If I have not said any thing to you as yet of my marriage, it is
because I am as ignorant of the matter as the first day I came home. I
begin to accustom myself not to think about it, and I am very happy as
I am. I practice my harpsichord and singing much; and I am fonder of
them than when I had a master, or rather now I have got a better one.
The Chevalier Danceny, the gentleman I mentioned to you before, with
whom I sang at Madame Merteuil’s, is so obliging to come every day to
sing with me for hours together. He is exceedingly agreeable. He sings
like an angel, and sets the words of his own composition to very pretty
music. It is a great pity he is a Knight of Malta! I think, were he to
embark in wedlock, his wife would be very happy. He is the sweetest
creature breathing. Without the affectation of complaisance, every
thing he does is endearing. He always chides me about music, or some
other trifle; but he blends with his censures so much concern and good
nature, that one can’t help being pleased. His very looks seem to speak
obliging things. And with all this, he is the most complaisant man
possible: for instance; yesterday he was asked to a private concert,
but spent the evening at Mamma’s, which gratified me exceedingly; for,
when he is absent, I have no one to speak to, and am quite stupid:
but, when he is with us, we chat and sing together, and he always has
something to say to me. Madame de Merteuil and he are the only two
amiable persons I yet know. Adieu, my dear friend! I promised to be
perfect to-day in a little air, with a very difficult accompaniment,
and I must keep my word. I must set about practising it against his
return.
_From ——, Aug._ 7, 17—.
[1] Not to tire the reader’s patience, we suppress many of the letters
of this daily correspondence, and give only them we think necessary for
unfolding the events of this society. For the same reason we suppress
all those of Sophia Carnay, and several of those of the actors in this
piece.