In a Series of Letters, from the Baroness D'Almane, to the Viscountess de Limours. I LETTER I. AM now going, my dear friend, to entrust you with a commission, in the success of which I am certain you will be happy. I believe I have already informed you, that a sister of Madame de Valmont has devoted herself to God. But before I explain my wishes, I will give you the history of this unfortunate Nun. M. d'Aimeri has had four children. Cecilia, the youngest, was only three years old when she lost her mother. She was educated in a country convent, which, she never left till the age of thirteen, when she was invited to be present at the wedding of her eldest sister, Madame d'Olcy, who soon after went to reside in Paris. Cecilia continued at her father's paternal seat, with her second sister, who was three years older than herself, and who some time after was married to M. de Valmont. This gentleman, at the end of two years, was obliged to settle in Languedoc. Madame de Valmont loved her sister with a tenderness, which her exquisite beauty, fine understanding, amiable manners, and above all, the misfortune of being the object of her father's aversion, had rendered still more lively and endearing. The night before the depature of Madame de Valmont the two sisters passed together, giving way to all the effusions of a grief, that flowed from the mutual excess of sensibility and affection. When the morning appeared, Cecilia, with tears streaming down her cheeks, threw herself into her sister's arms, and pressing her to her bosom: O my only comfort,' she exclaimed, my only friend, shall I lose you then so soon? Without you what will become of me? Who now will be my advocate with my father? Who now will endea vour to soften his obdurate heart? You......you only loved the wretched Cecilia......O my sister, my sister, and do you desert me?......What... what now will be my fate?...... The unhappy Cecilia, indeed, had but too much cause to give way to these terrifying fears. No sooner had her sister left the house, than her father sent back the lovely victim of his aversion to the nunnery in which she had been educated. She was but sixteen when she re-entered these gloomy cloisters, and.....never more to leave them!......M. d'Aimeri, intent alone on aggrandizing the fortunes of an only son, repaired immediately to Paris; and, some months after, it was intimated to Cecilia, that she had no other alternative than to take the veil. The gentleness, and even timidity of her temper, not permitting her to oppose the commands of a despotic father, she obeyed without resistance, and without a murmur. Already, however, her heart was no longer her own. She loved......and in return was passionately adored. Yet blind to the nature of the tender sentiment that triumphed in her vestal soul, the beautiful novice, in renouncing the world, fancied that her sister only was the object of her regret; and while Love was in reality the source of the incessant tears she shed, she imputed them solely to the tender recollections of friendship. The Chevalier de Murville, a young gentleman, nearly related to M. d'Aimeri, was the object of this unfortunate passion; and he possessed, indeed, all the virtues and accomplishments that could inspire an unbounded esteem. His mother, who for many years had retired from the world, lived on a small estate, about thirty miles from the Convent where the hapless Cecilia was immured. In the mean time, the year of her noviciate is near expiring, and soon the day arrives, when Cecilia must utter the fatal and irrevocable vow! That very day her inhuman father celebrates at Paris the nuptials of his son, and riots in transports of joy, while his unhappy daughter, in all the bloom of seventeen, consummates her dreadful sacrifice..... And now all is over; Cecilia resigns the world for ever; and the gloomy walls that inclose her, are henceforth to her the limits of the universe! The very evening of her profession, a man on horse-back came to the Convent, and desired to communicate a message to her from Madame de Murville, on business of the utmost moment. Being introduced into the parlour, this man, with a letter in his hand, informed her, that a servant of Madame de Murville's had set out the day before, with express orders to deliver that letter the same evening, but that six miles from the Convent he had the misfortune to fall from his horse, and break his thigh; that, being taken up senseless, he was conveyed by some countrymen to the house of the farmer who was giving this account; that he did not recover his recollection till the next day in the afternoon, when he committed the letter to his care. The farmer then presented the letter to Cecilia, who instantly retired into her chamber to read it. She opened it with an agitation, that became more violent still, when she perceived the signature of the Chevalier de Murville. This letter, which Cecilia thought it her duty to send to her sister, and which Madame de Valmont permitted me to copy, was as follows: < To-morrow!......Can it be to-morrow?......How can I utter these dreadful words?......O Cecilia, it is no longer right to dissemble......and have you never read my heart?...... Alas! Once there were happier times, when I could even presume