Not everyone knows that the actor Jean Marais, known to us from the films "Mysteries of Paris", "Fantômas" and "The Count of Monte Cristo", was also a writer, artist and sculptor. Pablo Picasso, having seen some of Mare's early sculptural works, was surprised how a person with such talent as a sculptor "wastes his time on some kind of filming and work in the theater." Jean Marais himself spoke about his hobbies like this: “I make sculptures not because I’m a sculptor, I draw not because I’m an artist, I don’t write because I’m a writer. I’m just having fun, and you know it... I’m not even I know if I'm a real actor."
In 1989, Jean Marais created, in memory of his friend the writer Marcel Aime, a 2.5-meter-high bronze sculpture that depicts his main character famous story"Man Walking Through a Wall"
The sculpture has recognizable features of the writer; for comparison, here are a couple of photographs of him at different ages.
Marcel Aimé lived on Montmartre's Rue Paul Feval for more than 40 years. Now it’s as if he’s coming out of the wall straight to the entrance of his own house.
The plot itself is simple, fantastic and, at the same time, romantic. A certain accountant Dutilleul suddenly acquires the amazing gift of walking through walls. With the help of it, he resolves his problems at work. But the main thing: he uses it in his sublime love interests, regularly visiting his beloved, whom her stern husband literally keeps locked up. And everything would be fine, but, as often happens in sad romantic stories, his gift disappeared as suddenly as it appeared. Already leaving his mistress's room, Dutilleul got stuck in the wall of the house, only a little before he had time to get out of it. Alas, the author ends his story, leaving his hero squeezed by the thickness of a wall that he will no longer have to overcome.
It is believed that shaking the left hand of bronze Marcel Aimé brings good luck and guarantees the fulfillment of a wish - whether this is true or not is not known, but only Parisian guests passing by the monument do not miss the opportunity to “say hello” to famous writer and make your deepest wish.
Bateau-Lavoir (fr. Bateau-Lavoir), “laundry ship”, “floating laundry” - the famous Parisian hostel in Montmartre, in which many lived at the beginning of the 20th century famous artists, including Picasso and Modigliani.
Address: Place Emile Goudeau, 13 (Place Emile Goudeau). Nearest metro station: Abbesses
Next - the sculpture "A Man Passing Through the Wall" (Le passe-muraille), Dalida's mansion, Dalida's singer square, "Wall of Love" 
In bohemian Montmartre, in Paris, on the small square of Marcel Ayme or Aime (Place Marcel-Ayme), a stone's throw from Rue Lepic and very close to the famous mill Moulin de la Galette is located sculpture - A man passing through a wall (Le passe-muraille)
This sculpture is dedicated to the Parisian writer, playwright and author of many novels and short stories, Marcel Aime. Aime is depicted as his favorite character from the story "Walker Through Walls", which was written in 1943 and subsequently became extremely popular. 
A film was made based on the work of Marcel Aime, and also staged musical performance"Amour" Everyone who read this work was struck by the image of a modest, quiet accountant who knows how to walk through walls, but, in the end, gets stuck in it.
This sad sculpture was created by the great actor, poet and sculptor Jean Marais. 
It is believed that shaking the left hand of bronze Marcel Aimé brings good luck and guarantees the fulfillment of a wish - whether this is true or not is not known, but only Parisian guests passing by the monument do not miss the opportunity to “say hello” to the famous writer and make their most cherished wish.
Continuing to move along the right side of Lepic Street, we cross Girardon Street and find ourselves at a small shop (Moulin de la Galette). 
Just around the corner from the store, there is a tiny street that leads to the house of Dalida (real name Yolanda Gigliotti).
Or (if we go from the other side) a stone's throw from Place du Tertre on Orlan Street there is a four-story mansion in the style of the early twentieth century, where Dalida once lived.
Many fans of Dalida would like to see a museum in her house in memory of the singer, in which all her things and furnishings would be preserved as during her life. But immediately after Dalida’s death, her brother Orlando sold this house, because according to him, he could not return to where his beloved sister died. 
The mansion was divided into several apartments and sold to different buyers. According to official information, people who have nothing to do with the singer now live in it.
A memorial plaque is attached to the gate of the house: “Dalida lived in this house from 1962 to 1987. Her friends from Montmartre will not forget her.” 
Dalida with her Austin at the gates of her house in Montmartre 
Singer Dalida Square
, located in the heart of Montmartre, 25 meters from the house where Dalida lived, is named after her. 
