Solange by Alexandre Dumas

The horror of the guillotine

Alexandre Dumas

Alexandre Dumas is famous for his epic historical novels, which often unveil their intricate and grandiose narratives over the course of exceptionally lengthy books, as in The Count of Monte Cristo or The Three Musketeers trilogy. Though not known as a writer of short stories, Dumas did publish a few over the course of his prolific career. With his short story “Solange,” this master storyteller proves that he can pack that same feeling of epic drama and powerful emotion into a small package.

The story takes place during The Terror, the period of violent turmoil that occurred during and immediately following the French Revolution at the end of the 18th century. With the establishment of the First French Republic, the lower classes rose up to persecute the nobility, aristocracy, and the wealthy and propertied classes. Suspected aristocrats were being hunted down and executed at the guillotine. As the story of “Solange” opens, Dr. Ledru, the narrator, is accosted on the street by a beautiful young woman who is about to be arrested. Seeing Ledru pass by, this woman, named Solange, asks him to vouch for her, as an old acquaintance, and explain to the Republican soldiers that she is the daughter of a local laundress. Ledru obliges, confirms her story, and asks his friends high in the Republican administration to drop any charges against her. The truth, however, is that Ledru has never met this woman before. He places his reputation and his life on the line for her out of a sense of gentlemanly chivalry and a feeling of compassionate humanity. Solange is not who she pretends to be, and, despite having survived this one incident, her life is still in danger. Having inextricably entwined his fate with Solange from that moment forward, Ledru plots her escape to England.

Thus “Solange” starts out as a kind of Revolutionary espionage or prison break story. Not surprisingly, a romance also develops between the two leads. Eventually, however, it morphs into a horror tale worthy of Edgar Allen Poe. The ending is rather predictable, but even though you see it coming it is still shocking and powerfully moving. “Solange” calls to mind another great story about this period of the Revolution, Honoré de Balzac’s “An Episode Under the Terror.” Both are darkly romantic tales of life under violent times, when unsung heroes are called upon to risk peril in order to help others. “Solange” is the darker of the two, and neither could really be described as hopeful, but they both reaffirm humanity’s striving for the moral good in the face of the inevitability of fate. With an emotional impact disproportionate to its brevity, “Solange” is an engaging and memorable read.
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The Wolf-Leader by Alexandre Dumas

Faustian folklore of the French forests
The Wolf-Leader, a novel by Alexandre Dumas, was originally published in 1857 under the French title of Le Meneur de Loups. In the lengthy but entertaining introduction, Dumas explains that the novel is based on folktales he grew up hearing in his hometown of Villers-Cotterêts. This particular tale was told to him by a gamekeeper who often took him hunting as a young man. The novel contains elements of horror, fantasy, and science fiction, yet it times is also quite comic. Though deservedly not as well-known as classics like The Three Musketeers and The Count of Monte Cristo, The Wolf-Leader is nevertheless a lively, enjoyable, and engaging read.

The story takes place in the vicinity of Villers-Cotterêts around 1780. Thibault, a maker of sabots (wooden shoes) lives in a hut in the woods outside of town. One day the local baron, the Lord of Vez, passes through his yard while on a hunt, and the two have an encounter. Thibault makes some smart aleck remarks, and the baron beats him for his insolence. Soon after, Thibault tries to poach a deer, and for that he is whipped. Incensed at his ill treatment, Thibault vows that he will take his revenge upon the Lord of Vez. As if on cue, a wolf suddenly appears, and not just any wolf. This wolf, who walks on his hind legs and talks, turns out to be the devil’s emissary in lupine form. The sabot maker and the wolf strike a deal. Thibault is promised remarkable powers by which he may wreak his vengeance, but what the wolf gets in return is not made explicitly clear until well after the deal has been made.

Dumas crams a lot of witty, bantering dialogue into the novel and there are some funny slapstick moments too. As the story progresses it becomes more and more of a horror novel, with macabre scenes that would have been scary to a nineteenth-century audience. The Wolf-Leader has been described as a werewolf novel, but it’s really more complicated than that. For today’s readers, who have seen a lot of werewolves on film, Thibault is not that kind of werewolf. What’s frightening about the story is not a monstrous creature but rather the Faustian pact the Thibault makes with the devil. Nevertheless, there’s a surprising amount of violence in the novel, and randy hints at sexual shenanigans as well. A big part of the fun of this novel is the fact that the hero you’re rooting for is not a good guy, much like H. G. Wells’s The Invisible Man or Robert Louis Stevenson’s Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde. It’s easy to put yourself in Thibault’s place and wonder what you might do with such power if you were in his place.

