Lamps that lit the wide new sidewalks of Haussmann's boulevards and the cafes and theaters and railroad stations that sprang up on them, where people came and went at all hours of the day and night in what had become the world's first modern metropolis. Today, many of the cannon-shot boulevards that Baudelaire tramped along, ambivalence in his heart, are nearly 150 years old and people now think of them as the quaint old quintessential Paris. Though some of the grand cafes and theaters are still around, the Avenue de l'Op ra, Boulevard Haussmann and dozens like them strike me as about the worst places in town for an amble. Even skillful illumination fails to give them charm. Outside, in the dark, you can't help peering inside apartments, into countless doll-house tableaux.
Exhibitionism is also part of the equation.
Parisians are often unself-conscious and I sometimes wonder if they get a thrill by not drawing the curtains. And a chance to indulge your innocent curiosity. There are bull's-eye windows in the slanting slate roofs, arcades and painted timber ceilings. At times, the magic-lantern effect reveals the fabulous art collections of a former French minister, famous auctioneers and the old rich families who have lived here for decades or centuries. When the window-shopping culture vultures who cruise the Marais by day bed down for the night, the area's narrow streets and townhouses provide endless permutations for the intrepid noctambule.