Metronome

1. The church at 16 Rue de la Chapelle, where, among others, Saint Geneviève and Joan of Arc are said to have prayed. 2. Rue du Faubourg-Saint-Denis, the new major road of Paris at the end of the tenth century. 3. The Lendit Fair. 4. In La Chappelle, only the Olive Market (on Rue de l’Olive), which opened in 1885, offers a distant echo of the fair.

“Nameless miracle at the stop Chapelle / Is the Paris Métro coming out of its tun-nel,” the French crooner Charles Trenet would sing one day. And indeed here the subway train comes out into the open, as if coming up for air. At the end of the platform you can see the white dome of the Sacré-Coeur on Montmartre. But the line and the station were built on far older remains: the fields and pastures that, amazingly, would survive until the end of the eighteenth century.

I love wandering this northern quartier, with its smells of spices; it has become a sort of Indiatown that beckons, offering up all kinds of discoveries. A few steps away can be found the Théâtre des Bouffes du Nord, a little off the general register of most great Parisian theaters, perhaps. It managed to escape a premature death thanks to the talent of the English director Peter Brook, who turned it into a living laboratory of innovative theater—sometimes strange, sometimes audacious, always passionate. But let’s turn back to History.

Between Montmartre and Belleville, the village of La Chapelle grew up around the oratory, the chapel in which Saint Geneviève prayed, and then, as it became part of the lands attached to the Saint-Denis Abbey, it came to be called La Chapelle-Saint-Denis, before its annexation by Paris in 1860, when it became part of the Eighteenth Arrondissement.

Where does the name “La Chapelle” come from?

From Charlemagne, who was an emperor devoted to relics of every kind. To feed his appetite for them he regularly sent knights off into Palestine to bring him back the last remnants of Christ’s Passion or the remains of the first Christian martyrs. His envoys returned from these long voyages to the ends of faith laden down with bits of wood, cloth, and various bones in beautifully engraved chests. Transformed by the magic of dogma, these became holy relics that would be admired by crowds lost in veneration.

One of the most beautiful pieces of his collection was Saint Martin’s cape, half of it, anyway, since the young man had of course cut it in half to give to the beggar. For this glorified piece of fabric, Charlemagne had constructed in the heart of his palace in Aix a place of devotion—a chapel, a term that derives from the Latin cappa, or cape.

The word entered into common use. In Paris, it was notably attributed to a small oratory where, it was said, Saint Geneviève had once stopped to pray on the road taking her to Saint Denis’s sepulchre.

The church located at number 16 Rue de la Chapelle sits on the spot of the ancient oratory, and which some believe was once the tomb of Saint Denis.

After Saint Geneviève, another celebrated penitent once came to this place: Joan of Arc. A statue recalls that la Pucelle came here to pray on September 7, 1429, hoping to free Paris from the English and their allies the Burgundians. On this occasion she wasn’t successful; she was wounded in the thigh during combat.

The current church dates mainly to the eighteenth century. The only parts of the original church of 1204—at which Joan had prayed—are the first four bays, separated from the others by round pillars.

The old village was located behind the Métro station at the level of Place Paul-Éluard, at the end of Avenue Marx-Dormoy. It was a small village—the buildings were huddled close to the road and not very large to begin with—but a prestigious address.

In the tenth century, the great fair of Lendit left Saint-Denis and moved closer to Paris, relocating in La Chapelle, between the town and the abbey, where today the La Chapelle traffic circle can be found.

Lendit—derived from the Latin inductum, from indicere, “to proclaim”—lasted for two weeks every June, drawing thousands of merchants from across Francia, as well as from Provence, Lombardia, Spain, and even Constantinople, who would gather to exchange and sell cloth, sheep, herbs, spices, perfumes, and—most rare and valuable of all—parchment. As soon as it had opened, the masters arrived. These were the teachers in black robes who dispensed their wisdom in the open schools within the monasteries, as well as in the institutions on Mount Saint-Geneviève, despite the bishop of Paris’s strong disapproval. At the heart of the debate was what should be taught, by whom, and how. That debate had already begun, but in any case everyone needed the invaluable parchment imported from the east, and elbowed each other at the Lendit Fair to purchase it.

