1
THOUGH THEY took place in a city whose every twisted street and shuttered window had a tale to tell, one might have expected the sequence of catastrophic events that began on 17 December 1774 to have left some lasting trace in the history of Paris. For several years, they threatened to overshadow all the wars, revolutions, plagues and massacres that ever blackened the thirteen square miles that lie between Montmartre and the Montagne Sainte-Geneviève. Yet almost two hundred years have passed since any historian has even mentioned them. Perhaps this will turn out to be the lesson of the tale: so many people chose to live in a city that poets habitually described as Hell because it offered the priceless blessing of oblivion. The perpetual turmoil of Paris carried everything away, like the rain that rushed the sweepings of a hundred thousand households into the Seine.
The first sign of something untoward came on a Saturday afternoon, a week before Christmas Day in 1774. The main customs gate on the southern edge of the city was clogged up with the usual heavy traffic. Paris was filling its markets and shops for the holiday ahead, and even that late in the year, travellers had to expect long delays before they could enter the pandemonium and begin the final descent towards the smoke-shrouded steeples.
Customs officers exacted payment on everything that entered the city. Every vehicle, passenger and piece of luggage had to be searched for ‘any article contrary to the King’s orders’. Pedlars and milkmaids, foot-weary peasants pulling handcarts stacked with winter vegetables, mud-caked passengers from the north-bound diligence were all forced to wait in each other’s company.
Some of them sat in the garden of a nearby windmill drinking excise-free wine; others stood at the barrier exchanging news and gossip. That afternoon, a group had gathered to watch wine barrels being unloaded from a cart. A wheelwright was heating up his forge to repair a broken axle. The carter, who had left Orléans before dawn, had run into a large hole on the last stretch of road before Paris. Anywhere else in France, a pot-hole – even one deep enough to drown a horse – would have passed without comment, but this hole had appeared without warning in the great road south to Orléans. In the distant days when Paris was a town of huts on an island in the river Sequana, the road had been plied by the high-speed chariots of the Gauls, and it was along the same magnificent avenue that the legions of Labienus had launched a devastating attack on the armies of the Parisii tribe in 52 BC. Now, in 1774, it was the busiest stretch of highway in the kingdom. Sometimes, when the traffic wasn’t held up by livestock, more than ten vehicles passed through the customs gate in an hour.
It was a fact of tremendous significance to those who witnessed the event that this part of the road was called the Rue d’Enfer. No one knows how the street acquired its sinister name. It may originally have been a Gaulish word for ‘fair’, or the verbal remnant of something made of iron – perhaps a gate that had marked the limits of the city. Many people said that the street was known as Hell because so much shouting and swearing was heard in the quartier, but, as others pointed out, that would have to have been the name of almost every street in Paris. Others still, believing that names were clues to the future as well as to the past, associated it with an ancient prophecy which said that, one day, all the temples, taverns, convents and heretical schools of the Latin Quarter would be swallowed up by an infernal abyss. Educated people, however, preferred a more scholarly derivation:
Etymologists assert that in the days of the Romans, the Rue Saint-Jacques was the Via Superior, while this street, being the lower of the two, was the Via Inferior or Infera. And so it was that, by corruption and contraction, it assumed the name ENFER.*
At about three o’clock that afternoon, the crowd at the customs barrier saw a sight that might have settled the matter once and for all: the roofs of the buildings on the Paris side changed their angle slightly in relation to the skyline. A second later, there was the sound of a giant heaving a great sigh and stretching his limbs. The cattle that had passed through the gate panicked and backed into the barrier. A man was seen running with a hood pulled over his head. Behind him, a cloud was billowing up from the road, and the buildings on the street beyond the Rue d’Enfer suddenly came into view. Along the eastern side of the Rue d’Enfer itself, extending towards the centre of Paris for what proved to be one quarter of a mile, a gaping trench had opened up and swallowed all the houses.
Predictably, the chasm was identified as ‘the Mouth of Hell’, and, in view of what had happened, only the most pedantic etymologist could have doubted the true, satanic origin of the street’s name.
