University of Virginia Library

THE MYSTERY OF MARIE ROGET[1] .
A SEQUEL TO “THE MURDERS IN THE RUE MURGUE.”

There are few persons, even among the calmest thinkers, who
have not occasionally been startled into a vague yet thrilling half-credence
in the supernatural, by coincidences of so seemingly
marvellous a character that, as mere coincidences, the intellect
has been unable to receive them. Such sentiments—for the half-credences

of which I speak have never the full force of thought—
such sentiments are seldom thoroughly stifled unless by reference
to the doctrine of chance, or, as it is technically termed, the Calculus
of Probabilities. Now this Calculus is, in its essence,
purely mathematical; and thus we have the anomaly of the
most rigidly exact in science applied to the shadow and spirituality
of the most intangible in speculation.

The extraordinary details which I am now called upon to
make public, will be found to form, as regards sequence of time,
the primary branch of a series of scarcely intelligible coincidences,
whose secondary or concluding branch will be recognized
by all readers in the late murder of Mary Cecilia Rogers, at
New York.

When, in an article ontitled “The Murders in the Rue Morgue.”
I endeavored, about a year ago, to depict some very remarkable
features in the mental character of my friend, the Chevalier
C. Auguste Dupin, it did not occur to me that I should ever
resume the subject. This depicting of character constituted my
design; and this design was thoroughly fulfilled in the wild train
of circumstances brought to instance Dupin's idiosyncrasy. I
might have adduced other examples, but I should have proven
no more. Late events, however, in their surprising development,
have startled me into some farther details, which will carry with
them the air of extorted confession. Hearing what I have lately
heard, it would be indeed strange should I remain silent in regard
to what I both heard and saw so long ago.

Upon the winding up of the tragedy involved in the deaths of
Madame L'Espanaye and her daughter, the Chevalier dismissed
the affair at once from his attention, and relapsed into his old
habits of moody reverie. Prone, at all times, to abstraction, I
readily fell in with his humor; and, continuing to occupy our

chambers in the Faubourg Saint Germain, we gave the Future to
the winds, and slumbered tranquilly in the Present, weaving the
dull world around us into dreams.

But these dreams were not altogether uninterrupted. It may
readily be supposed that the part played by my friend, in the
drama at the Rue Morgue, had not failed of its impression upon
the fancies of the Parisian police. With its emissaries, the name
of Dupin had grown into a household word. The simple character
of those inductions by which he had disentangled the mystery
never having been explained even to the Prefect, or to any other
individual than myself, of course it is not surprising that the affair
was regarded as little less than miraculous, or that the Chevalier's
analytical abilities acquired for him the credit of intuition.
His frankness would have led him to disabuse every inquirer of
such prejudice; but his indolent humor forbade all farther agitation
of a topic whose interest to himself had long ceased. It thus
happened that he found himself the cynosure of the policial
eyes; and the cases were not few in which attempt was made to
engage his services at the Prefecture. One of the most remarkable
instances was that of the murder of a young girl named
Marie Rogêt.

This event occurred about two years after the atrocity in the
Rue Morgue. Marie, whose Christian and family name will at
once arrest attention from their resemblance to those of the unfortunate
“cigar-girl,” was the only daughter of the widow Estelle
Rogêt. The father had died during the child's infancy, and
from the period of his death, until within eighteen months before
the assassination which forms the subject of our narrative, the
mother and daughter had dwelt together in the Rue Pavée Saint
Andrée;[3] Madame there keeping a pension, assisted by Marie.
Affairs went on thus until the latter had attained her twenty-second
year, when her great beauty attracted the notice of a perfumer,
who occupied one of the shops in the basement of the Palais
Royal, and whose custom lay chiefly among the desperate adventurers
infesting that neighborhood. Monsieur Le Blanc[4] was not
unaware of the advantages to be derived from the attendance of
the fair Marie in his perfumery; and his liberal proposals were

accepted eagerly by the girl, although with somewhat more of
hesitation by Madame.

The anticipations of the shopkeeper were realized, and his
rooms soon became notorious through the charms of the sprightly
grisette. She had been in his employ about a year, when her admirers
were thrown into confusion by her sudden disappearance
from the shop. Monsieur Le Blanc was unable to account for
her absence, and Madame Rogêt was distracted with anxiety and
terror. The public papers immediately took up the theme, and
the police were upon the point of making serious investigations,
when, one fine morning, after the lapse of a week, Marie, in good
health, but with a somewhat saddened air, made her re-appearance
at her usual counter in the perfumery. All inquiry, except
that of a private character, was of course immediately hushed.
Monsieur Le Blanc professed total ignorance, as before. Marie,
with Madame, replied to all questions, that the last week had
been spent at the house of a relation in the country. Thus the
affair died away, and was generally forgotten; for the girl, ostensibly
to relieve herself from the impertinence of curiosity, soon
bade a final adieu to the perfumer, and sought the shelter of her
mother's residence in the Rue Pavée Saint Andrée.

It was about five months after this return home, that her friends
were alarmed by her sudden disappearance for the second time.
Three days elapsed, and nothing was heard of her. On the
fourth her corpse was found floating in the Seine,[5] near the shore
which is opposite the Quartier of the Rue Saint Andrée, and at a
point not very far distant from the secluded neighborhood of the
Barrière du Roule.[6]

The atrocity of this murder, (for it was at once evident that
murder had been committed,) the youth and beauty of the victim,
and, above all, her previous notoriety, conspired to produce intense
excitement in the minds of the sensitive Parisians. I can
call to mind no similar occurrence producing so general and so
intense an effect. For several weeks, in the discussion of this
one absorbing theme, even the momentous political topics of the
day were forgotten. The Prefect made unusual exertions; and

the powers of the whole Parisian police were, of course, tasked
to the utmost extent.

Upon the first discovery of the corpse, it was not supposed that
the murderer would be able to elude, for more than a very brief
period, the inquisition which was immediately set on foot. It
was not until the expiration of a week that it was deemed necessary
to offer a reward; and even then this reward was limited to
a thousand francs. In the mean time the investigation proceeded
with vigor, if not always with judgment, and numerous individuals
were examined to no purpose; while, owing to the continual
absence of all clue to the mystery, the popular excitement greatly
increased. At the end of the tenth day it was thought advisable
to double the sum originally proposed; and, at length, the second
week having elapsed without leading to any discoveries, and the
prejudice which always exists in Paris against the Police having
given vent to itself in several serious émeutes, the Prefect took it
upon himself to offer the sum of twenty thousand francs “for the
conviction of the assassin,” or, if more than one should prove to
have been implicated, “for the conviction of any one of the assassins.”
In the proclamation setting forth this reward, a full pardon
was promised to any accomplice who should come forward in
evidence against his fellow; and to the whole was appended,
wherever it appeared, the private placard of a committee of citizens,
offering ten thousand francs, in addition to the amount proposed
by the Prefecture. The entire reward thus stood at no less
than thirty thousand francs, which will be regarded as an extraordinary
sum when we consider the humble condition of the girl,
and the great frequency in large cities, of such atrocities as the
one described.

No one doubted now that the mystery of this murder would be
immediately brought to light. But although, in one or two instances,
arrests were made which promised elucidation, yet nothing
was elicited which could implicate the parties suspected;
and they were discharged forthwith. Strange as it may appear,
the third week from the discovery of the body had passed, and
passed without any light being thrown upon the subject, before
even a rumor of the events which had so agitated the public
mind, reached the ears of Dupin and myself. Engaged in researches

which had absorbed our whole attention, it had been
nearly a month since either of us had gone abroad, or received a
visiter, or more than glanced at the leading political articles in
one of the daily papers. The first intelligence of the murder was
brought us by G—, in person. He called upon us early in the
afternoon of the thirteenth of July, 18—, and remained with us
until late in the night. He had been piqued by the failure of all
his endeavors to ferret out the assassins. His reputation—so he
said with a peculiarly Parisian air—was at stake. Even his
honor was concerned. The eyes of the public were upon him;
and there was really no sacrifice which he would not be willing
to make for the development of the mystery. He concluded a
somewhat droll speech with a compliment upon what he was
pleased to term the tact of Dupin, and made him a direct, and certainly
a liberal proposition, the precise nature of which I do not
feel myself at liberty to disclose, but which has no bearing upon
the proper subject of my narrative.

The compliment my friend rebutted as best he could, but the
proposition he accepted at once, although its advantages were
altogether provisional. This point being settled, the Prefect broke
forth at once into explanations of his own views, interspersing
them with long comments upon the evidence; of which latter we
were not yet in possession. He discoursed much, and beyond
doubt, learnedly; while I hazarded an occasional suggestion as
the night wore drowsily away. Dupin, sitting steadily in his accustomed
arm-chair, was the embodiment of respectful attention.
He wore spectacles, during the whole interview; and an occasional
glance beneath their green glasses, sufficed to convince me
that he slept not the less soundly, because silently, throughout the
seven or eight leaden-footed hours which immediately preceded
the departure of the Prefect.

In the morning, I procured, at the Prefecture, a full report of
all the evidence elicited, and, at the various newspaper offices, a
copy of every paper in which, from first to last, had been published
any decisive information in regard to this sad affair.
Freed from all that was positively disproved, this mass of information
stood thus:

Marie Rogêt left the residence of her mother, in the Rue Pavée

St. Andrée, about nine o'clock in the morning of Sunday,
June the twenty-second, 18—. In going out, she gave notice to
a Monsieur Jacques St. Eustache,[7] and to him only, of her intention
to spend the day with an aunt who resided in the Rue des
Drômes. The Rue des Drômes is a short and narrow but populous
thoroughfare, not far from the banks of the river, and at a
distance of some two miles, in the most direct course possible,
from the pension of Madame Rogêt. St. Eustache was the accepted
suitor of Marie, and lodged, as well as took his meals, at
the pension. He was to have gone for his betrothed at dusk, and
to have escorted her home. In the afternoon, however, it came
on to rain heavily; and, supposing that she would remain all
night at her aunt's, (as she had done under similar circumstances
before,) he did not think it necessary to keep his promise. As
night drew on, Madame Rogêt (who was an infirm old lady, seventy
years of age,) was heard to express a fear “that she should
never see Marie again;” but this observation attracted little attention
at the time.

