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BOOK THIRD. CHAPTER I.
NOTRE-DAME.
The church of Notre-Dame de Paris is still no doubt, a majestic and sublime edifice.
But, beautiful as it has been preserved in growing old, it is difficult not to sigh,
not to wax indignant, before the numberless degradations and mutilations which time and
men have both caused the venerable monument
to suffer, without respect for Charlemagne, who laid its first stone, or for Philip
Augustus, who laid the last.
On the face of this aged queen of our cathedrals, by the side of a wrinkle, one
always finds a scar.
Tempus edax, homo edacior; which I should be glad to translate thus: time is blind,
man is stupid.
If we had leisure to examine with the reader, one by one, the diverse traces of
destruction imprinted upon the old church, time's share would be the least, the share
of men the most, especially the men of art,
since there have been individuals who assumed the title of architects during the
last two centuries.
And, in the first place, to cite only a few leading examples, there certainly are few
finer architectural pages than this facade, where, successively and at once, the three
portals hollowed out in an arch; the
broidered and dentated cordon of the eight and twenty royal niches; the immense
central rose window, flanked by its two lateral windows, like a priest by his
deacon and subdeacon; the frail and lofty
gallery of trefoil arcades, which supports a heavy platform above its fine, slender
columns; and lastly, the two black and massive towers with their slate penthouses,
harmonious parts of a magnificent whole,
superposed in five gigantic stories;-- develop themselves before the eye, in a
mass and without confusion, with their innumerable details of statuary, carving,
and sculpture, joined powerfully to the
tranquil grandeur of the whole; a vast symphony in stone, so to speak; the
colossal work of one man and one people, all together one and complex, like the
Iliads and the Romanceros, whose sister it
is; prodigious product of the grouping together of all the forces of an epoch,
where, upon each stone, one sees the fancy of the workman disciplined by the genius of
the artist start forth in a hundred
fashions; a sort of human creation, in a word, powerful and fecund as the divine
creation of which it seems to have stolen the double character,--variety, eternity.
And what we here say of the facade must be said of the entire church; and what we say
of the cathedral church of Paris, must be said of all the churches of Christendom in
the Middle Ages.
All things are in place in that art, self- created, logical, and well proportioned.
To measure the great toe of the foot is to measure the giant.
Let us return to the facade of Notre-Dame, as it still appears to us, when we go
piously to admire the grave and puissant cathedral, which inspires terror, so its
chronicles assert: quoe mole sua terrorem incutit spectantibus.
Three important things are to-day lacking in that facade: in the first place, the
staircase of eleven steps which formerly raised it above the soil; next, the lower
series of statues which occupied the niches
of the three portals; and lastly the upper series, of the twenty-eight most ancient
kings of France, which garnished the gallery of the first story, beginning with
Childebert, and ending with Phillip
Augustus, holding in his hand "the imperial apple."
Time has caused the staircase to disappear, by raising the soil of the city with a slow
and irresistible progress; but, while thus causing the eleven steps which added to the
majestic height of the edifice, to be
devoured, one by one, by the rising tide of the pavements of Paris,--time has bestowed
upon the church perhaps more than it has taken away, for it is time which has spread
over the facade that sombre hue of the
centuries which makes the old age of monuments the period of their beauty.
But who has thrown down the two rows of statues? who has left the niches empty? who
has cut, in the very middle of the central portal, that new and bastard arch? who has
dared to frame therein that commonplace and
heavy door of carved wood, a la Louis XV., beside the arabesques of Biscornette?
The men, the architects, the artists of our day.
And if we enter the interior of the edifice, who has overthrown that colossus
of Saint Christopher, proverbial for magnitude among statues, as the grand hall
of the Palais de Justice was among halls, as the spire of Strasbourg among spires?
And those myriads of statues, which peopled all the spaces between the columns of the
nave and the choir, kneeling, standing, equestrian, men, women, children, kings,
bishops, gendarmes, in stone, in marble, in
gold, in silver, in copper, in wax even,-- who has brutally swept them away?
It is not time.
And who substituted for the ancient gothic altar, splendidly encumbered with shrines
and reliquaries, that heavy marble sarcophagus, with angels' heads and clouds,
which seems a specimen pillaged from the Val-de-Grace or the Invalides?
Who stupidly sealed that heavy anachronism of stone in the Carlovingian pavement of
Hercandus?
Was it not Louis XIV., fulfilling the request of Louis XIII.?
And who put the cold, white panes in the place of those windows, "high in color,"
which caused the astonished eyes of our fathers to hesitate between the rose of the
grand portal and the arches of the apse?
And what would a sub-chanter of the sixteenth century say, on beholding the
beautiful yellow wash, with which our archiepiscopal vandals have desmeared their
cathedral?
He would remember that it was the color with which the hangman smeared "accursed"
edifices; he would recall the Hotel du Petit-Bourbon, all smeared thus, on account
of the constable's treason.
"Yellow, after all, of so good a quality," said Sauval, "and so well recommended, that
more than a century has not yet caused it to lose its color."
He would think that the sacred place had become infamous, and would flee.
And if we ascend the cathedral, without mentioning a thousand barbarisms of every
sort,--what has become of that charming little bell tower, which rested upon the
point of intersection of the cross-roofs,
and which, no less frail and no less bold than its neighbor (also destroyed), the
spire of the Sainte-Chapelle, buried itself in the sky, farther forward than the
towers, slender, pointed, sonorous, carved in open work.
An architect of good taste amputated it (1787), and considered it sufficient to
mask the wound with that large, leaden plaster, which resembles a pot cover.
'Tis thus that the marvellous art of the Middle Ages has been treated in nearly
every country, especially in France.
One can distinguish on its ruins three sorts of lesions, all three of which cut
into it at different depths; first, time, which has insensibly notched its surface
here and there, and gnawed it everywhere;
next, political and religious revolution, which, blind and wrathful by nature, have
flung themselves tumultuously upon it, torn its rich garment of carving and sculpture,
burst its rose windows, broken its necklace
of arabesques and tiny figures, torn out its statues, sometimes because of their
mitres, sometimes because of their crowns; lastly, fashions, even more grotesque and
foolish, which, since the anarchical and
splendid deviations of the Renaissance, have followed each other in the necessary
decadence of architecture. Fashions have wrought more harm than
revolutions.
