He sat there, thinking not at all, breathing slowly. The anger that had swept through him was like a heather fire: for a while it had left no life in him. The bell began ringing for Compline, and in a little while he heard, far off and faint, the chant from the choir. It brought to him the memory, not of the evening office, but of that morning’s Mass for the octave of St. Peter and St. Paul, and the gradual. Was there any so beautiful in all the circuit of the year? “The souls of the just are in the hand of God, and the torment of malice shall not touch them; In the sight of the unwise they seemed to die, but they are in peace.”
He sat still, the remembered chant stealing like a river through the chambers of his brain. The torment of malice; there was strange wisdom in the liturgy that could dare to bring that hissing serpent of a word into its requiem, secure that it could not shake its peace. The souls of the just are in the hand of God. He got to his feet, with a quick sigh. He was far from that yet.
Standing there, saddened as he was, a sudden wave of tenderness swept over him for Heloise. He could do so little for her, body or soul. Had he done right to bring her from Denise and her kind fostering, and her little son, and Hugh the Stranger, and all that gentle countryside, to these rank gutters and that dark house? The torment of malice—he put it from him quickly. There was no hint of that. She had assured him, over and over, that Fulbert was kind with her, even tender, sometimes. She had looked white and cold, almost like a dead thing, at their secret marriage in St. Aignan’s, but he and she had both spent the night in vigil in the church, and it was no wonder if she seemed ill and strained at dawn. As for Fulbert, he was another man. Every day seemed to fill out the little figure to its old comfortable roundness, the grease stains were gone from his cassock, and he crossed the Parvis with his old jaunty step, nodding a little, like the more important of the pigeons. To Abelard himself he was even effusive. Once only, when he brought Heloise for the first time into the old man’s presence, had he seen any trace of the old peter rancour. At first Fulbert had had eyes only for her. He had stood, holding her in his arms, shaking, half crying, his head buried on her shoulder. Then when he righted himself and turned to greet Abelard, there had been—or had Abelard imagined it?—the merest suggestion of a flicker in his eye, the flash of an adder into the long grass. Even if it were, thought Abelard, it would have been natural enough. And since then he had been complaisance itself.
Too complaisant. Abelard scowled at divers memories. Could the man not behave like her guardian and her uncle, instead of fawning on him like a gratified father-in-law, or worse still, leering like a pimp? Whatever ailed him, Abelard felt guiltier now in his rare visits to Heloise, than when he had been at his wits’ end to contrive a meeting with her. And Heloise too seemed sometimes subdued. They laughed less, he thought sadly, yet from no weariness. Their passion was no less, but it had taken to itself a quality of tenderness that made it more poignant, less easily slaked: sometimes as she clung to him, he could feel her tears salt on his lips and could not question them, for they stung in his own eyes.
Well, he would go and see her. It was five days since he had been to the house, though he had written to her every day, and she to him. Fulbert had not been at Mass: it would be something if a touch of fever, or bile, had him in bed. Cheered even at the ghost of the possibility, he took his hood and went down the well of the stairs, and out into the dead air of the July dusk. At Le Palais they would have nearly finished cutting the hay. He had smelt new-mown hay from the fields across the river, yesterday, but there was no wind to bring it to-night, or to carry off the smell that hung about the tanneries. That seemed able to cross the river at any time. Among the cobblestones at his feet a fish’s eye from its decapitated head looked up at him with a kind of white malevolence. Of such, he said to himself, are the evening primroses of Paris.
He had to stand for a while on the doorstep, after knocking. The door was never open now: that was one change from the old days of unsuspecting intimacy that had persisted, even in the new understanding, and it never failed to irk him. For unless Heloise was watching for him, it meant that he must see Grizzel, and for Grizzel, reason with himself as he might that she was only an ancient bristled sow, he had a repugnance that was more than physical. He was superstitious about meeting her. It could spoil his eagerness, as the ugly chatter of a single magpie could jar into a spring day. She had never been more than civil with him: his first coming had made more work in the house, and only his careless lavishness had kept her spite from overflowing her greed. Moreover, of late it had gone against the grain with him to give her money: it seemed to him that he was placating a bawd. He gave it to Heloise for her, instead, bidding her not say it was from him.
