At the first warmth in the air the Parisian cafe terraces lie open to the sun, and it is difficult to find a table in Saint-Germain-des-Prés at Les Deux Magots, amusingly self-styled “rendez-vous of the intellectual elite.” This establishment has been trading on its past, for scarcely a week goes by without the newspapers telling us that French intellec tuals are not what they once were. Wonderful to relate, they stay silent. Worse, they are said to have vanished altogether—an unlikely scenario.
Still, my favorite bookshops survive: La Hune with its wide range of works on art and architecture, and around the corner in the rue Bonaparte the old Le Divan (now a branch of Gallimard), which is perhaps stronger on literature proper. Notwithstand ing the pressure of modern traffic, Paris remains the place for the leisurely stroller or flâneur. On the trees by the île Saint-Louis, the catkins are beginning to burst. But surely something is not quite right with the temple like facade of the church of La Madeleine, once dedicated to Napoleon’s greater glory. On closer inspection, it is only a theatrical trompe-l’oeil canvas, while repairs are pro ceeding behind it. At night, floodlit, and viewed from the Place de la Concorde, one cannot tell any difference between image and reality.
Changes are afoot. The Tuileries gardens, which have fallen into neglect, are due for immediate restoration under no fewer than nine landscape gardeners and botanists. The work is to be completed in
