Cecilia Volanges _to_ Sophia Carnay.
My dear Sophy, pity thy poor Cecilia; she is very unhappy. Mamma knows
all. I cannot conceive how she had any suspicion; and yet she has
discovered every thing. Last night mamma appeared to be a little out
of temper; but I did not take any notice of it; and whilst she was at
cards, I chatted very agreeably with Madame de Merteuil, who supped
with us. We had a great deal of talk about Danceny; and yet I believe
we were not overheard. She went away, and I retired to my apartment.
I was undressing when mamma came in, and ordered my waiting maid
to retire; she demanded the key of my escrutoire. The tone in which
she made this requisition threw me all in a flutter, so that I could
scarcely support myself; I made believe I could not find it: but at
length I was obliged to obey. The first drawer she opened was the very
one where all Chevalier Danceny’s letters were. I was so perplexed,
that when she asked me what they were, I could give her no other
answer, but that it was nothing at all; but when I saw she began to
read the first that offered, I had scarce time to fall into a chair,
when I fainted. As soon as I recovered, my mother, who had called in
the waiting maid, retired, desiring me to go to bed. She carried off
all Danceny’s letters. I shudder every time I think that I must appear
before her again. I have done nothing but cry all night.
It is but just daylight, and I write to you, in hopes that Josephine
will come. If I can speak to her alone, I shall beg of her to leave a
note, that I shall write, with Madame de Merteuil; and if I cannot, I
will put it in your letter, and you will be so good as to send it, as
from yourself. It is from her alone that I can receive any consolation.
We will, at least, speak of him, for I never hope to see him more. I am
very unhappy. She perhaps will be kind enough to deliver a letter to
Danceny. I dare not confide in Josephine, and still less in my waiting
maid; for it is, perhaps, she that told my mother that I had letters in
my desk.
I will not write to you any more now, because I must have time to write
to Madame de Merteuil and Danceny, and to have all my letters ready,
if she will take charge of them; after that, I will go to bed again,
that they may find me in bed when they come into my room. I will say I
am ill, to prevent my being called to mamma. I shall not tell a great
lie; for I surely suffer as much as if I had a fever. My eyes are
inflamed with crying; and I have a weight at my stomach, which prevents
me from breathing. When I think I never shall see Danceny more, I wish
I was dead. Farewell, my dear Sophy. I can’t write any more; my tears
suffocate me.
_Sept._ 7, 17—.