Had she guessed it was he at the door? The minutes seemed interminable. He was about to knock again, when he heard her grunting approach. She was watching him through the lattice of the grille, he knew, but he deliberately kept his back turned. At last he heard the bolts drawn, and the door creaked open. She looked up at him silently. More than ever the evil eye to-night, he thought. As a rule he asked for her master, but some obstinacy made him change his mind.
“Is your mistress within?”
Her lips curled back like an old bitch’s snarl. “Aye, your mistress is,” said she, then suddenly cringed. He had not struck her, but the eyes had a glance like a levin bolt and her knees gave under her.
“It was a slip o’ the tongue,” she mumbled, retreating against the wall. “She’s in her room, sir. Not with the master. You’d better not go near the master,” she cried after him, with a sudden return of the snarl.
Abelard stopped on his way to the stairs.
“Is your master ill?”
“Aye.” She looked at him, powerless and malevolent. “God blast the pair of ye, that brought him to it,” she said, very slowly. There was a sincerity in it that in some curious way robbed it of any offence. Abelard turned on his heel and went on up the familiar stairs, past Fulbert’s room, the door closed, and on to the great room that had been his. As he climbed the next flight, and the step gave peter under him with its remembered groan, he heard her door open. He could almost feel the strained expectancy with which she would be listening.
“It is I, beloved,” he said, very low.
She said nothing, but he heard her take her breath. She had gone back into the room, and as he came through the door she closed it behind him and caught him. Neither of them spoke. That some cruel thing ailed her, he knew, without a word from her: knew too that all she wanted for the moment was the silent holding of his arms.
In a little while she sighed and held him away from her. “Now nothing matters,” she said, with a ghost of a laugh in her voice. “I have seen you again.”
She drew him over to the settle and sat down, still holding him away from her. She was very white and panting a little. In spite of the closeness of the night, she had a wrap muffled about her throat.
“Child,” he said, forgetful of Grizzel’s news, “you are not ill? Have these stinking gutters caught you in the throat?”
“No, no. At least,” she hesitated, “it is a little sore. But nothing that matters. I have wrapped it up. Nothing matters, now that I have seen you.”
He looked at her, thoroughly uneasy.
“Is it swollen?”
She shook her head. “It is nothing. It will be well again in the morning. No——” she drew the scarf closer round it and moved away from his outstretched hand. “Please, Peter. At least, not just now. Let me talk to you a little first.”
She was more like herself now, and he thought it best to humour her.
“I was vexed,” she went on, “that I did not hear you, to let you in. Was it Grizzel?”
“It was,” he said grimly. “And in a good mood too. But tell me,” he suddenly remembered the news of Fulbert, “she said your uncle was ill?”
Heloise nodded. “I think,” she said quietly, �
��he has had another stroke. Simon Trivet came and bled him. He is sleeping now.”
Abelard was dumb for a moment. The memory of the first stroke, in this very room, was upon him. What had brought the second? He could hardly bear to question her, yet she was looking at him as if she would gladly speak, and could not bring herself to it.
“Were you with him? Was he in his own house?”
She nodded. “It was before Vespers. Geoffrey of Chartres was here. And,” her voice changed, “Alberic of Rheims.”
Abelard uttered a stifled exclamation. “Together? Did they come together?”
“No. Geoffrey came first, with a message from Gilles. You know the book of Ivo’s letters that I have been copying for Gilles. Geoffrey was anxious to see it, because of some trouble he is having with the Count of Chartres. Gilles says he will be a great bishop, Peter.”
