Quebec City in Flames Read online

  Quebec City in Flames

  A tale of cosmic horror in the heart of the old capital

  by

  Nelson Rusk

  © 2018 Nelson Rusk

  All rights reserved

  Design of the cover and chapter headers : Karine Lelièvre

  Cover photo courtesy of BAnQ Quebec:

  P560,S2,D2,P117652-3 / Fonds J. E. Livernois Ltée / Fire at the Château Frontenac / unidentified photographer / 1926

  Chapter List

  Prologue

  January 11th, 1926

  A Unique Opportunity

  Preliminary Research

  Marked by Fire

  The Past Revealed

  The Tale of Robert Muir, 1833-1834

  First Suspicions About the Aide-De-Camp Phillips

  An Insidious Evil Besieges Quebec City

  Dreadful Discoveries on the Island of Abraham

  January 12th, 1926

  In the Footsteps of Mr. Jacquard

  Scares Under the Castle

  A Disquieting Disappearance

  Threats Carried Out

  Nocturnal Convocation

  The Tale of Robert Muir, 1833-1834 (Continued)

  Constable Thompson's Investigation

  Unholy Ceremonies

  Confrontation

  Aftermath of the Fire

  January 12th, 1926 (Continued)

  Waking Nightmare

  January 13th, 1926

  Moment of Respite

  In the Depths of the Past

  Paying Respects

  Oneiric Torments

  Cursed Hymns

  The Cult Strikes

  At the Edge of Our Reality

  January 14th, 1926

  An Evil from the Dawn of Humanity

  Descent into the Heart of Corruption

  From Charybdis to Scylla

  Epilogue

  Prologue

  F or most citizens of the proud French-Canadian city of Quebec, the cold evening of January 14, 1926 will forever be associated with the Château Frontenac fire. The inferno destroyed the old part of the noble building and reduced to ashes almost all its priceless cultural treasures. This dark spot in the history of the city, victim over the years of many terrible fires, is a cross that the pious citizens of Quebec carry in silence. How I wish I had only this cross to bear! My burden would be lighter and the rocky road of my destiny less twisted.

  As I write these lines, on the day after the pyromaniacal annihilation that occurred at the Chateau Frontenac, my vague memories of events scatter and dissolve. What I experienced in the last week is beyond the human experience. The unforgettable recollections associated with this night of fire and ashes will remain branded on my soul. Already, the mute terror that grips me condemns me to cloister at home, isolated and feverish, during the next weeks. Or the next months.

  The fire that devoured the illustrious Château Frontenac last night worked on me a complete transformation, both physical and spiritual. My body bears the mark of his wrath and my soul the imprint of his indelible passage. The simple idea of igniting a fire in the hearth or lighting up a candlelight chills me with dread. It seems preferable to face the cold fury of the northern winter by burying myself in the dim light under heaps of covers rather than giving free rein to the Universal Destroyer in the wood stove. Yet, no artifice can protect me when I recall the events of the days leading up to the horrible evening of January 14, 1926. Then, streams of caustic lava flow down on me, carrying me to deep and unsuspected abysses, and my mind wavers.

  For the preservation of my mental health, I record my version of the facts, in stark contradiction to that of the authorities. In this act lies my only hope of appeasement and perennity. For if truth is a fountain of salvation, I need to drink deep from this source to erase the abominable images of which Fate has given me a glimpse.

  View of the Château Frontenac from the funicular connecting the lower town and the upper town, circa 1900.

  January 11th, 1926

  A Unique Opportunity

  T he most vivid memories of my youth are the solitary walks I had in the heart of the old city. There was no better hobby for me than exploring the narrow streets crisscrossing the cliffs of the upper town, the vaulted passages leading to rooms at improbable angles of the Petit Champlain, the cyclopean walls surrounding the agglomeration, the raised promenades along the river. Quebec is the perfect city to give that impalpable feeling of ancient mystery to the waking dreamer. Quebecers often said that, no matter where one stood inside the walls of the city, it was impossible to look anywhere without seeing one of the famous silver spires of a Catholic church, or the copper roof of an English edifice, whose reddish-brown hue became green little by little with the inexorable passage of time.

  The study of history was for me a natural choice when I had to orient my career. I specialized in colonial architecture and craftsmanship, a style that, despite its antiquity, still reigned supreme in the old city of Quebec. My parents, from an illustrious family whose wealth had melted over the years, disapproved of this direction but recognized the impossibility of dissuading me. This field of study suited only too well my nostalgic and dreamy temperament.

  At the beginning of the year 1926, I was finishing my studies at Laval University, a noble institution named in honor of Bishop François de Laval, a well-known ecclesiastic and literary man of New France. The rector of the history department was the Honorable Sir John Hugh, who had been in office for over thirty years. With his clothes from another era, his thick imperial-style white mustache and his aristocratic air, Sir Hugh represented by his noble bearing what was most inspiring of colonial history in Canada. In his youth, he had traveled the continent in search of the archaeological and cultural traces left by his adoptive homeland, New France, from the murky marshes of Louisiana to the industrial suburbs of Detroit. At the twilight of his life, and although his body revealed his advanced age, a remarkable vivacity of mind still animated Sir Hugh. His flawless erudition made him the anvil upon which all members of the department grounded their research.