On Monday, it was ascertained that the girl had not been to
the Rue des Drômes; and when the day elapsed without tidings
of her, a tardy search was instituted at several points in the city,
and its environs. It was not, however, until the fourth day from
the period of her disappearance that any thing satisfactory was
ascertained respecting her. On this day, (Wednesday, the twenty-fifth
of June,) a Monsieur Beauvais,[8] who, with a friend, had been
making inquiries for Marie near the Barrière du Roule, on the
shore of the Seine which is opposite the Rue Pavée St. Andrée,
was informed that a corpse had just been towed ashore by some
fishermen, who had found it floating in the river. Upon seeing
the body, Beauvais, after some hesitation, identified it as that of
the perfumery-girl. His friend recognized it more promptly.

The face was suffused with dark blood, some of which issued
from the mouth. No foam was seen, as in the case of the merely
drowned. There was no discoloration in the cellular tissue.
About the throat were bruises and impressions of fingers. The
arms were bent over on the chest and were rigid. The right

hand was clenched; the left partially open. On the left wrist
were two circular excoriations, apparently the effect of ropes, or
of a rope in more than one volution. A part of the right wrist,
also, was much chafed, as well as the back throughout its extent,
but more especially at the shoulder-blades. In bringing the body
to the shore the fishermen had attached to it a rope; but none of
the excoriations had been effected by this. The flesh of the neck
was much swollen. There were no cuts apparent, or bruises
which appeared the effect of blows. A piece of lace was found
tied so tightly around the neck as to be hidden from sight; it was
completely buried in the flesh, and was fastened by a knot which
lay just under the left ear. This alone would have sufficed to
produce death. The medical testimony spoke confidently of the
virtuous character of the deceased. She had been subjected, it
said, to brutal violence. The corpse was in such condition when
found, that there could have been no difficulty in its recognition
by friends.

The dress was much torn and otherwise disordered. In the
outer garment, a slip, about a foot wide, had been torn upward
from the bottom hem to the waist, but not torn off. It was wound
three times around the waist, and secured by a sort of hitch in the
back. The dress immediately beneath the frock was of fine
muslin; and from this a slip eighteen inches wide had been torn
entirely out—torn very evenly and with great care. It was found
around her neck, fitting loosely, and secured with a hard knot.
Over this muslin slip and the slip of lace, the strings of a bonnet
were attached; the bonnet being appended. The knot by which
the strings of the bonnet were fastened, was not a lady's, but a
slip or sailor's knot.

After the recognition of the corpse, it was not, as usual, taken
to the Morgue, (this formality being superfluous,) but hastily interred
not far from the spot at which it was brought ashore.
Through the exertions of Beauvais, the matter was industriously
hushed up, as far as possible; and several days had elapsed before
any public emotion resulted. A weekly paper,[9] however,
at length took up the theme; the corpse was disinterred, and a

re-examination instituted; but nothing was elicited beyond what
has been already noted. The clothes, however, were now submitted
to the mother and friends of the deceased, and fully identified
as those worn by the girl upon leaving home.

Meantime, the excitement increased hourly. Several individuals
were arrested and discharged. St. Eustache fell especially
under suspicion; and he failed, at first, to give an intelligible
account of his whereabouts during the Sunday on which Marie
left home. Subsequently, however, he submitted to Monsieur
G—, affidavits, accounting satisfactorily for every hour of the
day in question. As time passed and no discovery ensued, a
thousand contradictory rumors were circulated, and journalists
busied themselves in suggestions. Among these, the one which
attracted the most notice, was the idea that Marie Rogêt still lived
—that the corpse found in the Seine was that of some other unfortunate.
It will be proper that I submit to the reader some
passages which embody the suggestion alluded to. These passages
are literal translations from L'Etoile,[10] a paper conducted,
in general, with much ability.

The editor here proceeds to argue that the body must have
been in the water “not three days merely, but, at least, five times
three days,” because it was so far decomposed that Beauvais had
great difficulty in recognizing it. This latter point, however, was
fully disproved. I continue the translation:

In this way the journal endeavored to create the impression of
an apathy on the part of the relatives of Marie, inconsistent with
the supposition that these relatives believed the corpse to be hers.
Its insinuations amount to this:—that Marie, with the connivance
of her friends, had absented herself from the city for reasons involving
a charge against her chastity; and that these friends,

upon the discovery of a corpse in the Seine, somewhat resembling
that of the girl, had availed themselves of the opportunity to impress
the public with the belief of her death. But L'Etoile was
again over-hasty. It was distinctly proved that no apathy, such
as was imagined, existed; that the old lady was exceedingly
feeble, and so agitated as to be unable to attend to any duty; that
St. Eustache, so far from receiving the news coolly, was distracted
with grief, and bore himself so frantically, that M. Beauvais
prevailed upon a friend and relative to take charge of him,
and prevent his attending the examination at the disinterment.
Moreover, although it was stated by L'Etoile, that the corpse was
re-interred at the public expense—that an advantageous offer of
private sepulture was absolutely declined by the family—and
that no member of the family attended the ceremonial:—although,
I say, all this was asserted by L'Etoile in furtherance of the
impression it designed to convey—yet all this was satisfactorily
disproved. In a subsequent number of the paper, an attempt
was made to throw suspicion upon Beauvais himself. The editor
says:

By the following fact, some color was given to the suspicion
thus thrown upon Beauvais. A visiter at his office, a few days
prior to the girl's disappearance, and during the absence of its
occupant, had observed a rose in the key-hole of the door, and
the name “Marie” inscribed upon a slate which hung near at
hand.

The general impression, so far as we were enabled to glean it
from the newspapers, seemed to be, that Marie had been the victim

of a gang of desperadoes—that by these she had been borne
across the river, maltreated and murdered. Le Commerciel,[11]
however, a print of extensive influence, was earnest in combating
this popular idea. I quote a passage or two from its columns:

A day or two before the Perfect called upon us, however, some
important information reached the police, which seemed to overthrow,
at least, the chief portion of Le Commerciel's argument.
Two small boys, sons of a Madame Deluc, while roaming among
the woods near the Barrière du Roule, chanced to penetrate a
close thicket, within which were three or four large stones, forming
a kind of seat, with a back and footstool. On the upper stone
lay a white petticoat; on the second a silk scarf. A parasol,
gloves, and a pocket-handkerchief were also here found. The
handkerchief bore the name “Marie Rogêt.” Fragments of
dress were discovered on the brambles around. The earth was
trampled, the bushes were broken, and there was every evidence
of a struggle. Between the thicket and the river, the fences were
found taken down, and the ground bore evidence of some heavy
burthen having been dragged along it.

A weekly paper, Le Soleil,[12] had the following comments upon
this discovery—comments which merely echoed the sentiment of
the whole Parisian press:

Consequent upon this discovery, new evidence appeared. Madame
Deluc testified that she keeps a roadside inn not far from
the bank of the river, opposite the Barrière du Roule. The
neighborhood is secluded—particularly so. It is the usual Sunday
resort of blackguards from the city, who cross the river in
boats. About three o'clock, in the afternoon of the Sunday in
question, a young girl arrived at the inn, accompanied by a
young man of dark complexion. The two remained here for
some time. On their departure, they took the road to some thick
woods in the vicinity. Madame Deluc's attention was called to
the dress worn by the girl, on account of its resemblance to one
worn by a deceased relative. A scarf was particularly noticed.
Soon after the departure of the couple, a gang of miscreants
made their appearance, behaved boisterously, ate and drank without
making payment, followed in the route of the young man
and girl, returned to the inn about dusk, and re-crossed the river
as if in great haste.

It was soon after dark, upon this same evening, that Madame
Deluc, as well as her eldest son, heard the screams of a female
in the vicinity of the inn. The screams were violent but brief.
Madame D. recognized not only the scarf which was found in
the thicket, but the dress which was discovered upon the corpse.

An omnibus-driver, Valence,[13] now also testified that he saw
Marie Rogêt cross a ferry on the Seine, on the Sunday in question,
in company with a young man of dark complexion. He,
Valence, knew Marie, and could not be mistaken in her identity.
The articles found in the thicket were fully identified by the relatives
of Marie.

The items of evidence and information thus collected by myself,
from the newspapers, at the suggestion of Dupin, embraced
only one more point—but this was a point of seemingly vast consequence.
It appears that, immediately after the discovery of the
clothes as above described, the lifeless, or nearly lifeless body of
St. Eustache, Marie's betrothed, was found in the vicinity of
what all now supposed the scene of the outrage. A phial labelled
“laudanum,” and emptied, was found near him. His breath
gave evidence of the poison. He died without speaking. Upon
his person was found a letter, briefly stating his love for Marie,
with his design of self-destruction.

“I need scarcely tell you,” said Dupin, as he finished the perusal
of my notes, “that this is a far more intricate case than
that of the Rue Morgue; from which it differs in one important
respect. This is an ordinary, although an atrocious instance of
crime. There is nothing peculiarly outré about it. You will observe
that, for this reason, the mystery has been considered easy,
when, for this reason, it should have been considered difficult, of
solution. Thus, at first, it was thought unnecessary to offer a
reward. The myrmidons of G—were able at once to comprehend
how and why such an atrocity might have been committed.
They could picture to their imaginations a mode—many
modes—and a motive—many motives; and because it was not impossible
that either of these numerous modes and motives could have
been the actual one, they have taken it for granted that one of
them must. But the ease with which these variable fancies were
entertained, and the very plausibility which each assumed, should
have been understood as indicative rather of the difficulties than
of the facilities which must attend elucidation. I have before
observed that it is by prominences above the plane of the ordinary,

that reason feels her way, if at all, in her search for the
true, and that the proper question in cases such as this, is not so
much `what has occurred?' as `what has occurred that has
never occurred before?' In the investigations at the house of
Madame L'Espanaye,[14] the agents of G—were discouraged
and confounded by that very unusualness which, to a properly regulated
intellect, would have afforded the surest omen of success;
while this same intellect might have been plunged in despair at
the ordinary character of all that met the eye in the case of the
perfumery-girl, and yet told of nothing but easy triumph to the
functionaries of the Prefecture.

