Microsoft Word - Gilks_Fountain of the Innocents_Urban History_ms 11.2016 1 NB. This is the final, un-formatted and un-illustrated version of a manuscript completed in November 2016 and accepted for publication in Urban History (Cambridge University Press). PLEASE CONSULT THE PUBLISHED VERSION IF YOU WISH TO CITE THIS ARTICLE. DAVID GILKS*, School of History, University of East Anglia, Norwich NR4 7TJ, UK The Fountain of the Innocents and its place in the Paris cityscape, 1549–1788’, Urban History (forthcoming). Abstract: This article analyses how the Fountain of the Innocents appeared and also how it was used and perceived as part of the Paris cityscape. In the 1780s, the plan to transform the Holy Innocents’ Cemetery into a market cast doubt on the Fountain’s future; earlier perceptions now shaped discussions over reusing it as part of the transformed quarter. The article documents how the Fountain was dismantled in 1787 and re-created the following year according to a new design, explaining why it was created in this form. Finally, the article considers what contemporary reactions to the remade Fountain reveal about attitudes toward the authenticity of urban monuments before the establishment of heritage institutions and societies. The Fountain of the Innocents was one of the most iconic features in the Paris cityscape for over three centuries. But, rather than providing a focus for incremental incrustations of collective memory, its past fame now contrasts its present-day obscurity. Just as this obscurity makes it difficult to imagine why the Fountain once mattered, its present-day appearance belies its earlier forms and urban connections. This article therefore aims to reconstruct and analyse how the Fountain appeared, but also how it was perceived, represented and used between its creation in 1549 and its re-creation in 1788. My contention is that the Fountain provides a lens through which to observe wider cultural and intellectual trends and larger developments in and about Paris. The article will thus explore how changing social practices, administrative structures and stylistic expectations shaped efforts to integrate monuments of artistic, symbolic and historical meaning into urban improvement plans. Historicizing a particular monument in this way can sharpen our understanding of early modern 2 urban monumentality. The Fountain delineates the scope of the article, but research was prompted by and directed toward answering the broader question of how inhabitants of changing cities reconcile the city of the past with that of the future. This question can be asked of many cities and periods – real and imagined – because in most times and places remnants of the distant past conferred prestige and legitimacy, just as their loss prompted efforts to conserve what remained. The newly affluent inhabitants of Clarice show off ‘what remains of the ancient Clarices’ precisely because neither they nor their city have any connection with the city’s former incarnations.1 The Claricians are far from alone, but asking this question of early modern Paris yields especially curious and surprising results. Since Paris possessed few Roman remains, Renaissance monuments such as the Fountain carried a relatively greater symbolic freight, representing the classical style in the city and the start of a distinctive French artistic tradition. Though admired, during the eighteenth century Renaissance architecture seemed peculiar and, alongside other historic vestiges, was threatened with destruction. Before the mid-eighteenth century, most new buildings in Paris were simply created alongside the old. But between the 1750s and 1780s, a private-sector building boom and crown-led urban improvements transformed much of the city in ways that required destroying existing urban fabric. As a result, many inconveniently placed hotels, gates, convents, churches, cemeteries and medieval houses were destroyed. Decades before the establishment of national monuments commissions, heritage laws and local societies for the conservation of historic buildings, these destructive changes made informed contemporaries acutely aware of the dilemma that urban improvements posed. In these contexts of cultural and urban change, the example of the Fountain provides a striking study of how successive generations of inhabitants of Paris tried to understand, reuse and eventually ensure that the past remained visible through making intelligible and conspicuous a monument that had become incomprehensible and inconspicuous. Threats to the city’s historic identity thus prompted efforts to conserve evidence of its historic grandeur.2 The approach adopted here is inspired by theoretical insights from different disciplines and authors. While taking a single built structure and asking how it has been interpreted over time follows the example of Bruno Latour’s reflections on the Pont Neuf, the idea of scrutinizing the layers of existence of an urban space and showing how these interacted follows Henri Lefebvre.3 In describing the culture in 3 which the Fountain was formed, used and re-formed, the article takes its cue from archaeology and anthropology, recognizing that even a simple form such as a stick can be used in diverse ways.4 Rather than thinking of the Fountain merely as the recipient of interventions, the article considers how it informed these and other interventions because human-object relations not only change objects, but can also change how humans think about and use objects.5 Applied to architecture and design, the study of these relations explores the contentious connection between form and function.6 The Fountain of the Innocents in 1549 The Fountain of the Innocents was created between 1547 and 1549 by the architect Pierre Lescot and the sculptor Jean Goujon.7 It replaced an early fountain and stood in the heart of the Right Bank at the intersection of the rue St Denis and rue aux Fers, alongside the Church and Cemetery of the Holy Innocents, near Les Halles market.8 It formed part of the spectacular decorative scheme commissioned by the city representatives and organized by Jean Martin and Thomas Sébillet for the ‘joyous entry’ of Henri II in June 1549. They spared little expense glorifying their king while reminding him that Paris was ‘the kingdom’s first city’ with the fiscal and cultural clout to stage an entry surpassing those into Lyon and Rouen. An ideal cityscape created inside Paris using ephemeral architecture showcased their mastery of the fashionable antique style.9 The Fountain was a station where Henri II paused and the corporation accompanying him changed from the spice-sellers to goldsmiths; it was decorated with foliage and, according to a contemporary account, its beauty was enhanced by the gentry and finely dressed ladies behind an ornate balustrade in its loggia.10 The Fountain’s design thus enabled them to see Henri II and be seen by him, thereby embodying the symbolism of the entry – an enactment in which the new monarch renewed urban privileges and cities promised obeisance. The entry provided the occasion to replace a medieval fountain with an ornate new one, but the Fountain was above all intended as an urban embellishment to improve the area and its water supply.11 This urban theme explains why contemporary accounts said less about the Fountain than decorations created solely for the entry and why it alone was a permanent structure made from limestone and designed to fit into existing urban tissue.12 The Fountain thus served two functions – 4 the one short term and ceremonial, the other long term and civic – that determined its location and unusual form. Pictorial representations (Figures 1 and 2 ) show an ornate structure on a rectangular plan that squared-off a street corner, meaning that it had just two visible sides. Its base contained the cistern; water sourced from Belleville was discharged through two lion-head mascaron taps under each arcade. Upon the base was a covered loggia-cum-grandstand, formed by three arcades, two facing the rue aux Fers and one facing the rue St Denis, each framed by double fluted-Corinthian pilasters and capitals. This unusual structure adapted the Roman triumphal arch; it partly resembled ephemeral fountains created elsewhere for joyous entries, but differed from earlier fountains in Paris. Goujon’s carved limestone bas-reliefs underlined the Fountain’s special status and enlivened its exterior, compensating for the modest discharge of water through conjuring up the illusion of an aquatic cornucopia. The five standing nymphs between the pilasters collectively conveyed movement and provided a rhythmic succession of variations. Goujon’s other bas reliefs were allegories of Fame for the spandrels (copied from the Arch of Titus), scenes of playful genie for the attic panels and groups of nymphs, genie, sea-monsters