There I first
met that strange and interesting
young fellow, August Dupin.
Dupin was the last member
of a well-known family, a family which had once been rich
and famous; he himself, however,
was far from rich. He cared little
about money. He had enough to
buy the most necessary things of
life — and a few books; he did
not trouble himself about the
rest. Just books. With books he
was happy.
We first met when we were both trying to find the same book.
As it was a book which few had ever heard of, this chance brought us
together in an old bookstore. Later we met again in the same store.
Then again in another bookstore. Soon we began to talk.
I was deeply interested in the family history he told me. I was surprised, too, at how much and how widely he had read; more important, the force of his busy mind was like a bright light in my soul. I
felt that the friendship of such a man would be for me riches without
price. I therefore told him of my feelings toward him, and he agreed to come and live with me. He would have, I thought, the joy of using my
many fine books. And I would have the pleasure of having someone
with me, for I was not happy alone.
We passed the days reading, writing and talking. But Dupin was a
lover of the night, and at night, often with only the light of the stars
to show us the way, we walked the streets of Paris, sometimes talking,
sometimes quiet, always thinking.
I soon noticed a special reasoning power he had, an unusual
reasoning power. Using it gave him great pleasure. He told me once,
with a soft and quiet laugh, that most men have windows over their
hearts; through these he could see into their souls. Then, he surprised
me by telling what he knew about my own soul; and I found that he
knew things about me that I had thought only I could possibly know.
His manner at these moments was cold and distant. His eyes looked
empty and far away, and his voice became high and nervous. At such
times it seemed to me that I saw not just Dupin, but two Dupins —
one who coldly put things together, and another who just as coldly
took them apart.
One night we were walking down one of Paris's long and dirty
streets. Both of us were busy with our thoughts. Neither had spoken
for perhaps fifteen minutes. It seemed as if we had each forgotten that
the other was there, at his side. I soon learned that Dupin had not
forgotten me, however. Suddenly he said:
"You're right. He is a very little fellow, that's true, and he would
be more successful if he acted in lighter, less serious plays."
"Yes, there can be no doubt of that!" I said.
At first I saw nothing strange in this. Dupin had agreed with me,
with my own thoughts. This, of course, seemed to me quite natural.
For a few seconds I continued walking, and thinking; but suddenly
I realized that Dupin had agreed with something which was only a
thought. I had not spoken a single word. I stopped walking and turned
to my friend. "Dupin," I said, "Dupin, this is beyond my understanding. How could you know that I was thinking of…." Here I stopped, in
order to test him, to learn if he really did know my unspoken thoughts.
"How did I know you were thinking of Chantilly? Why do you
stop? You were thinking that Chantilly is too small for the plays in which he acts."
"That is indeed what I was thinking. But, tell me, in Heaven's
name, the method — if method there is — by which you have been
able to see into my soul in this matter."
"It was the fruit-seller."
"Fruit-seller!? I know no fruit-seller."
"I mean the man who ran into you as we entered this street — it
may have been ten or fifteen minutes ago, perhaps less."
"Yes; yes, that's true, I remember now. A fruit-seller, carrying a
large basket of apples on his head, almost threw me down. But I don't
understand why the fruit-seller should make me think of Chantilly —
or, if he did, how you can know that."
"I will explain. Listen closely now:
"Let us follow your thoughts from the fruit-seller to the play-actor, Chantilly. Those thoughts must have gone like this: from the
fruit-seller to the cobblestones, from the cobblestones to stereotomy,
and from stereotomy to Epicurus, to Orion, and then to Chantilly.
"As we turned into this street the fruit-seller, walking very quickly past us, ran against you and made you step on some cobblestones
which had not been put down evenly, and I could see that the stones
had hurt your foot. You spoke a few angry words to yourself, and continued walking. But you kept looking down, down at the cobblestones
in the street, so I knew you were still thinking of stones.
"Then we came to a small street where they are putting down
street stones which they have cut in a new and very special way. Here
your face became brighter and I saw your lips move. I could not doubt
that you were saying the word stereotomy, the name for this new way
of cutting stones. It is a strange word, isn't it? But you will remember
that we read about it in the newspaper only yesterday. I thought that
the word stereotomy must make you think of that old Greek writer
named Epicurus, who wrote of something he called atoms; he believed
that the world and everything in the heavens above are made of these
atoms.
"Not long ago you and I were talking about Epicurus and his
ideas, his atoms, ideas which Epicurus wrote about more than 2,000
years ago. We were talking about how much those old ideas are like
today's ideas about the earth and the stars and the sky. I felt sure that
you would look up to the sky. You did look up. I had been following your thoughts as they had in fact come into your
mind. I too looked up, and saw that the group of stars we call Orion is
very bright and clear tonight. I knew you would notice this, and think
about the name Orion.
"Now follow my thoughts carefully. Only yesterday, in the newspaper, there was an article about the actor Chantilly, an article which
was not friendly to Chantilly, not friendly at all. We noticed that the
writer of the article had used some words taken from a book we both
had read. These words were about Orion. So I knew you would put
together the two ideas of Orion and Chantilly. I saw you smile, remembering that article and the hard words in it.
"Then I saw you stand straighter, as tall as you could make yourself. I was sure you were thinking of Chantilly's size, and especially his
height. He is small; he is short. And so I spoke, saying that he is indeed
a very little fellow, this Chantilly, and he would be more successful if
he acted in lighter, less serious plays."
I will not say that I was surprised. I was more than surprised; I
was astonished. Dupin was right, as right as he could be. Those were
in fact my thoughts, my unspoken thoughts, as my mind moved from
one thought to the next. But if I was astonished by this, I would soon
be more than astonished.
One morning this strangely interesting man showed me once
again his unusual reasoning power. We heard that an old woman had
been killed by unknown persons. The killer, or the killers, had cut
her head off — and escaped into the night. Who was this killer, this
murderer? The police had no answer. They had looked everywhere
and found nothing that helped them. They did not know what to do
next. And so — they did nothing.
But not Dupin. He knew what to do.