The Purloined Letter
The Thousand-and-Second Tale of Scheherezade
A Descent into the Maelström
Von Kempelen and his Discovery
Mesmeric Revelation
The Facts in the Case of M. Valdemar
The Black Cat
The Fall of the House of Usher
Silence — a Fable
The Masque of the Red Death
The Cask of Amontillado
The Imp of the Perverse
The Island of the Fay
The Assignation
The Pit and the Pendulum
The Premature Burial
The Domain of Arnheim
Landor’s Cottage
William Wilson
The Tell-Tale Heart
Berenice
Eleonora
{Notes}
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Nil sapientiae odiosius acumine nimio.
Seneca.
At Paris, just after dark one gusty evening in
the autumn of 18-, I was enjoying the twofold luxury
of meditation and a meerschaum, in company with my
friend C. Auguste Dupin, in his little back library,
or book-closet, au troisiême, No. 33, Rue Dunôt, Faubourg
St. Germain. For one hour at least we had maintained
a profound silence; while each, to any casual observer,
might have seemed intently and exclusively occupied
with the curling eddies of smoke that oppressed the
atmosphere of the chamber. For myself, however,
I was mentally discussing certain topics which had
formed matter for conversation between us at an earlier
period of the evening; I mean the affair of the Rue
Morgue, and the mystery attending the murder of Marie
Rogêt. I looked upon it, therefore, as something
of a coincidence, when the door of our apartment was
thrown open and admitted our old acquaintance, Monsieur
G—, the Prefect of the Parisian police.
We gave him a hearty welcome; for there was nearly
half as much of the entertaining as of the contemptible
about the man, and we had not seen him for several
years. We had been sitting in the dark, and Dupin
now arose for the purpose of lighting a lamp, but sat
down again, without doing so, upon G.’s saying
that he had called to consult us, or rather to ask
the opinion of my friend, about some official business
which had occasioned a great deal of trouble.
“If it is any point requiring reflection,”
observed Dupin, as he forebore to enkindle the wick,
“we shall examine it to better purpose in the
dark.”
“That is another of your odd notions,”
said the Prefect, who had a fashion of calling every
thing “odd” that was beyond his comprehension,
and thus lived amid an absolute legion of “oddities.”
“Very true,” said Dupin, as he supplied
his visiter with a pipe, and rolled towards him a
comfortable chair.
“And what is the difficulty now?” I asked.
“Nothing more in the assassination way, I hope?”
“Oh no; nothing of that nature. The fact
is, the business is very simple indeed, and I make
no doubt that we can manage it sufficiently well ourselves;
but then I thought Dupin would like to hear the details
of it, because it is so excessively odd.”
