In the increasing bitterness of life at St. Gildas Abélard now naturally sought consolation in the new abbey of the Paraclete. His relation to Heloise personally remained marked by a reserve which hurt her, but his visits to the abbey became more frequent and prolonged. It appears that this loosened the tongues of some foolish people, and Abélard took up the accusation, or insinuation, with his usual gravity. His apology is often described as ‘ridiculous’ and ‘painful’; and one certainly cannot take very seriously his dissertation on Origen’s misdeed and the Oriental custom of eunuch-guardians. More interesting is the second part, in which he urges many precedents of the familiarity of saintly men with women. His favourite saint, Jerome, afforded a conspicuous illustration; and others were not wanting. It is too early in the history of theology to find the example of Christ adduced. A modern apologist could greatly extend the list, beginning with Francis of Assisi (and Clare) and ending with Francis de Sales (and Madame de Chantal). Perhaps Abélard’s own case is the clearest proof that even masked sexual feeling may be entirely absent from such attachments. Those who care to analyse them will probably find the greater refinement, gentleness, sympathy, and admiration of women to be quite adequate to explain such saintly intimacies, without any subtle research into the psychology of sex. However, the complaint seems to have moderated the abbot’s fervour for a time; and indeed events soon became absorbingly interesting at St. Gildas. The frequent journeys to Champagne increased the bitterness of his monks. Then he had a serious accident, nearly breaking his neck in a fall from his horse. When he recovered, he found that his monks had entered upon a most dangerous stage of conspiracy. The accident seems to have suggested an idea to them, and they determined to rid themselves of an abbot who was worse than useless. They even put poison in the wine which he was to use in the Mass one morning, but he discovered the fact in time. On another occasion he had an adventure which may have suggested an important incident in M. Zola’s _Rome_. He had gone to Nantes to visit the count in an illness, and was staying with his brother Dagobert, who was a canon in the cathedral. When the time came for the abbot and his monastic companion to sup, Abélard had, providentially, lost his appetite—or suspected something. The monk supped—and died. As Abélard’s servant disappeared after the meal, it was natural to suppose that he had been paid by the ferocious monks to poison their abbot. ‘How many times did they try to do away with me by poison!’ he exclaimed. But he lived apart from them, and succeeded in frustrating the attempt. Then they hired robbers to apply their professional skill to the task. Whenever the monks heard that he was going anywhere, they planted a few cut-throats on the route.