Saint-Merri

Stand still on rue Saint-Martin for a moment. Behind you, street performers and skateboards fill the slope toward the Centre Pompidou. In front of you, grey limestone rises in lace-like points and pinnacles. The stone is darkened in places and pale in others, where cleaning and repair have reached it. Saint-Merri sits only a few steps from one of the busiest squares in Paris, yet many people walk straight past it without looking up.

The church takes its name from Saint Médéric, called Merry or Merri in old French. He was an abbot from Autun, in Burgundy, who came to Paris near the end of the seventh century. According to tradition, he lived his last years in a small cell on this spot and was buried here. A chapel grew over his grave. Over the centuries, that chapel became a parish church, and the parish became one of the most important on the Right Bank.

The building you see now dates mostly from the first half of the sixteenth century. That timing is the first surprise. By then, the Renaissance was already arriving in France from Italy, with its round arches and classical columns. But the builders here kept working in the late Gothic style. They built pointed arches, slender ribs and stone tracery shaped like flames. This style is called Flamboyant Gothic, from the French word for flaming.

Parisians gave the church an affectionate nickname — Notre-Dame la Petite, or Little Notre-Dame. The comparison is generous, because Saint-Merri is far smaller than the cathedral on the island. But look at the façade and you can see why the name stuck. The same vertical energy is here. Gables rise to sharp points, and the stonework around the doors is deep and busy. It feels like the great cathedral, made smaller for a crowded street.

Now look closely at the central doorway, at the very top of the arch. Among the small carved figures, there is one that does not belong in a church. It has wings, horns and breasts, and it sits with crossed legs. Visitors often call it the Baphomet of Saint-Merri, after the demon-idol of occult legend. It is a strange and memorable carving. But it is not medieval. It was added during restoration work in the nineteenth century.

Why restoration? Because the original statues on this façade were destroyed during the French Revolution. In the 1790s, churches across Paris were closed, stripped and given new purposes. For a time, Saint-Merri was turned into a Temple of Commerce, a civic hall for the new republic. The saints you see in the niches today are replacements, carved long after the originals were broken. So the façade is partly sixteenth century and partly nineteenth century.

The neighbourhood around you has its own violent history. In June 1832, a short uprising broke out in Paris after the funeral of a popular republican general. The insurgents made their last stand behind barricades in the narrow streets around this church, and the army crushed them. Victor Hugo later used this uprising in Les Misérables. The barricade scenes in the novel draw on the fighting here, so these streets are part of that story.

Step inside, and the mood changes. The nave is tall and narrow, and the light falls from high windows. Here is another detail that many visitors miss. In the choir, the sixteenth-century Gothic structure was dressed up in the eighteenth century. Workers covered the pillars in marble facing and reshaped some of the arches. The result is a Gothic skeleton wearing a Baroque coat. Walk slowly toward the altar and watch how one style gives way to the other.

Look up at the windows near the choir. Some of the stained glass dates from the sixteenth century, the same period as the walls around it. Much old glass in Paris was lost to war, revolution or simple neglect, so these panels are worth a slow look. The colours are deep — reds, blues, golden yellows. On a bright day, patches of coloured light move slowly across the stone floor.

Now turn around and face the west end, above the entrance. There you will find the organ, in a large carved wooden case from the seventeenth century. This instrument has a famous connection. In the 1850s, the young composer Camille Saint-Saëns served here as organist. He later moved to the Madeleine and became one of the best-known French composers of his time. Music has remained part of this church's life, and concerts are often held here.

The bell tower stands on the corner of the building, at rue de la Verrerie. Inside it hangs a bell that is often described as one of the oldest in Paris. It is said to date from the fourteenth century, much earlier than the church you see today. If you are lucky enough to hear it ring, remember that it has sounded over this neighbourhood since medieval times.

Walk around the south side of the church, and you reach a very different scene. The Stravinsky Fountain, created in the 1980s, fills a shallow pool with moving sculptures. There are black mechanical shapes and brightly painted figures. They spin, spray and turn, and the water makes a constant splashing sound. Behind them, the Gothic flank of Saint-Merri rises in grey stone. Few places in Paris put five centuries side by side so directly.

Before you leave, stand where you can see both the fountain and the church in one view. Notice the sounds — water, voices, perhaps music from the square. Notice the old stone, worn smooth where hands and weather have touched it. A Burgundian monk chose this place for quiet more than a thousand years ago. As you walk away, look back once at the pointed gables, rising above the noise.