Cecilia Volanges _to_ Sophia Carnay.
Ah, Sophia, I have a deal of news! But may be I should not tell you:
I must tell it, however, to somebody, I can’t keep it. Chevalier
Danceny—I’m in such trouble, I can’t write; I don’t know where to
begin. Since the agreeable evening that I related to you I spent at
Mamma’s[1], with him and Madame de Merteuil, I said no more of him:
that was because I resolved not to say any more of him to any one;
but I was always thinking of him notwithstanding. Since that, he is
become so melancholy, that it makes me uneasy; and when I asked him the
reason, he answered me he was not so, but I could plainly see he was.
He was yesterday more so than usual; that did not, however, prevent him
from singing with his usual complaisance; but every time he looked at
me, my heart was ready to break. After we had done singing, he locked
up my harpsichord; and bringing me the key, begged I would play again
in the evening when I was alone. I had no suspicion of any thing; I
even refused him: but he insisted so much, that I promised I would.
He had his reasons for it. When I retired to my room, and my maid
was gone, I went to my harpsichord. I found hid among the strings an
unsealed letter from him. Ah, if you did but know all he writes! Since
I read his letter, I am in such raptures I can think of nothing else.
I read it over four times running, and then locked it in my desk. I
got it by heart; and when I laid down I repeated it so often, I could
not think of sleeping; as soon as I shut my eyes, I thought I saw him,
telling me every thing I had just read. I did not sleep till very late;
and, as soon as I awoke, (though it was very early,) I got up for the
letter, to read it at my leisure; I took it into bed, and began to kiss
it; as if——but may be I did wrong to kiss a letter thus, but I could
not help it.
Now, my dear friend, if I am very well pleased, I am also very much
troubled; for certainly I must not answer it. I know that must not be,
and yet he urges it; and if I don’t answer it, I am certain he will
be again melancholy. It is a great pity; what would you advise me
to? But you know no more than I. I have a great mind to tell Madame
de Merteuil, who has a great affection for me. I wish I could console
him; but I would not do any thing wrong. We are taught good-nature, and
yet we are forbid to follow its dictates, when a man is in question.
That I can’t understand. Is not a man our neighbour as well as a woman,
and still more so? For have we not a father as well as a mother, a
brother as well as a sister, and there is the husband besides? Yet if
I was to do any thing that was not right, perhaps Mr. Danceny himself
would no longer have a good opinion of me! Oh, then I would rather he
should be melancholy! And I shall still be time enough; though he wrote
yesterday, I am not obliged to write to-day; and I shall see Madame de
Merteuil this evening, and if I can have so much resolution, I will
tell her all. Following her advice, I shall have nothing to reproach
myself; and may be she may tell me I may give him a few words of
answer, that he may not be melancholy. I’m in great uneasiness! Adieu!
Be sure tell me what you think I ought to do.
_Aug._ 13, 17—.
[1] The letter that is mentioned here was not found; but there is
reason to believe that it is that Madame de Merteuil mentions in her
letter which Cecilia Volanges refers to.