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 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
