Chapter VI: Part 6

True—a baboon; but by no means the less a deity. His name is a
derivation of the Greek Simia—what great fools are antiquarians!
But see!—see!—yonder scampers a ragged little urchin. Where is he
going? What is he bawling about? What does he say? Oh! he says
the king is coming in triumph; that he is dressed in state; that
he has just finished putting to death, with his own hand, a
thousand chained Israelitish prisoners! For this exploit the
ragamuffin is lauding him to the skies! Hark! here comes a troop
of a similar description. They have made a Latin hymn upon the
valor of the king, and are singing it as they go:

Mille, mille, mille,
Mille, mille, mille,
Decollavimus, unus homo!
Mille, mille, mille, mille, decollavimus!
Mille, mille, mille,
Vivat qui mille mille occidit!
Tantum vini habet nemo
Quantum sanguinis effudit!(*1)

Which may be thus paraphrased:

A thousand, a thousand, a thousand,
A thousand, a thousand, a thousand,
We, with one warrior, have slain!
A thousand, a thousand, a thousand, a thousand.
Sing a thousand over again!
Soho!—let us sing
Long life to our king,
Who knocked over a thousand so fine!
Soho!—let us roar,
He has given us more
Red gallons of gore
Than all Syria can furnish of wine!

“Do you hear that flourish of trumpets?”

Yes—the king is coming! See! the people are aghast with
admiration, and lift up their eyes to the heavens in reverence.
He comes!—he is coming!—there he is!

“Who?—where?—the king?—do not behold him—cannot say that I
perceive him.”

Then you must be blind.

“Very possible. Still I see nothing but a tumultuous mob of
idiots and madmen, who are busy in prostrating themselves before
a gigantic cameleopard, and endeavoring to obtain a kiss of the
animal’s hoofs. See! the beast has very justly kicked one of the
rabble over—and another—and another—and another. Indeed, I cannot
help admiring the animal for the excellent use he is making of
his feet.”

Rabble, indeed!—why these are the noble and free citizens of
Epidaphne! Beasts, did you say?—take care that you are not
overheard. Do you not perceive that the animal has the visage of
a man? Why, my dear sir, that cameleopard is no other than
Antiochus Epiphanes, Antiochus the Illustrious, King of Syria,
and the most potent of all the autocrats of the East! It is true,
that he is entitled, at times, Antiochus Epimanes—Antiochus the
madman—but that is because all people have not the capacity to
appreciate his merits. It is also certain that he is at present
ensconced in the hide of a beast, and is doing his best to play
the part of a cameleopard; but this is done for the better
sustaining his dignity as king. Besides, the monarch is of
gigantic stature, and the dress is therefore neither unbecoming
nor over large. We may, however, presume he would not have
adopted it but for some occasion of especial state. Such, you
will allow, is the massacre of a thousand Jews. With how superior
a dignity the monarch perambulates on all fours! His tail, you
perceive, is held aloft by his two principal concubines, Elline
and Argelais; and his whole appearance would be infinitely
prepossessing, were it not for the protuberance of his eyes,
which will certainly start out of his head, and the queer color
of his face, which has become nondescript from the quantity of
wine he has swallowed. Let us follow him to the hippodrome,
whither he is proceeding, and listen to the song of triumph which
he is commencing:

Who is king but Epiphanes?
Say—do you know?
Who is king but Epiphanes?
Bravo!—bravo!
There is none but Epiphanes,
No—there is none:
So tear down the temples,
And put out the sun!

Well and strenuously sung! The populace are hailing him ‘Prince
of Poets,’ as well as ‘Glory of the East,’ ‘Delight of the
Universe,’ and ‘Most Remarkable of Cameleopards.’ They have
encored his effusion, and do you hear?—he is singing it over
again. When he arrives at the hippodrome, he will be crowned with
the poetic wreath, in anticipation of his victory at the
approaching Olympics.

“But, good Jupiter! what is the matter in the crowd behind us?”

Behind us, did you say?—oh! ah!—I perceive. My friend, it is well
that you spoke in time. Let us get into a place of safety as soon
as possible. Here!—let us conceal ourselves in the arch of this
aqueduct, and I will inform you presently of the origin of the
commotion. It has turned out as I have been anticipating. The
singular appearance of the cameleopard and the head of a man,
has, it seems, given offence to the notions of propriety
entertained, in general, by the wild animals domesticated in the
city. A mutiny has been the result; and, as is usual upon such
occasions, all human efforts will be of no avail in quelling the
mob. Several of the Syrians have already been devoured; but the
general voice of the four-footed patriots seems to be for eating
up the cameleopard. ‘The Prince of Poets,’ therefore, is upon his
hinder legs, running for his life. His courtiers have left him in
the lurch, and his concubines have followed so excellent an
example. ‘Delight of the Universe,’ thou art in a sad
predicament! ‘Glory of the East,’ thou art in danger of
mastication! Therefore never regard so piteously thy tail; it
will undoubtedly be draggled in the mud, and for this there is no
help. Look not behind thee, then, at its unavoidable degradation;
but take courage, ply thy legs with vigor, and scud for the
hippodrome! Remember that thou art Antiochus Epiphanes. Antiochus
the Illustrious!—also ‘Prince of Poets,’ ‘Glory of the East,’
‘Delight of the Universe,’ and ‘Most Remarkable of Cameleopards!’
Heavens! what a power of speed thou art displaying! What a
capacity for leg-bail thou art developing! Run, Prince!—Bravo,
Epiphanes! Well done, Cameleopard!—Glorious Antiochus!—He
runs!—he leaps!—he flies! Like an arrow from a catapult he
approaches the hippodrome! He leaps!—he shrieks!—he is there!
This is well; for hadst thou, ‘Glory of the East,’ been half a
second longer in reaching the gates of the Amphitheatre, there is
not a bear’s cub in Epidaphne that would not have had a nibble at
thy carcase. Let us be off—let us take our departure!—for we
shall find our delicate modern ears unable to endure the vast
uproar which is about to commence in celebration of the king’s
escape! Listen! it has already commenced. See!—the whole town is
topsy-turvy.