They have cut to the quick; they have attacked the very bone and framework of
art; they have cut, slashed, disorganized, killed the edifice, in form as in the
symbol, in its consistency as well as in its beauty.
And then they have made it over; a presumption of which neither time nor
revolutions at least have been guilty.
They have audaciously adjusted, in the name of "good taste," upon the wounds of gothic
architecture, their miserable gewgaws of a day, their ribbons of marble, their pompons
of metal, a veritable leprosy of egg-shaped
ornaments, volutes, whorls, draperies, garlands, fringes, stone flames, bronze
clouds, pudgy cupids, chubby-cheeked cherubim, which begin to devour the face of
art in the oratory of Catherine de Medicis,
and cause it to expire, two centuries later, tortured and grimacing, in the
boudoir of the Dubarry.
Thus, to sum up the points which we have just indicated, three sorts of ravages to-
day disfigure Gothic architecture. Wrinkles and warts on the epidermis; this
is the work of time.
Deeds of violence, brutalities, contusions, fractures; this is the work of the
revolutions from Luther to Mirabeau.
Mutilations, amputations, dislocation of the joints, "restorations"; this is the
Greek, Roman, and barbarian work of professors according to Vitruvius and
Vignole.
This magnificent art produced by the Vandals has been slain by the academies.
The centuries, the revolutions, which at least devastate with impartiality and
grandeur, have been joined by a cloud of school architects, licensed, sworn, and
bound by oath; defacing with the
discernment and choice of bad taste, substituting the chicorees of Louis XV. for
the Gothic lace, for the greater glory of the Parthenon.
It is the kick of the ass at the dying lion.
It is the old oak crowning itself, and which, to heap the measure full, is stung,
bitten, and gnawed by caterpillars.
How far it is from the epoch when Robert Cenalis, comparing Notre-Dame de Paris to
the famous temple of Diana at Ephesus, so much lauded by the ancient pagans, which
Erostatus has immortalized, found the
Gallic temple "more excellent in length, breadth, height, and structure."
Notre-Dame is not, moreover, what can be called a complete, definite, classified
monument.
It is no longer a Romanesque church; nor is it a Gothic church.
This edifice is not a type.
Notre-Dame de Paris has not, like the Abbey of Tournus, the grave and massive frame,
the large and round vault, the glacial bareness, the majestic simplicity of the
edifices which have the rounded arch for their progenitor.
It is not, like the Cathedral of Bourges, the magnificent, light, multiform, tufted,
bristling efflorescent product of the pointed arch.
Impossible to class it in that ancient family of sombre, mysterious churches, low
and crushed as it were by the round arch, almost Egyptian, with the exception of the
ceiling; all hieroglyphics, all sacerdotal,
all symbolical, more loaded in their ornaments, with lozenges and zigzags, than
with flowers, with flowers than with animals, with animals than with men; the
work of the architect less than of the
bishop; first transformation of art, all impressed with theocratic and military
discipline, taking root in the Lower Empire, and stopping with the time of
William the Conqueror.
Impossible to place our Cathedral in that other family of lofty, aerial churches,
rich in painted windows and sculpture; pointed in form, bold in attitude; communal
and bourgeois as political symbols; free,
capricious, lawless, as a work of art; second transformation of architecture, no
longer hieroglyphic, immovable and sacerdotal, but artistic, progressive, and
popular, which begins at the return from the crusades, and ends with Louis IX.
Notre-Dame de Paris is not of pure Romanesque, like the first; nor of pure
Arabian race, like the second.
It is an edifice of the transition period.
The Saxon architect completed the erection of the first pillars of the nave, when the
pointed arch, which dates from the Crusade, arrived and placed itself as a conqueror
upon the large Romanesque capitals which should support only round arches.
The pointed arch, mistress since that time, constructed the rest of the church.
Nevertheless, timid and inexperienced at the start, it sweeps out, grows larger,
restrains itself, and dares no longer dart upwards in spires and lancet windows, as it
did later on, in so many marvellous cathedrals.
One would say that it were conscious of the vicinity of the heavy Romanesque pillars.
However, these edifices of the transition from the Romanesque to the Gothic, are no
less precious for study than the pure types.
They express a shade of the art which would be lost without them.
It is the graft of the pointed upon the round arch.
Notre-Dame de Paris is, in particular, a curious specimen of this variety.
Each face, each stone of the venerable monument, is a page not only of the history
of the country, but of the history of science and art as well.
Thus, in order to indicate here only the principal details, while the little Red
Door almost attains to the limits of the Gothic delicacy of the fifteenth century,
the pillars of the nave, by their size and
weight, go back to the Carlovingian Abbey of Saint-Germain des Pres.
One would suppose that six centuries separated these pillars from that door.
There is no one, not even the hermetics, who does not find in the symbols of the
grand portal a satisfactory compendium of their science, of which the Church of
Saint-Jacques de la Boucherie was so complete a hieroglyph.
Thus, the Roman abbey, the philosophers' church, the Gothic art, Saxon art, the
heavy, round pillar, which recalls Gregory VII., the hermetic symbolism, with which
Nicolas Flamel played the prelude to
Luther, papal unity, schism, Saint-Germain des Pres, Saint-Jacques de la Boucherie,--
all are mingled, combined, amalgamated in Notre-Dame.
This central mother church is, among the ancient churches of Paris, a sort of
chimera; it has the head of one, the limbs of another, the haunches of another,
something of all.
We repeat it, these hybrid constructions are not the least interesting for the
artist, for the antiquarian, for the historian.
They make one feel to what a degree architecture is a primitive thing, by
demonstrating (what is also demonstrated by the cyclopean vestiges, the pyramids of
Egypt, the gigantic Hindoo pagodas) that
the greatest products of architecture are less the works of individuals than of
society; rather the offspring of a nation's effort, than the inspired flash of a man of
genius; the deposit left by a whole people;
the heaps accumulated by centuries; the residue of successive evaporations of human
society,--in a word, species of formations.
Each wave of time contributes its alluvium, each race deposits its layer on the
monument, each individual brings his stone. Thus do the beavers, thus do the bees, thus
do men.
The great symbol of architecture, Babel, is a hive.
Great edifices, like great mountains, are the work of centuries.
Art often undergoes a transformation while they are pending, pendent opera interrupta;
they proceed quietly in accordance with the transformed art.