2
A LITTLE MORE than two years after the incident in the Rue d’Enfer, a luxuriously upholstered sedan chair was bobbing and weaving along the Rue de Grenelle through the heart of the Faubourg Saint-Germain. A light rain had fallen in the night and turned the sandy streets to mud. The new Inspector of Quarries was on his way to his first appointment. He stared out of the mud-flecked window of the sedan, remembering the days when he had roamed the noble Faubourg on foot. He had studied those grand facades, pausing to sketch a frieze or an œil-de-bœuf window, wondering how the architect had managed to fold the stables and the service quarters into a rhomboidal plot and still create a courtyard wide enough for any visitor to lose his nerve before he reached the front door. He had made jottings of corbels and porticos, spattered by the water that flowed from the mouths of copper dolphins, under the insolent scrutiny of doorkeepers dressed like kings.
To Charles-Axel Guillaumot, whose views are known to us from his many pamphlets, and whose character is in some respects a key to the following events, Paris had always been a city of closed doors. Its coat of arms – a ship and a motto borrowed from the ancient corporation of Seine boatmen: Fluctuat nec mergitur (‘Buffeted but not about to sink’) – might as well have been a porte cochère instead of a ship: a solid barrier of oak and iron, with the motto from Dante’s Inferno, ‘All hope abandon, ye who enter here!’
More than once, as a young architect in Rome, he had been dragged in from the street by a nobleman who wanted to expose to an artist’s enlightened gaze the treasures that lay behind his crumbling facade. In Paris, a man who begged admittance to a masterpiece of domestic architecture but who lacked the necessary qualifications – a title and a pair of white cuffs – would invariably be turned away by a snooty servant with the blessing of his master. Sometimes, he had seen the ridiculous mask of rouge and white lead sneering from an upper window.
Italy had proved its superiority by opening its artistic competitions to all the nations of Europe, and by awarding him, Charles-Axel Guillaumot, the architectural Prix de Rome when he was only twenty years old. Though his parents were French, the accident of his birth in Stockholm, where his father had been a merchant, had disqualified him from every scholarship that was open to Frenchmen. He had been forced to fight his way out of obscurity with nothing but genius and determination. His foreign origin had at least preserved him from the preposterous arrogance that enabled a Frenchman to believe that a cathedral that had to be propped up like a decaying hovel was the equal of a Greek temple. It was no coincidence that his architectural studies had been best appreciated by a man who was forced to live in exile. ‘Your observations are as enjoyable as they are instructive’, Voltaire had told him in a letter.
I still take an interest in Paris, as one does in old friends, whom one loves along with all their faults – crooked streets, markets in the middle of the road, houses and even fountains without water! It is a consolation to know that the monastic orders have all the space they need. No doubt everything will be put right within the next five or six hundred years. In the meantime, I wish you all the success that your great talent deserves.
The sedan chair had skirted the slime-green walls of Saint-Sulpice, and was climbing the Rue de Tournon towards the Luxembourg. This was not a part of Paris to which he himself had made a noticeable contribution, and he might reasonably have felt a twinge of resentment at the obvious defects of certain monuments. At this late stage in his career, his most profitable work had been his wooing of Mlle Le Blanc, whose undisputed charms included the fact that she was the daughter of the city’s chief architect. Even as the son-in-law of M. Le Blanc, Guillaumot had struggled to make a name for himself. He had built some châteaux in the provinces, and an abbey on the ruins of a monastery at Vézelay, but in Paris, he was known chiefly as an architect of barracks. His talent for shoring up other men’s shoddy work had brought him some lucrative but inglorious commissions.
He had married Mlle Le Blanc sixteen years before. Now, in his late forties, he was a tall, stony-faced man with a head that could easily be pictured as a skull. He wore his wig a long way back on his scalp, perhaps in order to expose the full elevation of his brow. The effect was slightly forbidding, but in certain lights there were hints of timidity and gloominess suggestive of profound and frequent meditation, and even a certain generosity of spirit that wanted only recognition to flourish. His passions ran too deep to be visible, and he rarely expressed them, except in print. He had two daughters, several protégés and powerful connections, and saw no professional need for friends.
