Heloise was listening to her uncle, her head bowed as if he were Paul the apostle, her blue cloak thrown over her shoulders. Her pure, slightly husky voice rose to sing a psalm – yet again that Song of Songs which the awesome Crusaders of the True Faith had never stopped intoning.
Behold, you are beautiful, my love;
behold you are beautiful;
your eyes are doves.
Behold, you are beautiful, my beloved,
Truly lovely.
Our couch is green.
Heloise turned towards me, recognising me. I had grown pale, so striking was her beauty, and it was with some difficulty that I became accustomed to her very soft, oval-shaped face, her eyes that gleamed with intelligence and tenderness, an expression that I knew to be animated, alert, and possibly amused, should there be anything to laugh about, but which I could also imagine gripped in the concentration of study.
The Mass was over.
Heloise took her uncle’s arm graciously and the stout man smiled – the smile of a large, fat, good, ruddy-faced man, who eats pork and drinks good wine every day – and the top of his skull shone.
I was wearing a golden-yellow tunic and a velvet cloak of the same colour, embroidered with wild flowers, red, white, and yellow too. I looked like a vision of spring in autumn. I drew near. He glanced at me with a kindly but anxious look.
‘I am sent by my master Peter Abelard, philosopher, theologian, master of the Notre-Dame school . . .’ I said to Fulbert, trying not to look at Heloise.
‘I know who Peter Abelard is,’ replied Fulbert respectfully.
‘Most important of all, this is the man who saved my life, Uncle,’ said Heloise.
‘So it’s you!’
‘. . . author of a treatise on the Trinity and the divine unity, former master of the schools of Sainte-Geneviève, of Melun, of Créteil, pupil of William of Champeaux and Anselm of Laon . . .’
Heloise looked puzzled. I tried not to catch her eye. We left the church through the crypt situated in the north arm of the church: the west door was open to the breezes from the river.
As I explained my business (and it was another me, speaking with ease and conviction, while I, huddled up at the pit of my heart, felt nothing but shame), the canon led me through the narrow streets of the Close to his house. By the time we reached his front door I had still not understood whether he was flattered, worried, or tempted . . . He spoke to me about what was happening in Paris, about the Comte de Meulan’s raid, the finances of the chapterhouse, the archdeacon’s ambitions, Garlande’s mischief, about the importance of the school and a dispute about a prebend. Whenever I returned to the subject in hand, he avoided me with the agility of a juggler.
Even though she was walking behind us, I could sense Heloise’s eyes staring at me. Finally, just as we were shuffling about outside her door, I could hold back no longer.
‘What shall I tell my master?’
‘You will tell him that his proposal does me more honour than I can say.’
‘But what else?’
‘You will tell your master,’ Heloise’s calm voice intervened, ‘that my uncle’s house is full and that there is no price – for all his prestige and attributes – that can be paid for the favour he is asking.’
‘Heloise!’
‘You will tell your master to make his own requests, instead of sending a poor student . . .’
‘Heloise!’
The canon turned pink, almost choking.
‘You will tell your master,’ he broke in, ‘that I willingly accept and that my niece’s lessons can begin tomorrow. You will tell him that I insist he should have total freedom to teach as he thinks fit and that his methods shall be mine. You will tell him that if his knowledge has to be taught by strokes of a cane, then he can cane her! You will tell him that I want her to be the most educated and most perfect woman in this kingdom and that I will give up my own prebend and my place in the chapterhouse for that . . .’
‘But your niece is opposed to this . . .’
‘I have spoken!’
‘But your house is full . . .’
He gestured impatiently. Heloise pushed open the door of the house and shut it violently in our faces.
‘She doesn’t want to,’ I said.
‘She will want to.’
I left him to his reveries, convinced that his niece was going to be given lessons by Aristotle. My legs scarcely carried me; I set off on my way, however, taking grim pleasure in pursuing my task to the end.
She caught me by surprise just as I was walking past the baptistery of Saint-Jean-le-Rond, at the very spot where we had spoken the first time. She was dressed in black and a dove was flying about above her head.
‘Why did you do that?’
‘He asked me to.’
‘Are you more base than I thought?’
‘More stupid, anyway.’
‘William, I don’t understand . . .’
‘Honestly, I don’t know why I’ve always preferred asking questions to replying to them . . . I remember that Adam’s real troubles began when Yahweh asked him: “Where are you?”’
I made this last remark with as much frivolity as I could muster. She gazed at me for a moment. There was more surprise than pain in her eyes. My heart was beating as if it would break. I think that if she had asked me one more question, the dyke would have given way. Her gaze scanned the cathedral square, which was once more crowded with stallholders and bogus masters, then returned to me.
‘William, I don’t know who you are or what you want. You saved my life and that’s enough for me. Now I want your promise.’
‘My promise . . .’
‘Your promise that you will me do me no harm,’ she said at last, with forced self-assurance. ‘And your promise that you will not leave me either.’
‘I will stay with you.’
Then I began mumbling with emotion and I shot off like an arrow, leaving her lost for words.
‘Where are you, fool?’ I kept saying to myself as I staggered around. Like Adam, I could do nothing but reply: ‘Lord, I was frightened and I hid.’
‘Were you successful?’
I had calmed my restless heart by going to pray in the little church of Saint-Julien-le-Pauvre. Peter the Child’s house was now quiet and I had found the master resting on a bed of leaves, his eyes closed; the lines that ran across his cheeks and his forehead had almost vanished.
‘Well, are you going to tell me?’
I knew very well that my silence would not exhaust his patience, but I was finding it hard to speak.
‘Tell me if she loves me.’
‘I don’t know whether she does. Her uncle certainly does.’
‘He’s a bit of a simpleton, isn’t he? That’s what Garlande told me.’
He hardly ever mentioned the name of his protector, the archdeacon who had become Louis VI’s chancellor and was aiming still higher.
‘He loves his niece and there’s something rather crafty and obstinate about his stupidity