Paris was dying in an apocalyptic inferno, an infernal symphony where each scarlet flame licked the millennial monuments with devouring obscenity. The air itself seemed putrefied by the acrid smoke rising from the still-smoldering rubble, mixing the smell of burnt limestone with the more terrible odor of charred flesh. The gargoyles of Notre-Dame, miraculously spared, contemplated with their stone eyes the apocalypse that devoured the City of Light, transforming centuries of human history into an incandescent charnel house where the echoes of the last death cries still resonated.