and a solitary adult male figure (Triton, messenger god of the sea) for the stylobate panels.13 The Fountain’s form and iconography corresponded to its functions. At first glance, they show how the Fountain was created for the entry and suggest that Lescot and Goujon co-ordinated their designs with the organizers and other contributors. Just as several carved decorations conveyed the city (symbolized by the ship) meeting the crown (symbolized by the fleur-de-lis, the ‘H’ and dolphins), other features and sculptures (mostly fecund females and jovial infants) alluded to several prominent themes in the entry: fertility, ‘abundance’ and mastery of fortune.14 More generally, the Fountain echoed forms – triumphal arches, fountains, allegories of water and nymphs refilling their vessels – that appeared elsewhere in the entry. Upon closer inspection, however, the Fountain’s form and iconography above all underscored the extent to which its creation was an assertion of municipal pride and confidence. Other decorations referenced France’s mythical origins, evoked ‘Force’ and represented Henri II through major deities, but Lescot and Goujon eschewed this repertoire. For its architecture, Lescot avoided the Doric and Roman Composite, which, according to Serlio, respectively evoked regal-masculine and militarytriumphal themes; Lescot instead used the Corinthian order, appropriate for ‘divine worship’, because, as the 5 inscription ‘Fontium nymphis ’ implied, he wished to create a temple for the nymphs. These minor divinities of the water evoked a Parisian or at least regional theme, rather than a royal one, because elsewhere in the entry’s programme nymphs were described as ‘daughters of the Seine’.15 Forms thus followed functions, but the Fountain’s civic purpose prevailed both in the entry and in the context of urban improvements. The afterlife of the Fountain Between the Fountain’s creation in 1549 and its deconstruction in 1787, it was perceived, represented, used and materially altered in different ways that reflected the real and imagined Paris cityscape, the availability of water and stylistic norms. Continuities and discontinuities in these layers of its existence require dividing this eventful ‘afterlife’ into three periods.16 The first spanned from 1549 to c . 1660. Though acclaimed as ‘one of the most beautiful [fountains] in Paris’ and even ‘one of the masterpieces of the world as a work of masonry and architecture’, there were few textual references to the Fountain because authors refrained from describing ‘that which one could still see’.17 Moreover, these authors provided few details – the fullest commentary simply mentioned the Fountain’s antique style, quality and sculptural richness – because their descriptions were in books about Paris ‘antiquities’ that treated monuments as products of reigns rather than subjects of stylistic analysis.18 Visual representations show artists saw the Fountain as part of the cityscape. While Cerceau included the houses to which the Fountain was attached (see Figure 1), Silvestre went further in critically exploring the Fountain’s place in Paris.19 His first etching juxtaposed the new ‘antique’ Fountain to the decrepit Gothic Church of the Innocents (Figure 2); though this notionally showed the Fountain as it stood, Silvestre’s representation of the surrounding area as ruinous wasteland was fictitious. His second transformed the Fountain into a freestanding edifice and transplanted it into an idealized Paris cityscape alongside an imagined pendant and the city’s other great monuments.20 Taken together, Silvestre’s prints suggest that he lamented the Fountain’s real location and believed that it merited being disengaged and relocated. Jean Marot – one of Silvestre’s collaborators – also articulated this urban theme in his drawing of the Fountain, which was anchored in real space through houses, bollards and the road.21 6 The Fountain’s functions evolved during this period. After 1549, the Fountain was never again used in an entry.22 During the Wars of Religion, it fell into disrepair and ceased to function as an urban embellishment and source of water. In the early 1600s, tradesmen created stalls inside and against the redundant structure; some even purchased leases and one candle seller attached iron hooks to create his own boutique. However, this opportunistic reuse ended in 1622 when the municipal government evicted the tradesmen and ordered the master of works to ‘repair’ the site to its original state. The authorities thus reasserted the Fountain’s function as a public monument ‘as much for the decoration of the city as the convenience (commodité) of the quarter’.23 Just as artists and writers admired the Fountain, then, the Paris administrative elites considered it a source of civic pride meriting protection. The second period in the Fountain’s afterlife spanned from c. 1660 to c.1740, during which perceptions changed in two ways. First, the Fountain became famous and was fulsomely praised: one authority admired its elegant proportions and masterful use of the Corinthian order; another compared Goujon’s sculptures to the Medici Venus, the most celebrated representation of female beauty. Santeul’s distich, inscribed in 1689, eulogized Goujon’s ability to create the illusion of waves.24This fame resulted from Bernini’s reputed belief that it was ‘the finest thing in all France’ and was amplified by the concurrent invention of the urban guidebook, the revived fortunes of Paris and France’s dominance in Europe.25 Second, printed descriptions conceptualized the Fountain as Goujon’s creation rather than a monument created under Henri II.26 This reflected a larger development in cultural appreciation through which the artist’s identity became more important than their patron or subject matter. But in this instance, the change was reinforced by misunderstandings surrounding the circumstances of its creation, which were difficult to imagine after the representational cultural politics of absolutism replaced the pseudo-constitutional ideology underpinning joyous entries. Ignorance of the historical record thus severed the Fountain’s connection with Henri II and left it synonymous with Goujon alone. This change meant that descriptions and representations treated the Fountain more as an artwork and downplayed the urban theme. Some writers now called it ‘the fountain of the nymphs’ rather than ‘the Innocents’ in order to dissociate it from the shocking sight and smell of the Cemetery and emphasize its formal qualities above its geographical location.27 Scotin and Pérelle framed their representations of the Fountain with empty spaces, deviating 7 from earlier artists’ attempts to treat it as an urban monument anchored in a concrete or an imagined cityscape.28 For artists and writers alike, then, the idea of the Fountain was preferred to the actual Fountain grounded in the city: it became what Voltaire described as ‘that admirable fountain that one sees so little’.29 The Fountain’s functions also evolved. In 1696, the municipal government transformed its loggia to make it ‘inhabitable’ as a residence that could be rented out – in the first instance on a thirty-year lease to Jeanne Carbon, the widow of a ‘bourgeois of Paris’. Detailed records of work undertaken show that to this end Jean Beausire – the inspector of municipal buildings – made extensive internal changes, installing three fireplaces, creating windows by glazing over the Fountain’s arcades, erecting multiple partitions over three floors; he also altered its roof and gutters to improve drainage. Although the government was prepared to alter the structure, unwritten heritage norms imposed limits on their extent. Beausire was therefore keen to report that he had made it ‘comfortable…without damaging anything’. In the same vein, the tenant was instructed not to ‘break, demolish, change or innovate anything through trying to make [the residence] more comfortable’. The loggia remained in this form until the Fountain was dismantled; in the mid eighteenth century, it was rented to a marchand-mercier, presumably for a boutique.30 In the early eighteenth century, new inscriptions commemorated improvements to the Fountain as a water source: one stated that it had been ‘improved to benefit inhabitants furthest from the river’ and the other celebrated its ‘sweet Naiad water’. This improvement was partly a matter of perception, since in Paris as a whole growing demand outstripped increased supply and worsened shortages, but it was also real because the Fountain’s output increased after its cistern was enlarged and water arrived via the new pump on the Pont Notre-Dame thanks to the ‘technical mini- revolution’ in hydraulics. Water now poured from all three mascaron taps on each side, although before long the increasing number of horsedrawn