  Intramural campus of Laval University, circa 1900.

  On the morning of the 11th of January, I received a letter of convocation from Sir Hugh. I went to his office without waiting and knocked on the door, febrile. A moment passed. His summons to enter resounded, authoritarian and laconic. I took a deep breath and opened the door. The first visit to the Rector's office and, for some, all subsequent visits, is always a shock. It is impossible to suspect that this office, innocuous from the outside, could contain such a quantity of strange objects retrieved from who knows where, old moldy books with pages almost torn off, and relics of cultures long ago forgotten. I took in the oppressive atmosphere of this jumble, glimpsed Sir Hugh leaning over his desk, almost hidden between piles of documents, and stepped forward. He motioned me to sit without looking up, which I did.

  After several long seconds, he raised his icy blue eyes, whose visible youth contrasted with the emaciated body he presented to the world. He told me:

  “The quality of your work does not go unnoticed, Mr. Roussin. Opportunities arise from the most unexpected places, for those who know how to grasp them. Two days ago, I received a call from Mr. Martin, a construction foreman at the Château Frontenac. He asked for someone to represent the history department during the ongoing renovations of the old wing of the building. I gave your name. Report to Mr. Martin today, as soon as possible. He has reserved an office for the duration of the work.”

  I stammered an acquiescence, stunned by this sudden announcement. Then, as I remained standing before him, Sir Hugh continued:

  “That will be all, Mr. Roussin.” As I walked through his office door, he softened his intimation by
adding, "Keep me informed of any important find and... congratulations.” A barely perceptible smile appeared on his face before I lost view of him in the doorway.

  I returned to my apartment, a modest room on the campus, and collected the few possessions that would be indispensable for this assignment. I brought up my General History of New France by Laviolette, which contained, as I recall, several historical facts about the Château Frontenac. Barely an hour later, I left on foot for the castle, which was a few minutes walk away from my room. It would not sadden me to leave the university's old intramural campus, in which the history faculty was confined and ill-adapted.

  I walked rue Buade, passing only a few onlookers venturing into the cold winter, mostly rough French-Canadian workmen and craftsmen, but also some English-speaking traders and aristocratic strollers. At the post office building, whose beautiful French-style attic roof dominates the landscape, I turned on rue du Fort and began its ascent. There, I contemplated a view which captivates so many foreign tourists, the façade of the Château Frontenac, august and authoritarian, dominating with its immensity the narrow rue du Fort. As I got closer to it, my view widened as the street led to, on my right, the large Place d'Armes and its itinerant kiosks, on my left, the Promenade Dufferin, which runs along and over the majesty of the St. Lawrence River.

  Quebec post office around 1872, at the corner of Buade Street and Fort Street.

  Not lingering too much in contemplation because of the icy air, I went immediately to the entrance vault of the castle. It led to the building’s interior courtyard, where several cars and taxis dropped and took in people of obvious elegance, a cohort of baggage handlers on their heels. I passed the revolving doors and found myself in the main hall. The English-style colonial opulence that greets newcomers impresses even European visitors, who are otherwise used to such luxuriant displays of craftsmanship. Victorian chandeliers and candelabras cast an ancestral light on Second Empire style furniture. The constant comings and goings of visitors and employees gave the whole the atmosphere of a train station, contrasting with the English austerity of the room.

  Recreation room of the Château Frontenac, circa 1900.

  I reported to the front desk. A young man in imperial blue uniform seemed informed of my coming and told me to wait for Mr. Martin to meet us. He appeared a few minutes later. The foreman was a sturdy man in his mid-thirties. His dusty work clothes denoted a preference for action rather than words. From his gait emanated obvious confidence and initiative despite his modest manners. A thin, pointed mustache on his upper lip naturally attracted the attention, while his lively and agile eyes wandered with a singular curiosity. The man greeted me with a broad smile and a warm handshake, then invited me to follow him to drop off my things.

  Mr. Martin guided me through the mazes of the castle to my office, which was in the north-east section, on the ground floor, right next to the adjoining old section. On the way, we passed by a few wings devoid of furnishings. I surmised that they were part of the major overhaul undertaken in 1923. We also passed by a large dining room, deserted at this time of the afternoon. Wherever we went, the employees of the establishment greeted us with enthusiasm, eager to put their talents at our service, no matter how trivial they might be. One must admit that working at the Château Frontenac was for many of them the pinnacle of success in their respective professions.

  The room containing my office, as Mr. Martin informed me, was the former room for the waiters and cooks. The addition of a central staff room a few years ago had led to the abandonment of the present premises. A layer of dust covered the floor and furniture. Compared to this office, the small rooms with low ceilings on the old University campus looked like honor lodges. Even Mr. Martin had overestimated the salubrity of the place since he stated without even a comment from me:

  “The room went into a slight decline in the last years. I will ask service to do a proper cleanup job. You will see, you will be fine here. As soon as the chaos of the dinner has passed, the dining wing is empty. You will have all the tranquility you require for your tasks.

