Chevalier Danceny _to_ Cecilia Volanges.
I cannot conceal my affliction at hearing from Valmont how much you
still distrust him. You know he is my friend, and the only person who
can give us an opportunity of seeing each other: I fondly imagined this
would have been a sufficient recommendation, but am very sorry to find
I am mistaken. May I, however, hope to know your reasons? There are,
perhaps, some obstacles that prevent you; I cannot, however, without
your aid, guess at this mysterious conduct. I dare not entertain any
suspicion of your affection, neither would you deceive mine. Ah,
Cecilia!
It is, then, past a doubt, that you have refused _an easy, commodious,
and safe way_[1] of seeing me. And is it thus I am beloved? Has so
short an absence altered your sentiments?—Why, then, deceive me? Why
tell me you still love me, and even still more? Has your mama, by
destroying your affection for me, also destroyed your candour?—If,
however, she has not left you destitute of compassion, you will feel
for the pangs you occasion me, which death cannot even equal.
Tell me, then, have I for ever lost your heart? Am I totally forgotten?
I know not when you will hear my complaints, nor when they will be
answered. Valmont’s friendship had secured our correspondence, but you
rejected it; you thought it troublesome; it was too frequent. Never
more will I confide in love or in promises. Who is to be believed, when
Cecilia deceives me?
Am I no longer, then, your beloved Danceny? No, that is not possible;
you deceive your own heart. A transitory apprehension, a momentary
gloom, causes my present distress, which love will soon dispel: is it
not so, my adorable Cecilia? Yes, it is, and I am much to blame for
accusing you. How happy shall I be to discover my error, and repair it
by soothing apologies and never-ending love.
Cecilia, lovely Cecilia, take pity on me; consent to see me; form the
plan yourself: this is the consequence of absence; fears, doubts, and
perhaps coolness. One single glance, a word only, and we shall be
happy. But why mention happiness? Mine is, perhaps, at an end, and that
for ever. Tortured with apprehensions, suspended between doubts and
fears, I cannot form a resolution. My existence depends on love and
sufferings: You alone, my Cecilia, are the arbitress of my fate; you
alone can decide on my happiness or misery.
_Paris, Sept._ 27, 17—.
[1] Danceny does not know the way; he only repeats Valmont’s expression.