Author Description

At Paris, just after dark one gusty evening in the autumn of 18-, I was enjoying the twofold luxuryof meditation and a meerschaum, in company with my friend C. Auguste Dupin, in his little backlibrary, or book-closet, au troisième, No. 33, Rue Dunôt, Faubourg St. Germain. For one hour at least wehad maintained a profound silence; while each, to any casual observer, might have seemed intentlyand exclusively occupied with the curling eddies of smoke that oppressed the atmosphere of thechamber. For myself, however, I was mentally discussing certain topics which had formed matter forconversation between us at an earlier period of the evening; I mean the affair of the Rue Morgue, and the mystery attending the murder of Marie Rogêt. I looked upon it, therefore, as something of acoincidence, when the door of our apartment was thrown open and admitted our old acquaintance, Monsieur G--, the Prefect of the Parisian police.We gave him a hearty welcome; for there was nearly half as much of the entertaining as of thecontemptible about the man, and we had not seen him for several years. We had been sitting in thedark, and Dupin now arose for the purpose of lighting a lamp, but sat down again, without doing so, upon G.'s saying that he had called to consult us, or rather to ask the opinion of my friend, aboutsome official business which had occasioned a great deal of trouble."If it is any point requiring reflection," observed Dupin, as he forebore to enkindle the wick, "weshall examine it to better purpose in the dark.""That is another of your odd notions," said the Prefect, who had a fashion of calling every thing"odd" that was beyond his comprehension, and thus lived amid an absolute legion of "oddities.""Very true," said Dupin, as he supplied his visitor with a pipe, and rolled towards him acomfortable chair