Église de la Sainte-Trinité

Stand at the edge of the square for a moment and listen. Behind you, traffic on the rue Saint-Lazare runs without pause. In front of you, water falls into a stone basin, and the sound is quieter than you expect. Pigeons shift on the steps. Above it all, a pale stone tower rises in tiers, like a tall layered cake, catching whatever light the Paris sky offers today. This is the Church of the Holy Trinity, known to Parisians simply as La Trinité.

The church is younger than it looks. It was built in the 1860s, during the reign of Napoleon the Third, the last emperor of France. Those were the years when Baron Haussmann, the prefect of Paris, was cutting broad new avenues through the old medieval city. La Trinité belongs to that project. It was designed by the architect Théodore Ballu, and it was completed in 1867, the same year Paris hosted a great world exhibition.

Notice how the church sits in the city. Turn and look straight down the long street that runs south from the square. That is the rue de la Chaussée-d'Antin, and the church closes its view like a full stop at the end of a sentence. This was deliberate. Haussmann's planners loved to place a monument at the end of a straight avenue, so the eye always had somewhere to land. Here, the reward is this pale facade.

The style is called Neo-Renaissance. In plain terms, it means nineteenth-century builders borrowing the look of sixteenth-century France, the age of the great royal châteaux along the Loire River. You can see it in the round arches, the stacked columns, the carved niches, and the decorative vases on the rooflines. Nothing here is Gothic. There are no pointed arches and no flying buttresses. The mood is calm, balanced, and a little theatrical.

Now look at the garden in front of you. The small square with its lawns, railings, and fountains was planned together with the church. It acts like a green carpet laid at the foot of the steps. The fountains carry three statues of women. They represent Faith, Hope, and Charity, which in Christian teaching are the three theological virtues. Few people hurrying past toward the station ever stop to look at their faces.

The square also carries a name from a much darker century. It honours Honoré d'Estienne d'Orves, a French naval officer who joined the Resistance during the Second World War. He was arrested and executed by the German occupiers in 1941. So when you say the name of the metro station below your feet, Trinité–d'Estienne d'Orves, you are naming both a church and a man who died for his country.

Before you climb the steps, look up at the tower once more. It rises in several stages, each one narrower than the last, and it finishes with a small lantern and a cross. From the square, it seems to grow straight out of the facade. The tower is the church's signature in this part of the ninth arrondissement. You can spot it from the surrounding streets, and it helps locals find their way.

Step inside, and the noise of the city drops away. The nave is wide and bright, with a high vaulted ceiling. The walls and chapels are covered with paintings and gilded decoration from the Second Empire. Some visitors find it rich, others find it heavy. Either way, take a moment to let your eyes adjust. The colours are warmer than the grey stone outside suggests, and the details reward a slow walk.

Here is the first surprise. This church is one of the most important places in the history of twentieth-century music. From 1931 until his death in 1992, the composer Olivier Messiaen was the titular organist here. That is more than sixty years at the same instrument. Messiaen was a deeply Catholic man, and he was also fascinated by birdsong. He wrote down bird calls in notebooks and wove them into his music.

On Sundays, worshippers in these pews heard him improvise. Some found his sound strange, full of unusual harmonies and sudden bright chords. Musicians from around the world came to listen. Today, organ lovers still travel to La Trinité simply to stand where he played. If you are lucky enough to arrive during a rehearsal or a service, you may hear the same pipes he knew so well filling the vault above you.

The instrument itself has an important name attached to it. The great organ was built by Aristide Cavaillé-Coll, the most celebrated French organ builder of the nineteenth century. His organs can be found in many of the major churches of Paris. Look up toward the gallery above the entrance to see the organ case. Then turn back toward the altar, and imagine the sound travelling the full length of the church.

The second surprise comes from the church's earliest years. In 1869, only two years after the building was finished, the funeral of Hector Berlioz was held here. Berlioz was one of the great Romantic composers of France, famous for his dramatic orchestral music. So this young church welcomed musical history almost from the start. Later, through Messiaen, it would help shape the music of the following century.

When you leave, pause again on the steps. Look down over the fountains and the garden toward the long, straight street ahead. People cross the square with shopping bags and briefcases. Some are heading to the department stores nearby, others to the Saint-Lazare station. Most of them do not look up. But you know now what stands behind them... a church built for an emperor's new city, and later filled with the sound of birds.