On April 24, 1997, a bust of Dalida, created by famous sculptor Alen Aslan. The bust is located at the intersection of Rue de L'Abrevoir, Rue Girardon and Allee de Brouillard. 
Wall of Love
became a landmark of Montmartre in modern times, erected in 2000 on the square. Abbess in the small square of Jean-Ristus.
On a 40 square meter structure on a blue background, declarations of love are written in white letters in 311 languages, that is, in almost all official languages peace. There is even Braille for the blind, as well as sign language. Everyone here can read in their own native language- "I love you"... 
The wall was painted at the initiative of local merchants by three graffiti artists: Daniel Boulogne, Frédéric Baron and Claire Quito.
On Valentine's Day, a symbolic act is performed near the wall - the release of white doves. 
Music: Dalida. "Nostalgia"
In Montmartre, on the fourth floor of the house 75 bis on Rue Orshan, there lived wonderful person named Dutilleul. What made him remarkable was that he had the enviable gift of walking through walls without experiencing the slightest inconvenience. He wore pince-nez, a small black beard, and worked as a minor official in the Ministry of Registration. In the winter he got to work by bus, and in the summer he put on a bowler hat and walked.
Dutilleul was already 43 years old when he accidentally discovered his gift. One evening, while he was in the front of his tiny bachelor apartment, the lights suddenly went out. Dutilleul moved at random in the darkness, and when the electricity flared up again, it turned out that he was standing on the landing of the fourth floor. Since the door of his apartment was locked from the inside with a key, this strange incident made Dutilleul think hard, and, despite the arguments of reason, he decided to return to his place in the same way as he left, that is, through the wall. However, this amazing ability, which so little corresponded to his aspirations, never ceased to worry him. The next day, Saturday, Dutilleul took advantage of the fact that it was a shortened working day and went to the district doctor to explain his situation to him. After making sure that the patient was telling the truth, the doctor examined him and found the cause of the disease in the spiral hardening of the strangulation wall of the thyroid gland. He prescribed the patient to lead an active lifestyle and take a powder consisting of rice flour and centaur gorum twice a year.
Having taken the first powder, Dutilleul put the medicine in the drawer and completely forgot about it. As for his active lifestyle, his duties at work were strictly regulated and did not allow any excesses in this sense, and in his free time Dutilleul read the newspaper and tinkered with his stamp collection, so that here too he did not have to waste his energy pointlessly. Thus, after a year, his ability to pass through walls still remained with him, but Dutilleul was not inclined to adventure and indifferent to the temptations of the imagination, so if he used his gift, it was perhaps through oversight. He did not even try to return to his apartment except through the door, opening the lock with a key, like everyone else ordinary people. Perhaps he would have grown old in the world of his habits, without being tempted to flaunt his gift, if his existence had not been disturbed by an unexpected change. His immediate superior, Monsieur Muron, was appointed to another position, and in his place they appointed a certain Monsieur Lecuyer, who spoke abruptly and wore a mustache with a brush. From the very first day, the new boss did not like Dutilleul with his pince-nez on a chain and a black beard, and he began to treat his subordinate as some kind of burdensome, worthless piece of junk. The worst thing, however, was that Lecuyer was about to introduce significant reforms in his department, as if deliberately designed to disturb the peace of his subordinate. For a good 20 years, Dutilleul began business letters as follows: “In response to your letter of such and such a date of this month and reminding you of our previous exchange of letters, I have the honor to inform you that...” Monsieur Lecuyer demanded that this formula be replaced another, more energetic in American style: “In response to your letter of such and such a date, we inform you that...” But Dutilleul could not get used to the new epistolary fashion. Unconsciously, he returned again and again to the traditional beginning, with a stubbornness that brought upon him the increasing irritation of his boss. The atmosphere at the Ministry of Registration became more and more oppressive. In the morning Dutilleul went to work with a heavy feeling, and in the evening, already in bed, he would think for a full quarter of an hour before falling asleep.
Irritated by the opposition of the retrograde, which nullified all his reforms, Lecuyer exiled Dutilleul to a darkened closet adjacent to his own office. On the small narrow door of the closet, which opened onto the corridor, there was the inscription “PANTRY” written in capital letters. Reluctantly, Dutilleul resigned himself to this unheard-of insult, but when he was at home in the evening and read in the newspaper a report about some bloody and extremely criminal incident, he found himself wishing that Monsieur Lecuyer would be a victim of it.
