That’s certainly true when you’re at the Cathédrale Notre-Dame de Paris early in the morning. It’s about the only time of day when you’ll likely find yourself alone on the forecourt, this symbolically special part of Paris. It’s the emotional heart for one, because this island is where the city first took form all those years ago, when the Parisii decided to make the future Île de la Cité their home. But it’s the physical heart of the French capital, too. Look for the bronze star embedded in the paving stones of the cathedral square; it’s from this very spot — Point Zéro — that all road distances in France are measured. You can also start to plan your return Parisian journey from here; it’s said that anyone who stands on the star will find their way back to Paris.
If only the star was a portkey to take you back in time … The Île de la Cité is these days weighed down with much leaden, bureaucratic architecture, but in the Middle Ages it was a lively and thriving medieval hub. Thousands of Parisians lived in tall half-timbered houses that lined the winding streets, the gabled roofs pointing skywards in perpetual prayer, echoing the spires of the twenty or so churches of this religious island city.
The most magnificent, of course, was the cathedral that looms before you. Its first stone was laid in 1163, in a century in which Paris emerged from the so-called Dark Ages, flickering into glamorous life, a precursor to its dazzling future as the City of Light. Historians talk about the ‘twelfth-century Renaissance,’ a time that saw Paris, and much of Europe, develop artistically and culturally. For most of the twelfth century, regional peace allowed Paris to ease up on its defences, looking within its walls instead of just outwardly, and spend money on beautifying the growing metropolis. Building a monumental cathedral that would give the city international gravitas was key to the grand Parisian vision.
Look up at the façade. You can well appreciate how the cathedral would have energised the artistic scene of the island: the architects, builders, masons, sculptors, glassmakers, painters … a new generation of proud Parisian aesthetes. The frontispiece is a most magnificent creation, one that could easily be overwhelming with all the intricate detailing — but the lasting impression is one of harmony, because at its base it’s a masterpiece of simple symmetry. Notice how it’s vertically divided into three, to symbolise the Trinity, and horizontally sectioned into five, to slowly raise the vision towards heaven. Zone in first on the sculptures populating the entranceways; those to the far right are the oldest, this doorway having been repurposed from an earlier church on the site. Then scan along the Kings of Judah, who stand upright in the colonnade above. These limestone sculptures were colourfully painted in the Middle Ages, which must have set off the stained-glass windows beautifully. Stand directly before the middle Rose Window — that flower being the symbol of Mary — and notice how it radiates out from the statue of the Virgin and Child like a bejewelled halo. Crane your neck even more to admire the arcade of elegant filigree arches above, and finally the famous towers.
We’ll get up there soon, but for now let’s spend some time inside the cathedral. The 8am weekday mass takes place tucked away in the choir, so you won’t feel as though you’re intruding, and you can immerse yourself in the incense-infused air that’s softly illuminated by the morning light. Wonder at the fluted columns holding up the soaring ceilings, and the finely chiselled arches of the tribunes, through which you can admire flower-shaped windows that glitter like rosary beads. Wander around the ambulatory of double arches, gilded grilles and colourful stained-glass windows. Grab an audio guide for an even more immersive experience, or just sit quietly and contemplate the astounding space. Catholicism is not essential for this awe-inspiring exercise. Nor is any religion, actually. Interestingly, in our religiously fraught world, the cathedral happens to illustrate the heights that can be achieved when East meets West. Note the graceful pointed arches and dramatic ribbed vault ceilings; they were inspired by the Arab world, in the cultural awakening that came to Europe, ironically, after the First Crusade of 1095. Unlike the West, the East had not forgotten about the texts of Ancient Greece and Rome, and it was the retranslation of books on science, philosophy and mathematics from Arabic back to Latin that ignited the twelfth-century Renaissance, inspiring architects, artists and artisans.