Thibault makes a brief statement in the book about the inequality of the class hierarchy. His evil doings are a rebellion against the system that puts the Lord of Vez above him, based on birth alone. In other words, Thibault is sick and tired of being put down by The Man. Dumas doesn’t really follow through with this rebellious tone, however. Overall, the book offers a message of being happy with what you have rather than being swallowed up by envy, hatred, and anger.

The Wolf-Leader is not the greatest work Dumas ever wrote, but it is a good strong effort that doesn’t disappoint. Folktales and fantasy usually aren’t my thing, but I enjoyed this fun and fantastic tale. It strongest asset is its author’s sense of humor. If anyone can make chills, thrills, and laughter work together, it’s Dumas.
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Caverns of Time by Carlos McCune

Musketeers and motorcycles
Carlos McCune’s science fiction novella Caverns of Time was originally published in the July 1943 issue of the pulp magazine Fantastic Adventures. A truck driver named Clive is hauling gasoline through the Utah desert when he stumbles upon four gentlemen in anachronistic dress. They turn out to be the heroes of Alexandre Dumas’s Three Musketeers novels—Athos, Porthos, Aramis, and d’Artagnan. The four adventurers have inadvertently wandered through a time tunnel into 20th-century America. Clive not only kindly helps the Frenchmen find their way back to their own proper time and place, he follows them into 17th-century France, fights alongside them as they battle Cardinal Richelieu’s guards, and even manages to fall in love with Queen Anne.

I have been unable to turn up any information on author McCune, but judging from the writing one would expect him to have been a junior high school student when he penned this yarn. The whole purpose of the piece seems to be to show the Musketeers riding motorcycles, firing machine guns, driving tanks, and other “Wouldn’t it be cool if . . . ?” moments. The plot, if there is one, is an afterthought. McCune is clearly a fan of Dumas’s books, as am I, but he doesn’t do justice to the characters in this schlocky effort. The four legendary heroes are reduced to taking orders from Clive, an incredible McGyver-like figure who seems to know how to build just about anything, in addition to being an accomplished surgeon and a master swordsman. Unlike most time travel fiction, in which efforts are made not to change the events of the past, Clive unapologetically introduces as much modern technology and culture to his newfound bons amis as he possibly can, cutting a swath of mayhem and destruction from Normandy to Bohemia. He also hasn’t the slightest ethical qualm whatsoever with bringing an automatic weapon to a sword fight.

Caverns of Time is included in The Second Time Travel Megapack, a grab bag of sci-fi short stories and novellas from pulp fiction purveyors Wildside Press. It is the lengthiest selection in the collection, and also unfortunately the worst. Those who appreciate adventure stories from the pulp era recognize that when reading such material it’s necessary and often even enjoyable to suspend one’s disbelief, embrace absurd situations, and revel in gratuitous violence. One still has to have standards, however, and this train wreck doesn’t meet ‘em.

The Black Tulip by Alexandre Dumas

A subpar effort by Dumas
I consider myself a fan of Alexandre Dumas. I’ve read enough of his works to know that they’re not all action/adventure novels like the Three Musketeers. Yet, when I pick up a book by Dumas, the bare minimum that I expect from him are at least a few surprises, a certain degree of suspense, and most of all, some good honest entertainment. With The Black Tulip, I was disappointed on all counts.

Originally published in 1850 as Le Tulipe Noire, this novel takes place in 1672 in the Netherlands. Dumas opens the book by depicting an actual event in Dutch history. William of Orange has taken power in Holland. John de Witt, who presided over the previous republican government, and his brother Cornelius de Witt, a high official in his administration, are deposed from their offices and brutally assassinated in the streets of The Hague. This incident takes up the first few chapters of the book, but the main story revolves around Cornelius de Witt’s godson, Cornelius van Baerle. There exists a packet of executive correspondence written by the de Witts that everyone wants to get their hands on, though I cannot for the life of me figure out why these letters are so important when the people they are supposed to incriminate are already dead. Despite the attempts at political intrigue, the main plotline of the novel centers around Cornelius van Baerle’s avocation of tulip growing. The horticultural society of Haarlem has sponsored a lucrative prize to the first successful breeder of a perfectly black tulip. Van Baerle is on the verge of achieving this elusive goal, but a rival tulip fancier, envious of his botanical accomplishments, schemes to rob him of his precious flower.