“Surely this is the most populous city of the East! What a
wilderness of people! what a jumble of all ranks and ages! what a
multiplicity of sects and nations! what a variety of costumes!
what a Babel of languages! what a screaming of beasts! what a
tinkling of instruments! what a parcel of philosophers!”

Come let us be off.

“Stay a moment! I see a vast hubbub in the hippodrome; what is
the meaning of it, I beseech you?”

That?—oh, nothing! The noble and free citizens of Epidaphne
being, as they declare, well satisfied of the faith, valor,
wisdom, and divinity of their king, and having, moreover, been
eye-witnesses of his late superhuman agility, do think it no more
than their duty to invest his brows (in addition to the poetic
crown) with the wreath of victory in the footrace—a wreath which
it is evident he must obtain at the celebration of the next
Olympiad, and which, therefore, they now give him in advance.

Footnotes—Four Beasts

(*1) Flavius Vospicus says, that the hymn here introduced was
sung by the rabble upon the occasion of Aurelian, in the Sarmatic
war, having slain, with his own hand, nine hundred and fifty of
the enemy.

THE MURDERS IN THE RUE MORGUE

What song the Syrens sang, or what name Achilles assumed when he hid
himself among women, although puzzling questions, are not beyond
_all_ conjecture.

—_Sir Thomas Browne._

The mental features discoursed of as the analytical, are, in
themselves, but little susceptible of analysis. We appreciate
them only in their effects. We know of them, among other things,
that they are always to their possessor, when inordinately
possessed, a source of the liveliest enjoyment. As the strong man
exults in his physical ability, delighting in such exercises as
call his muscles into action, so glories the analyst in that
moral activity which _disentangles._ He derives pleasure from
even the most trivial occupations bringing his talent into play.
He is fond of enigmas, of conundrums, of hieroglyphics;
exhibiting in his solutions of each a degree of _acumen_ which
appears to the ordinary apprehension præternatural. His results,
brought about by the very soul and essence of method, have, in
truth, the whole air of intuition.

The faculty of re-solution is possibly much invigorated by
mathematical study, and especially by that highest branch of it
which, unjustly, and merely on account of its retrograde
operations, has been called, as if _par excellence_, analysis.
Yet to calculate is not in itself to analyse. A chess-player, for
example, does the one without effort at the other. It follows
that the game of chess, in its effects upon mental character, is
greatly misunderstood. I am not now writing a treatise, but
simply prefacing a somewhat peculiar narrative by observations
very much at random; I will, therefore, take occasion to assert
that the higher powers of the reflective intellect are more
decidedly and more usefully tasked by the unostentatious game of
draughts than by all the elaborate frivolity of chess. In this
latter, where the pieces have different and _bizarre_ motions,
with various and variable values, what is only complex is
mistaken (a not unusual error) for what is profound. The
_attention_ is here called powerfully into play. If it flag for
an instant, an oversight is committed resulting in injury or
defeat. The possible moves being not only manifold but involute,
the chances of such oversights are multiplied; and in nine cases
out of ten it is the more concentrative rather than the more
acute player who conquers. In draughts, on the contrary, where
the moves are _unique_ and have but little variation, the
probabilities of inadvertence are diminished, and the mere
attention being left comparatively unemployed, what advantages
are obtained by either party are obtained by superior _acumen_.
To be less abstract, let us suppose a game of draughts where the
pieces are reduced to four kings, and where, of course, no
oversight is to be expected. It is obvious that here the victory
can be decided (the players being at all equal) only by some
_recherché_ movement, the result of some strong exertion of the
intellect. Deprived of ordinary resources, the analyst throws
himself into the spirit of his opponent, identifies himself
therewith, and not unfrequently sees thus, at a glance, the sole
methods (sometime indeed absurdly simple ones) by which he may
seduce into error or hurry into miscalculation.

Whist has long been noted for its influence upon what is termed
the calculating power; and men of the highest order of intellect
have been known to take an apparently unaccountable delight in
it, while eschewing chess as frivolous. Beyond doubt there is
nothing of a similar nature so greatly tasking the faculty of
analysis. The best chess-player in Christendom _may_ be little
more than the best player of chess; but proficiency in whist
implies capacity for success in all those more important
undertakings where mind struggles with mind. When I say
proficiency, I mean that perfection in the game which includes a
comprehension of _all_ the sources whence legitimate advantage
may be derived. These are not only manifold but multiform, and
lie frequently among recesses of thought altogether inaccessible
to the ordinary understanding. To observe attentively is to
remember distinctly; and, so far, the concentrative chess-player
will do very well at whist; while the rules of Hoyle (themselves
based upon the mere mechanism of the game) are sufficiently and
generally comprehensible. Thus to have a retentive memory, and to
proceed by “the book,” are points commonly regarded as the sum
total of good playing. But it is in matters beyond the limits of
mere rule that the skill of the analyst is evinced. He makes, in
silence, a host of observations and inferences. So, perhaps, do
his companions; and the difference in the extent of the
information obtained, lies not so much in the validity of the
inference as in the quality of the observation. The necessary
knowledge is that of _what_ to observe. Our player confines
himself not at all; nor, because the game is the object, does he
reject deductions from things external to the game. He examines
the countenance of his partner, comparing it carefully with that
of each of his opponents. He considers the mode of assorting the
cards in each hand; often counting trump by trump, and honor by
honor, through the glances bestowed by their holders upon each.
He notes every variation of face as the play progresses,
gathering a fund of thought from the differences in the
expression of certainty, of surprise, of triumph, or of chagrin.
From the manner of gathering up a trick he judges whether the
person taking it can make another in the suit. He recognises what
is played through feint, by the manner with which it is thrown
upon the table. A casual or inadvertent word; the accidental
dropping or turning of a card, with the accompanying anxiety or
carelessness in regard to its concealment; the counting of the
tricks, with the order of their arrangement; embarrassment,
hesitation, eagerness or trepidation—all afford, to his
apparently intuitive perception, indications of the true state of
affairs. The first two or three rounds having been played, he is
in full possession of the contents of each hand, and
thenceforward puts down his cards with as absolute a precision of
purpose as if the rest of the party had turned outward the faces
of their own.

