Chapter VII: He Comes (3)

Residing in Paris during the spring and part of the summer of 18—, I there contracted an intimacy 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 quondam 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 vigorous 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 the candor which a Frenchman indulges only when 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 what I could only term 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 visiters whomsoever. 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 an utter _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 massy 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 would afford.

At such times I could not help remarking and admiring (although from his rich ideality I had been prepared to expect) 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 but 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 role of Xerxes, in Crebillon’s tragedy so called, and been notoriously pasquinaded for his pains.

“Tell me, for God’s sake,” I exclaimed, “the method—if method there be—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 now 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. Nichol, 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 to yourself the word ‘stereotomic.’ You continued the same inaudible murmur, with a knit brow, as is the custom of a man tasking his memory, until I considered that you sought the Greek derivation of the word ‘stereotomy.’ I knew that you could not find this without being brought to think of atomics, and thus of the theories of Epicurus; and as, 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 now was 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 very peculiar Latin line upon whose meaning 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 “Le Tribunal,” 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 every thing 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 _metal 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, and rolled to some
distance. 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 toward 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 nor 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—sometimes quick, sometimes deliberate—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
deposites 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 sent 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 bye 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 whatever. It was only after the announcement that Le Bon had been imprisoned, that he asked me my opinion respecting it.

I could merely agree with all Paris in considering it 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 illy 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, and 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 _Préfet de Police_, and shall have no difficulty in obtaining the necessary permission.”

This 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, for this quarter is at a great distance from that in which we resided. The house we 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 “Tribunal.” 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. Our 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 menagais_:—for this phrase there is no English equivalent. It was his humor now to decline all conversation on the subject of the murder, until after we had taken a bottle of wine together 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.”

“Le Tribunal,” he replied, “has not entered, I fear, into the unusual horror of the thing. But we will not revert to 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 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 after the true. In investigations such as we are now pursuing, it should not be so much asked ‘what has occurred,’ as ‘what has occurred which has never occurred before.’ In fact, the facility with which I shall arrive, or have arrived, at the solution of this mystery, is in exact ratio with its apparent insolubility in the eyes of the police.”

I stared at the speaker in mute astonishment. He continued.

“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 anything 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. Re-employing my own words, I may say that you have pointed out no prominence above the plane of the ordinary, by which reason may feel her way. Yet there _was_ something to be pointed out. 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 is 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 is 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 just now merely call your attention to three points which have relation to this topic. 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.

“I know not,” continued Dupin, “what impression I may have made, so far, upon your own understanding; but I do not hesitate to say that legitimate deductions even from this portion of the testimony—the portion respecting the gruff and shrill voices—are in themselves sufficient to engender a suspicion which should bias, or give direction to all farther progress in the investigation of the mystery. I said ‘legitimate deductions;’ but my meaning is not thus fully expressed. I designed to imply that the deductions were the _sole_ proper ones, and that the suspicion arose _inevitably_ from them as the single result. What the suspicion is, however, I will not say just yet. I merely wish you to bear in mind that with myself it was sufficiently forcible to give a definite form—a certain tendency—to my inquiries in the chamber.

“Let us now transport ourselves, in fancy, to that chamber. What shall we first seek here? The means of egress employed by the murderers. It is not too much to say that we neither of us believe in præternatural events. Madame and Mademoiselle L’Espanaye were not destroyed by spirits. The doers of the dark deed were material, and escaped materially. Then how? Fortunately, there is but one mode of reasoning upon the point, and that mode _must_ lead us to a definite decision. Let us examine, each by each, the possible means of egress. It is clear that the assassins were in the room where Mademoiselle L’Espanaye was found, or at least in the room adjoining, when the party ascended the stairs. It is then only from these two apartments that we have to seek for issues. The police have laid bare the floors, the ceilings, and the masonry of the walls, in every direction. No _secret_ issues could have escaped their vigilance. But, not trusting to their eyes, I examined with my own. There were, then, _no_ secret issues. Both doors leading from the rooms into the passage were securely locked, with the keys inside. Let us turn to the chimneys. These, although of ordinary width for some eight or ten feet above the hearths, will not admit, throughout their extent, the body of a large cat. The impossibility of egress by means already stated being thus absolute, we are reduced to the windows. Through those of the front room no one could have escaped without notice from the crowd in the street. The murderers _must_ have passed, then, through those of the back room. Now, brought to this conclusion in so unequivocal a manner as we are, it is not our part, as reasoners, to reject it on account of apparent impossibilities. It is only left for us to prove that these ‘impossibilities’ are not such.