The new art takes the monument where it finds it, incrusts itself there,
assimilates it to itself, develops it according to its fancy, and finishes it if
it can.
The thing is accomplished without trouble, without effort, without reaction,--
following a natural and tranquil law.
It is a graft which shoots up, a sap which circulates, a vegetation which starts forth
anew.
Certainly there is matter here for many large volumes, and often the universal
history of humanity in the successive engrafting of many arts at many levels,
upon the same monument.
The man, the artist, the individual, is effaced in these great masses, which lack
the name of their author; human intelligence is there summed up and
totalized.
Time is the architect, the nation is the builder.
Not to consider here anything except the Christian architecture of Europe, that
younger sister of the great masonries of the Orient, it appears to the eyes as an
immense formation divided into three well-
defined zones, which are superposed, the one upon the other: the Romanesque zone,
the Gothic zone, the zone of the Renaissance, which we would gladly call the
Greco-Roman zone.
The Roman layer, which is the most ancient and deepest, is occupied by the round arch,
which reappears, supported by the Greek column, in the modern and upper layer of
the Renaissance.
The pointed arch is found between the two. The edifices which belong exclusively to
any one of these three layers are perfectly distinct, uniform, and complete.
There is the Abbey of Jumieges, there is the Cathedral of Reims, there is the
Sainte-Croix of Orleans.
But the three zones mingle and amalgamate along the edges, like the colors in the
solar spectrum. Hence, complex monuments, edifices of
gradation and transition.
One is Roman at the base, Gothic in the middle, Greco-Roman at the top.
It is because it was six hundred years in building.
This variety is rare.
The donjon keep of d'Etampes is a specimen of it.
But monuments of two formations are more frequent.
There is Notre-Dame de Paris, a pointed- arch edifice, which is imbedded by its
pillars in that Roman zone, in which are plunged the portal of Saint-Denis, and the
nave of Saint-Germain des Pres.
There is the charming, half-Gothic chapter- house of Bocherville, where the Roman layer
extends half way up.
There is the cathedral of Rouen, which would be entirely Gothic if it did not
bathe the tip of its central spire in the zone of the Renaissance.
Facies non omnibus una, No diversa tamen, qualem, etc.
Their faces not all alike, nor yet different, but such as the faces of sisters
ought to be.
However, all these shades, all these differences, do not affect the surfaces of
edifices only. It is art which has changed its skin.
The very constitution of the Christian church is not attacked by it.
There is always the same internal woodwork, the same logical arrangement of parts.
Whatever may be the carved and embroidered envelope of a cathedral, one always finds
beneath it--in the state of a germ, and of a rudiment at the least--the Roman
basilica.
It is eternally developed upon the soil according to the same law.
There are, invariably, two naves, which intersect in a cross, and whose upper
portion, rounded into an apse, forms the choir; there are always the side aisles,
for interior processions, for chapels,--a
sort of lateral walks or promenades where the principal nave discharges itself
through the spaces between the pillars.
That settled, the number of chapels, doors, bell towers, and pinnacles are modified to
infinity, according to the fancy of the century, the people, and art.
The service of religion once assured and provided for, architecture does what she
pleases.
Statues, stained glass, rose windows, arabesques, denticulations, capitals, bas-
reliefs,--she combines all these imaginings according to the arrangement which best
suits her.
Hence, the prodigious exterior variety of these edifices, at whose foundation dwells
so much order and unity. The trunk of a tree is immovable; the
foliage is capricious.
-BOOK THIRD. CHAPTER II.
A BIRD'S-EYE VIEW OF PARIS.
We have just attempted to restore, for the reader's benefit, that admirable church of
Notre-Dame de Paris.
We have briefly pointed out the greater part of the beauties which it possessed in
the fifteenth century, and which it lacks to-day; but we have omitted the principal
thing,--the view of Paris which was then to be obtained from the summits of its towers.
That was, in fact,--when, after having long groped one's way up the dark spiral which
perpendicularly pierces the thick wall of the belfries, one emerged, at last
abruptly, upon one of the lofty platforms
inundated with light and air,--that was, in fact, a fine picture which spread out, on
all sides at once, before the eye; a spectacle sui generis, of which those of
our readers who have had the good fortune
to see a Gothic city entire, complete, homogeneous,--a few of which still remain,
Nuremberg in Bavaria and Vittoria in Spain,--can readily form an idea; or even
smaller specimens, provided that they are
well preserved,--Vitre in Brittany, Nordhausen in Prussia.
The Paris of three hundred and fifty years ago--the Paris of the fifteenth century--
was already a gigantic city.
We Parisians generally make a mistake as to the ground which we think that we have
gained, since Paris has not increased much over one-third since the time of Louis XI.
It has certainly lost more in beauty than it has gained in size.
Paris had its birth, as the reader knows, in that old island of the City which has
the form of a cradle.
The strand of that island was its first boundary wall, the Seine its first moat.
Paris remained for many centuries in its island state, with two bridges, one on the
north, the other on the south; and two bridge heads, which were at the same time
its gates and its fortresses,--the Grand-
Chatelet on the right bank, the Petit- Chatelet on the left.
Then, from the date of the kings of the first race, Paris, being too cribbed and
confined in its island, and unable to return thither, crossed the water.
Then, beyond the Grand, beyond the Petit- Chatelet, a first circle of walls and
towers began to infringe upon the country on the two sides of the Seine.
Some vestiges of this ancient enclosure still remained in the last century; to-day,
only the memory of it is left, and here and there a tradition, the Baudets or Baudoyer
gate, "Porte Bagauda".
Little by little, the tide of houses, always thrust from the heart of the city
outwards, overflows, devours, wears away, and effaces this wall.
Philip Augustus makes a new dike for it.
He imprisons Paris in a circular chain of great towers, both lofty and solid.
For the period of more than a century, the houses press upon each other, accumulate,
and raise their level in this basin, like water in a reservoir.
They begin to deepen; they pile story upon story; they mount upon each other; they
gush forth at the top, like all laterally compressed growth, and there is a rivalry
as to which shall thrust its head above its
neighbors, for the sake of getting a little air.
The street glows narrower and deeper, every space is overwhelmed and disappears.
The houses finally leap the wall of Philip Augustus, and scatter joyfully over the
plain, without order, and all askew, like runaways.
There they plant themselves squarely, cut themselves gardens from the fields, and
take their ease.
