Quebec City in Flames Page 2

  Engraving of the Château Saint-Louis.

  A knock at the door interrupted my readings. Without getting up, I shouted to enter. The door opened slowly and a young woman dressed in a sober imperial blue dress came in. A cream-colored hood covered her hair, giving her a look reminiscent of early colonial times. Her pale and pleasant face, imbued with a natural openness, seemed immune to the twin vices of anger and envy. With a hesitant step, she approached my desk.

  “Hello, sir. My name is Alise. Mr. Martin asked me to give you this,” she said, handing me a set of big keys, which I took. After an awkward silence, she went on, “If it suits you, I can also clean your desk. It badly needs it.

   That would be kind, thank you. I was just now leaving. The place will be all yours.

   Will you eat dinner later today? I will order food from the kitchen if you wish.

   How can I say no! I heard great things about the castle’s kitchen. Around 6 pm, would it be possible?

   Of course,” she replied. Then, as if relieved that, contrary to expectations, I was not very demanding, she relaxed and asked, “So, you are here to investigate the disappearance of Mr. Jacquard?

   I beg your pardon?

   Mr. Jacquard, the apprentice welder. No one has seen him for two days.

   I am not aware of any disappearance.” I saw the expression in her eyes change and fear flashed in her stare for a second. However, she pulled herself together and exclaimed all at once:

   “Oh, I'm sorry, it’s just what I thought since you arrived so soon after he disappeared. That's me, all right. I'll be back in about ten minutes with cleaning products.”

  She hastily disappeared from my office, leaving me confused for a moment. Why did Mr. Martin not tell me about this disappearance? Perhaps he was too busy due to the amount of work, as he himself let on. Also, the early resignation of a construction worker was not uncommon due to poor working conditions. Whoever found better elsewhere left without asking for permission. Despite these rationalizations, I could not repress a certain discomfort at this mysterious disappearance and resolved to ask for an explanation from Mr. Martin the next time I saw him.

  Deciding that the time to work had come, I put on my jacket and left the office promptly. The entrance to the old wing was right next door. A series of wooden planks barricaded the wide corridor, solid but roughly assembled. A heavy oak door with a lock gave access to the building site beyond the wall. I took from my pocket the key set Alise gave me and, after a few tries, found the key unlocking the padlock. I opened the door and looked inside.

  Mr. Martin had been right! The sumptuousness of the decoration was incontrovertible. Something grandiose transpired in the almost seamless combination of this ancient European nobility with the rough colonial art. I was in what appeared to be an antechamber with a sofa on each side of the main passage. Paintings of Appalachian landscapes and ancestral oil lanterns adorned the walls. Only a few of the light bulbs were lit, throwing a gloomy glow of faded glory all over the room.

  Continuing straight ahead, I arrived into a large room occupying much of this floor of the wing. This room seemed to have served as a place of relaxation and amusement. Dusty billiard tables occupied the middle of the place. An empty bar ran along one side, illuminated by a spectral light that hinted at the shadows of what would have been the guests of yesteryear. Deep voices came from an adjoining room to my left, probably from workers preparing future renovations. I noticed that a long corridor going out of this main room ended on a series of elevators leading to the upper floors.

  In the middle of a wall in the great hall stood a Louis XIV grandfather clock of the approximate size of a man. It clashed with the furniture by its antiquated appearance. I approached it. The object seemed well preserved despite its age. Although its appearance was impeccable, a weird, pungent odor emanated from it. A bizarre aroma, impossible to ignore. I remembered Mr. Martin's words and concluded it was an object saved from the Château Saint-Louis. A closer inspection allowed me to discover what appeared to be soot marks on the surface of the wood and the pendulum. The clock was remarkable and would be part of the objects to preserve.

  I continued the tour of the old wing’s first floor. I met artisans at work, taking measurements, and we greeted each other politely. Most of this wing seemed to have been intended for the leisure of the castle guests: sofas, ornate chairs, coffee tables, billiard tables, and dart games abounded. In some rooms, stuffed heads of moose, foxes, wolves, and bears covered the walls from floor to ceiling, giving the place the air of a hunting lodge. Many rooms faced outside. Large, mostly barricaded windows let in patches of bluish January light.

