This is part 2 of my adventures in Paris's off-limits catacombs. Here is Part 1 .
Before I take you further into the catacombs, let me tell you a little about the people who venture down there.
The term cataphile is a self-appointed moniker by those who enjoy this particular form of urban exploring. People have been visiting the catacombs since the tunnels were first dug to connect the separate mine networks.
One of the most famous cataphiles dates from the Revolution. Philibert Aspairt's corpse was found in the catacombs in 1804, eleven years after he went missing. His widow identified his body, saying he had disappeared in November 1793, but she had no idea why he would have been in the catacombs. The cause of death was never stated, but one thing was clear: he died there because he couldn't get out.
His body was found in the quarry beneath the Capuchin monastery, near the locked door where the monks stored their homemade liquor. Which seems like a good motive to brave the catacombs. But Gilles said it would have been easy for Philibert to break into their basement from the street, if liquor theft had been his intention. He thinks Philibert's motive was the same as ours: curiosity and the thrill of exploration.
He was buried near where his body was found, not a very restful resting place since the noise of Paris's RER trains seems to be loudest in this spot. (Still just barely a rumble.)
Needless to say, Philibert's sad end didn't stop people from exploring. There was a boom in the 1980s, when crews of cataphiles regularly visited. One of the best known was "The Rats," who are behind some of the tunnels' most interesting artworks, including this AIDS-themed wall:
A whole vocabulary began to be used: there were cataboys and catagirls, one of the most famous of the latter being Foxy. When she died of cancer, a memorial plaque in the style of Philibert Aspairt's was created by her fellow cataphiles. My photo of the plaque didn't turn out since the guy taking a nap in his hammock (in Part 1) was blocking the view. But here is her portrait on a nearby wall:
and a mural facing her memorial plaque of a fictional bar made in her name:
But not all visitors of the catacombs are considered cataphiles. There are the cataclastes: people who come down with spray paint and deface old inscriptions, steal plaques, and leave their trash behind. They don't respect the place like the cataphiles, who have a worshipful we-are-the-keepers-of-the-catacombs attitude.
And then, there are the catacops (in French "cataflics"). They are a group of police assigned to the catacombs, as well as other surface-level activities. They visit the catacombs from time to time, giving 70-euro tickets to anyone they find there, and escorting them back to the surface level. They also keep track of any new passages made by cataphiles. (More on that later.)
The most famous catacop was Jean-Claude Sarette. He was known to respect the catacombs, unlike the catacops of today who spraypaint big ugly red numbers at crossroads so they can locate themselves on their own map. (Even though street names are clearly indicated on most corners, and used by the cataphiles, who don't need big red numbers to figure out where they are.)
Although Sarette ticketed cataphiles he found, they all loved him, and when he retired after twenty years on the force, they erected a street sign-style plaque in his name...
...and, according to Gilles, gave him a huge farewell party...in the catacombs. At the time of my tour, Gilles was still in touch with him.
The goal of the cataphiles isn't just to party underground or find a cool spot to make giant murals. It is exploration. And the reason Gilles, the artist, and I were able to worm our way quickly (in 10 hours) through the network was thanks to the vent holes (or chatières) the cataphiles dug to link one tunnel to another.
The reason they do this is twofold: one: to find spaces that were not included in the original survey. And the other: because a tunnel has been blocked, either accidentally because of cave-in, or (more often) because the City of Paris has blocked a tunnel so that no one will go there.
After everything I've told you, I'm sure you can imagine what cataphiles do when they find a tunnel cemented over. Yep. They dig around it. Like here:
The cataphiles have also cleared areas where the original workmen dumped the debris in order to have space to sit around and eat, or stand around and chat, or, in the case of La Plage (The Beach), throw huge dance parties.
(The right hand side of the Rats’ Hokusai pastiche was spraypainted over by cataclasts, and lovingly restored by cataphiles.)
We came across a small party at the beginning of our tour. It must have been around noon (on a Sunday), and there were a dozen twenty-year-olds sitting in a small cave, drunk and merry. Gilles went in and asked them what time it was. A boy said, "It's always night down here."
As we left, one of them followed us out. "That wasn't Gilles Thomas, was it?" he asked.
"Yes," I replied.
"No," he said, his face stretching into a Edvard Munchian scream.
"Yes," I replied.
