Madame de Volanges _to_ Madame de Rosemonde.
Alas, my dear friend! with what a frightful veil do you cover the
fate of my daughter; and seem to dread I should raise it! What can
it hide, then, more afflicting to a mother’s heart, than those
horrible suspicions to which you give me up? The more I consider your
friendship, your indulgence, the more my torments are increased.
Twenty times since last night, I wanted to be rid of those cruel
uncertainties, and to beg you would inform me, without reserve or
evasion, and each time shuddered, when I recollected your request not
to be interrogated. At length, I have thought on a way which still
gives me some hope; and I expect from your friendship, you will not
refuse to grant my wish: which is, to inform me if I have nearly
understood what you might have to tell me; not to be afraid to acquaint
me with all a mother’s tenderness can hide, and is not impossible to be
repaired. If my miseries exceed those bounds, then I consent to leave
the explanation to your silence: here is, then, what I already know,
and so far my fears extended.
My daughter showed a liking for Chevalier Danceny, and I was informed,
she went so far as to receive letters from him, and even to answer
them; but I thought I had prevented this juvenile error from having
any dangerous consequence: now that I am in dread of every thing, I
conceive it possible my vigilance may have been deceived, and I dread
my daughter being seduced may have completed the measure of her follies.
I now recall to mind several circumstances that may strengthen this
apprehension. I wrote you, my daughter was taken ill, on the news of
M. de Valmont’s misfortune; perhaps, the cause of this sensibility
was the idea of the dangers M. Danceny was exposed to in this combat.
Since when, she wept so much on hearing every thing was said of Madame
de Merteuil; perhaps, what I imagined the grief of friendship, was
nothing else but the effect of jealousy, or regret at finding her lover
faithless. Her last step may, I think, perhaps be explained by the
same motive. Some, who have been disgusted with mankind, have imagined
they received a call from heaven. In short, supposing those things to
be so, and that you are acquainted with them, you may, no doubt, have
thought them sufficient to justify the rigorous advice you give me.
And if matters should be so, at the same time I should blame my
daughter, I should think myself bound to attempt every method to
save her from the torments and dangers of an illusory and transitory
vocation. If M. Danceny is not totally divested of every honourable
sentiment, he will not surely refuse to repair an injury of which he is
the sole author; and I also think, a marriage with my daughter, not to
mention her family, would be advantageously flattering to him.
This, my dear and worthy friend, is my last hope; hasten to confirm it,
if possible. You may judge how impatient I shall be for an answer, and
what a mortal blow your silence would give me.[1]
I was just closing my letter, when a man of my acquaintance came to
see me, and related to me a cruel scene Madame de Merteuil had to go
through yesterday. As I saw no one for some days, I heard nothing of
this affair. I will recite it, as I had it from an eye witness.
Madame de Merteuil, at her return from the country on Thursday, was set
down at the Italian comedy, where she had a box; there she was alone;
and what must appear to her very extraordinary, not a man came near her
during the whole performance. At coming away, she went, according to
custom, into the little saloon, which was full of company; instantly a
buzzing began, of which probably she did not think herself the object.
She observed an empty place on one of the seats, on which she sat down;
but all the ladies who were seated on it immediately rose, as if in
concert, and left her entirely alone. This so pointed mark of general
indignation was applauded by all the men, redoubled the murmurs, which,
it is said, were even at last increased to hootings.
That nothing should be wanting to complete her humiliation,
unfortunately for her, M. de Prevan, who had not appeared in public
since his adventure, made his appearance at that instant. The moment he
entered, every one, men and women, surrounded and applauded him; and he
was jostled in such a manner, as to be brought directly opposite M. de
Merteuil by the company who formed a circle round him. It is asserted,
she preserved the appearance of neither seeing or hearing any thing,
and that she did not even change countenance; but I am apt to believe
this last an exaggeration. However, this truly ignominious situation
lasted until her carriage was announced; and at her departure, those
scandalous hootings and hissings were again redoubled. It is shocking
to be related to this woman. M. de Prevan received a most hearty
welcome from all the officers of his corps who were there, and there is
not the least doubt but he will be restored soon to his rank.
The same person who gave me this information told me M. de Merteuil was
taken the night following with a very violent fever, that was at first
imagined to be the effect of the dreadful situation she was in; but
last night the small pox declared itself, it is of the confluent kind,
and of the worst sort. On my word, I think it would be the greatest
happiness if it should carry her off. It is, moreover, reported, this
affair will prejudice her most essentially in her depending lawsuit,
which is soon to be brought to trial, and in which, it is said, she
stood in need of powerful protection.
Adieu, my dear and worthy friend! In all this I see the hand of
Providence punishing the wicked: but do not find any consolation for
their unhappy victims.
_Paris, Dec._ 18, 17—.
[1] This letter remained unanswered.