Not far from the site of the Temple there stands to-day the church of Saint Leu, a part of which dates from the fourteenth century. It has small architectural value, but a quaint picture within tells a tale of legendary interest. A statue of the Virgin used to stand at the corner of the rue aux Ours, not far from the church. One day an impious Swiss soldier struck the figure with his sword and blood spurted from it. The man was hung upon the scene of his crime, and the statue was preserved in the Priory of Saint Martin-des-Champs. For more than three centuries afterward and until, indeed, the destructive spirit of the Revolution did away with customs as it did with buildings, it was usual to celebrate this happening by carrying through the streets a straw man in Swiss costume which was burned on the corner of the rue aux Ours.
Among the utilitarian institutions of the fourteenth century were the étuves, public vapor baths, which were made desirable by the scantiness of the water supply at home. These establishments were as popular as necessary. When they were ready for action a crier went through the streets shouting:
“My lords, you are going to bathe
And steam yourselves without delay;
The baths are hot and that’s the truth.”
Wars and persecutions show large in any period but every day living and the minor happenings of social and civic growth weave the fabric on which occasional events stand out like figures on a patterned cloth. The shuttle of time flashed back and forth through Philip’s reign carrying the brilliant woof of exploits that resulted in increasing concentration of power, of wealth and of prestige in the monarch, and threading it through the dull warp of the increasing poverty of the lower classes and the lessening vigor of the nobles.
The persecution of the Templars was not the only persecution of the time. The narrow-mindedness that was increasingly to begrudge freedom of thought was beginning its death-dealing work. Here and there throughout France heretics were put to trial every now and then. The king defiled the day of Pentecost in 1310 by causing to be burned on the Grève a Jew who had been converted but who had denied his new faith, a priest who had been convicted of heresy, and a woman who had distributed heretical tracts.
Perhaps Philip thought by such deeds to win pardon for the financial exactions with which he tormented his people. He was constantly devising new taxes. One of the chief duties of the uniformed militia which he founded—dependent upon and consequently faithful to the crown—was the collection of his unjust levies. As he lay dying at Fontainebleau he said to his children gathered at his bedside, “I have put on so many talliages and laid hands on so much riches that I shall never be absolved.”
Paris did not increase much in extent or in population during Philip’s reign. Its beauty lay in the harmony that was building every new construction like its fellows, ogival (Gothic), with pointed windows and doors and high-pitched roofs—a style superb in large edifices but giving a pinched appearance to domestic architecture.
The Louvre served its grim purpose untouched through this period. Its commander was raised to the rank of captain and was honored by being forced to stand in no one’s presence but the king’s and to receive orders only from his royal master.
The little church of Saint Julien still served as the chapel of the University, and Philip decreed that the Provost of Paris, the king’s representative in the city, should go there every two years and in the presence of faculty and students should solemnly swear that he would protect the rights of both professors and students and that he would respect them himself. This meant the confirmation of Philip Augustus’s regulations which made the dwellers in the University section answerable only to the rector of the University. The schools of the left bank were increased by the addition of the College of Navarre, founded by the queen, Jeanne of Navarre, in gratitude for Philip’s victory at Mons-en-Puelle.
A curious story is told of the origin of the monastery of the Carmes Billettes in the city’s northern section that had been redeemed from the marsh and hence was called the Marais, a name which it still retains. It appears that in the reign of Philip the Fair a Jew of the Marais lent a sum of money to a woman, and then offered to quit her of her debt if she would bring him a consecrated wafer. When he had possession of it he pierced it, and then plunged it in boiling water. At each attack upon it blood spurted forth, and at last the nerve-shaken Jew screamed for help. Forced to confess his deed he was put to the torture and his house was torn down. Upon its site the king permitted the erection of a religious establishment.