The analytical power should not be confounded with ample
ingenuity; for while the analyst is necessarily ingenious, the
ingenious man is often remarkably incapable of analysis. The
constructive or combining power, by which ingenuity is usually
manifested, and to which the phrenologists (I believe
erroneously) have assigned a separate organ, supposing it a
primitive faculty, has been so frequently seen in those whose
intellect bordered otherwise upon idiocy, as to have attracted
general observation among writers on morals. Between ingenuity
and the analytic ability there exists a difference far greater,
indeed, than that between the fancy and the imagination, but of a
character very strictly analogous. It will be found, in fact,
that the ingenious are always fanciful, and the _truly_
imaginative never otherwise than analytic.

The narrative which follows will appear to the reader somewhat in
the light of a commentary upon the propositions just advanced.

Residing in Paris during the spring and part of the summer of
18—, I there became acquainted with a Monsieur C. Auguste Dupin.
This young gentleman was of an excellent, indeed of an
illustrious family, but, by a variety of untoward events, had
been reduced to such poverty that the energy of his character
succumbed beneath it, and he ceased to bestir himself in the
world, or to care for the retrieval of his fortunes. By courtesy
of his creditors, there still remained in his possession a small
remnant of his patrimony; and, upon the income arising from this,
he managed, by means of a rigorous economy, to procure the
necessaries of life, without troubling himself about its
superfluities. Books, indeed, were his sole luxuries, and in
Paris these are easily obtained.

Our first meeting was at an obscure library in the Rue
Montmartre, where the accident of our both being in search of the
same very rare and very remarkable volume, brought us into closer
communion. We saw each other again and again. I was deeply
interested in the little family history which he detailed to me
with all that candor which a Frenchman indulges whenever mere
self is his theme. I was astonished, too, at the vast extent of
his reading; and, above all, I felt my soul enkindled within me
by the wild fervor, and the vivid freshness of his imagination.
Seeking in Paris the objects I then sought, I felt that the
society of such a man would be to me a treasure beyond price; and
this feeling I frankly confided to him. It was at length arranged
that we should live together during my stay in the city; and as
my worldly circumstances were somewhat less embarrassed than his
own, I was permitted to be at the expense of renting, and
furnishing in a style which suited the rather fantastic gloom of
our common temper, a time-eaten and grotesque mansion, long
deserted through superstitions into which we did not inquire, and
tottering to its fall in a retired and desolate portion of the
Faubourg St. Germain.

Had the routine of our life at this place been known to the
world, we should have been regarded as madmen—although, perhaps,
as madmen of a harmless nature. Our seclusion was perfect. We
admitted no visitors. Indeed the locality of our retirement had
been carefully kept a secret from my own former associates; and
it had been many years since Dupin had ceased to know or be known
in Paris. We existed within ourselves alone.

It was a freak of fancy in my friend (for what else shall I call
it?) to be enamored of the night for her own sake; and into this
_bizarrerie_, as into all his others, I quietly fell; giving
myself up to his wild whims with a perfect _abandon_. The sable
divinity would not herself dwell with us always; but we could
counterfeit her presence. At the first dawn of the morning we
closed all the messy shutters of our old building; lighting a
couple of tapers which, strongly perfumed, threw out only the
ghastliest and feeblest of rays. By the aid of these we then
busied our souls in dreams—reading, writing, or conversing, until
warned by the clock of the advent of the true Darkness. Then we
sallied forth into the streets arm in arm, continuing the topics
of the day, or roaming far and wide until a late hour, seeking,
amid the wild lights and shadows of the populous city, that
infinity of mental excitement which quiet observation can afford.

At such times I could not help remarking and admiring (although
from his rich ideality I had been prepared to expect it) a
peculiar analytic ability in Dupin. He seemed, too, to take an
eager delight in its exercise—if not exactly in its display—and
did not hesitate to confess the pleasure thus derived. He boasted
to me, with a low chuckling laugh, that most men, in respect to
himself, wore windows in their bosoms, and was wont to follow up
such assertions by direct and very startling proofs of his
intimate knowledge of my own. His manner at these moments was
frigid and abstract; his eyes were vacant in expression; while
his voice, usually a rich tenor, rose into a treble which would
have sounded petulantly but for the deliberateness and entire
distinctness of the enunciation. Observing him in these moods, I
often dwelt meditatively upon the old philosophy of the Bi-Part
Soul, and amused myself with the fancy of a double Dupin—the
creative and the resolvent.

Let it not be supposed, from what I have just said, that I am
detailing any mystery, or penning any romance. What I have
described in the Frenchman, was merely the result of an excited,
or perhaps of a diseased intelligence. But of the character of
his remarks at the periods in question an example will best
convey the idea.