carriages led the municipality to close off the taps on the rue aux Fers side (Figure 3 ).31 Among inhabitants of Paris, the Fountain now functioned, to a greater extent than before, as a spatial landmark. Contracts between the municipal government and rubbish removers show that it was even a marker for dividing work.32 As a famous monument and site of socialization and news exchange at a busy junction, it punctuated Parisians’ mental map in a growing city with an increasingly mobile populace in which few owned paper maps, houses were not numbered and, until the 8 1730s, there were no signs for street names.33 If few locals saw the Fountain through the rarefied language of art, they must nevertheless have recognized that it was uniquely ornate compared to recent austere fountains and that it was a rare secular public monument containing few allusions to the monarchy. Indeed, such was local pride in the Fountain as a popular landmark that, until 1791, the municipal government was untroubled by the prospect of stone or metal being pilfered.34 These developments during the second period of the Fountain’s afterlife changed attitudes toward its material state. Previously, the Fountain had been repaired without fuss and for most of the seventeenth century commentators wrote nothing about its state beyond describing its sculptures being as good as new.35 But, in the 1690s, its ruination and the municipal government’s ‘criminal negligence’ became tropes.36 Since complaints continued even after repairs in 1708, these tropes probably resulted less from its actual ruination and more from sensitivity to signs of degradation once artists and writers perceived the Fountain as an irreplaceable artwork.37 Equally, the tropes were a proxy for criticizing the municipal government and crown after the former abandoned Paris for Versailles and the latter converted the Fountain’s loggia into a residence. The municipality previously chastised traders for damaging the Fountain; now enlightened public opinion chastised the municipality and refused to accept its monopoly over deciding upon alterations of famous public monuments. During the final period of the Fountain’s afterlife, between c. 1740 and 1787, perceptions became more critical and contradictory.38 Almost all accounts now acknowledged Lescot’s role and the perceived division of labour led authorities to consider separately its sculpture and architecture.39 While Goujon’s sculptures became canonical masterpieces, that helped promote him to the paper pantheon of great Frenchmen, Lescot’s design was criticized in ways that were characteristic of mideighteenth-century neo-classical architects’ intolerance of their Renaissance predecessors.40 Critics compared the Fountain unfavourably to spectacular seventeenth-century fountains in Rome and Versailles and new examples in Paris by Bouchardon and Soufflot. Lescot’s design fell short of new norms for public fountains, which were expected to use strong orders and superabundant water for aesthetic effect, embellish open spaces and combine architecture and sculpture harmoniously.41 By these standards, it was no fountain, merely ‘a square tower with windows between the pilasters’.42 For Blondel, the Fountain’s greatest critic, it 9 ‘sinned against convenance ’ because it failed to announce its purpose: its use of water, the Corinthian order and modest, delicate and affected sculptures was inappropriate for a public fountain.43 However, attitudes toward the Fountain were not simply more critical than before; they also became more divided. If authorities agreed that Goujon’s sculptures were the Fountain’s greatest attribute, there was no consensus whether or not they complemented its architecture. Some artists and writers considered its sculptures independent artwork to be described, copied and imitated while they ignored or criticized the rest of the Fountain.44 Others considered the Fountain one unified artwork, a ‘beautiful piece of sculpture’, or a monument meriting a finer location, praising the ‘agreement’ of its sculptures and architecture, its ‘beautiful form’ and ‘elegant simplicity’.45 The critique of those who admired the sculptures as discrete masterpieces was appositely captured in a satirical print that showed a connoisseur inspecting through a lorgnette the buttocks of the reclining nymph bas-relief, oblivious to the Fountain as a whole and its urban surroundings. Conventionally interpreted as an attack on La Font de Saint-Yenne, the print also poked fun at the tendency to inspect art created for open public places as though it had been created for close inspection in a cabinet.46 The trend toward seeing the Fountain as an artwork or series of masterpieces revised attitudes toward preserving its materiality. Repairs were previously dictated by the need to ensure its stability, water output, ‘newness value’ and the general legibility of its sculptures and inscriptions, but, in the mid-eighteenth century, there was a shift toward ‘conserving’ and sensitively restoring the Fountain. Symptomatic of this, in 1741, plans for further repairing the Fountain were aborted: since it was feared that resurfacing the Fountain would diminish ‘the beauty of the sculpture’, it was instead decided to ‘preserve for posterity this magnificent work without any alteration’.47 Even those who considered the Fountain itself one integrated artwork agreed that its sculptures should be prioritized over its architecture ‘if one must preserve one at the expense of the other’.48 The authenticity of the sculptures, measured through un-retouched traces of Goujon’s handiwork, was therefore now more important than their ‘newness’ and the overall integrity of the Fountain. If Silvestre and Voltaire previously hinted that the Fountain merited a finer location, during this period of its afterlife there were more concrete proposals for its future. While Blondel’s critique implied that the Fountain 10 could be demolished and its sculptures removed to a collection, Guillaume Poncet de la Grave – a lawyer and royal administrator who arrived in the capital in the early 1750s and wrote about its history and reform – recommended dismantling and rebuilding the Fountain in an area where it would function more effectively as an urban embellishment.49 Although the first to advocate moving the Fountain, Poncet’s thinking was urbanist rather than artistic or conservationist. Far from being entirely original, he repeated familiar demands for more fountains and for disengaging and even moving monuments so that they would be more effective as urban embellishments and roads could be widened.50 Dismantling and reusing the Fountain Between 1549 and 1787, perceptions and representations of the Fountain thus changed considerably in ways that influenced how it was used, adapted and repaired. There was little scope for radical changes, however, until 1785 when the Council of State ordered the creation of the market of the Innocents on the site of the Church and Cemetery. From this moment until its eventual reconstruction, the Fountain’s future was shaped by discourse about its qualities and flaws, norms for markets and fountains and expectations for preserving material remains that connected the city of the present to that of the past. The decree was intended to increase space for markets and prevent traders from obstructing traffic with their street stalls, but it was also a successful conclusion to century-long demands to remove insalubrious cemeteries from the city centre.51 Clearing the area posed obstacles: indemnifications, opposition to dissolving the parish of the Holy Innocents, the exhumation and transfer of human remains to a disused mine, the destruction of charnels, houses, most tomb monuments and the Church and the transfer of moveable religious artefacts to nearby churches and other sites.52 Once the destruction of the Church and houses became inevitable, rumours circulated about the Fountain. While one contemporary observer speculated in June 1786 that the plan must be ‘to conserve and pull it from the ruins of the church that it is backed up against’ because it ‘is one of the most beautiful pieces of sculpture in this capital’, another observer reported rumours in early 1787 that the authorities planned to remove Goujon’s sculptures and destroy what remained along with the ‘Gothic catacombs’.53 11 This last rumour was quite likely the default plan given recent criticism that the Fountain was merely a flawed frame for discrete masterpieces and given recent examples of removing sculptures from the Porte Saint-Antoine and Louis XIV monument on the Pont-au-Change. This rumoured plan was publicly criticized by ‘men of taste’ and artists. In one of several letters on the subject received by the editors of the city’s daily newspaper, the architectural theorist Quatremère de Quincy voiced