Few persons think, while strolling through the fashionable streets of Paris, and seeking pleasure in its charming precincts, that they are wandering over a vast graveyard, and that only a thin crust of earth separates them from the burial-place of six millions of human beings. Down there lie the remains of a third as many people as the entire French capital contains. A large part of the beautiful city is undermined by vaults, and these vaults, which are the famous Catacombs of Paris, contain the dead of centuries.
The Catacombs of Paris are not used, like the Catacombs of ancient Thebes, Rome, and Naples, as places of original sepulture; for they were once quarries from which the stone employed in building the city was taken. The quarries were beneath the southern part of the town, directly below the Observatory, the Luxembourg, the Odéon, the Pantheon, and many of the well-known streets, such as St. Jacques, La Harpe, Tournou, Vaugirard, and others. Their extent is estimated to be about three millions of square yards; and long before they were cemeteries, they served as refuge and shelter for thieves, incendiaries, assassins, and all the desperate criminals who for many centuries abounded in the city. It is only a little more than a hundred years since Paris has been orderly, or in any sense secure. During the middle ages, and down to the latter half of the past century, property and life were extremely unsafe. Ruffians stalked abroad by day as well as by night, and bade defiance to law and its guardians. In those times the quarries shielded many of the greatest villains in the capital. After committing robbery, arson, or murder, they fled into those excavations, and the men whose duty it was to arrest them were afraid to follow where they would certainly have been massacred. Many are the stories told of policemen and soldiers meeting their death in the subterranean vaults at the hands of the malefactors they were pursuing. These were so familiar with all the recesses and windings of the quarries that they could not only escape, but they could lie in ambush, and fall upon the officers of the law with terrible vengeance. So numerous were the murders committed in the quarries by ruffians of the olden time, that finally none of the king’s minions could be found bold enough to venture into those abodes of mystery, darkness, and crime.
RESORTS OF THIEVES.
In 1784 some part of the quarries was broken through from above, and as there was imminent danger of the houses in the streets falling into ruin from similar accidents, a number of the most skilful engineers were ordered by the government to descend into the quarries, make a careful investigation, and render them in future altogether secure. While so engaged, M. Lenoir, lieutenant general of the police, conceived the idea of removing to the vaults the remains that had been buried in the cemetery of the Innocents, then standing on the present site of the Halles Centrales, the principal market of the city. Other graveyards within the municipal limits needed to be emptied, and it was determined that the contents of these graves should also be transferred to the subterranean region; so, on the 7th of April, 1786, a formal consecration of the Catacombs as a place of burial took place with imposing religious rites and ceremonies. The human bones were borne from the graves at night in funeral cars, accompanied by priests decked in their sacerdotal robes, carrying torches, swinging censers, and chanting the Roman Catholic service for the dead, and on arriving at the depository were hurled down a shaft in magnificently miscellaneous confusion. Such a democratic mixture, osseously speaking, of saints and sinners, princes and peasants, reformers and robbers, bishops and beggars, poets and pickpockets, grand ladies and grisettes, coquettes and cocottes, was never before made on the banks of the Seine. This superb disorder remains to the present day, so far as rank and caste are concerned. The skull of a pious prelate rests upon the ribs of a desperate cutthroat, and the thigh-bone of a once renowned beauty of the Faubourg St. Germain touches the grinning teeth of a vulgar conscript shot for desertion. The skeleton arms of a dainty poet are interlocked with those of a hideous hag who poisoned her father and mother in the Rue de la Croix Rouge.
A BONY CONFUSION.
If the opinion be well founded, that on the day of judgment the dead will arise in their proper persons, the unfortunates buried in the Catacombs of Paris will find it an extremely arduous task to collect themselves together. One might imagine, in such a universal resumption of long-cast-off and worn-out fleshly garments, that some nondescript individual might appear on the awful scene with the head of a marquis on the trunk of a rag-picker, borne along by the legs of a ballet dancer, and a cripple gesticulating to the angelic host with the right arm of a cardinal and the left arm of a lorette. It has long been a theological problem whether, on that solemn occasion, the dead will recognize each other; but it will be a matter of even more serious moment to them whether many of the Parisians will be able, so strangely will they be made up, to recognize themselves. That there will be a rattling among the dry bones no one who has entered the Catacombs can doubt, and that much of the rattling will arise from Monsieur Bonjour’s effort to make a complete conjunction with his remains, and from Madame Beaujoli’s endeavor to hunt herself up, must be plain to everybody. Some of these anticipated troubles may be partially obviated, however, by the fact that the bones from one cemetery have been kept apart from the bones of another; and as this predicted resurrection is not likely to occur for some time, we need not concern ourselves in regard to the hypothetical awkwardness and inconveniences of so distant a future.
ENTERING THE CATACOMBS.
Until within a few years, admission to the Catacombs could be readily obtained; but their insecurity, resulting in a number of accidents, has recently prevented the authorities from opening these gloomy recesses to the public more than once annually,—usually about the first of October,—when a few persons are permitted, after obtaining tickets from the inspector general, to accompany him in his subterranean tour. The first time I visited Paris I was extremely anxious to wander through the Catacombs; but finding many obstacles in my way, and being much occupied otherwise, I quitted the city without gratifying my curiosity. I returned, however, ere long, and was so diligent in prosecuting my purpose that one pleasant autumn morning, in company with a dozen strangers, I descended from the garden of the city custom-house at the Barrière d’Enfer to explore the stony chambers of the dead.
We had provided ourselves with wax tapers, which we lighted, each of us carrying one, before we went down a circular flight of some one hundred steps leading to the dismal galleries running in every direction, and containing the ghastly remains of millions of our fellow-creatures, once as merry and ambitious, as fond and foolish, as hopeful and as vain, as any of us are to-day. At the bottom of the staircase a guide placed himself at our head, and, observing that our tapers were all in good order, took the lead, after exhorting us to keep together, and on no account, if we valued our lives, to attempt to explore any other than the main avenues through which we were to pass.
The Catacombs hold the victims of the different revolutions so frequent in Paris; and now, moreover, the common graves (les fosses communes) in the three principal cemeteries of Montmartre, Mont Parnasse and Père la Chaise, are emptied every five years, and the plebeian relics consigned to the Catacombs, to make room for more bodies in those populous burying-grounds. Thus are the great vaults steadily and rapidly increasing their lifeless hosts, and adding to the horrors of a region necessarily horrible from the first.