We were strolling one night down a long dirty street in the
vicinity of the Palais Royal. Being both, apparently, occupied
with thought, neither of us had spoken a syllable for fifteen
minutes at least. All at once Dupin broke forth with these words:

“He is a very little fellow, that’s true, and would do better for
the _Théâtre des Variétés_.”

“There can be no doubt of that,” I replied unwittingly, and not
at first observing (so much had I been absorbed in reflection)
the extraordinary manner in which the speaker had chimed in with
my meditations. In an instant afterward I recollected myself, and
my astonishment was profound.

“Dupin,” said I, gravely, “this is beyond my comprehension. I do
not hesitate to say that I am amazed, and can scarcely credit my
senses. How was it possible you should know I was thinking of
——?” Here I paused, to ascertain beyond a doubt whether he really
knew of whom I thought.

“—— of Chantilly,” said he, “why do you pause? You were remarking
to yourself that his diminutive figure unfitted him for tragedy.”

This was precisely what had formed the subject of my reflections.
Chantilly was a _quondam_ cobbler of the Rue St. Denis, who,
becoming stage-mad, had attempted the _rôle_ of Xerxes, in
Crébillon’s tragedy so called, and been notoriously Pasquinaded
for his pains.

“Tell me, for Heaven’s sake,” I exclaimed, “the method—if method
there is—by which you have been enabled to fathom my soul in this
matter.” In fact I was even more startled than I would have been
willing to express.

“It was the fruiterer,” replied my friend, “who brought you to
the conclusion that the mender of soles was not of sufficient
height for Xerxes _et id genus omne_.”

“The fruiterer!—you astonish me—I know no fruiterer whomsoever.”

“The man who ran up against you as we entered the street—it may
have been fifteen minutes ago.”

I now remembered that, in fact, a fruiterer, carrying upon his
head a large basket of apples, had nearly thrown me down, by
accident, as we passed from the Rue C—— into the thoroughfare
where we stood; but what this had to do with Chantilly I could
not possibly understand.

There was not a particle of _charlatânerie_ about Dupin. “I will
explain,” he said, “and that you may comprehend all clearly, we
will first retrace the course of your meditations, from the
moment in which I spoke to you until that of the _rencontre_ with
the fruiterer in question. The larger links of the chain run
thus—Chantilly, Orion, Dr. Nichols, Epicurus, Stereotomy, the
street stones, the fruiterer.”

There are few persons who have not, at some period of their
lives, amused themselves in retracing the steps by which
particular conclusions of their own minds have been attained. The
occupation is often full of interest; and he who attempts it for
the first time is astonished by the apparently illimitable
distance and incoherence between the starting-point and the goal.
What, then, must have been my amazement when I heard the
Frenchman speak what he had just spoken, and when I could not
help acknowledging that he had spoken the truth. He continued:

“We had been talking of horses, if I remember aright, just before
leaving the Rue C——. This was the last subject we discussed. As
we crossed into this street, a fruiterer, with a large basket
upon his head, brushing quickly past us, thrust you upon a pile
of paving stones collected at a spot where the causeway is
undergoing repair. You stepped upon one of the loose fragments,
slipped, slightly strained your ankle, appeared vexed or sulky,
muttered a few words, turned to look at the pile, and then
proceeded in silence. I was not particularly attentive to what
you did; but observation has become with me, of late, a species
of necessity.

“You kept your eyes upon the ground—glancing, with a petulant
expression, at the holes and ruts in the pavement, (so that I saw
you were still thinking of the stones,) until we reached the
little alley called Lamartine, which has been paved, by way of
experiment, with the overlapping and riveted blocks. Here your
countenance brightened up, and, perceiving your lips move, I
could not doubt that you murmured the word ‘stereotomy,’ a term
very affectedly applied to this species of pavement. I knew that
you could not say to yourself ‘stereotomy’ without being brought
to think of atomies, and thus of the theories of Epicurus; and
since, when we discussed this subject not very long ago, I
mentioned to you how singularly, yet with how little notice, the
vague guesses of that noble Greek had met with confirmation in
the late nebular cosmogony, I felt that you could not avoid
casting your eyes upward to the great _nebula_ in Orion, and I
certainly expected that you would do so. You did look up; and I
was now assured that I had correctly followed your steps. But in
that bitter _tirade_ upon Chantilly, which appeared in
yesterday’s ‘_Musée_,’ the satirist, making some disgraceful
allusions to the cobbler’s change of name upon assuming the
buskin, quoted a Latin line about which we have often conversed.
I mean the line

Perdidit antiquum litera prima sonum.

“I had told you that this was in reference to Orion, formerly
written Urion; and, from certain pungencies connected with this
explanation, I was aware that you could not have forgotten it. It
was clear, therefore, that you would not fail to combine the two
ideas of Orion and Chantilly. That you did combine them I saw by
the character of the smile which passed over your lips. You
thought of the poor cobbler’s immolation. So far, you had been
stooping in your gait; but now I saw you draw yourself up to your
full height. I was then sure that you reflected upon the
diminutive figure of Chantilly. At this point I interrupted your
meditations to remark that as, in fact, he was a very little
fellow—that Chantilly—he would do better at the _Théâtre des
Variétés_.”

Not long after this, we were looking over an evening edition of
the “Gazette des Tribunaux,” when the following paragraphs
arrested our attention.