Beginning with 1367, the city spreads to such an extent into the suburbs, that a new
wall becomes necessary, particularly on the right bank; Charles V. builds it.
But a city like Paris is perpetually growing.
It is only such cities that become capitals.
They are funnels, into which all the geographical, political, moral, and
intellectual water-sheds of a country, all the natural slopes of a people, pour; wells
of civilization, so to speak, and also
sewers, where commerce, industry, intelligence, population,--all that is sap,
all that is life, all that is the soul of a nation, filters and amasses unceasingly,
drop by drop, century by century.
So Charles V.'s wall suffered the fate of that of Philip Augustus.
At the end of the fifteenth century, the Faubourg strides across it, passes beyond
it, and runs farther.
In the sixteenth, it seems to retreat visibly, and to bury itself deeper and
deeper in the old city, so thick had the new city already become outside of it.
Thus, beginning with the fifteenth century, where our story finds us, Paris had already
outgrown the three concentric circles of walls which, from the time of Julian the
Apostate, existed, so to speak, in germ in
the Grand-Chatelet and the Petit-Chatelet.
The mighty city had cracked, in succession, its four enclosures of walls, like a child
grown too large for his garments of last year.
Under Louis XI., this sea of houses was seen to be pierced at intervals by several
groups of ruined towers, from the ancient wall, like the summits of hills in an
inundation,--like archipelagos of the old Paris submerged beneath the new.
Since that time Paris has undergone yet another transformation, unfortunately for
our eyes; but it has passed only one more wall, that of Louis XV., that miserable
wall of mud and spittle, worthy of the king
who built it, worthy of the poet who sung it,--
Le mur murant Paris rend Paris murmurant.*
* The wall walling Paris makes Paris murmur.
In the fifteenth century, Paris was still divided into three wholly distinct and
separate towns, each having its own physiognomy, its own specialty, its
manners, customs, privileges, and history: the City, the University, the Town.
The City, which occupied the island, was the most ancient, the smallest, and the
mother of the other two, crowded in between them like (may we be pardoned the
comparison) a little old woman between two large and handsome maidens.
The University covered the left bank of the Seine, from the Tournelle to the Tour de
Nesle, points which correspond in the Paris of to-day, the one to the wine market, the
other to the mint.
Its wall included a large part of that plain where Julian had built his hot baths.
The hill of Sainte-Genevieve was enclosed in it.
The culminating point of this sweep of walls was the Papal gate, that is to say,
near the present site of the Pantheon.
The Town, which was the largest of the three fragments of Paris, held the right
bank.
Its quay, broken or interrupted in many places, ran along the Seine, from the Tour
de Billy to the Tour du Bois; that is to say, from the place where the granary
stands to-day, to the present site of the Tuileries.
These four points, where the Seine intersected the wall of the capital, the
Tournelle and the Tour de Nesle on the right, the Tour de Billy and the Tour du
Bois on the left, were called pre- eminently, "the four towers of Paris."
The Town encroached still more extensively upon the fields than the University.
The culminating point of the Town wall (that of Charles V.) was at the gates of
Saint-Denis and Saint-Martin, whose situation has not been changed.
As we have just said, each of these three great divisions of Paris was a town, but
too special a town to be complete, a city which could not get along without the other
two.
Hence three entirely distinct aspects: churches abounded in the City; palaces, in
the Town; and colleges, in the University.
Neglecting here the originalities, of secondary importance in old Paris, and the
capricious regulations regarding the public highways, we will say, from a general point
of view, taking only masses and the whole
group, in this chaos of communal jurisdictions, that the island belonged to
the bishop, the right bank to the provost of the merchants, the left bank to the
Rector; over all ruled the provost of Paris, a royal not a municipal official.
The City had Notre-Dame; the Town, the Louvre and the Hotel de Ville; the
University, the Sorbonne.
The Town had the markets (Halles); the city, the Hospital; the University, the
Pre-aux-Clercs.
Offences committed by the scholars on the left bank were tried in the law courts on
the island, and were punished on the right bank at Montfaucon; unless the rector,
feeling the university to be strong and the
king weak, intervened; for it was the students' privilege to be hanged on their
own grounds.
The greater part of these privileges, it may be noted in passing, and there were
some even better than the above, had been extorted from the kings by revolts and
mutinies.
It is the course of things from time immemorial; the king only lets go when the
people tear away.
There is an old charter which puts the matter naively: apropos of fidelity:
Civibus fidelitas in reges, quoe tamen aliquoties seditionibus interrypta, multa
peperit privileyia.
In the fifteenth century, the Seine bathed five islands within the walls of Paris:
Louviers island, where there were then trees, and where there is no longer
anything but wood; l'ile aux Vaches, and
l'ile Notre-Dame, both deserted, with the exception of one house, both fiefs of the
bishop--in the seventeenth century, a single island was formed out of these two,
which was built upon and named l'ile Saint-
Louis--, lastly the City, and at its point, the little islet of the cow tender, which
was afterwards engulfed beneath the platform of the Pont-Neuf.
The City then had five bridges: three on the right, the Pont Notre-Dame, and the
Pont au Change, of stone, the Pont aux Meuniers, of wood; two on the left, the
Petit Pont, of stone, the Pont Saint- Michel, of wood; all loaded with houses.
The University had six gates, built by Philip Augustus; there were, beginning with
la Tournelle, the Porte Saint-Victor, the Porte Bordelle, the Porte Papale, the Porte
Saint-Jacques, the Porte Saint-Michel, the Porte Saint-Germain.
The Town had six gates, built by Charles V.; beginning with the Tour de Billy they
were: the Porte Saint-Antoine, the Porte du Temple, the Porte Saint-Martin, the Porte
Saint-Denis, the Porte Montmartre, the Porte Saint-Honore.
All these gates were strong, and also handsome, which does not detract from
strength.
A large, deep moat, with a brisk current during the high water of winter, bathed the
base of the wall round Paris; the Seine furnished the water.
At night, the gates were shut, the river was barred at both ends of the city with
huge iron chains, and Paris slept tranquilly.
From a bird's-eye view, these three burgs, the City, the Town, and the University,
each presented to the eye an inextricable skein of eccentrically tangled streets.
Nevertheless, at first sight, one recognized the fact that these three
fragments formed but one body.