Though Dumas is most famous for the Three Musketeers and The Count of Monte Cristo, the best thing about his work is not swashbuckling swordplay but rather the intricacy and ingenuity of his plots. The storyline of The Black Tulip, on the other hand, despite being adorned with a lot of historical details and tulip trivia, is painfully simple and straightforward. Although this is a rather short novel, there’s really only enough plot here to sustain a short story. What’s worse, it’s all very predictable. Dumas basically tells you what’s going to happen ahead of time, so all that’s left is to wait for the characters to experience what you know is coming. He often jumps back in time to portray the same scene from a different perspective, and the reader must sit through the characters explaining events to each other that were already covered in previous chapters. Not surprisingly, there’s a love story. “Whom do you love more, me or your tulip?” she asks. I don’t know, let’s discuss it for three or four chapters. Almost every scene in the book presents a circuitous conversation leading to a foregone conclusion. At no time did I ever feel surprised or wonder what was going to happen next. Other than the obvious historical research that was done to set the stage, it feels like Dumas and his team just phoned this one in to pay the bills.

There’s no doubt that Dumas is one of the world’s greatest storytellers. Perhaps I’m being too harsh because I set my expectations too high. After all, a bad book by Dumas is probably better than the best book by 90% of the authors that ever lived. However, the guy was one of literature’s most prolific authors. He wrote a lot of great stuff, so why read this one?
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The Man in the Iron Mask: The True Story of the Most Famous Prisoner in History and the Four Musketeers by Roger Macdonald

Truth really is stranger than fiction
In his 2008 book The Man in the Iron Mask, Roger Macdonald delves deeply into the real history behind the Three Musketeers novels of Alexandre Dumas. Though the novels are clearly based on actual events in the history of France, Dumas claimed that his most legendary characters—the Musketeers Athos, Porthos, Aramis, and d’Artagnan—were concoctions of his fertile imagination. The historical record shows clearly, however, that although Dumas may have invented the unique personalities of each of these inimitable characters, the four famous Musketeers were in fact real people. Macdonald traces the true stories of these four daring adventurers and tells you just about everything you’d want to know about their lives and times. Along the way he reveals the alleged biological father of King Louis XIV and puts a name to a certain famous prisoner whose identity was forcibly concealed behind an iron mask.

Despite the obvious Dumas connection, one need not have read that author’s works to appreciate this book. In fact, Macdonald barely mentions Dumas. He concentrates solely on the history, and doesn’t stop to draw parallels between the novels and reality. Frankly, there is so much information packed between the covers of this book, there’s little room for any lit crit. Though it may be a cliché, Macdonald is a writer who truly never wastes a word. You’ll find few books that cram enough sheer facts into each sentence as this one does, yet the prose is still smooth and captivatingly readable throughout. Nevertheless, the barrage of data can be relentless. If your mind wanders for a second you’ll miss something important. The personages are all so interconnected with one another that there’s little that’s not important. Macdonald includes a list of “Principal Characters” at the front of the book, but the brief descriptions offer little guidance through this tangled web. I must confess that after the Musketeers died I did lose track of some of the plot threads. (That’s not a spoiler. This is history. Everyone dies.) But I managed to thoroughly enjoy the book nonetheless.

Having done no historical research into this topic, other than reading the trilogy of novels by Dumas, I’m in no position to argue with Macdonald’s hypothesis as to the identity of the Man in the Iron Mask. I realize that his theory is but one of many, and for me the veracity of his claim is not a prerequisite for enjoying this book. Regardless of whether he’s solved this great mystery or not, I did learn an awful lot about historical events in France during the reign of Louis XIV. As a fan of Dumas, it was a joy to experience this story from another angle, to see how closely the novelist stuck to the truth and where exactly he strayed. Macdonald’s theory of who wore the mask is a fascinating and provocative one, and how it unfolds over the course of the book is a great ride. Like a crafty mystery writer, he wisely chooses not to reveal his candidate until nearly the very end of the book.

