There was no fear of
their doing so, however, on the morrow of the tragedy at Poivriere, for
the mysterious murderer whose identity Lecoq was trying to establish had
furnished three victims for their delectation. Panting with curiosity,
they paid but little attention to the unhealthy atmosphere: and yet
a damp chill came from beyond the iron railings, while from the crowd
itself rose an infectious vapor, impregnated with the stench of the
chloride of lime used as a disinfectant.
As a continuous accompaniment to the exclamations, sighs, and whispered
comments of the bystanders came the murmur of the water trickling from a
spigot at the head of each slab; a tiny stream that flowed forth only to
fall in fine spray upon the marble. Through the small arched windows
a gray light stole in on the exposed bodies, bringing each muscle into
bold relief, revealing the ghastly tints of the lifeless flesh, and
imparting a sinister aspect to the tattered clothing hung around the
room to aid in the identification of the corpses. This clothing, after a
certain time, is sold--for nothing is wasted at the Morgue.
However, Lecoq was too occupied with his own thoughts to remark the
horrors of the scene. He scarcely bestowed a glance on the three
victims. He was looking for Father Absinthe, whom he could not perceive.
Had Gevrol intentionally or unintentionally failed to fulfil his
promise, or had Father Absinthe forgotten his duty in his morning dram?
Unable to explain the cause of his comrade's absence, Lecoq addressed
himself to the head keeper: "It would seem that no one has recognized
the victims," he remarked.
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