She protests that she cannot forget.  “Even into holy places before the altar I carry the memory of our love; and, far from lamenting for having been seduced by pleasures, I sigh for having lost them.”  She counts herself more to be pitied than Abelard, because grace and misfortune have helped him, whereas she has still her relentless passions to fight.  “Our sex is nothing but weakness, and I have the greater difficulty in defending myself, because the enemy that attacks me pleases me.  I doat on the danger which threatens.  How, then, can I avoid yielding?  I seek not to conquer for fear I should be overcome; happiness enough for me to escape shipwreck and at last reach port.  Heaven commands me to renounce my fatal passion for you; but, oh! my heart will never be able to consent to it.  Adieu.”

IV.—­Heloise to Abelard

Abelard has not replied to this letter, and Heloise begins by sarcastically thanking him for his neglect.  She pretends to have subdued her passion, and, addressing him rather as priest than lover, demands his spiritual counsel.  Thus caustically does she proclaim her inconstancy.  “At last, Abelard, you have lost Heloise for ever.  Notwithstanding all the oaths I made to think of nothing but you, and to be entertained by nothing but you, I have banished you from my thoughts; I have forgot you.  Thou charming idea of a lover I once adored, thou wilt be no more my happiness!  Dear image of Abelard! thou wilt no longer follow me, no longer shall I remember thee.  Oh, enchanting pleasures to which Heloise resigned herself—­you, you have been my tormentors!  I confess my inconstancy, Abelard, without a blush; let my infidelity teach the world that there is no depending on the promises of women—­we are all subject to change.  When I tell you what Rival hath ravished my heart from you, you will praise my inconstancy, and pray this Rival to fix it.  By this you will know that ’tis God alone that takes Heloise from you.”

She explains how she arrived at this decision by being brought to the gates of death by a dangerous illness.  Her passion now seemed criminal.  She has therefore torn off the bandages which blinded her, and “you are to me no longer the loving Abelard who constantly sought private conversations with me by deceiving the vigilance of our observers.”  She enlarges on her resolution.  She will “no more endeavour, by the relation of those pleasures our passion gave us, to awaken any guilty fondness you may yet feel for me.  I demand nothing of you but spiritual advice and wholesome discipline.  You cannot now be silent without a crime.  When I was possessed with so violent a love, and pressed you so earnestly to write to me, how many letters did I send you before I could obtain one from you?”