The third novel in the Musketeers trilogy, Le Vicomte de Bragelonne, is often reprinted in English under the title of The Man in the Iron Mask. In my opinion, Macdonald’s book is even more interesting and exciting than its namesake. While I loved the first two books of Dumas’ trilogy, the finale—which occupies much of the historic ground that Macdonald covers here—is easily the weakest of the three. Macdonald shows us that the real story was even more fantastic than the great novelist envisioned. The lives of d’Artagnan, Louis XIV, and the Man in the Iron Mask were at times so outlandish and astonishing, you really couldn’t make this stuff up.
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The Vicomte de Bragelonne by Alexandre Dumas

The Musketeers reduced to supporting roles

The Vicomte de Bragelonne is the final novel in the d’Artagnan Romances trilogy by Alexandre Dumas, following The Three Musketeers and Twenty Years After. This third installment was originally published in serial form from 1847 to 1850. It is impossible to review this novel without discussing its colossal length. This is the longest book I’ve ever read in my life, and I wish I could say it was worth the time and effort. Dumas’ superb novel The Count of Monte Cristo is also a long book, but from cover to cover there’s never a dull moment. In The Vicomte de Bragelonne, on the other hand, dull moments are the exception rather than the rule. There’s no doubt Dumas is an excellent writer. Each chapter in this book, if judged on its own merits, would seem chock full of brilliant dialogue and characterization. When taken together en masse, however, the resulting accumulation is replete with redundant conversations, wild goose chase subplots, and squandered opportunities. Dumas’ Musketeers are undoubtedly some of the most memorable and entertaining characters in the history of literature, but this book is clearly the worst of their three outings.

The novel is comprised of 268 chapters plus a lengthy epilogue. It has been printed in three- and four-volume editions, each of which at times has been given their own titles. This can cause confusion when these subdivisions are sold as individual ebooks, so make sure you’ve got all the chapters before you make your purchase. The final volume is usually titled The Man in the Iron Mask, which is sometimes mistakenly used as the title of the entire work. This is not only erroneous but also misleading, as the plot element involving the man in the iron mask takes up only a tiny portion of the novel. Even more mystifying is why Dumas chose to title the novel after Raoul, the Vicomte de Bragelonne (son of the Musketeer Athos) who’s barely present in the book.

Also absent from much of the book, unfortunately, are the Musketeers. It’s not unusual for 20 or 30 chapters to go by without hearing a peep out of any of them. They make periodic appearances throughout the book, alone or in pairs. It isn’t until the novel’s fourth quarter, however, when they finally become integral to the story. There are two main interlocking plots in the novel, neither of which directly revolves around d’Artagnan and his companions. The first concerns the love life of King Louis XIV, supplemented by other romantic couplings among those within his entourage. The second focuses on Monsieur Fouquet, France’s surintendant of finances, and the rise and fall of his fortune and status within the royal court. These two plots became very intricate and convoluted, at times to the point of tedium, and neither is as satisfying as the scraps of the Musketeers’ adventures that Dumas occasionally tosses us. Late in the book, one of the Musketeers manages to pull off perhaps the greatest caper of all time. In the very next chapter, however, he makes a ridiculously foolish move that results in an immense letdown for the reader. The book ends with a few good moments, but they’re too little too late to excuse the arduous course taken to get there. 

If you loved The Three Musketeers and Twenty Years After, of course you’re going to read this book. A mediocre Musketeers book by Dumas is better than no Musketeers book at all. Yet consider yourself warned that you may be in for a disappointment. Though Dumas clearly intended this work to be a monumental capstone to his trilogy, the result falls far short of a masterpiece.
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Twenty Years After by Alexandre Dumas

Just like old times
Originally published in 1845, Twenty Years After is the lesser-known sequel to Alexander Dumas’s classic novel The Three Musketeers. Dumas brings back his legendary heroes Athos, Porthos, Aramis, and d’Artagnan, as well as many of the supporting characters from the first book, for an adventure that contains all the action, humor, and suspense of the original installment. If you haven’t read the first book, you will be lost in this one, and even if you have, you might find yourself lost anyway. Twenty Years After relies more heavily on historical events than its predecessor. Dumas ingeniously weaves his fictional characters into the fabric of history, making them integral players behind the scenes of monumental events, without ever altering what’s written in the history books. The story is set in the mid-seventeenth century, a complicated period in France, but Dumas provides enough historical context to keep the reader oriented amid the political turmoil.

