The Poe Shadow

30

ON THE THIRD day after my discovery of the ten-year-old Graham's magazine, Edwin could see my spirits were entirely demolished. I felt more poisoned than I had been when Neilson Poe had found me in front of 3 Amity Street; now it was my soul, my heart, that had been infected rather than my blood.

Edwin tried to talk to me about finding Duponte for assistance. I no longer knew Duponte, though. Who was he, what was he? Perhaps, I thought to myself, Poe had not even heard of my Duponte. All truth had been turned on its head. Maybe it was Duponte who'd deliberately and meticulously pilfered part of his character, insomuch as he was able, from Poe's tales, rather than the other way around. He was concealing himself, now, because he had known he could not fulfill the role he had imagined. Had it never occurred to me, in all the time I spent with Duponte, that his was some diseased reaction to the literature, rather than an inspiring source for it? I suppose the satisfaction of having assisted in Duponte's emergence from his isolation in Paris had led me to deny any dormant doubts. It was insignificant now, dust in the balance. I was alone.

The waters receded around the packinghouse, and with more people populating the streets nearby, Edwin advised that I must find another refuge. He secured a room in an out-of-the-way lodging house in the eastern district of the city. We arranged a time at which I would meet him to be taken to my new hiding place in a wagon covered with piles of his deliveries of newspapers. In the end, I was late, so distracted was I by the loss of Duponte.

I had requested that Edwin bring me more of Poe's tales. I read the three Dupin tales over and over whenever the packinghouse's light was sufficient. If there was no true Dupin, no person whose genius had bestowed onto Poe this character, why had I believed so fervently? I found myself first copying out sentences from the Dupin tales in a scattered fashion and then, without any particular objective, writing out the entire tales word by word, as though translating them into some usable form.

Poe had not discovered Dupin in the newspaper accounts of Paris. He had discovered Dupin in the soul of mankind. I do not know how best to share now what occurred in that upheaval of my mind. I heard again and again what Neilson Poe had said, that Edgar Poe's meaning was not in his life, not in the world outside, but in the words, in their truths. Dupin did exist. He existed in the tales, and perhaps the truth of Dupin was in all of our capacities. Dupin was not among us; he was in us, another part of us, a plural of ourselves, stronger than any person who might resemble Dupin slightly in name or trait. I thought of that sentence from 'The Murders in the Rue Morgue' again. We existed within ourselves alone…

I found Edwin waiting for me.

'You're safe,' he said, taking my hand. 'I was about to search the city for you. Give me that coat and put this one on.' He gave me an old pepper-and-salt coat. 'Come, up hat and cut stick now. There's a wagon I've borrowed to get to the lodging house. No loafing.'

'Thank you. But I cannot stay, my friend,' I replied, taking his hand. 'I must see someone at once.'

Edwin frowned. 'Where?'

'In Washington. There is a man named Montor, a minister from France, who long ago first taught me about Duponte and tutored me for my visit to Paris.'

I began to walk away when Edwin touched my arm.

'He is a man you can trust, Mr. Clark?'

'No.'

***

Henri Montor, the French emissary to Washington, was worried. Back home, the Red Republicans and their followers complained more loudly. Vive la Republique! was hollered in the public squares. Parisians grew restless if there were too many months without political struggle, thought Montor, and so now they were turning their minds against Louis-Napoleon. The results could be catastrophic.

Do not jump to conclusions. Monsieur Montor had no particular affection for Louis-Napoleon-the president- prince, a spoiled and arrogant product of fame who had made two failed and foolish grabs at power before-but Montor enjoyed his own current position and had no desire for it to be altered. It was not Washington, with its lukewarm food at even the best hotels' dining rooms (even the corn cakes were only 'warm' and not hot!), that he enjoyed but the fact of being an emissary to another country.

Montor read as many French newspapers as could be found in Washington (it was during the commission of this activity, you'll recall, that his interest was long ago diverted by a Baltimorean reading articles about one Auguste Duponte). Montor observed that more of the French press was aiming at the president-prince lately. In small ways, but nonetheless. Now Napoleon had ordered the prefect and the police to shut down uncooperative newspapers. What were Napoleon and his advisers anxious about, really? What did they expect the revolutionists would do? What grand plan could they concoct now? France was already a republic! They could elect someone other than Louis-Napoleon. But perhaps they could also first weaken Napoleon's position enough that an enemy from outside would come in to take advantage… No, Monsieur Montor did not guess the true plan any more than others did. Still, he worried constantly about events around the Champs-Elysees.

He had smaller worries, too-local worries. There was a Frenchman found shot in nearby Baltimore. It was said by some that it was that infamous rogue lawyer, the foppish 'Baron' Claude Dupin, who had been living in London. What was he baron of? No matter, the fool was no doubt involved in some mischief. Still he was a Frenchman, and Baltimore 's high constable had written with word about it to Monsieur Montor.

But this had happened a few weeks ago already, and it was not even on Montor's mind this evening. He thought only about sleep. He had two great pleasures in life, and to his credit neither involved superficial concerns of wealth or power. This is what separated him from men like the prince's ministers. Montor liked most to entertain and be admired by strangers, as we have already alluded to, and besides that he liked to sleep, many hours at a time.

There was one of Montor's encounters with that young Baltimorean in the reading room, studying articles on Auguste Duponte. Montor spoke with awe about Duponte. He could not remember the last time he had heard of Duponte performing one of his magnificent feats, but no matter. This young man was so engrossed Montor did not wish to dissuade his study. This was some time ago, almost six months, and Montor, who was blessed with a short memory, only barely remembered the young gentleman or their numerous conversations. Until this evening, when Montor walked into his house. It took him a moment to think to himself that it was strange that his hearth was already roaring with a fire, and another moment still to notice someone sitting at his table.

'Who-? What is-?' Montor could not think of the proper words. 'Who allowed you in, sir, and what is your business?'

No answer.

'I shall call burglary…' Montor warned. 'Tell me your name,' he commanded.

'Don't you know me?' came the question in fine French.

Montor squinted. In his defense, the light was dim and the appearance of his visitor somewhat frightful and haggard. 'Yes, yes,' he said, but he could not remember the name. 'That young man from Baltimore…but how have you come in here?'

'I spoke to your servant, in French, and told him we were to have an important government meeting that must be private. I ordered him to return in two hours, and paid him for his trouble.'

'You had no right to…' Yes! Now Montor remembered this face. 'I remember. I first met you in the reading rooms, studying the French newspapers. I helped you with your French language and took you around a bit. Quentin, isn't it? You were looking for the real Dup-'

'Quentin Hobson Clark. Yes, you remember.'

'Very well, Monsieur… Clark .' The engine of Montor's mind was now clicking. 'I shall have to ask you to leave my property at once.'

Montor was alarmed to have an intruder in his lodging, even one who had previously been an acquaintance and had seemed so harmless. He was also alarmed at the name, Quentin Clark. He had retained almost no memory of the name from the reading room. But the name meant something else to him as of late.