The Club Dumas

halo

diff.

In other words, although the engravings appeared identical, one of the three was always different, with the exception of engraving VIIII. Moreover, the differences were distributed over the three books. But the apparently arbitrary distribution acquired meaning when one examined the differences alongside those between the printer’s marks for the signatures of inventor (the original creator of the pictures) and sculptor (the artist who made the engravings), A. T. and L. F.

printer’s marks for signatures

I

II

III

mi

V

VI

VII

VIII

VIIII

One

AT(s)

at(s)

AT(s)

AT(s)

AT(s)

lf(s)

AT(s)

AT(s)

AT(_S)

AT(i)

LF(i)

AT(i)

AT(i)

LF(i)

AT(i)

AT(i)

AT(i)

AT(i)

Two

at(s)

AT(s)

AT(s)

AT(s)

AT(s)

AT(s)

AT(s)

AT(s)

AT(s)

AT(i)

AT(i)

AT(i)

LF(i)

AT(i)

AT(i)

LF(i)

LF(i)

AT(i)

Three

AT(s)

AT(s)

AT(s)

AT(_S)

AT(s)

AT(s)

AT(s)

AT(s)

AT(s)

LF(i)

AT(i)

LF(i)

AT(i)

AT(i)

LF(i)

AT(i)

AT(i)

AT(i)

If he superimposed the two tables, he found a coincidence: in each of the engravings that differed from the other two, the ini­tials of the inventor were also different. This meant that Aristide Torchia, as sculptor, had made all the woodcuts for the prints in the book. But he was identified as inventor of the original drawings in only nineteen of the twenty-seven engravings contained in the three books combined. The other eight, distributed over the three copies—two engravings in book one, three in book two, and three in book three—had been created by somebody else, somebody with the initials L. F. Phonetically very close to the name Lucifer.

Towers. Hand. Arrow. Exit from the labyrinth. Sand. Hanged man’s foot. Board. Halo. This was where the errors lay. Eight differences, eight correct engravings, no doubt copied from the original, the obscure Delomelanicon, and nineteen al­tered, unusable engravings, distributed over the pages of the three copies, identical only in text and outward appearance. Therefore none of the three books was a forgery, but none of them was entirely authentic, either. Aristide Torchia had con­fessed the truth to his executioners, but not the whole truth. There did indeed remain only one book. As hidden and as safe from the flames as it was forbidden to the unworthy. The en­gravings were the key. One book hidden within three copies. For the disciple to surpass the master, he had to reconstruct the book using the codes, the rules of the Art.

Corso sipped his gin and looked out at the darkness over the Seine, beyond the streetlights that lit up part of the quayside and threw deep shadows beneath the bare trees. He didn’t feel euphoric at his victory, nor even simply satisfied at finishing a difficult job. He knew the mood well: the cold, lucid calm when he finally got hold of a book he’d been chasing for a long time. When he managed to cut in front of a competitor, nail a book after a delicate negotiation, or dig up a gem in a pile of old papers and rubbish. He remembered Nikon in another time an place sticking labels on videotapes, sitting on the floor by the television, rocking gently in time to the music—Audrey