“In the case of Madame L'Espanaye and her daughter, there
was, even at the beginning of our investigation, no doubt that
murder had been committed. The idea of suicide was excluded
at once. Here, too, we are freed, at the commencement, from
all supposition of self-murder. The body found at the Barrière
du Roule, was found under such circumstances as to leave us no
room for embarrassment upon this important point. But it has
been suggested that the corpse discovered, is not that of the Marie
Rogêt for the conviction of whose assassin, or assassins, the reward
is offered, and respecting whom, solely, our agreement has
been arranged with the Prefect. We both know this gentleman
well. It will not do to trust him too far. If, dating our inquiries
from the body found, and thence tracing a murderer, we yet
discover this body to be that of some other individual than Marie;
or, if starting from the living Marie, we find her, yet find her
unassassinated—in either case we lose our labor; since it is Monsieur
G—with whom we have to deal. For our own purpose,
therefore, if not for the purpose of justice, it is indispensable that
our first step should be the determination of the identity of the
corpse with the Marie Rogêt who is missing.

“With the public the arguments of L'Etoile have had weight;
and that the journal itself is convinced of their importance
would appear from the manner in which it commences one of its
essays upon the subject—`Several of the morning papers of the
day,' it says, `speak of the conclusive article in Monday's Etoile.'

To me, this article appears conclusive of little beyond the zeal
of its inditer. We should bear in mind that, in general, it is the
object of our newspapers rather to create a sensation—to make a
point—than to further the cause of truth. The latter end is only
pursued when it seems cöincident with the former. The print
which merely falls in with ordinary opinion (however well founded
this opinion may be) earns for itself no credit with the mob.
The mass of the people regard as profound only him who suggests
pungent contradictions of the general idea. In ratiocination,
not less than in literature, it is the epigram which is the most immediately
and the most universally appreciated. In both, it is of
the lowest order of merit.

“What I mean to say is, that it is the mingled epigram and
melodrame of the idea, that Marie Rogêt still lives, rather than
any true plausibility in this idea, which have suggested it to
L'Etoile, and secured it a favorable reception with the public.
Let us examine the heads of this journal's argument; endeavoring
to avoid the incoherence with which it is originally set forth.

“The first aim of the writer is to show, from the brevity of
the interval between Marie's disappearance and the finding of the
floating corpse, that this corpse cannot be that of Marie. The
reduction of this interval to its smallest possible dimension, becomes
thus, at once, an object with the reasoner. In the rash
pursuit of this object, he rushes into mere assumption at the outset.
`It is folly to suppose,' he says, `that the murder, if murder
was committed on her body, could have been consummated soon
enough to have enabled her murderers to throw the body into the
river before midnight.' We demand at once, and very naturally,
why? Why is it folly to suppose that the murder was committed
within five minutes after the girl's quitting her mother's
house? Why is it folly to suppose that the murder was
committed at any given period of the day? There have been assassinations
at all hours. But, had the murder taken place at any
moment between nine o'clock in the morning of Sunday, and a
quarter before midnight, there would still have been time enough
`to throw the body into the river before midnight.' This assumption,
then, amounts precisely to this—that the murder was not
committed on Sunday at all—and, if we allow L'Etoile to assume

this, we may permit it any liberties whatever. The paragraph
beginning `It is folly to suppose that the murder, etc.,'
however it appears as printed in L'Etoile, may be imagined to
have existed actually thus in the brain of its inditer—`It is folly
to suppose that the murder, if murder was committed on the body,
could have been committed soon enough to have enabled her
murderers to throw the body into the river before midnight; it is
folly, we say, to suppose all this, and to suppose at the same time,
(as we are resolved to suppose,) that the body was not thrown in
until after midnight'—a sentence sufficiently inconsequential in
itself, but not so utterly preposterous as the one printed.

“Were it my purpose,” continued Dupin, “merely to make out
a case against this passage of L'Etoile's argument, I might safely
leave it where it is. It is not, however, with L'Etoile that we
have to do, but with the truth. The sentence in question has but
one meaning, as it stands; and this meaning I have fairly stated:
but it is material that we go behind the mere words, for an idea
which these words have obviously intended, and failed to convey.
It was the design of the journalist to say that, at whatever period
of the day or night of Sunday this murder was committed, it was
improbable that the assassins would have ventured to bear the
corpse to the river before midnight. And herein lies, really, the
assumption of which I complain. It is assumed that the murder
was committed at such a position, and under such circumstances,
that the bearing it to the river became necessary. Now, the assassination
might have taken place upon the river's brink, or on
the river itself; and, thus, the throwing the corpse in the water
might have been resorted to, at any period of the day or night, as
the most obvious and most immediate mode of disposal. You will
understand that I suggest nothing here as probable, or as cöincident
with my own opinion. My design, so far, has no reference
to the facts of the case. I wish merely to caution you against
the whole tone of L'Etoile's suggestion, by calling your attention
to its ex parte character at the outset.

“Having prescribed thus a limit to suit its own preconceived
notions; having assumed that, if this were the body of Marie, it
could have been in the water but a very brief time; the journal
goes on to say:

“These assertions have been tacitly received by every paper
in Paris, with the exception of Le Moniteur.[15] This latter print
endeavors to combat that portion of the paragraph which has reference
to 'drowned bodies' only, by citing some five or six instances
in which the bodies of individuals known to be drowned
were found floating after the lapse of less time than is insisted
upon by L'Etoile. But there is something excessively unphilosophical
in the attempt on the part of Le Moniteur, to rebut the
general assertion of L'Etoile, by a citation of particular instances
militating against that assertion. Had it been possible to
adduce fifty instead of five examples of bodies found floating at
the end of two or three days, these fifty examples could still have
been properly regarded only as exceptions to L'Etoile's rule, until
such time as the rule itself should be confuted. Admitting the
rule, (and this Le Moniteur does not deny, insisting merely upon
its exceptions,) the argument of L'Etoile is suffered to remain in
full force; for this argument does not pretend to involve more
than a question of the probability of the body having risen to the
surface in less than three days; and this probability will be in
favor of L'Etoile's position until the instances so childishly adduced
shall be sufficient in number to establish an antagonistical
rule.

“You will see at once that all argument upon this head should
be urged, if at all, against the rule itself; and for this end we
must examine the rationale of the rule. Now the human body,
in general, is neither much lighter nor much heavier than the
water of the Seine; that is to say, the specific gravity of the human
body, in its natural condition, is about equal to the bulk of
fresh water which it displaces. The bodies of fat and fleshy persons,
with small bones, and of women generally are lighter than
those of the lean and large-boned, and of men; and the specific
gravity of the water of a river is somewhat influenced by the

presence of the tide from sea. But, leaving this tide out of question,
it may be said that very few human bodies will sink at all,
even in fresh water, of their own accord. Almost any one, falling
into a river, will be enabled to float, if he suffer the specific
gravity of the water fairly to be adduced in comparison with his
own—that is to say, if he suffer his whole person to be immersed,
with as little exception as possible. The proper position for one
who cannot swim, is the upright position of the walker on land,
with the head thrown fully back, and immersed; the mouth and
nostrils alone remaining above the surface. Thus circumstanced,
we shall find that we float without difficulty and without exertion.
It is evident, however, that the gravities of the body, and of the
bulk of water displaced, are very nicely balanced, and that a trifle
will cause either to preponderate. An arm, for instance, uplifted
from the water, and thus deprived of its support, is an additional
weight sufficient to immerse the whole head, while the accidental
aid of the smallest piece of timber will enable us to elevate the
head so as to look about. Now, in the struggles of one unused
to swimming, the arms are invariably thrown upwards, while an
attempt is made to keep the head in its usual perpendicular position.
The result is the immersion of the mouth and nostrils, and
the inception, during efforts to breathe while beneath the surface,
of water into the lungs. Much is also received into the stomach,
and the whole body becomes heavier by the difference between
the weight of the air originally distending these cavities, and that
of the fluid which now fills them. This difference is sufficient to
cause the body to sink, as a general rule; but is insufficient in
the cases of individuals with small bones and an abnormal quantity
of flaccid or fatty matter. Such individuals float even after
drowning.

“The corpse, being supposed at the bottom of the river, will
there remain until, by some means, its specific gravity again becomes
less than that of the bulk of water which it displaces.
This effect is brought about by decomposition, or otherwise. The
result of decomposition is the generation of gas, distending the cellular
tissues and all the cavities, and giving the puffed appearance
which is to horrible. When this distension has so far progressed
that the bulk of the corpse is materially increased without

a corresponding increase of mass or weight, its specific gravity
becomes less than that of the water displaced, and it forthwith
makes its appearance at the surface. But decomposition is modified
by innumerable circumstances—is hastened or retarded by
innumerable agencies; for example, by the heat or cold of the
season, by the mineral impregnation or purity of the water, by its
depth or shallowness, by its currency or stagnation, by the temperament
of the body, by its infection or freedom from disease before
death. Thus it is evident that we can assign no period, with
any thing like accuracy, at which the corpse shall rise through
decomposition. Under certain conditions this result would be
brought about within an hour; under others, it might not take
place at all. There are chemical infusions by which the animal
frame can be preserved forever from corruption; the Bi-chloride
of Mercury is one. But, apart from decomposition, there may
be, and very usually is, a generation of gas within the stomach,
from the acetous fermentation of vegetable matter (or within other
cavities from other causes) sufficient to induce a distension which
will bring the body to the surface. The effect produced by the
firing of a cannon is that of simple vibration. This may either
loosen the corpse from the soft mud or ooze in which it is imbedded,
thus permitting it to rise when other agencies have already
prepared it for so doing; or it may overcome the tenacity of some
putrescent portions of the cellular tissue; allowing the cavities to
distend under the influence of the gas.

“Having thus before us the whole philosophy of this subject,
we can easily test by it the assertions of L'Etoile. `All experience
shows,' says this paper, `that drowned bodies, or bodies
thrown into the water immediately after death by violence, require
from six to ten days for sufficient decomposition to take place
to bring them to the top of the water. Even when a cannon is
fired over a corpse, and it rises before at least five or six days'
immersion, it sinks again if let alone.'

