Tight-Lipped

The square she was heading for sat opposite the entrance to the Conservatoire Nationale des Arts et Métiers. It was yet another of baron Haussmann’s gifts to the city. Before his demolition crews set to work in the 1850s, Paris had been cruelly lacking in open spaces, causing its inhabitants to cast jealous glances across the Channel at the elegant squares and generous parks of its great rival, London. Twenty years later, they could gaze contentedly at a series of neatly-fenced and well-equipped urban spaces open to all. This particular square – with its two fountains, central column recalling the victories of the Crimean War, flower beds and sacrosanct grassy strips upon which no foot was allowed to stray – was a perfect example of the species.