Even on this day of a new beginning, Charles-Axel Guillaumot was more thoughtful than excited. He fully expected his designs to be stunted by small-minded people and miserly budgets. ‘Unhappy is the Artist,’ he had written, ‘for even before his idea achieves perfection, it is warped by ignorance and envy.’ He was already planning a devastating pamphlet, On the Harm that is Done to Architecture by Ill-Informed and Exaggerated Attacks on the Expenditure Occasioned by the Construction of Public Monuments, and he was not entirely optimistic about the post that he was about to take up. Ominously, the sedan was lowered to the ground at the end of the Rue de Vaugirard. Something was blocking the road ahead. The King had appointed him to the post on 4 April. Thanks to the incredible slowness of the Ministry, it was now the 24th, and he was obviously destined to be late for his first meeting.
His intention was to inspect the site of the 1774 collapse, and to gauge the solidity of the work carried out by one of the King’s architects, M. Dupont. On the day after ‘the Mouth of Hell’ had opened in the Rue d’Enfer, Dupont had had himself lowered into the trench to a depth of eighty-four feet. By the light of a flaming torch, he had seen a gallery extending north along the line of the street towards the Seine. It appeared to be an ancient quarry, dug by miners who had known nothing of the art of excavation. At several points, the gallery was obstructed by the peculiar formations known as fontis. A fontis is a cavity that develops when the roof of a subterranean gallery caves in. An arched void forms, and, as rocks tumble in, the cone of rubble migrates upwards. The rounded top of the rubble pile, known as the cloche, is usually seen only when the sinkhole has broken through, and when whatever structures had enjoyed the illusion of solidity abruptly vanish from the face of the earth.
The walls of rubble had been consolidated by masons dangling on the end of long cables. Only one man had fallen in, but after spending three hours in the darkness, imagining things that could not possibly exist, he had been winched to safety and recovered after a few days. The street was reopened to traffic in a surprisingly short time, and Dupont had been congratulated on his swift and effective operation. The new Dictionnaire Historique de la Ville de Paris had devoted a special section to him, using terms that some might have found a little extravagant:
Men such as the Sieur Denis [they meant Dupont] are a precious boon to Society. He has proved by his example that intrepidity in the preservation of Citizens is not the sole prerogative of the military professions, and that other breeds of men are ready to step into the breach to safeguard the lives of their Compatriots.
Beyond the end of the Rue de Vaugirard, the square where the Rue de La Harpe came up from the Seine was filled with carriages. The Rue d’Enfer had been closed off by the Highways and Buildings Police, and even a sedan would have been unable to get through. Charles-Axel levered himself out of the chair and squeezed through the crowd. At the junction of the Rue Saint-Hiacinte and the Rue d’Enfer, he showed the gendarme his copy of the King’s decree. It stated that ‘le Sieur Guillaumot’ was to ‘visit and reconnoitre the quarries dug in the City of Paris and adjacent plains so as to determine the encroachments and excavations that might injure the solidity of its foundations’. The agent ascertained that the gentleman possessed the proper credentials – he wore an embroidered coat and gave off a pleasant smell of flowers – and ushered him through the barrier.
Some people had gathered on the eastern side of the street, just before the convent of the Feuillans des Anges Gardiens. A man of Guillaumot’s experience had no need to ask what had happened. A faint odour hung in the air, which he recognized immediately. It was as though a cellar door had just been opened for the first time in centuries. The walls along the street appeared to be intact, but on the other side of a porte cochère, the slumped elevations of a stable block were an unmistakeable sign. He entered the courtyard and saw a neatly defined sinkhole with a diameter of about twenty feet. Placing one foot on the rim, he peered down into the pit. He estimated the distance from street-level to the top of the cloche to be fifteen feet. The fontis itself might extend another seventy or eighty feet.