“The whole of this paragraph must now appear a tissue of inconsequence
and incoherence. All experience does not show that
`drowned bodies' require from six to ten days for sufficient decomposition
to take place to bring them to the surface. Both
science and experience show that the period of their rising is, and

necessarily must be, indeterminate. If, moreover, a body has
risen to the surface through firing of cannon, it will not `sink
again if let alone,' until decomposition has so far progressed as to
permit the escape of the generated gas. But I wish to call your
attention to the distinction which is made between `drowned
bodies,' and `bodies thrown into the water immediately after
death by violence.' Although the writer admits the distinction,
he yet includes them all in the same category. I have shown
how it is that the body of a drowning man becomes specifically
heavier than its bulk of water, and that he would not sink at all,
except for the struggles by which he elevates his arms above the
sarface, and his gasps for breath while beneath the surface—
gasps which supply by water the place of the original air in the
lungs. But these struggles and these gasps would not occur in
the body `thrown into the water immedately after death by violence.'
Thus, in the latter instance, the body, as a general rule,
would not sink at all—a fact of which L'Etoile is evidently ignorant.
When decompsition had proceeded to a very great extent
—when the flesh had in a great measure left the bones—then,
indeed, but not till then, should we lose sight of the corpse.

“And now what are we to make of the argument, that the body
found could not be that of Marie Rogêt, because, three days only
having elapsed, this body was found floating? If drowned, being
a woman, she might never have sunk; or having sunk, might
have re-appeared in twenty-four hours, or less. But no one supposes
her to have been drowned; and, dying before being thrown
into the river, she might have been found floating at any period
afterwards whatever.

“ `But,' says L'Etoile, `if the body had been kept in its mangled
state on shore until Tuesday night, some trace would be
found on shore of the murderers.' Here it is at first difficult to
perceive the intention of the reasoner. He means to anticipate
what he imagines would be an objection to his theory—viz: that
the body was kept on shore two days, suffering rapid decomposition—
more rapid than if immersed in water. He supposes that,
had this been the case, it might have appeared at the surface on
the Wednesday, and thinks that only under such circumstances it
could so have appeared. He is accordingly in haste to show that

it was not kept on shore; for, if so, `some trace would be found
on shore of the murderers.' I presume you smile at the sequitur.
You cannot be made to see how the mere duration of the corpse
on the shore could operate to multiply traces of the assassins.
Nor can I.

“`And furthermore it is exceedingly improbable,' continues our
journal, `that any villains who had committed such a murder as
is here supposed, would have thrown the body in without weight
to sink it, when such a precaution could have so easily been
taken.' Observe, here, the laughable confusion of thought! No
one—not even L'Etoile—disputes the murder committed on the
body found. The marks of violence are too obvious. It is our
reasoner's object merely to show that this body is not Marie's.
He wishes to prove that Marie is not assassinated—not that the
corpse was not. Yet his observation proves only the latter point.
Here is a corpse without weight attached. Murderers, casting it
in, would not have failed to attach a weight. Therefore it was
not thrown in by murderers. This is all which is proved, if any
thing is. The question of identity is not even approached, and
L'Etoile has been at great pains merely to gainsay now what it
has admitted only a moment before. `We are perfectly convinced,'
it says, `that the body found was that of a murdered female.'

“Nor is this the sole instance, even in this division of his subject,
where our reasoner unwittingly reasons against himself.
His evident object, I have already said, is to reduce, as much as
possible, the interval between Marie's disappearance and the finding
of the corpse. Yet we find him urging the point that no
person saw the girl from the moment of her leaving her mother's
house. `We have no evidence,' he says, `that Marie Rogêt was
in the land of the living after nine o'clock on Sunday, June the
twenty-second.' As his argument is obviously an ex parte one,
he should, at least, have left this matter out of sight; for had any
one been known to see Marie, say on Monday, or on Tuesday,
the interval in question would have been much reduced, and, by
his own ratiocination, the probability much diminished of the
corpse being that of the grisette. It is, nevertheless, amusing to

observe that L'Etoile insists upon its point in the full belief of its
furthering its general argument.

“Reperuse now that portion of this argument which has reference
to the identification of the corpse by Beauvais. In regard
to the hair upon the arm, L'Etoile has been obviously disingenuous.
M. Beauvais, not being an idiot, could never have urged,
in identification of the corpse, simply hair upon its arm. No arm
is without hair. The generality of the expression of L'Etoile is
a mere perversion of the witness' phraseology. He must have
spoken of some peculiarity in this hair. It must have been a
peculiarity of color, of quantity, of length, or of situation.

“`Her foot,' says the journal, `was small—so are thousands
of feet. Her garter is no proof whatever—nor is her shoe—for
shoes and garters are sold in packages. The same may be said
of the flowers in her hat. One thing upon which M. Beauvais
strongly insists is, that the clasp on the garter found, had been
set back to take it in. This amounts to nothing; for most women
find it proper to take a pair of garters home and fit them to the
size of the limbs they are to encircle, rather than to try them in
the store where they purchase.' Here it is difficult to suppose
the reasoner in earnest. Had M. Beauvais, in his search for the
body of Marie, discovered a corpse corresponding in general size
and appearance to the missing girl, he would have been warranted
(without reference to the question of habiliment at all) in forming
an opinion that his search had been successful. If, in addition
to the point of general size and contour, he had found upon the
arm a peculiar hairy appearance which he had observed upon
the living Marie, his opinion might have been justly strengthened;
and the increase of positiveness might well have been in the ratio
of the peculiarity, or unusualness, of the hairy mark. If, the
feet of Marie being small, those of the corpse were also small,
the increase of probability that the body was that of Marie would
not be an increase in a ratio merely arithmetical, but in one highly
geometrical, or accumulative. Add to all this shoes such as she
had been known to wear upon the day of her disappearance, and,
although these shoes may be `sold in packages,' you so far augment
the probability as to verge upon the certain. What, of

itself, would be no evidence of identity, becomes through its corroborative
position, proof most sure. Give us, then, flowers in
the hat corresponding to those worn by the missing girl, and we
seek for nothing farther. If only one flower, we seek for nothing
farther—what then if two or three, or more? Each successive
one is multiple evidence—proof not added to proof, but multiplied
by hundreds or thousands. Let us now discover, upon the deceased,
garters such as the living used, and it is almost folly to
proceed. But these garters are found to be tightened, by the
setting back of a clasp, in just such a manner as her own had
been tightened by Marie, shortly previous to her leaving home.
It is now madness or hypocrisy to doubt. What L'Etoile says
in respect to this abbreviation of the garter's being an usual occurrence,
shows nothing beyond its own pertinacity in error. The
elastic nature of the clasp-garter is self-demonstration of the unusualness
of the abbreviation. What is made to adjust itself,
must of necessity require foreign adjustment but rarely. It must
have been by an accident, in its strictest sense, that these garters
of Marie needed the tightening described. They alone would
have amply established her identity. But it is not that the corpse
was found to have the garters of the missing girl, or found to have
her shoes, or her bonnet, or the flowers of her bonnet, or her feet,
or a peculiar mark upon the arm, or her general size and appearance—it
is that the corpse had each, and all collectively. Could
it be proved that the editor of L'Etoile really entertained a doubt,
under the circumstances, there would be no need, in his case, of
a commission de lunatico inquirendo. He has thought it sagacious
to echo the small talk of the lawyers, who, for the most part, content
themselves with echoing the rectangular precepts of the
courts. I would here observe that very much of what is rejected
as evidence by a court, is the best of evidence to the intellect.
For the court, guiding itself by the general principles of evidence
—the recognized and booked principles—is averse from swerving
at particular instances. And this steadfast adherence to principle,
with rigorous disregard of the conflicting exception, is a sure
mode of attaining the maximum of attainable truth, in any long
sequence of time. The practice, in mass, is therefore philosophical;
but it is not the less certain that it engenders vast individual
error.[16]

“In respect to the insinuations levelled at Beauvais, you will
be willing to dismiss them in a breath. You have already fathomed
the true character of this good gentleman. He is a busy-body,
with much of romance and little of wit. Any one so constituted
will readily so conduct himself, upon occasion of real excitement,
as to render himself liable to suspicion on the part of
the over-acute, or the ill-disposed. M. Beauvais (as it appears
from your notes) had some personal interviews with the editor of
L'Etoile, and offended him by venturing an opinion that the
corpse, notwithstanding the theory of the editor, was, in sober fact,
that of Marie. `He persists,' says the paper, `in asserting the
corpse to be that of Marie, but cannot give a circumstance, in
addition to those which we have commented upon, to make others
believe.' Now, without re-adverting to the fact that stronger evidence
`to make others believe,' could never have been adduced,
it may be remarked that a man may very well be understood to
believe, in a case of this kind, without the ability to advance a
single reason for the belief of a second party. Nothing is more
vague than impressions of individual identity. Each man recognizes
his neighbor, yet there are few instances in which any one
is prepared to give a reason for his recognition. The editor of
L'Etoile had no right to be offended at M. Beauvais' unreasoning
belief.

“The suspicious circumstances which invest him, will be found
to tally much better with my hypothesis of romantic busy-bodyism,
then with the reasoner's suggestion of guilt. Once adopting
the more charitable interpretation, we shall find no difficulty in
comprehending the rose in the key-hole; the `Marie' upon the

slate; the `elbowing the male relatives out of the way;' the
`aversion to permitting them to see the body;' the caution given
to Madame B—, that she must hold no conversation with the
gendarme until his return (Beauvais'); and, lastly, his apparent
determination `that nobody should have anything to do with the
proceedings except himself.' It seems to me unquestionable that
Beauvais was a suitor of Marie's; that she coquetted with him;
and that he was ambitious of being thought to enjoy her fullest
intimacy and confidence. I shall say nothing more upon this
point; and, as the evidence fully rebuts the assertion of L'Etoile,
touching the matter of apathy on the part of the mother and other
relatives—an apathy inconsistent with the supposition of their
believing the corpse to be that of the perfumery-girl—we shall
now proceed as if the question of identity were settled to our perfect
satisfaction.”

“And what,” I here demanded, “do you think of the opinions
of Le Commerciel?”