“There are two windows in the chamber. One of them is unobstructed by furniture, and is wholly visible. The lower portion of the other is hidden from view by the head of the unwieldy bedstead which is thrust close up against it. The former was found securely fastened from within. It resisted the utmost force of those who endeavored to raise it. A large gimlet-hole had been pierced in its frame to the left, and a very stout nail was found fitted therein nearly to the head. Upon examining the other window a similar nail was seen similarly fitted in it; and a vigorous attempt to raise this sash failed also. The police were now entirely satisfied that egress had not been in these directions. And, _therefore_, it was thought a matter of supererogation to withdraw the nails and open the windows.

“My own examination was somewhat more particular, and was so for the reason I have just given—because here it was, I knew, that all apparent impossibilities _must_ be proved to be not such in reality.

“I proceeded to think thus—_a posteriori_. The murderers _did_ escape from one of these windows. This being so, they could not have re-fastened the sashes from the inside as they were found fastened,—(the consideration which put a stop, through its obviousness, to the scrutiny of the police in this quarter). Yet the sashes _were_ fastened. They _must_, then, have the power of fastening themselves. There was no escape from this conclusion. I stepped to the unobstructed casement, withdrew the nail with some difficulty, and attempted to raise the sash. It resisted all my efforts, as I had anticipated. A concealed spring must, I now knew, exist; and this corroboration of my idea convinced me that my premises, at least, were correct, however mysterious still appeared the circumstances attending the nails. A careful search soon brought to light the hidden spring. I pressed it, and, satisfied with the discovery, forbore to upraise the sash.

“I now replaced the nail and regarded it attentively. A person passing out through this window might have reclosed it, and the spring would have caught—but the nail could not have been replaced. The conclusion was plain, and again narrowed in the field of my investigations. The assassins _must_ have escaped through the other window. Supposing, then, the springs upon each sash to be the same, as was probable, there _must_ be found a difference between the nails, or at least between the modes of their fixture. Getting upon the sacking of the bedstead, I looked over the head-board minutely at the second casement. Passing my hand down behind the board I readily discovered and pressed the spring, which was, as I had supposed, identical in character with its neighbor. I now looked at the nail. It was as stout as the other, and apparently fitted in the same manner—driven in nearly up to the head.

“You will say that I was puzzled; but if you think so you must have misunderstood the nature of the inductions. To use a sporting phrase, I had not been once ‘at fault.’ The scent had never for an instant been lost. There was no flaw in any link of the chain. I had traced the secret to its ultimate result—and that result was _the nail_. It had, I say, in every respect, the appearance of its fellow in the other window; but this fact was an absolute nullity (conclusive as it might seem to be) when compared with the consideration that here, at this point, terminated the clew. ‘There _must_ be something wrong,’ I said, ‘about the nail.’ I touched it; and the head, with about the eighth of an inch of the shank, came off in my fingers. The rest of the shank was in the gimlet-hole, where it had been broken off. The fracture was an old one (for its edges were incrusted with rust) and had apparently been accomplished by the blow of a hammer, which had partially imbedded in the top of the bottom sash, the head portion of the nail. I now carefully replaced this head portion in the indentation whence I had taken it, and the resemblance to a perfect nail was complete. I gently raised the sash for a few inches; the head went up with it, remaining firm in its bed, I closed the window, and the semblance of the whole nail was again perfect.

“The riddle, so far, was now unriddled. The assassins had escaped through the window which looked upon the bed. Dropping of its own accord upon their exit (or perhaps purposely closed by them) it had become fastened by the spring; and it was the retention of this spring which had been mistaken by the police for that of the nail—farther inquiry being thus considered unnecessary.

