When France’s Père Lachaise Cemetery Used Celebrity Remains to Boost Business

It’s the worst problem a cemetery can possibly have: No one was dying to get in.

In the early 1800s, Parisians were expiring just as they always had, felled by natural causes as well as ailments and illnesses common to the era. But it was their final wishes that posed a problem for the Père Lachaise Cemetery, a newly-opened burial site just outside of Paris’s precincts. No one wanted to be buried there. It was, in the minds of locals, too remote. It also lacked a certain status for decedents, with no grand or romantic history behind it. The cemetery needed to take drastic action.

Soon, a genius bit of morbid marketing was set into motion. In order to make Père Lachaise the “it” graveyard, the Napoleonic government would simply relocate a number of notable remains, including the artists Molière and Jean de la Fontaine and the infamous wayward lovers Abelard and Héloïse. In doing so, the cemetery would create a novel advertising scheme: the posthumous celebrity endorsement.

A Graveyard Smash

At the turn of the 19th century, dead bodies were becoming an issue in Paris proper. Thanks to the French Revolution, graveyards and burial sites were being overrun; cemeteries in the center of the city created a troublesome stench; the bones of many dearly departed souls were remanded to the catacombs running beneath the city. To ease the burden further, city planner Nicholas Frochot decided that Napoleon’s government would purchase four sites outside of town that were earmarked for cemetery plots.

One such necropolis was erected on property once occupied by Father François de La Chaise d’Aix, the onetime confessor for Louis XIV—hence the name. (Père means “father” in French.) The government hired notable architect Alexandre-Théodore Brongniart to conceive of a fetching site that would lure in the soon-to-be-dead.

When the cemetery opened May 21, 1804, however, there was little excitement. The cemetery’s location outside of Paris’s major districts made visiting the departed slightly inconvenient; the fact it was built on a hill also dissuaded customers.

Not long after, inspiration struck. Frochot believed he needed to market the cemetery, and so he decorated the grounds with art pieces confiscated during the Revolutionary Wars—but while this may have helped the landscaping, it did not dramatically increase business.

Then, there was a stroke of misfortune. The remains of Louise de Lorraine, queen of France and wife of Henry III, had accidentally been disturbed at in their resting place at Bourges’s Capuchin Convent. It was quickly determined that her remains be relocated to Père Lachaise in an effort to stir public interest. If the cemetery was good enough for royalty, then it would certainly be good enough for your average Parisian.

But the government did not stop with de Lorraine. Soon, what was left of fabulist Jean de la Fontaine and playwright Molière were transferred, though there’s skepticism that their bones were ever actually transported: Their respective cadavers had been moved around too often and too confusingly to state with certainly that whatever Père Lachaise received were the genuine articles. It’s possible Frochot was scammed when he acquired their bones.

In 1817, Père Lachaise received the alleged remains of France’s most notorious couple: 12th-century philosopher Peter Abelard and his onetime student Héloïse. Abelard was said to have seduced the girl when he was in his late thirties and she was anywhere from 15 to 27. (Historians aren’t quite sure.) They had a child and married in secret. Then, tragedy came for Abelard—or, more specifically, for his testicles. Héloïse's uncle ordered him castrated after finding out about their relationship. (He was mad that Abelard had seduced her or mad he wasn’t paying enough attention to her; again, history is murky on this point.) Though apart, the two continued to write each other even after he retreated to a monastery and she became a nun.

Curiously, Frochot got his hands on their remains in a morbid trade: He gave up Louise de Lorraine for the lovers, who reside in elaborate his-and-hers tombs.

Though it’s possible that not all of these remains belong to the people whose names are attached to them, the strategy of acquiring deceased celebrities was highly effective. Père Lachaise was eventually enlarged six times over to satisfy the demand for eternal resting spots in the same cemetery as these famous figures. The novelist Balzac even made mention of it in his popular works, further endearing it to the public. (He, too, is buried there.) It grew into a menagerie of gothic artistry, with towering pyramids, statues, walk-in vaults, and monuments lining stone walkways and shaded by oak trees. But it would also be the site of some truly peculiar events.

The Dirt

In the late 1880s, Père Lachaise was the target of a strange hoax. A news story circulated that an unnamed “Russian princess” had willed 1 million francs to the person who could keep sentry over her tomb for one year and one day. The watcher must observe the princess, who was said to be encased in glass, Snow White-style. Reading and a one-hour walk were both permitted. Many had tried, or so the story went, but had to flee due to strange noises or paranormal apparitions.

The tale, which was mere urban legend, led to the cemetery being deluged with questions about the offer. The cemetery’s conservator pleaded with newspapers and journals to discredit the myth, but it persisted—with varying reward amounts—into the 20th century.

Another bit of intrigue arose in 1954 when a gardener found a dead body. While the cemetery is obviously full of them, this one was above ground and resting atop a stone slab in a family vault. The man—who was estimated to be around 25—was thought to have been dead for only a few hours; it was later determined he passed from a fatal mixture of brandy and sleeping pills. Stranger still was that the man was in possession of a cemetery map, which had the tomb he was found in marked in red ink. Newspapers of the era never followed up on his identity. One theory had him a despondent American; another, a Frenchman posing as a British citizen.

In spite of—or because of—the cemetery's unique history, it has become a popular tourist attraction. Millions of visitors arrive annually to gaze at both its enchanting statues and headstones as well as its celebrity clientele, which has grown to include Jim Morrison, Oscar Wilde (whose winged sphinx had its testicles stolen in 1961), Edith Piaf, Frédéric Chopin (whose literal heart was sent to his home of Warsaw, per his wishes), and others. And because plots were sold in perpetuity, they tend to remain within families. Only about 100 become available each year. If Nicholas Frochot wanted Père Lachaise to become a status symbol for the soul, he certainly got his wish.

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