“That, in spirit, they are far more worthy of attention than
any which have been promulgated upon the subject. The deductions
from the premises are philosophical and acute; but the
premises, in two instances, at least, are founded in imperfect
observation. Le Commerciel wishes to intimate that Marie was
seized by some gang of low ruffians not far from her mother's
door. `It is impossible,' it urges, `that a person so well known
to thousands as this young woman was, should have passed three
blocks without some one having seen her.' This is the idea of a
man long resident in Paris—a public man—and one whose walks
to and fro in the city, have been mostly limited to the vicinity of
the public offices. He is aware that he seldom passes so far as
a dozen blocks from his own bureau, without being recognized
and accosted. And, knowing the extent of his personal acquaintance
with others, and of others with him, he compares his notoriety
with that of the perfumery-girl, finds no great difference between
them, and reaches at once the conclusion that she, in her walks,
would be equally liable to recognition with himself in his. This
could only be the case were her walks of the same unvarying,
methodical character, and within the same species of limited
region as are his own. He passes to and fro, at regular intervals,

within a confined periphery, abounding in individuals who are led
to observation of his person through interest in the kindred nature
of his occupation with their own. But the walks of Marie may,
in general, be supposed discursive. In this particular instance,
it will be understood as most probable, that she proceeded upon a
route of more than average diversity from her accustomed ones.
The parallel which we imagine to have existed in the mind of Le
Commercial would only be sustained in the event of the two individuals'
traversing the whole city. In this case, granting the
personal acquaintances to be equal, the chances would be also
equal that an equal number of personal rencounters would be
made. For my own part, I should hold it not only as possible,
but as very far more than probable, that Marie might have proceeded,
at any given period, by any one of the many routes between
her own residence and that of her aunt, without meeting a
single individual whom she knew, or by whom she was known.
In viewing this question in its full and proper light, we must hold
steadily in mind the great disproportion between the personal acquaintances
of even the most noted individual in Paris, and the
entire population of Paris itself.

“But whatever force there may still appear to be in the suggestion
of Le Commerciel, will be much diminished when we take
into consideration the hour at which the girl went abroad. `It
was when the streets were full of people,' says Le Commerciel,
`that she went out.' But not so. It was at nine o'clock in the
morning. Now at nine o'clock of every morning in the week,
with the exception of Sunday, the streets of the city are, it is true,
thronged with people. At nine on Sunday, the populace are
chiefly within doors preparing for church. No observing person
can have failed to notice the peculiarly deserted air of the town,
from about eight until ten on the morning of every Sabbath. Between
ten and eleven the streets are thronged, but not at so early
a period as that designated.

“There is another point at which there seems a deficiency of
observation on the part of Le Commerciel. `A piece,' it says,
`of one of the unfortunate girl's petticoats, two feet long, and one
foot wide, was torn out and tied under her chin, and around the
back of her head, probably to prevent screams. This was done

by fellows who had no pocket-handkerchiefs.' Whether this idea
is, or is not well founded, we will endeavor to see hereafter; but
by `fellows who have no pocket-handkerchiefs,' the editor intends
the lowest class of ruffians. These, however, are the very description
of people who will always be found to have handkerchiefs
even when destitute of shirts. You must have had occasion
to observe how absolutely indispensable, of late years, to the
thorough blackguard, has become the pocket-handkerchief.”

“And what are we to think,” I asked, “of the article in Le
Soleil?”

“That it is a vast pity its inditer was not born a parrot—in
which case he would have been the most illustrious parrot of his
race. He has merely repeated the individual items of the already
published opinion; collecting them, with a laudable industry,
from this paper and from that. `The things had all evidently
been there,' he says, `at least, three or four weeks, and there can
be no doubt that the spot of this appalling outrage has been discovered.'
The facts here re-stated by Le Soleil, are very far
indeed from removing my own doubts upon this subject, and we
will examine them more particularly hereafter in connexion with
another division of the theme.

“At present we must occupy ourselves with other investigations.
You cannot fail to have remarked the extreme laxity of
the examination of the corpse. To be sure, the question of identity
was readily determined, or should have been; but there were
other points to be ascertained. Had the body been in any respect
despoiled? Had the deceased any articles of jewelry about her
person upon leaving home? if so, had she any when found?
These are important questions utterly untouched by the evidence;
and there are others of equal moment, which have met with no
attention. We must endeavor to satisfy ourselves by personal inquiry.
The case of St. Eustache must be re-examined. I have
no suspicion of this person; but let us proceed methodically.
We will ascertain beyond a doubt the validity of the affidavits in
regard to his whereabouts on the Sunday. Affidavits of this
character are readily made matter of mystification. Should
there be nothing wrong here, however, we will dismiss St. Eustache
from our investigations. His suicide, however corroborative

of suspicion, were there found to be deceit in the affidavits,
is, without such deceit, in no respect an unaccountable circumstance,
or one which need cause us to deflect from the line of ordinary
analysis.

“In that which I now propose, we will discard the interior points
of this tragedy, and concentrate our attention upon its outskirts.
Not the least usual error, in investigations such as this, is the
limiting of inquiry to the immediate, with total disregard of the
collateral or circumstantial events. It is the mal-practice of the
courts to confine evidence and discussion to the bounds of apparent
relevancy. Yet experience has shown, and a true philosophy
will always show, that a vast, perhaps the larger portion of
truth, arises from the seemingly irrelevant. It is through the
spirit of this principle, if not precisely through its letter, that
modern science has resolved to calculate upon the unforeseen.
But perhaps you do not comprehend me. The history of human
knowledge has so uninterruptedly shown that to collateral, or incidental,
or accidental events we are indebted for the most numerous
and most valuable discoveries, that it has at length become
necessary, in any prospective view of improvement, to make not
only large, but the largest allowances for inventions that shall
arise by chance, and quite out of the range of ordinary expectation.
It is no longer philosophical to base, upon what has been,
a vision of what is to be. Accident is admitted as a portion of
the substructure. We make chance a matter of absolute calculation.
We subject the unlooked for and unimagined, to the
mathematical formulae of the schools.

“I repeat that it is no more than fact, that the larger portion of
all truth has sprung from the collateral; and it is but in accordance
with the spirit of the principle involved in this fact, that I
would divert inquiry, in the present case, from the trodden and
hitherto unfruitful ground of the event itself, to the cotemporary
circumstances which surround it. While you ascertain the validity
of the affidavits, I will examine the newspapers more generally
than you have as yet done. So far, we have only reconnoitred
the field of investigation; but it will be strange indeed if
a comprehensive survey, such as I propose, of the public prints,

will not afford us some minute points which shall establish a direction
for inquiry.”

In pursuance of Dupin's suggestion, I made scrupulous examination
of the affair of the affidavits. The result was a firm conviction
of their validity, and of the consequent innocence of St.
Eustache. In the mean time my friend occupied himself, with
what seemed to me a minuteness altogether objectless, in a scrutiny
of the various newspaper files. At the end of a week he
placed before me the following extracts:

—Evening Paper—Monday, June 23.[17]

—Le Mercurie—Tuesday Morning, June 24.[18]

—Morning Paper—June
25.[19]

—Morning Paper—June 28.[21]

—Evening Paper—Tuesday,
June 31.[22]

—Le Diligence—Thursday, June 26.[23]

Upon reading these various extracts, they not only seemed to
me irrelevant, but I could perceive no mode in which any one of
them could be brought to bear upon the matter in hand. I waited
for some explanation from Dupin.

“It is not my present design,” he said, “to dwell upon the first
and second of these extracts. I have copied them chiefly to show
you the extreme remissness of the police, who, as far as I can
understand from the Prefect, have not troubled themselves, in any
respect, with an examination of the naval officer alluded to. Yet
it is mere folly to say that between the first and second disappearance
of Marie, there is no supposable connection. Let us
admit the first elopement to have resulted in a quarrel between
the lovers, and the return home of the betrayed. We are now
prepared to view a second elopement (if we know that an elopement
has again taken place) as indicating a renewal of the betrayer's
advances, rather than as the result of new proposals by
a second individual—we are prepared to regard it as a `making
up' of the old amour, rather than as the commencement of a new
one. The chances are ten to one, that he who had once eloped

with Marie, would again propose an elopement, rather than that
she to whom proposals of elopement had been made by one individual,
should have them made to her by another. And here let
me call your attention to the fact, that the time elapsing between
the first ascertained, and the second supposed elopement, is a few
months more than the general period of the cruises of our men-of-war.
Had the lover been interrupted in his first villany by the
necessity of departure to sea, and had he seized the first moment
of his return to renew the base designs not yet altogether accomplished—or
not yet altogether accomplished by him? Of all
these things we know nothing.

“You will say, however, that, in the second instance, there was
no elopement as imagined. Certainly not—but are we prepared
to say that there was not the frustrated design? Beyond St.
Eustache; and perhaps Beauvais, we find no recognized, no open,
no honorable suitors of Marie. Of none other is there any thing
said. Who, then, is the secret lover, of whom the relatives (at
least most of them) know nothing, but whom Marie meets upon
the morning of Sunday, and who is so deeply in her confidence,
that she hesitates not to remain with him until the shades of the
evening descend, amid the solitary groves of the Barrière du
Roule? Who is that secret lover, I ask, of whom, at least, most
of the relatives know nothing? And what means the singular
prophecy of Madame Rogêt on the morning of Marie's departure?
—`I fear that I shall never see Marie again.'

“But if we cannot imagine Madame Rogêt privy to the design
of elopement, may we not at least suppose this design entertained
by the girl? Upon quitting home, she gave it to be understood
that she was about to visit her aunt in the Rue des Drômes, and
St. Eustache was requested to call for her at dark. Now, at first
glance, this fact strongly militates against my suggestion;—but
let us reflect. That she did meet some companion, and proceed
with him across the river, reaching the Barrière du Roule at so
late an hour as three o'clock in the afternoon, is known. But in
consenting so to accompany this individual, (for whatever purpose—to
her mother known or unknown,) she must have thought
of her expressed intention when leaving home, and of the surprise
and suspicion aroused in the bosom of her affianced suitor, St.

Eustache, when, calling for her, at the hour appointed, in the
Rue des Drômes, he should find that she had not been there, and
when, moreover, upon returning to the pension with this alarming
intelligence, he should become aware of her continued absence
from home. She must have thought of these things, I say. She
must have foreseen the chagrin of St. Eustache, the suspicion of
all. She could not have thought of returning to brave this suspicion;
but the suspicion becomes a point of trivial importance to
her, if we suppose her not intending to return.

