A few days after that presentation, I began to notice something curious.
That young woman-Lady Élisabeth Armand-seemed to always find a pretext to speak with me.
At first, I assumed it was mere coincidence. The academy was not so vast, and students often crossed paths in the same corridors. Yet, as the days passed, these encounters felt far too frequent to be deemed accidental.
One afternoon, upon leaving the lecture hall, I heard a voice that was beginning to feel familiar.
"Mr Laurent."
I turned.
Élisabeth stood a few paces from me, a slender volume held in her hand. Her fair hair caught the gentle breeze drifting through the windows of the long gallery.
"I hope I am not intruding,"
she said with a faint smile.
"I merely wished to enquire further about the pattern you explained yesterday."
I nodded, though a sense of wonder stirred within me.
Truthfully, any question concerning Fibonacci could have been easily resolved within the academy library.
Indeed, there were several other students in our set who might have explained it with greater clarity than I.
And yet, for some reason, she always came to me.
We walked slowly along the corridor, our conversation lingering on the connection between that sequence of numbers and the spiral of a sunflower.
I answered as best I could, explaining how nature often chooses the most efficient path.
She listened with a quiet gravity, nodding every so often.
However, one thing began to puzzle me.
Whenever I concluded an explanation, she would often gaze at me with an expression that suggested her enquiry was not yet finished-even though I had addressed every point.
The following day, the same occurred.
And the day after that.
Sometimes she asked of mathematics. Sometimes of astronomy. Occasionally, she enquired about the book I happened to be reading.
I began to feel as though every conversation of ours commenced with a question, yet never truly reached an answer.
One day, as we walked out onto the academy grounds, I finally remarked with a half-jesting tone,
"Lady Élisabeth, you seem to possess more questions than my entire class combined."
She gave a soft laugh.
It was a light sound, almost as if it were something never intended to be heard by too many ears.
"Does it trouble you?"
"No," I replied quickly.
Perhaps too quickly.
She observed me for a moment before saying,
"Then I shall continue to ask."
We walked a few paces in silence.
In the academy courtyard, other students spoke in raised voices. A carriage had come to a halt near the main gates to collect one of the noble-born pupils.
Élisabeth looked towards the small garden at the centre of the yard.
"Tell me," she said suddenly,
"why do you think humans are so drawn to patterns?"
I reflected for a moment before answering.
"Perhaps because patterns offer us the sense that the world is intelligible."
She turned to me.
"And is the world truly intelligible?"
I nearly answered as I always did-with logic, with theory, with a formula. Yet, as I looked into her eyes once more, for a brief moment, every answer felt insufficient.
"I do not know," I said at last.
She smiled.
It was not a broad smile, yet it was enough to make me feel as though I had just uttered something far more profound than the truth.
The following days passed in much the same manner.
I began to notice that Élisabeth was often to be found in the same places as I.
In the library. In the eastern corridor. In the small garden near the astronomy building.
Every time we met, there was always a new question.
Yet slowly, I began to realise something far stranger.
Occasionally, before she had even asked, I noticed that the pages of the books she carried already bore small notes in the margins. It was as if she already knew a great deal of the answers herself.
One evening in the library, as the sun began its descent and a golden light poured through the high windows, she sat once more across from my desk.
"I have one further question," she said.
I closed my book. "Of course."
She opened her own volume briefly, then looked at me again.
But this time, she did not speak immediately.
"Yes?" I prompted.
She shook her head slowly. "It is nothing."
I raised an eyebrow. "Did you not say you had a question?"
She offered that small smile again-the one that was beginning to appear far too often whenever she spoke with me.
"I merely wished to be certain of something."
"Of what?"
She closed her book.
Her shoulders lifted slightly, like someone who had just reached a small decision.
"I only wished to be certain that you do not mind if I continue to intrude upon your time."
I stared at her for several seconds.
How strange. For someone who could usually explain a mathematical pattern with perfect clarity, I suddenly found myself struggling to find a simple answer to that question.
Finally, I said, "If all intrusions were of this nature, I believe I should not mind them at all."
Élisabeth laughed again, this time a little longer.
After a moment, she rose and gathered her books. The carriage of her noble house usually arrived to fetch her before the sun had fully set.
Before departing, she paused for a moment beside my desk.
"Mr Laurent."
"Yes?"
"I have one final question."
I waited.
But she only looked at me for a heartbeat before saying,
"Will you be in the library tomorrow?"
I knew not why, but I answered immediately. "I will."
She nodded slowly, appearing satisfied with that response. "Good."
Then, she walked away.
I watched her until she vanished behind the great doors of the library.
It was only after a moment that I realised something which made me exhale a small sigh.
That was no question of mathematics.
And stranger still-
I knew not when it had happened, but I had begun to wait for her questions.