friendship wins out. A great thing, friendship! Do you have friends, Corso?”
“That’s a good question.”
“For me, Porthos in the cave at Locmaria has always embodied friendship: the giant struggling beneath a rock to save his friends ... Do you remember his last words?”
“It’s too heavy?”
“Exactly!”
I confess I felt almost moved. Like the young man in a cloud of pipe smoke described by Captain Marlow, Corso was one of us. But he was also a bitter, stubborn man determined not to feel.
“You’re Liana Taillefer’s lover,” he said.
“Yes,” I admitted, reluctantly leaving thoughts of good Porthos aside. “Isn’t she a splendid woman? With her own particular obsessions... Beautiful and loyal, like Milady in the novel. It’s strange. There are characters in literature who have a life of their own, familiar to millions of people who haven’t even read the books in which they appear. In English literature there are three: Sherlock Holmes, Romeo, and Robinson Crusoe. In Spanish, two: Don Quixote and Don Juan. And in French literature there is one: d’Artagnan. But you see that I...”
“Let’s not go off on a tangent again, Balkan.”
“I’m not. I was about to add the name of Milady to d’Artagnan’s. An extraordinary woman. Like Liana, in her own way. Her husband never measured up to her.”
“Do you mean Athos?”
“No, I mean poor old Enrique Taillefer.”
“Was that why you murdered him?”
My amazement must have looked sincere. It was sincere. “Enrique murdered? Don’t be ridiculous. He hanged himself. He committed suicide. I should imagine that, with his way of looking at the world, he thought it a heroic gesture. Very regrettable.”
The Dumas Club: The Ninth Gate Page 30
