Empire of the Dead

In the eighteenth century, as Paris was gradually evolving and expanding into the cosmopolitan society known to us today, one problem was becoming apparent. What to do with its dead. The cemeteries were overcrowded. The weight of mass graves was collapsing cemetery walls, spilling corpses onto the streets. Disease was seeping into the city's wells. A solution was imperative.

The ground under Montparnasse, south of the city, was honeycombed with tunnels from stone quarries where limestone and gypsum had been mined until the earth had become too weak and buildings began to collapse. A police lieutenant general named Alexandre Lenoir came up with the idea to turn this network of abandoned tunnels into a vast underground mausoleum. Remains from the cemeteries were exhumed and, under ceremony, transferred to these new bone repositories. A city of the dead with a population of over six million.

While I was in Paris I couldn't resist a visit.

The entrance to the Catacombes de Paris is located at Place Denfert-Rochereau, directly across the street from the Metro station I was surprised to discover. So much for off the beaten path. Since only a handful of visitors are ushered in at a time, the line for entry can quickly back up. This was frustrating while waiting in it, but once inside I was grateful for the admission policy because it meant that the underworld seemed reverently empty. At times as I tromped for long stretches along the winding tunnels I felt like the only one down there. Clammy corridors went on for what seemed like, and may have been, miles, filled with no other sound than the crunch of gravel underfoot. Many times I had to duck my head to avoid a low ceiling. I passed a sculpted miniature replica of the Port-Mahon Palace from the island of Minorca. This had been carved into the rock from memory by a quarry worker named Décure who was later killed in a cave-in.

I finally reached the entrance to the ossuary, where a sign warned Arrete! C'est ici L'Empire de la Mort ("Halt! This is the Empire of the Dead"). As I warily stepped within I was welcomed by the hollow stares of skulls imprisoned in walls of piled bones. These, it turned out, filled another seemingly endless series of passages. The bones of the dead were stacked intricately in symmetric patterns, like dusty bottles in a macabre wine cellar. Inscriptions denoted which cemetery each section of remains originated from. I passed doric columns and altars and wells. And in the distance sounded a sinister drip drip of collected rainwater.

There are strange sights to see in the underworld, but one of the strangest was a German couple pushing a baby stroller along the bone-littered tunnel as if they were taking a leisurely walk through a sunny park. How they got the stroller down the narrow spiral staircase that descended 65 feet from the surface to the catacombs was beyond me, as was how they intended to carry it up the even narrower staircase at the end of the tour, which spit you out onto a quiet sidestreet nowhere remotely near where you went in.

How far I had traveled underground I couldn't even guess. And I had only stuck to the areas designated for the public. There were countless other branches that were restricted from the casual visitor by formidable iron bars. There are stories of a man in the 19th century descending into the quarries one night and becoming lost. His body was not discovered until eleven years later. I've also read that during World War II the maze of tunnels proved useful for the French Resistance, which is a whole other set of stories I'd like to know about.

Taking photos in such gloom without flash requires a steady hand and a lot of trial and error. I tried anchoring my elbows against my chest to keep my arms steady, a technique which occasionally paid off. Here are the results.
















"Halt! This is the Empire of the Dead."






















The Crypt of the Sepulchral Lamp.


"O, Death! May your judgement be filled with equity."






Here we return to the living.