Illuminated (9 page)

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Authors: Erica Orloff

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“They loved each other madly, and Heloise became pregnant. The very idea was scandalous. She bore him a son. And then in Shakespearean-tragedy fashion, she was forced to enter a convent.”
August said, “It’s got all the elements of a classic tragic love story.”
“Oh, but there is so much more,” Miriam said. “She and Peter 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 think they are there? That they are really side by side, forever?” There was something tragic and romantic about the idea, the two of them still entwined.
She smiled at me. “I like to think so, Calliope. I like to think that despite what the world did to them, tearing them apart, confining her in a convent, ripping her child from her arms, perhaps, that in the end, they sleep, side by side. Really at rest. Really at peace. Forever and ever.”
The cemetery look ancient, and the stone was gray with age, lichen-covered in spots, chiseled and beautifully elegant. The pergola rose to a point, and light streamed in on four sides.
“I was on the hunt—an adventure. And I was captivated, addicted to it. The hunt was all I thought about. I was entranced.” She smiled at both of us. “And judging by your faces, you are too. Are you not?”
August grinned. “I’ve been around manuscripts my whole life—and Miriam? This is the best hunt yet.”
I nodded. “Tell us the rest.
Please
.”
“An antiquarian in Paris had heard rumors of a Book of Hours, that perhaps had belonged to Heloise. And even though there was little way to confirm it for sure, I was certain I wanted to own it, or at least
see
it. I can’t explain it, but Heloise represented my true awakening.”
She turned the page. Photos of sketches of Heloise as she is thought to have looked and copies of her letters to Peter Abelard filled the scrapbook.
Then there was a picture of a man. “This is Etienne Dupont,” she said.
I looked down. An older gentleman with an elegant silver mustache and a dimple in his chin stood facing the camera. His eyes were deep blue, and he was grinning like a mischievous child. I looked over at Miriam. She was blushing.
“To Etienne, the hunt was just as exciting. I flew to Paris. We tracked down every lead, followed every rumor. I explained it to Thomas as the find of a lifetime. Priceless. Say ‘priceless’ to Thomas, and there was no expense too high. No stone to leave unturned. But I didn’t care about how much the manuscript was worth. I cared about Heloise, about the tragic love story. About finding out who these people in history really were.”
I nodded. I couldn’t explain it, but from the moment I saw the secret writing, I was certain A. had something important to say.
Miriam continued. “Then we met an old man whose family had passed down the Book of Hours for generations and generations. They had preserved it perfectly, but told no one.”
“Was it the Book of Hours? That Harry has?” She nodded. “Etienne made arrangements for a private sale. I told my husband it would be the cornerstone of our collection. I was certain there was something extraordinary about it.”
“And?” August was hanging on her every word.
“And I brought it home. But I had no idea. None. That it was a palimpsest. Even a well-preserved manuscript of this sort is extremely rare and extraordinary, as I’m sure you know, August. I can’t tell you the thrill I felt to see it. Like all illuminated manuscripts, yes, the gilt edges of the pages were beautiful, the paintings detailed. And it was fragile. Incredibly so. But I was certain it had an association with Heloise and Abelard. I
felt
it. In my soul. Does that make sense?”
“It does,” I whispered.
“I brought it home. By private jet. Afterward, after it was safely in New York, I discovered it was a palimpsest. Once I was home, I also received a handwritten letter from Etienne.”
She bit her lip. “He professed . . . his love for me. Told me it was all right if I didn’t feel the same, but that he was certain our shared love of Heloise, of the book, was more than coincidence.” She swallowed.
“Was it?” I thought of the icy apartment, of her son so callously selling what she clearly loved and treasured for more than its dollar amount.
“I couldn’t believe that at my age, I had found what had eluded me all my life. A soul mate.”
“Oh, Miriam,” I said. I clasped her hand, feeling a bursting inside of me at the thought that such a sweet person had found true love. But then I remembered that she had lost everything, been cast out of New York society. So where did Miriam’s story really end?
