I have just discovered (thank you Jaywalker) that the tortoise is called Kiki. Even more astonishing is that he is around 120 years old and weighs 250 kg. That's a hell of a lot of giant tortoise to have jump you. Perhaps the female wasn't looking bored just crushed.
I don't wish to name drop but I once met an elderly relative of Kiki on the British island of St Helena (five days on a slow mail boat from Cape Town sharing a cabin with a photographer who was not my husband...that set tittle-tattling tongues going!). This is the island on which Napoleon died in exile. The tortoise is - yes, he's still around - called Jonathan and is thought to be 170 years old. One of his finest moments was being introduced to King George VI who bowed to him. Queen Elizabeth, then plain Princess Elizabeth, was there too.
I digress. All I can say is I don't know what's in the water at the Jardin des Plants but it's making one aging tortoise very happy.
The move to France was only supposed to be for a couple of years, not forever. Then I met The Frenchman. Then I had La Fille. Now there's no way back. But La Fille, to whom a horse is a cheval and a frog is just pond life is still half English. So before the Gallic nation claims her for its own, sprinkles her with garlic, sautés her and swallows her up whole we make regular escapes on the Eurostar. And we have discovered the grass is various shades of green either side of the Channel.