Imagine a slightly-dilapidated three-star hotel in the tenth arrondissement, run by a very distinguished lady with moral fibre and panache: Mrs. Coppercage. Alongside tourists visiting Paris, Mrs. Coppercage rents three rooms to three women at a monthly rate. Each woman is marked by life, yet each goes on as best she can, never closing her eyes to the world or to the men who impatiently await. Faubourg Saint Martin opens as a love story and ends like a song as shots ring out and punctuate the chorus.—Jason Grimshaw