low block covered with zinc; so that the
features are clearly to be seen beneath the
light, which comes in from windows high up
in the wall behind the corpse. There is a tap
in the wall for turning on water, which runs
off by a small gutter at the foot of the slab.
This is all.

It was only after extreme persuasion that
the mother of the deceased suffered herself to
be led away from the Morgue to her dwelling
opposite. One of the party remained behind.
He, too, had identified the body as that of his
cousin; and, upon his declaration, the greffier
proceeded to draw up the document, which
was to be taken to the commissioners of
police before the body could be removed
from the building, although it was now withdrawn
from the salle d'exposition and placed
in another apartment. Perceiving that I
lingered in the vestibule after the departure
of the cousin, Monsieur Baptiste accosted
me, and civilly conjectured that, as I was
alone, perhaps it would afford me some
"amusement" to see that part of the building
which was not usually shown to the public.
He placed himself entirely at my disposition. I
accepted his courtesy with many thanks; and,
having crossed the vestibule, he opened a door
on the right hand, and introduced me into the
office over which he presided. "Here," he said,
with a slight flourish of his hand, "all the
important forms attendant upon the several
entries and departures were filled up by
himself — a function which, he knew he need
not assure me, was a highly responsible one.
"To discover a dead body," he added, "was a
sufficiently simple process— to daguerreotype
it in pen and ink was another. Even if that
salle d'exposition did not exist, Monsieur,
here," he exclaimed, tapping an enormous
folio with brazen clasps, "could be seen,
in my own handwriting, all the proofs
necessary for establishing a secure identification."

I ventured to suggest, with humility— for I
was a stranger in Paris— that some impediment
might be offered to this mode of giving
general satisfaction, in the possible fact that
the relations of at least one-half of the unfortunate
people whose bodies were taken to the
Morgue might not be able to read.

"Then," replied Monsieur Baptiste, undauntedly,
"I would read my description to
those poor people."

Of course, it was not for me to doubt the
skill of the worthy little greffier, but I could
not help fancying from a certain recollection
of the portraiture of passports— that it was
quite as well the hall of exposure and identification
did exist. However, I made no comment upon
Monsieur Baptiste's triumphant
rejoinder, and we passed on.

Apart from a little pleasant personal vanity
I found Monsieur Baptiste a very intelligent
companion. From the office he conducted me
to the salle d'autopsie (dissecting-room), in
which were two dissecting tables, one of them
supplied with a disinfecting apparatus,
communicating with a stove in an adjoining
apartment. Beyond this was the remise
(coach-house) containing the waggon-shaped
hearse, which conveyed to the cemetery—
without show, and merely shrouded in a
coarse cloth— such bodies as were either
unclaimed or unrecognised. The next chamber
was called the salle de lavage, or washing-room.
It was flagged all over and supplied
with a large stone trough, in which the clothes
of the persons brought in were washed; it
served also for sluicing the bodies. Similarly
flagged throughout was another apartment,
the salle de degagement, or private room,
situated between the salle de lavage and the
salle d'exposition, where temporarily deposited
on stone tables— out of the reach of
insects, from whose attacks they were protected
by a covering of prepared cloth— lay the
bodies of those who had been identified, such
as were in too advanced a stage of decomposition
to admit of recognition, and such as
were destined for interment. The last apartment
in the Morgue that remains to be
noticed, but which I did not enter, was the
combles, a sort of garret, in which that one of
the two attendants slept, whose duty it is to
pass the night on the premises; his sleep
being very frequently disturbed by fresh
arrivals.

"And how many admissions take place in
the Morgue, in the course of the year?" I
inquired of Monsieur Baptiste.

"Faith," replied he, shrugging his shoulders,
"of one kind or other, there is scarcely
a single day without something fresh. Observe,
Monsieur, they do not come in regularly.
Not at all. Sometimes we are quite
empty for days; and then, again, we are
crowded to such a degree as scarcely to be
able to find room for all that arrive. In the
extremes of the seasons — the height of summer
and the depth of winter— the numbers
are the greatest. But if Monsieur is curious
to know the precise facts, I shall have great
pleasure in informing him."

Thereupon Monsieur Baptiste invited me
once more to enter his office; and, having
accommodated me with a seat, he appealed to
the brazen clasped volume to correct his statistics,
and communicated to me the following
particulars.

The Morgue, he said, was supplied not only
from the forty-eight quartiers into which
Paris is divided; but received a considerable
share from the seventy-eight communes of the
banlieue, or townships within the jurisdiction
of the capital; from the communes of Sevrès,
Saint Cloud, and Meudon; from Argenteuil,
Saint Germain, and from other places bordering
on the river. The average number per annum
amounted to three hundred and sixty-four,
which Monsieur Baptiste arranged as follows:
including the separate fragments of dead
bodies, which he rated at eleven entries, there
were brought, he said, thirty-eight children prematurely