Why did she always address these remarks to him, and not to his brother? He’d seen Gérard turn his eyes up to the sky in boredom. But his brother wasn’t really bored, Marc thought. He was jealous that Aunt Éloïse so clearly had a higher opinion of Marc than she did of him.
Aunt Éloïse was in full flood.
“Fortunately, things of beauty are not so easily destroyed—at least, not in France. And Viollet-le-Duc, the architect, completely restored the Sainte-Chapelle to its former glory, as we see it now. It’s wonderful, almost a miracle.” She looked approvingly at Marc again. “So you see, my dear Marc, no matter how bad things seem, we must never give up. As long as there are artists and architects, and patrons—you might be any of these—even miracles can be accomplished.”
And now they were standing in front of the mighty towers of Notre Dame. Beside them was a huge equestrian statue of the emperor Charlemagne. Aunt Éloïse, feeling she hadn’t paid enough attention to Gérard in the Sainte-Chapelle, remarked that it was only just before his own birth that the medieval buildings of old Paris had been swept away from the place. “Until then, Gérard, Notre Dame was surrounded with gabled houses and dark alleys—just like in The Hunchback of Notre-Dame,” she added pleasantly.
“I’m glad they were destroyed,” he said in a surly voice.
Aunt Éloïse considered. Was there something challenging in his tone? Did he imagine she must be in love with every picturesque reminder of the Middle Ages? Was he letting her know that he’d be happy to smash down her own sensibilities, like Baron Haussmann with his demolition gangs?
“I quite agree with you, Gérard,” she said, with a charming smile. “First of all, there was only a tiny space in front of the cathedral, and that was filled with disreputable stalls. And second, by the time they were demolished, the old houses were rotting where they stood, and the people in them lived like rats. Whereas now”—she gestured around the parvis—“we have this magnificent space to enjoy.”
That seemed to shut him up. It was time to pay attention to little Marie. But as she turned her gaze toward the little girl, Aunt Éloïse noticed she was looking unhappy. “Is something wrong, chérie?” she asked.
“No, Aunt Éloïse,” said Marie.
It had been just after breakfast that the terrible thing had happened. Marie supposed that it had been her own fault, for stupidly leaving her diary on the table in her bedroom. Normally she kept it locked in a drawer. But all the same, did Gérard have to come into her room when she wasn’t there and read it?
Even that wouldn’t have been so bad if she hadn’t just confided to it a secret that she wouldn’t for all the world want anyone to know. She was in love. With a school friend of Marc’s.
“So, little sister,” he’d said cruelly, “I see that you have secrets in your life.”
“That’s none of your business,” she’d cried, going scarlet with embarrassment.
“We all have secrets,” he said, handing her the book contemptuously. “But yours aren’t very interesting. Perhaps there’ll be something better to read when you are older.”
“You’re not to tell,” she wailed.
“Who would I tell?” he’d asked coolly. “Who would care?”
“Get out! I hate you!” She’d only just stopped weeping with mortification and rage an hour later, when Aunt Éloïse had come to collect them.
Aunt Éloïse cast about in her mind for something that might interest Marie. One story occurred to her, not quite appropriate for a nicely brought-up girl of eight, but with a slight alteration …
“There is a wonderful story, Marie, a true romance that belongs to this very place. Do you know the tale of Abelard and Héloïse?” Marie shook her head. “Very well.” Aunt Éloïse gave the two boys a hard stare. “I shall tell the story, Gérard and Marc, and you will not interrupt or add anything at all. Do you understand?” She turned back to Marie.
“Long ago, Marie,” she began, “in the Middle Ages, just before this great cathedral of Notre Dame was built, there was a big old church, not nearly so beautiful, upon the site. And there was something else very important that was here. Does anyone know what that was?”
“The university,” said Marc.