One day the boss burst into the closet, shaking a letter, and roared:
Rewrite this piece of paper immediately! Rewrite, do you hear, this vile piece of paper that disgraces my department!
Dutilleul wanted to object, but Monsieur Lecuyer cursed him like an old cockroach in a thunderous voice and, before leaving, crumpled up the letter and threw it in the face of his subordinate. Dutilleul was a modest but proud man. Left alone in his closet, he felt his cheeks burning and suddenly had an epiphany. Rising from his seat, he entered the wall separating his room and the boss’s office, and leaned out of it, but in such a way that only his head was visible on the other side. Sitting at his desk, Monsieur Lecuyer, with his pen still dancing with anger, was moving a comma in the text of one of the employees sent for his approval, when suddenly a cough reached his ears. Raising his head, he saw with inexpressible horror the head of Dutilleul, attached to the wall in the manner of a hunting trophy. Moreover, the head was alive and through the pince-nez on the chain it fixed a look full of hatred at the boss. And, as if that wasn't enough, she spoke!
“Dear sir,” declared the head, “you are a boor, a scoundrel and a scoundrel.”
With his mouth open in horror, Monsieur Lecuyer could not take his eyes off the nightmare vision. Finally, somehow tearing himself out of the chair, he ran out into the corridor and rushed to the closet. Dutilleul, pen in hand, sat in his usual place, and his peaceful appearance showed that he was working hard. The boss looked at him for a long time and, in the end, muttered a few words and returned to his office. But as soon as he sat down again, the head reappeared on the wall.
Dear Sir, you are a boor, a scoundrel and a scoundrel!
On that day alone, the nightmare head appeared on the wall 23 times, and in the following days its visits only became more frequent. Dutilleul, who enjoyed this game, was no longer content with denouncing his boss. The head uttered dark threats, for example, it spoke in an afterlife voice, interspersed with demonic laughter:
Garou! Garou! Werewolf! (laughter) It’s so cold that the icicle’s tail froze (laughter).
Hearing this, the poor boss became paler and began to choke. His hair stood on end on his head, and a terrifying cold sweat flowed down his back. On the first day he lost a third of a kilogram. In the week that followed, in addition to the fact that he began to melt right before his eyes, he acquired the reprehensible habit of eating soup with a fork and saluting law enforcement officers. At the beginning of the second week, orderlies arrived at his apartment and took Monsieur Lecuyer to a psychiatric hospital.
Dutilleul, freed from the tyranny of his boss, was able to return to his precious phrases: “In response to your letter dated such and such a day of this month...” However, this was not enough for him. Something in him demanded a way out, some new, powerful need, which was nothing more than a need to pass through walls. Of course, he could do this easily, for example, at home, and indeed, he did not fail to take advantage of this opportunity. However, a person with brilliant abilities begins to feel unhappy if he has to constantly use them for mediocre purposes. Passing through walls could not be a goal in itself, it was only the starting point of an adventure that required continuation, development and, ultimately, reward. Dutilleul understood this very well. He felt within himself a thirst for expansion, a growing desire to prove himself and surpass himself, and also something like nostalgia, similar to a call from the other side of the wall. Unfortunately, it was precisely a specific goal that he lacked. In search of it, he turned to the newspaper, and first of all to the sections on politics and sports, which seemed to him the most worthy spheres of action, but, realizing after a fruitless search that they could not offer anything new to a person passing through the walls, he plunged into chronicle of events. And it was there that he finally found what he was looking for.