his fear that ‘the authority overseeing improvements’ could, in its zeal for ‘public well-being’, commit ‘a barbarous attack’. Dividing the Fountain by removing its sculptures, he warned, was akin to destroying it because they formed a seamless whole with its architecture, for which they had been proportioned, drawn and executed. For Quatremère, the Fountain must be preserved whole: if it could not remain in situ, it should be moved in its entirety. In defending the Fountain, Quatremère argued that its critics overlooked the constraints that Lescot and Goujon had faced and that they wrongly assumed these artists had intended to create a modern fountain – with a strong order and superabundant water – rather than ‘a temple to the Nymphs of Fountains’. Quatremère agreed that its architecture was flawed, but argued that it nevertheless merited preserving as a ‘repository of past genius’.54 This opposition from Quatremère and others prompted the municipal government to scotch any plan to remove its sculptures but did not solve the dilemma of what to do with the Fountain. Once the Church and houses had been demolished it was left standing as an unsightly obstruction with two ‘unfinished’ sides, off-centred in the space intended for the market (see Figure 3).55 Over the following months, architects and engineers therefore proposed solutions for incorporating the Fountain into the planned market. Some recommended leaving it in situ and completing its ‘unfinished’ sides; a variant on this idea was to create a pendant structure on the other side of the market. However, most proposals recommended dismantling and relocating the Fountain nearby. One such proposal was to reconstruct it against a building on the south side of the market, thereby minimizing additional work and preserving its character as a monument attached to buildings. A final proposal from both the architect-engineer Charles Joseph Six and Quatremère was to reconstruct it in the market’s centre on a square plan, reusing its three arches and creating one for the fourth side. Quatremère recommended decorating this side through adapting comparable bas-reliefs executed by Goujon for the Old Louvre: this provided ‘themeans to stand in for Jean Goujon through Jean Goujon’. He later reasoned that 12 one should restore the Fountain to how it ought to have been and that Goujon must have originally intended a freestanding structure.56 In order to assess these proposals, Breteuil, minister of the royal household with responsibility for Paris, assembled a commission of architects, engineers and artists. (Though technically a municipal prerogative, decisions concerning the Fountain were taken by the minister and executed by the lieutenant general of police.)57 The commission – probably chaired by Bernard Poyet, the chief municipal architect and Breteuil’s protégé – preferred Six and Quatremère’s idea because its priorities were economy, traffic circulation and meeting expectations, normal since the 1760s, for a central fountain in the market.58 However, the commission dismissed Quatremère’s proposal to add new sculptures as expensive and insensitive to the originals, like adding ‘an act to one of Racine’s finest tragedies’. Respect for the original, budget constraints and the need to transform an irregular obstruction into a useful, symmetrical embellishment for the market thus shaped the commission’s thinking.59 The solution squared contrary imperatives to preserve old monuments while making urban improvements, to respect the Fountain’s original qualities while adapting it to meet modern expectations. In July and August, necessary legal measures were fulfilled, the crown agreed to bear costs and the operation was entrusted to Poyet under the general direction of Legrand and Molinos, the architects responsible for overseeing the quarter’s transformation. The municipal government approved Poyet’s design and the lieutenant general of police instructed him ‘to undertake…all necessary work for the translation of the fountain of the innocents to the centre of the new market’, namely dismantling the existing structure (taking care to ‘conserve the bas reliefs and precious sculptures’), laying foundations, creating the new base and reconstructing the modified Fountain.60 Independent building experts first numbered each stone in chalk to facilitate its reconstruction and cast the sculptures to guide repairs before they set about carefully dismantling the Fountain at the end of September. The operation was largely successful, though the nymphs’ feet were slightly damaged.61 Until March 1788, components from the original Fountain were stored while work was undertaken to prepare the site and ornamental sculptors created features for the new design.62 Although the commission had opposed adding new bas-reliefs, Poyet now persuaded Breteuil that new pieces were necessary. Just as he probably 13 now realized that the fourth side would appear monotonous with only inscriptions and coats of arms, he also belatedly grasped that the remaining three sides required six standing nymphs when the original Fountain only needed five. They therefore asked Auguste Pajou to produce four pieces: for the new, south side, a bas-relief panel for its attic and two copies of Goujon’s Fame figures for the spandrels; for the west side, a standing nymph to stand alongside one of Goujon’s, which, they insisted, must conform ‘to the style of Goujon’ and respect the Fountain’s ‘harmony’. Pajou sought permission to erect scaffolding against the Old Louvre so that he could cast and adapt Goujon’s Peace .63 When the Fountain was assembled between March and August 1788, new and old stones were alternated in order to disguise their tonal difference. But this gave the new structure a peculiar speckled appearance and led to it being painted in 1791 to make it seem tonally uniform.64 During its assemblage, Poyet and Breteuil commissioned two additional standing nymphs for the south side, perhaps because of the quality of Pajou’s first works or because the south side appeared incongruous without them. Over spring 1788, Pajou therefore quickly executed pastiches, combining features and reversing poses from Goujon’s originals.65 In summer, the inscription was confirmed and these last bas reliefs were inserted.66 A visual representation dated 1788 implies that it discharged water – that, as before, came from the Seine – before the end of the year and certainly before the market opened in February 1789.67 The operation’s cost was not documented, partly because Poyet and others involved received an annual stipend for their services, but the overall cost was undoubtedly substantial. Known costs included 9,000 livres promised to Pajou for his bas-reliefs and 4,000 livres to Lhuillier and Daujon for two bronze medusa heads – by comparison, David received 6,000 livres for The Oath of the Horatii (1784).68 Given the fiscal crisis, the crown’s willingness to fund a satisfactory urban and heritage solution betrays the importance that it attached to the Fountain. The new Fountain of the Innocents The new Fountain (Figure 4) functioned differently to the old. Some functions were novel; others modified its earlier functions. At the most tangible levels, the Fountain continued to function as an urban embellishment that beautified the city and 14 discharged water, but unlike the original, it was also a château d’eau, providing a reservoir for surrounding fountains.69 And, unlike the original that was compromised by existing urban tissue, the new Fountain dominated the market and dictated the design of its stalls.70 While equestrian or monumental statues of kings provided a central focus for the traditional Paris place, the new Fountain provided a comparable yet more useful and politically expedient alternative for the market square. The new structure also fulfilled a heritage function of sorts: it selectively reused the original and ensured that the Fountain, albeit much altered, remained in the open and satisfied demands that such ‘inalienable property’ of the Paris public must exist for ‘the decoration of the city’.71 For the crown, this presented an opportunity to demonstrate the regime’s competence when its purported neglect of famous monuments provided a convenient proxy for attacking political misrule. In this respect, the new Fountain demonstrated the crown’s custodianship over what had hitherto been a famous Paris rather than national monument. It was overseen and underwritten by the crown as part of its cultural programme to present the monarch as the custodian of the patrie who fostered, rather than personally embodied, national greatness and who collected and protected signs of France’s illustrious past. Finding a solution for the Fountain reflected the crown’s interests both in protecting certain historic monuments – at this time, it also