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 that makes him less simple-minded than the others.’
‘Don’t be so subtle, you’re wearying me. What did he say about my proposal, is he pleased, does he want to accept?’
‘He wants you to cane her to make her understand . . . He knows that philosophers never know what time it is and he realises that lessons will sometimes have to take place at night.’
‘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