“We may imagine her thinking thus—`I am to meet a certain
person for the purpose of elopement, or for certain other purposes
known only to myself. It is necessary that there be no chance of
interruption—there must be sufficient time given us to elude pursuit—I
will give it to be understood that I shall visit and spend
the day with my aunt at the Rue des Drômes—I well tell St. Eustache
not to call for me until dark—in this way, my absence
from home for the longest possible period, without causing suspicion
or anxiety, will be accounted for, and I shall gain more time
than in any other manner. If I bid St. Eustache call for me at
dark, he will be sure not to call before; but, if I wholly neglect
to bid him call, my time for escape will be diminished, since it
will be expected that I return the earlier, and my absence will
the sooner excite anxiety. Now, if it were my design to return
at all—if I had in contemplation merely a stroll with the individual
in question—it would not be my policy to bid St. Eustache
call; for, calling, he will be sure to ascertain that I have played
him false—a fact of which I might keep him for ever in ignorance,
by leaving home without notifying him of my intention, by
returning before dark, and by then stating that I had been to visit
my aunt in the Rue des Drômes. But, as it is my design never
to return—or not for some weeks—or not until certain concealments
are effected—the gaining of time is the only point about
which I need give myself any concern.'

“You have observed, in your notes, that the most general opinion
in relation to this sad affair is, and was from the first, that the
girl had been the victim of a gang of blackguards. Now, the
popular opinion, under certain conditions, is not to be disregarded.
When arising of itself—when manifesting itself in a strictly

spontaneous manner—we should look upon it as analogous with
that intuition which is the idiosyncrasy of the individual man of
genius. In ninety-nine cases from the hundred I would abide by
its decision. But it is important that we find no palpable traces
of suggestion. The opinion must be rigorously the public's own;
and the distinction is often exceedingly difficult to perceive and
to maintain. In the present instance, it appears to me that this
`public opinion,' in respect to a gang, has been superinduced by
the collateral event which is detailed in the third of my extracts.
All Paris is excited by the discovered corpse of Marie, a girl
young, beautiful and notorious. This corpse is found, bearing
marks of violence, and floating in the river. But it is now made
known that, at the very period, or about the very period, in which
it is supposed that the girl was assassinated, an outrage similar in
nature to that endured by the deceased, although less in extent,
was perpetrated, by a gang of young ruffians, upon the person of
a second young female. Is it wonderful that the one known atrocity
should influence the popular judgment in regard to the other
unknown? This judgment awaited direction, and the known outrage
seemed so opportunely to afford it! Marie, too, was found
in the river; and upon this very river was this known outrage
committed. The connexion of the two events had about it so
much of the palpable, that the true wonder would have been a
failure of the populace to appreciate and to seize it. But, in
fact, the one atrocity, known to be so committed, is, if any thing,
evidence that the other, committed at a time nearly coincident,
was not so committed. It would have been a miracle indeed, if,
while a gang of ruffians were perpetrating, at a given locality, a
most unheard-of wrong, there should have been another similar
gang, in a similar locality, in the same city, under the same circumstances,
with the same means and appliances, engaged in a
wrong of precisely the same aspect, at precisely the same period
of time! Yet in what, if not in this marvellous train of coincidence,
does the accidentally suggested opinion of the populace
call upon us to believe?

“Before proceeding farther, let us consider the supposed scene
of the assassination, in the thicket at the Barrière du Roule. This
thicket, although dense, was in the close vicinity of a public road.

Within were three or four large stones, forming a kind of seat
with a back and footstool. On the upper stone was discovered a
white petticoat; on the second, a silk scarf. A parasol, gloves,
and a pocket-handkerchief, were also here found. The handkerchief
bore the name, `Marie Rogêt.' Fragments of dress were
seen on the branches around. The earth was trampled, the
bushes were broken, and there was every evidence of a violent
struggle.

“Notwithstanding the acclamation with which the discovery of
this thicket was received by the press, and the unanimity with
which it was supposed to indicate the precise scene of the outrage,
it must be admitted that there was some very good reason for
doubt. That it was the scene, I may or I may not believe—but
there was excellent reason for doubt. Had the true scene been,
as Le Commerciel suggested, in the neighborhood of the Rue
Pavée St. Andrée, the perpetrators of the crime, supposing them
still resident in Paris, would naturally have been stricken with
terror at the public attention thus acutely directed into the proper
channel; and, in certain classes of minds, there would have
arisen, at once, a sense of the necessity of some exertion to redivert
this attention. And thus, the thicket of the Barrière du
Roule having been already suspected, the idea of placing the articles
where they were found, might have been naturally entertained.
There is no real evidence, although Le Soleil so supposes,
that the articles discovered had been more than a very few days
in the thicket; while there is much circumstantial proof that they
could not have remained there, without attracting attention, during
the twenty days elapsing between the fatal Sunday and the afternoon
upon which they were found by the boys. `They were all
mildewed down hard,' says Le Soleil, adopting the opinions of its
predecessors, `with the action of the rain, and stuck together from
mildew. The grass had grown around and over some of them.
The silk of the parasol was strong, but the threads of it were run
together within. The upper part, where it had been doubled and
folded, was all mildewed and rotten, and tore on being opened.'
In respect to the grass having `grown around and over some of
them,' it is obvious that the fact could only have been ascertained
from the words, and thus from the recollections, of two small boys;

for these boys removed the articles and took them home before
they had been seen by a third party. But grass will grow, especially
in warm and damp weather, (such as was that of the
period of the murder,) as much as two or three inches in a single
day. A parasol lying upon a newly turfed ground, might, in a
single week, be entirely concealed from sight by the upspringing
grass. And touching that mildew upon which the editor of Le
Soleil so pertinaciously insists, that he employs the word no less
than three times in the brief paragraph just quoted, is he really
unaware of the nature of this mildew? Is he to be told that it is
one of the many classes of fungus, of which the most ordinary
feature is its upspringing and decadence within twenty-four hours?

“Thus we see, at a glance, that what has been most triumphantly
adduced in support of the idea that the articles had been
`for at least three or four weeks' in the thicket, is most absurdly
null as regards any evidence of that fact. On the other hand, it
is exceedingly difficult to believe that these articles could have
remained in the thicket specified, for a longer period than a single
week—for a longer period than from one Sunday to the next.
Those who know any thing of the vicinity of Paris, know the extreme
difficulty of finding seclusion, unless at a great distance
from its suburbs. Such a thing as an unexplored, or even an unfrequently
visited recess, amid its woods or groves, is not for a
moment to be imagined. Let any one who, being at heart a
lover of nature, is yet chained by duty to the dust and heat of this
great metropolis—let any such one attempt, even during the week-days,
to slake his thirst for solitude amid the scenes of natural
loveliness which immediately surround us. At every second step,
he will find the growing charm dispelled by the voice and personal
intrusion of some ruffian or party of carousing blackguards.
He will seek privacy amid the densest foliage, all in vain. Here
are the very nooks where the unwashed most abound—here are
the temples most desecrate. With sickness of the heart the wanderer
will flee back to the polluted Paris as to a less odious because
less incongruous sink of pollution. But if the vicinity of the city
is so beset during the working days of the week, how much more
so on the Sabbath! It is now especially that, released from the
claims of labor, or deprived of the customary opportunities of

crime, the town blackguard seeks the precincts of the town, not
through love of the rural, which in his heart he despises, but by
way of escape from the restraints and conventionalities of society.
He desires less the fresh air and the green trees, than the utter
cense of the country. Here, at the road-side inn, or beneath the
bliage of the woods, he indulges, unchecked by any eye except
nose of his boon companions, in all the mad excess of a counterfeit
hilarity—the joint offspring of liberty and of rum. I say nothing
more than what must be obvious to every dispassionate observer,
when I repeat that the circumstance of the articles in
question having remained undiscovered, for a longer period than
from one Sunday to another, in any thicket in the immediate
neighborhood of Paris, is to be looked upon as little less than
miraculous.

“But there are not wanting other grounds for the suspicion that
the articles were placed in the thicket with the view of diverting
attention from the real scene of the outrage. And, first, let me
direct your notice to the date of the discovery of the articles.
Collate this with the date of the fifth extract made by myself from
the newspapers. You will find that the discovery followed, almost
immediately, the urgent communications sent to the evening
paper. These communications, although various, and apparently
from various sources, tended all to the same point—viz., the directing
of attention to a gang as the perpetrators of the outrage,
and to the neighborhood of the Barrière du Roule as its scene.
Now here, of course, the suspicion is not that, in consequence of
these communications, or of the public attention by them directed,
the articles were found by the boys; but the suspicion might and
may well have been, that the articles were not before found by
the boys, for the reason that the articles had not before been in
the thicket; having been deposited there only at so late a period
as at the date, or shortly prior to the date of the communications,
by the guilty authors of these communications themselves.

“This thicket was a singular—an exceedingly singular one.
It was unusually dense. Within its naturally walled enclosure
were three extraordinary stones, forming a seat with a back and
footstool. And this thicket, so full of a natural art, was in the
immediate vicinity, within a few rods, of the dwelling of Madame

Deluc, whose boys were in the habit of closely examining the
shrubberies about them in search of the bark of the sassafras.
Would it be a rash wager—a wager of one thousand to one—that
a day never passed over the heads of these boys without finding
at least one of them ensconced in the umbrageous hall, and enthroned
upon its natural throne? Those who would hesitate at
such a wager, have either never been boys themselves, or have
forgotten the boyish nature. I repeat—it is exceedingly hard to
comprehend how the articles could have remained in this thicket
undiscovered, for a longer period than one or two days; and that
thus there is good ground for suspicion, in spite of the dogmatic
ignorance of Le Soleil, that they were, at a comparatively late
date, deposited where found.