contributed toward disengaging and restoring the Arènes in Nîmes – and in collecting French Renaissance artwork for the planned national museum.72 An unintended and yet important function of the new Fountain was for ceremonies. The original Fountain was created for a ceremonial occasion, but never reused for one. By contrast, the Fountain of 1788, created for no particular ceremony, was used for a diverse range of ceremonies from the Revolution to the Second Empire. Its broad appeal lay partly in its location, but also in the fact that it carried few discernible iconographic messages and was associated with Goujon and the nation rather than any particular regime. Revealingly, during the Commune, the Fountain was protected while the Vendôme Column and Tuileries Palace were destroyed.73 The new Fountain thus served different functions, which determined its location and shaped its form. Poyet and his co-creators were innovative in using new bas-reliefs and decorative features, but much about the new Fountain’s form was predictable, responding to criticism of the original, norms for modern fountains and expectations that great urban monuments should be disengaged highlights in the cityscape. An alternative design (Figure 5), probably by Sobre, helps distinguish what 15 in Poyet’s design was pre-determined by his brief and what was his own visual choice. This design also anticipated later criticism of Poyet’s design: it suggested a shorter and simpler Fountain, without any cupola roof or additional ornamental sculptures, that prioritized displaying Goujon’s sculptures without distraction.74 Visual representations, photographs, printed descriptions and archival evidence allow us to analyse the new Fountain that until 1858 stood in the market. Poyet transformed the Fountain from a Renaissance grandstand with several water outlets into a freestanding monumental fountain. He placed this massive, symmetrical, four-sided structure in the centre of the new, trapezoid-shaped market. In response to criticism of the original, Poyet compensated for the lack of a strong or rustic order by creating a more archaic, monumental structure through other means. He made the new Fountain taller – 14 and a half metres to the original 12 – so that it towered over the market.75 Its main body was raised upon a starkly simple, quasi-pyramidal three- tiered stone base that contained its plumbing and reservoir and gave it a more archaic appearance. Poyet reinforced this archaism with ornamental features created in Lhullier’s studio: lead basins with lion-claw feet, adapted from ancient sarcophagi; lead lion-sculptures (after the Egyptian granite originals in the Acqua Felice, Rome) and two cast-bronze Medusa-head roundels. Other architectural features, supplied by Mézières, included a coffered rotunda dome for the space between the arcades, which evoked the interior of the Roman Pantheon, and a cupola roof covered in fish-scale tiles.76 In response to criticism of the original, Poyet also placed water at the centre of his design. The new design still provided water for drinking and cleaning. But, in keeping with expectations for public fountains, the new Fountain also used water for audio-visual effect; water was thrust upward from the cistern through the lead font between the arcades; it then landed noisily into the small reservoir at the font’s base. Water from this reservoir and the lions’ mouths then filled the basins. There was obvious continuity in the new Fountain’s use of bas-reliefs, but their appearance, meaning and place in the ensemble changed subtly. Although the new Fountain itself was much more conspicuous than the original, the bas-reliefs were further from the eye and now competed for viewers’ attention with other decorative features. In the original, all standing nymphs could be compared from a single viewpoint: they collectively provided a succession of variations that conveyed movement while they laboured to carry and pour water. But, in the new Fountain, it was impossible to see more than two sides from one viewpoint and all but one side 16 juxtaposed an urn-carrying figure with an oar-carrying figure. Although superficially comparable, Pajou’s nymphs were stationary and heroic guardians of the Fountain; they were designed for a monumental fountain with abundant water, whereas Goujon’s fluid figures had been designed as allegories of abundance for a delicate loggia-cum-fountain. Pajou’s finest contribution was for the south-facing attic: his amours and genies with shells and dolphins were more naturalistic and playful and his children were more plump and plastic than Goujon’s.77 The new Fountain was, on balance, an intelligent response to the functions that it was expected to fulfil. The chosen solution reflected the consensus that the only means to preserve the Fountain as a public monument was to remake it while its new monumental form and use of water meant that the new structure successfully functioned as an urban embellishment and a focal point for the market. However, its forms corresponded imperfectly with its new functions because it was an adaptation: the original contained an iconographic programme that we can decode, but its successor only conveyed muted messages alluding to water deities and Paris. Praise for the new Fountain and Goujon’s sculptures over the next decades was therefore expressed in purely formal terms.78 The new Fountain’s form also did very little to convey the crown’s interest in the project. Although the crown underwrote the project, it carried fewer royal connotations than the original. Poyet’s design no longer conveyed a triumphal, regal arch and, rather than glorifying Louis XVI, the new inscription merely listed the principal magistrates and artists involved in its creation. The original royal decorative symbols remained until 1793, although they were less visible and there was no suggestion to update the ‘H’ to an ‘L’.79 By the standards of the time, Poyet successfully balanced competing imperatives to respect the original while transforming it into a modern fountain for a new urban setting. This explains why opinion was entirely positive for the next 20 years.80 Hubert Robert’s caprice painting showed the new Fountain alongside the city’s other finest monuments and throughout the Revolutionary-Napoleonic period administrators in Paris listed it among the monuments most meriting protection.81 Published descriptions compared Pajou’s sculptures to Goujon’s and deemed Poyet’s design ‘ingenious and economical’, ‘even more elegant’ than the original. None complained that displacing, reconfiguring and adding features undermined the original’s authenticity.82 However, attitudes changed after 1809 when the increased water supply 17 transformed it into ‘a liquid mountain’.83 The superabundance of water helped the Fountain become a popular picturesque favourite and Poyet claimed that the change corresponded to his original intention to ‘recall the beautiful cascades of Rome’.84 But it also damaged the bas-reliefs and necessitated creating a square basin around the base. Critics now lamented not only its excessive water but also its colossal base and mixture of old and new sculptures.85 The transformation of Les Halles during the Second Empire stimulated proposals for displacing and remaking the Fountain once again in ways that respected the original of 1549.86 Gabrielle Davioud heeded much of this, but its perceived value nevertheless sank further. Set against new expectations for what constituted authenticity the twice-moved Fountain was considered ‘unrecognizable’, ‘completely reconstructed’, ‘disfigured’, ‘incongruous’ and ‘no longer anything but a modified monument’.87 Conclusion This article has shown how the Fountain’s form and function changed and how these changes were intertwined with how it was perceived and altered. Between the 1550s and 1770s, uses and perceptions of the Fountain changed with limited ramifications for its form. The new circumstances of the 1780s meant, however, that these revised uses and perceptions were soon brought to bear on how the Fountain was saved and reconfigured. Latour’s Pont Neuf experienced gradual, constant change and renewal, but monuments such as the Fountain changed in fits and starts. The layers of its existence evolved at different rates in ways that suggest that the historical relationship between the form and function of urban monuments is one of complex reciprocity. If form initially follows function, the afterlife of monuments such as the Fountain shows that the same form can be used for new functions and that these functions in turn can alter their form. Through looking closely at a single example over an extended period, the article has suggested how the nature of early modern urban monumentality developed. This is apparent from how artists and authors of