The first robbery undertaken by Dutilleul took place at a large credit institution on the right bank of the Seine. Having passed through a dozen walls and partitions, he entered the safes, filled his pockets with banknotes and, before leaving, left his painting in red chalk, choosing the pseudonym Garu-Garu. A photograph of this inscription with a dashing flourish at the end appeared in all the newspapers the next day. Within a week, Garu-Garou gained incredible popularity. The public's sympathies unconditionally belonged to this fantastic robber, who so shamelessly teased the police. Every night Garu-Garu performed more and more new feats, from which either banks, or jewelry stores, or rich ordinary people suffered. Both in Paris and in the rest of France there was not a single woman left, at least somewhat inclined to dreams, who would not feel a passionate desire to surrender body and soul to the terrible Garou-Garou. After the theft of the famous Burdigal Diamond and the robbery of the Municipal Credit, which occurred in the same week, the delight of the crowd reached its climax. The Minister of Internal Affairs had to resign, and the Minister of Registration followed him. But, although Dutilleul was now one of the richest men in Paris, he still showed up for work without delay, and they even began to say that he would be introduced to academic palms. During his time at the Ministry of Registration, he loved to listen to his colleagues’ comments on the news about his exploits. “This Garu-Garu,” they claimed, “is an extraordinary person, but what is it - he is a superman, just a genius!” Hearing such praise, Dutilleul blushed with embarrassment, and his eyes behind the glasses of his pince-nez sparkled with gratitude and pleasure. One day, this fertile atmosphere endeared him so much that he found it impossible to keep his incognito any longer. With a semblance of shyness, looking around at his colleagues who were crowded over a newspaper excitedly telling about the robbery of the French Bank, Dutilleul modestly announced:
And you know, Garu-Garu is me.
A shameless, prolonged burst of laughter greeted his words, and Dutilleul received the joking nickname Garou-Garou. In the evening, when he left the ministry, his comrades made fun of him tirelessly, and life began to seem much less pleasant to him.
A few days later, a night patrol captured Garou-Garou while he was in a jewelry store on the Rue de la Paix. The robber left his signature on the cash register and began to sing a drunken song, breaking glass display cases with a solid gold goblet. It would have been easy for Dutilleul to go into the wall and thus hide from the police, but everything indicates that he wanted to be captured and, probably, for one single purpose - to capture the imagination of his work colleagues, whose mistrust had so wounded him. Indeed, they were extremely surprised when the next day all the newspapers published Dutilleul's photograph on the front page. They bitterly regretted that they did not recognize their brilliant comrade in time, and in his honor they began to grow small beards. Some, in a fit of remorse and admiration, even went so far as to try to pocket the wallet or family watch of their friends and acquaintances.
You have the right to consider that the act of one who allowed himself to be captured by the police only to surprise several colleagues indicates great frivolity, unworthy of a great man, but it is unlikely that reason plays a large role in such a decision. Dutilleul believed that he was giving up freedom to satisfy his prideful thirst for revenge, but in fact he was only floating on the waves of his fate. After all, for the man who walks through walls, real career begins only when he ends up in prison. As soon as Dutilleul was placed in the formidable prison of Santé, he immediately got the impression that this was a real gift of fate. The thickness of the local walls was an unprecedented pleasure for him. The very next day after the new prisoner was placed in the cell, the guards were amazed to see that the prisoner had driven a nail into the wall and hung a gold watch on it that belonged to the warden. Dutilleul himself was unable or unwilling to explain how he managed to take possession of the watch. The latter were, of course, returned to the owner, but the very next day they were discovered near the head of the Garu-Garu, along with the first volume of The Three Musketeers, borrowed from the chief’s personal library. Sante's staff was completely out of balance, and in addition, the employees complained of kicks in the ass of a completely incomprehensible origin that overtook them everywhere. It was as if the walls had not only ears, but also legs. Garu-Garou had been in prison for a week when Chief Sante, who entered his office in the morning, found a letter on the table with the following content:
“Mr. Chief, in response to our conversation on the 17th of this month and reminding you of your instructions of May 15 last year, I have the honor to inform you that I have just finished reading the second and last volume"The Three Musketeers" and that I was going to escape that night between 11.25 and 11.35. I ask you, Mr. Chief, to accept the assurances of my deepest respect. Garu-Garu."
Despite the close surveillance that was placed on Dutilleul that night, he disappeared at exactly 11.30. The news became known to the public the next morning and aroused unprecedented enthusiasm everywhere. However, having committed a new robbery, after which his popularity reached its apogee, Dutilleul, apparently, did not even try to hide and walked around Montmartre without taking any precautions. Three days after his escape from prison, he was arrested on the Rue Caulaincourt, where he was drinking white wine at the Dream Cafe shortly before noon. lemon color with your friends.
Garu-Garu was reintroduced into Sante. This time he was locked with three locks in a gloomy punishment cell, which, however, did not stop him from escaping that same evening and settling in the apartment of the prison governor, in a room intended for guests. The next morning at about 8 o'clock he called the servants and demanded that breakfast be delivered to him. The servants warned the guards, and they took the prisoner right in bed, and Dutilleul did not offer any resistance. Beside himself with anger, the prison governor set up a guard post near Dutilleul's punishment cell and put the prisoner on bread and water. Around noon, he went to have lunch at a restaurant located not far from the prison, and from there he called the chief.