“Geoffrey? It is as wise a brain as there is in France.” He saw that she was eager to speak of indifferent things, and went on talking of Geoffrey and his brother Hugh, the Seigneur de Lèves. He would be a better successor to Ivo than either Bernard or his brother Thierry, he said, for Bernard cared too much for Virgil, and Thierry for mathematics, to have the charge of a great diocese, above all with a ruffian like Count Thibault to keep in his place. Besides, the De Lèves were as good blood as the Counts of Chartres, and that was always a help. “Had you much talk with him?”
Heloise shook her head. “He had hardly told my uncle his errand when Alberic came in. I had never seen him before. Very fat, and small eyes peeping. He said to my uncle that he had long had a great desire to see his relic, you know, that bit of the spine of St. Évroul, and my uncle was all flattered and happy and took him to his oratory. I do not believe he came for that, I think it was only to spy. And when they came back, Alberic began talking to Geoffrey, praising the schools at Chartres and making little of his own at Rheims. I do not know why it is so much worse for a fat man to fawn than a thin one. But Geoffrey only laughed, and said that Paris had overtopped them all, and that Chartres was become no better than a grammar school for it.”
Abelard smiled grimly. “That would please Alberic.”
“All the time he was watching me sideways. And then he looked down his nose and said that he had understood it was under a cloud of late, and that Master Peter Abelard was said to be beginning to repeat himself.”
“Well? Had Geoffrey anything to say to that?”
The light leapt in Heloise’s eyes. “He laughed, you know that light amused laugh of his. ‘Don’t listen to the cockroaches, Alberic,’ said he. ‘Do you know that I had a deal more consequence in Rome as friend to Peter Abelard than as Bishop-elect of Chartres? They call him the Socrates of Gaul.’”
Abelard was crimson with pleasure. “Geoffrey always was a good fighter,” he said. “They used to say he was better at attack than defence, for by the time he had begun the first, there was no need for the second.”
“There wasn’t, here.” Her eyes were shining. Then they clouded. She looked down at her hands.
“Well, child?” said Abelard gently. “Did it annoy your uncle to hear me praised?”
“No, oh no,” she cried. “I wish it had.” She was scarlet with mortification. “I could not look at him. He sat, looking from one to the other, rubbing his hands and beaming and making little noises, and when Geoffrey had finished he began about its being very gratifying for him. Geoffrey tried to interrupt (I think he felt that something was wrong, without divining what it was), and said that as a canon of Notre Dame he must be proud to own you, but my uncle could not be stopped. He said that he had more intimate cause than that to be proud of you, for he had always regarded this child here—and he pointed to me—as a daughter, and to know her married to so great a man——” She stopped. She could go no further.
Abelard’s hand tightened on hers. It was for her reassurance, for he himself felt nothing. It had come, then. Well, what of it?
“Well, child?” he asked, so tranquilly that she stole a glance at him and took courage.
“Geoffrey had got to his feet and was saying something very loud about having to sup with Gilles, and Alberic coming too. But Alberic sat leaning forward, with his eyes darting out of his head. ‘Married?’ said he. ‘I do indeed congratulate you on your—son-in-law,’ and then he turned to me, ‘and you,’ said he, ‘on your—Socrates.’” She paused again.
“My uncle stood there, babbling and smiling. And I said, ‘I am afraid, Master Alberic, that with my uncle the wish has begotten the thought. It is his delusion that I am married to Master Peter, but it is not true.’ My uncle stood staring at me. I think he hardly took in what I was saying. They all stared. And then Alberic thrust his face nearer mine and said in that pasty voice of his:
“‘You are not then his wife?’”
Abelard had risen to his feet. “And you said?”
She had risen, too, confronting him, and smiling. “I said I was your mistress.”
Abelard drew a sharp breath. Her courage slashed him like a sword. He stood for a moment gazing at her, his pride in her overtopping even his wonder. Then he went on one knee before her, and kissed her hand.
