The Murders in the Rue Morgue | Page 3

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 boastedto 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.