written commentaries imagined the Fountain’s place in the Paris cityscape. As the first two sections showed, artists initially represented the Fountain anchored in physical space. But, between the mid-seventeenth century and the eve of its deconstruction, their successors shunned this approach and instead depicted the Fountain as a stand-alone artwork, framed by empty space and disconnected from any trace of the city. If the local populace 18 regarded the Fountain as a tangible landmark and water source without perceiving it as Lescot and Goujon’s masterpiece, enlightened public opinion during the eighteenth century perceived it more as an idea than an actual urban monument: this was partly because the cult of Goujon was as much about the ‘cult of the nation’ as real examples of his work, but above all because the conditions for viewing the Fountain and its sculptures were unappealing.88 As an idea, the Fountain was less grounded in the quarter of the Innocents and it became easier to imagine and even propose moving it somewhere more visible in the city or destroying its structure and preserving its bas-reliefs. As parts three and four showed, reconfiguring the Fountain as a centre- point for the market refocused attention upon it as an urban monument in an imagined and then actual space. In this respect, at least, the new Fountain resembled the original Fountain during the first period of its afterlife. Revealingly, after 1787, almost all visual representations returned to the earlier tradition of depicting it as an integral part of the city. The starting point for this article was the question of how inhabitants of changing cities reconcile the city of the past with that of the future. The findings presented here have implications for the history of urban heritage and, in particular, how we understand the patrimonialization of Paris. Most obviously, they suggest that conservationist efforts predated the conventional ‘rise of heritage’ with the nineteenth-century European nation-state. The fact that the Fountain was spared from destruction in 1787 was, moreover, no isolated precursor to later heritage efforts. It was one of many manifestations of the sense of metropolitan heritage in Paris during the second half of the eighteenth century – a time when public opinion feared that ‘the destructive hammer’ of urban improvers and builders risked severing any connection between present-day Paris and the city of their ancestors.89 If public construction of housing in Paris during the last decades of the ancien régime favoured ‘newness’ over ‘reuse’, interventions to save from destruction monuments such as the Fountain point to the appetite for reusing monuments and even the desire to move and adapt them.90 Rather than merely backdating the start of ‘heritage’, however, the example of the Fountain suggests that there was no clear dividing line between pre- and post heritage-minded societies. A more fruitful approach is to examine how built structures were used and altered over time and to ask what these changes reveal about attitudes toward their materiality.91 During a period when many built structures were razed without any opposition on heritage grounds, this study of the Fountain shows that some were nevertheless deemed worth preserving. If there was little attempt during 19 the early modern period to spell out the criteria for determining the worth of monuments or the conventions limiting their uses, the example of the Fountain suggests that criteria and conventions were nevertheless collectively articulated by enlightened public opinion and through the views and practices of the municipal government and crown. These criteria and conventions crystallized when controversy arose. During the seventeenth century, the municipal government dictated material interventions, first repairing the Fountain to its original state as an urban embellishment after decades of dereliction and then adapting its loggia while carefully respecting its exterior surface. But, during the eighteenth century, enlightened public opinion chastised the authorities, first for negligence, then for planning to resurface the Fountain and alter its sculptures and finally for the purported plan to remove its sculptures and destroy the remaining structure. Over the period studied, then, the nature of power relations for determining legitimate material inventions changed, just as these interventions moved from ‘repair’ toward ‘conserving’ and from prioritizing its functionality as a public fountain toward prioritizing its aesthetic-cultural functionality. In the case of the Fountain, however, there was no straightforward progress from ‘improvement’ to ‘authenticity’.92 Indeed, successive attitudes towards the Fountain’s authenticity underline the extent to which authenticity itself is a historically conditioned concept. In 1787, the Fountain was spared because it had undergone few material alterations over its afterlife and was therefore considered an authentic original that documented the period of its creation. By contrast, the medieval Church of the Holy Innocents was destroyed without any opposition on historic or artistic grounds because it had been repeatedly changed, consolidated and repaired to the point that the senior hierarchy of the Church considered it a vile, bastard structure that belonged to no period in particular.93 Poyet’s redesign of the Fountain was initially praised as a means of preserving its authenticity as an open-air monument and the work of Lescot and Goujon. Conventions at the time dictated that it was acceptable to alter its design and add new features even if it was unacceptable to remove the sculptures and destroy the Fountain or add new bas-reliefs that might disrupt its ‘harmony’. This satisfied expectations for authenticity when thinking about urban heritage centred on individual urban monuments as highlights in the cityscape rather than treating the city itself as the subject of patrimonialization, but ceased to do so later in the nineteenth century when expectations changed. The reconfigured 20 Fountain was therefore dismissed as inauthentic once authenticity included use of original building materials and respect for urban context. Notes ∗ The research for this article was made possible by a Leverhulme Trust Early Career Fellowship. I thank the editors of the journal besides the many friends, colleagues and seminar attendees who provided constructive criticism of earlier drafts and papers. I am especially grateful to Stephen Bann for first suggesting the subject and to Colin Jones for his mentorship, expertise and patience. 1 I. Calvino, Invisible Cities, trans. W.Weaver (London, 1974), 106–7. 2 S. Van Damme, Métropoles de papier. Naissance de l’archéologie urbaine à Paris et à Londres (XVIIe–XXe siècle) (Paris, 2012), 12–15, 94. 3 B. Latour and E. Hermant, Paris ville invisible (Paris, 1998), Plan 52; H. Lefebvre, The Production of Space, trans. D. Nicholson-Smith (Oxford, 1991), 33. 4 B. Malinowski, Collected Works, vol. X, ed. R. Firth (London, 1935), 20. 5 C. Gosden and Y. Marshall, ‘The cultural biography of objects’,World Archaeology, 31 (1999), 169–78. 6 A. Rossi, The Architecture of the City, trans. D. Ghirado and J. Ockman (Cambridge, MA, 1984), 46–8. 7 On their collaboration, see G. Leproux, ‘Histoire de Paris’, Annuaire de l’École pratique des hautes études, section des sciences historiques et philologiques, 143 (2012), 229–34; idem, ‘Jean Goujon et la sculpture funéraire’, in H. Zerner and M. Bayard (eds.), Renaissance en France, Renaissance française? (Paris, 2009), 117–29. 8 On the area, see M. Fleury and G. Leproux (eds.), Les Saints-Innocents (Paris, 1990). For simple maps showing the Fountain’s locations and surroundings between 1550 and 1877, see https://repository.library.brown.edu/studio/item/bdr:86322/, accessed 30 Jul. 2016. 9 I. Macfarlane, The Entry of Henri II into Paris, 16 June 1549 (New York, 1982); P. Usher, Epic Arts in the French Renaissance (Oxford, 2013), 15, 121; S. Beguin, ‘Quelques remarques sur les artistes de l’entrée de Henri II’, in H. Oursel and J. Fritsch (eds.), Henri II et les arts (Paris, 2003), 135–54. 10 P. Guerin (ed.), Registres des deliberations du bureau de la ville de Paris, vol. III (Paris, 1886), 175. 11 It followed recent efforts to improve the flow ofwater from Belleville to the earlier fountain on the same site – see Archives nationales, France (AN), K 955, no. 11, and Q1 1109, doss. ‘Fontaines publiques’, ordinances dated 6 Aug. 1538 and 25 Sep. 1540. On the wider context, see M. Baudouin-Matuszek, ‘Le domaine royale à Paris’, in Oursel and Fritsch (eds.),Henri II et les arts, 105; AN,Q1 1109 and K 955, no. 11; P. Cebron de Lisle and P. Smith, ‘Paris en quête d’eau’, in D. Massounie et al. (eds.), Paris et ses fontaines: de la Renaissance à nos jours (Paris, 1995), 14. 