The La Chapelle fair attracted both those seeking supplies and those who came simply to admire the wares being hawked in the stalls, which were sometimes elegantly appointed and therefore very unlike the drab rooms in which they lived and worked in Paris. Coming to the fair was like going to the theater—a chance to see what the world could put on display. Among the scents and colors came a whiff of elsewhere, and in addition to the rich silks there were tightrope walkers, fire-eaters, dancers, and fife players. And in the middle, in a stall made of wood, was the abbot of Saint-Denis—stiff and serious-looking, a sour expression on his face. He was there to settle claims and disputes, of the sort that inevitably arose between merchants and their customers.

Here came Paris’s wealthy—wearing gold-embroidered shoes, their legs wrapped in bright cloth, sporting a sheepskin or brightly colored linen vest, a two-edged sword stuck in their belt and a cane in their hand, and short blue or green jacket. They came with their ladies, who wore their boots to protect them from the mud and grime of the streets, and generally two mauve or violet gold-embroidered tunics—a shorter and longer one. As was the fashion, they wore their hair under a small scarf. Compared to the colorful vestments worn by these Parisians of ease and wealth, the farmers and craftsmen seemed a little drab in their gray, beige, or brown clothes; they couldn’t compete with these lords and ladies.

What became of the Lendit Fair?

With the development of the Parisian university in the eighth century, the Lendit Fair—and its parchment market—became a festival for teachers and their students. Starting at dawn on the first day, students came to gather on Montagne Sainte-Geneviève. They formed groups and marched in step to the sound of fifes, horns, and drums, and then headed toward La Chapelle. The procession formed a pretty display and was visible from the courtyard at the Sorbonne.

In 1444, the fair returned to Saint-Denis due to disruptions created by the students. Later, the Lendit became an animal auction, and then in the nineteenth century it became a summer festival. In La Chappelle, only the Olive Market (on the Rue de l’Olive), which opened in 1885, offers a distant echo of what once was.

In 978, the Count of Paris called himself Hugh Capet, to distinguish himself from his father, Hugh the Great, who had held the title before him. In truth, no one knows why he decided upon “Capet.” Perhaps it was because he had a large head—in Latin, caput, or “head”—set on a somewhat frail body. Perhaps it was because he always wore a hood, hence from capuchin. Perhaps it stemmed from the fact that he possessed several abbeys and therefore was a chappet, meaning “one who wore a cape.” He was the laic abbot of Saint-Martin de Tours Abbey, and the name may have been an allusion to the cloak that was cut in half by the martyr. When he rode with his troops into battle he always carried Martin’s relic for protection.

As the Count of Paris, Hugh’s responsibility was to defend the city and keep it running. The question was, which Paris? The areas around the riverbanks had been ravaged by the Vikings, and nothing was done to revive these precincts. The abbeys there lay in ruins. People became accustomed to living and praying among crumbled walls, half caved-in churches, and sacked abbeys.

On the Île de la Cité, the scene was hardly more joyful. Most of the houses, which were made of wood, had been burned or damaged by flaming projectiles and then repaired in a hurry. Everything seemed askew; walls leaned together and seemed ready to topple on top of one another. On the ground floor of these shacks were small shops that opened out to the street, but they were dark and moldy and smelled rancid; little surprise that most transactions took place in the streets and from carts. Everyone was in the street. The bootmaker carts made their rounds, with poles and strings from which hung shoes on offer; the wine dealers had their carts; the fruit merchants’ carts featured canopies; and the dealers in trinkets and knickknacks dragged around a large sack over their shoulders. Everyone was advertising their goods at the top of their lungs, trying as best they could to be heard over the others.

Though the city had lost its prosperous environs, and though Lothair, the grandson of Charlemagne and the king of Francia, preferred his residence in Laon, Paris was still lively. It was still a desirable address. Desired by whom? By Otto II, emperor of the Germanic tribes, for one.

In this year, 978, palpable tension existed between Francia and Germania. Lothair accused the Germanic emperor of stealing Lorraine, an ancient part of Middle Francia—and a part of the world that would change sides until the middle of the twentieth century.

Lothair decided to punish the arrogant Otto, and gathered together all the great men of his kingdom in Laon. He asked whether they would support a military campaign against the Germanic tribes. Hugh Capet and the other feudal lords voiced their support, and were quick to add their money and manpower to support such an expedition.

Thus it was that at the start of summer a Frankish army of twenty thousand men marched on Aix-la-Chapelle. Everyone thought this was the right thing to do. The lords hoped that their obeisance to Lothair would gain them something in return; and the men were only too happy to be out pillaging. The only unhappy ones were the peasants whose fields were trampled by soldiers. But, in the end, if all you had to worry about was a band of thieves, how bad could it be?