Hello! Mr. Chief, I am very embarrassed, but recently, when I left your establishment, I forgot to take your wallet. Now I can't leave the restaurant. Would you be so kind as to send someone to pay the bill?
The chief rushed in personally and lost his temper so much that he rained down threats and insults on the prisoner’s head. Dutilleul's pride was cruelly wounded, and that same night he disappeared from prison, never to return to it. This time he took precautions so that he would not inadvertently be recognized. To do this, he shaved off his black beard and replaced his pince-nez on a chain with glasses in tortoiseshell frames. A sports cap and a large-check suit, complemented by breeches, completed his transformation. He settled in a small apartment on Avenue Junot, where, even before his first arrest, he managed to transport some of the furniture and things that he valued most. The fame was already starting to tire him, and after he visited Sante, he no longer liked going through walls so much. The thickest of them, the most majestic, now seemed to him nothing more than screens, and he dreamed of climbing into the very heart of some huge pyramid. Thus, he hatched a plan to travel to Egypt and led a quite decent life, devoted to his stamp collection, going to the movies and long walks around Montmartre. His transformation was so successful that, shaved and wearing tortoiseshell-rimmed glasses, he calmly walked past his best friends, who did not recognize him. Only the artist Jean Paul, whose keen eye could not escape the slightest change in the appearance of the old resident of the area, managed to expose him. One morning, encountering Dutilleul at the corner of the Rue Abrevoir, he could not resist saying to him in his rough argot:
Look, I see that you are dressing up to throw off the trace of the flicks - which in ordinary language means: you dressed up as a dandy so that the police inspectors would not recognize you.
Oh! - Dutilleul burst out, - you recognized me!
This alarmed him, and he decided to speed up his departure to Egypt. However, on the same day he fell in love with a pretty blonde whom he met twice on Lepik Street with an interval of a quarter of an hour. This was enough for him to immediately forget his stamp collection, Egypt and the pyramids. As for the blonde, she looked at him with great interest. Nothing can arouse curiosity in modern woman or rather than breeches and tortoiseshell-framed glasses. A person dressed like this looks like a movie guy and evokes dreams of cocktails and Californian nights. Unfortunately, the beauty, as Jean Paul told Dutilleul, was married to a jealous brute. The mistrustful husband, who did not deny himself anything, regularly left his wife alone between ten in the evening and four in the morning, but before leaving the house, he locked her in the bedroom with two turns of the key, after making sure that all the shutters were padlocked. Even during the day he did not stop watching his wife, and it happened that he followed her during her walks around Montmartre.
It's all the same, old man! This swindler doesn’t want anyone to get into his pie, although he himself is always ready to snatch a piece from someone else’s.
But Jean Paul's words did not cool Dutilleul at all. The next day, having met the beauty on the Rue Tolose, he followed her to the dairy shop and, while she was waiting to be served, told her that he loved her with all respect, that he knew about her vile husband, about the door locked with a key , and about the shutters, but that despite all this she will have it in her bedroom that same evening. The blonde blushed, the milk can trembled in her hands, tears of gratitude appeared in her eyes, but she barely audibly whispered: “Alas, sir, this is impossible!”
In the evening of this delightful day, around ten, Dutilleul lurked on the Rue Norvin and watched the thick fence behind which hid a small house. From the outside all that could be seen was a weather vane and a chimney. Then a door opened in the wall and a man came out. Having carefully locked it with a key, he headed towards the Rue Junot. Dutilleul waited until the jealous man finally disappeared from sight on the way down the hill, counted to ten and rushed into the wall. With a confident step, he overcame all obstacles and finally entered the room of the beautiful recluse, who greeted him with unprecedented enthusiasm and detained him until very late.
The next day Dutilleul had a terrible headache, but he did not value his health so much that he would miss another date because of it. Having rummaged through the boxes, he found some powders at the bottom of one of them and swallowed one in the morning and one in the afternoon. By evening, the headache subsided somewhat, and the anticipation of pleasure made me forget about it altogether. The beauty was waiting for him with impatience, quite understandable after his recent love affairs, and they were together until three o'clock struck. Walking through the walls, Dutilleul felt an unusual tightness in his legs and shoulders, but did not attach any importance to it. Only when he passed through the wall of the fence did he clearly feel its resistance. It seemed to him that he was moving through the thickness of something liquid, which became more and more viscous and denser with every moment. Having hardly squeezed his whole body inside the wall, he noticed that he could not move further and with horror remembered the two powders that he had taken the day before. These powders, which he mistook for aspirin, were actually the ones his doctor had prescribed to him last year. The effect of the medicine was superimposed on active recreation, and all together led to this result.