“Beloved, it was magnificent. But——” he rose to his feet, in sudden comprehension, “your uncle——?”
She turned away. “My uncle——” She stopped. “Ah, Peter, you can imagine it. He was shrieking and then . . . and then he fell.” She sat down, as if her story was finished and there was no more to say.
Abelard was looking down at her, mentally filling in the gaps.
“Did he touch you?”
“He—— Ah, what does it matter? I told you he was mad.”
Abelard stooped and unwound the scarf from her throat. She did not struggle. He stood for a while looking at it.
“So he clawed you. Like a wild beast.”
He dropped on his knees beside her, his head on her lap. He had brought her to this, his darling to the power of the dog.
“Beloved, it was only for a moment. They both pulled him away. He was tearing at them, too. And then suddenly he fell, in a fit. Geoffrey stayed and helped to get him to bed. And Alberic went for Simon Trivet, to bleed him. Grizzel is minding him. It is better for him not to see me yet.”
Abelard got up and moved over to the window. “He is not ever going to see you again,” he said briefly. “Heloise, for God’s sake do not try to spare me. How long have you been in dread?”
“Do you remember the night we came? It was the look in his eyes when he turned to you. A little red speck, like on a viper’s back.”
“I saw it,” said Abelard. “I hoped you had not.”
“I was afraid for you, after that, every time you came to the house. It was one reason why I would never have you eat or drink in the house, unless I had seen to it myself, even brought up the wine from the cellar.”
“But for yourself? Was he harsh with you?”
She shook her head. Then suddenly she dropped her head on her hands and began crying quietly. He came over to her then and held her. She thrust her head into the hollow of his arm.
“It was the nights,” she said. “I used to waken in the dark, and know that he was standing at the foot of the bed. He would stand there, stooping forward, peering at me. And then after a long while he would go away. I couldn’t bolt the door, for he had the bolt taken away after that night he found us together. I used to lie and watch it, till it began opening.”
He could say nothing. His self-reproach was too bitter. She soon was quiet, lying in his arms. In a little while she touched his cheek.
“Now that I have told you,” she said, “I think I shall never be afraid again.”
He disengaged her then, and set her down beside him, his arm still about her shoulder.
“Listen, beloved. I shall stay with you to-night, and to-morrow you and I will ride back to Brittany.”
She shook her head.
“I knew you would say that,” she said, “and I have been thinking, as soon as I came up here by myself, what I must do. I knew you would not let me stay here. I do not think I could. But if we go to Brittany, it will be confirmation of everything my uncle has said. As it is, I think it was well they saw him in his madness. They will believe more easily, even Alberic, that what I said is true, that it is his delusion. And so I made up my mind that I would go, for a while anyhow, back to Argenteuil. I shall tell Reverend Mother everything. She would know it, anyhow. She is like Gilles, in that. And I am not afraid of her any more. It is odd how much I have been thinking of her, of late. She is not a good woman. I used to think that she was even wicked. But she is strong. And she would never give away anything one told her. Besides, she is Gilles’ cousin.”
Abelard had risen and was leaning against the window, silent. Were they born with the wisdom of the ages, these women?
“I shall even ask her,” Heloise went on, “if I may wear novice’s dress. And everyone will be told that I am going to take the veil, in a year or two. It will give the lie to anything my uncle may say or do. Even if he brings witnesses of our marriage, it will not matter. For even if we were married, it would annul it if I took the veil.”
She had grown very white. Abelard turned from the window to see the still face, the eyes that looked out at emptiness. He tried to come to her, but he could neither move nor speak. Grotesquely there came to him the memory of the clerk who set a ring on the finger of the statue of Venus in the market-place, and found the marble image bedded between him and his young bride. She had gone on speaking, but he had ceased to take it in. At last he managed a kind of strangled croak.
“Heloise, have pity,” he said.
The unseeing eyes came to life, in a flash she was beside him, clinging to him, kissing his sad eyes, his trembling mouth.
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