A tour of the Towers of Notre-Dame is well worth any wait, and the somewhat wearying climb. As you mount the steps, you can hear history in the echo of your footsteps, and sense it in the hollowed stone beneath your feet. It does indeed feel like you are entering a portal of sorts, into a past mystical Paris. Step out on the gallery, to be greeted by a brood of grimacing ghouls, hobgoblins and beasts carved from mottled stone — these are the famous chimeras. The most famous is just to your right, the Stryge, gazing over the forecourt, resting his horned head in his hands, wings upright as though ready to swoop on some unsuspecting Parisian below. Although Stryge could well be ruminating over what Baron Haussmann did to his old city in the 1860s, when the prefect razed most of the island’s housing; from here you really do see the soul-destroying mass of administrative architecture that took over most of this island.
In the belfry of the southern tower, you half expect to see Quasimodo swing down and ring the huge bell. Or perhaps he’s up those rickety stairs … At the very least, you’ll discover one of the best views in Paris — a 360-degree scope of the city from a viewpoint that is high enough to take in everything, yet low enough to allow you to focus on details below. Look down to the Latin Quarter of the Left Bank; the jumble of buildings here gives you an idea of how the Île de la Cité once appeared.
It’s a wonder that Notre-Dame is still standing. Mercilessly plundered during the French Revolution, it served as a food and wine storehouse for some years, and was in a most dilapidated state by the time author Victor Hugo set out to save the cathedral, in 1831, with The Hunchback of Notre-Dame. One of the early Romantics, Hugo was a huge nostalgic and admirer of medieval architecture. His melodramatic tale of the malformed Quasimodo and ravishing gypsy Esmeralda, set in the fifteenth century, was a love story on several levels, but at its heart the cathedral was the star, the protector of the soul of the city. Parisians fell in love again with Notre-Dame, and the campaign to save the cathedral saw Eugène Viollet-le-Duc, an architect with a suitably Romantic sensibility, commissioned for the restoration. Some would say, though, it was a reconstruction, as Viollet-le-Duc let his imagination run rather wild. It was he who added the chimeras, as well as much else to the façade; he also jazzed up the roof with the ornamental spire, and the twelve copper apostles descending from its base. He made Notre-Dame Quasimodo’s home. It was a fantasy, but he also enhanced a myth. But does it matter that the spire is a dramatically reinterpreted version of the old simpler one, or that so much of the coloured glass and sculptures inside and out are relatively new, or that Stryge hasn’t been hunched over his balustrade for eons, or that Viollet-le-Duc’s Notre-Dame is as much historical fiction as Hugo’s own work? Perhaps to purists. But for the rest of us, it only makes the dream seem more real.
Anyway, Paris is a multi-layered city: it has been imagined and reimagined, built and rebuilt, since Parisii times. Notre-Dame replaced smaller Christian churches, on a site that once boasted a pagan Roman temple to Jupiter. Spend some time in the Crypte Archéologique de l’Île de la Cité — its entrance is on the western edge of the forecourt — and you’ll appreciate the cultural millefeuille of this island. The archaeological crypt contains the remnants of an old port built soon after the Romans came to town in 52BC, of the Gallo-Roman fourth-century wall erected for protection against attacks from Barbarians (and various other tribes, including the conquering Franks, who would give the future France its name), and of an old Roman bathhouse. Various maps and models and interactive videos showcase the Paris of a variety of eras. Paris of the Middle Ages lives on in the vestiges of a medieval cellar that Esmeralda could well have hidden in.
Hugo might have been a Romantic, but The Hunchback has gone down in history as one of the grea
t works of Gothic fiction, that nineteenth-century literary category that saw histrionic tales of mystery and horror unfold against eerily crumbling medieval backdrops. As a consequence, readers began to appreciate the marvels of Gothic architecture, the sky-straining, elaborate style pioneered in Paris in the twelfth century, and exemplified by the city’s cathedral. The architectural genre had originally been named Gothic as a slur, back in the Renaissance era when the rediscovery of Classical art made the creations of the Middle Ages seem a little crude; the Goths were one of the barbaric tribes that had attacked the Roman Empire all those centuries before. But the nineteenth century, with its Romantic love of drama and nostalgia, was perfectly placed to newly appreciate a darker past.
