La Madeleine

Start at the bottom of the steps and look up. A forest of stone columns rises above you, pale and grooved, each one far wider than your outstretched arms. Traffic runs around the building on every side. Horns, buses, the hiss of tyres. And yet, in the middle of all that motion, there is a building that looks as if it has been lifted out of ancient Rome and set down in the heart of Paris. This is La Madeleine, the Church of Saint Mary Magdalene.

The first thing to notice is what is missing. There is no bell tower. There is no spire. There are no tall stained-glass windows. From the outside, this does not look like a church at all. It looks like a classical temple, a long rectangle wrapped on all sides by Corinthian columns. Corinthian simply means the style with carved acanthus leaves curling at the top of each column. Count them as you walk around. There are fifty-two.

That temple shape is not an accident. It is the result of almost eighty years of changing plans, changing rulers, and changing ideas about what this building should be. The story begins in 1764, under King Louis the Fifteenth. Work started on a church with a more traditional design and a dome. Then the architect died, a successor changed the plans, and parts of the early work were pulled down. Progress was slow.

Then came the French Revolution, and everything stopped. For years the half-built site stood unfinished. People argued about what to do with it. Ideas were floated for a library, a market, a public meeting hall, even a bank. A church that the king had begun was not an easy thing to finish in a revolutionary republic.

Here is the first surprise. In 1806, Napoleon decided that this would not be a church at all. He wanted a temple to the glory of his army, the Grande Armée. A competition was held, and the architect Pierre-Alexandre Vignon won with the design you see today. Napoleon pictured a monument to soldiers and victories, a place of ceremony rather than prayer. The classical temple form suited that idea perfectly.

But empires fall faster than buildings rise. After Napoleon's defeat, the restored monarchy turned the project back into a church. Later still, in the 1830s, it was even suggested as a railway station for one of the first lines leaving Paris. Imagine trains pulling up behind these columns. That plan came to nothing too. The building was finally consecrated as a church in 1842.

Now look up at the triangular pediment above the main entrance. The carved scene shows the Last Judgement, with Christ at the centre. Mary Magdalene kneels at his feet, pleading for the souls of the condemned. On one side are the saved. On the other side are the damned, falling away. From down here, the figures are small, but take a moment. The drama is all in their twisting bodies.

Before you go inside, look closely at the enormous bronze doors. They are covered in raised panels that tell stories from the Ten Commandments. Each panel is a small scene of its own, cast in dark metal that has been worn smooth in places by countless hands. Many visitors walk straight through without noticing them. They reward a slow look.

Step through, and the noise of the city drops away. The interior is warm, dim, and full of gold and coloured marble. Because there are no side windows, light enters from above, through three shallow domes in the roof. Your eyes need a moment to adjust. Then the details appear. Gilded ceilings, marble columns, side chapels with paintings and sculptures, and that soft, filtered daylight falling down the length of the nave.

Walk towards the far end, where the high altar stands. Above it is a white marble sculpture of Mary Magdalene being lifted to heaven by angels, the work of the sculptor Carlo Marochetti. Above that, in the curved half-dome, is a large painted scene of the history of Christianity. Here is the second surprise. Look carefully among the figures, and you will find Napoleon himself, painted into this sacred story. Even here, the emperor did not quite let go.

This church is also a place of music. Its great organ was built by Aristide Cavaillé-Coll, one of the most celebrated organ makers of the nineteenth century. Two famous French composers, Camille Saint-Saëns and later Gabriel Fauré, served as organists here. In 1849, the funeral of the composer Frédéric Chopin was held in this church, with Mozart's Requiem performed for him. In 2017, crowds filled the streets outside for the funeral of the French rock singer Johnny Hallyday. Concerts are still held here today.

Now go back out onto the steps and turn around. You are standing on a carefully planned line. Straight ahead, the Rue Royale runs down to the Place de la Concorde and its Egyptian obelisk. Beyond that, across the river Seine, you can see another classical colonnade on the front of the National Assembly, where the French parliament meets. The two buildings answer each other across the city, like a pair of matching bookends.

The square around the church has its own life. Some of the most famous food shops in Paris sit here, with windows full of chocolates, teas, and pastries arranged like jewellery. Along one side of the church, a small flower market often sets out buckets of colour against the grey stone. Office workers cross with coffee in hand. Delivery scooters weave past. The city carries on, just as it has around this building for nearly two centuries.

Before you leave, rest your hand on one of those columns. Feel the cool stone, the deep grooves, the scale of it. A king started this building, a revolution stopped it, an emperor reimagined it, and a monarchy finished it as something else again. What stands here now is the sum of all those changes of mind. As you walk away down the Rue Royale, glance back once. The temple will still be there, quiet and steady, while Paris moves around it.