  A marked decrease in antiquity and pomp of the furniture prompted me to think that part of the ground floor was dedicated to employees. The workers had already ripped out the plumbing in the kitchen. Many appliances were missing. The renovation firm had established its headquarters here as showed by the mounds of equipment. People had temporarily set up a small table and some chairs. A corridor led to a large wooden door with a massive lock which, unlike the entrance door of the wing, appeared to be permanent. I approached it and tested one by one each key in my set, without success. No matter what was behind that door, I could not access it for the moment.

  I continued my visit. The circular conformation of the wing brought me back to the large recreation room. I looked at my pocket watch and saw it was 5 pm. Listening, I heard no more voices. The workers must have left. I wanted to explore the upper floors of the wing, but I would need a source of light to do this. It was unlikely that the less-used floors provided permanent lighting. I went back to where I had seen the workers earlier in the afternoon and found in their equipment an oil lantern. It would do, although I preferred electric lamps for their safer operation.

  I returned to the large recreation room and took the corridor with the elevators. Although old-fashioned, they seemed in working order. I called the cage by pressing a button and it came down, rattling. I opened the wire mesh and entered. The dashboard showed seven floors. When I pressed the first-floor button, the elevator gave a metallic roar and started.

  After a slow ascent, the lift door opened on the first floor, plunged into darkness. I lit my lantern and some lamps on the walls of the main corridor, which crisscrossed the whole floor, to better orientate myself. This floor contained only rooms, of very different sizes and appearances. The furniture seemed of much lower quality and mass-produced. I found few rare pieces here. I had written in my diary the floor and the location of the most interesting pieces. I noted only three for the entire floor: two Allan Edson paintings representing Canadian landscapes and a chair in poor condition dating from earlier than 1800. From this last object emanated the same acrid smell I had already recognized on the grandfather clock and on some other pieces.

  Typical room of the Château Frontenac.

  On the way back to the elevator, I turned off the lamps one by one, slowly plunging the place into a sweltering obscurity. As the darkness became increasingly all-encompassing outside, the interior of the castle took on a more oppressive aspect. The rusticity of the furniture added to this atmosphere of perdition. In a building teeming with people, I felt like I was alone for miles around, so palpable was the desolation of the wing. Almost no sound disturbed the surreal silence. When some noise breached the mute veil that had fallen upon me, it only exacerbated my rising tension.

  The second to sixth floors only offered me a repetition of the first floor. I found few items of real value. The configuration of the rooms was similar or identical from one floor to the other. As time was moving fast, I hurried my progress. A certain apprehension was growing in me. The sounds and creaking I heard, no matter how weak or distant, made me startle. Circumstances forced me to hasten my studies and postpone them until tomorrow, in the light of day. However, I wanted to see all the floors before the workers moved the furniture tomorrow, and risked damaging it or losing it.

  When I reached the
seventh and last floor, I realized that I could not go as fast as with the other floors. During its exploration, I found several rooms different from the others. These were presumably suites for distinguished guests. A lodge stood out for its rusticity, decorated with many animal skins and hunting trophies. A sign outside the room designated it as the Canadian suite. Another suite contained a large quantity of Louis XIV objects, but I did not notice the pungent smell I had previously recognized. It was the royal suite. I noted it emphatically in my journal.

  The corridor of the seventh floor had the same conformation as those of the other floors. Its only peculiarity was a small staircase at the end of the corridor. It climbed about half a floor to an ancestral door under a keystone. Looking out the window of a room facing the outside, I saw that the staircase led to the highest floor of the north-east tower. Although hesitant, I wanted to explore it tonight. I would end my preliminary visit after that. It must have been over 11 pm, and the oil in my lantern was dwindling.

