The new Notre Dame is a beautifully light and airy place of worship

There are certain places that capture in three dimensions the spirit of Western civilisation. Notre-Dame de Paris – the medieval cathedral overlooking the Seine at the eastern end of the Île de la Cité, with its flying buttresses, flèche (Gothic spire), and charismatic gargoyles – is one, which is why the art historian Kenneth Clark began his distinguished television series Civilisation (1969) with a piece-to-camera in front of “Our Lady of Paris” – “the most rigorously intellectual façade in the whole of Gothic art”, as he put it in the accompanying book.

News footage of the cathedral ablaze in 2019 was heart-rending. The damage caused by the conflagration, which it took firefighters almost 15 hours to put out, was catastrophic: although, thankfully, all the stained glass, along with many of the precious artworks and artefacts inside, was saved, the “forest” of medieval timber roof beams went up in smoke, and the flèche (rebuilt during the 19th century) smashed into the ground.

Restoring the cathedral, which he vowed to do within five years, has been a priority for Emmanuel Macron – even if he was forced to abandon a controversial early vision for a new, modern spire.

So far, the authorities overseeing the €700 million (£582 million) restoration, initially supervised by Jean-Louis Georgelin, an army general (who compared the building to an aircraft carrier), and undertaken by around 2,000 artisans (including masons, carpenters, sculptors and foundry workers), have been tight-lipped, and few journalists have been admitted inside to evaluate the work.

Yet, earlier today, following a tour of the cathedral by Macron (“It is sublime,” he said – not, for once, with Gallic overstatement), and ahead of its official reopening next week, several images of the restored interior were released.

What’s evident is that an epic clean-up job – beyond the already Herculean task of making good after the fire – has occurred. Begrimed internal walls and windows have been sponged and scrubbed and burnished, and look as good as new; above a spick-and-span black-and-white chequered paved floor, the stonework in the nave, now filled with serried ranks of sleek new wooden furniture, is an impressively lovely creamy buff colour.

In places, the limestone walls are irradiated by flashes of variegated coloured light, like the speckled hues of an assortment of pick-and-mix, streaming through the rose windows. Further photographs offer close-up views of various contemporary liturgical vessels.

Overall, the effect is brilliantly light, clean, airy, and accordingly – despite the building’s age – up-to-date (the new roof timbers, for instance, are protected by sprinklers). A space that once appeared dark and shadowy, even dreary, is now a luminous place of worship sufficiently attractive to lure a large and happy congregation. The first Catholic Mass since the disaster is due to take place on December 8. Looking at these stirring photographs, I’m almost tempted to convert.