Chevalier Danceny _to the_ Viscount de Valmont.
Your letter, my dear friend, has overwhelmed me with sorrow. Heavens!
Is it possible Cecilia no longer loves her Danceny! Yes, I plainly see
it through the veil your friendship has thrown over it. You wished to
prepare me for this mortal stab; I thank you for your care: but a lover
it not thus to be deceived; he anticipates his concerns; he is not to
learn his fate, he presages it. I have no longer any doubt of mine. I
entreat you to inform me, without evasion, from whence your suspicions
arise, and what confirms them; the most minute trifles are important.
Recollect particularly her expressions. A word may alter a phrase, or
bear a double meaning. You may have mistaken her.
Alas, I endeavour still to flatter myself. What did she say? Has she
any thing to reproach me with? Does she not attempt to excuse herself?
I might have foreseen this alteration by all the difficulties she has
lately started. Love admits no obstacles.
What am I to do? What would you advise me to? Is it then impossible to
see her? Absence is such a dreadful, such a fatal—and she refuses the
means you proposed to see me! You don’t, however, tell me what it was;
if it really was dangerous, she is convinced I would not have her run a
great risk: however, I am satisfied of your prudence, and pay no regard
to any other consideration.
What will now become of me? How shall I write to her? If I hint my
suspicions, she will probably be grieved; and should they be ill
grounded, how shall I ever forgive myself for having given her cause
for affliction? If I conceal them, it is deceiving her, and I cannot
dissemble it.
Oh! could she but know what I suffer, my distress would move her, for
she is tender, has a most excellent heart, and I have a thousand proofs
of her affection. Too much timidity, some distress, she is young, and
her mother treats her so severely. I will write to her; yet I will
contain myself, and will only beg of her to leave the management of
every thing to you. If she should even still refuse, she cannot at
least be angry with me, and perhaps she may consent.
I beg ten thousand pardons, my dear friend, both for her and myself.
Give me leave to assure you, she is very sensible of the trouble you
have had, and is exceedingly grateful. It is not distrust, it is merely
timidity. Have a little compassion for her weakness, the highest
attribute of friendship. Yours to me is inestimable, and I am really at
a loss how to express my gratitude. Adieu! I am just going to write to
her.
All my fears return on me. I could not have believed yesterday, when it
would have been my greatest happiness, that I should now experience so
much distress in writing to her.
Adieu, my dear friend! continue your friendship, and compassionate me.
_Paris, Sept._ 27, 17—.