She stood up at the same time as he did. He put the canvas bag over his shoulder, and they made their way slowly toward the river. The girl, walking on the inside, occasionally stopped in front of a shopwindow, calling his attention to a picture, an engraving, a book. She looked at everything with wide eyes and intense curiosity and seemed nostalgic as she smiled thoughtfully, as if searching for traces of herself in those old things. As if, in some corner of her memory, she shared a common past with the few survivors washed up by the tide after each of history's inexorable shipwrecks.
There were two bookshops, one on either side of the street, facing each other. Achille Replinger's had a very old, elegant front of varnished wood, with a sign that said LIVRES ANCIENS, AUTOGRAPHES ET DOCUMENTS HISTORIQUES. Corso told the girl to wait outside, and she didn't object. As he went to the door, he looked in the window and saw her reflection over his shoulder. She was on the other side of the street, watching him.
A bell rang as he pushed the door open. There was an oak table, shelves full of old books, stands with folders of prints, and a dozen old wooden filing cabinets. These had letters in alphabetical order, carefully written in brass slots. On the wall was a framed autograph with the caption "Fragment of Tartuffe. Moliere." Also, three good prints: Victor Hugo, Flaubert, and Dumas in the center.
Achille Replinger was standing by the table. He was thickset and had a reddish complexion. Porthos with a bushy gray mustache and double chin overlapping the collar of his shirt, which was worn with a knitted tie. He was expensively but carelessly dressed. His jacket strained to contain his girth, and his flannel trousers were creased and sagging.
"Corso ... Lucas Corso," he said, holding Boris Balkan's letter of introduction in his thick, strong fingers and frowning. "Yes, he called me the other day. Something about Dumas."
Corso put his bag on the table and took out the folder with the fifteen manuscript pages of "The Anjou Wine." The bookseller spread them out in front of him, arching his brow.
"Interesting," he said softly. "Very interesting."
He wheezed as he spoke, breathing with difficulty like an asthmatic. He took his glasses from one of his jacket pockets and put them on after a brief glance at his visitor. He bent over the pages. When he looked up, he was smiling ecstatically.
"Extraordinary," he said. "I'll buy it from you here and now."
"It's not for sale."
Replinger seemed surprised. He pursed his lips, nearly pouting. "I thought..."
"I just need an expert opinion. You'll be paid for your time, of course."
Achille Replinger shook his head. He didn't care about the money. Confused, he stopped to look at Corso mistrustfully a couple of times over his glasses. He bent over the manuscript again.
"A pity," he said at last. He regarded Corso with curiosity, as if wondering how on earth such a thing had fallen into his hands. "How did you get hold of it?"
"I inherited it from an old aunt. Have you ever seen it before?"
Still suspicious, Replinger looked over Corso's shoulder, through the window at the street, as if someone out there might be able to give him some information about his visitor. Or maybe he was considering how to answer Corso's question. He pulled at his mustache, as if it were false and he were making sure it was still in place, and smiled evasively.
"Here in the quartier you can never be sure if you've seen something before.... This has always been a good area for people who deal in books and prints. People come here to buy and sell, and everything has passed several times through the same hands." He paused to catch his breath, then looked at Corso uneasily. "I don't think so.... No, I've never seen this manuscript before," he said. He looked out at the street again, flushed. "I'd be sure if I had."
"So it's authentic?" asked Corso.
"Well ... In fact, yes." Replinger wheezed as he stroked the blue pages. He seemed to be trying to stop himself from touching them. Finally he held one up between his thumb and forefinger. "Semirounded, medium-weight handwriting, no annotations or erasures ... Almost no punctuation marks, and unexpected capital letters. This is definitely Dumas at his peak, toward the middle of his life, when he wrote The Musketeers." He'd become more animated as he spoke. Now he fell silent and lifted a finger. Corso could see him smiling beneath his mustache. He seemed to have reached a decision. "Wait just one moment."
He went over to one of the filing cabinets marked D and took out some buff-colored folders.
"All this is by Alexandre Dumas père. The handwriting is identical."
There were about a dozen documents, some unsigned or else initialed A. D. Some had the full signature. Most were short notes to publishers, letters to friends, or invitations.
"This is one of his American autographs," explained Replinger. "Lincoln requested one, and Dumas sent him ten dollars and a hundred autographs. They were sold in Pittsburgh for charity." He showed Corso all the documents with restrained but obvious professional pride. "Look at this one. An invitation to dine with him on Montecristo, at the house he had built in Port-Marly. Sometimes he signed only his initials, and sometimes he used pseudonyms. But not all the autographs in circulation are authentic. At the newspaper The Musketeer, which he owned, there was a man called Viellot who could imitate his handwriting and signature. And during the last three years of his life, Dumas's hands trembled so much he had to dictate his work."