On emerging from the Crypt, admire the theatrical beauty of Notre-Dame once more. Those pointed arches are a common feature of Gothic design. Remember the ribbed vault ceilings? Those, too. Now stroll along the cathedral’s southern side and look up at the fantasia of statues, spires and glasswork; you’ll also see gargoyles shooting outwards, another favourite flourish of Gothic architects. Some of Notre-Dame’s gargoyles only date back to Viollet-le-Duc’s time, but such spooky creatures have been hanging around the cathedral in some form since its early days. Gargoyles had a practical purpose, as a rain spout; they were also there to help keep evil spirits away — much like how you see creepy mascaron faces guarding the doorways of many old Parisian buildings.
The delightful garden beside and behind Notre-Dame is the Square Jean-XXIII. If it’s April, the copse of cherry trees beneath the southern rose window will be a flurry of fluffy pink. But the park is a pleasure in any season. Walk on to the orderly lines of clipped lindens, and claim a bench seat with a view of the ornate tiers of arches that hold up the curvaceous back of Notre-Dame, like medieval stone corsetry. These snazzy creations are called flying buttresses, an architectural innovation that allowed churches to scale to greater heights, and to emphasise stained-glass artwork over gloomy brick walls. You could well imagine a Gothic tale unfolding right here.
Actually, it was the stuff of Gothic fiction here around a century ago, when the Paris morgue could be found just across the road, on the island’s eastern tip. One of the city’s most unlikely popular pastimes in the second half of the nineteenth century, the morgue attracted le tout Paris, even the most well-dressed society types, who would come to view the poor lost souls, many of whom had been fished from the river, now grimly displayed on stone slabs awaiting identification.
Sad spirits still linger in the air over here, now the site of the Mémorial des Martyrs de la Déportation, a monument to the French citizens deported to Nazi concentration camps during World War II. The architect wanted the edifice to convey a feeling of claustrophobia and disorientation, and that it does. Walk down the narrow concrete stairs to the hollowed triangular space, and the city suddenly drops from view, your only anchor a glimpse of water through the spiked gate ahead. Behind, a slit of an entryway between two concrete slabs leads you into an octagonal crypt; to each side are rooms containing earth and human remains from the concentration camps, and ahead a narrow subterranean corridor glimmering with 200,000 quartz rods, one for each deportee. Scratched into the walls are the names of the camps, words from some of France’s leading authors and, above the exit, ‘Pardonne, N’Oublie Pas’ (‘Forgive, Don’t Forget’). It’s the most desolate, disquieting place, as it should be, and most deserving of a visit, and some moments of reflection.
Some fifteen thousand Parisians called the Île de la Cité home before Haussmann razed most of the housing. The spirits of two of its most famous residents can be found just north, at 9-11 Quai aux Fleurs. As the plaque announces, this is the site of the former dwelling of Héloïse and Abélard. It’s only fitting that one of history’s most passionate love stories played out in the beating heart of Paris. The current building might date from 1849, from the height of the Romantic era, but the famous twelfth-century lovers live on in the finely chiselled mascarons that peer out wistfully from above the duo of doorways.
Pierre Abélard moved to Paris in 1100, an auspicious timing for such a modern-minded man. Studying philosophy at the School of Notre-Dame-de-Paris (named after the church that pre-dated the present cathedral), he had no qualms about using his logically driven mind to question his teachers’ lines of reasoning, and he soon gained a reputation as an arrogant trouble-maker. But Abélard was handsome and charismatic, with a knack for composing catchy songs, and amassed a following of his own. He eventually fulfilled his dream of becoming the master of the cathedral school, which turned him into a celebrity of his time.
Although not a priest, Abélard was expected to remain celibate in his ecclesiastical career. Which was fine — until his eye was caught by Héloïse d’Argenteuil, a noblewoman who lived with her Uncle Fulbert, one of Paris’s leading canons. Héloïse, thought to have been aged somewhere between fifteen and her early twenties, was already one of the most educated Parisians around, fluent in Latin, Greek and Hebrew, and with a passion for philosophy and the Classics. Abélard convinced Uncle Fulbert to rent him a room, offering payment in the form of further lessons for his cherished niece.
Reading the snippets of the pair’s correspondence from this time makes you a little hot under the ruffled collar, such was their unabashed love and total abandon to one another. For almost two years, they revelled in their heady, clandestine affair under the official pretext of study. The gig was up when Héloïse fell pregnant, and Abélard whisked her away to his hometown in Brittany. The baby boy was given the unusual name of Astrolabe, which is also an instrument used to observe celestial bodies; the parents surely saw their baby as a symbol of transcendental love.