She shook her head. “By then, my husband’s paramours were in their late twenties—younger and younger. They were indiscreet. They occasionally even showed up at the same parties that we did. One even came to the apartment, asking him for a credit card so she could purchase clothes. I begged him to stop humiliating me. I didn’t want to end my marriage, if only because I did recall a time when I thought my husband loved me. Treasured me like a delicate rose. That was his little name for me. The Rose’s rose.”
She wiped at her eye. “But he wouldn’t listen. And then, when he saw how I told the story of the book, he became suspicious. He found Etienne’s letter. I had hidden it, not yet sure of my reply, of what to say. Thomas found it among my jewelry, folded into the lining of my jewelry box. He was furious. Said that I had made him a cuckolded man.”
“But . . . had . . . you and Etienne even . . .” I struggled to find the words, not even sure if I should ask. It seemed impolite.
“No,” she said ruefully. “To be honest, I wish I had. But no. However, my husband had a new passion—to destroy me. He reminded me that I had come from nothing, and he would return me to nothing.”
“But you were married a long time. Had children together. And
you
were the wronged one. All those affairs. Couldn’t you fight back?” I asked. I couldn’t believe the way he had treated her.
She looked to August and then to me. “So young. Full of spirit. I see it in both of you. It’s not so simple at my age. To let my whole world be dragged through the mud? All I had built, my collection split up, destroyed. I tried to keep things dignified. To simply settle it. That was my way.”
I saw her whole expression change, like the sky outside. Her eyes clouded.
“I had a very good legal team, and I refused to sink to his level. I never once spoke to the press. But it didn’t matter. He hid assets. He fought me on every point. He told my son and daughter that they would be written out of his will unless they sided with him. My daughter was always very fragile in some ways. When she was a teenager and in her early twenties, she had dabbled in drugs, and then she married a very shallow man who was only too happy to live off of her allowance. She needed her father’s money. And my son, well, you met him yourself.” She shook her head. “Thomas threatened to pull funding from any charity that left me on their board. I had friends on those boards, and they didn’t want to hurt me. I resigned, rather than let the charities suffer. My friends, my children, my home, they were all gone.”
My throat was dry. How could he do that to her? My heart pounded with anger, but it ached for Miriam at the same time.
“Finally, he offered a large sum. My lawyers said I could have gotten far more in court, but I had already lost everything. And so I accepted the offer. Even though to him it was nothing, believe me, it was more money than I could hope to spend in five lifetimes. I accepted it to be done, to have it finally be over.”
“That was it?” I asked incredulously. “You settled, Miriam?”
“Yes, for tens of millions of dollars and my dignity. I came out here and bought this house. That was part of the agreement. He was to buy me a house of my own choosing. I didn’t want some ostentatious mansion. I wanted peace. I didn’t bring so much as a stick of furniture here. It was a new life. And when I accepted this settlement, I had his
word
that the collection would not be sold—that the book would not be sold. He swore to me.”
“And did he honor that?” August asked.
“It wasn’t in writing. He wouldn’t agree to put it in writing. But he swore to it. Once, after a cocktail or two, he had admitted to dozens of affairs—even confessing that he had brought home women to sleep in our own marital bed! And he agreed that this one kindness he would show me. He kept his word. For a time. Then when he died, his will left the collection to my son, with the express instructions it be auctioned. The entire thing. Split up. With the proceeds to be split fifty-fifty between his mistress and my son.”
I fell back against the couch. “Can’t you call your son? Reason with him?”
She laughed derisively. “Have you
met
my son?” “Contest the will then. Fight this, Miriam. Please,” August said.
“Very little chance of that, dear. He knew what he was doing—he was of sound mind. It was a private promise; it wasn’t in writing. There’s nothing to be done. It was his last act to destroy me. From beyond the grave.”
“But,” I sputtered. “But . . . now what? You
can’t
let the book go to someone who doesn’t care about Heloise. Couldn’t you bid on it? Get it back?”
“I could. But once the auction world knows it’s a palimpsest, even my money will be no match for others who want to acquire it. And worse, my son could always decide to withhold it from auction, wait until after I’m gone and then auction it.”

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