It was only when he saw the engineers he had arranged to meet at the site of the earlier collapse that he was struck by the significance of the new hole. It had appeared at least half a mile closer to the centre of Paris than the subsidence of 1774. This was not the vague and rubbly zone of shacks and windmills by the customs barrier; it was Paris itself, with its monuments and spires. From where he stood, he could see the dome of the Val-de-Grâce, the towers of half a dozen churches, and, further down the street, on the line of the old Roman road, the dome of the Sorbonne and the towers of Notre-Dame.
The possibility that the Rue d’Enfer was sinking was remarkable enough in itself, not to mention the fact that the geological formations beneath the street had waited, so to speak, for the very day on which he assumed his duties as Inspector of Quarries. A superstitious man might have imagined that those ministerial delays had been engineered by some unknown power, and that the gradual fissuring and collapse of each successive stratum had been timed to produce a catastrophe on Thursday 24 April 1777. But Charles-Axel Guillaumot had lived in Paris long enough to know that coincidences were everyday events. The source of his agitation lay within, in the memory of those long years when his genius had been stifled and confined. He stood on the edge of the hole, as stones went skittering down into the darkness, and contemplated that gaping wound in the city’s foundations as an explorer might gaze on the shores of a new continent.
3
A FEW DAYS into the preliminary exploration of the quarry beneath the Rue d’Enfer, Guillaumot was not surprised to be told by some of the miners of a mysterious trail of footprints. In one of the vaulted cavities, the dust of ages had been disturbed as though by the swishing of a long tail. A worker who wore a sachet of crushed garlic and camphor around his neck (the miners’ trusted defence against the effects of noxious gas) told M. Guillaumot of a shadowy form he had seen fleeing along the tunnel. It had left behind ‘a funny smell’. Other miners subsequently described the figure as ‘green’ and ‘very fast’, from which it was inferred that the creature could see in the dark.
Even the most recent event always seemed to be attached to an ancient legend. Though no subterranean being had been reported before, it was said that anyone who saw L’Homme Vert would certainly die or lose a relative within the year. An uncle of one of the miners passed away barely a month after work began, and so the legend was obviously true…
For the first phase of consolidation, he divided his workers into three teams. The ‘Excavation’ team, composed of migrant workers, was to clear the galleries of rubble. Then the ‘Masonry’ team would reinforce the roof with pillars, using the stone that had been dug out by the excavators. Inspection pits were sunk at regular intervals from the street, causing road closures and general indignation. Finally, the ‘Cartography’ team would create a map of the underground labyrinth on a scale of 1:216 – which meant that the map of abandoned quarries would be more detailed than any map that had ever been produced of the streets of Paris.
The most serious obstacles were the numerous cloches. Removing one of those towering mounds of rubble was a risky operation, and so the masons, following the architectural plans supplied by Nature and refined by M. Guillaumot, turned each cloche into a beautiful, swirling cone of stonework that might have been copied from a strange, inverted cathedral. A lesser architect would have filled the void with rock and sand; Guillaumot created spacious vaults and porticos. Tunnels that had been clumsily hacked out by ignorant hands were dressed with freestone and dignified with coursed limestone walls. On smooth surfaces that would have graced a daylit avenue, salient frames were carved and inscriptions inserted – either painted or engraved – to indicate the place in the sequence of consolidations, the architect of the work (‘G’ for Guillaumot), and the date.
25·G·1777
For the rest of 1777, and throughout the following year, Charles-Axel Guillaumot matched his tunnels to the streets above. He dug twin galleries beneath the house-fronts on either side of the street, leaving the consolidation of the buildings to their owners. (This was, in part, because a landlord legally owned all the earth beneath his house: he could, if he so wished, try to dig a cellar all the way to hell.) But there was also a certain satisfaction in mirroring the streets and creating a subterranean image of the city. The street names were etched on stone plaques; a fleur de lys indicated the proximity of a convent or a church. Only a few outlying quartiers had numbered their houses (for the purposes of billeting), and so Guillaumot devised his own numbering system, and applied it so consistently that in that unpopulated world where every wall bore the initial G., a man could find his way more easily than in the congested labyrinth above.