The social mundanities of life, however, soon brought the pair back to earth. A furious Fulbert demanded the couple wed. Héloïse and Abélard fought the pressure for a while — they each believed marriage would harm his career, and that their love was binding enough — but gave in on the condition of secrecy. But Paris was a small island town, cramped and cluttered, residents living on top of each other, so the news soon snaked its way around the streets. When the whisperings and tut-tuttings became too much to bear, Abélard sheltered Héloïse away in a country convent. Enraged to have lost his niece once again, Fulbert took drastic action, hiring some thugs to sneak into Abélard’s room and castrate him.
It was a shocking move, but ultimately served its purpose. Abélard retreated into himself, and then religion, choosing to become a monk, and he insisted that Héloïse take the veil. It was nowhere near a happy ending, but Abélard went onto become one of the foremost thinkers of his time, while Héloïse one of the country’s leading abbesses. They never again met in the flesh, although their later, emotion-charged correspondence brought some kind of closure. And lovers of Romantic tales will rejoice to know that Héloïse and Abélard were united in death — out at Père Lachaise cemetery, where they found a home in the early nineteenth century, in a suitably Gothic temple of a tomb.
Héloïse and Abélard’s love story has lasted longer than much of their old hometown. Just to the right, a set of stairs takes you down to Rue des Ursins. In front of you is what appears to be an old Gothic mansion, with a little arch doorway that looks tailor-made for petite medieval Parisians; in actual fact it’s a 1958 tribute to the architectural genre. But if you look up, you’ll see the tip of a half-timbered tower of the mansion at the rear, which goes back much further in time. See the narrow street, Rue des Chantres, in front of you, taking your sight through to the spire of Notre-Dame? The island was once laced with skinny lanes just like this, lined with the crooked, leaning façades of buildings that let little light in, making for a somewhat claustrophobic effect.
At this corner was once a gateway, one of four, into the Cloître de Notre-Dame that for many centuries covered the north-eastern corner of the island. Not a cloister so much as a city within a city, it was the cathedral town, housing the couple of hundred people connected with the operations of the ch
urch, such as old Uncle Fulbert. There were the usual roads, townhouses and prettily patterned gardens you’d see in most villages, but no rowdy taverns to attract any hoi polloi. It was a place of calm, of keeping up serene appearances — which perhaps made the Héloïse and Abélard saga all the more sensational.
Walk east along Rue des Ursins. Somewhere in the warren of old walls behind the carriage door of no.19 is part of an early twelfth-century chapel — Chapelle Saint Aignan — in which Héloïse and Abélard are thought to have married. (The Romanesque chapel is closed to the public, much to the chagrin of Héloïse fangirls.) Rue des Ursins, by the way, was once called Rue d’Enfer, perhaps so named to remind residents that hell was only one wrong step away.
But the twelfth century was God-fearing only to a point. It was mostly a time when you could celebrate worldly beauty as much as the wonders of the Godly realm, when religion was becoming more of a personal experience. Héloïse and Abélard personified the new spirit of individualism and private spirituality. The later Middle Ages would crack down on such nonconformity (and burn the likes of our twelfth-century lovers at the stake). But for the moment, the 1100s were a glorious time, architecturally formative for the island, and emotionally so for its residents.
Turn left into Rue de la Colombe, just by the antiquated wine bistrot. The street is so named because of the sculpted doves above the harlequin-window-topped doorway at no.6. As you walk along the cobbles, splayed out in their peacock-tail pattern, you’ll soon notice a strip of diagonally placed paving stones, which trace part of the old Roman defensive wall. At the end of the street take a left, through the ghost of one of the other archways into the Notre-Dame cloister. Rue Chanoinesse was the cathedral city’s main road, along which many canons lived. One of the oldest of such houses, dating from 1512, is now a restaurant called Au Vieux Paris. Stop here for lunch — either outside by the (hopefully blooming) wisteria-laden façade, or in the interior reminiscent of a wanton medieval boudoir, all red velvet and crystal goblets. It’s basic French fare, a little touristy, but a fun way to travel back through time.
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