“_Extraordinary Murders_.—This morning, about three o’clock, the
inhabitants of the Quartier St. Roch were aroused from sleep by a
succession of terrific shrieks, issuing, apparently, from the
fourth story of a house in the Rue Morgue, known to be in the
sole occupancy of one Madame L’Espanaye, and her daughter,
Mademoiselle Camille L’Espanaye. After some delay, occasioned by
a fruitless attempt to procure admission in the usual manner, the
gateway was broken in with a crowbar, and eight or ten of the
neighbors entered accompanied by two _gendarmes_. By this time
the cries had ceased; but, as the party rushed up the first
flight of stairs, two or more rough voices in angry contention
were distinguished and seemed to proceed from the upper part of
the house. As the second landing was reached, these sounds, also,
had ceased and everything remained perfectly quiet. The party
spread themselves and hurried from room to room. Upon arriving at
a large back chamber in the fourth story, (the door of which,
being found locked, with the key inside, was forced open,) a
spectacle presented itself which struck every one present not
less with horror than with astonishment.

“The apartment was in the wildest disorder—the furniture broken
and thrown about in all directions. There was only one bedstead;
and from this the bed had been removed, and thrown into the
middle of the floor. On a chair lay a razor, besmeared with
blood. On the hearth were two or three long and thick tresses of
grey human hair, also dabbled in blood, and seeming to have been
pulled out by the roots. Upon the floor were found four
Napoleons, an ear-ring of topaz, three large silver spoons, three
smaller of _métal d’Alger_, and two bags, containing nearly four
thousand francs in gold. The drawers of a _bureau_, which stood
in one corner were open, and had been, apparently, rifled,
although many articles still remained in them. A small iron safe
was discovered under the _bed_ (not under the bedstead). It was
open, with the key still in the door. It had no contents beyond a
few old letters, and other papers of little consequence.

“Of Madame L’Espanaye no traces were here seen; but an unusual
quantity of soot being observed in the fire-place, a search was
made in the chimney, and (horrible to relate!) the corpse of the
daughter, head downward, was dragged therefrom; it having been
thus forced up the narrow aperture for a considerable distance.
The body was quite warm. Upon examining it, many excoriations
were perceived, no doubt occasioned by the violence with which it
had been thrust up and disengaged. Upon the face were many severe
scratches, and, upon the throat, dark bruises, and deep
indentations of finger nails, as if the deceased had been
throttled to death.

“After a thorough investigation of every portion of the house,
without farther discovery, the party made its way into a small
paved yard in the rear of the building, where lay the corpse of
the old lady, with her throat so entirely cut that, upon an
attempt to raise her, the head fell off. The body, as well as the
head, was fearfully mutilated—the former so much so as scarcely
to retain any semblance of humanity.

“To this horrible mystery there is not as yet, we believe, the
slightest clew.”

The next day’s paper had these additional particulars.

“_The Tragedy in the Rue Morgue._—Many individuals have been
examined in relation to this most extraordinary and frightful
affair” [The word ‘affaire’ has not yet, in France, that levity
of import which it conveys with us], “but nothing whatever has
transpired to throw light upon it. We give below all the material
testimony elicited.

“_Pauline Dubourg_, laundress, deposes that she has known both
the deceased for three years, having washed for them during that
period. The old lady and her daughter seemed on good terms—very
affectionate towards each other. They were excellent pay. Could
not speak in regard to their mode or means of living. Believed
that Madame L. told fortunes for a living. Was reputed to have
money put by. Never met any persons in the house when she called
for the clothes or took them home. Was sure that they had no
servant in employ. There appeared to be no furniture in any part
of the building except in the fourth story.

“_Pierre Moreau_, tobacconist, deposes that he has been in the
habit of selling small quantities of tobacco and snuff to Madame
L’Espanaye for nearly four years. Was born in the neighborhood,
and has always resided there. The deceased and her daughter had
occupied the house in which the corpses were found, for more than
six years. It was formerly occupied by a jeweller, who under-let
the upper rooms to various persons. The house was the property of
Madame L. She became dissatisfied with the abuse of the premises
by her tenant, and moved into them herself, refusing to let any
portion. The old lady was childish. Witness had seen the daughter
some five or six times during the six years. The two lived an
exceedingly retired life—were reputed to have money. Had heard it
said among the neighbors that Madame L. told fortunes—did not
believe it. Had never seen any person enter the door except the
old lady and her daughter, a porter once or twice, and a
physician some eight or ten times.

“Many other persons, neighbors, gave evidence to the same effect.
No one was spoken of as frequenting the house. It was not known
whether there were any living connexions of Madame L. and her
daughter. The shutters of the front windows were seldom opened.
Those in the rear were always closed, with the exception of the
large back room, fourth story. The house was a good house—not
very old.

“_Isidore Musèt_, _gendarme_, deposes that he was called to the
house about three o’clock in the morning, and found some twenty
or thirty persons at the gateway, endeavoring to gain admittance.
Forced it open, at length, with a bayonet—not with a crowbar. Had
but little difficulty in getting it open, on account of its being
a double or folding gate, and bolted neither at bottom not top.
The shrieks were continued until the gate was forced—and then
suddenly ceased. They seemed to be screams of some person (or
persons) in great agony—were loud and drawn out, not short and
quick. Witness led the way up stairs. Upon reaching the first
landing, heard two voices in loud and angry contention—the one a
gruff voice, the other much shriller—a very strange voice. Could
distinguish some words of the former, which was that of a
Frenchman. Was positive that it was not a woman’s voice. Could
distinguish the words ‘_sacré_’ and ‘_diable._’ The shrill voice
was that of a foreigner. Could not be sure whether it was the
voice of a man or of a woman. Could not make out what was said,
but believed the language to be Spanish. The state of the room
and of the bodies was described by this witness as we described
them yesterday.

