But sight is all that is wanted, and the noisy, thick, sweat-soaked crowd insulates me, and I stare. Earlier this week the two corpses on display were men, one old, one young. Where the manner of death is exotic or peculiarly gruesome, the victim will be shown singly; when the victim is a woman, and young, that will most certainly be the case; when she is beautiful the hall is full for days.
The two male corpses were fresh but uninteresting. The elder had collapsed in the slums. He was extremely old and was exhibited in the rags in which he was found. He was seated at a wooden table––it is always the same table, always the same dreary chairs––with his left arm lying stiff, with a clawed hand and his head at an unnaturally high angle.
“It isn’t unnatural if you’re dead,” Theo said at the time. I am tired of Theo; I amuse myself by thinking of him at that table.
“You wouldn’t realize when a thing is unnatural, dear boy,” Leonard said to Theo. “You haven’t the faculty for it.”
The second man was more interesting. Not more than twenty-two or -three, my own age. He sat cattycorner to the old reprobate, who had an eye, even in death, that chilled mine. The young man had died from a bullet wound to the chest; his clothing had been changed. The corpses are as often as possible displayed wearing the clothing in which they died; at times they are shown draped merely in a sheet. This is particularly true if the subject is a woman of dubious employment, the curators being conscious of the possibilities of corruption, especially for the women and girls in the audience, in showing these corpses attired, as it were, for work.
I do not know why it was that day I chose to speak to her. I did not know her name. Did I say she was pretty? Even Theo had noticed her.
“A girl who looks like that,” he said, “does not have to come here for her entertainment.”
Leonard’s jaundiced eye had found her: “She is too pretty to be a murderess, else I would think she came so often to see if one of her victims had shown up here. But that face is too sweet––there’s no sin on it.”
Then what about us? I think to myself as at last the queue reaches the huge doors, the vaulted windows that have the aspect of a church. We are here as often as she, and what do our faces show?
Whether the plat du jour that Thursday had the face of a gentleman or a degenerate I couldn’t say. I was not concerned with the corpses. In the queue ahead of me was breathing, beautiful flesh and blood, and it was her face I studied. Her hat was fresh with silk roses, her cheeks flushed. When the intensity of my gaze drew her eye, I did not let it go.
“Are you here for moral instruction,” I asked, “as is that family opposite?”
“Sir, do I know you?”
“I think you might.”
“Perhaps,” she conceded.
“I assure you I have no dishonorable intent. I am a student of law––”
“Not of death? You are here often.”
My heart moved: I was real to her, then, I had been in her mind.
“I come to see the living, not the dead,” I said, and she said, “That is a lie.”
I was taken aback.
“You are right,” I said. “I can see the living anywhere. It is their behavior in the presence of the dead that interests me.”
She breathed a soft impatient sigh. “I am not much interested in the living, myself.”
“Then why do you come here?”
She did not answer right away; she stood looking at the grotesque in front of us.
“I believe,” she said finally, “that I come here to remind myself––to convince myself––that I am alive.”
I laughed at that. “A charming joke,” I said, “from one that of all here present is most alive!”
She turned on me, she stung.
“You asked me a question, and I answered it. That was foolish of me. I left myself open to you, sir. I will not make the same mistake again.”
I grabbed her arm.
“Sir, we are in a public place. I shall call the guards.”
“Please.” I had to make her look at me. “I do not mean to offend.” If I did not make her look at me I would not be responsible for my actions. “I would not hurt you.”
When she looked at me her face was unchanged.
“I will accept your apology on one condition.”
“Anything.” There was something fundamental in her eye––I did not recognize it.
“That you not touch me again.”
“Of course,” I said. “Have an orange peel.”
She burst out laughing. I was ridiculous; I would like to think I did it on purpose, to make her laugh. She actually took one.
“Is that why really are you here so often, to instruct yourself in the behavior of the living in the face of death? And do not tell me it is your friends who force you to come,” she said, smiling at the corner of her mouth. “They look like odd company for a man like you.” Light fell from the high, arched windows in an arc across her face. “You come several times a week. Have you no more serious occupation?”
“What could be more serious than this?” I asked, throwing my arm to include it all: the crowd, the dead, and especially her.
“Do you ever think that one day you might recognize one of the dead here?”
“And who is it,” I said softly, “that you think you might recognize?”
“It is who I am behind that glass. You and I.
We will all look that way one day.” She was dispassionate; she was only talking. “I come here to learn to recognize myself. Because perhaps I really will be behind that glass one day.”
She frightened me. I did understand.
“Will you meet me for dinner?”
She stepped back.
“You understand nothing,” she said without contempt, and stepped into a sudden vacancy ahead of us on the queue. And looked again, without any horror, at the plat du jour.
I wanted to kiss her. I was seized by violent emotions; I stepped forward, but my hand on her arm was too urgent.
“You will let go of me,” she said. It was not a question. “You promised me, sir.”
Of course I did let go, with apologies. Leonard had seen us from across the room. Theo had.