Dutilleul seemed frozen inside the wall. It is still there, squeezed on all sides by stones. Passers-by at night, descending along the Rue Norvin at the hour when the noise of Paris subsides, heard a muffled voice, as if coming out of the ground, but it seems to them that it is the wind whistling plaintively at the Montmartre crossroads. This is Dutilleul, aka Garou-Garou, mourning the end of his great career and regretting the passing of love too quickly. Sometimes on winter nights, Jean-Paul takes his guitar with him and goes to the deserted Rue Norvain to console the poor captive with a song, and the notes, falling from the tips of his frozen fingers, penetrate into the heart of the stone like drops of moonlight.
The story was suggested by our reader
Oleynikova Yulia
Not everyone knows that the actor Jean Marais (1913-1998), known to us from the films "Parisian Mysteries", "Fantômas" and "The Count of Monte Cristo", was also a writer, artist and sculptor. Pablo Picasso, having seen some of Mare's early sculptural works, was surprised how a person with such talent as a sculptor "wastes his time on some kind of filming and work in the theater." Jean Marais himself spoke about his hobbies like this: “I make sculptures not because I’m a sculptor, I draw not because I’m an artist, I don’t write because I’m a writer. I’m just having fun, and you know it... I’m not even I know if I'm a real actor."
In Paris, on the Boulevard Montmartre you can see one of Jean Marais' unusual works - a monument depicting a man half stuck in a wall.
This monument was created in honor of the famous French writer Marcel Aimé (1902-1967). One of Marcel's stories describes the life of a simple accountant who had unique ability go through walls. This gift, unused at first, later became the reason for the transformation of the hero into a person who does not know the words “no” and “impossible”, thirsting for ever greater fame. In the end, the ability that opened all the doors for him destroyed him. You can read the story.
To assess the similarity of the writer himself with the image embodied in the monument, here is a photograph of Marcel Aimé:
This monument is one of those inconspicuous attractions that can be found in any major city. It is not a place of pilgrimage, tourists do not come for it and do not book excursions, but walking along the quiet streets of Montmartre, you can unexpectedly meet him and, like an old friend, shake his bronze hand.
In 1989 famous actor Jean Marais (who turned out to be a very talented sculptor) created in memory of his friend the writer Marcel Aime a bronze sculpture 2.5 meters high, which depicts the main character of his famous story “The Man Walking Through a Wall”. The sculpture has recognizable features of the writer, who left behind a considerable creative heritage. Marcel Aimé lived on Montmartre's Rue Paul Feval for more than 40 years. It’s as if he’s coming out of the wall right into the entrance of his own house. The image of a man combines the writer and the ambiguous character of his story.
According to the plot of the short story, an ordinary modest official, accountant Leon Dutilel once discovered in himself a magical, but quite practical gift of walking through walls. Taking advantage of an unexpected opportunity, he used it to secretly visit his beloved, whom jealous husband kept him locked up. But one day the magic dried up when Dutilel was almost out on the street - this moment was captured by the sculptor. From stone wall in the smallest square in Paris, Place Marcel-Ayme, the head, the upper part of the body of an unfortunate accountant, protrudes, right hand, leg and the famous left hand, which, according to legend, fulfills any desire if you rub it. Judging by the golden shine of the left hand of the sculpture, there are many who want to experience its magical power. However, not all passers-by reveal their secret desires to the loving accountant; who knows if you can even trust him?
Finding the monument is very easy. It is located at the intersection of Place Marcel-Ayme and Rue Norvins, 17. If you walk from the Lamarc-Caulaincourt metro station strictly south along Saint-Vincent Street, which smoothly turns into Girardon Street, then turning left onto Rue Norvins, you can immediately see bronze accountant. Another way is to move from the Sacre Coeur Basilica (Basilique du Sacré Cur) in a northerly direction. After passing through many small streets, you will certainly come to Marcel-Ayme Square.
How to get there
Address: 4 Pl. Marcel Ayme, Paris 75018Metro: Lamarck - Caulaincourt
Updated: 12/10/2018
