The Panthéon, imposing in architecture and gorgeous in adornment, assumed to us, through a series of disappointments, the character of a vast receiving-vault. The crypt is massive and spacious, supported by enormous pillars of masonry, and remarkable for a tremendous echo, whereby the clapping of the guide’s hands is magnified and multiplied into a prolonged and deafening cannonade, rolling and bursting through the dark vaults, as if all the sons of thunder once interred (but not staying) here were comparing experiences above their vacated tombs, and suiting actions to words in fighting their battles over again.
Mirabeau’s remains were taken from this crypt for re-interment in Père Lachaise. Marat—the Abimelech of the Jacobin fraternity—was torn from his tomb, tied up in a sack like offal, and thrown into a sewer. There is here a _wooden_ sarcophagus, cheap and pretentious, inscribed with the name of Rousseau and the epitaph—“Here rests the man of Nature and of Truth.” The door is ajar—a hand and wrist thrust forth, upbear a flaming torch—an audacious conception, that startled us when we came unexpectedly upon it.
“A sputtering flambeau in this day and generation,” said Caput.
The guide, not understanding one English word, hastened to inform us that the tomb was empty.
Another wooden structure, with a statue on top, is dedicated, “_Aux manes de Voltaire_.”
“Poet, historian, philosopher, he exalted the man of intellect and taught him that he should be free. He defended Calas, Sirven, De la Barre, and Montbailly; combated atheists and fanatics; he inspired toleration; he reclaimed the rights of man from servitude and feudalism.” Thus runs the epitaph.
“Empty, also!” said the guide, tapping the sarcophagus. “The body was removed by stealth and buried—who can say where?”
“But yes, certainly, monsieur!” and we were showed the tombs—as yet unrifled—of Marshal Lannes, Lagrange, the mathematician, and Soufflot, the architect of the Panthéon; likewise, the vaults in which the Communists stored gunpowder for the purpose of blowing up the edifice. It was a military stronghold in 1848, and again in 1871, and but for the opportune dislodgment of the insurgents at the latter date the splendid pile would have followed the example of the noted dead who slumbered, for a time, beneath her dome—then departed—“who can tell where?”