“Please,” I said softly.
“No. And that is final.”
And she stepped away from me, following the crowd with complete composure. For her I no longer existed.
Chapter 7
Edouard
THE NEXT DAY I informed M. Bezier of all I had discovered, and later we talked again. I was as excited as a boy who has found a speckled egg in a hard-to-reach nest, and he treated me like one.
“Captain Bezier, I am no detective,” I told him. “I can only see what my camera lens shows me. I can learn only what my pictures tell me. The photographs I took of the woman we found told me, by her manner of dress, that she was not a prostitute, and that, coupled with other aspects of her appearance, it was highly unlikely that she belonged in that courtyard. The abandoned glove was too fine, and her hair was clean and well-cared-for.
“And the manner in which her body was placed—because clearly it was placed, and not simply left to fall—seemed to indicate that although she had not been killed there, she had been carefully placed after she died. There was no significant blood loss, and only in a puddle at the base of her neck.” I almost said, her pretty neck, and was appalled at myself. Were the dead becoming so familiar to me that I would have opinions on the prettiness of a corpse? Her pictures,” I hurried on, “showed me that she did not come from that tenement courtyard.”
“Lenore DuPrey worked in a club of the most dubious sort, Edouard. She was a dancer; that is, she showed her body off onstage to strange men.”
“But she had a child. How old is he?”
Capt. Bezier consulted his notes. “She had a s
mall son. It seems her husband died during her pregnancy.”
I was silent a moment.
“She had to survive,” I said finally.
“There are plenty of widows with children who manage to survive while keeping their clothes on, Edouard,” he said dryly.
“But what do we know of her circumstances? Of her emotional state following her husband’s death? A woman is fragile, Captain Bezier, fragile in her emotions but a mother mountain lion in what she will do for her offspring. Perhaps Madame DuPrey honestly felt that she was doing the best she could for her child.”
“And perhaps she was addicted to laudanum, have you thought of that?”
“Did she have someone to watch her child at night?”
“Yes, yes she did. A friend; she was very emotional. She said that Lenore was a wonderful mother.”
“A wonderful mother would work in such a place, Captain Bezier. I know you do not think so, but someone must work in these clubs, and it cannot only be those too debilitated by drink or drugs to do anything else. I mean, they wouldn’t be able to do that sort of work either, would they? I imagine it takes a rather strong physical constitution.”
Capt. Bezier surprised me by starting to laugh. After he had finished he said, “Oh, Edouard, there has never been such a romantic as you. Do you really judge no one?”
“The killer of Lenore DuPrey. I judge him. I judge all those who take human life for their own gratification. There is now one more motherless child in the world.”
“Then I have news that will please you. This Monsieur Lunier—it is more than apparent that he murdered Madame DuPrey. At his apartment we found a bloodied knife. He confessed. Frankly, this surprised me. A man of his stature—he owns a shop on the rue St. Germain. But he cried. He said he loved Lenore. But there is no poetry here, Edouard. A simple, sordid lovers’ quarrel.”
“But,” he said, “I believe he may have taken something from the body. She was not properly protected against the elements.”
“So you see that it is not that I am a detective in any sense, Captain Bezier. I merely observe the things my photographs show me.”
“You seem to find a great deal more in those photographs than others would, Edouard. I think it is your poetic soul. That you are sometimes correct in your assumptions--well, there are crimes that go against the obvious. That is, they do not fit the mold. It is with these crimes that you have the most luck.”
I said nothing; the part of me that was small and petty wanted to say, The cases you cannot solve, Captain Bezier, but of course I ignored this impulse. Capt. Bezier was, after all, considered one of the finest in his field, and he listened to my opinions on his cases.
Yet who was I? A photographer, a recorder of death. Certainly he owed me no professional courtesy. And if my view of death helped him catch even one of those responsible for death . . . well, that was an honor. To help our fellow human beings is always an honor. I had scoured my mind to see if the irritation I sometimes felt at his hardheadedness was due in part to thwarted vanity: Did I really want credit for helping solve difficult cases?
The answer was no. Recognition within my own field I hungered for. Renown as a photographer has been a sweet secret dream since youth. But I was no Daguerre; I was no Nadar. I was only Edouard Mas.
“Lenore DuPrey is in the Morgue as we speak, is she not?” I asked.
“Of course. She was unidentified until this morning.”
“But she is identified now. Can she not be taken from the Morgue, Captain Bezier? Please?”
“Oh, Edouard. There you go again. You know she cannot. It will not hurt her immortal soul to have a few thousand people see her empty husk. The answer is no. But Edouard, you may not believe this, but I heartily respect your opinions. It is just that I have never met anyone with fewer prejudices.”
“That does not make me better than anybody else.”
“Oh, yes, it does. It does indeed. But the real beauty of you, Edouard, is that you will never see that.”
Chapter 8
From the Journal of Augustine Dechelette
THE MOST HORRIBLE thing has happened. I was in my bed this morning, watching the gray light outside my window as it became suffused with blue day. I woke with a tactile image of Louis, of the feel of his lips as they grazed mine the last time we said good-bye.
