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 glamorousstore, 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,
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,
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