“But there are still other and stronger reasons for believing
them so deposited, than any which I have as yet urged. And,
now, let me beg your notice to the highly artificial arrangement
of the articles. On the upper stone lay a white petticoat; on the
second a silk scarf; scattered around, were a parasol, gloves, and
a pocket-handkerchief bearing the name, `Marie Rogêt.' Here is
just such an arrangement as would naturally be made by a not-over-acute
person wishing to dispose the articles naturally. But
it is by no means a really natural arrangement. I should rather
have looked to see the things all lying on the ground and trampled
under foot. In the narrow limits of that bower, it would
have been scarcely possible that the petticoat and scarf should
have retained a position upon the stones, when subjected to the
brushing to and fro of many struggling persons. `There was
evidence,' it is said, `of a struggle; and the earth was trampled,
the bushes were broken,'—but the petticoat and the scarf are
found deposited as if upon shelves. `The pieces of the frock torn
out by the bushes were about three inches wide and six inches
long. One part was the hem of the frock and it had been mended.
They looked like strips torn off.' Here, inadvertently, Le Soleil
has employed an exceedingly suspicious phrase. The pieces, as
described, do indeed `look like strips torn off;' but purposely and
by hand. It is one of the rarest of accidents that a piece is `torn
off,' from any garment such as is now in question, by the agency
of a thorn. From the very nature of such fabrics, a thorn or

nail becoming entangled in them, tears them rectangularly—divides
them into two longitudinal rents, at right angles with each
other, and meeting at an apex where the thorn enters—but it is
scarcely possible to conceive the piece `torn off.' I never so
knew it, nor did you. To tear a piece off from such fabric, two
distinct forces, in different directions, will be, in almost every
case, required. If there be two edges to the fabric—if, for example,
it be a pocket-handkerchief, and it is desired to tear from
it a slip, then, and then only, will the one force serve the purpose.
But in the present case the question is of a dress, presenting but
one edge. To tear a piece from the interior, where no edge is
presented, could only be effected by a miracle through the agency
of thorns, and no one thorn could accomplish it. But, even where
an edge is presented, two thorns will be necessary, operating, the
one in two distinct directions, and the other in one. And this in
the supposition that the edge is unhemmed. If hemmed, the matter
is nearly out of the question. We thus see the numerous and
great obstacles in the way of pieces being `torn off' through the
simple agency of `thorn;' yet we are required to believe not
only that one piece but that many have been so torn. `And one
part,' too, `was the hem of the frock!' Another piece was `part
of the skirt, not the hem,'—that is to say, was torn completely out,
through the agency of thorns, from the unedged interior of the
dress! These, I say, are things which one may well be pardoned
for disbelieving; yet, taken collectedly, they form, perhaps, less
of reasonable ground for suspicion, than the one startling circumstance
of the articles' having been left in this thicket at all, by
any murderers who had enough precaution to think of removing
the corpse. You will not have apprehended me rightly, however,
if you suppose it my design to deny this thicket as the scene of
the outrage. There might have been a wrong here, or, more possibly,
an accident at Madame Deluc's. But, in fact, this is a
point of minor importance. We are not engaged in an attempt
to discover the scene, but to produce the perpetrators of the murder.
What I have adduced, notwithstanding the minuteness with
which I have adduced it, has been with the view, first, to show
the folly of the positive and headlong assertions of Le Soleil, but
secondly and chiefly, to bring you, by the most natural route, to
a further contemplation of the doubt whether this assassination
has, or has not been, the work of a gang.

“We will resume this question by mere allusion to the revolting
details of the surgeon examined at the inquest. It is only
necessary to say that his published inferences, in regard to the
number of the ruffians, have been properly ridiculed as unjust
and totally baseless, by all the reputable anatomists of Paris.
Not that the matter might not have been as inferred, but that there
was no ground for the inference:—was there not much for another?

“Let us reflect now upon `the traces of a struggle;' and let
me ask what these traces have been supposed to demonstrate. A
gang. But do they not rather demonstrate the absence of a
gang? What struggle could have taken place—what struggle
so violent and so enduring as to have left its `traces' in all directions—between
a weak and defenceless girl and the gang of ruffians
imagined? The silent grasp of a few rough arms and all would
have been over. The victim must have been absolutely passive
at their will. You will here bear in mind that the arguments urged
against the thicket as the scene, are applicable, in chief part, only
against it as the scene of an outrage committed by more than a
single individual. If we imagine but one violator, we can conceive,
and thus only conceive, the struggle of so violent and so
obstinate a nature as to have left the `traces' apparent.

“And again. I have already mentioned the suspicion to be
excited by the fact that the articles in question were suffered to
remain at all in the thicket where discovered. It seems almost
impossible that these evidences of guilt should have been accidentally
left where found. There was sufficient presence of mind (it
is supposed) to remove the corpse; and yet a more positive
evidence than the corpse itself (whose features might have been
quickly obliterated by decay,) is allowed to lie conspicuously in
the scene of the outrage—I allude to the handkerchief with the
name of the deceased. If this was accident, it was not the accident
of a gang. We can imagine it only the accident of an individual.
Let us see. An individual has committed the murder.
He is alone with the ghost of the departed. He is appalled by
what lies motionless before him. The fury of his passion is over,

and there is abundant room in his heart for the natural awe of
the deed. His is none of that confidence which the presence of
numbers inevitably inspires. He is alone with the dead. He
trembles and is bewildered. Yet there is a necessity for disposing
of the corpse. He bears it to the river, but leaves behind him
the other evidences of guilt; for it is difficult, if not impossible to
carry all the burthen at once, and it will be easy to return for
what is left. But in his toilsome journey to the water his
fears redouble within him. The sounds of life encompass his
path. A dozen times he hears or fancies the step of an observer.
Even the very lights from the city bewilder him. Yet, in time,
and by long and frequent pauses of deep agony, he reaches the
river's brink, and disposes of his ghastly charge—perhaps through
the medium of a boat. But now what treasure does the world
hold—what threat of vengeance could it hold out—which would
have power to urge the return of that lonely murderer over that
toilsome and perilous path, to the thicket and its blood-chilling
recollections? He returns not, let the consequences be what
they may. He could not return if he would. His sole thought
is immediate escape. He turns his back forever upon those
dreadful shrubberies, and flees as from the wrath to come.

“But how with a gang? Their number would have inspired
them with confidence; if, indeed, confidence is ever wanting in
the breast of the arrant blackguard; and of arrant blackguards
alone are the supposed gangs ever constituted. Their number, I
say, would have prevented the bewildering and unreasoning terror
which I have imagined to paralyze the single man. Could we
suppose an oversight in one, or two, or three, this oversight would
have been remedied by a fourth. They would have left nothing
behind them; for their number would have enabled them to carry
all at once. There would have been no need of return.

“Consider now the circumstance that, in the outer garment of
the corpse when found, `a slip, about a foot wide, had been torn
upward from the bottom hem to the waist, wound three times round
the waist, and secured by a sort of hitch in the back.' This was
done with the obvious design of affording a handle by which to
carry the body. But would any number of men have dreamed
of resorting to such an expedient? To three or four, the limbs of

the corpse would have afforded not only a sufficient, but the best
possible hold. The device is that of a single individual; and this
brings us to the fact that `between the thicket and the river, the
rails of the fences were found taken down, and the ground bore
evident traces of some heavy burden having been dragged along
it!' But would a number of men have put themselves to the superfluous
trouble of taking down a fence, for the purpose of dragging
through it a corpse which they might have lifted over any
fence in an instant? Would a number of men have so dragged
a corpse at all as to have left evident traces of the dragging?

“And here we must refer to an observation of Le Commerciel;
an observation upon which I have already, in some measure, commented.
`A piece,' says this journal, `of one of the unfortunate
girl's petticoats was torn out and tied under her chin, and around
the back of her head, probably to prevent screams. This was
done by fellows who had no pocket-handkerchiefs.'

“I have before suggested that a genuine blackguard is never
without a pocket-handkerchief. But it is not to this fact that I
now especially advert. That it was not through want of a handkerchief
for the purpose imagined by Le Commerciel, that this
bandage was employed, is rendered apparent by the handkerchief
left in the thicket; and that the object was not `to prevent
screams' appears, also, from the bandage having been employed
in preference to what would so much better have answered the
purpose. But the language of the evidence speaks of the strip in
question as `found around the neck, fitting loosely, and secured
with a hard knot.' These words are sufficiently vague, but differ
materially from those of Le Commerciel. The slip was eighteen
inches wide, and therefore, although of muslin, would form a
strong band when folded or rumpled longitudinally. And thus
rumpled it was discovered. My inference is this. The solitary
murderer, having borne the corpse, for some distance, (whether
from the thicket or elsewhere) by means of the bandage hitched
around its middle, found the weight, in this mode of procedure, too
much for his strength. He resolved to drag the burthen—the evidence
goes to show that it was dragged. With this object in view,
it became necessary to attach something like a rope to one of the
extremities. It could be best attached about the neck, where the

head would prevent its slipping off. And, now, the murderer bethought
him, unquestionably, of the bandage about the loins. He
would have used this, but for its volution about the corpse, the
hitch which embarrassed it, and the reflection that it had not been
`torn off' from the garment. It was easier to tear a new slip
from the petticoat. He tore it, made it fast about the neck, and
so dragged his victim to the brink of the river. That this `bandage,'
only attainable with trouble and delay, and but imperfectly
answering its purpose—that this bandage was employed at all, demonstrates
that the necessity for its employment sprang from circumstances
arising at a period when the handkerchief was no
longer attainable—that is to say, arising, as we have imagined,
after quitting the thicket, (if the thicket it was), and on the road
between the thicket and the river.

“But the evidence, you will say, of Madame Deluc, (!) points
especially to the presence of a gang, in the vicinity of the thicket,
at or about the epoch of the murder. This I grant. I doubt if
there were not a dozen gangs, such as described by Madame Deluc,
in and about the vicinity of the Barrière du Roule at or about the
period of this tragedy. But the gang which has drawn upon
itself the pointed animadversion, although the somewhat tardy
and very suspicious evidence of Madame Deluc, is the only gang
which is represented by that honest and scrupulous old lady as
having eaten her cakes and swallowed her brandy, without putting
themselves to the trouble of making her payment. Et hinc
illœ irœ?

“But what is the precise evidence of Madame Deluc? `A
gang of miscreants made their appearance, behaved boisterously,
ate and drank without making payment, followed in the route of
the young man and girl, returned to the inn about dusk, and recrossed
the river as if in great haste.'

“Now this `great haste' very possibly seemed greater haste in
the eyes of Madame Deluc, since she dwelt lingeringly and
lamentingly upon her violated cakes and ale—cakes and ale for
which she might still have entertained a faint hope of compensation.
Why, otherwise, since it was about dusk, should she
make a point of the haste? It is no cause for wonder, surely,
that even a gang of blackguards should make haste to get home,

when a wide river is to be crossed in small boats, when storm impends,
and when night approaches.