Lothair’s army advanced, crossed the Meuse River, and reached the palace in Aix. The most battle-tested of his soldiers led the attack against the palace only to find that it was … deserted. The emperor and his family had left the palace only moments before. The food on the tables was still warm. After feasting, the soldiers proceeded to ransack armoires and chests—from which were taken gold dishes and imperial jewels. Satisfied that they had found everything of value, the soldiers and their leader returned contentedly to Francia. Lothair was delighted to return to the tranquility of Laon and disbanded his army. War would be continued at some later point.

In the meantime, Otto returned to Aix and, outraged to find what had been done to his royal residence, vowed revenge. The emperor immediately raised an army of thirty thousand men. In the month of October, Germanic soldiers invaded Francia. They had come to devastate the place and this is exactly what they did. The royal palaces in Attigny and Compiègne were sacked, and the fields around Soissons and Laon were burned. Still, that wasn’t revenge enough for Otto, who wanted to take Paris. That alone would match the humiliation inflicted upon him by the raid on Aix-la-Chapelle.

Lothair had fled Laon and in cowardly fashion taken refuge in Étampes. His only hope was that Hugh Capet would somehow manage to defend his city. There was no time to mobilize an army. Once again, Paris was on its own. The Germans arrived; one could see the movement of knights creating clouds at the top of Montmartre. The enemy army set up tents but at least for the moment maintained its distance. Otto was in fact hesitant to attack Paris. He was well aware that the city had survived the siege of the Vikings. How could he do better than those barbarians from the north?

One of the emperor’s nephews, a proud and intemperate young man, demanded the right to be the first to attack. Otto consented, thinking, Let this hothead find out how he stacks up against the Parisians. The very minute that the small attacking force reached the gates, Capet’s men came pouring out, surrounded the brave band, and proceeded to massacre the whole lot of them, not even sparing the nephew.

This hardly emboldened Otto to try his luck. Still, he also knew that he couldn’t simply retreat. To establish the Germanic presence and to test the nerves of the Parisians, he sent a giant of a soldier to stand in front of the Grand Châtelet, the very symbol of Parisian resistance, and in a deep voice shout out insults to Paris and all of Francia.

This continued until Hugh decided that he had had enough. This provocation could not stand. On the other hand, sending out his entire army seemed like a waste. He had a better idea.

The gates of the city opened and out emerged Francia’s champion, a knight named Ives, astride his horse. Ives and the Germanic giant prepared to joust while their supporters urged them on furiously. The German’s lance shattered Ives’s shield and lodged deep into his chest. The champion of Paris fell from his horse. The giant ran to his adversary to finish him off; the Parisians gave a collective groan. Just as the German reached his wounded adversary, however, Ives opened his eyes and, raising his lance, shoved it through a chink in the giant’s armor—the spot between his stomach and where the leather was attached to the metal armor. The German keeled over. The Parisians let out a whoop of joy. In the space of a second they seemed to have won the war.

By November 30, after a siege of two months, a siege which had started to take on the quality of a neighborly visit, Otto unpitched his tents. It was growing cold; mud was everywhere. The tents were taken down and the German army began to abandon the heights of Montmartre. Near Soissons they were set upon by Lothair’s battle-hardened troops and defeated.

His victory at the gates of Paris—a victory in which only one blow was struck—enabled Hugh Capet to consider himself first lord of the Frankish realm and the most powerful figure after the king. The Auvergnian Gerbert d’Aurillac, who would become pope under the name Sylvester II, would later write: “King Lothair was first lord of the realm in title only. Hugh was, not only by reason of his title, but by his deeds and accomplishments.”

What is the truth behind the German giant?

From the memorable joust between Ives the Frank and the colossal German was born the legend of the giant Isoré. The David-and-Goliath story would be picked up in the twelfth century in the Chansons de Geste, intended to galvanize French resistance to outside invasions. The giant would become a Saracen and the hero would take on some of the characteristics of William of Orange, a knight of Charlemagne, defender of Christianity. In Paris, Rue de la Tombe-Issoire took its name from being the spot where the fallen enemy was buried.

In the years that followed, Hugh Capet thought more about his personal ambitions than he did about the city of Paris. His position was a complex one; he had to learn how to oppose his king while also remaining a loyal vassal to him. He went to Rome to meet with the pope, fought against the dukes of Lorraine, and even sought an alliance with the Germans, before finally returning to serve Lothair. During this long period he did very little for Paris. This was too bad, for the city was in dire need of a face-lift. Saving it from Otto was enough glory for Hugh Capet.

