‘Nothing is being done about the fire,’ he said.
‘I fear the people may think this is a new kind of display, and that its unexpected end was all part of the festivities.’
All of a sudden, everything seemed to start moving, as if some perverse genie had fermented disorder in the crowd. To the noise of the explosions and the cracking sound as the structure collapsed were now added cries of anguish and calls for help.
‘Look, Guillaume, here come the pump wagons. But the percherons are panicking at the noise and bolting!’
Several wagons had indeed appeared from the two streets that ran parallel to Rue Royale – Rue de l’Orangerie on the Tuileries side, and Rue de la Bonne-Morue on the Champs-Élysées side – but the heavy horses that drew them had broken into a gallop and were trampling everything in their path. What followed would remain forever in Nicolas’s memory, and he would often relive the successive stages of the tragedy. The sight reminded him of an old painting he had once seen in the King’s collections at Versailles, showing a battlefield on which thousands of figures moved, the face, uniform, armour, actions and expressions of each one clearly detailed. He had observed that by isolating a small area of the painting, he could pick out hundreds of perfect miniature pictures. From the roof of the ambassadors’ mansion, no episode of the tragedy was lost on him. The situation was evolving with every minute that passed. Groups of spectators had been forced back by the horses, and some had already fallen into the unfilled trenches. Nicolas recalled that the site had only been cleared on 13 April of that year. Semacgus pointed to another area, where the guests who had watched the display were starting to leave the building. Their carriages, which had been waiting in a disorderly mass on the Quai des Tuileries, were now flooding onto the square, and the coachmen were laying about them with their whips to force a way through the crowd. Caught between the pumps and the coaches, many spectators stumbled and fell into the trenches. To add to this, a number of dubious characters bearing swords were attacking the terrified citizens and relieving them of their belongings.
‘Look, Nicolas, the crooks have come out of the faubourgs.’
‘Right now, I’m more worried by the fact that no one can get to the Quai des Tuileries, and that Pont du Corps-de-Garde, which leads to the Tuileries gardens, is closed. The only way out is through Rue Royale. The stage is set for a massive collision.’
‘But look at all the people trying to get onto the quais! The only way to avoid being crushed is by river. My God, I’ve just seen at least a dozen people fall in! The net at Saint-Cloud4 will be full tomorrow, and the Basse-Geôle, too.’
Panic had spread. There was a terrified surge away from the centre of the disaster. Those members of the crowd at the perimeter of the square did not seem to grasp the seriousness of the situation and were advancing calmly, inexorably, towards Rue Royale, thinking they would get through that way to the boulevards to enjoy the illuminations and the attractions of the fair. Meanwhile, those who had been in the middle of the square, unable to move, were now converging on the same street, unaware of the trap closing on them. Their way was obstructed by carriages, and Nicolas could already hear screams, but these premonitory signs of the disaster to come were drowned by the noise of several tens of thousands of spectators.
Nicolas, still at the corner of the building, leaned over once again to look down at Rue Royale, and what he saw there was worse than anything he might have feared. He shouted to Semacgus, who was holding back from the edge, ‘If nothing stops the crowd moving, disaster is inevitable. There’s no room to circulate. Everyone who’s trying to leave the square is coming into this one street. It’s packed with people all the way to the Marché Daguesseau. The crowds on the boulevards are trying to get back to the square.’
At that moment they heard a long chorus of screams and cries. Horrified, Nicolas watched the two contrary movements growing in volume and increasing in speed like two opposing groundswells. Those who found themselves stuck in the middle of the roadway could neither advance nor retreat, because the street narrowed at this point, forming a kind of tunnel where houses that had not yet been demolished jutted out. As if the unfilled trenches were not bad enough, freestones lying on the ground made the road even more difficult to negotiate. Nicolas now saw bodies sliding into the trenches, immediately covered by others. By the light of lanterns, he could see open mouths crying out in terror. Men, women, children, squeezed and jostled, stumbled and fell and were instantly trampled by those who followed. Some people, crushed standing up, had blood spurting from their nostrils. The trenches were soon as full as communal graves. Like a Moloch, Rue Royale was devouring the people of Paris. The King’s statue in the middle of the square seemed to be sailing on a sea of lava: the still-glowing embers of what was left of the festivities.
‘We have to get help to those people,’ Nicolas said.
Followed by Semacgus, he rushed to the small door that led to the attic. It resisted their efforts. The evidence was incontrovertible: it had been locked from the other side.
‘What are we going to do?’ Semacgus asked. ‘It’s well known that you can climb walls like a cat, but don’t count on me to follow you.’
‘Don’t worry, I don’t think I’d be able to get down the wall except with a rope. But I have other strings to my bow.’
He searched in his pocket and took out a small instrument equipped with several blades. He introduced one into the lock and tried to move the bolt, but it hit an obstacle. He kicked the door frame angrily, then stopped for a moment to think.
‘If that’s how it is, I’ll have to use the chimney – there’s no other way out. But there, too, I’d need a rope. Let’s have a look all the same.’
They went back up onto the roof and Nicolas climbed a castiron ladder to the top of one of the monumental stone chimneys. He struck a light and, with a sheet from his notebook, made a small torch which he dropped into the void. The shaft descended vertically and then seemed to become almost horizontal.
‘There are clamps in the stone; I’m going down. At worst, if I can’t get through, I’ll come back up. Guillaume, you stay here.’
‘What else could I do? My paunch wouldn’t let me get down that thing.’
The noise rising from the square was increasingly punctuated by cries and moans. Nicolas quickly took off his coat and shoes.
‘I don’t want to get snagged. Keep these. It makes me sick to feel so powerless with all that’s happening down there …’
Before giving his coat to Semacgus, he took from the pocket – the surgeon, wondering what on earth would come out next, was greatly amused – a short candle, which he placed between his teeth. The clamps, put there to help the work of the chimney sweeps, made the descent easy enough, but Nicolas thought anxiously of what lay ahead. He was no longer a child, but a man in his thirties, and with quite a full figure. Catherine and Marion’s cooking had left its mark, as had the meals in taverns with his deputy, Bourdeau, who like him loved good, cheap food. He reached the bottom of the shaft. There were two pipes to choose from, the opening of one hidden inside the entrance to the other. He chose to take the less steep of the two, judging that it would take him to one of the fireplaces on the upper floors of the building. Unable to hold the candle in his hand, he lit it and fixed it between one of the clamps and the wall. He would have to plunge blindly into the darkness.
The risk of getting stuck in the narrow passage made him sick with apprehension. It suddenly occurred to him that the folds of his shirt might hinder his progress, and he took it off. From somewhere above his head, Semacgus was dispensing advice in a voice ashen with anxiety, which echoed down to him, distorted. He caught his breath and thrust his legs forward. He felt as though he were sliding into some kind of greasy