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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.
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