cloth now wrapped on my coat.
“Yes, madame, some have died. But that is not the nearest cause of my agitation. It is the address, this blasted address! Pardon my language, Madame Fouché. I must find Monsieur Auguste Duponte’s residence soon, or leave Paris empty-handed and my actions shall be declared even more fantastic by my friends. That is why I wish to visit the postal office.”
The next day, Madame Fouché brought me breakfast herself in lieu of the regular waiter. She badly hid a smile and handed me a piece of paper with some writing on it.
“What is this, madame?”
“Why, it is the address of Auguste Duponte, of course.”
“I thank you infinitely, madame! How marvelous!” I was at once up and out the door. I was too excited to even pause to satisfy my curiosity as to how she had come upon it.
The place, not fifteen minutes away, was a once-bright yellow structure connected to a scarlet-and-blue house around a courtyard, a good example of the fashion of Paris’s gingerbread architecture and colors. The neighborhood was more removed from cafés and shops than the first residence I had visited—a tranquillity conducive to the demands of ratiocination, I supposed. The concierge, a thick man with a hideous double mustache, instructed me to go up to Duponte’s rooms. I paused at the bottom of the stairs and then returned to the concierge’s room.
“Beg your pardon, monsieur. Would it not be preferable to Monsieur Duponte’s tastes if I were announced first?”
The concierge took offense—whether because the suggestion questioned his competence or because the notion of announcing a visitor demeaned his role to that of a house servant, I did not know. The concierge’s wife shrugged and said, with a touch of sympathy that she directed with an upturned glance to God, or the floor above, “How many visitors does he have?”
The odd exchange no doubt contributed to my nervous rambling when I first met the man himself in the doorway to his lodging. The employment of his skills was even more exclusive and rare than I had imagined. Parisians, to judge from the comment of the concierge’s wife, did not think it worthwhile even to
attempt
to secure his help!
When Duponte opened the door to his chambers, I poured out an introduction. “I wrote you some letters—three—sent from the United States, as well as a telegraph directed to your previous address. The letters spoke of the American writer Edgar A. Poe. It is crucial that the matter of his death is investigated. This is why I have come, monsieur.”
“I see,” said Duponte, screwing his face into a grimace and pointing behind me, “that this hall lamp is out. It has been replaced many times, yet the flame is out.”
“What? The lamp?”
That is how it went with our conversation. Once inside, I repeated the chronicle narrated in my letters, urged that we strike at once, and expressed my hope that he would accompany me back to America at his earliest convenience.
The rooms were very ordinary and oddly devoid of all but a few unimportant books; it felt uncommonly cold in there, even though it was summer. Duponte leaned back in his armchair. Suddenly, as though only now realizing I was addressing him rather than the blank wall behind, he said, “Why have you told this to me, monsieur?”
“Monsieur Duponte,” I said, thunderstruck, “you are a celebrated genius of ratiocination
.
You are the only person known to me, perhaps the only person in the known world, capable of resolving this mystery!”
“You are very far mistaken,” he said. “You are mad,” he suggested.
“I? You
are
Auguste Duponte?” I responded accusingly.
“You are thinking of many years ago. The police asked me to review their papers from time to time. I’m afraid the journals of Paris were excited with their own notions and, in some cases, assigned me certain attributes to meet the appetites of the public imagination. Such tales were told…” (Wasn’t there
“Yes, madame, some have died. But that is not the nearest cause of my agitation. It is the address, this blasted address! Pardon my language, Madame Fouché. I must find Monsieur Auguste Duponte’s residence soon, or leave Paris empty-handed and my actions shall be declared even more fantastic by my friends. That is why I wish to visit the postal office.”
The next day, Madame Fouché brought me breakfast herself in lieu of the regular waiter. She badly hid a smile and handed me a piece of paper with some writing on it.
“What is this, madame?”
“Why, it is the address of Auguste Duponte, of course.”
“I thank you infinitely, madame! How marvelous!” I was at once up and out the door. I was too excited to even pause to satisfy my curiosity as to how she had come upon it.
The place, not fifteen minutes away, was a once-bright yellow structure connected to a scarlet-and-blue house around a courtyard, a good example of the fashion of Paris’s gingerbread architecture and colors. The neighborhood was more removed from cafés and shops than the first residence I had visited—a tranquillity conducive to the demands of ratiocination, I supposed. The concierge, a thick man with a hideous double mustache, instructed me to go up to Duponte’s rooms. I paused at the bottom of the stairs and then returned to the concierge’s room.
“Beg your pardon, monsieur. Would it not be preferable to Monsieur Duponte’s tastes if I were announced first?”
The concierge took offense—whether because the suggestion questioned his competence or because the notion of announcing a visitor demeaned his role to that of a house servant, I did not know. The concierge’s wife shrugged and said, with a touch of sympathy that she directed with an upturned glance to God, or the floor above, “How many visitors does he have?”
The odd exchange no doubt contributed to my nervous rambling when I first met the man himself in the doorway to his lodging. The employment of his skills was even more exclusive and rare than I had imagined. Parisians, to judge from the comment of the concierge’s wife, did not think it worthwhile even to
attempt
to secure his help!
When Duponte opened the door to his chambers, I poured out an introduction. “I wrote you some letters—three—sent from the United States, as well as a telegraph directed to your previous address. The letters spoke of the American writer Edgar A. Poe. It is crucial that the matter of his death is investigated. This is why I have come, monsieur.”
“I see,” said Duponte, screwing his face into a grimace and pointing behind me, “that this hall lamp is out. It has been replaced many times, yet the flame is out.”
“What? The lamp?”
That is how it went with our conversation. Once inside, I repeated the chronicle narrated in my letters, urged that we strike at once, and expressed my hope that he would accompany me back to America at his earliest convenience.
The rooms were very ordinary and oddly devoid of all but a few unimportant books; it felt uncommonly cold in there, even though it was summer. Duponte leaned back in his armchair. Suddenly, as though only now realizing I was addressing him rather than the blank wall behind, he said, “Why have you told this to me, monsieur?”
“Monsieur Duponte,” I said, thunderstruck, “you are a celebrated genius of ratiocination
.
You are the only person known to me, perhaps the only person in the known world, capable of resolving this mystery!”
“You are very far mistaken,” he said. “You are mad,” he suggested.
“I? You
are
Auguste Duponte?” I responded accusingly.
“You are thinking of many years ago. The police asked me to review their papers from time to time. I’m afraid the journals of Paris were excited with their own notions and, in some cases, assigned me certain attributes to meet the appetites of the public imagination. Such tales were told…” (Wasn’t there
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