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Les liaisons dangereuses, volume 1 (of 2) / or, Letters collected in a private society and published for the instruction of others cover

Les liaisons dangereuses, volume 1 (of 2) / or, Letters collected in a private society and published for the instruction of others

Chapter 70: LETTER THE SIXTY-FIRST CÉCILE VOLANGES TO SOPHIE CARNAY
By Choderlos de Laclos
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About This Book

The narrative is assembled from letters exchanged among members of an elite social circle, each voice disclosing private schemes and motives. Two seasoned manipulators orchestrate seductions and betrayals that draw in a devout woman, an inexperienced young woman, and a hopeful young musician, treating intimacy as a tool of influence. The correspondence lays bare hypocrisy, sexual politics, and the fragile value of reputation while shifting perspective between conspirators and victims. As secrets accumulate, the letters trace the widening harm of calculated deceit and leave readers with unresolved questions about responsibility and moral consequence.

LETTER THE SIXTY-FIRST
CÉCILE VOLANGES TO SOPHIE CARNAY

My dear Sophie, pity your Cécile, your poor Cécile; she is very unhappy! Mamma knows all. I cannot conceive how she has come to suspect anything; and yet, she has discovered everything. Yesterday evening, Mamma seemed indeed to be in a bad humour, but I did not pay much attention to it. I even, whilst waiting till her rubber was finished, talked quite gaily to Madame de Merteuil, who had supped here, and we spoke much of Danceny. I do not believe, however, that we were overheard. She went away and I retired to my room.

I was undressing when Mamma entered, and I sent away my maid; she asked me for the key of my desk. The tone in which she made this request caused me to tremble so that I could hardly stand. I made a pretence of being unable to find it; but at last I had to obey her. The first drawer which she opened was precisely that which contained the letters of the Chevalier Danceny. I was so confused that, when she asked me what it was, I did not know what to reply to her, except that it was nothing; but when I saw her begin to read the first which presented itself, I had barely time to sink into an arm-chair when I felt so ill that I swooned away. As soon as I came to myself again, my mother, who had called my maid, withdrew, telling me to go to bed. She carried off all Danceny’s letters. I tremble every time I reflect that I must appear before her again. I did naught but weep all the night through.

I write to you at dawn, in the hope that Joséphine will come. If I can speak with her alone, I shall ask her to take a short note I am going to write to Madame de Merteuil; if not, I will put it in your letter, and will you kindly send it, as if from yourself. It is only from her that I shall get any consolation. At least, we can speak of him, for I have no hope to see him again. I am very wretched! Perhaps she will be kind enough to take charge of a letter for Danceny. I dare not trust Joséphine for such a purpose, and still less my maid; for it is perhaps she who told my mother that I had letters in my desk.

I will not write to you at any greater length, because I wish to have time to write to Madame de Merteuil and also to Danceny, to have my letter all ready, if she will take charge of it. After that I shall lie down again, so that they will find me in bed when they come into my room. I shall say that I am ill, so that I need not have to visit Mamma. It will not be a great falsehood: for indeed I suffer more than if I had the fever. My eyes burn from excessive weeping; and I have a weight on my chest which hinders me from breathing. When I think that I shall not see Danceny again, I wish that I were dead.

Adieu, my dear Sophie, I can say no more to you; my tears choke me.

Paris, 7th September, 17**.