the Chateau d’If. He’s gnawing on a bone. This might be the most utterly delightful detail of this whole place.
“He’s the guard dog.” Alexandre chuckles, then points to the study. “Check out the fa?ade. Dumas had the names of his novels and some of his favorite characters carved in stone.”
I read out loud from the stone placards that surround the main door. “The Count of Monte Cristo, The Corsican Brothers, The Castle Eppstein, Jacques Ortis . . .” I start counting the titles. At eighty my gaze halts on a figure carved into the side. “Hold on. Is that—”
Alexandre nods. “Yup. Dantès. The character that inspired this whole place.”
“Enchantée, Comte,” I say, offering a tiny curtsy. I turn to face Alexandre. “Don’t take this the wrong way, but I can see why that developer wants to make this estate into a resort—he’d make a killing.”
Alexandre sighs. “For now, it’s for your eyes only,” he says, giving me a slight bow and then gesturing toward the door.
“What? Are you serious?”
“It’s not open to the public because it needs renovation, but—”
“You have the Dumas all-access pass. But is it, like, structurally sound?”
“We’ll find out if the roof caves in over our heads,” Alexandre smirks. When I open my eyes wide at him, he adds, “It’s fine, mostly superficial damage. I actually took an evening train yesterday and slept here last night.”
Alexandre walks up to the door and opens it, ushering me in. I step through and am kind of . . . underwhelmed. Compared to the main Chateau, it’s spare and feels sort of crooked, like it’s leaning. Clearly all the expense was on the outside. Maybe it makes sense since this was his private study where he would retreat to write. It’s a solitary place.
The main room is empty except for a nondescript wooden desk pushed up against the window. A dark brown, worn wooden chair with a curved back and arms sits askew to the desk, a hole in its wicker seat.
“Is that his real desk?” I ask, trying not to sound disappointed.
“No. They say it belonged to his son, Alexandre Dumas, fils. Dumas sold off a lot of his furniture when he went bankrupt.” I think Alexandre senses my disillusionment. “It’s kind of sad, I guess. But this place was his sanctuary from what I understand were the never-ending parties at the Chateau and his needy entourage. And isn’t the light in this little room amazing?”
My cheeks flush with embarrassment. Like, who am I to judge the writing retreat of Alexandre Dumas? And when my Alexandre points to the soft light streaming into the room from the windows facing one another, I can picture the older, barrel-chested Dumas leaning over the desk scribbling, a ray of sun splashing across the page. If I were writing some of the French language’s greatest adventures, I guess this is how I’d like to write them, too. Surrounded by quiet, a fire roaring in the blue-tiled fireplace of my tiny castle, looking out into my garden and the woods beyond.
“Most of the house is empty—it’s passed through so many hands, anything of value was stripped or shoved into storage and forgotten somewhere. When the property was a school, this building was faculty housing,” Alexandre explains.
When Alexandre mentions teachers, my parents pop into my mind. I haven’t been thinking about them much because it was easier not to, but they return tomorrow. How am I going to explain all of this to them? Apparently, without thinking, I’ve adopted Julie’s life motto: Ask forgiveness, not permission. She’s going to be mad she missed the live play-by-play. Who knows, my parents are nerdy academics, and they might even be sorry they weren’t able to join me in these dusty old rooms. But they’ll probably also be angry that I didn’t tell them what I was doing. I know I’m going to have to tell the truth—share the secrets I’ve been hiding—at some point, but for now I nudge them out of my mind. No time to catastrophize about the future right now. I need to focus on where I am.
Alexandre steps into the kitchen and starts riffling through his backpack, while I take a few