by George Moore
And they continued to talk in this manner while their horses plodded up a gentle acclivity with bent heads, as if they were asked to perform some heavy task, Héloïse waiting for the Loire, which did not come into view for another hour; and when it did flash into sight it was not the course of the river that captured her eyes, but a great barge sailing fast on a wind blowing from the east. She will reach Tours in three days, Abélard said; maybe less. And shall we sail in a barge, and will the sails be yellow or white? Héloïse asked, but seeing that he was deep in himself and averse from any interruption of his mood, she gave herself wholly over to an unaided admiration of the smooth, finely bending lines of a bluish river sweeping through a grey-green country, the right bank tame and cultivated, with some of the original forest here and there, and an almost immeasurable forest along the left bank, with scrub and marsh where the ground was low, great trees where it was high, her romantic imagination summoning to her mind the sound of the hunting horns echoing round the lakes and ponds as the hounds and the huntsmen pursued now fleeing deer, now wolves and bears. She knew from Abélard that there were no lions nor tigers in France, and she would have liked to have asked him about the King’s hunting in the Sologne, but his humour did not seem to invite questions; so she persisted in her admiration of the river, seeing that it bent a little as it came round the town of Orléans, straightening out soon after into its seaward course, certain that the distance that her eyes embraced represented many leagues; many leagues lay between her and that blue-tinted line of forest, and nearly as many now lay between her and Paris. Towards that blue-tinted distance we shall be sailing to-morrow or the next day, she said to herself, and as they had by this time come into full view of the river, she began to hope that the ship that would take them would be one of the great two-masted ships with which the river was speckled, and that it would be borne along beautifully by pointed sails like wings. The ships go towards Nantes, towards the seas, sailing with sails crossed over, she said, and they come up from Nantes to Orléans with their long peaked sails in a line, making first for one shore and then for the other, gaining a little on each tack. She had seen boats perform the same feats on the Seine at Argenteuil, and knew that the task of working a boat against the wind was a slow one.
The city lay on the left under the low shore, the twin towers of the cathedral striking firmly against long droves of dove-coloured clouds through which the sun was breaking, illuminating the landscape, showing the line of the fields, spreading wonder and delight, bringing the sails of all the ships into relief, filling the river with reflections, and doing many other wonderful things that Héloïse hoped to remember; but so extraordinary and so numerous was the play of light that she was sure she would have forgotten a great deal of what she was now seeing before Abélard thought fit to rouse out of his taciturnity. Of what can he be thinking? she asked herself, but refrained from asking him, and forgot him in a sudden wonder at a long, low island filled with fair trees, walks, and some houses, and a long bridge of many narrow arches, whose gently curving line was broken by roofs of shrines and dwellings, rising from high piers like the prows of ships, and defended by pointed turrets. Hast thou no eyes, Abélard, for the river and its city? she asked. And he answered her that he would have had eyes for both had be been able to rid his mind of Fulbert. But Fulbert would not follow us to Orléans? Héloïse asked quickly. For who would there be in Paris to tell him? And he answered her that although he had regretted at first the illness that had kept them for so many days at Saint-Jean-de-Braie, he was now disposed to look upon the delay as advantageous, for if Fulbert went to Orléans inspired by the thought that we should sail from thence, and got no news of us in any of the inns, he would return to Paris forthright. And to her question whether he thought that Fulbert had come to Orléans, Abélard answered that had Fulbert come to Orléans he would not have waited; getting no news of us here, he repeated, he would return to Paris at once. But if his thought should be: they are still on their way hither? she said. Then it will be bad for us, he answered, for we cannot resist, he being surrounded by hirelings.
It was then that Héloïse began to apprehend her lover’s danger, and she rode by his side silent, seeing the city very distinctly but unable to appreciate the beauty of the trees, the acacias and the limes and the chestnuts that filled the Mail with perfume. There are no trees in Paris like these, she was about to say, but the words died on her lips, for Fulbert might dash out of a side street at any moment. If we get no tidings of him at The Red Dragon he has not followed us to Orléans, Abélard whispered to her as he helped her from her horse, and it seemed to her that her heart ceased to beat while he put inquiries to the innkeeper, but as these elicited no tidings regarding the Canon of Notre-Dame, she drew an easier breath, and began to think that luck was on their side after all. In answer to his inquiry if he could get a ship to take them to Nantes the next day or the day after, the innkeeper told him that he could get one that very night, whereat the three were elated. Each ship takes six passengers and it looses as soon as the six have paid their fares, said the innkeeper. But the passengers, reverend sir, are often noisy and unruly, and you and the good sisters that are with you will suffer much in such company; and the price not being a large one you would do well to hire a ship for your use, for you will then be free to stop at different towns. There is much to see in Meung and Beaugency. At Meung there is a great abbey, and they are building a new church there designed by a young man of great promise. And our beautiful river has much to show for pleasure and instruction. But your horses, good sir, you will leave with me. I will care for them well. But should your stay at Blois, at Tours or at Nantes be a long one, I am ready to bid a good price for your horses. Whereupon Abélard said he would want his horses when he returned, which would be in a month. In a month a horse has time to eat up a great deal of his value, averred the innkeeper, and in a month’s time horses will be more plentiful in Orléans than they are to-day, and Abélard allowed himself to be swayed by the innkeeper’s arguments.