As the title indicates, it has been twenty years since the adventures of the first book. The four Musketeers have become estranged over time, and have not spoken in several years. D’Artagnan has spent the last two decades languishing in his post as lieutenant of the Musketeers, with no opportunity for advancement, insufficient pay, and no gratitude whatsoever from the queen for his heroic exploits of the past. Cardinal Richelieu has died. The new prime minister is Cardinal Mazarin, a less formidable but equally devious ruler, who is rumored to be the lover of Queen Anne of Austria. The two rule France on behalf of King Louis XIV, a ten-year-old boy. When Mazarin commissions d’Artagnan to perform a dangerous mission, he must track down his three friends for assistance. The reunion, however, is not entirely amicable. An insurrection arises in France, known as the Fronde. Led by certain members of Parliament, the citizens of Paris rebel against the monarchy in protestation of exorbitant taxation by Mazarin. This threat to the king and queen inspires various princes and dukes to jockey for position in a mad scramble for power. Meanwhile in England, the Puritan rebel Oliver Cromwell hunts down the English monarch King Charles I. Amidst all this intrigue and strife, our four heroes find themselves on opposite sides of two civil wars. As if that were not enough, a mysterious enemy from their past is pursuing them, hell-bent on revenge.

Twenty Years After is every bit as good as The Three Musketeers, if not better. It contains all the excitement and delight of the previous novel, but Dumas develops the characters further and provides a more artfully constructed plot. It’s only flaw is that the narrative requires too much time spent away from the Musketeers in order to keep track of all the historical figures. While the first book was loaded with duels, sword fights, drinking, and gambling, the second is more about political maneuvering and cunningly plotted strategies. What The Musketeers really need is a book that combines the best of both worlds. For that I hold out hope for the third book in the trilogy, The Vicomte de Bragelonne, which is named after the young ward that Athos has taken under his wing, who plays a minor role in this book. After reading Twenty Years After, I can’t wait to tackle the third installment, though this wonderful series of adventure novels is so enjoyable I will be sorry to see it come to an end.
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The Three Musketeers by Alexandre Dumas

The epitome of swashbuckling adventure
Few titles signify the thrill of romantic adventure as much as The Three Musketeers. Originally published in 1844, this historical novel by Alexandre Dumas established an archetype for all subsequent adventure literature. From that point on, any swashbuckling hero to grace the printed page or silver screen must be judged against the benchmark set by these three titular gentlemen and their protégé. Very few heroes, indeed, have been able to measure up to their dashing, their daring, and their devil-may-care attitude. While the Musketeers may be a household name in popular culture, today’s audience, desensitized by countless action movies and paperback thrillers, may wonder if the original novel is still worthy of reading. The answer, without hesitation, is a resounding yes.

Young d’Artagnan leaves his home village in Gascony to seek his fortune in Paris. His dream is to become one of the King’s Musketeers. Though possessed of the swordsman’s skill and cavalier disregard for his own life required for the position, d’Artagnan is nonetheless a wet-behind-the-ears provincial who needs guidance in the workings of big-city society. Though his initial encounters with the renowned Musketeers Athos, Porthos, and Aramis are clumsy and contentious, the four companions soon form an inseparable bond of friendship sealed by the vow, “All for one and one for all!” When the Prime Minister of France, Cardinal Richelieu, employing as his henchmen the cold-blooded swordsman the Comte de Rochefort and the beautiful but diabolical Milady de Winter, schemes against the Queen’s honor, our heroes must valiantly come to her rescue.

In this novel, Dumas ably demonstrates his mastery at creating complex and intriguing characters. Not only does each of the four main heroes possess a unique and memorable personality, each and every character from the King himself down to the lowliest, briefly mentioned innkeeper is a singular, fully fleshed out creation. Milady de Winter is hands down one of the greatest femme fatales in literature. To his credit, Dumas unflinchingly makes her as dastardly and nefarious, if not more so, than any masculine villain would be in her place.