“_Henri Duval_, a neighbor, and by trade a silver-smith, deposes
that he was one of the party who first entered the house.
Corroborates the testimony of Musèt in general. As soon as they
forced an entrance, they reclosed the door, to keep out the
crowd, which collected very fast, notwithstanding the lateness of
the hour. The shrill voice, this witness thinks, was that of an
Italian. Was certain it was not French. Could not be sure that it
was a man’s voice. It might have been a woman’s. Was not
acquainted with the Italian language. Could not distinguish the
words, but was convinced by the intonation that the speaker was
an Italian. Knew Madame L. and her daughter. Had conversed with
both frequently. Was sure that the shrill voice was not that of
either of the deceased.

“——_Odenheimer, restaurateur._ This witness volunteered his
testimony. Not speaking French, was examined through an
interpreter. Is a native of Amsterdam. Was passing the house at
the time of the shrieks. They lasted for several minutes—probably
ten. They were long and loud—very awful and distressing. Was one
of those who entered the building. Corroborated the previous
evidence in every respect but one. Was sure that the shrill voice
was that of a man—of a Frenchman. Could not distinguish the words
uttered. They were loud and quick—unequal—spoken apparently in
fear as well as in anger. The voice was harsh—not so much shrill
as harsh. Could not call it a shrill voice. The gruff voice said
repeatedly ‘_sacré_,’ ‘_diable_,’ and once ‘_mon Dieu._’

“_Jules Mignaud_, banker, of the firm of Mignaud et Fils, Rue
Deloraine. Is the elder Mignaud. Madame L’Espanaye had some
property. Had opened an account with his banking house in the
spring of the year—(eight years previously). Made frequent
deposits in small sums. Had checked for nothing until the third
day before her death, when she took out in person the sum of 4000
francs. This sum was paid in gold, and a clerk went home with the
money.

“_Adolphe Le Bon_, clerk to Mignaud et Fils, deposes that on the
day in question, about noon, he accompanied Madame L’Espanaye to
her residence with the 4000 francs, put up in two bags. Upon the
door being opened, Mademoiselle L. appeared and took from his
hands one of the bags, while the old lady relieved him of the
other. He then bowed and departed. Did not see any person in the
street at the time. It is a by-street—very lonely.

“_William Bird_, tailor deposes that he was one of the party who
entered the house. Is an Englishman. Has lived in Paris two
years. Was one of the first to ascend the stairs. Heard the
voices in contention. The gruff voice was that of a Frenchman.
Could make out several words, but cannot now remember all. Heard
distinctly ‘_sacré_’ and ‘_mon Dieu._’ There was a sound at the
moment as if of several persons struggling—a scraping and
scuffling sound. The shrill voice was very loud—louder than the
gruff one. Is sure that it was not the voice of an Englishman.
Appeared to be that of a German. Might have been a woman’s voice.
Does not understand German.

“Four of the above-named witnesses, being recalled, deposed that
the door of the chamber in which was found the body of
Mademoiselle L. was locked on the inside when the party reached
it. Every thing was perfectly silent—no groans or noises of any
kind. Upon forcing the door no person was seen. The windows, both
of the back and front room, were down and firmly fastened from
within. A door between the two rooms was closed, but not locked.
The door leading from the front room into the passage was locked,
with the key on the inside. A small room in the front of the
house, on the fourth story, at the head of the passage was open,
the door being ajar. This room was crowded with old beds, boxes,
and so forth. These were carefully removed and searched. There
was not an inch of any portion of the house which was not
carefully searched. Sweeps were sent up and down the chimneys.
The house was a four story one, with garrets (_mansardes._) A
trap-door on the roof was nailed down very securely—did not
appear to have been opened for years. The time elapsing between
the hearing of the voices in contention and the breaking open of
the room door, was variously stated by the witnesses. Some made
it as short as three minutes—some as long as five. The door was
opened with difficulty.

“_Alfonzo Garcio_, undertaker, deposes that he resides in the Rue
Morgue. Is a native of Spain. Was one of the party who entered
the house. Did not proceed up stairs. Is nervous, and was
apprehensive of the consequences of agitation. Heard the voices
in contention. The gruff voice was that of a Frenchman. Could not
distinguish what was said. The shrill voice was that of an
Englishman—is sure of this. Does not understand the English
language, but judges by the intonation.

“_Alberto Montani_, confectioner, deposes that he was among the
first to ascend the stairs. Heard the voices in question. The
gruff voice was that of a Frenchman. Distinguished several words.
The speaker appeared to be expostulating. Could not make out the
words of the shrill voice. Spoke quick and unevenly. Thinks it
the voice of a Russian. Corroborates the general testimony. Is an
Italian. Never conversed with a native of Russia.

“Several witnesses, recalled, here testified that the chimneys of
all the rooms on the fourth story were too narrow to admit the
passage of a human being. By ‘sweeps’ were meant cylindrical
sweeping brushes, such as are employed by those who clean
chimneys. These brushes were passed up and down every flue in the
house. There is no back passage by which any one could have
descended while the party proceeded up stairs. The body of
Mademoiselle L’Espanaye was so firmly wedged in the chimney that
it could not be got down until four or five of the party united
their strength.