“The next question is that of the mode of descent. Upon this point I had been satisfied in my walk with you around the building. About five feet and a half from the casement in question there ran a lightning-rod. From this rod it would have been impossible for any one to reach the window itself, to say nothing of entering it. I observed, however, that the shutters of the fourth story were of the peculiar kind called by Parisian carpenters _ferrades_—a kind rarely employed at the present day, but frequently seen upon very old mansions at Lyons and Bourdeaux. They are in the form of an ordinary door, (a single, not a folding door) except that the lower half is latticed or worked in open trellis—thus affording an excellent hold for the hands. In the present instance these shutters are fully three feet and a half broad. When we saw them from the rear of the house, they were both about half open—that is to say they stood off at right angles from the wall. It is probable that the police, as well as myself, examined the back of the tenement; but, if so, in looking at these _ferrades_ in the line of their breadth, (as they must have done) they did not perceive this great breadth itself, or, at all events, failed to take it into due consideration. In fact, having once satisfied themselves that no egress could have been made in this quarter, they would naturally bestow here a very cursory examination. It was clear to me, however, that the shutter belonging to the window at the head of the bed would, if swung fully back to the wall, reach to within two feet of the lightning-rod. It was also evident that, by exertion of a very unusual degree of activity and courage, an entrance into the window, from the rod, might have been thus effected. By reaching to the distance of two feet and a half (we now suppose the shutter open to its whole extent) a robber might have taken a firm grasp upon the trellis-work. Letting go, then, his hold upon the rod, placing his feet firmly against the wall, and springing boldly from it, he might have swung the shutter so as to close it, and, if we imagine the window open at the time, might even have swung himself into the room.

“I wish you to bear especially in mind that I have spoken of a _very_ unusual degree of activity as requisite to success in so hazardous and so difficult a feat. It is my design to show you, first, that the thing might possibly have been accomplished:—but, secondly and _chiefly_, I wish to impress upon your understanding the _very extraordinary_—the almost præternatural character of that agility which could have accomplished it.

“You will say, no doubt, using the language of the law, that ‘to make out my case,’ I should rather undervalue, than insist upon a full estimation of the activity required in this matter. This may be the practice in law, but it is not the usage of reason. My ultimate object is only the truth. My immediate purpose is to lead you to place in juxtaposition, that _very unusual_ activity of which I have just spoken, with that _very peculiar_ shrill (or harsh) and _unequal_ voice, about whose nationality no two persons could be found to agree, and in whose utterance no syllabification could be detected.”

At these words a vague and half-formed conception of the meaning of Dupin flitted over my mind. I seemed to be upon the verge of comprehension, without power to comprehend—as men, at times, find themselves upon the brink of remembrance, without being able, in the end, to remember. My friend went on with his discourse.

“You will see,” he said, “that I have shifted the question from the mode of egress to that of ingress. It was my design to convey the idea that both were effected in the same manner, at the same point. Let us now revert in fancy to the interior of the room. Let us survey the appearances here. The drawers of the bureau, it is said, had been rifled, although many articles of apparel still remained within them. The conclusion here is absurd. It is a mere guess—a very silly one—and no more. How are we to know that the articles found in the drawers were not all these drawers had originally contained? Madame L’Espanaye and her daughter lived an exceedingly retired life—saw no company—seldom went out—had little use for numerous changes of habiliment. Those found were at least of as good quality as any likely to be possessed by these ladies. If a thief had taken any, why did he not take the best—why did he not take all? In a word why did he abandon four thousand francs in gold to encumber himself with a bundle of linen? The gold _was_ abandoned. Nearly the whole sum mentioned by Monsieur Mignaud, the banker, was discovered, in bags, upon the floor. I wish you, therefore, to discard from your thoughts the blundering idea of _motive_ engendered in the brains of the police, by that portion of the evidence which speaks of money delivered at the door of the house. Coincidences ten times as remarkable as this (the delivery of the money, and murder committed within three days upon the party receiving it,) happen to each and all of us every hour of our lives, without attracting even a momentary notice. Coincidences in general are great stumbling-blocks in the way of that class of thinkers who have been educated to know nothing, and care less, of the theory of probabilities—that theory to which the most glorious objects of human research are indebted for the most glorious of illustration. In the present instance, had the gold been gone, the fact of its delivery three days before would have formed something more than a coincidence. It would have been corroborative of this idea of motive. But, under the real circumstances of the case, if we are to suppose gold the motive of this outrage, we must also imagine the perpetrator so vacillating an idiot as to have abandoned his gold and his motive together.