Watching a symbol on fire

PARIS -- I started running toward the source of the yellow smoke without knowing what it was -- only that it was coming from the island in the middle of the Seine at the heart of so much of Paris' history. Past bookshops and cafes, I rounded the corner to see flames creeping across the rooftop of Notre Dame Cathedral. I caught my breath and rubbed my stinging eyes.

At that point, the roads leading to the cathedral, about 400 yards away, were still open and the fire looked like it might just end up becoming another small scar on a building that had survived so much already. A few dozen pedestrians gathered around at first, watching the flames lick their way toward the nave. Soon, it was hundreds of people, sobered by the smoke belching from one of the world's most recognizable symbols of France.

The nearly 900-year-old cathedral has endured the French Revolution, the Nazi occupation and countless bouts of unrest before and since. Now, its ashes were falling from the sky in gritty flecks damped by fire hoses increasingly futile as new sections of the building caught fire.

Panicked by the burgeoning crowd, police officers shouted hoarsely for bystanders to back away and leave room for the dozens of fire trucks wailing toward us. But the tourist season is upon Paris, and among the hundreds murmuring around me I heard seven or eight familiar languages and others, less familiar. Eyes reddened by smoke started to fill with tears, yet none of us could stop watching the torched cathedral.

For many living in Paris, Notre Dame is a lovely part of the view in the rush of day-to-day errands can easily go unnoticed. It is also the backdrop of the city's inner workings. Its wide plaza is where many go after standing in line for their residency cards or filing a police report at the prefecture. The benign shadow of its towers falls over us as we deliver paperwork to the courthouse and escape for fresh air.

With cellphone cameras held aloft, we wept from the knowledge something we believed immortal was crumbling into ash and dust. Now, the smell of charred wood and stone reaches to the city's edge.

"On the face of this aged queen of our cathedrals, by the side of a wrinkle, one always finds a scar," Hugo wrote in his paean to the edifice.

Those of us who witnessed Monday's fire shake the ashes of Paris history from our hair and clothes and wonder how deep the wound will cut this time.