Père-Lachaise is a wooded hill of tombs standing shoulder to shoulder along cobbled lanes under old trees. Many are little stone chapels the width of a door, their iron doors opening on dead leaves and a jar of plastic flowers gone white. Traffic noise dies a few steps inside. Flowers on a fresh grave sit a few paces from stones nobody has visited in a century. The cemetery covers forty-four hectares, and most people leave having seen a corner of it.
Almost nobody wanted to be buried here when it opened in 1804. Thirteen graves went in during the whole first year: the hill stood well outside Paris, on ground the Church had not blessed. So the city imported famous corpses, and in 1817 the bones of Molière, La Fontaine and the lovers Héloïse and Abélard were carried up the slope. It worked. By 1830 the hill held 33,000 graves. Walk to the south-east corner and you reach a plain stretch of wall where the army shot captured Communard fighters after the last week of the rising. The left has marched to it most Mays since.