to hope that your's was not insensi The word Parlour is most commonly applied, in the French language, to the room appropriated in all Nunneries, for the admission of persons who have any business to transact with the Sisters. ble. I opened my whole soul to the barbarian who would sacrifice you. He deprived me at once of every hope, and I condemned myself to silence. Oh! could I have foreseen the vile tyranny he intended to exert, never...never, Cecilia, should you have been the victim of it. I spite of your unrelenting father, in spite of the family that abandoned you, and even in spite of yourself, I would have found means to rescue you from this cruel destiny. But far distant from you... in a foreign country...I knew not...I could not divine, that such injustice was intended. A letter having been sent, to inform me that my mother was dangerously ill, I instantly quitted Spain; but what accumulated misfortunes awaited my return! I find my mother at the last extremity, and I hear that Cecilia is soon to make her vows. Till this moment I never knew to what excess I love you. Dear injured excellence! Nature and Friendship betray you; but Love still is faithful. In me...in me alone shall you find the dear relations of father, friend, and brother: I will be your defender, your deliverer, and, O my Cecilia...your husband. Since you are still free you are mine, Your relations have dissolved the tender ties that united you, and now you are mine...you are wholly mine. Yes! I swear from this moment to devote my life to you; and this sacred engagement, be assured, is far more agreeable to the Supreme Being than the inhuman vows you are preparing to make. Ah! pity me, that I cannot fly to you this instant...if you knew how much it cost my heart...but my dying mother...were I capable of abandoning her in this awful moment, could I now be worthy of you? In the mean time...if this letter cannot dissuade you from your dreadful purpose...I tremble...the mere idea distracts me...Hear me Cecilia ...I still respect the cruel author of your being...you are free...but if you are weak enough to obey him, from that instant I will never more recollect him as your father......I will regard him only as a detestable tyrant......and at least I will not die unrevenged. For his own sake, therefore, dare disobey him, or the trembling hand that writes to you, this hand, guided by hatred and despair, will pierce to the heart the monster that would sacrifice you. Let him reserve all his fortune, all his tenderness, for his son; let him disinherit you. Let him give me my Cecilia only, and I shall be the most respectful, the most grateful, and the happiest of his children. Alas! dearest, loveliest of women, I have avoided you; I have attempted to forget you; but these vain efforts have only served the more forcibly to convince me that I can never live without you. I dare presume, that your confidence in me is such, that you will not scruple to commit your honour and reputation to my care. All I desire is, that you will have the courage to declare, that you can never bring yourself to make your vows. Leave the rest to me...I will not see you, but to lead you to the altar, where the most sacred, the most delightful ties shall unite us for ever. I can depend on the person to whom I confide this letter; I am certain you will receive it this evening; and I cannot believe that you will be insensible to the intreaties of the man who so passionately adores you...yet a dreadful weight oppresses my heart, and my tears profusely flow. O Cecilia, my adorable Cecilia, pity my distracted situation, and do not prepare for yourself a lasting bitterness of soul...I impatiently expect your answer, as the decree that will determine my fate for ever. The Chevalier de MURVILLE.' Imagine, if possible, the distraction of the unfortunate Cecilia, when she had read this letter. She perceives not that she is beloved, and that in a manner so ardent and affecting, nor does she discover her own sentiments, but in the very moment that she is irrevocably engaged. Some hours sooner this letter might have effected a happy revolution; it might have secured the felicity of her life, but now it only adds to the poignancy of her woes...Cecilia is at once motionless and stupid; overcome by the oppressing agitations of surprise, consternation, and despair. A sudden paleness overspreads her features, and a death-like coldness seems to freeze her heart. Deprived of the power of reflection, she yet perceives indistinctly all the horrors of her situation; she perceives that now there remains no hope for her but in death. At length, gradually recovering from this state of stupefaction, she looks wildly on all around. ́Alas! whatever she beholds can picture only the distressing scene of her sacrifice and misery. Casting her eyes on the table, where lay her long and beautiful tresses, cut off that very morning, she trembles at the sight. An undescribable impulse of passion, mingled with terror, regret, and fury, distracts her soul, and disorders her reason. Rising precipitately, she exclaims: What then!...is there no means of emerging from the frighful abyss into which they have plunged me ?...Cannot I escape from it...cannot I fly? ...But what do I say? Great