One immediately perceived three long parallel streets, unbroken, undisturbed,
traversing, almost in a straight line, all three cities, from one end to the other;
from North to South, perpendicularly, to
the Seine, which bound them together, mingled them, infused them in each other,
poured and transfused the people incessantly, from one to the other, and
made one out of the three.
The first of these streets ran from the Porte Saint-Martin: it was called the Rue
Saint-Jacques in the University, Rue de la Juiverie in the City, Rue Saint-Martin in
the Town; it crossed the water twice, under
the name of the Petit Pont and the Pont Notre-Dame.
The second, which was called the Rue de la Harpe on the left bank, Rue de la
Barillerie in the island, Rue Saint-Denis on the right bank, Pont Saint-Michel on one
arm of the Seine, Pont au Change on the
other, ran from the Porte Saint-Michel in the University, to the Porte Saint-Denis in
the Town.
However, under all these names, there were but two streets, parent streets, generating
streets,--the two arteries of Paris.
All the other veins of the triple city either derived their supply from them or
emptied into them.
Independently of these two principal streets, piercing Paris diametrically in
its whole breadth, from side to side, common to the entire capital, the City and
the University had also each its own great
special street, which ran lengthwise by them, parallel to the Seine, cutting, as it
passed, at right angles, the two arterial thoroughfares.
Thus, in the Town, one descended in a straight line from the Porte Saint-Antoine
to the Porte Saint-Honore; in the University from the Porte Saint-Victor to
the Porte Saint-Germain.
These two great thoroughfares intersected by the two first, formed the canvas upon
which reposed, knotted and crowded together on every hand, the labyrinthine network of
the streets of Paris.
In the incomprehensible plan of these streets, one distinguished likewise, on
looking attentively, two clusters of great streets, like magnified sheaves of grain,
one in the University, the other in the
Town, which spread out gradually from the bridges to the gates.
Some traces of this geometrical plan still exist to-day.
Now, what aspect did this whole present, when, as viewed from the summit of the
towers of Notre-Dame, in 1482? That we shall try to describe.
For the spectator who arrived, panting, upon that pinnacle, it was first a dazzling
confusing view of roofs, chimneys, streets, bridges, places, spires, bell towers.
Everything struck your eye at once: the carved gable, the pointed roof, the turrets
suspended at the angles of the walls; the stone pyramids of the eleventh century, the
slate obelisks of the fifteenth; the round,
bare tower of the donjon keep; the square and fretted tower of the church; the great
and the little, the massive and the aerial.
The eye was, for a long time, wholly lost in this labyrinth, where there was nothing
which did not possess its originality, its reason, its genius, its beauty,--nothing
which did not proceed from art; beginning
with the smallest house, with its painted and carved front, with external beams,
elliptical door, with projecting stories, to the royal Louvre, which then had a
colonnade of towers.
But these are the principal masses which were then to be distinguished when the eye
began to accustom itself to this tumult of edifices.
In the first place, the City.--"The island of the City," as Sauval says, who, in spite
of his confused medley, sometimes has such happy turns of expression,--"the island of
the city is made like a great ship, stuck
in the mud and run aground in the current, near the centre of the Seine."
We have just explained that, in the fifteenth century, this ship was anchored
to the two banks of the river by five bridges.
This form of a ship had also struck the heraldic scribes; for it is from that, and
not from the siege by the Normans, that the ship which blazons the old shield of Paris,
comes, according to Favyn and Pasquier.
For him who understands how to decipher them, armorial bearings are algebra,
armorial bearings have a tongue.
The whole history of the second half of the Middle Ages is written in armorial
bearings,--the first half is in the symbolism of the Roman churches.
They are the hieroglyphics of feudalism, succeeding those of theocracy.
Thus the City first presented itself to the eye, with its stern to the east, and its
prow to the west.
Turning towards the prow, one had before one an innumerable flock of ancient roofs,
over which arched broadly the lead-covered apse of the Sainte-Chapelle, like an
elephant's haunches loaded with its tower.
Only here, this tower was the most audacious, the most open, the most
ornamented spire of cabinet-maker's work that ever let the sky peep through its cone
of lace.
In front of Notre-Dame, and very near at hand, three streets opened into the
cathedral square,--a fine square, lined with ancient houses.
Over the south side of this place bent the wrinkled and sullen facade of the Hotel
Dieu, and its roof, which seemed covered with warts and pustules.
Then, on the right and the left, to east and west, within that wall of the City,
which was yet so contracted, rose the bell towers of its one and twenty churches, of
every date, of every form, of every size,
from the low and wormeaten belfry of Saint- Denis du Pas (Carcer Glaueini) to the
slender needles of Saint-Pierre aux Boeufs and Saint-Landry.
Behind Notre-Dame, the cloister and its Gothic galleries spread out towards the
north; on the south, the half-Roman palace of the bishop; on the east, the desert
point of the Terrain.
In this throng of houses the eye also distinguished, by the lofty open-work
mitres of stone which then crowned the roof itself, even the most elevated windows of
the palace, the Hotel given by the city,
under Charles VI., to Juvenal des Ursins; a little farther on, the pitch-covered sheds
of the Palus Market; in still another quarter the new apse of Saint-Germain le
Vieux, lengthened in 1458, with a bit of
the Rue aux Febves; and then, in places, a square crowded with people; a pillory,
erected at the corner of a street; a fine fragment of the pavement of Philip
Augustus, a magnificent flagging, grooved
for the horses' feet, in the middle of the road, and so badly replaced in the
sixteenth century by the miserable cobblestones, called the "pavement of the
League;" a deserted back courtyard, with
one of those diaphanous staircase turrets, such as were erected in the fifteenth
century, one of which is still to be seen in the Rue des Bourdonnais.
Lastly, at the right of the Sainte- Chapelle, towards the west, the Palais de
Justice rested its group of towers at the edge of the water.
The thickets of the king's gardens, which covered the western point of the City,
masked the Island du Passeur.
As for the water, from the summit of the towers of Notre-Dame one hardly saw it, on
either side of the City; the Seine was hidden by bridges, the bridges by houses.
And when the glance passed these bridges, whose roofs were visibly green, rendered
mouldy before their time by the vapors from the water, if it was directed to the left,
towards the University, the first edifice
which struck it was a large, low sheaf of towers, the Petit-Chatelet, whose yawning
gate devoured the end of the Petit-Pont.