For the first time since his student days in Rome, he found himself in a state of near-contentment. He had feared that the Inspector of Quarries would be little more than a glorified stonemason, but as the work progressed, he saw all around him the indestructible evidence of his own genius. Eighty feet below the Latin Quarter, he knew the silent joy of a man who devotes himself, body and soul, to a single passion.
In view of the accusations that were soon brought against him, it is as well to note that he was the unwavering friend of any man, however humble, who shared his passion. Twice a day, the miners were allowed to breathe the air and to feel the warmth of the sun. One of the miners, an old soldier, chose to spend his hours of freedom underground, carving a replica of Fort Mahon, which he had helped to capture from the British in 1756. One day, he was chiselling away at his model when the roof fell in. Guillaumot ordered a monument to be raised to his memory:
Here, after braving the battle’s fury for thirty years, this courageous veteran met his end, and died as he had lived, serving King and Country.
A poet was commissioned to write a eulogy to the work of consolidation. Since the work was far from over, it might be said that the Inspector of Quarries was tempting fate. Yet the subject of the eulogy was not the architect himself but the redemptive art he practised:
Without that art whose great power bears its weight,
The vast metropolis and all its palaces of stone
That make their ancient cradle creak and groan
Would have vanished into the bowels whence they came.
IT WAS PROBABLY inevitable that ignorance and envy would try to undermine his work. Dupont, whose consolidations had proved inadequate, tried to stir up rebellion among the miners by telling them that they were underpaid. In the echoing corridors of the Ministry of Finance, he whispered that M. Guillaumot was squandering public money, wasting millions of livres on needless masterpieces when they might have been spent on sanitation, roads and national defence.
Guillaumot paid less attention to these rumblings than perhaps he should. But they reached his ears at precisely the time when a terrible truth was dawning, compared to which his rival’s machinations were nothing but a spider’s web in a bottomless abyss.
4
WHEN THE SEPARATE sections of the underground map were pieced together, Charles-Axel saw the city’s past spread out before him like a gallery of historical paintings. The Gauls and the Romans had dug their building stone from open quarries near the Seine. Eventually, they had burrowed into the hills to the north and south, following the ancient bed of the river. As the city spread from the island to both banks, the quarries deepened, and Paris began to devour its own foundations – sand for glass and smelting, gypsum for plaster, limestone for walls, green clay for bricks and tiles. Giant wheels had once lined the Rue Saint-Jacques: a horse that walked three miles in a circle could winch up a six-ton block of limestone. Some of the best building stone, which had gone to make Notre-Dame, the Palais-Royal and the mansions of the Marais, had come from beneath the Rue d’Enfer. The miners had dug away as much stone as they dared, leaving just enough to support the roof. Years later, other miners had found the worked-out quarries, and dug down to lower layers. The floor of each quarry then became the roof of yet another mine, so that now, instead of finding solid rock beneath the tunnel floor, Guillaumot encountered vast cavities buttressed only by a few teetering piles of stone.
Far below the surface, he could hear the rumble of carriages above. It was perhaps at such a moment that he comprehended the full horror of the situation: the enormous weight of all the streets and houses of the Left Bank was supported by nothing but slender pillars of limestone.
The irreparable destruction of half of Paris would have been a disaster to rival the Great Lisbon Earthquake. But there was also another, more intimate threat. During his long hours in the underworld, his perception of the task had changed. Now, his own architectural wonders underpinned the city. They, too, would be annihilated if those feeble props gave way.
In the circumstances, he might be forgiven for the manner in which he swept aside the obstacles that were placed in his path by the envious Dupont.
Having established himself as the man who could save Paris, Guillaumot was able to call on the assistance of policemen and spies. Some of the miners and miners’ widows who had been persuaded to petition the King for higher wages were sent to jail. Dupont himself was placed under surveillance. His home was searched, and he was threatened with exile to a remote province. He was asked to consider the unpleasantness of being ‘left to rot in a dungeon of the Bastille’. When he felt the ground give way beneath his feet, he signed a document that was, according to Guillaumot, ‘written in his own hand, freely, and at his own home’, announcing his immediate retirement, and acknowledging that Charles-Axel Guillaumot was a man of unimpeachable honour.
