Cecilia Volanges _to_ Sophia Carnay.
My dear Sophia, I am very melancholy and uneasy. I have wept almost the
whole night. Not but that at present I am very happy; but I foresee it
will not last long.
I was at the opera last night with Madame de Merteuil; we chatted a
good deal of my match; I am not much pleased with the husband she
announces to me. She tells me I am to be married next October, to the
Count de Gercourt: he is of a noble family, rich, and colonel of the
regiment of ——; that is all very well. But, on the other hand, he is
old—he is almost six and thirty. Madame de Merteuil says he is morose
and ill-tempered; and she dreads much I shall not be happy with him. I
even perceived plainly she spoke as if she was certain of it, though
she would not speak out, for fear of giving me uneasiness. She dwelt
almost the whole evening on the duties of wives to their husbands: she
acknowledges Mr. de Gercourt is not at all amiable, and yet, she says,
I must love him. She has even told me that when I am married, I must
not love Chevalier Danceny, as if that was in my power! I assure you I
shall ever love him; or rather would never be married at all. Let Mr.
de Gercourt take the consequence—he is not the man of my choice. He
is now in Corsica—a great distance. I wish with all my heart he may
stay there these ten years. If I was not afraid of being sent back to
the convent, I would tell mamma that he is not agreeable to me; but to
do that might be still worse. I don’t know how to act. I never loved
Mr. de Danceny as much as I do now; and when I think I have only one
month more to be as I am, the tears burst into my eyes immediately. I
have no consolation but in Madame de Merteuil’s friendship; she is so
tender hearted, she unites with me in all my sorrows; and then she is
so amiable, that when I am in her company, I think no more of them;
besides, she is very useful to me, for she has taught me what little I
know; and she is so good natured, I can tell her every thing I think
of, without being at all ashamed. When she thinks it not right, she
sometimes chides me, but always very gently: whenever that happens I
spare no endeavours to appease her. She, at least, I may love as much
as I will, and there is no harm in that; which gives me great pleasure.
However, we have agreed that I must not appear so fond of her before
every one, and especially before mamma, lest she should entertain any
suspicion on the score of the Chevalier Danceny. I assure you, if
I could always live as I now do, I should think myself very happy.
Nothing torments me but this horrid Gercourt! But I shall say no more
of him: I find if I did, I should be melancholy. I will go write to
Chevalier Danceny, and will only talk to him of my love, and will not
touch any subject that may distress him.
Adieu, my dear friend. You now find you are wrong in complaining of my
silence; and that notwithstanding _the busy life I lead_, as you call
it, I have still time to love and write to you.[1]
_Aug._ 27, 17—.
[1] We shall hereafter suppress Cecilia Volanges and Chevalier
Danceny’s letters, being uninteresting.