But among the thousands and thousands of tombs in Pere la Chaise, there is one that no man, no woman, no youth of either sex, ever passes by without stopping to examine.  Every visitor has a sort of indistinct idea of the history of its dead and comprehends that homage is due there, but not one in twenty thousand clearly remembers the story of that tomb and its romantic occupants.  This is the grave of Abelard and Heloise—­a grave which has been more revered, more widely known, more written and sung about and wept over, for seven hundred years, than any other in Christendom save only that of the Saviour.  All visitors linger pensively about it; all young people capture and carry away keepsakes and mementoes of it; all Parisian youths and maidens who are disappointed in love come there to bail out when they are full of tears; yea, many stricken lovers make pilgrimages to this shrine from distant provinces to weep and wail and “grit” their teeth over their heavy sorrows, and to purchase the sympathies of the chastened spirits of that tomb with offerings of immortelles and budding flowers.

Go when you will, you find somebody snuffling over that tomb.  Go when you will, you find it furnished with those bouquets and immortelles.  Go when you will, you find a gravel-train from Marseilles arriving to supply the deficiencies caused by memento-cabbaging vandals whose affections have miscarried.

Yet who really knows the story of Abelard and Heloise?  Precious few people.  The names are perfectly familiar to every body, and that is about all.  With infinite pains I have acquired a knowledge of that history, and I propose to narrate it here, partly for the honest information of the public and partly to show that public that they have been wasting a good deal of marketable sentiment very unnecessarily.

STORY OF ABELARD AND HELOISE

Heloise was born seven hundred and sixty-six years ago.  She may have had parents.  There is no telling.  She lived with her uncle Fulbert, a canon of the cathedral of Paris.  I do not know what a canon of a cathedral is, but that is what he was.  He was nothing more than a sort of a mountain howitzer, likely, because they had no heavy artillery in those days.  Suffice it, then, that Heloise lived with her uncle the howitzer and was happy.  She spent the most of her childhood in the convent of Argenteuil —­never heard of Argenteuil before, but suppose there was really such a place.  She then returned to her uncle, the old gun, or son of a gun, as the case may be, and he taught her to write and speak Latin, which was the language of literature and polite society at that period.

Just at this time, Pierre Abelard, who had already made himself widely famous as a rhetorician, came to found a school of rhetoric in Paris.  The originality of his principles, his eloquence, and his great physical strength and beauty created a profound sensation.  He saw Heloise, and was captivated by her blooming youth, her beauty, and her charming disposition.  He wrote to her; she answered.  He wrote again; she answered again.  He was now in love.  He longed to know her—­to speak to her face to face.