"Why blue paper?"
"He had it sent from Lille. It was made for him specially by a printer who was a great admirer. He almost always used this color, especially for the novels. Occasionally he used pale pink for his articles, or yellow for poetry. He used several different pens, depending on the kind of thing he was writing. And he couldn't stand blue ink."
Corso pointed to the four white pages of the manuscript, with notes and corrections. "What about these?"
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 Athos, 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?"
Replmger shrugged his powerful shoulders, hesitating.
"Not a great deal." Once again he sounded evasive. "He was ten years younger than Dumas. A mutual friend, Gérard 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 want
ed 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.
"Their technique was complicated." Replinger gestured at the chairs and table, as if the scene had taken place there. "Dumas drew up a plan for each novel and discussed it with his collaborator, who then did the research and made an outline of the story, or a first draft. These were the white pages. Then Dumas would rewrite it on the blue paper. He worked in his shirtsleeves, and only in the morning or at night, hardly ever in the afternoon. He didn't drink coffee or spirits while writing, only seltzer water. Also he rarely smoked. He wrote page after page under pressure from his publishers, who were always demanding more. Maquet sent him the material in bulk by post, and Dumas would complain about the delays." Replinger took a sheet from the folder and put it on the table in front of Corso. "Here's proof, in one of the notes they exchanged during the writing of Queen Margot. As you can see Dumas was complaining. "All is going perfectly, despite the six or seven pages of politics we'll have to endure so as to revive interest If we're not going faster dear friend it is your fault I've been hard at work since nine o'clock yesterday " He paused to take a breath and pointed at "The Anjou Wine." "These four pages in Maquet's handwriting with annotations by Dumas were probably received by Dumas only moments before Te Siecle went to press So he had to make do with rewriting a few of them and hurriedly correcting some of the other pages on the original itself.
He put the papers back in their folders and returned them to the filing cabinet, under D. Corso had time to cast a final glance at Dumas's note demanding more pages from his collaborator. In addition to the handwriting, which was similar in every way, the paper was identical—blue with faint squaring—to that of "The Anjou Wine" manuscript. One folio was cut in two—the bottom more uneven than the others. Maybe all the pages had been part of the same ream lying on the novelist's desk.
"Who really wrote The Three Musketeers?"
Replinger, busy shutting the filing cabinet, took some time to answer.
"I can't give you a definitive answer. Maquet was a resourceful man, he was well versed in history, he had read a lot ... but he didn't have the master's touch."
"They fell out with each other in the end, didn't they?"
"Yes. A pity. Did you know they traveled to Spain together at the time of Isabel II's wedding? Dumas even published a serial, From Madrid to Cadiz, in the form of letters. As for Maquet, he later went to court to demand that he be declared the author of eighteen of Dumas's novels, but the judges ruled that his work had been only preparatory. Today he is considered a mediocre writer who used Dumas's fame to make money. Although there are some who believe that he was exploited—the great man's ghostwriter...."
"What do you think?"
Replinger glanced furtively at Dumas's portrait above the door.
"I've already told you that I'm not an expert like my friend Mr. Balkan, just a trader, a bookseller." He seemed to reflect, weighing where his professional opinion ended and his personal taste began. "But I'd like to draw your attention to something. In France between 1870 and 1894, three million books and eight million serials were sold with the name of Alexandre Dumas on the title page. Novels written before, during, and after his collaboration with Maquet. I think that has some significance."
"Fame in his lifetime, at least," said Corso.
"Definitely. For half a century he was the voice of Europe. Boats were sent over from the Americas for the sole purpose of bringing back consignments of his novels. They were read just as much in Cairo, Moscow, Istanbul, and Chandernagor as in France.... Dumas lived life to the full, enjoying all his pleasures and his fame. He lived and had a good time, stood on the barricades, fought in duels, was taken to court, chartered boats, paid pensions out of his own pocket, loved, ate, drank, earned ten million and squandered twenty, and died gently in his sleep, like a child." Replinger pointed at the corrections to Maquet's pages. "It could be called many things: talent, genius.... But whatever it was, he didn't improvise, or steal from others." He thumped his chest like Porthos. "It's something you have in here. No other writer has known such glory in his lifetime. Dumas rose from nothing to have it all. As if he'd made a pact with God."
"Yes," said Corso. "Or with the devil."
HE CROSSED THE ROAD to the other bookshop. Outside, under an awning, stacks of books were piled up on trestle tables. The girl was still there, rummaging among the books and bunches of old pictures and postcards. She was standing against the light. The sun was on her shoulders, turning the hair on the back of her head and her temples golden. She didn't stop what she was doing when he arrived.
"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 halfheart
edly.
"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 Eugénie 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."