“Exactly. Before it moved across to the Left Bank—to the area we now call the Sorbonne—the University of Paris, which was really a school for priests, occupied some houses here on the Île de la Cité by the old cathedral. And at the university there was a philosopher called Abelard whose lectures were so brilliant that students came from all over Europe to hear him.”
“How old was he?” asked Marie.
“Not old.” Aunt Éloïse smiled. “He was lodging in the house of an important priest named Fulbert. And Fulbert’s young niece, Héloïse, was also living there.”
“Was she pretty?” Marie wanted to know.
“Without a doubt. But more important, this Héloïse was a most remarkable and intelligent girl. She could read Latin, and Greek, and even Hebrew. She took lessons from Abelard. And we should not be surprised that these two extraordinary people fell in love. They secretly married, and they had a son, named Astrolabe.”
“Astrolabe?”
“An instrument for showing the position of the stars. I admit the name is a little strange, but it shows that their love was absolutely cosmic. But Héloïse’s uncle Fulbert was very angry, and he punished Abelard, and made them part. Abelard went away, though he continued to be a famous philosopher. And Héloïse became a nun, and finally a famous abbess. And she and Abelard wrote extraordinary letters to each other. She was one of the most remarkable women of her age.”
“And were they still in love?” Marie asked.
“With time, Abelard became a little cold. Men are not always kind.”
“No, they are not,” the child said furiously, with a glance at Gérard.
“But the lovers were buried together, and they are now in Père Lachaise.”
“And were you named after Héloïse? Are you like her?”
“No, I was named after my grandmother Éloïse.” Aunt Éloïse smiled. “And my life has been quite different. But the story is famous, and it shows that even if we cannot be happy all the time, we can still have a life that is rich in every way.”
Marc watched his aunt carefully. He had been amused by the way she had altered the story. Fulbert’s punishment of Abelard had been far more terrible: He’d hired thugs to castrate the great philosopher. But such things were not for the ears of little Marie.
He also knew that something else Aunt Éloïse had said was not quite true. A year ago, his father had told him: “Your aunt wanted to marry a man who’s quite a famous author now; but unfortunately he married someone else. Don’t tell her I told you. She had other offers, but she never found anyone who interested her enough.” His father had shrugged. “She’s an attractive woman, but too independent.”
Marc knew his aunt had friends who were writers and artists. When he’d shown some talent for drawing at school, it was always her opinion he wanted on his efforts. He could easily imagine Aunt Éloïse as an abbess in the Middle Ages, or as one of those eighteenth-century women who held salons where the great men of the Enlightenment would come. Had she had lovers? If she had, no one in the respectable Blanchard family had ever breathed a word.
It was only a moment’s walk to the Petit Pont bridge, where they stared over the water to the Left Bank. Aunt Éloïse tried to engage Gérard in conversation again.
“The Île de la Cité is just like a boat in the river, isn’t it?”
“I suppose so.”
“You know, Gérard, that on its coat of arms, Paris is pictured as a ship. Do you remember the city’s Latin motto? ‘Surgit nec mergitur’: Whatever the storm, the ship sails on. It never sinks. That’s exactly the story of Paris.”
Gérard shrugged. Most Parisians were proud of their city and its treasures. People came from all over the world to see them. But the truth was, he didn’t really care. He knew Aunt É
loïse and Marc despised him for it. No doubt little Marie would as well, one day. Well, let them. He knew what he was going to do with his life. He was going to run the family business.
No one else in the family could do it. His grandfather had seen it, right from the start: “Gérard’s the one with the sound head,” he’d told the family, when Gérard was only ten. Marc was no use. He was like Aunt Éloïse: full of useless ideas and distractions. Little Marie, as a girl, didn’t need to be considered. Even his father, Gérard privately considered, was a poor custodian.
Jules Blanchard had waited until his father’s death before he had fulfilled his dream. Three years ago, his elegant department store had opened. Cheekily, he had chosen a site on the boulevard Haussmann behind the Paris Opéra and only a stone’s throw from the great Printemps store. Like Printemps, he offered high-quality clothing at fixed prices that the middle classes could afford, including some lines for which he’d signed exclusive deals. He’d called the store Joséphine.
Why Joséphine, his family had asked? After the empress Joséphine, of course, he’d explained. She’d been the wife of Napoléon, she was exotic and, if she had faults of character, she was always elegant. It was the perfect name, he’d told them.
Jules had borrowed hugely to finance it. It had to be confessed, he’d had the devil’s own luck. Just a year after Joséphine opened, the mighty Printemps emporium had burned down, and was still being rebuilt. With the main competition temporarily removed, Joséphine’s business had surged. “Make hay while the sun shines,” Jules had remarked cheerfully.
But Gérard wasn’t impressed. He hated retail. The wholesale business, which thank God his father had kept, produced cash; the retail business ate the cash. Wholesalers could lend money. Retailers borrowed. A wholesale premises was a simple, functional building that lasted a lifetime. A department store was like a stage set. His brother, Marc, loved the glamorous store, and Gérard’s secret dread was that he might want to run it one day. At all costs that must be prevented.
For Gérard’s plan was simple. One day, when his father retired or died, if the department store hadn’t ruined them in the meantime, he was going to get rid of it. Sell it if possible; if not, close it.
Chapter Three
• 1261 •
It was spring in the year of Our Lord 1261, saintly King Louis IX was on the throne of France and day was dawning. The young woman rose from the mattress on the floor.
Martine could see a thin slit of light between the wooden shutters at the window. There was no sound from the yard below; but from across it came the noise of her uncle’s loud, rhythmical snores, like the rattle of a portcullis being raised at one of the city gates.
Still naked, she went to the shutters and pushed. They opened with a crack. Her uncle’s snores faltered, and she held her breath. Then the rattle resumed, thank God.
She had to be careful. She mustn’t get caught.
Martine looked back at the mattress. The young man lying there was asleep.
Until last year, Martine had been married to a rich merchant’s son. When her husband had caught a fever and died, she’d been left a widow at the age of twenty. Soon, no doubt, she’d marry again. But until then, she thought, she might as well enjoy herself—so long as nobody found out.
If she got caught, she supposed her uncle might give her a whipping and throw her out—she really didn’t know. But not only did she need the protection of his roof: if she wanted a rich new husband, she had to keep her reputation.
The young man on the mattress was poor. He was also vain. And he had a great deal to learn about making love. So why had she picked him up?
In fact it was he who’d approached her, ten days ago, in Notre Dame. After a century of building, the new cathedral was almost complete. But to beautify it further, the transept crossings near the center were being remodeled in the latest style, their walls turned into great curtains of stained glass, like those of the king’s new chapel. She’d been gazing up at the huge rose window in the north transept when he appeared, wearing a student’s gown and, like all the students, the crown of his head was shaved in a clerical tonsure.
“Isn’t it admirable?” he had remarked pleasantly, as though he’d known her all his life.
“Monsieur?” She’d given him a disapproving look. He was a good height, slim, dark-haired. Pale skin, without blemishes, a long, thin nose. Not bad looking at all. A year or two younger than she was, she thought.
“Forgive me. Roland de Cygne, at your service.” He bowed politely. “I mean that, like a beautiful woman, Notre Dame is growing even more lovely in her maturity.”
She felt she had to say something in return.
“And when she grows old, monsieur, what then?”
“Ah.” He paused. “I will tell you a secret about this lady. At the eastern end just now, I detected tiny cracks, a slight sagging in the walls, which tells me that one day this lady will need some discreet support. They will give her flying buttresses, as they call them.”
“You are an expert in the needs of women, monsieur?”
For just a second, she saw him tempted to boast. Then he thought better of it.
“I am only a student, madame,” he said modestly.
Martine had to admit that there was something quite seductive in this combination of flirtation and respectful formality. The young man certainly had an elegant way of talking. She was impressed.
It wouldn’t have impressed her uncle. “Talk,” he’d say contemptuously, “that’s all these cursed students do—when they’re not getting drunk and assaulting people. Most of them would be sentenced to a whipping,” he’d add, “if the king and the Church didn’t protect them.”
Since the university was run by the Church, a bunch of students who smashed up a tavern had only to answer to the Church court, which would probably let them off with a penance. It was hardly surprising if ordinary Parisians resented this privilege. And as for pious King Louis IX, while the holy relics he’d placed in his gorgeous new chapel had added sanctity to his capital and his dynasty, he knew that the real prestige of Paris came from its university. A century ago, the castrated Abelard might have had his faults, but nowadays he was remembered as the greatest philosopher of his age, and young scholars eagerly came from all over Europe to the university where he had taught.
“And where do you go after this?” he inquired.
“I go home, sir,” she said firmly. Cheeky monkey.
“Let me accompany you.” He bowed. “The streets are not always safe.”
Since it was broad daylight, and they were in the middle of the royal quarter, she had found it hard not to laugh.
“It won’t do you any good,” she told him.
They walked the short distance to the northern side of the island. A little farther downstream, a bridge led across to the Right Bank. As they crossed it, she had asked: “Your name begins with a ‘de.’ Does that mean you are noble?”
“It does. Beside our little castle was a lake with many swans, so that the place was called the Lac des Cygnes. Though my family also claim that it was the swanlike grace and strength of their ancestors that gave us the name. I am called Roland after my ancestor, the famous hero of the Song of Roland.”
“Oh.” The story had been popular for more than a century, but Martine had never thought of meeting a real Roland. She was impressed. “Yet you have come here as a humble student?”
“My older brother will inherit the estate. So I must study hard and hope to make a career in the Church.”
As they turned upstream again, he told her about the estate. It lay to the west, on the lower reaches of the graceful River Loire on its journey toward the Atlantic Ocean. He spoke of it with obvious affection, which pleased Martine. Soon, however, they were approaching a large area of wharfs and a marketplace known as the Grève.
The broad spaces of the Grève market on the Right Bank were always busy. Ships and barges carrying wines from Burgundy and grain from the e
astern plains unloaded on the river bank. On the other side lay the old quarters of the weavers, with the glassmakers a block farther. Her uncle’s house lay on the rue du Temple that ran northward between them. Too many people in the market knew her. She didn’t want to start gossip. It was time to get rid of her aristocratic young companion.
“Good-bye, monsieur, and thank you,” she said politely.
“I’m studying tomorrow,” Roland remarked, “but the day after, I shall visit the Sainte-Chapelle at this hour. Perhaps,” he suggested pleasantly, “I shall see you there.”
“I doubt it, sir,” she said, and walked away.
But two days later, she’d gone there all the same.
It wasn’t long since the saintly King Louis had completed his sumptuous sanctuary for the holy relics. The upper chapel was reserved for the king himself, who had a private entrance from the royal palace next door. But lesser folk could worship in a humbler chapel below. And even this was beautiful. The cryptlike space shimmered by the light of countless candles. As Martine looked at the delicate columns of red and gold and observed how they branched out into the low, blue vaults, so richly spangled with golden fleurs-de-lys, she felt as if she had entered a magical orchard. By coming to meet Roland, she had already opened the way for an intimacy between them. In the glimmering candlelight, with the soft scent of incense in every nook and crevice, it seemed only natural that she should draw close to his side.
And in doing so and leaning, once or twice, close to his body, she noticed something else. Notwithstanding the incense, she could smell him: a faint, pleasant smell of the light sweat on his leather sandals, and something else—was it almonds perhaps, or nutmeg?—that came from his skin.
They had been there some minutes, quietly enjoying the beauty of the place, when a priest came past them, and to her surprise her young student had addressed him.
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