“_Paul Dumas_, physician, deposes that he was called to view the
bodies about day-break. They were both then lying on the sacking
of the bedstead in the chamber where Mademoiselle L. was found.
The corpse of the young lady was much bruised and excoriated. The
fact that it had been thrust up the chimney would sufficiently
account for these appearances. The throat was greatly chafed.
There were several deep scratches just below the chin, together
with a series of livid spots which were evidently the impression
of fingers. The face was fearfully discolored, and the eye-balls
protruded. The tongue had been partially bitten through. A large
bruise was discovered upon the pit of the stomach, produced,
apparently, by the pressure of a knee. In the opinion of M.
Dumas, Mademoiselle L’Espanaye had been throttled to death by
some person or persons unknown. The corpse of the mother was
horribly mutilated. All the bones of the right leg and arm were
more or less shattered. The left _tibia_ much splintered, as well
as all the ribs of the left side. Whole body dreadfully bruised
and discolored. It was not possible to say how the injuries had
been inflicted. A heavy club of wood, or a broad bar of iron—a
chair—any large, heavy, and obtuse weapon would have produced
such results, if wielded by the hands of a very powerful man. No
woman could have inflicted the blows with any weapon. The head of
the deceased, when seen by witness, was entirely separated from
the body, and was also greatly shattered. The throat had
evidently been cut with some very sharp instrument—probably with
a razor.

“_Alexandre Etienne_, surgeon, was called with M. Dumas to view
the bodies. Corroborated the testimony, and the opinions of M.
Dumas.

“Nothing farther of importance was elicited, although several
other persons were examined. A murder so mysterious, and so
perplexing in all its particulars, was never before committed in
Paris—if indeed a murder has been committed at all. The police
are entirely at fault—an unusual occurrence in affairs of this
nature. There is not, however, the shadow of a clew apparent.”

The evening edition of the paper stated that the greatest
excitement still continued in the Quartier St. Roch—that the
premises in question had been carefully re-searched, and fresh
examinations of witnesses instituted, but all to no purpose. A
postscript, however, mentioned that Adolphe Le Bon had been
arrested and imprisoned—although nothing appeared to criminate
him, beyond the facts already detailed.

Dupin seemed singularly interested in the progress of this
affair—at least so I judged from his manner, for he made no
comments. It was only after the announcement that Le Bon had been
imprisoned, that he asked me my opinion respecting the murders.

I could merely agree with all Paris in considering them an
insoluble mystery. I saw no means by which it would be possible
to trace the murderer.

“We must not judge of the means,” said Dupin, “by this shell of
an examination. The Parisian police, so much extolled for
_acumen_, are cunning, but no more. There is no method in their
proceedings, beyond the method of the moment. They make a vast
parade of measures; but, not unfrequently, these are so ill
adapted to the objects proposed, as to put us in mind of Monsieur
Jourdain’s calling for his _robe-de-chambre—pour mieux entendre
la musique._ The results attained by them are not unfrequently
surprising, but, for the most part, are brought about by simple
diligence and activity. When these qualities are unavailing,
their schemes fail. Vidocq, for example, was a good guesser and a
persevering man. But, without educated thought, he erred
continually by the very intensity of his investigations. He
impaired his vision by holding the object too close. He might
see, perhaps, one or two points with unusual clearness, but in so
doing he, necessarily, lost sight of the matter as a whole. Thus
there is such a thing as being too profound. Truth is not always
in a well. In fact, as regards the more important knowledge, I do
believe that she is invariably superficial. The depth lies in the
valleys where we seek her, and not upon the mountain-tops where
she is found. The modes and sources of this kind of error are
well typified in the contemplation of the heavenly bodies. To
look at a star by glances—to view it in a side-long way, by
turning toward it the exterior portions of the _retina_ (more
susceptible of feeble impressions of light than the interior), is
to behold the star distinctly—is to have the best appreciation of
its lustre—a lustre which grows dim just in proportion as we turn
our vision _fully_ upon it. A greater number of rays actually
fall upon the eye in the latter case, but, in the former, there
is the more refined capacity for comprehension. By undue
profundity we perplex and enfeeble thought; and it is possible to
make even Venus herself vanish from the firmament by a scrutiny
too sustained, too concentrated, or too direct.

“As for these murders, let us enter into some examinations for
ourselves, before we make up an opinion respecting them. An
inquiry will afford us amusement,” [I thought this an odd term,
so applied, but said nothing] “and, besides, Le Bon once rendered
me a service for which I am not ungrateful. We will go and see
the premises with our own eyes. I know G——, the Prefect of
Police, and shall have no difficulty in obtaining the necessary
permission.”

The permission was obtained, and we proceeded at once to the Rue
Morgue. This is one of those miserable thoroughfares which
intervene between the Rue Richelieu and the Rue St. Roch. It was
late in the afternoon when we reached it, as this quarter is at a
great distance from that in which we resided. The house was
readily found; for there were still many persons gazing up at the
closed shutters, with an objectless curiosity, from the opposite
side of the way. It was an ordinary Parisian house, with a
gateway, on one side of which was a glazed watch-box, with a
sliding panel in the window, indicating a _loge de concierge._
Before going in we walked up the street, turned down an alley,
and then, again turning, passed in the rear of the
building—Dupin, meanwhile examining the whole neighborhood, as
well as the house, with a minuteness of attention for which I
could see no possible object.

Retracing our steps, we came again to the front of the dwelling,
rang, and, having shown our credentials, were admitted by the
agents in charge. We went up stairs—into the chamber where the
body of Mademoiselle L’Espanaye had been found, and where both
the deceased still lay. The disorders of the room had, as usual,
been suffered to exist. I saw nothing beyond what had been stated
in the “Gazette des Tribunaux.” Dupin scrutinized every thing—not
excepting the bodies of the victims. We then went into the other
rooms, and into the yard; a _gendarme_ accompanying us
throughout. The examination occupied us until dark, when we took
our departure. On our way home my companion stepped in for a
moment at the office of one of the daily papers.