12 Guerin (ed.), Registres, vol. III, 164–71; J. Chartrou, Les entrées solennelles et triomphales à la Renaissance (1484–1551) (Paris, 1928), 99; ‘Rapport présenté par M. Charles Sellier sur 21 l’enquête ordonnée par Colbert en 1678’, in Procès-verbal de la Commission municipale du vieux Paris, 3 (1898), 16. 13 This description selectively borrows from P. Colombier, Jean Goujon (Paris, 1949), 56–69; N. Miller, ‘The form and meaning of the Fontaine des Innocents’, Art Bulletin, 50 (1968), 270–7; J. Thirion, ‘La Fontaine des Nymphes’, in Fleury and Leproux (eds.), Les Saints-Innocents, 121–43; D. Rabreau, ‘Sculpture et iconographie’, in Massounie et al. (eds.), Paris et ses fontaines, 151–2; H. Zerner, Renaissance Art in France. The Invention of Classicism (Paris, 2003), 174, 187, 190–1, 434–5. 14 Macfarlane, The Entry of Henri II, 32–5. 15 Guerin (ed.), Registres, vol. III, 164–71; S. Serlio, Sebastiano Serlio on Architecture, trans. V. Hart and P. Hicks, vol. II (New Haven, 2001), xxxvii, 270. 16 The concept of ‘afterlife’ comes fromW. Benjamin, ‘The task of the translator’, in M. Bullock and M. Jennings (eds.), Walter Benjamin: Selected Writings, vol. I: 1913–1926 (Cambridge, MA, 1996), 256. This section nuances E. Pommier, ‘Une intervention de Quatremère de Quincy’, in Fleury and Leproux (eds.), Les Saints-Innocents, 145–9. 17 A. du Chesne, Les antiqvitez et recherches des villes, casteavx, et places plus remarquables de toute la France (Paris, 1609), part 2, 796; J. Du Breul, Le theatre des antiquités de Paris (Paris, 1612), book 3, 790; S. Bouquet, Bref et sommaire recueil de ce qui a este´faict, & de l’ordre tenu¨e a`la ioyeuse & triumphante entree de tres-puissant, tres-magnanime & tres-chrestien Prince Charles IX (Paris, 1572), 30. 18 G. Corrozet, Antiquitez, croniques et singularitez de Paris (Paris, 1581), 264. 19 Zerner, Renaissance Art, 182. 20 I. Silvestre, Liure de diuerses perspectiues et paisages faits sur le naturel (Paris, 1650), title page. 21 Nationalmuseum, Stockholm: NMH CC2217. 22 The Fountain was used for the entry of 1571 but merely provided water for a nearby sculpture group – Bouquet, Bref et sommaire recueil, 30. 23 AN, Q1 1109, doss. ‘Fontaines publiques’, ordinances dated 1 Oct. and 29 Oct. 1622. 24 A. d’Aviler, Cours d’architecture qui comprend les ordres de Vignole (Paris, 1700), 80; G. Brice, Nouvelle description de la ville de Paris, vol. I (Paris, 1725), 492; F. Haskell and N. Penny, Taste and the Antique: The Lure of Classical Sculpture 1500–1900 (New Haven, 1981), 40, 56; M. Tesson, ‘Matériaux pour servir a l’établissement du casier archéologique et artistique’, in Procès-verbaux de la Commission municipale du vieux Paris (Paris, 1922), 58. 25 P. Fréart de Chantelou, Journal du voyage du cavalier Bernin en France, ed. L. Lalanne (Paris, 1885), 42. Bernini’s purported description was, in fact, an exaggeration of Fréart’s words, which were then misattributed to the Italian by G. Brice, Description nouvelle de ce qu’il y a de plus remarquable dans la ville de Paris, vol. I (Paris, 1685), 82; N. Saugrain, Les curiositez de Paris (Paris, 1716), 29, and others. On guidebooks, see G. Chabaud et al. (eds.), Les guides imprimés du XVIe au XXe siècle (Paris, 2000), 59–80. 26 This started with A. Félibien, Entretiens sur les vies et sur les ouvrages des plus excellens peintres anciens et modernes (Paris, 1674), 64; Le Maire, Paris ancien et nouveau, vol. II (Paris, 1685), 22 431; P. Monier, Histoire des arts qui ont rapport au dessin (Paris, 1698), 314. 27 L. Morery, Le grand dictionnaire historique, vol. IV (Paris, 1707), 154; M. Lister, A Journey to Paris in the Year 1698 (London, 1699), 56. 28 G. Pérelle, Vues des belles maisons de France (Paris, 1693); J. Scotin print in Brice, Nouvelle description (1725 edn) – Scotin’s original drawing is in the Bibliothèque nationale de France, département Estampes et photographie. 29 Voltaire, Le temple du gout [1731], in N. Cronk (ed.), The Complete Works of Voltaire, vol. IX (Oxford, 1999), 169. 30 AN, Q1 1182: Beausire’s report of 30 Aug. 1696 detailing work undertaken; various lease contracts dated 23 Jan. 1715, 2 Aug. 1743 and 25 Jun. 1746. 31 AN, K1025, doss. 6; J. Blondel, Architecture françoise, vol. III (Paris, 1754), plate 308; D. Garrioch, The Making of Revolutionary Paris (Los Angeles, 2002), 221; D. Roche, A history of everyday things (Cambridge, 2000), 154; Y. Carbonnier, Maisons parisiennes des Lumières (Paris, 2012), 439. 32 Bibliothèque nationale de France (BnF), Joly de Fleury papers, Assemblies de police, 1321, 26–9. 33 Garrioch, The Making of Revolutionary Paris, 237–8. 34 I. Dérens, ‘Un siècle d’édiles parisiens: Jean Beausire et sa lignée’, in Massounie et al. (eds.), Paris et ses fontaines, 132–42; AN, AFII 48, no. 167, letters from Bailly to de Goudio dated 24 Sep. and 13 Oct. 1791. 35 Chesne, Les antiqvitez, book 3, 790; Breul, Le théâtre des antiquitez, 1071; C. Malingre, Les antiquites de la ville de Paris (Paris, 1640), book 3, 797; Le Maire, Paris ancien et nouveau, vol. II, 431–7. 36 G. Brice, Description nouvelle de la ville de Paris, vol. I (Paris, 1698), 235; Brice, Nouvelle description (1725 edn), 493; Saugrain, Les curiositez, 29–30. 37 AN, K1025, doss. 6. 38 The shift is obscured by commentaries that copied descriptions from the previous period of its afterlife, such as G. Le Rouge, Les curiositez de Paris, vol. I (Paris, 1742), 230; A. Dézallier d’Argenville, Voyage pittoresque de Paris (Paris, 1749), 121–2; and Voyage pittoresque de Paris (Paris, 1757), 156; J. Piganiol de la Force, Description historique de la ville de Paris et de ses environs, vol. III (Paris, 1765), 306–8; Almanach parisien (Paris, 1772), 70–1; Nugent, Grand Tour, vol. IV (London, 1778), 79–80; L. Thiery, Guides des amateurs, vol. I (Paris, 1787), 78; Anon., Almanach Parisien (Paris, 1789), 174. 39 This started in the 1720s (for instance in Brice, Nouvelle description, 492) and was widely accepted by the 1740s. 40 On Goujon’s sculptures, see D. Diderot, ‘Salon de 1767’, Oeuvres, vol. IV (Paris, 1996), 530; J. Barry, The Works of James Barry, vol. I (London, 1809), 33; D. Massounie, Les monuments de l’eau: aqueducs, châteaux d’eau et fontaines dans la France urbaine, du règne de Louis XIV à la Révolution (Paris, 2009), 116; A.West, From Pigalle to Préault: neoclassicism and the sublime in French sculpture, 1760–1840 (Cambridge, 1998), ch. 6; A. Poulet et al. (eds.), Clodion 1738– 23 1814 (Paris, 1992), 19. On Goujon as a national hero equal to Italianmasters, see J. Lacombe, Dictionnaire portative des beaux-arts (Paris, 1759), 285; F. Milizia, Le vite de piu celebri architetti d’ogni nazione e d’ogni tempo (Rome, 1768), 256; F. Blondel, Homme du monde éclaire par les arts, vol. II (Paris, 1774), 232; L. de Bonafous, Dictionnaire des artistes ou notice historique et raisonnee des architectes, vol. I (Paris, 1776), 651; A. Dezallier d’Argenville, Vies des fameux architectes depuis la renaissance des arts, vol. I (Paris, 1787), vi. 41 J. Barrier, ‘Fontaines et embellissements de la capitale’, in Massounie et al. (eds.), Paris et ses fontaines, 125–30; Massounie, Les monuments, 47. 42 M. Laugier, Essai sur l’architecture (Paris, 1753), 190. 43 Blondel, Architecture françoise, vol. III, 7–9, 226; Journal des Savants (Jan. 1755), 27–9; ‘P.’, ‘Fontaines’, in D. Diderot and M. d’Alembert (eds.), Encyclopédie, ou dictionnaire raisonne des sciences, des arts et des metiers, vol. VII (Paris, 1757), 96; Dezallier d’Argenville, Vies, 470. 44 See eighteenth-century references in nn. 40 and 43. 45 See, for instance, L. Bachaumont, Essai sur la peinture, la sculpture et l’architecture (Paris, 1751), 62–3; M. Pidansat de Mairobert and M. d’Angerville et al. (eds.), Mémoires secrets pour servir à l’histoire de la République des lettres en France depuis 1762 jusqu’à nos jours, vol. XXXII (London, 1788), entry 20 Jun. 1786, 119. 46 Reproduced and discussed in T. Crow, Painters and Public Life in Eighteenth-Century Paris (New Haven, 1985), 9. Caylus has been attributed with its composition – Gazette des beauxarts, 4 (1857), 50;Watelet engraved the first version around 1753. 47 Blondel, Architecture françoise, vol. III, 9. 48 A. Quatremère de Quincy, ‘Aux auteurs du journal’, Journal de Paris, 42, 11 Feb. 1787, 181. 49 Blondel, Architecture françoise, vol. III, 7–9, 226; idem, L’homme du monde eclaire par les arts, vol. II (Paris, 1774), 232–3; G. Poncet de la Grave, Projet des Embellissments de la Ville et Faubourgs de Paris, vol. I (Paris, 1756), 190–1; N. Papayanis, Planning Paris before Haussmann (London, 2004), 22–3, 28. 50 For earlier examples of these demands, see, for instance, Voltaire, ‘Des embellissements de Paris’ [1749], in Oeuvres de Voltaire, vol. XXIX (Paris, 1830), 101; É. La Font de Saint-Yenne, L’Ombre du grand Colbert (Paris, 1752), 336–7; Gresset, ‘Epitre a monsieur de Tournehem’ in L. de Bachaumont, Essai sur la peinture, la sculpture, et l’architecture (1752 edn), 127–33. 