“I say approaches; for the night had not yet arrived. It was
only about dusk that the indecent haste of these `miscreants'
offended the sober eyes of Madame Deluc. But we are told that
it was upon this very evening that Madame Deluc, as well as her
eldest son, `heard the screams of a female in the vicinity of the
inn.' And in what words does Madame Deluc designate the
period of the evening at which these screams were heard? `It
was soon after dark,' she says. But `soon after dark,' is, at
least, dark; and `about dusk' is as certainly daylight. Thus it
is abundantly clear that the gang quitted the Barrière du Roule
prior to the screams overheard (?) by Madame Deluc. And
although, in all the many reports of the evidence, the relative expressions
in question are distinctly and invariably employed just
as I have employed them in this conversation with yourself, no
notice whatever of the gross discrepancy has, as yet, been taken
by any of the public journals, or by any of the Myrmidons of
police.

“I shall add but one to the arguments against a gang; but
this one has, to my own understanding at least, a weight altogether
irresistible. Under the circumstances of large reward
offered, and full pardon to any King's evidence, it is not to be
imagined, for a moment, that some member of a gang of low
ruffians, or of any body of men, would not long ago have betrayed
his accomplices. Each one of a gang so placed, is not so
much greedy of reward, or anxious for escape, as fearful of betrayal.
He betrays eagerly and early that he may not himself be
betrayed. That the secret has not been divulged, is the very best
of proof that it is, in fact, a secret. The horrors of this dark
deed are known only to one, or two, living human beings, and to
God.

“Let us sum up now the meagre yet certain fruits of our long
analysis. We have attained the idea either of a fatal accident
under the roof of Madame Deluc, or of a murder perpetrated,
in the thicket at the Barrière du Roule, by a lover, or at least by
an intimate and secret associate of the deceased. This associate
is of swarthy complexion. This complexion, the `hitch' in the

bandage, and the `sailor's knot,' with which the bonnet-ribbon is
tied, point to a seaman. His companionship with the deceased, a
gay, but not an abject young girl, designates him as above the
grade of the common sailor. Here the well written and urgent
communications to the journals are much in the way of corroboration.
The circumstance of the first elopement, as mentioned
by Le Mercurie, tends to blend the idea of this seaman
with that of the `naval officer' who is first known to have led the
unfortunate into crime.

“And here, most fitly, comes the consideration of the continued
absence of him of the dark complexion. Let me pause
to observe that the complexion of this man is dark and swarthy;
it was no common swarthiness which constituted the sole point
of remembrance, both as regards Valence and Madame Deluc.
But why is this man absent? Was he murdered by the gang?
If so, why are there only traces of the assassinated girl? The
scene of the two outrages will naturally be supposed identical.
And where is his corpse? The assassins would most probably
have disposed of both in the same way. But it may be said that
this man lives, and is deterred from making himself known,
through dread of being charged with the murder. This consideration
might be supposed to operate upon him now—at this late
period—since it has been given in evidence that he was seen with
Marie—but it would have had no force at the period of the deed.
The first impulse of an innocent man would have been to announce
the outrage, and to aid in identifying the ruffians. This,
policy would have suggested. He had been seen with the girl.
He had crossed the river with her in an open ferry-boat. The
denouncing of the assassins would have appeared, even to an
idiot, the surest and sole means of relieving himself from suspicion.
We cannot suppose him, on the night of the fatal Sunday,
both innocent himself and incognizant of an outrage committed.
Yet only under such circumstances is it possible to
imagine that he would have failed, if alive, in the denouncement
of the assassins.

“And what means are ours, of attaining the truth? We
shall find these means multiplying and gathering distinctness as
we proceed. Let us sift to the bottom this affair of the first elope

ment. Let us know the full history of `the officer,' with his
present circumstances, and his whereabouts at the precise period
of the murder. Let us carefully compare with each other the
various communications sent to the evening paper, in which the
object was to inculpate a gang. This done, let us compare these
communications, both as regards style and MS., with those sent
to the morning paper, at a previous period, and insisting so vehemently
upon the guilt of Mennais. And, all this done, let us
again compare these various communications with the known
MSS. of the officer. Let us endeavor to ascertain, by repeated
questionings of Madame Deluc and her boys, as well as of the
omnibus-driver, Valence, something more of the personal appearance
and bearing of the `man of dark complexion.' Queries,
skilfully directed, will not fail to elicit, from some of these parties,
information on this particular point (or upon others)—information
which the parties themselves may not even be aware of
possessing. And let us now trace the boat picked up by the bargeman
on the morning of Monday the twenty-third of June, and
which was removed from the barge-office, without the cognizance
of the officer in attendance, and without the rudder, at some period
prior to the discovery of the corpse. With a proper caution and
perseverance we shall infallibly trace this boat; for not only can
the bargeman who picked it up identify it, but the rudder is at
hand. The rudder of a sail-boat would not have been abandoned,
without inquiry, by one altogether at ease in heart. And
here let me pause to insinuate a question. There was no advertisement
of the picking up of this boat. It was silently taken to
the barge-office, and as silently removed. But its owner or
employer—how happened he, at so early a period as Tuesday
morning, to be informed, without the agency of advertisement, of
the locality of the boat taken up on Monday, unless we imagine
some connexion with the navy—some personal permanent connexion
leading to cognizance of its minute interests—its petty
local news?

“In speaking of the lonely assassin dragging his burden to the
shore, I have already suggested the probability of his availing
himself of a boat. Now we are to understand that Marie Rogêt
was precipitated from a boat. This would naturally have been

the case. The corpse could not have been trusted to the shallow
waters of the shore. The peculiar marks on the back and
shoulders of the victim tell of the bottom ribs of a boat. That
the body was found without weight is also corroborative of the
idea. If thrown from the shore a weight would have been attached.
We can only account for its absence by supposing the
murderer to have neglected the precaution of supplying himself
with it before pushing off. In the act of consigning the corpse to
the water, he would unquestionably have noticed his oversight;
but then no remedy would have been at hand. Any risk would
have been preferred to a return to that accursed shore. Having
rid himself of his ghastly charge, the murderer would have
hastened to the city. There, at some obscure wharf, he would
have leaped on land. But the boat—would he have secured it?
He would have been in too great haste for such things as securing
a boat. Moreover, in fastening it to the wharf, he would have
felt as if securing evidence against himself. His natural thought
would have been to cast from him, as far as possible, all that had
held connection with his crime. He would not only have fled
from the wharf, but he would not have permitted the boat to remain.
Assuredly he would have cast it adrift. Let us pursue
our fancies.—In the morning, the wretch is stricken with unutterable
horror at finding that the boat has been picked up and detained
at a locality which he is in the daily habit of frequenting—
at a locality, perhaps, which his duty compels him to frequent.
The next night, without daring to ask for the rudder, he removes
it. Now where is that rudderless boat? Let it be one of our
first purposes to discover. With the first glimpse we obtain of it,
the dawn of our success shall begin. This boat shall guide us,
with a rapidity which will surprise even ourselves, to him who
employed it in the midnight of the fatal Sabbath. Corroboration
will rise upon corroboration, and the murderer will be traced.”

[For reasons which we shall not specify, but which to many
readers will appear obvious, we have taken the liberty of here
omitting, from the MSS. placed in our hands, such portion as
details the following up of the apparently slight clew obtained by
Dupin. We feel it advisable only to state, in brief, that the result
desired was brought to pass; and that the Prefect fulfilled

punctually, although with reluctance, the terms of his compact
with the Chevalier. Mr. Poe's article concludes with the following
words.—Eds.[24] ]

It will be understood that I speak of coincidences and no more.
What I have said above upon this topic must suffice. In my
own heart there dwells no faith in præter-nature. That Nature
and its God are two, no man who thinks, will deny. That the
latter, creating the former, can, at will, control or modify it, is
also unquestionable. I say “at will;” for the question is of will,
and not, as the insanity of logic has assumed, of power. It is
not that the Deity cannot modify his laws, but that we insult him
in imagining a possible necessity for modification. In their origin
these laws were fashioned to embrace all contingencies which
could lie in the Future. With God all is Now.

I repeat, then, that I speak of these things only as of coincidences.
And farther: in what I relate it will be seen that between the
fate of the unhappy Mary Cecilia Rogers, so far as that fate is
known, and the fate of one Marie Rogêt up to a certain epoch in
her history, there has existed a parallel in the contemplation of
whose wonderful exactitude the reason becomes embarrassed. I
say all this will be seen. But let it not for a moment be supposed
that, in proceeding with the sad narrative of Marie from the
epoch just mentioned, and in tracing to its dénouement the mystery
which enshrouded her, it is my covert design to hint at an extension
of the parallel, or even to suggest that the measures
adopted in Paris for the discovery of the assassin of a grisette, or
measures founded in any similar ratiocination, would produce any
similar result.

For, in respect to the latter branch of the supposition, it should
be considered that the most trifling variation in the facts of the
two cases might give rise to the most important miscalculations,
by diverting throughly the two courses of events; very much as,
in arithmetic, an error which, in its own individuality, may be inappreciable,
produces, at length, by dint of multiplication at all
points of the process, a result enormously at variance with truth.
And, in regard to the former branch, we must not fail to hold in

view that the very Calculus of Probabilities to which I have referred,
forbids all idea of the extension of the parallel:—forbids it
with a positiveness strong and decided just in proportion as this
parallel has already been long-drawn and exact. This is one of
those anomalous propositions which, seemingly appealing to
thought altogether apart from the mathematical, is yet one which
only the mathematician can fully entertain. Nothing, for example,
is more difficult than to convince the merely general reader
that the fact of sixes having been thrown twice in succession by
a player at dice, is sufficient cause for betting the largest odds
that sixes will not be thrown in the third attempt. A suggestion
to this effect is usually rejected by the intellect at once. It does
not appear that the two throws which have been completed, and
which lie now absolutely in the Past, can have influence upon the
throw which exists only in the Future. The chance for throwing
sixes seems to be precisely as it was at any ordinary time—
that is to say, subject only to the influence of the various other
throws which may be made by the dice. And this is a reflection
which appears so exceedingly obvious that attempts to controvert
it are received more frequently with a derisive smile than with
anything like respectful attention. The error here involved—a
gross error redolent of mischief—I cannot pretend to expose within
the limits assigned me at present; and with the philosophical it
needs no exposure. It may be sufficient here to say that it forms
one of an infinite series of mistakes which arise in the path or
Reason through her propensity for seeking truth in detail.