"
"Yes, I ought to be at the Palais de Justice; but it is only a few steps
from here."
"No matter. I will wait for you at the corner of the bridge. It's
useless to say 'no'; I've made up my mind, and I'm a Breton, you know. I
want you to ride out the thirty francs that those jades paid me."
It would have been cruel to refuse such a request. Accordingly, Lecoq
made a gesture of assent, and then hurried toward the Morgue.
If there was a crowd on the roadway outside, it was because the gloomy
building itself was crammed full of people. Indeed, the sightseers, most
of whom could see nothing at all, were packed as closely as sardines,
and it was only by dint of well-nigh superhuman efforts that Lecoq
managed to effect an entrance. As usual, he found among the mob a large
number of girls and women; for, strange to say, the Parisian fair sex is
rather partial to the disgusting sights and horrible emotions that repay
a visit to the Morgue.
The shop and work girls who reside in the neighborhood readily go out of
their way to catch a glimpse of the corpses which crime, accident, and
suicide bring to this horrible place. A few, the more sensitive among
them, may come no further than the door, but the others enter, and
after a long stare return and recount their impressions to their less
courageous companions.
If there should be no corpse exhibited; if all the marble slabs are
unoccupied, strange as it may seem, the visitors turn hastily away with
an expression of disappointment or discontent.
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