"No. Really, don't joke about something like that. That wasn't really Gilles Thomas, was it?" He looked like he was about to faint.
"Yes," I replied.
He kept standing there arguing with me about Gilles's identity, until I finally turned and left him gawping, so that I could hurry after my legendary guide who had scuttled off to avoid hero worship. For it seems that, among all of the other cata-legends, Gilles holds his own place in cata-mythology.
Like I mentioned in Part 1, the story of the catacombs began with the collapse of a limestone mine in 1774, which swallowed a whole street of houses (and people) along what is now avenue Denfert-Rochereau. King Louis XVI named his architect, Charles-Axel Guillaumot, as chief inspector of the Inspection générale des carrières (IGC), charged with inspecting, charting, and reinforcing the mines. He took on the task whole-heartedly, working with a team of eighteen men.
Like I mentioned before, each inspector left their mark. And if you know the code, you know who was in charge when each pillar was reinforced. (Finding a "G" for Guillaumot is a special thrill!)
As you can see, Guillaumot was inspector twice: for 14 years, then a five year gap, then again from 1796-1807. Can anyone guess why? Yep...it was because of this little thing called The French Revolution.
Since Guillaumot was appointed by the king, the revolutionaries threw him in jail. But he was given his job back in 1795 when Napoleon recognized his importance to the project. His "G" began appearing inscriptions using the Revolutionary calendar, like the one below, and he continued working on his prize project until his death in 1807.
After Louis XVI was guillotined (21 January, 1793). all signs of royalty were ordered destroyed. Therefore, the fleur-de-lys carved into the catacomb's signs were scratched out.
But that wasn't the only thing that changed. Before Napoleon, the streets were numbered 1, 2, 3, 4, 5... up one side of the street, and then coming back down 10, 11, 12, 13, etc. In 1805, Napoleon instated the system that is still used today: even numbers on one side of the street and odd on the other. (The numbers start at the Seine with 1 and go higher as you get further away from the river, or for east-west streets start with sunrise, at the east, and get higher in the direction of sunset, at the west of the city.)
So when you see a number scratched out, and the new address carved in its place—topped with a star—you know that dates from 1805 or later.
HOWEVER...the people tasked with scratching out the fleur-de-lys missed a few. Ten, to be exact. And Gilles led the artist and me on a mini-scavenger hunt for each and every one. They weren’t easy to find, which is why they were spared. One had been in a pool of water. The other behind a sign:
And others had lost their color or were in unexpected locations:
Also the Revolution mandated that all signs of religion be destroyed, so streets with saint names were changed. For example, rue St. Jacques becoming plain old rue Jacques. During the Restoration, some were changed back, but if there was no space a tiny "St" was carved in between words.
My favorite remnants of the Revolution aren't the official ones. They are the graffiti left by the cataphiles of the day.
As I learned while studying Napoleon with my kids, the general-turned-emperor became reviled for, as one poet said, "taking all of our sons." Napoleon's battles were bloody, and a great number of France's young men were killed during his short reign. One unfortunate boy went to the catacombs to express his grief over choosing a lottery number that ensured his army inscription. (I can only imagine it would be treason to express it anywhere above-ground!)
I can't read the whole thing, but it gives his name, says he was born in 1789.... "drew in 1809 the number 197"... and the rest basically says "in drawing that number, the people of France chose my fate." In just one of the battles of 1809, Napoleon lost 23,000 men to the Austrian army. We can only hope that this boy was one of the few to survive.
This one shows a Napoleonic soldier. The date 1813 is written above it, which happens to be the year of the Battle of Leipzig, which cost more than 90,000 men their lives.
Not far away, in the same corridor, Gilles pointed out a drawing and asked, "What do you think this is?"
After a moment's thought, I said, "A guillotine, with a ladder going up to its platform." Gilles looked at me so strangely that I thought I had gotten it wrong, but apparently I'm the first to correctly answer his question. (!) The theme is repeated in a more detailed drawing on the facing wall.
Which is quite similar to the one used to execute Robespierre, complete with side-railings.
However, in the catacombs version, the artist has gone all-out and included ladder-railings and a basket to catch the severed head beneath the guillotine.
And on that note, we will close today's history-lesson-slash-treasure-hunt, because in the next post I've got something I know you’ll love: BONES. Lots of them.