THROUGHOUT THE NEXT ten years, even in the deepest, most dangerous galleries, the miners sometimes saw the tall figure of M. Guillaumot walking the silent streets of his subterranean realm, his face as pale as though it were painted with white lead. No one questioned his decisions, and no one tried to reduce his budgets. Every line that he traced on sheets of drawing-paper turned into solid reality. While the King’s rebellious ministers grumbled at the continuing expense of Versailles, Guillaumot was quietly constructing the largest architectural ensemble in all of Europe. If those galleries had been placed end to end, they would have reached the edge of the Massif Central, two hundred miles away. More cartographers were employed on the map of the underworld than had worked on Cassini’s map of the entire kingdom. When he uncovered a mile-long section of the Roman aqueduct that had fed the baths on the Rue de la Harpe, he rebuilt and improved it, connected it to the repaired Médicis aqueduct that led to the Luxembourg and the Palais-Royal, adorned it with finely sculpted corbels, and created a dark triumphal avenue for the city’s fresh water.
Far from the light of day, Guillaumot attained a state of professional fulfilment in which the very notion of happiness had become irrelevant. His comprehension of the city’s past now exceeded anything that could be found in books. He amassed a collection of curious stone animals, and some intriguing formations that he took to be petrified fruits. There was no doubt in his mind that where he walked there had once been an ocean. One of the miners, a Breton sailor, claimed to have recognized the remnants of a ship in a layer of compacted silt. Perhaps more than two thousand years ago, a great flood had brought boulders of porphyry and granite from the south. Men who had lived there long before the Gauls must have seen their settlement destroyed by an unimaginable catastrophe.
He had seen with his own eyes what little remained of the city the Romans had called Lutetia – a shattered aqueduct, some brick walls and conduits, a few coins and broken busts. He knew that his own creation would outlive the city. When the centuries had turned the Louvre and the Tuileries to dust, the works of Charles-Axel Guillaumot would be the only evidence that Paris had once been great.
All his subterranean kingdom lacked was a population.
THEN, ONE DAY, across the river, the inhabitants of the Rue de la Lingerie found their cellars overrun with decomposing corpses. The Cimetière des Saints Innocents had been founded in the ninth century, just outside the city. It had remained in use for nine hundred years. As the graveyard filled up, the ground had slowly bulged, and, at last, one of the retaining walls had given way.
Guillaumot at once recommended that all nine centuries’ worth of putrefaction be transported to an ossuary that he proposed to install in the consolidated quarries. The plan was adopted. It was decided in addition that all the other corpses that were polluting the city should be moved to the same place.
Beyond the Enfer customs barrier was a street called La Tombe-Issoire. It owed its dismal name to an ancient funerary slab, which local people identified as the tomb of a Saracen giant called Isouard who had threatened Paris in the days of the crusades. It was there, beneath the street, that Guillaumot prepared a three-acre site, with an entrance in the Rue d’Enfer. In memory of Rome, he called his ossuary the Catacombs.
The biggest ever relocation of dead Parisians began in 1786. For more than a year, the inhabitants of several quartiers were kept awake by blazing torches, chanting priests, and carts that sometimes dropped portions of human body along the route. It was a fifteen-month-long procession in which the whole history of Paris was represented. There were nuns from convent graveyards and lepers from cemeteries that had once lain outside the city walls. The victims of the Saint Bartholomew’s Day massacre were lumped together with the Catholics who had killed them. Some of the oldest bones came from unrecorded burial grounds. They were the remains of men and women who had died before Saint Denis had Christianized the city in the third century. It was said that the number of skeletons that made the journey to La Tombe-Issoire was ten times greater than the living population of Paris.