  A heavy lock barred the entry to the north-east tower, but I quickly found the key in my set. I pushed open the door and entered. Immediately, a gust of cold, foul-smelling air blew into my face and I turned my head away. Covering my nose and mouth with my hand, I stepped out of the door. It was clear from the cold that the heating system did not operate in this remote area of the building. Each breath of air I exhaled produced a visible mist. I rejoiced for having kept my jacket at the risk of dirtying it in the dust of the place. The walls and floor were raw stone, without insulation, giving the place an unrefined medieval appearance. Guests had obviously never sojourned in this tower. The impressive quantity of objects piled up in a circular diameter of hardly over six meters rather indicated a storage.

  After a while, I removed the hand from my face. The smell that reigned in the tower resembled the emanations from the surviving furniture of the Château Saint-Louis, coupled with an indefinable note of decay. The more time passed, the more this lingering smell became sickening. I resolved to hasten to study the surroundings.

  At first glance, a chaotic jumble of furniture and various supplies stacked on top of one another occupied almost all the floor. A thin path allowed one to meander through the mess, though it was practically impossible to do so without clinging to some precarious Babel tower of furniture. No wall lamp could provide more lighting. However, in the light of my lantern, it became clear that the pestilential odor permeating the room came from the furniture itself. A black, putrid soot covered most objects. Some were burnt and devoured by fire. Anything unusable from the Château Saint-Louis’ decrepit carcass seemed to have ended up here. Bedside tables with torn feet, broken or faded mirrors, dish racks, wardrobes for clothes, chests with collapsed lid. Some furniture appeared to have been of good quality, other pieces to have belonged to servants. On some piles, a blanket or thick curtain reeking of moisture had been spread to protect them in vain from the ravage of time.

  A study in a relatively well-preserved state soon captured my attention. Its style was sparse and basic, though of ancient appearance. Its owner was poor or not inclined to own belongings of an esthetical nature. By pure reflex, I tried to open the single drawer, which slid out about halfway, before something blocked in the mechanism. To my astonishment, the drawer seemed to contain the belongings of the former owner. I noted a faded quill, yellowing moldy papers, and a long-overturned ink pot. I could not see further because the drawer was only half-open and I tried to pry it open fully. After a few unsuccessful attempts, I put all my strength in a single pull that tore the drawer off its hinges and threw me back in a stack of chairs. I managed to stay upright in a precarious balance, holding the lantern at arm's length, while a series of chairs fell behind me.

  The din I had made bothered me more than it should have, given the solitude of this tower. When the chairs became immobile again, I listened intently for any response to the noise. Nothing happened. Sighing with relief, I turned my attention back to the now open drawer and found that all this effort had yielded little dividends: the bottom of the drawer contained scattered blank papers, a blunt and rusty razor, a comb, and other personal effects of little value. Disappointed, I closed the drawer. I noticed on the floor near the closet something I had not seen earlier. Leaning, I saw that it was a hardcover diary. Was it blocking the drawer when I tried to open it? Looking under the drawer, I saw that it was concave and could have housed such a diary, near the hinges.

  Standing up, I approached my lantern near the paper and inspected it more closely. On the cover stood out the following inscription in deep-set, amateur lettering: Narrative of the events leading to the fire of 1834, by Robert Muir. Galvanized by an instant fascination, I opened to the first page. It was then I heard a loud crack coming from the entrance of the tower. Looking up, all my senses tense, I saw a silhouette in the doorway. The penumbra hid its features. My lantern, which I held at waist height, could not illuminate it due to the heaps of furniture. An electric tension filled the air and, as the moment dragged on, I asked, “Who is there?”

  As if to answer my question, the figure backed away slightly, just enough so that one side of his face passed into the ghostly light of the moon, projected between two planks of a barricaded window. I had time to see a grotesque face, with hazy features, liquefied, whitish, and misshapen in a bluish illumination. Then, in one movement and without answering, the figure moved out the door. Obeying a rash impulse, I ran after it, while hailing it briefly. However, I could not go far. I ran between the obstacles for the first four meters separating me from the door. Just as I was about to pass the threshold, my foot got stuck in the jumble and I crashed to the floor. My arm holding the light source absorbed most of the shock. The lantern burst on the stone floor, splashing oil all around.

