A merchant talked with his wife. “Well, here we are again. The king does nothing to protect the streets of Paris, and now we have another fire. I promise you there will be no help from old Louis for those poor people losing their homes.” The two walked hastily up the street in the direction of the glow, as though to get a closer look.
The owner of the Hôtel de Garamond, however, hurried his guests out of the building and into the street. Grumbling and demanding a refund, one portly guest threatened to burn down the inn himself if he was not permitted to reenter and gather his things.
The crowd in the street grew larger and more unpleasant as neighbors began arguing with each other, then took wagers as to which direction the fire would eventually go. No one seemed to perceive any immediate danger.
From her second story vantage point, Claudette was aware of a sudden wind shift that the people on the street could not sense. Waving out the window, she called out, “Mes amis, the wind is shifting. Listen to me! The fire might be turning this way.” She was completely drowned out by the noise of the street.
Turning back into her room, Claudette realized her father was right. She needed to get dressed and leave the house immediately. She carefully made the bed, and hurriedly dressed in a plain dress made specially for her tall, willowy figure, and sensible shoes, which she thought suitable for what might amount to a temporary flight out of the city. She pulled her unruly hair back into a knot and ensured Jean-Philippe’s ring was still hidden on the chain around her neck. Claudette found her reticule and packed it with her treasured possessions. She stuffed it with her letters from Jean-Philippe, a comb, a mirror, and a miniature of her parents. Lifting her head, she noticed that the smell of smoke was becoming more intense. She crossed quickly back to the window. The glow was much higher now, and she could hear distant creaking and booming, as though buildings in the fire’s path had protested all they could, and were now succumbing to their fate.
She also saw that her neighbors were now realizing that the fire was more dangerous than they had thought. Claudette’s mother was across the street, talking frantically with another neighbor. The neighbor looked puzzled. Claudette knew that her mother was probably babbling in a mixture of French and English, as she did whenever she was agitated. Born of an English mother and French father, Adélaide learned both languages growing up, but could not concentrate enough to use one or the other when upset. She had insisted that young Claudette also be taught English, and the girl was fluent in both tongues.
“Mama! I’m coming down! Wait for me,” Claudette shouted through cupped hands. Adélaide did not notice her through the din on the streets. Claudette turned once more into her room, grabbed her reticule, and headed into the hallway and down the stairs.
She paused at the entry to the workshop, then shook her head against the thought of taking along any dolls. More than likely, the fire would be put out before too much damage was done. She passed through the doorway of the workshop into the showroom, looked with regret at the latest grandes Pandores she and her father had created, then opened the door onto the street to join her mother.
Her mother was no longer with the neighbor. In fact, the street was now thronged with people hauling carts behind them laden with furniture, clothing, and all of the other household wares that could be carried away in a frantic rush of fear. Crying, barefoot children were dragged along by harried parents. An unkempt man, staggering and carrying a bottle of some sort of intoxicant, came lurching by and stepped across Claudette’s toes.
“Ow, monsieur. Please watch your step.”
“Eh, you’ll be burning in hell soon, mademoiselle. My, but you are a pretty one. How about a last-minute romp with old Pepin before the devil takes us all?” He leered at her with bloodshot eyes, then put his face near hers. The stench of alcohol was overwhelming.
“Get away from me!” Claudette pushed her way past him and moved into the crowds. When she turned around to look moments later, the drunkard was moving up the street in the opposite direction. The crush of people trying to leave the area was becoming oppressive. She could not see where her mother may have gone.
“Mademoiselle Claudette!” She heard a voice above the commotion. Old Jacques, who was their neighbor and a wine importer, was calling to her from nearby. “Mademoiselle Claudette, your mother is looking for you.” Claudette made her way back through the crowds to the shop near her father’s. “Come inside, my dear, or you will be trampled to death.”
Stepping into the wine merchant’s shop, she saw her mother get up dazedly from a chair. “Oh, Claudette, I was not sure where you were.”
“Mama, I was sleeping of course. Where is Papa?”
“He has gone to help a family named Bertrand save their home.”
“But what about our shop?”
Giving a helpless shrug she said, “You know your papa. Someone came asking for help, so he went.”
“Mama, we need to leave the area right away. The fire will likely come through here.”
“Yes, my dear, you’re right.”
“Thank you, Jacques, for keeping Mama safe. Will you come with us?”
“No, I’m staying here. The fire may not come this far, and you know my shop will be the first one ruffians will break into when they think no one is looking.”
With Claudette guiding her mother out, the two women stepped back into the clamor of the street, and Claudette began walking quickly in the opposite direction of the spreading glow of the fire. Adélaide tugged on Claudette’s arm. “Claudette, we should go and find your papa.”
“No, Mama, we need to leave.”
“I cannot leave without knowing where your father is.”
“Mama, please, we have to get out of here. Papa will find us, I’m sure. Besides, we will never find him if he is helping others put out the fire.”
Adélaide stood still and refused to budge, much like some of the braying donkeys now crowding the street, refusing to move for their masters out of sheer stubbornness. Claudette, exasperated, said, “Very well, we’ll go and look for Papa.”
Turning toward the fire instead of away from it, Claudette grabbed her mother’s hand so they would not be separated.
The closer they got to the edge of the burning area, the more difficult their journey became. More and more people were streaming away from the fire, and the smoke became denser, choking them and stinging their eyes. “What are you doing, walking into that kingdom of hell?” shouted a woman carrying what was apparently an infant securely wrapped in several dirty rags. A toddler was crying at her feet. “Best you turn back now. You’ll never get out of there alive.”
Claudette looked at her mother. “Mama, we should not do this.”
“I want to find your papa.” Adélaide was resolute.
The mother and daughter continued their uphill battle against humanity, smoke, and the occasional burning embers floating around them. A piece of ash landed in Adélaide’s hair, but she seemed unaware of it until Claudette saw it and tamped out the cinders with her hands.
They finally reached the outer perimeter of the firestorm. The heat was intense. Claudette worried that she and her mother would suffer burns to their skin simply from the heat. She stopped the nearest man she saw and asked, “Have you seen my father, Étienne Laurent?”
“No, I don’t know him.”
She moved on with her mother, asking everyone who would stop for her whether they had seen Étienne Laurent. Finally, a young man lugging two pails of water was able to help them. “Oui, your father is over on the Rue d’Henri.” He pointed off in the distance. “Go through that alley and turn right. You’ll find him there for sure.”
“Merci.”
Claudette and her