Read Online Paris: The Novel by Edward Rutherfurd - Free Book Online
Authors: Edward Rutherfurd
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“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 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 eastern 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
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 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 eastern 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
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