The sun is no longer at height, the afternoon has begun to steal upon us; remark, reverend sir, the shadows which are lengthening. It may be that you would like to rest yourselves at my inn, to eat and drink, and make a start to-morrow or the next day? If so, I shall not charge for the keep of your horses. You have not seen all our city, you have had but a mere glimpse of it. My rooms might tempt you to spend a few days in Orléans if you will deign to see them. Abélard thanked him, but feeling that Fulbert might be still on their traces, he decided to leave Orléans within the next hour if he could hire a ship to take them to Nantes. You will find plenty, reverend sir, lying by the wharf; but do not accept the first offer, for the avarice of these sailors is notorious; they will come down to half of the first price if you show firmness. Or if you would like it better, reverend sir, I will take the matter into my hands, and your ship shall be ready to-morrow morning. Abelard thanked the innkeeper again and said that he would walk to the end of the wharf and look over the ships that might be lying by. Come, Sister Héloïse and Sister Madelon, I would have your advice about the ship that we shall travel in. And having taken the way to the wharf from the innkeeper, the three walked thither, finding themselves suddenly confronted by a dark-skinned man, portly and about the medium height, from whom all three felt a sudden aversion, owing perhaps to their fears of Fulbert. For the moment every corner was a hiding-place for a hireling. Moreover, the man’s very courtesy roused their suspicions. Reverend sir, he began, may I say without intruding myself unduly upon your attention and on that of the good sisters who are with you, may I say that if your search is for a fast sailing ship that will take you to Blois in a day, to Tours in three, to Nantes in four, mine is the ship you are in search of. May I Wilt show me the ship that thou ownest? Abélard enquired abruptly. Most certainly, reverend sir, I will show you my ship; she lies alongside; and if you will do me the honour to step on board and overlook her, I shall be most happy; and if everything is not to your satisfa
ction it shall be made so as far as it is in my power, for I am but a poor skipper owning only a single ship, but the best, I can say truthfully, that lies at this end of the river, and it would not be too much of a brag were I to say that it is as good a ship as you will find in Nantes, where assemble all the good ships of the world. The best ships in the world are built at Nantes, and if thy ship is all thou sayest I ask nothing better than to hire her, thyself and thy crew; and the cost will be — ? Reverend sir, my ship is at your ser vice; any recompense that you make will be enough for me. Vain words are these, Abélard answered; one cannot be buyer and seller at the same time; the seller names his price, and the buyer accepts or declines. Whereupon the skipper, after eyeing Abélard sharply and turning over in his mind that he had come from Nantes and knew the prices, named a sum of money that seemed to Abélard a fair one considering the length of the journey. If thy ship has two sails, my good man, the bargain is clinched. Two sails! replied the skipper, could I get you to Nantes without two? I was thinking, said the false friar, of the sisters, for this one looked to seeing the sails cross before the wind. And the skipper, taken aback, thinking that he had to do with fools, male and female, regretted that he had not asked much more, and invited them into a long, narrow ship that Abélard said would make fine way before the wind. But it is hard, he continued, to sink them enough into the water to save them from slipping backwards when sailing near to the wind. See this deep plank, sisters; when the ship’s head is put up to the wind this plank is let down into the water, for without it we should not be able to tack. And these remarks restored the skipper’s confidence in Abélard as one who might have been able to make a keen guess at the sum of money that it was right for him to pay for the voyage from Orléans to Nantes. It is pleasant to sail with one who can put his hand to a rudder, keeping the ship’s head straight, he said, and all that you can do, sir. And now I will call my boy, who will divide the cabin, leaving half for the sisters and half for yourself. But to my thinking not much of your time will be spent in the cabin; in preference you will sleep on deck under the full moon to-night; but that is how it may please you. Have we loosed yet from the quay? Abélard asked, and the skipper answered: see, they are loosing already. A moment after the great rope came on board, and the long, narrow ship floated into the middle of the stream.
