But, alas! her woman’s weakness conquers again.  For the moment she forgets her resolution, and exclaims:  “My dear husband (for the last time I use that title!), shall I never see you again?  Shall I never have the pleasure of embracing you before death?  What dost thou say, wretched Heloise?  Dost thou know what thou desirest?  Couldst thou behold those brilliant eyes without recalling the tender glances which have been so fatal to thee?  Couldst thou see that majestic air of Abelard without being jealous of everyone who beholds so attractive a man?  That mouth cannot be looked upon without desire; in short, no woman can view the person of Abelard without danger.  Ask no more to see Abelard; if the memory of him has caused thee so much trouble, Heloise, what would not his presence do?  What desires will it not excite in thy soul?  How will it be possible to keep thy reason at the sight of so lovable a man?”

She reverts to her delightful dreams about Abelard, when “you press me to you and I yield to you, and our souls, animated with the same passion, are sensible of the same pleasures.”  Then she recalls her resolution, and closes with these words:  “I begin to perceive that I take too much pleasure in writing to you; I ought to burn this letter.  It shows that I still feel a deep passion for you, though at the beginning I tried to persuade you to the contrary.  I am sensible of waves both of grace and passion, and by turns yield to each.  Have pity, Abelard, on the condition to which you have brought me, and make in some measure my last days as peaceful as my first have been uneasy and disturbed.”

V.—­Abelard to Heloise

Abelard remains firm.  “Write no more to me, Heloise, write no more to me; ’tis time to end communications which make our penances of no avail,” he says.  “Let us no more deceive ourselves with remembrance of our past pleasures; we but make our lives troubled and spoil the sweets of solitude.  Let us make good use of our austerities, and no longer preserve the memories of our crimes amongst the severities of penance.  Let a mortification of body and mind, a strict fasting, continual solitude, profound and holy meditations, and a sincere love of God succeed our former irregularities.”

Both, he deplores, are still very far from this enviable state.  “Your heart still burns with that fatal fire you cannot extinguish, and mine is full of trouble and unrest.  Think not, Heloise, that I here enjoy a perfect peace; I will for the last time open my heart to you; I am not yet disengaged from you, and though I fight against my excessive tenderness for you, in spite of all my endeavours I remain but too sensible of your sorrows, and long to share in them.  The world, which is generally wrong in its notions, thinks I am at peace, and imagining that I loved you only for the gratification of the senses, have now forgot you.  What a mistake is this!”

He exhorts her to strive, to be more firm in her resolutions, to “break those shameful chains which bind you to the flesh.”  He pictures the death of a saint and he works upon her fears by impressing upon her the terrors of hell.  His last recorded words to her are these: