Paris: The Novel

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 sanctityto 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