I have said that the whims of my friend were manifold, and that
_Je les ménageais_:—for this phrase there is no English
equivalent. It was his humor, now, to decline all conversation on
the subject of the murder, until about noon the next day. He then
asked me, suddenly, if I had observed any thing _peculiar_ at the
scene of the atrocity.

There was something in his manner of emphasizing the word
“peculiar,” which caused me to shudder, without knowing why.

“No, nothing _peculiar_,” I said; “nothing more, at least, than
we both saw stated in the paper.”

“The ‘Gazette,’” he replied, “has not entered, I fear, into the
unusual horror of the thing. But dismiss the idle opinions of
this print. It appears to me that this mystery is considered
insoluble, for the very reason which should cause it to be
regarded as easy of solution—I mean for the _outré_ character of
its features. The police are confounded by the seeming absence of
motive—not for the murder itself—but for the atrocity of the
murder. They are puzzled, too, by the seeming impossibility of
reconciling the voices heard in contention, with the facts that
no one was discovered up stairs but the assassinated Mademoiselle
L’Espanaye, and that there were no means of egress without the
notice of the party ascending. The wild disorder of the room; the
corpse thrust, with the head downward, up the chimney; the
frightful mutilation of the body of the old lady; these
considerations, with those just mentioned, and others which I
need not mention, have sufficed to paralyze the powers, by
putting completely at fault the boasted _acumen_, of the
government agents. They have fallen into the gross but common
error of confounding the unusual with the abstruse. But it is by
these deviations from the plane of the ordinary, that reason
feels its way, if at all, in its search for the true. In
investigations such as we are now pursuing, it should not be so
much asked ‘what has occurred,’ as ‘what has occurred that has
never occurred before.’ In fact, the facility with which I shall
arrive, or have arrived, at the solution of this mystery, is in
the direct ratio of its apparent insolubility in the eyes of the
police.”

I stared at the speaker in mute astonishment.

“I am now awaiting,” continued he, looking toward the door of our
apartment—“I am now awaiting a person who, although perhaps not
the perpetrator of these butcheries, must have been in some
measure implicated in their perpetration. Of the worst portion of
the crimes committed, it is probable that he is innocent. I hope
that I am right in this supposition; for upon it I build my
expectation of reading the entire riddle. I look for the man
here—in this room—every moment. It is true that he may not
arrive; but the probability is that he will. Should he come, it
will be necessary to detain him. Here are pistols; and we both
know how to use them when occasion demands their use.”

I took the pistols, scarcely knowing what I did, or believing
what I heard, while Dupin went on, very much as if in a
soliloquy. I have already spoken of his abstract manner at such
times. His discourse was addressed to myself; but his voice,
although by no means loud, had that intonation which is commonly
employed in speaking to some one at a great distance. His eyes,
vacant in expression, regarded only the wall.

“That the voices heard in contention,” he said, “by the party
upon the stairs, were not the voices of the women themselves, was
fully proved by the evidence. This relieves us of all doubt upon
the question whether the old lady could have first destroyed the
daughter and afterward have committed suicide. I speak of this
point chiefly for the sake of method; for the strength of Madame
L’Espanaye would have been utterly unequal to the task of
thrusting her daughter’s corpse up the chimney as it was found;
and the nature of the wounds upon her own person entirely
preclude the idea of self-destruction. Murder, then, has been
committed by some third party; and the voices of this third party
were those heard in contention. Let me now advert—not to the
whole testimony respecting these voices—but to what was
_peculiar_ in that testimony. Did you observe any thing peculiar
about it?”

I remarked that, while all the witnesses agreed in supposing the
gruff voice to be that of a Frenchman, there was much
disagreement in regard to the shrill, or, as one individual
termed it, the harsh voice.

“That was the evidence itself,” said Dupin, “but it was not the
peculiarity of the evidence. You have observed nothing
distinctive. Yet there _was_ something to be observed. The
witnesses, as you remark, agreed about the gruff voice; they were
here unanimous. But in regard to the shrill voice, the
peculiarity is—not that they disagreed—but that, while an
Italian, an Englishman, a Spaniard, a Hollander, and a Frenchman
attempted to describe it, each one spoke of it as that _of a
foreigner_. Each is sure that it was not the voice of one of his
own countrymen. Each likens it—not to the voice of an individual
of any nation with whose language he is conversant—but the
converse. The Frenchman supposes it the voice of a Spaniard, and
‘might have distinguished some words _had he been acquainted with
the Spanish._’ The Dutchman maintains it to have been that of a
Frenchman; but we find it stated that ‘_not understanding French
this witness was examined through an interpreter._’ The
Englishman thinks it the voice of a German, and ‘_does not
understand German._’ The Spaniard ‘is sure’ that it was that of
an Englishman, but ‘judges by the intonation’ altogether, ‘_as he
has no knowledge of the English._’ The Italian believes it the
voice of a Russian, but ‘_has never conversed with a native of
Russia._’ A second Frenchman differs, moreover, with the first,
and is positive that the voice was that of an Italian; but, _not
being cognizant of that tongue_, is, like the Spaniard,
‘convinced by the intonation.’ Now, how strangely unusual must
that voice have really been, about which such testimony as this
_could_ have been elicited!—in whose _tones_, even, denizens of
the five great divisions of Europe could recognise nothing
familiar! You will say that it might have been the voice of an
Asiatic—of an African. Neither Asiatics nor Africans abound in
Paris; but, without denying the inference, I will now merely call
your attention to three points. The voice is termed by one
witness ‘harsh rather than shrill.’ It is represented by two
others to have been ‘quick and _unequal._’ No words—no sounds
resembling words—were by any witness mentioned as
distinguishable.