   Speaking of that, may I ask what will be the nature of my work here? Sir Hugh was very brief in describing my duties this morning.

   Ah! You will love it, I am sure! We have just started the renovation of the entire old wing. Its present state of disrepair results from about ten years of neglect. This wing contained the castle's antique furniture and most precious works of art. Some items in the old wing even originate from the Château Saint-Louis, on whose previous location the Château Frontenac was built. The castle’s builders purchased virtually everything that survived the blaze of the Château Saint-Louis and transferred it here.

   I remember to have read that its destruction was total.

   Near total. Few people know it, but the Château Saint-Louis comprised underground galleries. Some even connected it to the city walls. Most of the surviving objects were in these basement galleries. They are easy to recognize because of a peculiar, pungent smell emanating from them. People say this odor originates from the smoke that filled the whole underground complex during the fire.”

  This topic seemed to plunge my interlocutor in thoughts and his eyes became cloudy for a moment. Seeing me in expectation, he soon resumed:

  “To answer your question, we are moving the furniture to the south wing of the Citadel to make room for renovations. Then, we will renovate almost all the walls, floors, and ceilings of the seven floors. Finally, we will tackle the underground structure of the wing, which occupies the location directly above the ruins of the Château Saint-Louis. We had thought a representative from the History Department would be helpful to classify the furniture and art objects, and possibly to identify the historical points of interest of the building and structure. No modern historian ever performed a study of the furniture. I think it is high time for this, before it falls into oblivion.

   Yes, indeed. I would like to look at the furniture before its relocation, if that is possible. The grouping of the furniture and its setup could tell me a lot about its original provenance. No clue is to be neglected in this kind of research.

   In this case, you must get to work as soon as possible, I am afraid: we start tomorrow at dawn without fail.” Seeing my imminent protests, he added, “I am sorry, but the renovation schedule is tight. You have all day and evening to carry out your preliminary study. I will bring you a wing key so you can have access outside working hours. If you need anything else, do not hesitate.”

  With these words, Mr. Martin took leave of me and left without waiting, saying he had a lot to do. I quickly passed my hand on the desk to remove a thick layer of dirt, then put my luggage on it. It seemed I would have a lot to do on this very first day and until late at night. If the contents of the old wing proved as prodigious as Mr. Martin believed, the discovery of forgotten morsels of the past was assured.

  Preliminary Research

  While waiting for the key of the old wing promised by Mr. Martin, I reviewed my historical knowledge of the castle itself with the help of the General History of New France, which sat on my desk. I had not consulted this large tome for some time but I remembered it contained information about the Château Frontenac. As Laviolette finished writing the book in 1911, it was posterior to the construction of the building by just over a decade.

  The American architect Bruce Price designed the castle’s plan in 1892, based on initial plans by Eugène-Étienne Taché, to whom we owe the superb National Assembly of Quebec and its timeless Second Empire style. This initial plan includes the old wing and positions the building on the edge of the Quebec cliff overlooking the river, on the approximate site of the former Château Saint-Louis. From the beginning, Price designed the castle to accommodate extensions, which happened in 1897 and 1908. The Canadian Pacific Railway Company commissioned the Château Frontenac as the first in a series of castles to popularize train travel. It derived its name from the sanguine and formidable Louis de Buade, Earl of Frontena
c, an important figure in New France.

  View of the Château Frontenac before the addition of many wings, circa 1900.

  Driven by a sudden intuition, I then looked for what the book indicated about the Château Saint-Louis. Samuel de Champlain himself, Quebec City’s illustrious founder, ordered its construction around 1620. By its Palladian style, it looked much more modest than the Château Frontenac. At the same time stronghold and residence of the governor, later additions connected the Château Saint-Louis to the wall of the city through a series of galleries. Fire finally destroyed it in 1834 and only the foundations remain. This fire was of terrible violence, according to Le Canadien, a gazette of the time. Lord Aylmer, the last resident governor of the castle, escaped unscathed, but several officers and soldiers who lived in the fort perished. In the days following the inferno, some people said the fire had a criminal origin. Many speak of a citizen riot that developed shortly before the fire and invested the premises before His Majesty’s soldiers dispersed the crowd.

  None of the witnesses wanted to confirm his statements during the police investigation that followed, which ended prematurely. The police imprisoned a dozen men for the crime, but even the royalist headlines of the time denounced these convictions as arbitrary. Toward the end of its existence, the castle had gained a bad reputation due to the activities of its occupants. The population was thus happy to move on to other things and let these events slip into the forgotten past. The book does not specify the exact nature of the acts that earned the castle such a reputation. The author, usually verbose, limits himself to describing them as heretics and blasphemous. I reread the passage several times, surprised by the laconic nature of this description, without finding more details about the circumstances of the fire.