deserved it. Talk about an ugly, tangled heap of emotions. Decades of heartbreak and death make Instagram scandals seem small. Byron sent that letter from England to Paris by ship. I was going bonkers when Zaid didn’t text me for four days. I cannot imagine the nail-biting anxiety of having to wait months or to never even know if the letter of your heart ever reached the intended. I’m suddenly overwhelmed by gratitude that fate landed me in this era. I mean, when my parents reminisce about the 1980s and ’90s and mix tapes and talking on a landline and watching TV with commercials, it feels like the Dark Ages. It’s snail mail. It’s a poem being hand carried over land and sea.
My phone dings. I stop on the street in front of my building. A text from Alexandre. A photo of another Gautier essay he found in the Revue he wanted us to look at. Okay, maybe inviting me over wasn’t an excuse to relive our romantic moments. Seems this Gautier article may never have been published, though, because Alexandre says he found it in an appendix. I unlock the door and read as I walk up the steps to my apartment.
September 1849
. . . Ceremonially dressed in Arab costume, as my compatriots, I notice a somber mood has befallen our usual jolly gathering. Few partake tonight in what Baudelaire has termed his “playground of the seraphim.” Dumas broods in the corner, and his dark humor fills the room. I dare not ask what troubles him. Even Delacroix, his confidant, cannot convince him to indulge in the green sweetmeat that may open the door to celestial voices. “I do not seek a muse,” he utters under his breath. “There is no solace for me here. Only pain.” It is only when the concealed panel opens and Leila—for we have come to know the tarot reader by this name—emerges from her hidden chamber that his mood lightens and an expression reminiscent of a smile dares appear on his face. But it is merely a ghost of what once was, I fear. The tarot reader finds her seat at the small wooden table in the corner. She takes care to cover it with a crimson scarf, placing her deck in the center, then folds her hands in her lap, waiting for the evening’s first customer. She observes the room from her advantageous positioning, smiling at each of us in our turn. When her face falls upon Dumas, her eyes warm to him, and she gives him a discreet nod that only I, attuned to minute observation, comprehend.
Dumas rises and places himself at the mercy of the cards. The lady with the raven tresses gestures to the deck with an open palm—bidding Dumas to separate it into three small piles. He whispers his question to her, then reaches out, but rather than the cards, takes her hand in his. Swiftly, she removes it to her lap, her smile faltering only briefly. But her eyes soften, and an unspoken understanding seems to pass between them. Dumas looks down. Since I first entered these doors, I cannot recall a moment where Dumas seemed so overcome by melancholia. He chooses three cards: past, present, future. L’Amoureux, La Roue de Fortune, La Mort. Even the tarot reader, insouciant though she often seems, gasps and pushes back from her chair. She utters her apologies and retreats to the hidden chamber that none but she is allowed to enter.
Those are the tarot cards we found—well, two anyway—the Wheel of Fortune and Death. A lump wells in my throat as I unlock the door and step into my empty apartment that suddenly feels full of ghosts. I’m not sure why I feel sad for people who are ancient history. Their story just feels so real. So of this moment. I text Alexandre:
Me: We need to go back to the H?tel.
Alexandre: The secret chamber?
Me: Obviously. Tonight.
Alexandre: Okay. Then pack your bags, because tomorrow we go to the Chateau de Monte-Cristo.
Me: I’m not staying overnight there with you. My parents would freak.
I don’t add that I am freaking out right now.
Alexandre: Sorry. I was trying to use that American idiom. The Chateau is only 1 hour by train.
Me:
Alexandre: .