51 Archives de Paris (AP), D1Z, box 59, ‘Innocents (Square de)’, 139, Arrêt du Conseil, 9 Nov. 1785; Thiery, Guide des amateurs, vol. I (1787 edn), 479; L. Brockliss and C. Jones, The Medical World of Early Modern France (Oxford, 1997), 753. 52 AN, L656, no. 53, Z10 222, Z1J 1151; J. Thouret, Rapport sur les exhumations du cimetière et de l’église des Saints-Innocents (Paris, 1789); L. Hericart de Thury, Description des catacombs de Paris (Paris, 1815), 173–5. 53 De Mairobert and d’Angerville et al. (eds.), Mémoires secrets, vol. XXXII, entry 20 Jun. 1786, 119–20; Quatremère, ‘Aux auteurs du journal’, 181. 54 Quatremère, ‘Aux auteurs du journal’, 181–3. 55 Journal de Paris, 42, 11 Feb. 1787, 183; A. Pajou, ‘Aux auteurs du journal’, Journal de Paris, 24 50, 19 Feb. 1787, 217–18. 56 ‘Avis sur la fontaine des innocents’, 9 Jul. 1787, in F. de Lasteyrie, ‘Document inédit sur la Fontaine des Innocents’, Correspondence litteraire, 12 (1860), 272–5; A. Quatremère de Quincy, ‘Goujon’, Encyclopédie méthodique: architecture, vol. II (Paris, 1820), 475–6. Six was first credited with this proposal in C. Landon (ed.), Annales du Musée et de l’École moderne des beaux-arts, vol. I (Paris, 1803), 110–12. 57 R. Rampelberg, Le ministre de la maison du roi, 1783–88: Baron de Breteuil (Paris, 1975), 239–45; Poyet, ‘Aux mêmes’, Journal de Paris, 262, 9 Sep. 1809, 1868. 58 A. Chastel et al., ‘Les Halles de Paris’, Le Bulletin monumentale, 127 (1967), 76. 59 ‘Avis sur la fontaine des innocents’, 272–5. 60 H. Monin (ed.), L’état de Paris en 1789 (Paris, 1889), 366; AN, F13 1013, doss. 34, letter from De Crosne to Poyet headed ‘Translation de la fontaine des innocents’, copy dated 25 Jun. 1793 from the original of 18 Aug. 1787. 61 AN, Z1H 336A, details of the meeting of the Bureau de la ville de Paris, dated 27 Sep. 1787; H. Stein, Augustin Pajou (Paris, 1912), 108; Millart and C. Pécoul, ‘Procès-verbal du déplacement de la Fontaine des Innocents’ – cited R. Schneider, Quatremère de Quincy et son intervention dans les arts (1788–1830) (Paris, 1910), 26–7. 62 J. Dulaire, Histoire physique, civile, et morale de Paris, vol. V (Paris, 1821), 483; AN, F13 1013, doss. 34. Poyet letter dated 5 Jun. year 2; AN, F13 212, doss. ‘Fontaine des Innocents 1787’; AN, F17 1265 and F21*2470, no. 60, 1920, containing multiple documents dated 1792–96 concerning disputes over ornaments; Bibliothèque historique de la ville de Paris (BHVP), NA, MS 182, fol. 169, Belanger letter to prefect of the Seine dated 26 Oct. 1806. 63 AN, O1 1919/3, 245, Pajou letter to d’Angiviller dated 11 Oct. 1787; AN, O1 1180, 568, d’Angiviller letter to Pajou dated 14 Nov. 1787. 64 L. Batissier and J. Dulaire, Histoire de Paris et de ses monuments, par Dulaure. Nouvelle édition, refondue et complétée jusqu’à nos jours (Paris, n.d. [1846]), 284; AN, O1 499, fols. 181, 192, 212, 319; AP, D1 Z59, doss. ‘Innocents, square de’, no. 141. 65 BHVP, MS 1212, fol. 15, Pajou letter to Bailly dated 15 Nov. 1789; Stein, Pajou, 371–83. The commission had two phases, contrary to Pajou’s version of events when he demanded payment. 66 AN, O1 499, fols. 212 (Breteuil to Poyet, 11 Apr. 188), 320 (Breteul to Thiroux de Crosne, 7 Jun. 1788). 67 Tesson, ‘Matériaux’, 59; F. and L. Lazare, Dictionnaire administratif et historique des rues et monuments de Paris (Paris, [1855] 1994), 433; P. Grégoire, Fontaine des Innocents (1788), BnF, département Estampes et photographie; AP, D12 59. 68 BHVP, MS 1212, fol. 15; AN, F13 212. 69 Tesson, ‘Matériaux’, 59. 70 Poyet’s scheme was represented in a pen and ink drawing (‘Vue perspective de la fontaine des innocents, présentée à Monsieur de Villedeuil’ – Private collection, 36 °ø 51.5cm) that later appeared as an engraving in J. La Borde et al. (eds.), Voyage pittoresque de la France, vol. 25 X, livraison 56 (Paris, 1792), no. 84. Stalls were only erected in 1811 and to a different design – AN, F13 1162, F13 942, no. 52; AP, 6AZ8, doss. 422. From 1789 to 1811, large umbrellas – shown inmany visual representations (Figure 4) – provided some shelter for market sellers and their produce. 71 Journal de Paris, 50, 19 Feb. 1787, 217–18. 72 AN, H748 231, no. 18, H1023 17; P. Michel, ‘La politique d’acquisition des Batiments du Roi pour les collections royales dans la seconde moitie du XVIIIe siècle: modalities, choix et portee’, in M. Favreau et al. (eds.), De l’usage de l’art en politique (Rennes, 2009), 45–61. 73 G. Joudiou, ‘Lemarché et le square des Innocents’, in Fleury and Leproux (eds.), Les Saints- Innocents, 163–75; Tesson, ‘Matériaux’, 59; J. Péridier, La commune et les artistes: Pottier, Courbet, Vallès, J.-B. Clément (Paris, 1980), 66. 74 This same design – supplemented with the flagpole added to the Fountain in 1791 – reappeared in Sobre, Le marché des innocents vu de la Maison Batave (1804) – Musée Carnavalet. 75 These are calculated using the height – 2.29m – of the standing nymphs. 76 Nineteenth-century accounts named Mézières, Lhuillier and Daujon without specifying their division of labour, but this can be surmised from payment disputes and information about their areas of expertise. AN, F13 212, F13 1013; V. Negre, L’ornement en série (Paris, 2006), 87, 94–5, 133;W. Szambien, Le Musée d’architecture (Paris, 1988), 23, 44–5. 77 Thirion, ‘La Fontaine des Nymphes’, 141–2; Stein, Pajou, 234–9; J. Draper and G. Sherf, Augustin Pajou, Royal Sculptor (New York, 1998), 80–2. 78 T. Emeric-David, Recherches sur l’art statuaire (Paris, [1805] 1863), 299–302, 308; A. Quatremère de Quincy, Letters to Miranda and Canova on the Abduction of Antiquities from Rome and Athens, trans. C.Miller and D. Gilks (Los Angeles, 2012), 156; G. Planche, Portraits d’artistes, vol. I (Paris, 1853), 146–72, 178. 79 AN, O1 499, fols. 181–2, 192, 212, 319–20, F13 212. 80 La Borde et al. (eds.), Voyage pittoresque, vol. X, livraison 56, 2–3; J. Pujoulx, Paris a la fin du XVIIIe siècle (Paris, 1801), 28; A. Lenoir, Histoire des arts en France, prouvée par les monuments (Paris, 1811), 290; Landon (ed.), Annales, 91–3, 111–12; C. Landon and J. Legrand, Description de Paris, vol. II (Paris, 1809), 71–3; J. de Saint Victoire, Tableau historique et pittoresque de Paris, vol. II (Paris, 1809), 256. 81 G. Faroult, Hubert Robert (1733–1808). Un peintre visionnaire (Paris, 2016), 386–7; AN, AFIII, 48, no. 167, F21*2470, doss. 211, 76–7, and doss. 372, 142, F21*2471, doss. 167, 150–1, F14 2152, F14 2180/2, F21*2473, 282–7. 82 Anon., Le Voyageur (Paris, 1797), 130; Saint Victoire, Tableau historique, vol. II, 256; Pujoulx, Paris, 28; Landon (ed.), Annales, 91–3. 83 Journal de Paris, 229, 17 Aug. 1809, 1698; L. de Belan, ‘Aux rédacteurs’, Journal de Paris, 234, 23 Aug. 1809, 1736; AP, VO3/655 and 4AZ 6, no. 309; Joudiou, ‘Le marché’, 164, 169. 84 Poyet, ‘Aux rédacteurs’, Journal de Paris, 262, 9 Sep. 1809, 1868. 85 A. Diezmann, Malerische Wanderungen durch Paris oder Schilderungen der denkwu ̈rdigsten 26 (Leipzig, 1816), 204–6; E. Kolloff, Paris: Reisehandbuch (Leipzig, 1849), 152; Quatremère, ‘Goujon’, 476; A. Quatremère de Quincy, ‘Goujon’, in Dictionnaire historique d’architecture, vol. I (Paris, 1832), 679; Planche, Portraits d’artistes, vol. I (Paris, 1853), 170. 86 AN, F21*2542/12, doss. 52; Procès-verbaux. Commission municipale du vieux Paris (Paris, 1918), 84; V. Baltard, Agrandissement et construction des halles centrales d’approvisionnement. Rapport fait au Conseil municipal (Paris, 1845), 74. 87 C. Daly, Revue generale de l’architecture et des travaux publics, 18 (1860), 155; P. Lepine et al., Gabriel Davioud, architecte 1824–1881 (Paris, 1981), 41; Moniteur de la mode, 1 (1860), 203; Correspondant, 61 (1863), 893; K. Baedeker, Paris and its Environs (Leipzig, 1878), 180; E. Stanford, Stanford’s Paris Guide (London, 1862), 113–14; Procès-verbaux. Commission de vieux Paris (Paris, 1901), 136. 88 D. Bell, The Cult of the Nation in France. Inventing Nationalism, 1680–1800 (Cambridge, MA, 2003). 89 Journal de Paris, 14 Mar. 1787. 90 A. Potofosky, ‘Recycling the city: Paris, 1760s–1800’, in A. Fennetaux et al., The Afterlife of Used Things: Recycling in the Long Eighteenth Century (New York, 2015), 71–2. 91 D. Karmon, The Ruins of the Eternal City: Antiquity and Preservation in Renaissance Rome (Oxford, 2011), 6–10; idem, ‘Preserving antiquity in a Protestant city: the Maison Carrée in sixteenth-century Nimes’, in V. Chieffo Raguin (ed.), Art, Piety, and Destruction in European Religion, 1500–1700 (Farnham, 2010), 113–35. 92 G. Podany, ‘Lessons from the past’, in J. Burnett Grossman et al. (eds.), History of Restoration of Ancient Stone Sculptures (Los Angeles, 2003), 17. 93 AN, L656, doss. 53, archbishop of Paris orders the demolition of the Church of the Holy Innocents, 31 Nov. 1786.