Then, if your view ran along the bank, from east to west, from the Tournelle to the
Tour de Nesle, there was a long cordon of houses, with carved beams, stained-glass
windows, each story projecting over that
beneath it, an interminable zigzag of bourgeois gables, frequently interrupted by
the mouth of a street, and from time to time also by the front or angle of a huge
stone mansion, planted at its ease, with
courts and gardens, wings and detached buildings, amid this populace of crowded
and narrow houses, like a grand gentleman among a throng of rustics.
There were five or six of these mansions on the quay, from the house of Lorraine, which
shared with the Bernardins the grand enclosure adjoining the Tournelle, to the
Hotel de Nesle, whose principal tower ended
Paris, and whose pointed roofs were in a position, during three months of the year,
to encroach, with their black triangles, upon the scarlet disk of the setting sun.
This side of the Seine was, however, the least mercantile of the two.
Students furnished more of a crowd and more noise there than artisans, and there was
not, properly speaking, any quay, except from the Pont Saint-Michel to the Tour de
Nesle.
The rest of the bank of the Seine was now a naked strand, the same as beyond the
Bernardins; again, a throng of houses, standing with their feet in the water, as
between the two bridges.
There was a great uproar of laundresses; they screamed, and talked, and sang from
morning till night along the beach, and beat a great deal of linen there, just as
in our day.
This is not the least of the gayeties of Paris.
The University presented a dense mass to the eye.
From one end to the other, it was homogeneous and compact.
The thousand roofs, dense, angular, clinging to each other, composed, nearly
all, of the same geometrical element, offered, when viewed from above, the aspect
of a crystallization of the same substance.
The capricious ravine of streets did not cut this block of houses into too
disproportionate slices.
The forty-two colleges were scattered about in a fairly equal manner, and there were
some everywhere.
The amusingly varied crests of these beautiful edifices were the product of the
same art as the simple roofs which they overshot, and were, actually, only a
multiplication of the square or the cube of the same geometrical figure.
Hence they complicated the whole effect, without disturbing it; completed, without
overloading it.
Geometry is harmony. Some fine mansions here and there made
magnificent outlines against the picturesque attics of the left bank.
The house of Nevers, the house of Rome, the house of Reims, which have disappeared; the
Hotel de Cluny, which still exists, for the consolation of the artist, and whose tower
was so stupidly deprived of its crown a few years ago.
Close to Cluny, that Roman palace, with fine round arches, were once the hot baths
of Julian.
There were a great many abbeys, of a beauty more devout, of a grandeur more solemn than
the mansions, but not less beautiful, not less grand.
Those which first caught the eye were the Bernardins, with their three bell towers;
Sainte-Genevieve, whose square tower, which still exists, makes us regret the rest; the
Sorbonne, half college, half monastery, of
which so admirable a nave survives; the fine quadrilateral cloister of the
Mathurins; its neighbor, the cloister of Saint-Benoit, within whose walls they have
had time to cobble up a theatre, between
the seventh and eighth editions of this book; the Cordeliers, with their three
enormous adjacent gables; the Augustins, whose graceful spire formed, after the Tour
de Nesle, the second denticulation on this side of Paris, starting from the west.
The colleges, which are, in fact, the intermediate ring between the cloister and
the world, hold the middle position in the monumental series between the Hotels and
the abbeys, with a severity full of
elegance, sculpture less giddy than the palaces, an architecture less severe than
the convents.
Unfortunately, hardly anything remains of these monuments, where Gothic art combined
with so just a balance, richness and economy.
The churches (and they were numerous and splendid in the University, and they were
graded there also in all the ages of architecture, from the round arches of
Saint-Julian to the pointed arches of
Saint-Severin), the churches dominated the whole; and, like one harmony more in this
mass of harmonies, they pierced in quick succession the multiple open work of the
gables with slashed spires, with open-work
bell towers, with slender pinnacles, whose line was also only a magnificent
exaggeration of the acute angle of the roofs.
The ground of the University was hilly; Mount Sainte-Genevieve formed an enormous
mound to the south; and it was a sight to see from the summit of Notre-Dame how that
throng of narrow and tortuous streets (to-
day the Latin Quarter), those bunches of houses which, spread out in every direction
from the top of this eminence, precipitated themselves in disorder, and almost
perpendicularly down its flanks, nearly to
the water's edge, having the air, some of falling, others of clambering up again, and
all of holding to one another.
A continual flux of a thousand black points which passed each other on the pavements
made everything move before the eyes; it was the populace seen thus from aloft and
afar.
Lastly, in the intervals of these roofs, of these spires, of these accidents of
numberless edifices, which bent and writhed, and jagged in so eccentric a
manner the extreme line of the University,
one caught a glimpse, here and there, of a great expanse of moss-grown wall, a thick,
round tower, a crenellated city gate, shadowing forth the fortress; it was the
wall of Philip Augustus.
Beyond, the fields gleamed green; beyond, fled the roads, along which were scattered
a few more suburban houses, which became more infrequent as they became more
distant.
Some of these faubourgs were important: there were, first, starting from la
Tournelle, the Bourg Saint-Victor, with its one arch bridge over the Bievre, its abbey
where one could read the epitaph of Louis
le Gros, epitaphium Ludovici Grossi, and its church with an octagonal spire, flanked
with four little bell towers of the eleventh century (a similar one can be seen
at Etampes; it is not yet destroyed); next,
the Bourg Saint-Marceau, which already had three churches and one convent; then,
leaving the mill of the Gobelins and its four white walls on the left, there was the
Faubourg Saint-Jacques with the beautiful
carved cross in its square; the church of Saint-Jacques du Haut-Pas, which was then
Gothic, pointed, charming; Saint-Magloire, a fine nave of the fourteenth century,
which Napoleon turned into a hayloft;
Notre-Dame des Champs, where there were Byzantine mosaics; lastly, after having
left behind, full in the country, the Monastery des Chartreux, a rich edifice
contemporary with the Palais de Justice,
with its little garden divided into compartments, and the haunted ruins of
Vauvert, the eye fell, to the west, upon the three Roman spires of Saint-Germain des
Pres.
The Bourg Saint-Germain, already a large community, formed fifteen or twenty streets
in the rear; the pointed bell tower of Saint-Sulpice marked one corner of the
town.