I woke with a familiar feeling between my legs. Voluptuousness is the word that comes to mind. A word out of novels. A sweetness and a burning at the same time. I have felt it before.
I lay as still as I could, trying to concentrate on the color of the sky. But there was nothing but the softness of Louis’ mouth. I did not try to say my prayers. I knew it would be a blasphemy to say them when I felt this way. And I knew, besides, that they could not distract me.
I rolled over onto my stomach. My mother would not be in to wake me for at least fifteen minutes; I could read the sky as though it were a clock. I slipped my hands down between my legs. I knew what I was doing. I had done it before. I knew how wrong it was, what a risk I was taking with my bodily health, and with the health of my soul. And knew too that again I would not admit this sin in the confessional, as I did not admit my feelings for Louis. There is in me a whole world rotten with sin; but it does not feel like sin. It feels like love.
I closed my eyes and forgot the world. There was nothing now but Louis’ mouth—just that. The skin of his lips against the skin of my lips. There was a point of fire between my legs—I could hardly touch it. I grasped the hood with the first fingers of each hand, I pressed, that is all. I thought of Louis’ mouth.
And my mother walked in.
In an instant I was crouched on the bed, my blankets around my chin. My mother stood, porcelain-white, her hand on the doorknob. She was entirely still except for her eyes, which roamed the room wildly; she did not seem to see me at all. Perhaps I was wrong, perhaps she had seen nothing.
“Augustine,” she said, and I was damned then. I write this as I sit alone in my room. I look out at the sky and it is changed; everything is changed. My mother said nothing but my name, then she left the room. I can feel her talking to Papa now. Not hear: feel. Their voices are in the walls. Their voices are in the sky. My mother has said words to my father that I cannot bear even to think. My name trembles on the air in my room; I can see it. It will always be there, always; her voice was so cold. Not cold with hate—cold with fear. And now her fear will inhabit this room forever.
I got dressed shortly after Maman left the room, as soon as I realized that she was not going to come back in, that she had really been there. Usually Maman ties my corset strings for me; I did it alone. I always complain that she ties them too tight, but this time I pulled as hard as I could with my hands behind my back, yanking at the cords until I stood perfectly straight and could breathe only shallowly. In Paris the women wear their corsets a good deal tighter than we in the provinces—how could I be thinking such inanities? I pulled on my corset cover with some difficulty, but when it was on I could feel the smoothness of my silhouette along my hips. For a moment I felt as I always did when my corset is properly laced, strong and prepared for another day. But I crumbled inside when I turned and saw my unmade bed and the familiar view out the window behind it.
I put on my camisole, astonished at myself for admiring its lace as I always do. I slipped into four petticoats, marking that they were clean at the hems; when I lifted my skirt they would froth out like new cream rising in the cup of coffee. I had a black lisle stocking that needed mending rather badly. I had intended to do it this morning before chores, but my hand could not hold a needle now. I pulled them on, then went to the closet and found myself taking out my second-best dress, the pink one with the large lavender tulle bow at the neck, the two rows of lavender ruffles at the waist, and the lavender satin ruffles all in a row above the lace ruff at the hem. Maman loves the way I look in pink
. I cried as I put the dress on, but I stopped swiftly enough. I have no right to cry.
As I put on my boots I noted, as I always do, that the heel is not high enough for fashion. I checked the hem and train of the dress very carefully; I do not want to be a soiled dove. I am so dirty already.
I don’t know how I can ever bear to have Maman look at me again. I will never forget her eyes, which could not find a place to rest because she could not bear to look her daughter in the face.
I wish I had Yvette’s mirror. I touch the skin of my face, I run my fingers along my familiar cheekbones, the long, uptilted bone of my nose. It is someone else’s face. I cannot be here, in this body, anymore. I look at the sky that cannot save me. I hear birdsong that I usually love, a cow lowing, children’s voices. I feel so far away that it is as though I were dead. I find myself sitting on the bed and do not know how I got there. (I was still dressing a moment ago, looking in my dresser drawer for my buttonhook. Now all eighteen buttons on each boot are neatly latched.) I can only look at the sky. I cannot cry. Inside I am screaming, but I simply sit. My arms and legs are like lead. What have I done? The walls reverberate with my secret. My parents sit in the kitchen and speak in hushed tones about Augustine, and I do not even know who she is. Even Louis is just a shadow now. My name has seeped into the floorboards and even now spreads down the hallway and out the front stairway. When the Augustine who existed half an hour ago in the first faint morning light is gone now, is dead.
And a young woman I do not know writes in an unfamiliar journal as she sits waiting to hear what sentence is to be passed on her.
Chapter 9
Charles
WHEN I WALKED out of our apartment that night, I was not looking for her. The streets were wet with rain, and clouds lay like shreds of velvet still beneath swift-running cumulus. The buildings gleamed black and slick, and rain ran in the gutters.
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