Paris: The Novel by Edward Rutherfurd

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. Andshe 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