Close beside it one descried the quadrilateral enclosure of the fair of
Saint-Germain, where the market is situated to-day; then the abbot's pillory, a pretty
little round tower, well capped with a
leaden cone; the brickyard was further on, and the Rue du Four, which led to the
common bakehouse, and the mill on its hillock, and the lazar house, a tiny house,
isolated and half seen.
But that which attracted the eye most of all, and fixed it for a long time on that
point, was the abbey itself.
It is certain that this monastery, which had a grand air, both as a church and as a
seignory; that abbatial palace, where the bishops of Paris counted themselves happy
if they could pass the night; that
refectory, upon which the architect had bestowed the air, the beauty, and the rose
window of a cathedral; that elegant chapel of the Virgin; that monumental dormitory;
those vast gardens; that portcullis; that
drawbridge; that envelope of battlements which notched to the eye the verdure of the
surrounding meadows; those courtyards, where gleamed men at arms, intermingled
with golden copes;--the whole grouped and
clustered about three lofty spires, with round arches, well planted upon a Gothic
apse, made a magnificent figure against the horizon.
When, at length, after having contemplated the University for a long time, you turned
towards the right bank, towards the Town, the character of the spectacle was abruptly
altered.
The Town, in fact much larger than the University, was also less of a unit.
At the first glance, one saw that it was divided into many masses, singularly
distinct.
First, to the eastward, in that part of the town which still takes its name from the
marsh where Camulogenes entangled Caesar, was a pile of palaces.
The block extended to the very water's edge.
Four almost contiguous Hotels, Jouy, Sens, Barbeau, the house of the Queen, mirrored
their slate peaks, broken with slender turrets, in the Seine.
These four edifices filled the space from the Rue des Nonaindieres, to the abbey of
the Celestins, whose spire gracefully relieved their line of gables and
battlements.
A few miserable, greenish hovels, hanging over the water in front of these sumptuous
Hotels, did not prevent one from seeing the fine angles of their facades, their large,
square windows with stone mullions, their
pointed porches overloaded with statues, the vivid outlines of their walls, always
clear cut, and all those charming accidents of architecture, which cause Gothic art to
have the air of beginning its combinations afresh with every monument.
Behind these palaces, extended in all directions, now broken, fenced in,
battlemented like a citadel, now veiled by great trees like a Carthusian convent, the
immense and multiform enclosure of that
miraculous Hotel de Saint-Pol, where the King of France possessed the means of
lodging superbly two and twenty princes of the rank of the dauphin and the Duke of
Burgundy, with their domestics and their
suites, without counting the great lords, and the emperor when he came to view Paris,
and the lions, who had their separate Hotel at the royal Hotel.
Let us say here that a prince's apartment was then composed of never less than eleven
large rooms, from the chamber of state to the oratory, not to mention the galleries,
baths, vapor-baths, and other "superfluous
places," with which each apartment was provided; not to mention the private
gardens for each of the king's guests; not to mention the kitchens, the cellars, the
domestic offices, the general refectories
of the house, the poultry-yards, where there were twenty-two general laboratories,
from the bakehouses to the wine-cellars; games of a thousand sorts, malls, tennis,
and riding at the ring; aviaries,
fishponds, menageries, stables, barns, libraries, arsenals and foundries.
This was what a king's palace, a Louvre, a Hotel de Saint-Pol was then.
A city within a city.
From the tower where we are placed, the Hotel Saint-Pol, almost half hidden by the
four great houses of which we have just spoken, was still very considerable and
very marvellous to see.
One could there distinguish, very well, though cleverly united with the principal
building by long galleries, decked with painted glass and slender columns, the
three Hotels which Charles V. had
amalgamated with his palace: the Hotel du Petit-Muce, with the airy balustrade, which
formed a graceful border to its roof; the Hotel of the Abbe de Saint-Maur, having the
vanity of a stronghold, a great tower,
machicolations, loopholes, iron gratings, and over the large Saxon door, the armorial
bearings of the abbe, between the two mortises of the drawbridge; the Hotel of
the Comte d' Etampes, whose donjon keep,
ruined at its summit, was rounded and notched like a cock's comb; here and there,
three or four ancient oaks, forming a tuft together like enormous cauliflowers;
gambols of swans, in the clear water of the
fishponds, all in folds of light and shade; many courtyards of which one beheld
picturesque bits; the Hotel of the Lions, with its low, pointed arches on short,
Saxon pillars, its iron gratings and its
perpetual roar; shooting up above the whole, the scale-ornamented spire of the
Ave-Maria; on the left, the house of the Provost of Paris, flanked by four small
towers, delicately grooved, in the middle;
at the extremity, the Hotel Saint-Pol, properly speaking, with its multiplied
facades, its successive enrichments from the time of Charles V., the hybrid
excrescences, with which the fancy of the
architects had loaded it during the last two centuries, with all the apses of its
chapels, all the gables of its galleries, a thousand weathercocks for the four winds,
and its two lofty contiguous towers, whose
conical roof, surrounded by battlements at its base, looked like those pointed caps
which have their edges turned up.
Continuing to mount the stories of this amphitheatre of palaces spread out afar
upon the ground, after crossing a deep ravine hollowed out of the roofs in the
Town, which marked the passage of the Rue
Saint-Antoine, the eye reached the house of Angouleme, a vast construction of many
epochs, where there were perfectly new and very white parts, which melted no better
into the whole than a red patch on a blue doublet.
Nevertheless, the remarkably pointed and lofty roof of the modern palace, bristling
with carved eaves, covered with sheets of lead, where coiled a thousand fantastic
arabesques of sparkling incrustations of
gilded bronze, that roof, so curiously damascened, darted upwards gracefully from
the midst of the brown ruins of the ancient edifice; whose huge and ancient towers,
rounded by age like casks, sinking together
with old age, and rending themselves from top to bottom, resembled great bellies
unbuttoned. Behind rose the forest of spires of the
Palais des Tournelles.
Not a view in the world, either at Chambord or at the Alhambra, is more magic, more
aerial, more enchanting, than that thicket of spires, tiny bell towers, chimneys,
weather-vanes, winding staircases, lanterns
through which the daylight makes its way, which seem cut out at a blow, pavilions,
spindle-shaped turrets, or, as they were then called, "tournelles," all differing in
form, in height, and attitude.