If there is a flaw to The Three Musketeers, at times it is the plotting. Dumas demonstrates his usual deftness at juggling a large ensemble cast in a variety of interlocking adventures, but there are several dragging moments amidst all the capers, talky interludes in which the swordsmen gamble, mooch their way into free meals, or swindle their mistresses out of some coin. These scenes help to enhance character development, but nonetheless slow the momentum. Toward the end of the book there is a series of 10 or 12 chapters when Dumas abandons the Musketeers entirely, in order to concentrate on the scheming of the villainess. This proves too long an absence from such beloved heroes. As good as this book is, its sequel, Twenty Years After, is actually even better and more skillfully plotted. And though he may be more famous for his Musketeers, Dumas’s greatest work is undoubtedly The Count of Monte Cristo, an absolute masterpiece.

The most surprising thing about The Three Musketeers is its remarkable change in tone from beginning to end. It starts out a slapstick comedy and ends about as dark and shocking as a swashbuckler can get. It is a testament to Dumas’s skill as a storyteller that such a drastic transition feels not only natural but necessary. Along the way the reader is treated to one heck of a roller coaster ride that, despite being crafted over a century and a half ago, is still incredibly fresh, exciting, and fun.
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The Corsican Brothers by Alexandre Dumas

Not quite a swashbuckler, but still a good read
The Corsican Brothers, a short novel by Alexandre Dumas, was originally published in 1844. The narrator of the story is Dumas himself, or at least a famous Parisian author named Alexandre. Visiting the island of Corsica as a tourist in the Spring of 1841, the writer seeks to experience the rustic local color of France’s most remote province. In the small mountain village of Sullacaro, he decides to take advantage of some of the famous Corsican hospitality and requests lodging in the home of a local family. He is welcomed with open arms by the owner of the house, the widow Madame de Franchi, and her son Lucien, a dashing young example of a Corsican country gentleman. The author soon learns that Lucien has a twin brother, Louis, who is a lawyer in Paris. Though the de Franchi brothers are almost identical in appearance, they could not be more different in their lifestyles, habits, and dispositions. The two were in fact born conjoined twins, separated surgically in infancy, and they share an uncommon bond with one another despite the physical distance which separates them.

The first half of the book is spent with Lucien in Corsica, where the author witnesses the unique Corsican custom of the vendetta—a blood feud between families which can be declared over matters as trifling as a dispute over a chicken, yet may result in dozens of murders being committed between the families in question over the course of many generations. The second half of the book is spent with Louis in Paris. Here the author becomes involved in the more civilized pursuits of operas, salons, mistresses, and duels. The latter pastime is explored in great depth, as the reader becomes involved in the complete process of a duel, from the choosing of the seconds to the selection of weapons to the delivery of the fatal bullet.

Those expecting the swashbuckling fare of The Three Musketeers may be disappointed by The Corsican Brothers. Though several movie adaptations have been made from this story, often featuring the clashing of swords, this is hardly an adventure novel. Atypical of Dumas’s work, its leisurely pace and first-person conversational tone remind one of the writings of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. As is often the case in Conan Doyle’s novels, secrets are revealed slowly over time, action scenes are few and far between, and there is a hint of the supernatural in the proceedings. In this case the reader can see the ending coming a mile away, yet it’s not so much predictable as it is simply inevitable.

Though it may not offer up all the thrills that Dumas is famous for, The Corsican Brothers nevertheless does not fail to satisfy. It may be short on physical action, but it contains enough romance and intrigue to insure there’s no lack of psychological suspense. The well-crafted story, inviting atmosphere, and camaraderie among the characters provides for a pleasant and amusing read. It is a brief work, composed of twenty short chapters, five or six of which can be easily read in one sitting. Due to some of its dark undertones, I wouldn’t call it light reading, but Dumas didn’t attempt to make it particularly deep or meaningful either. It may not be a monumental classic along the lines of The Count of Monte Cristo, but The Corsican Brothers is definitely an entertaining read and a few fun hours well spent.
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Acté by Alexandre Dumas

Too much fact, not enough fiction
Acté, also known as Acté of Corinth, originally published in 1838, was the first historical novel written by Alexandre Dumas. The story takes place about AD 54, and opens in the Greek city of Corinth. Greece has fallen from the heights of its classical glory, and is now a colony of the Roman Empire. Acté, a beautiful Corinthian maiden, is gathering wildflowers along the seashore when a boat lands upon the beach. A handsome, dashing Roman steps ashore and is immediately bewitched by the Greek beauty. He has come to Corinth to compete in games of wrestling, chariot racing, and poetry. Over the course of his stay he sweeps the young girl off her feet, and when he departs he carries Acté back to Rome with him. Upon arrival in the imperial capital, she is shocked and dismayed to discover that her lover is none other than the ruler of the world himself, the Emperor Nero.

