In the Hotel Rotary Geneva, a tattered Alexandre Dumas looks down on the lobby. Random threads, torn and frayed, hang down like old hairs on a corpse. The faded gold lettering of Le Comte de Monte Cristo is barely visible beneath a library decal peeling off the spine, but Dumas commands attention, perched like royalty next to Aldous Huxley, Blaise Pascal and Thaïs the holy courtesan.