The Phantom of Rue Royale

by Jean-FranCois Parot

  ‘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 a few weary rockets still rose. Minutes went by as they watched. The spectators’ uncertainty was palpable: heads turned in all directions as they questioned each other incredulously. The fire was spreading. The display had come to an end with all the convulsions of a dying organism. Leaning over the balustrade, Nicolas peered down into the square with an expression of anguish on his face that scared Semacgus.

  ‘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 material, and for a moment he lost all notion of time and space, before making a painful return to reality. Too bulky for the space, he had got stuck and could descend no further. For several minutes he stretched like a cat, lifting first one shoulder then the other. He remembered the grotesque movements of a contortionist he had seen at the last Saint-Germain fair. At last he managed to force his way through and continue his descent. He felt as if he were being sucked down into a vacuum. Almost immediately, he fell onto a pyramid of logs in a huge fireplace. The pyramid collapsed noisily under his weight, and his head hit a bronze plaque which bore the arms of France. He was surprised not to be knocked senseless. He got up carefully and checked the condition of his joints. Apart from a few grazes, he was unharmed. He looked at himself in a huge pier glass crowned with floral decorations in stucco: a stranger, black with soot, face like a scarecrow’s, britches torn and tattered. He walked across an unfinished, undecorated room which looked as if it belonged in a barracks rather than a palace. He opened a door and found that he had come out on the floor where the drawing rooms were. Here, the guests were crowded around the balconies. There was as much bustle as in an overturned hive. Some people had gathered at the windows, where they jostled for a view of the square, others were holding forth. Nicolas had the feeling that he was watching some absurd spectacle, a comedy or ballet in which automata endlessly repeated the same gestures. Nobody paid him any heed, even though his filthy appearance should have attracted notice.

  He got back to the staircase leading to the attic. As he climbed it, he heard Semacgus’s solemn tones alternating with the sharper voice of Monsieur de La Briche. They were both coming downstairs so quickly that they almost fell into Nicolas’s arms. With the disaster on the square increasing in scale, Monsieur de La Briche had tried to send for Nicolas, only to find the lock of the door that led to the roof obstructed by a mysterious object in gilded metal, a kind of spindle, which he now gave to the commissioner. The key itself was lying on the ground. Clearly, someone had been playing a practical joke on the spectators on the roof. He would see to it that the culprit was found – probably an insolent footman, or else one of those pages in blue who, in spite of their youth, considered themselves entitled to do anything because they were close to the throne.

  ‘Commissioner,’ said Monsieur de La Briche, ‘you must help me to restore a little order. The crush is terrible, and we have so many injured we don’t know what to do with them. They’re being brought in all the time. The City Guards are nowhere to be found. When things started to go wrong, their leader, Major Langlumé, went off to give orders to his men, and that’s the last anyone saw of him. On top of that, I keep hearing that there are bandits among the crowd attacking honest citizens.’ He lowered his voice. ‘Many of our guests have been drawing their swords to force their way through the crowd. A lot of people have been killed that way, not to mention those run down by carriages. The envoy from Parma, the Conte di Argental, has had his shoulder dislocated, and the Abbé de Raze, minister to the prince-bishop of Basle, was knocked down and is in a terrible state.’

  ‘Has Monsieur de Sartine been informed of what is happening?’ Nicolas asked.

  ‘I dispatched a messenger to him. By now he should be acquainted with the gravity of the situation.’

  Two men entered, carrying an unconscious woman in a frilly dress, one of whose legs was hanging at an odd angle. Her bloodstained face had been so flattened that it no longer looked human. Semacgus rushed to her, but after a brief examination he rose and shook his head. Other bodies were arriving, equally devoid of breath. For a while, they helped to receive the injured with the meagre means at their disposal. Nicolas was waiting for the return of the emissary who had been sent to Sartine. When he did not reappear, Nicolas retrieved his coat and went outside in order to get a clearer picture of the disaster. He took Semacgus with him.

  After making their way through the crowds of people coming in and out of the building – some of them, they were annoyed to observe, mere idle onlookers – they emerged on Place Louis XV. The great noise of the festivities had died down, but cries and moans rose on all sides. Nicolas ran straight into Inspector Bourdeau, his deputy, who was giving orders to some men of the watch.

  ‘Ah, Nicolas!’ he exclaimed. ‘We don’t know if we’re coming or going! The fire has been contained, the water pumps from La Madeleine and Saint-Honoré market have seen to that. Most of the criminals have scattered, although some are still trying to strip the dead of their belongings. The victims are being removed, and those bodies that have been identified have been taken to the boulevard.’

  Bourdeau seemed overwhelmed. The vast esplanade looked like a battlefield at night. An acrid black smoke rose into the air, whirled about, then, blown back down by the wind, fell again, shrouding the lights beneath a lugubrious veil. In the middle of the square, the remains of the triumphal structure stood like a sinister scaffold. Wreathed in smoke, the bronze monarch looked down at the scene, unruffled and indifferent. Semacgus, who had noticed Nicolas looking at the statue, murmured, ‘The Horseman of the Apocalypse!’ To their right, in Rue Royale, people had started to lay out the dead against the wall of the Garde-Meuble and were searching them in order to determine their identities and putting labels on them so that they could be recognised more easily by their families. Bourdeau and his men had restored a semblance of order. The area had been cordoned off with some difficulty and groups of volunteers were going down into the trenches on Rue Royale. A chain was starting to form. As soon as the victims had been brought out, an attempt was made to determine which of them were still alive so that they could be taken to the improvised emergency posts. There, doctors and apothecaries who had come running did whatever they could to treat them. Nicolas noted with horror that it was no easy task to bring up the bodies; those who lay at the bottom were crushed beneath the weight of those on top, and it was difficult to disentangle the various layers. He noted, too, that most of the dead belonged to the humblest classes. Some of them had wounds which could only have been caused by deliberate blows from canes or swords.

  ‘The street was claimed by the strongest and richest,’ Bourdeau muttered.

  ‘The criminals will get the blame,’ Nicolas replied. ‘But the cabs and carriages played their part in the slaughter, and those who forced their bloody way through even more so!’

  They worked all night, helping to sort the dead and injured. As the sun wa
s rising, Semacgus drew the commissioner and Bourdeau to a corner of La Madeleine cemetery where a number of bodies had been gathered. He had a puzzled look on his face. He pointed to a young girl lying between two old men. He knelt and uncovered the upper part of her neck. On each side were bluish marks that appeared to have been left by fingers. He moved the dead girl’s head. Her mouth was twisted and half open, and let out a sound like sand.

  Nicolas looked at Semacgus. ‘That’s quite a strange injury for someone who’s supposed to have been crushed.’

  ‘That’s my impression, too,’ the surgeon agreed. ‘She wasn’t crushed; she was strangled.’

  ‘Have the body put to one side and taken to the Basse-Geôle, Bourdeau, we’ll have to tell our friend Sanson.’ Nicolas turned to Semacgus. ‘You know, he’s the only person I’d trust with an operation like that – apart from you, of course.’