Acté was a real person, a mistress of Nero’s. In fact, every character in this novel is an actual figure from Roman history, with the possible exception of the most minor servants and soldiers. Dumas’s knowledge of Roman history and mythology is stunning. Each sentence positively drips with references to gods, legends, or historic personages from ancient times. In keeping with the tastes of his day, Dumas presents a Rome that’s relentlessly romanticized, populated by characters that seem as if they were carved out of marble. This picturesque portrayal will prove a bit off-putting to contemporary readers that favor a grittier, bloodier, sexier vision of Rome.

In his desire to accurately detail all the historical facts, Dumas ends up being a slave to the history rather than an interpreter of it. Several of the chapters read like non-fiction and carry about as much drama as a Wikipedia entry. When Acté meets up with a band of Christians, for instance, Dumas feels the need to summarize the entire New Testament. At about the three-quarter mark, Acté disappears from the narrative entirely, and we are provided with a multi-chapter account of the downfall of Nero. What’s lacking throughout is a little poetic license. The cleverly intricate plotting, the emotional drama, and the sense of humor Dumas showcases in masterpieces like The Count of Monte Cristo and the Three Musketeers books are absent from this book. The best chapter of Acté features a gladiatorial exhibition that is absolutely riveting. If the rest of the book had lived up to the standard of that chapter, this would have been a great novel.

This novel was the inspiration for another famous work of literature, the 1895 novel Quo Vadis by Nobel Prize-winner Henryk Sienkiewicz, which tells the story of two fictional Christian characters who suffer Nero’s persecution. Quo Vadis is all around a much better novel than Acté, with a more exciting plot, more engaging characters, and a depiction of ancient Rome that rings truer in the eyes of the contemporary reader.

I’m a big fan of Dumas’s better known novels, and I enjoy stories of ancient Greece and Rome, but here the meeting of the two is hardly a match made in heaven. Though not a bad debut, it bears little resemblance to the excellent novels of the author’s later career. Fans of Dumas or historical fiction in general certainly won’t hate this book. It’s not terrible, merely a bit boring. Overall Acté comes across as a novel that’s competent rather than compelling.
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The Black Count: Glory, Revolution, Betrayal, and the Real Count of Monte Cristo by Tom Reiss

A real-life adventure as captivating as any literary epic
Tom Reiss’s 2012 book, The Black Count, is the biography of an extraordinary, larger-than-life character in the history of France. Thomas-Alexander Davy de la Pailleterie, more commonly known by the name Alex Dumas, is best remembered today as the father of Alexandre Dumas, author of The Three Musketeers, The Count of Monte Cristo, and dozens of other classic literary adventures. The elder Dumas’s life was a compelling adventure in itself, even rivaling the exciting novels of his illustrious son. Born the child of a French nobleman and a black slave on a plantation in what is now Haiti, Alex Dumas went on to achieve success and glory in the French military, rising to prominence during the Revolution and becoming the highest ranking black man in European military history. General Dumas accompanied Napoleon Bonaparte on the 1798 French campaign to Egypt, fighting alongside the future Emperor and at times butting heads with him. Later events in Dumas’s life would prove that getting on Napoleon’s bad side was not a wise choice.

Reiss emphasizes that the French Revolution was a remarkable time in the history of race relations. Fueled by the liberal values spawned by the Enlightenment, as expressed in the Revolutionary credo of “Liberté, Egalité, Fraternité!”, an unprecedented equality among men of all races was established in France. Seventy years before America’s Emancipation Proclamation, in a world where slavery was a common fact of life, the French not only freed their slaves but also created a society where men of color had the opportunity to reap the benefits of their abilities on an equal footing with whites. Later, when Napoleon established himself as dictator of France, he threw out many of the Revolution’s enlightened racial policies, and successful men of color like Dumas were left feeling betrayed and robbed of their due merits. It’s a bit ironic that a book which praises racial equality focuses so much on race. General Dumas’s life was incredibly interesting and exciting, regardless of his race, yet his story is so inextricably entwined with the racial policies of his lifetime that it’s all but inevitable to view him as an exemplar of triumph over prejudice and discrimination.

