had secretly married, and when Fulbert found out . . . Well, he had men loyal to him severely beat and then castrate Peter Abelard.”
I covered my mouth with a gasp. “No!” Miriam nodded. “I know. A horrible tragedy. And all true.”
“What did they do?” I asked, now leaning forward. I hadn’t realized it, but I was gripping August’s hand.
“They didn’t correspond for some time afterward. Peter, as is understandable, felt very sorry for himself. He withdrew from life.”
“Withdrew?” I asked.
“He became a hermit. He would see or speak to absolutely no one. Eventually, Heloise, who years later had risen to head her convent and was now an abbess . . . she chastised him. She took him to task. It’s funny—she basically was the stronger person. She told him he needed to stop his self-pity. And so began a series of letters between them—theological in nature, philosophical. The meeting of the minds was still present, was still palpable between them, even after all that happened. At first, I think she hoped to rekindle their great love affair—even after all that time, he was her one true heart. But if she could not have him as her love, then she was determined to have his mind—to be his confidante, and best friend, his intellectual equal.”
“So A. is Abelard? Is that what you think?” August asked. “Because that would be incredible.”
She smiled. “No, my dears. I believe A. is an even better find. One that would make history.”
“Who then?”
“Heloise and Abelard’s son. Astrolabe. ”
8
Who is this ghost before me?—A.
“ T heir son?” I asked. I could hardly imagine.
She nodded. “Here’s where my journey grows increasingly complicated.” She stood and crossed over to the couch, sat next to us, and spread the scrapbook open on her lap.
“No one knows what happened to Astrolabe. This poor, innocent child, born into a secret marriage under tragic circumstances. His very existence caused his own father to be brutalized. Supposedly, Peter Abelard took him to his sister to be adopted. He was raised with his aunt instead of his parents as would be right. Raised separated from his mother. But we know little of what happened to him. One theory is he also went into the church. There’s a reference to him as Venerable, later on, which would support that. But it’s unclear.”
“What about their letters? Did they ever discuss him?” I asked, incredulous that they could have forgotten their love child.
“Peter makes a reference to him in a single line or two. That, because it is important to her, he would attempt to secure a position for Astrolabe in the religious life. But beyond that, the poor little boy is a ghost.”
“So why do you think it’s Astrolabe who wrote those words?” I asked. “Why him and not Peter. Or someone else? Why this one person in history?” I was hooked. Hooked on the story, hooked on the hunt, on the ghost of A. and the secret manuscript. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d felt so thrilled, so excited. Hunting through history like this wasn’t like anything I had ever done before—it was like being a treasure hunter and a detective all in one.
She touched the corner of one of the scrapbook pages. “I had heard whisperings of some artifacts from Heloise. But you have to understand, because she and Peter Abelard were so famous, there is much myth surrounding them that is presented as fact. For instance, some say they are buried together at the Père-Lachaise Cemetery in Paris. Others are not so sure and think perhaps it’s a mere monument. A statue with no remains.” She flipped through the scrapbook and held a page up to us. “Here’s a picture of their supposed crypt.”
I looked down at the monument and touched the picture. Two stone figures lay faceup, next to each other, hands folded in prayer, beneath an open-walled stone pergola. Her face was serene, his solemn.
“It’s beautiful,” I whispered. “Do you
I covered my mouth with a gasp. “No!” Miriam nodded. “I know. A horrible tragedy. And all true.”
“What did they do?” I asked, now leaning forward. I hadn’t realized it, but I was gripping August’s hand.
“They didn’t correspond for some time afterward. Peter, as is understandable, felt very sorry for himself. He withdrew from life.”
“Withdrew?” I asked.
“He became a hermit. He would see or speak to absolutely no one. Eventually, Heloise, who years later had risen to head her convent and was now an abbess . . . she chastised him. She took him to task. It’s funny—she basically was the stronger person. She told him he needed to stop his self-pity. And so began a series of letters between them—theological in nature, philosophical. The meeting of the minds was still present, was still palpable between them, even after all that happened. At first, I think she hoped to rekindle their great love affair—even after all that time, he was her one true heart. But if she could not have him as her love, then she was determined to have his mind—to be his confidante, and best friend, his intellectual equal.”
“So A. is Abelard? Is that what you think?” August asked. “Because that would be incredible.”
She smiled. “No, my dears. I believe A. is an even better find. One that would make history.”
“Who then?”
“Heloise and Abelard’s son. Astrolabe. ”
8
Who is this ghost before me?—A.
“ T heir son?” I asked. I could hardly imagine.
She nodded. “Here’s where my journey grows increasingly complicated.” She stood and crossed over to the couch, sat next to us, and spread the scrapbook open on her lap.
“No one knows what happened to Astrolabe. This poor, innocent child, born into a secret marriage under tragic circumstances. His very existence caused his own father to be brutalized. Supposedly, Peter Abelard took him to his sister to be adopted. He was raised with his aunt instead of his parents as would be right. Raised separated from his mother. But we know little of what happened to him. One theory is he also went into the church. There’s a reference to him as Venerable, later on, which would support that. But it’s unclear.”
“What about their letters? Did they ever discuss him?” I asked, incredulous that they could have forgotten their love child.
“Peter makes a reference to him in a single line or two. That, because it is important to her, he would attempt to secure a position for Astrolabe in the religious life. But beyond that, the poor little boy is a ghost.”
“So why do you think it’s Astrolabe who wrote those words?” I asked. “Why him and not Peter. Or someone else? Why this one person in history?” I was hooked. Hooked on the story, hooked on the hunt, on the ghost of A. and the secret manuscript. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d felt so thrilled, so excited. Hunting through history like this wasn’t like anything I had ever done before—it was like being a treasure hunter and a detective all in one.
She touched the corner of one of the scrapbook pages. “I had heard whisperings of some artifacts from Heloise. But you have to understand, because she and Peter Abelard were so famous, there is much myth surrounding them that is presented as fact. For instance, some say they are buried together at the Père-Lachaise Cemetery in Paris. Others are not so sure and think perhaps it’s a mere monument. A statue with no remains.” She flipped through the scrapbook and held a page up to us. “Here’s a picture of their supposed crypt.”
I looked down at the monument and touched the picture. Two stone figures lay faceup, next to each other, hands folded in prayer, beneath an open-walled stone pergola. Her face was serene, his solemn.
“It’s beautiful,” I whispered. “Do you
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