A fat man in a grey and gold coat suddenly interrupted them and began speaking very loudly to Monsieur de La Briche, who responded with an abundance of promises. The man strutted off.
‘Can you imagine? That plenipotentiary, who represents the Palatine Elector, keeps yelling at me that he can’t accept this insult to his sovereign and that he will be in trouble back in his court when it becomes known. I ask you, is it my custom to insult a sovereign?’ He shook his head. ‘They simply won’t listen to reason.’
‘I don’t want to overburden you,’ Nicolas said, ‘but if it were at all possible to have a general view of the square …’
‘Say no more. Monsieur de Sartine would never forgive me if I did not make every attempt to satisfy you.’
‘If it came to that, I would plead your case; you can count on it.’
‘You’re most kind. Would it be convenient for you to go up on the roof? It looks like being a fine evening, you’d have a perfect view from up there and … you would get me out of a spot, for I really don’t know where else I could fit you in.’
He called a footman, and handed him a large key.
‘Take these friends of mine up to the roof by the small staircase. Leave the door open and the key in it, in case I have to put anyone else there. Oh, Lord, I must go, here comes the Conde de Fuentes, the Spanish ambassador. I can’t deal with his arrogance any longer – he can find his own seat!’
La Briche did an about-turn and skipped off. Nicolas and Semacgus followed the footman through a series of crowded drawing rooms. Major Langlumé, a piece of taffeta on his temple, was holding forth in the midst of an admiring circle of women. He looked daggers at the commissioner as he passed. After climbing several staircases, they at last reached the attic and then the roof.
The sky had grown darker and the first stars were out. The spectacle unfolding before their eyes left them speechless. In the distance, towards Suresnes, the last rays of the setting sun bathed the horizon in purple, the outlines of the hills around the capital drawn against the sky as if on a length of Chinese silk. The city lights glittered on the waters of the Seine. They were struck by the number of spectators gathered in Place Louis XV. A space had been cleared around the central monument, but it was overrun every time the crowd pushed forward. The gaps that appeared here and there corresponded to trenches that had not yet been filled with stones. Nicolas, always alert to the revealing detail, noted anxiously that the number of carriages and horses on the Quai des Tuileries and in the immediate surroundings was still increasing.
Semacgus was the first to speak. ‘It’s going to be a long and difficult process, dispersing all these people after the display. They all came at different times, but they’ll want to leave together. There’s bound to be congestion.’
‘Guillaume, I admire your sagacity and I’m grateful for the unofficial zeal that makes you aware of the dangers. I pray to heaven that Monsieur Bignon has thought of all this and has a specific evacuation plan in mind. I think our friend Monsieur de La Briche will have a few problems with all Their Excellencies in a hurry to get home.’
Nicolas walked over to the right-hand corner of the roof, stepped across the balustrade, much to Semacgus’s consternation, climbed onto the ledge and, supporting himself with one hand, leant over to look down at Rue Royale, which was so crowded that no one seemed able to advance.
‘Don’t stay there,’ Semacgus said. ‘One false move and there’s nothing to stop you falling. My legs are shaking just to see you.’
He held out his hand. Nicolas grasped it and jumped nimbly over the low columns.
‘When I was a child, I loved to scare myself by playing on the ochre cliff of Pénestin in a high wind. That was much more dangerous than this.’
‘You Bretons will never cease to amaze me.’
They fell silent again, captivated once more by the grandeur of the spectacle, which, as darkness fell, was concentrated on Place Louis XV.
‘Have you seen the Dauphine’s coaches? All of Paris is talking about them. It’s said that they do credit to the taste of Monsieur de Choiseul, who ordered them and took a close interest in their manufacture.’
‘Yes, I’ve seen them. Their splendour is somewhat calculated for my taste, but the present is at least as good as the future.’3
‘Ah!’ Semacgus said. ‘I shall remember that one.’
‘They’re four-seater berlins, one covered in crimson velvet with the four seasons embroidered in gold, the other in blue velvet with the four elements, also in gold. All extremely fine and exquisite, and topped off with gold flowers painted in different colours, which sway at the slightest movement.’
‘They must have been expensive.’
‘You know what the comptroller replied when the King asked him anxiously how much the celebrations would cost.’
‘Not a bit. What did the Abbé Terray reply?’
‘“Priceless, Sire.”’
They were laughing at that when a muffled explosion announced the beginning of the display, followed by a joyous cry. The King’s statue in the centre of the square was surrounded by girandoles, and further explosions startled the sleeping pigeons, making them rise in a great mass from the Tuileries and the Garde-Meuble. But these were not followed by the dazzling sights that were expected, and when the failure was repeated several times, the crowd gradually passed from cries of admiration to murmurs of disappointment. Some of the rockets rose into the air without exploding: with faltering trajectories they fell back to earth or else fizzled out with a dry crackle. There was a moment’s silence, during which Ruggieri’s pyrotechnicians could be heard with unusual clarity, shouting orders, then their cries were smothered by the sharp whistle of a rocket, which also came to nothing. This unfortunate attempt was forgotten when a fan shaped like a peacock’s tail, studded with gold and silver, hung over the vast assembly and seemed to restore some impetus to the spectacle. The crowd applauded wildly. Semacgus, though, was grumbling: Nicolas knew that, like many elderly Parisians, he was easy to please, but equally quick to criticise.
‘Launches badly synchronised, no rhythm, a performance that doesn’t build. If there were music, it would be out of time. The people are complaining, and they’re right. They can’t be deceived by sham; they feel swindled.’
‘Yet according to last Monday’s Gazette de France, Ruggieri has been preparing the display for a long time, and connoisseurs have been comparing him favourably with his rival, Torre, at Versailles.’
The launches continued, alternating successes, false starts and fireworks that fizzled out. A rocket rose into the air, followed by a plume of light. It seemed to stop, then tipped over, nosedived, and exploded on the pyrotechnicians’ bastion. At first nothing happened, then wreaths of black smoke appeared, and immediately afterwards, flames began to shoot up. The crowd surrounding the monument recoiled instantly, a movement that spread like a wave through the rest of the spectators. There followed a series of ever louder explosions. Then the bastion appeared to split in half and fire spewed out.
‘The reserves and the pieces for the grand finale have caught fire prematurely,’ Semacgus observed.
Place Louis XV was lit up by a cold white light, as if it were the middle of the day. The Seine was transformed into a frozen mirror, reflecting this luminous stream that fell as silver rain. Startled by what was happening, the crowd looked on, unsure about what to do or where to go, as the fire transformed the Temple of Hymen into a huge inferno, from which