Guillaumot waited for the dead millions to arrive before completing his masterpiece. At Montrouge, beyond the Place d’Enfer, the skeletons were tipped into a hole. A dangling chain scattered the bones as they fell, and prevented them from blocking up the shaft. At the bottom, they were arranged in columns and courses. There were walls of tibias and femurs, decorative friezes of skulls, ‘and other ornamental arrangements in keeping with the character of the place’. Such was the architectural splendour of the necropolis that the horror of death was stifled by the multitude.
A FEW YEARS AFTER that great procession of the dead, when the Revolution had turned Paris into a hell on earth, the Catacombs received the anonymous bones of aristocrats who had perished in the great upheaval. Guillaumot himself spent that chaotic period in a prison cell, a victim of slander, disgruntled workers and his close association with the former regime. But he had the imperishable joy of knowing that his achievements would last forever. He was freed from prison in 1794 and continued as Inspector of Quarries and as Director of the Gobelins Tapestry Works until his death in 1807. Half his adult life had been devoted to the salvation of Paris.
He was buried in the Cimetière Sainte-Catherine, in the east of the city, between the Gobelins and the Rue d’Enfer, but when the remaining cemeteries of Paris were excavated in 1883, Guillaumot’s gravestone disappeared. His bones were gathered up with all the others, carried to the ossuary he had built, and incorporated into the walls. Somewhere now in that vast cathedral of calcium and phosphate, Charles-Axel Guillaumot is still helping to prevent Paris from vanishing into the void.
5
THE MAN WHO SAVED Paris died two hundred years ago. It is almost as long since he was mentioned in any history of Paris. Men who demolished or caused the destruction of large parts of the city are commemorated in street names and statues, but there are no memorials to the work of Charles-Axel Guillaumot. A side-street near the Gare de Lyon is called the Rue Guillaumot, but it was named after a local landowner, and has no connection with Charles-Axel.
He might have seen this as ingratitude, or as tacit recognition that the debt could never be repaid. But perhaps it is simply that the City of Paris is reluctant to remind its citizens and visitors of what lies beneath their feet.
The section of the Rue d’Enfer that collapsed in 1777 on Guillaumot’s first day at work was incorporated in 1859 into the new Boulevard Saint-Michel. In 1879, the remainder of the street was renamed Rue Denfert-Rochereau, after the colonel who defended Belfort against the Prussians. No doubt the naming committee felt that the railway terminus should bear a less forbidding name than ‘Paris-d’Enfer’. Or perhaps the pun, d’Enfer / Denfert, was an attempt to hide the traces of the old Street of Hell without entirely denying the Devil his share.
When the Rue d’Enfer was renamed in 1879, no one had any reason to fear a recurrence of those infernal disasters. The cracks that damaged three houses that year, near the site of the 1774 collapse, were blamed on the railway trains that rumbled in and out of the Denfert terminus. Further down the street, towards the centre of Paris, geologists and mineralogists had shown their confidence in the work of consolidation by moving the École des Mines to the edge of the Jardin du Luxembourg, opposite the site of the 1777 collapse.
One day the following April (1879), at six o’clock in the evening, lecturers and students leaving the School were surprised to see the barber who lived across the boulevard sitting in his dining room, exposed to the passers-by. He was holding his knife and fork, looking down at his dinner, which was perched on a cloche de fontis that had just completed its long journey up from the depths. The house-fronts of numbers 77, 79, and 81 Boulevard Saint-Michel had detached themselves from the rest of the block and disappeared. This time, citizens were more inclined to blame the accident on the Highways and Bridges Department than on the Devil.
Such incidents are now comparatively rare. The public streets, and any building that belongs to the City of Paris, have little to fear from subsidence. Only about ten sinkholes appear each year. Most of them are quite small, and few people have died as a result. The larger holes are dealt with according to modern techniques, and the people affected are re-housed at the expense of the city. The vast cavity that appeared under the Gare du Nord in 1975 was promptly filled with two thousand five hundred cubic metres of cement. Practically all of Paris, apart from Montmartre and certain quartiers to the east of the Place Denfert-Rochereau, is now officially deemed to be safe.