Michael Broers - Napoleon: The Decline and Fall of an Empire: 1811-1821

Battle of Waterloo. Courtesy of The Public Schools Historical Atlas by Charles Colbeck. Longmans, Green; New York; London; Bombay. 1905.

PRELUDE INTO THE FLAMES

J ourne is one of the most evocative words in the French language. It can mean simply a days work, the time between rising and going to bed. It also stands for an historic day, a day of destiny. July 1, 1810, was one such for Napoleon.

That morning he wrote one of the most infamous, important letters of his eventful life: [Y]our services are no long[er] agreeable to me. It would be appropriate if you left (Paris) within twenty-four hours This letter contains no further points. It was a day to deal with all-consuming, age-old obsessions.

Nor did the journe end there. That evening, Prince Karl of Schwarzenberg, the Austrian ambassador to Paris, held a sumptuous ball for Napoleon and Marie-Louise in his embassy at the beautiful Htel de Montesson, in western Paris. Even the Montesson was too small for the fifteen hundred people who replied to the two thousand invitations issued, so a wooden pavilion was erected in the garden, linked to the house by a gallery, also of wood. Partitions were created within it by pleated tapestries of muslin. Rain was forecast, and to prevent water leaking in, and to dry the muslin and wood quickly, the pavilion had been coated in ethane, an odorless, colorless gas that absorbs water. The main hall was lit by a gigantic chandelier; there were seventy-three smaller ones, each with forty candles, distributed around the pavilion. Napoleon and Marie-Louise arrived about 11:00 P.M. , to trumpet fanfares. When the dancers of the Paris Opera, recently reinvigorated by Napoleons efforts, had finished performing, the dancing began. Marie-Louise left her throne and began to chat and banter with her entourage, while Napoleon worked the room with his usual bonhomie. At about 11:30 P.M. , there was a gust of wind. The wooden struts of the ceiling burst into flames, raining cinders and sparks onto the crowd. Those in the main hall were not immediately aware of the danger until the fire consumed the muslin partitions. Then the gallery caught fire, blocking any escape to the Htel. The pavilion had become a death trap. Napoleon kept calm, turned to Marie-Louise, and said simply, Lets go, theres a fire, hustling her out by the exit reserved for dignitaries. He put her in a coach to get her back to Saint-Cloud, where the imperial couple were residing, but he left her at the edge of Paris, and returned to take charge.

In the meantime, chaos reigned. The flames from the roof set peoples hair alight, consuming their light summer dresses and gold-gilt gowns. The chandeliers crashed down on the wooden floor, setting it ablaze and blocking the few remaining exits. A stampede began; those knocked to the ground were trampled underfoot. Death by asphyxia ensued. There was now only one way out, a stair into the garden, but it could not cope with one thousand or more people, as more wind whipped the flames. Caroline, Napoleons sister and the Queen of Naples, was normally the steeliest of the Bonapartes, her imperial brother included, but her nerves were shattered, an emphatic sign of how terrifying the inferno had become. Trying to punch and kick her way out, while screaming in terror, she fell, but was picked up and carried out by Jrme Bonaparte and Klemens von Metternich, an act they may later have had cause to regretwithin four years, she would betray them both. Eugne kept his pregnant wife, Augusta-Amlie of Bavaria, close to him. Apparently doomed in the throng, fate took a hand: a quick-witted man, Napoleons trusted lieutenant spotted a small hole in the canvas and slipped them both to safety. Among the dead was Pauline of Schwarzenberg, the young, vivacious sister-in-law of the ambassador, a mother of eight, who shortly before had opened the dancing with Eugne. She had been crushed under the falling ceiling. Those who escaped stumbled around, half-naked, often scarred by appalling burns. Many simply collapsed, exhausted. Servants scurried among them, doing what they could. Real help only came from one of Napoleons reliable technocrats, Regnault de Saint-Jean dAngly, who quickly converted his nearby residence into a makeshift hospital.