And all danger of meeting Fulbert being now past, the lovers fell to talking, Héloïse saying that she liked watching the boats go past at Argenteuil, their sails filling, bending the boats over. A lovely sight it is to see the boats bending over, but the boats at Argenteuil have not long, pointed sails like these. Hear how the water ripples past. She would have said a great deal more, but the skipper was by again, asking Abélard to take note of the pace the boat was making over and above the current, running, Abélard said, at the rate of a league an hour; we shall be at Meung, which is two leagues from Orléans, in not much over the hour. We shall be at Meung under the hour, the skipper answered, and may I not land you, for if you have not seen the Abbey, one of the largest and finest in this part of the country, you should see it; and there is the new church that is being built alongside of the old one. We shall reach Beaugency before seven, so if you would like to spend an hour at Meung you have but to say the word. Abélard answered that he had matters to settle with the sisters and would tell him later. Madelon was certain that the Canon had not followed them; he is angry, and he can be very angry, she said, but he can be very lazy, too. But what if he be waiting at Meung? Héloïse asked. You did not know yourselves that you would stop there. Forget the Canon and live your lives according to your liking, was her advice to them. So when the square tower of the Port d’Amont rose up against the western sky, Abélard sought the skipper and said: there are not much more than four leagues between Meung and Beaugency, and with this wind we cannot fail to reach Beaugency before nine. We cannot, the skipper answered, and leaving Madelon on board, who was always happy with her rosary (her piety will relieve the skipper of any thoughts he may have formed about us, Abélard said), they walked for an hour or more in Meung, admiring its green gardens and the brook that flowed through the town turning many mills. Wherever they went they seemed to be always meeting mill wheels. A good little worker is this brook; it wearies never, turning the last mill as quickly as the first, Abélard said. And he called Héloïse’s eyes to the church that the builders were just finishing, showing her the pointed arch that had come into fashion and praising the skill with which the architect harmonised the new with the old, for in his scheme the old round Romanesque tower did not seem out of keeping with the slim, mullioned windows. Reason coming to the aid of faith, Héloïse said. And after admiring the gravity of the round eleventh-century church and the gaiety of the new Gothic, they forgot all about faith and reason and wandered side by side along the rivers bank under the shade of pleasant trees, forgetful of all else but themselves, till they were awakened from their dream by the skipper, who said: maybe it would be better that we get up the sails, for the wind may change a little towards evening.
How like our sails are to swallows’ wings, Héloïse said, and, Madelon, if thou wilt lay aside thy rosary — I am always willing to lay it aside when the talk is in French, but when it is in Latin I might as well be saying my prayers. You would have me answer if our sails are like swallows’ wings: the sails are peaked and so are the birds’ wings, but the sails are yellow and the wings are black, and the wings move up and down and the sails are still. It would seem to me that there be more differences than likenesses, but that is the way always. And no answer coming to Héloïse to make, her eyes followed the countless swallows flying up and down the river, through the arches of the bridge and back again, skimming the surface of the water. A certain sign of rain, Madelon said; but there were hundreds, maybe thousands, of swallows in the sky, high up aloft, collecting, retiring, dividing, collecting again, some passing down to the river, others rising high out of sight. It seems, Héloïse said, that birds never tire of flying. It is by flying they get their living, said Madelon; nobody ever tires of that. All day long they have been flying, Héloïse continued, and before retiring to their roosts they are flying more madly than ever, as if to lose a minute were a loss. The swift, sudden, incomprehensible gyrations of the birds above contrasted with the steady flight of the swallows that flew back and forwards, their wings dipping the surface of the river as they passed through the arches and back again. Never was there such an evening of swallows, Abélard said, more because he wished to be at one with Héloïse’s thoughts than because the birds interested him. An evening of swallows, he said, but those birds going up and down the river are not the true swallows; he was not certain that they were not bats, for the dusk was deepening, and it took him a long time to decide that the stronger-winged birds were aloft, the weaklings keeping to the surface of the river. The first brood cannot yet be flying, he mused, and fell to thinking of the many species of swallows, and to which might belong the birds that flew up and down the arches mechanically as soldiers at drill.
Look, Héloïse said, how the sunset is coming up, and raising their eyes from the river they saw a great herd or flock of rose-coloured clouds coming up from the west, reminding them of rose-coloured sheep returning to the fold driven by the shepherd. Madelon prattled, and the lovers thought of each other, of their love, of the destinies that had guided them, till remembering suddenly the rose-coloured sheep on high, they raised their eyes. But none was to be seen, all had vanished or had passed into the dun-coloured clouds in the east, out of which the moon rose. Are we in night or in day? Héloïse asked, and Abélard answered that these summer nights were short, the twilight lasting till dawn. Only two hours of transparent darkness, and then the dawn. Sing to me, she said; the dawn song with the burden: Ah God, ah God, the dawn! it comes so soon. But I have no lute, he answered. The sailors will lend thee a rote or gittern —