One would have pronounced it a gigantic stone chess-board.
To the right of the Tournelles, that truss of enormous towers, black as ink, running
into each other and tied, as it were, by a circular moat; that donjon keep, much more
pierced with loopholes than with windows;
that drawbridge, always raised; that portcullis, always lowered,--is the
Bastille.
Those sorts of black beaks which project from between the battlements, and which you
take from a distance to be cave spouts, are cannons.
Beneath them, at the foot of the formidable edifice, behold the Porte Sainte-Antoine,
buried between its two towers.
Beyond the Tournelles, as far as the wall of Charles V., spread out, with rich
compartments of verdure and of flowers, a velvet carpet of cultivated land and royal
parks, in the midst of which one
recognized, by its labyrinth of trees and alleys, the famous Daedalus garden which
Louis XI. had given to Coictier.
The doctor's observatory rose above the labyrinth like a great isolated column,
with a tiny house for a capital. Terrible astrologies took place in that
laboratory.
There to-day is the Place Royale.
As we have just said, the quarter of the palace, of which we have just endeavored to
give the reader some idea by indicating only the chief points, filled the angle
which Charles V.'s wall made with the Seine on the east.
The centre of the Town was occupied by a pile of houses for the populace.
It was there, in fact, that the three bridges disgorged upon the right bank, and
bridges lead to the building of houses rather than palaces.
That congregation of bourgeois habitations, pressed together like the cells in a hive,
had a beauty of its own. It is with the roofs of a capital as with
the waves of the sea,--they are grand.
First the streets, crossed and entangled, forming a hundred amusing figures in the
block; around the market-place, it was like a star with a thousand rays.
The Rues Saint-Denis and Saint-Martin, with their innumerable ramifications, rose one
after the other, like trees intertwining their branches; and then the tortuous
lines, the Rues de la Platrerie, de la
Verrerie, de la Tixeranderie, etc., meandered over all.
There were also fine edifices which pierced the petrified undulations of that sea of
gables.
At the head of the Pont aux Changeurs, behind which one beheld the Seine foaming
beneath the wheels of the Pont aux Meuniers, there was the Chalelet, no longer
a Roman tower, as under Julian the
Apostate, but a feudal tower of the thirteenth century, and of a stone so hard
that the pickaxe could not break away so much as the thickness of the fist in a
space of three hours; there was the rich
square bell tower of Saint-Jacques de la Boucherie, with its angles all frothing
with carvings, already admirable, although it was not finished in the fifteenth
century.
(It lacked, in particular, the four monsters, which, still perched to-day on
the corners of its roof, have the air of so many sphinxes who are propounding to new
Paris the riddle of the ancient Paris.
Rault, the sculptor, only placed them in position in 1526, and received twenty
francs for his pains.)
There was the Maison-aux-Piliers, the Pillar House, opening upon that Place de
Greve of which we have given the reader some idea; there was Saint-Gervais, which a
front "in good taste" has since spoiled;
Saint-Mery, whose ancient pointed arches were still almost round arches; Saint-Jean,
whose magnificent spire was proverbial; there were twenty other monuments, which
did not disdain to bury their wonders in that chaos of black, deep, narrow streets.
Add the crosses of carved stone, more lavishly scattered through the squares than
even the gibbets; the cemetery of the Innocents, whose architectural wall could
be seen in the distance above the roofs;
the pillory of the Markets, whose top was visible between two chimneys of the Rue de
la Cossonnerie; the ladder of the Croix-du- Trahoir, in its square always black with
people; the circular buildings of the wheat
mart; the fragments of Philip Augustus's ancient wall, which could be made out here
and there, drowned among the houses, its towers gnawed by ivy, its gates in ruins,
with crumbling and deformed stretches of
wall; the quay with its thousand shops, and its bloody knacker's yards; the Seine
encumbered with boats, from the Port au Foin to Port-l'Eveque, and you will have a
confused picture of what the central trapezium of the Town was like in 1482.
With these two quarters, one of Hotels, the other of houses, the third feature of
aspect presented by the city was a long zone of abbeys, which bordered it in nearly
the whole of its circumference, from the
rising to the setting sun, and, behind the circle of fortifications which hemmed in
Paris, formed a second interior enclosure of convents and chapels.
Thus, immediately adjoining the park des Tournelles, between the Rue Saint-Antoine
and the Vielle Rue du Temple, there stood Sainte-Catherine, with its immense
cultivated lands, which were terminated only by the wall of Paris.
Between the old and the new Rue du Temple, there was the Temple, a sinister group of
towers, lofty, erect, and isolated in the middle of a vast, battlemented enclosure.
Between the Rue Neuve-du-Temple and the Rue Saint-Martin, there was the Abbey of Saint-
Martin, in the midst of its gardens, a superb fortified church, whose girdle of
towers, whose diadem of bell towers,
yielded in force and splendor only to Saint-Germain des Pres.
Between the Rue Saint-Martin and the Rue Saint-Denis, spread the enclosure of the
Trinite.
Lastly, between the Rue Saint-Denis, and the Rue Montorgueil, stood the Filles-Dieu.
On one side, the rotting roofs and unpaved enclosure of the Cour des Miracles could be
descried.
It was the sole profane ring which was linked to that devout chain of convents.
Finally, the fourth compartment, which stretched itself out in the agglomeration
of the roofs on the right bank, and which occupied the western angle of the
enclosure, and the banks of the river down
stream, was a fresh cluster of palaces and Hotels pressed close about the base of the
Louvre.
The old Louvre of Philip Augustus, that immense edifice whose great tower rallied
about it three and twenty chief towers, not to reckon the lesser towers, seemed from a
distance to be enshrined in the Gothic
roofs of the Hotel d'Alencon, and the Petit-Bourbon.
This hydra of towers, giant guardian of Paris, with its four and twenty heads,
always erect, with its monstrous haunches, loaded or scaled with slates, and all
streaming with metallic reflections,
terminated with wonderful effect the configuration of the Town towards the west.
Thus an immense block, which the Romans called iusula, or island, of bourgeois
houses, flanked on the right and the left by two blocks of palaces, crowned, the one
by the Louvre, the other by the Tournelles,
bordered on the north by a long girdle of abbeys and cultivated enclosures, all
amalgamated and melted together in one view; upon these thousands of edifices,
whose tiled and slated roofs outlined upon