God! What an impious transport!...O wretched Cecilia, here must thou die !...Then sinking again into her chair, and weeping bitterly, she once more takes her lover's fatal letter ...she peruses it again. Every word, every expression of that affecting letter is a mortal wound to her heart. Her imagination pictures to her whatever can heighten her anguish and despair. She fancies her lover furious, breathing nothing but vengeance, and longing only for death. She sees her father bleeding by her lover's hand...or her lover dying by his. These gloomy ideas impress her whole soul with horror. Less beloved, she would have had less to apprehend. Yet when she imagines that one day the Chevalier will not fail to receive consolation, she finds the thought insupportable. At last, having determined to answer his letter, she wrote the following lines: 6 Your letter is come too late. Cecilia no longer lives for you. Forget me...be happy...and respect my father.' The Chevalier de Murville received this billet in the very moment that his mother had breathed her last. Nature could not support such a variety of woe. A raging fever, attended by a delirium, brought him in a few days to the borders of the grave. From this illness, however, though severe and lingering, he recovered; and scarce was he pronounced out of danger, than he employed himself in settling his affairs, with an intention to leave his country for ever. In passing through Languedoc, he stopt at the house of Madame de Valmont, who had always expressed the sincerest friendship for him. He desired to speak to her in private, and being introduced into her closet, he finds her alone. She flies to him...embraces him...and bursts into tears. imagines, from this, that she had been informed of his unhappy passion by Cecilia herself. Nor is he deceived in this conjecture; and he conjures Madame de Valmont, with such moving earnestness to shew him the letter, that my sympathizing friend cannot refuse it. It is as follows: He * A novice, on the day of her profession, has her hair cut off the very moment before she makes her vows. C Abbey, June 12. I still exist...but I have been near the period of my sufferings. I have been in view of that peaceful haven, where the weary are at rest. Funeral tapers surrounded my bed, and a priest was exhorting me to die the death of the righteous. Alas! how unnecessary was this holy care! Why did not the good man rather teach me to support existence?...O my sister, in what an awful moment did I know my heart! ...The very day...I tremble...read the letter I enclose...it will tell you all. This letter which I commit to your care, is the last sacrifice I have to make!... Cruel sacrifice!...This dear letter...let me weep a moment over it...I shall never see it more! But every word...every sentiment it expresses is engraved for ever on my soul. Preserve it, O my sister...if you love me, preserve it always. Since it is no longer lawful for me to keep it, let me have the consolation at least of thinking that it exists. Let it be dear to you. Remember that my being deprived of it is to me, what the absence of the most beloved object would be to you! If you knew how painful it is thus to tear myself from it...alas! In every thing now is your wretched sister guilty... even in the confession of the sorrows that distract her! Insupportable constraint, which can only produce the last excesses of despair! You know my whole heart...you know I ever delighted in virtue. But ah! you would tremble with horror, were I to repeat all the shocking ideas that for three weeks past have disturbed and darkened my imagination. Guilt incessantly haunts me. In the most common objects, and indifferent actions, I view the dreadful subjects of temptation. When I walk in our melancholy gardens, trembling, my eye measures the height of the walls, and a thousand times I conceive the mad, the guilty idea of escaping over them. For some time after my recovery, when at table, how often have I been distracted by a most horrible thought!...The knife that lay near me...I cannot speak it...O heaven! Is it possible that a heart once so pure, can now be abandoned to such impious thoughts! O think that the most cruel of my tortures are the sentiments of remorse by which I am torn! Sometimes all in tears, I implore with confidence the mercy and assistance of the Divine Being. As I cannot sacrifice the passion that subdues me, I present to Him the sufferings it inflicts, and I pray for resignation to enable me to endure them without a murmur. I then experience the only consolation of which I am susceptible; and some celestial spirit seems to whisper these divine words: Let happiness still be thine. The passions interrupt or destroy it. Religion and Virtue only can render it immortal.'...... For some moments I listen to the heavenly voice...all is calm and serene within, and with an ineffable fervour I exclaim : O Grace divine! O virtue heavenly fair! Divine oblivion of low-thoughted care! Enter, each mild, each amicable guest; Receive, and wrap me in eternal rest! But ah! how fugitive are these divine consolations! Other moments return, when I pronounce myself too guilty, ever to hope for the pardon of such repeated offences; and I sink into all the anguish that |