CECILIA VOLANGES to the MARCHIONESS DE MERTEUIL. _____
How shall I thank you, dear Madam, for your goodness: you judged well that it would be easier for me to write than speak; what I have to tell you is not an easy matter; but you are my friend!
Yes, you are my very good friend!
And I'll endeavour not to be afraid; and then I have so much occasion for your advice!—I am in great grief; I think every one guesses my thoughts, especially when he is present; I redden up as soon as any one looks at me.
Yesterday, when you saw me crying, it was because I wanted to speak to you, and I don't know what hindered me; when you asked me what ailed me, the tears came into my eyes in spite of me.
I could not have spoke a word.
If it had not been for you, Mamma would have taken notice of it; and then what would have become of me?
This is the way I spend my time for these four days: that day, Madam, I will out with it, on that day Chevalier Danceny wrote to me; I assure you, when I received his letter, I did not know what it was; but to tell the truth, I read it with great pleasure.
I would have suffered any thing all my lifetime, rather than he should not have wrote it to me; however, I know very well I must not tell him so; and I can even assure you, that I told him I was very angry; but he says it gets the better of him, and I believe him; for I had resolved not to answer him, and yet I could not avoid it.
I wrote him but once, it was partly even to tell him not to write to me any more; yet he is continually writing; and as I don't answer him, I see plainly he is very melancholy, and that afflicts me greatly: so that I do not know what to do, nor what will become of me: I am much to be pitied!
I beg, Madam, you'll tell me, would there be any great harm in writing an answer to him now and then, only until he can prevail on himself to write me no more, and to be as we used to be before?
For myself, if it continues this way, I don't know what I shall do.
I assure you, on reading his last letter, I could not forbear crying all the time; and I am very certain, that if I do not answer him again, it will make us both very uneasy.
I will enclose you his letter, or a copy of it, and you'll see he does not ask any harm.
However, if you think it is not proper, I promise you I will not give way to my inclination; but I believe you'll think as I do, that there's no harm in it.
And now that I am upon it, give me leave to put you a question: I have been often told it was very wrong to be in love with any body, but why so?
What makes me ask you, is this; the Chevalier Danceny insists there's no harm at all in it, and that almost every body is; if that's the case, I don't know why I should be the only one should be hindered; or is it that it is only wrong for young ladies?
For I heard Mamma herself say, that Madam de D—— loved M. M——, and she did not speak as if it was so bad a thing; and yet I am sure she would be very angry with me, if she had the least suspicion of my affection for M. Danceny.
She behaves to me always as if I was a child, and never tells me any thing at all.
I thought, when she took me from the convent, I was to be married; but now I think not.
It is not that I care much about it, I assure you; but you who are so intimate with her, you, perhaps, know something about it; and if you do, I hope you will tell me.
This is a very long letter, Madam; but since you was so good to give me leave to write to you, I made use of it to tell you every thing, and I depend on your friendship.
I have the honour, &c.
Paris, Aug. 23, 17—. _____
LETTER XXVIII.
CHEVALIER DANCENY to CECILIA VOLANGES. _____
You still, Miss, refuse to answer my letters.
Will nothing move you? and must every day banish the hopes it brings!
What sort of friendship is it that you consent shall subsist between us? If it is not powerful enough even to make you sensible of my anguish; if you can coolly, and unmoved, look on me, while I suffer, the victim of a flame which I cannot extinguish; if, instead of inspiring you with a confidence in me, my sufferings can hardly move your compassion.—Heavens! your friend suffers, and you will do nothing to assist him.
He requests only one word, and you refuse it him!
And you desire him to be satisfied with a sentiment so feeble, that you even dread to repeat it.
Yesterday you said you would not be ungrateful.
Believe me, Miss, when a person repays love only with friendship, it arises not from a fear of being ungrateful: the fear then is only for the appearance of ingratitude.
But I no longer dare converse with you on a subject which must be troublesome to you, as it does not interest you; I must, at all events, confine it within myself, and endeavour to learn to conquer it.
I feel the difficulty of the task; I know I must call forth my utmost exertions: there is one however will wring my heart most, that is, often to repeat, yours is insensible.
I will even endeavour to see you less frequently; and I am already busied in finding out a plausible pretence.
Must I then forego the pleasing circumstance of daily seeing you; I will at least never cease regretting it.
Perpetual anguish is to be the reward of the tenderest affection; and by your desire, and your decree, I am conscious I never shall again find the happiness I lose this day.
You alone were formed for my heart.
With what pleasure shall I not take the oath to live only for you!
But you will not receive it.
Your silence sufficiently informs me that your heart suggests nothing to you in my favour; that is at once the most certain proof of your indifference, and the most cruel manner of communicating it.
Farewell, Miss.
I no longer dare flatter myself with receiving an answer; love would have wrote it with eagerness, friendship with pleasure, and even pity with complacency; but pity, friendship, and love, are equally strangers to your heart.
Paris, Aug. 23, 17—. _____
LETTER XXIX.
CECILIA VOLANGES to SOPHIA CARNAY. _____
It is certain, Sophy, that I told you, one might in some cases write to an admirer; and I assure you, I am very angry with myself for having followed your advice, which has been the cause of so much uneasiness to the Chevalier Danceny and me; and what proves I was right, is, that Madame de Merteuil, who is a woman that ought to know those things perfectly, has at length come to think as I do.
I owned every thing to her: at first she thought as you did; but when I had explained every thing to her, she was sensible it was a different case: she requires only that I should show her all my letters, and those of Chevalier Danceny, to be certain I should say nothing but what I ought; so now I am pretty easy.
Lord! how I do love Madame de Merteuil; she is a good woman, and a very respectable one; so that her advice may be safely followed.