And then circumstances permitted him even greater glory. In 986, Lothair died and the crown passed to his son Louis V, who had just turned twenty. The following year fate struck again and the young king died after a fall from a horse. Following the funeral rites, an assembly of the nobility took place in Senlis and by acclamation they offered the throne to Hugh Capet. The whole business was quickly concluded in Noyon, where, on July 3, 987, Hugh received the insignia of royal power. Kneeling, the king of the Franks pronounced his solemn vows.

“I, Hugh, soon to be made by God’s grace the king of the Franks promise before God and before His saints, on this day of my coronation, to preserve to each his canonical privilege, the law that governs it, and the jurisdiction which it exercises and from which it emerges. I swear that with God’s help, and to the best of my abilities, I will assure complete security as must a king do to every bishop and to every church. Finally, I swear to govern the people in my care according to the laws and to their rights.”

Where was the first stock exchange in Paris?

To find it you have to ask yourself how people traversed Paris in the Middle Ages. It was doubtless to Hugh’s son, Robert the Pious, that we owe the reconstruction of the “Charles the Bald Way” at the end of the tenth century. A bridge was constructed to restore the ancient Roman original, which was a wreck, and which had been progressively abandoned. Thus for nearly five hundred years, the only axis for crossing Paris was not a straight line but more like a broken arc.

The principal axis of the Right Bank would be moved from Rue Saint-Martin to the Rue Saint-Denis, in front of the new street that would connect the Cité palace to the prestigious Abbey of Kings.

This great bridge would take the name Pont-au-Change—Bridge of the Exchange—starting in the twelfth century, when the courratiers—runners of a sort—moved in to exchange debts and claims of the various agricultural communities of the realm for private financiers. It was therefore on this Pont-au-Change that the first stock exchange in Paris appeared.

As for the “Paris crossing,” if you head up Rue Saint-Denis, you’ll find at the end of the great boulevards the magnificent Saint-Denis Gate that Louis XIV had built in 1672, on the spot where an ancient rampart had once stood. The comparison with the modest Saint-Martin Gate, which rises at the same height, 650 or so feet to the east, reveals how this medieval axis replaced the older one.

It’s somewhat amazing to consider that for five hundred years Paris had only two bridges, one for each bank, and that one wasn’t even the extension of the other. It would take until the fifteenth century to create an additional bridge over the Seine via the Île de la Cité.

Today the city’s bridges are all nineteenth-century constructions, aside from the Pont Neuf—the “new bridge,” though “neuf” means both “new” and “nine”—which was built in 1607, and is therefore the oldest bridge and not the newest. It was also not the ninth bridge across the Seine but in fact the fifth. Confusing, no?

Hugh received holy ointment and was pronounced “King of the Franks, the Bretons, the Danes, the Aquitaines, the Goths, the Spaniards, and the Vascones.” It was a resounding title that hid a rather less splendid reality. The Danes were really only the Normans of Neustria; and the Goths, the Spaniards, and the Vascones represented only a few inhabitants of the south. Moreover, the king’s direct possessions were limited to a modest domain in Île-de-France, between Compiègne and Orléans, and Paris, which he would make into his capital.

Over the rest of Francia, royal authority was distant, diffused, and theoretical. The king was still the king, of course, but he had almost no way of imposing his authority over powerful vassals. All he had was a limited military force and unimpressive financial resources. On the other hand, King Hugh was fortunate enough to benefit from the network of abbeys, which represented the true economic and strategic power in the land. These included Saint-Germain-des-Prés and Saint-Denis.

Hugh Capet depended on this network. A charter deeding lands to the Saint-Maur-des-Fossés Abbey, preserved in the National Archives, offers magnificent testimony to the year 989 and to the Church’s strategic leverage. In effect, the king needed ecclesiastical power, as from a purely political point of view he was in danger of seeming weak. Hugh acted cautiously. He was not a sovereign seeking great change, nor was he interested in grandiose projects. His main preoccupation was preserving his kingship, and establishing a line that would replace the supplanted Carolingians. Soon his efforts would pay off: only six months after his coronation, he gained the right to pass the throne along to his only son, Robert, who was consecrated in Orléans.

Hugh Capet’s efforts to form a future for his descendants were triumphant. The Capetian dynasty would last from 987 to 1328, and then distant branches of it would rule from 1328 to 1848, with interruptions caused by the Revolution and the Napoleonic period. Hugh may not have transformed Paris, but his successors would turn it into the City of Light.