Chance led him to enter a low, stone building by one of the bridges. All manner of men and women passed in and out of this place, and Wynne followed the general lead. There was a glass compartment across the far side of the hall, before which a large crowd was assembled. A nursemaid wheeling a perambulator, and a group of blue-smocked, pipe-smoking ouvriers hid from view what the case contained.
The exhibits, whatever they might be, were clearly very popular. Wynne reflected that probably they were Napoleonic relics, or maybe the crown jewels, when a rift in the crowd betrayed the fact that the case was full of dead men. With heads tilted at shy and foolish angles, with bodies lolling limply against the sloped marble slabs, the corpses of the Seine bleared stupidly at the quick.
It was the first time Wynne had looked on the face of the dead, and the sight chilled him with a faint, freezing sickness.
“Oh, God, how awful!” he muttered, and turned to go, but the way before him was barred by fresh arrivals. “I want to get out,” he cried, but no one heeded him. He began to struggle, when a firm hand fell on his shoulder, and a voice, speaking with a Southern American accent, said:
“Calm down, son. What’s the trouble?”
Wynne looked up and saw a tall, broad-shouldered man smiling upon him. He wore a blue serge shirt, a pair of sailor’s breeches, and no hat. His black, sleek hair hung loosely over his left temple.
“It’s horrible,” said Wynne. “I want to get away.”
“Yer wrong,” came the answer. “Yer wan’ to stop. The spirit of Paris abides in this place. There’s no intensive life without an intensive death. Only when they come here do they realize how very much alive they are. Sometimes I believe the Morgue is the greatest tonic in this city. Now jest pull up and we’ll step round the cases together.”
Wynne shook his head.
“Yer not afraid?”