‘It’s worthy of the trap Jacob played on Esau. And what about her, what did she say?’
‘She doesn’t want to.’
‘Why?’
‘You must ask her.’
‘It doesn’t matter. She will want to. You must speak to her.’
She will want . . . First Fulbert, now Peter . . . She’ll want: men who make decisions over women’s heads. I could bear it no longer. I punched the bench on which I was sitting.
‘You must speak to her yourself.’
‘Calm down. Very well, you’re right, I’ll speak to her. But the thing is . . .’
‘What?’
‘The fact is, I don’t know. These are things I’ve never spoken about.’
I could not prevent myself bursting out laughing.
‘Don’t make fun of me . . . What do I know about women? My mother Lucy, my sister Denise, the classical heroines, Dinah, the daughter of Jephthah . . .’
‘Do I know any more than you do? Let your heart speak!’
I needed, moreover, to lend him my heart, to feed him the phrases that came to my lips.
‘William, I don’t know what my heart is.’
He said this in all seriousness, calmly, like a man who had never thought about the matter and who was getting ready to tackle it in the way one confronted universals.
‘All you have to do is compose a song.’
‘A song?’
‘Petrus habet Heloïssam. That would be amusing.’
A feeling of gloomy irony gripped my insides. Petrus habet Heloïssam. Sing, you ass – or remain silent for ever. Sing – and know your own heart. He stood up and started to chant.
‘Petrus habet . . . Petrus habet . . .’
I walked over to the steps that ran down to our garden. His eyes were closed and he was preoccupied.
‘William, don’t leave!’
‘What is it now?’
‘Do I irritate you?’
‘Haven’t I done enough for you today?’
And against my own inclinations, haven’t I done enough . . . and against hers . . . He was going through these motions once again, and I was beginning to know this sort of behaviour rather well: first of all he would let his dark eyes gaze into mine as if he had never seen me before, as if he were discovering me for the first time, looking at me admiringly, as though I were some wonder of nature; the dark eyes of innocence, the trusting eyes of a friend. Then he would come up to me and put his hand on my shoulder, a powerful hand that was gentle and insistent. His gaze would not leave me until he felt that I was weakening, that my anger had subsided and that he had control of my confused feelings. Only then did he speak.
‘William, my friend, I think you are my only friend.’
I sighed. I wanted to believe him: it was good to be the only friend of the greatest philosopher in the world.
‘What I am telling you, I cannot tell anyone else. Believe me: my enemies would not imagine how innocent I am . . . My spirit wanders freely in the world of the mind – it is king at the Court of Kings. But my body is that of a bear who leaves his cave and discovers the light of the sun, the curious human dance, the snares along the roads. I stand erect and I fight with my paws, I look fearsome and in a moment of panic I can probably wound or kill; but my heart is filled with apprehension and terror. Are you still willing to help me?’
He released my shoulder and he stared into the fireplace where nothing was burning. He was close to tears and his fervour was winning me over. I was no longer frightened to be with him and I was no longer angry. Petrus habet Heloïssam. Peter had chosen Heloise, Peter loved Heloise without knowing her and without knowing how to love: may she be his.
VIII
No sooner had Christian, who was out of breath, and Arnold warned me than I rushed over. We had been squelching about in the pools of mud in which a few blackened beams, chests that had been broken open, and trestles without tables were still immersed, and where men seated on their now useless buckets were staring numbly at the houses.
Peter was alone, on his knees, his head covered with ashes that were still warm, in the midst of the ruins of the Cloister of Notre-Dame school.
‘What’s he doing?’ asked Christian.
‘He’s in a fury,’ said Arnold.
Peter raised his head at our approach and sat up straight.
‘The school is no more,’ he said with a forced cheerfulness.
‘You didn’t burn with it,’ said Christian. ‘If there’s still a master, there’s still a school . . .’
‘How did it happen?’ asked Arnold.
He gestured vaguely.
‘A warehouse where they store wheat . . . as far as I know . . .’
‘Where will you teach?’
‘I don’t know, William. In the ruins of the cathedral, at Samuel’s house, on the Petit Pont . . . Or I’ll make my way back up to the Mount Sainte-Geneviève, that will make me feel young again and it will wear you out . . .’
We were now in the cathedral square. We came across students, canons, soldiers. They looked at Peter and turned away again after a moment’s hesitation. He was walking more slowly than usual; his body seemed heavy and his expression was inscrutable. As Peter the Child came towards us, he leant over towards me.
‘I feel tired,’ he whispered. ‘I’ve no more strength. Tell them that I’ll go on alone.’
‘Don’t do that. Resist.’
He stared at me for a moment. He hesitated.
Behind the Child came the master’s little army, his soldiers of misfortune, each of them looking distraught. We embraced one another. Abelard stood to one side.
‘They’re trying to kill him,’ muttered Arnold with ill-contained anger.
‘He’ll kill himself on his own,’ croaked Cervelle.
‘You’re getting on my nerves.’
‘Calm down, Arnold,’ said the Child. ‘Cervelle’s quite right. There’s something about him that makes him his own worst enemy and more dangerous than all his enemies put together.’
The bells of Saint-Germain rang out first; then, further away, towards the south, those of Sainte-Geneviève and Notre-Dame, just within earshot, and then, from every corner of the city, came those of Saint-Victor, Saint-Pierre-aux-Boeufs, Saint-Serge and Saint-Bacchus, Saint-Jacques, and finally, Saint-Julien, the weakest voice of all.
‘Come!’
Abelard looked at us, a fresh smile on his lips.
‘Come on, children!’
And without further ado, he set off firmly in the direction of the Petit Pont.
Over the following days, while Peter Abelard, with my help, was preparing to move into Fulbert’s house and spending his nights dreaming of ravishing the canon’s niece Heloise, with whom I was secretly in love, a strange spectacle could be seen from the banks of the Île de la Cité.
At the port of Saint-Landry, instead of eggs and