  For a few seconds, the world stopped making sense as pain radiated through me, moving up my arm to my brain. I had the feeling of wandering in limbo for a long time. The sight of fire before my eyes drove me to action. My left hand, holding the lantern, was a blue and orange inferno. A puddle of oil had also spread to the ground, burning up and releasing an intense heat. Thinking quickly despite my panic, I got up and grabbed one of the wet blankets covering the furniture. I placed my blazing hand inside and folded the blanket over it, pressing with my other hand to smother the flames. A thick smoke escaped until the fire seemed extinguished.

  Nauseous, I pulled the cover from the furniture pile and threw it on the puddle of oil on the floor. The head heavy because of the pain, I tried to flatten the blanket but rather collapsed on it. Smoke escaped in thick volutes as my vision became increasingly confused. My numb arm pulsed with unbearable pain. Moaning, my mind clouded, I tried to get up but realized it would be impossible. My last memory was turning on my back and seeing the diary I had dropped near me during my fall. I had just the strength to grab it and, as in a dream, insert it into the inside pocket of my jacket before sinking into sweet oblivion.

  Marked by Fire

  I do not know how long I stayed lying on the floor in the old tower. I do not remember dreaming, yet I awoke with a start, looking around the room in search of... I do not know what. The memory of events came back little by little, as the throbbing pain raced all the way from my arm to my head, throbbing and burning like a burning heart. I got up slowly, leaning on my valid hand. Reeling, I slumped on a stack of furniture and stayed there for some time. I looked on the floor near me. At least, despite my fainting, I extinguished the flames, preventing the fire from spreading.

  I thought back to the spectral form I saw in the tower entrance and caused all this. This thought troubled me but I tried not to dwell on it. No matter who this person might have been, his intentions could not be honorable, judging by his desperate and inexplicable flight. I started toward the elevator, taking care to avoid sudden movements. On the way, I examined my left hand. The skin was red, covered with blisters and a translucent liquid. The fire had not had time to penetrate deeply, but this burn would leave deep scars. The Hotel-Dieu
hospital was not far but visiting the infirmary of the castle would suffice. It was already late and I did not want to waste more time.

  I arrived at the entrance of the wing and went toward my office to take my things. I saw at once that the door was ajar. I opened it carefully and slipped inside. As soon as I stepped out of the door, I lit a lamp. No one was in the room. On the desk laid a plate containing an appetizing meal of steak and vegetables. The food seemed cold. The waitress, Alise, had kept her word. Having supper had fled my thoughts during the exploration of the old wing.

  Approaching the desk, I noticed someone had placed a written note near the food. With some trepidation, I took the note and read, “The Universal Destroyer takes care of his disciples. You now have his mark. Your baptism will not be long in coming.” Not understanding the meaning of the note, I looked at the back. Nothing more. Was it a message from Alise? Unlikely, given its content. If not, to what mark was it referring to? Was it possible that the note alluded to my burn? If it was so, it would have been written and left here only a short while ago. I hurriedly returned to the door. No one. Trying to discern if the ink of the writing was still fresh, I approached the paper from the lamp. Amazingly, I saw something else appear on the paper, by the light of the flame. The symbol was strange and unrecognizable. It was an equilateral triangle resting on its base. On each of the summits was drawn a small circle. In the middle of the triangle was another circle, of a larger diameter, crossed at its center by a vertical line. I did not know the meaning of this symbol, and I added it to the questions I would have to ask Mr. Martin the next day.

  I put the note in my wallet and resolved to go to the infirmary. My hand was torturing me and I hoped that the doctor or nurse in charge could prescribe something to ease the pain. I headed for the lobby, which was the main entrance to the inner courtyard. The infirmary was right next to the reception. On the way, I passed a few visitors, who stared at me. I realized that my jacket, besides being covered in dust, was charred in many places by the burning oil. In addition, I presumed that a stench of burning flesh was coming from me, although I could no longer perceive it.