Flâneries in Paris: Nostalgia in the Luxembourg Gardens

This is the 43rd in a series of walking tours highlighting the sites and stories of diverse districts of the Paris region.

Musing about a route for my 43rd flânerie, I realized I still hadn’t done that  quintessentially Parisian stroll, a walk through the Luxembourg Gardens. When better than autumn to wander the alleyways among chestnut and plane trees, past statues and fountains and seek out the timeless beauty of the park where Victor Hugo found inspiration and where Jean-Paul Sartre and Simone de Beauvoir used to rendez-vous? 

It’s easy to feel the weight of history when entering the gardens.  To recall, for instance, how they were first designed in the 17th century to surround Queen Marie de Medici’s new palace, built as her refuge after the murder of her husband, Henri IV. I wondered whether the beauty of her new home and its grounds consoled her, at least until her son, Louis XIII, dismissed her into exile? 

Other ghosts passed through my mind: the royal art lovers who’ve displayed their treasures here; the 800 prisoners incarcerated in the palace, many until their death, during the Terreur which followed the French Revolution; Napoleon moving in briefly in 1799 as he declared himself First Consul; the German troops who occupied both the palace and the park during World War II. 

But, as so often on a flânerie, I was yanked back into the present by a passing remark. A little boy with chocolate brown eyes and a floppy fringe whizzed past me on his tricycle, shouting gleefully (in French) to his parents who were struggling to keep up. “First the boats,” he yelled, “and then the puppets.” They stepped up their pace and followed him, off to seek out the simple pleasures which have been delighting the children of Paris for generations. If I’m ever able to bring one of my granddaughters to my favorite city, this is surely where we will head first. For today, I thought, I’ll wander past the attractions he was so eager to enjoy. 

Entering from the Rue de Vaugirard, I skirted left past the pale green planters lined up along the back of the Musée du Luxembourg and peeked into the Jardin de la Roserai, (Rose Garden), a play area for little ones where a polite sign explained that it was not adapté for older children. I like this aspect of the Luxembourg, the often unspoken simple rules which enhance everyone’s experience. Visitors don’t sprawl on the lawns or screech past you on scooters, dogs stay on the leash and don’t stray from the area designated for them. So, it’s calm and civilized, a place to amble arm in arm, to sit on one of the dark green metal chairs first introduced in the 1920s, maybe read a chapter or two, looking up now and then, perhaps to see a line of children on ponies passing by. It’s a place where time slows down and the past seems not so distant. 

First, the boats! The children clustering around the octagonal pond, le bassin, had one focus, namely the progress across the water of the little wooden boats with colored sails.  Some were in charge of a vessel, poking it with a stick over the surface of the water, second-guessing where along the pond’s perimeter it would return and waiting there patiently until it was back within reach. More children watched, some awaiting their turn, others looking up longingly at the adult they hoped would find them a boat too.   

Then, suddenly, a moment of drama. One boat seemed to be stuck, bobbing up and down, frustratingly just out of reach. Its little captain leaned out as far as he could, jiggling his stick, but to no avail. His adult companion whispered a suggestion, received a nod of assent and helped him lean out much further over the water, stretching to his limit and, phew, just able to tap the boat and poke it so that the ripples nudged it back into “harbor.” By this time quite a little crowd was watching with bated breath and there were smiles all round when the rescue mission succeeded.   

I’m guessing the children there that day didn’t know how long a tradition they are part of. How, as early as the 1830s, children brought wooden bricks to float or race across the water until, gradually, boats replaced the bricks and the idea evolved of providing them for families to rent out. On an autumn afternoon in the 1920s, Clément Paudeau, walking past the pond, decided on a whim to give up his job as a locksmith and set up a stall here in the Luxembourg where children could pick the boat of their choice and set off on an adventure with it. I came across a description of his son Pierre, who eventually took over the business and became a familiar sight, in his captain’s peaked hat, watching over his boats, advising on navigation techniques and packing away carefully at the end of each day. 

Before seeking out the puppets, I couldn’t resist a little detour to the Medici fountain,  a little corner where I always feel nostalgic. I think it’s partly because I know Marie de Medici had it built to remind her of the Boboli Gardens she so missed in her native Florence, and also because the statue at the far end captures a last moment of happiness. Galatea, the sea nymph lies in the arms of Acis, a shepherd boy, both unaware of the jealous Polyphemus looming over them with the rock he is about to smash down on top of them. Today perhaps it was also due to the poignant beauty of the season’s first few dead leaves floating on the water’s surface, framed by tall plane trees arching gently above two lines of stone pots spilling over with flowers.      

I crossed the park to seek out the Théâtre du Luxembourg, first adapting my route to take me past some of the 20 statues of queens on two walkways curving round above the bassin. There aren’t many places in Paris which honor women specifically, something recognized in that memorable moment from the Olympics Opening Ceremony when 10 golden statues of women from French history emerged from the Seine. It’s easy to forget that nearly 200 years earlier, in the 1840s, King Louis-Philippe commissioned these statues of femmes illustres, honoring, for example, the formidable Blanche de Castille and Saints Geneviève and Clothilde. 

As I criss-crossed pathways, an array of new vistas opened up, all set against the yellowing leaves of the trees – statues, a glimpse of the Eiffel Tower, an elderly lady pausing on a bench to adjust her chihuahua’s tartan coat. And as I reached the little theater, opened in 1933, I began to catch a hum of excitement and saw a queue of expectant children, waiting to skip inside and enjoy a puppet show, as perhaps their parents and grandparents had done before them. Today, les marionettes would act out the story of Pinocchio.

Inside, giant posters lined the walls, picturing just a few of the theater’s 2,500 puppets, such as a pierrot clown called Zim Bam Boom and Captain Hook, whom I was delighted to learn is named Capitaine Crochet in French. The first four rows were reserved exclusively for children who yelled Bonjour to the actors and screamed in delight when Pinocchio, caught telling tales, grew donkey’s ears. They  listened reverently to the final message: On ne dit pas de mensonges (Don’t tell lies). Around the theater I saw parents taking a moment to sit back with closed eyes, perhaps in nostalgia, maybe just exhausted. One Mum breast-fed her baby, grateful that surrounding adults kept an eye out for her older child, tottering to and fro around the sides of the auditorium.

When I came out, the light was fading. As I made my way back to the entrance I couldn’t help wondering about the little boy who had been so excited for his visit to the Luxembourg. Was he tired out after his exertions with the boats and then the puppets? I imagined so. Would he be back soon and then perhaps on some distant future occasion, bringing his own children to enjoy the delights of the Luxembourg? It was easy to imagine he might.