There were several deep scratches just below the chin, together
      with a series of livid spots which were evidently the impression
      of fingers. The face was fearfully discolored, and the eye-balls
      protruded. The tongue had been partially bitten through. A large
      bruise was discovered upon the pit of the stomach, produced,
      apparently, by the pressure of a knee. In the opinion of M.
      Dumas, Mademoiselle L’Espanaye had been throttled to death by
      some person or persons unknown. The corpse of the mother was
      horribly mutilated. All the bones of the right leg and arm were
      more or less shattered. The left _tibia_ much splintered, as well
      as all the ribs of the left side. Whole body dreadfully bruised
      and discolored. It was not possible to say how the injuries had
      been inflicted. A heavy club of wood, or a broad bar of iron—a
      chair—any large, heavy, and obtuse weapon would have produced
      such results, if wielded by the hands of a very powerful man. No
      woman could have inflicted the blows with any weapon. The head of
      the deceased, when seen by witness, was entirely separated from
      the body, and was also greatly shattered. The throat had
      evidently been cut with some very sharp instrument—probably with
      a razor. “_Alexandre Etienne_, surgeon, was called with M. Dumas to view
      the bodies. Corroborated the testimony, and the opinions of M.
      Dumas. “Nothing farther of importance was elicited, although several
      other persons were examined. A murder so mysterious, and so
      perplexing in all its particulars, was never before committed in
      Paris—if indeed a murder has been committed at all. The police
      are entirely at fault—an unusual occurrence in affairs of this
      nature. There is not, however, the shadow of a clew apparent.”

      The evening edition of the paper stated that the greatest
      excitement still continued in the Quartier St. Roch—that the
      premises in question had been carefully re-searched, and fresh
      examinations of witnesses instituted, but all to no purpose. A
      postscript, however, mentioned that Adolphe Le Bon had been
      arrested and imprisoned—although nothing appeared to criminate
      him, beyond the facts already detailed. Dupin seemed singularly interested in the progress of this
      affair—at least so I judged from his manner, for he made no
      comments. It was only after the announcement that Le Bon had been
      imprisoned, that he asked me my opinion respecting the murders. I could merely agree with all Paris in considering them an
      insoluble mystery. I saw no means by which it would be possible
      to trace the murderer. “We must not judge of the means,” said Dupin, “by this shell of
      an examination. The Parisian police, so much extolled for
      _acumen_, are cunning, but no more. There is no method in their
      proceedings, beyond the method of the moment. They make a vast
      parade of measures; but, not unfrequently, these are so ill
      adapted to the objects proposed, as to put us in mind of Monsieur
      Jourdain’s calling for his _robe-de-chambre—pour mieux entendre
      la musique._ The results attained by them are not unfrequently
      surprising, but, for the most part, are brought about by simple
      diligence and activity. When these qualities are unavailing,
      their schemes fail. Vidocq, for example, was a good guesser and a
      persevering man. But, without educated thought, he erred
      continually by the very intensity of his investigations. He
      impaired his vision by holding the object too close. He might
      see, perhaps, one or two points with unusual clearness, but in so
      doing he, necessarily, lost sight of the matter as a whole. Thus
      there is such a thing as being too profound. Truth is not always
      in a well. In fact, as regards the more important knowledge, I do
      believe that she is invariably superficial. The depth lies in the
      valleys where we seek her, and not upon the mountain-tops where
      she is found. The modes and sources of this kind of error are
      well typified in the contemplation of the heavenly bodies. To
      look at a star by glances—to view it in a side-long way, by
      turning toward it the exterior portions of the _retina_ (more
      susceptible of feeble impressions of light than the interior), is
      to behold the star distinctly—is to have the best appreciation of
      its lustre—a lustre which grows dim just in proportion as we turn
      our vision _fully_ upon it. A greater number of rays actually
      fall upon the eye in the latter case, but, in the former, there
      is the more refined capacity for comprehension. By undue
      profundity we perplex and enfeeble thought; and it is possible to
      make even Venus herself vanish from the firmament by a scrutiny
      too sustained, too concentrated, or too direct. “As for these murders, let us enter into some examinations for
      ourselves, before we make up an opinion respecting them. An
      inquiry will afford us amusement,” [I thought this an odd term,
      so applied, but said nothing] “and, besides, Le Bon once rendered
      me a service for which I am not ungrateful. We will go and see
      the premises with our own eyes. I know G——, the Prefect of
      Police, and shall have no difficulty in obtaining the necessary
      permission.”

      The permission was obtained, and we proceeded at once to the Rue
      Morgue. This is one of those miserable thoroughfares which
      intervene between the Rue Richelieu and the Rue St. Roch. It was
      late in the afternoon when we reached it, as this quarter is at a
      great distance from that in which we resided. The house was
      readily found; for there were still many persons gazing up at the
      closed shutters, with an objectless curiosity, from the opposite
      side of the way. It was an ordinary Parisian house, with a
      gateway, on one side of which was a glazed watch-box, with a
      sliding panel in the window, indicating a _loge de concierge._
      Before going in we walked up the street, turned down an alley,
      and then, again turning, passed in the rear of the
      building—Dupin, meanwhile examining the whole neighborhood, as
      well as the house, with a minuteness of attention for which I
      could see no possible object. Retracing our steps, we came again to the front of the dwelling,
      rang, and, having shown our credentials, were admitted by the
      agents in charge. We went up stairs—into the chamber where the
      body of Mademoiselle L’Espanaye had been found, and where both
      the deceased still lay. The disorders of the room had, as usual,
      been suffered to exist.