You cannot conceive any thing like this.
It was a confusion in the countenance, a difficulty in the walk, dejected eyes so swelled, and the round visage so lengthened, nothing could be so grotesque; and the mother, for the first time, alarmed at this sudden alteration, seemed to show a deal of affection for her; and the Presidente also, who seemed to be much concerned for her.
As to her cares, they are only lent; for the day will come, and it is not far off, when they may be returned to her.
Adieu, my lovely friend!
Oct. 1, 17—. _____
LETTER XCVII.
CECILIA VOLANGES to the MARCHIONESS DE MERTEUIL. _____
Ah, Madam! I am the most miserable creature on earth; my affliction is very great, indeed.
To whom shall I fly for consolation? or who will give me advice in my distress?
Mr. de Valmont and Danceny—the very name of Danceny distracts me—How shall I begin?
How shall I tell you?—I don't know how to go about it; my heart is full—I must, however, disburthen myself to some one: and you are the only person in whom I can or dare confide; you have been so kind to me.
But I am no longer worthy of your friendship; I will even say, I do not wish for it.
Every one here has been uneasy about me, and they only augmented my grief; I am so convinced I am unworthy of it.
Rather scold me, abuse me, for I am guilty; yet save me from ruin.
If you do not compassionate and advise me, I shall expire of grief.
I must tell you then—my hand shakes so, I can hardly hold the pen, and I am as red as scarlet; but it is the blush of shame.
Well, I will bear it, as the first punishment of my crime.
I will relate the whole.
I must tell you that Mr. Valmont, who has always hitherto delivered me Mr. Danceny's letters, on a sudden discovered so much difficulty in it, that he would have the key of my chamber.
I assure you, I was very much against it: but he wrote to Danceny about it; and Danceny also insisted on it.
It gives me so much pain to refuse him any thing, especially since our absence, which makes him so unhappy, that I consented; not in the least suspecting what would be the consequence.
Yesterday Mr. Valmont made use of this key to get into my chamber while I was asleep.
I so little expected such a visit, that I was greatly frightened at waking: but as he spoke to me instantly, I knew him, and did not cry out; as I immediately thought he came to bring me a letter from Danceny.
No such thing.
He wanted to kiss me directly; and while I was struggling, he contrived to do what I would not have suffered for the whole world.
But he would have a kiss first; which I was forced to comply with: for what could I do?
I endeavoured to call out; but, besides that I could not, he told me, that if any one should come he would throw all the fault on me; which, indeed, was very easy to be done on account of the key.
After that, he did not go away any more.
Then he would have a second kiss; and I don't know how that was, but it gave me a strange perturbation; and after that it was still worse.
At last, after—but you must excuse me from telling the rest; for I am as unhappy as it is possible.
But what I reproach myself most for, and that I can't help mentioning, is, I am afraid I did not make as much resistance as I could.
I can't tell how it was, for certainly I don't love Mr. Valmont, but on the contrary; yet there were some moments that I was as if I lov'd him—however, you may well think I always said no: but I was sensible I did not do as I said; and it was as if in spite of me; and I was, moreover, in great trouble.
If it is always so hard to defend one's self, one must be very well used to it.
Mr. de Valmont speaks to one in such a way, that one does not know how to answer him: and would you believe it, when he went away I was vexed; and yet I was silly enough to consent to his coming again this night: that afflicts me more than all the rest.
Notwithstanding, I promise you I will prevent him from coming.
He was hardly gone, but I found I did very wrong to promise him, and I cried all the rest of the time.
My greatest trouble is about Danceny.
Every time I think of him, my tears almost choke me, and I am always thinking of him—and even now you may see the effect, for the paper is wet with my tears.
I shall never be able to get the better of it, if it was only on his account.
I was quite exhausted, and yet I could not close my eyes.
When I got up, and looked in the glass, I was enough to frighten one, I was so altered.
Mama perceived it as soon as I appeared, and asked me, what was the matter with me?
I burst out crying immediately.
I thought she would have chid me, and maybe that would not have been so distressing to me; however, it was quite otherwise; she spoke to me with great mildness, which I did not deserve.
She desired I would not afflict myself so; but she did not know the cause of my distress; and that I should make myself sick.
I often wish I was dead.
I could hold out no longer.
I flung myself in her arms, sobbing, and told her,
"Ah, mama! your daughter is very unhappy."
Mama could no longer contain herself, and wept a little. All this increased my sorrow.