Dumasophiles expecting non-stop swashbuckling may be disappointed to find themselves reading chapters devoted to the sugar industry or slavery legislation. At times the biographical narrative thread seems a bit thin and overwhelmed by its historical context. But what context! Reiss is a genius at summarizing the complex events and philosophical ideas of the French Revolution. Never has this labyrinthine period of history been so pithily encapsulated. French history enthusiasts will love the book, but even those with little prior knowledge of the subject will be ably guided by Reiss through the twists and turns of the era.

Reiss repeatedly draws parallels between the life of Alex Dumas and the novels of his son Alexandre, but he doesn’t belabor the point. This is by no means a work of literary criticism. One need not have read The Count of Monte Cristo in order to understand or enjoy this book (though you should read it, because it’s a fantastic novel). This is purely a biography of a fascinating man and a history of a fascinating time. The Black Count is an immensely entertaining read for any history buff or adventure junkie. It’s only major fault is that it’s so good it leaves you wanting more.
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The Count of Monte Cristo by Alexandre Dumas

The perfect escapist novel
The Count of Monte Cristo is one of the greatest novels ever written. In terms of pure entertainment value, it can’t be beat. Though nowadays Alexandre Dumas may be more renowned as the creator of The Three Musketeers, this book is undoubtedly his greatest work.

Originally published in 1844, this epic tale of adventure takes place from 1815 to 1838 in France, Italy, Greece, and numerous islands in the Mediterranean. Edmond Dantès, a young sailor from Marseille, has been doubly blessed. Not only is he about to wed the beautiful love of his life, his employer has also just promoted him to the rank of ship’s captain. Such good fortune inspires envy, and a few of his malcontented acquaintances conspire to rob from him all that he holds dear. At this time Louis XVIII ruled France, and Napoleon was exiled to the island of Elba. The conspirators denounce Dantès as a Bonapartist spy, and he is locked up in a dungeon within the prison of Château d'lf. Through a series of extraordinary events best not spoiled, Dantès eventually gets out of prison, assumes the identity of the Count of Monte Cristo, and devotes his life to wreaking vengeance upon the men responsible for his imprisonment. Contrary to many of the movie versions of the book, his revenge does not take the form of a simple sword fight. Instead, Dantès devises wickedly elaborate schemes to punish his adversaries by destroying their reputations, ruining them financially, and crushing them emotionally. In the guise of the Count of Monte Cristo, Dantès essentially becomes a superhero. He possesses unlimited wealth, unlimited knowledge, an unlimited talent for any pursuit that interests him, and seemingly unlimited luck. Without a doubt, the book defies believability, but so what? Despite the far-fetched nature of the protagonist’s almost supernatural abilities, it is an absolute joy to watch his plans come to fruition.

All this unfolds over the course of 117 chapters with never a dull moment. The book features an ensemble cast of dozens of memorable characters, all of whom are somehow linked to one another in mysterious ways. Over the course of the book, as secret pasts are uncovered, an ingenious, byzantine web of interconnectivity is revealed—this character is the illegitimate son of that one, one character is the former lover of another, this character murdered the other one’s father, etc. One can only imagine the labyrinthine collage of index cards Dumas and his writing partner August Maquet might have utilized to construct this intricate masterpiece.

To fully appreciate this book, some knowledge of European history is required. Napoleon’s Hundred Days or the assassination of the Pasha of Yanina may have been fresh in the minds of Dumas’s audience, but today’s reader might require a few quick trips to Wikipedia to fully understand the story’s historical context. This fascinating tale is well worth the extra effort.

This review primarily focuses on the novel’s entertainment value, but it does have higher literary merit as well. It delves deeply into serious themes of vengeance, justice, and forgiveness. Dantès represents the living embodiment of God’s retribution—not necessarily the Christian God, but a more stoic conception of God as universal providence. As the Count of Monte Cristo, he is the conduit through which karma is served. The guilty are punished, and the good are rewarded. Dumas serves up provocative food for thought, delivered in an immensely delightful package. If you have not read this book, do so now.
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