Chapter IV: Letter II: ), and from it a good view may be obtained over the plains (2)

Methinks I do the greatest possible wrong to the feelings of my heart in trying to make them known to you in writing. How happy should I be could you judge of my passion by the violence of yours! But I must not compare my feelings with yours, though I cannot help telling you, much less strongly than I feel it, it is true, that you ought not to maltreat me as you do by a forgetfulness which thrusts me into despair, and which even for you is dishonourable. It is but fair that you should allow me to complain of the evils which I clearly foresaw when I perceived that you were resolved to forsake me. I well know now that I deluded myself, thinking as I did that you would deal with me in better faith than is usually the case, because the excess of my love put me, it seemed, above all kind of suspicion, and merited more fidelity than is ordinarily met with. But your wish to deceive me overruled the justice you owe me for all that I have done for you. I should still be unhappy even if you only loved me because I love you, and I would wish to owe it all to your inclination alone. But so far is this from being the case that I have not received a single letter from you for the last six months. I put down all my misfortunes to the blindness with which I gave myself up to love of you. Should I not have foreseen that the end of my pleasure would come before that of my love? Could I expect you to stay all your life in Portugal and give up both country and career and think only of me? Nothing can lighten my sorrow, and the remembrance of all that I enjoyed fills me with despair. What! is all my desire then to be in vain? and shall I never see you again in my room with all the ardour and passion which you once showed? But, alas! I am deceiving myself, and I know too well that all the feelings that filled my head and heart were only excited in you by a few pleasures, and that they both ended at the same time. I ought then in those moments of supreme happiness to have called reason to my aid to moderate the deadly excess of my delight, and to foretell to me all that I am now suffering. But I gave myself up to you entirely, and I was not in a state to think of anything which would have poisoned my pleasure and prevented me from fully enjoying the pledges of your ardent love. I was too much delighted to feel that I was with you to think that you would one day be far from me. I remember, however, having told you sometimes that you would make me unhappy, but these fears were soon dissipated, and I took pleasure in sacrificing them to you, and in giving myself up to the enchantment and the faithlessness of your protests. I see clearly the remedy for all the evils which I suffer, and I should be soon rid of them if I loved you no more. But alas! what a remedy! I had rather suffer still more than forget you. Does that, alas! depend on me? I cannot reproach myself with having for a single moment wished to cease to love you. You are more to be pitied than I am, and all my sufferings are better than the cold pleasures which your French mistresses give you. I do not envy you your indifference, and you make me pity you. I defy you to forget me entirely. I flatter myself that I have put you in a state in which you can enjoy but imperfect pleasures without me, and I am happier than you because I am more occupied. Some little time ago I was made portress of this convent. All who speak to me think that I am mad. I know not what I answer them. The religious must be as mad as myself to have thought me capable of taking care of anything. Oh how I envy the good fortune of Manoel and Francisco![33] Why am I not always with you, as they are? I would have followed you and waited upon you with more goodwill, it is certain. To see you is all that I desire in this world. At least remember me; for you to remember me will content me, but I dare not make sure even of this. I used not to limit my hopes to your remembrance of me when I saw you daily, but you have taught me the necessity of submitting to all that you wish. Withal I do not repent of having adored you; I am glad that you betrayed me, and your absence, cruel though it is, and perhaps eternal, diminishes in no way the violence of my love. I wish everybody to know it; I make no mystery of it; and I pride myself on having done for you all that I did against every kind of decorum. My honour and religion consist but in loving you to distraction all my life through, since I have begun to love you. I am not telling you all this to oblige you to write to me. Oh do not force yourself; I only wish from you what comes spontaneously, and I reject all the testimonies of your love which you can control. I shall find pleasure in excusing you, because you will perhaps be glad not to have the trouble of writing to me, and I feel deeply disposed to pardon you all your faults. A French officer had the charity to talk to me of you for three hours this morning; he told me that peace was made with France.[34] If this is so could you not come and see me, and take me to France? But I do not deserve it. Do as you please, for my love no longer depends on the way in which you may treat me. I have not been well for a single moment since you left, and my only pleasure has been that of repeating your name a thousand times each day. Some religious who know the deplorable state into which you have plunged me often speak to me of you. I leave my room, where you so often used to come to see me, as little as possible, and I constantly look at your likeness, which is to me a thousand times clearer than life itself. It gives me some pleasure, but also much sorrow, when I consider that I shall perchance never see you again.

Why must it be that I shall possibly never see you again? Have you then left me for ever? I am in despair. Your poor Marianna can no more; she is almost fainting while she finishes this letter. Good-bye, Good-bye. Have pity on me.

FIFTH LETTER

Estou pôsto sem medo
A tudo o que o fatal destino ordene:
Póde ser que cansado,
Ou seja tarde, ou cedo,
Com pena de penar-me, me despene.

CAMÕES, _Canção_ ix.

I am writing to you for the last time, and I hope to let you see by the difference in the terms and manner of this letter that you have at last persuaded me that you no longer love me, and that therefore I ought no longer to love you. I will send you on the first opportunity all that I still have of yours. Do not be afraid that I shall write to you; I will not even put your name on the packet. With all these details I have charged Dona Brites,[35] whom I have accustomed to confidences very different from this. Her care will be less suspected than mine. She will take all the necessary precautions, that I may be assured that you have received the portrait and bracelets which you gave me. I wish you to know, however, that for some days I have felt as if I could burn and tear up these tokens of your love, once so dear to me. But I have revealed such weakness to your eyes that you would perhaps never have believed me capable of going to a like extremity. I wish, however, to enjoy all the pain I have experienced in separating from them, and cause you some vexation at least. I confess, to your shame and mine, that I found myself more attached to these trifles than I should like to tell you, and I felt that I had again need of all my reasoning powers to enable me to get rid of each object in spite of my flattering myself that I cared no more for you. But, provided with such good reasons as mine, one always achieves the end one seeks. I have placed them in the hands of Dona Brites. What tears this resolution cost me! After a thousand different emotions and doubts which you know not of, and of which I shall certainly not give you an account, I have conjured her to speak no more to me of these baubles, and never to give them back to me even though I should beg to see them once again, and, in a word, to send them you without letting me know.

It is only since I have been employing all my efforts to heal myself that I have come to know the excess of my love, and I fear that I should not have dared to take it in hand had I foreseen so many difficulties and such violence. I am persuaded that I should have experienced less disagreeable emotions in loving you, ungrateful though you are, than in quitting you for ever. I have found out that you were less dear to me than my passion; and I have had hard work to fight against it even after your insulting behaviour made you hateful to me. The pride natural to my sex has not helped me to resolve aught against you. Alas! I suffered your scorn, and I could have supported your hate and all the jealousy which the attachment you might have had for another woman could have caused me. I should have had at least some passion to combat, but your indifference is insupportable to me. Your impertinent protestations of friendship, and the ridiculous civilities of your last letter, convince me that you have received all those which I have written to you, that they have stirred no emotions in your heart, and yet that you have read them. O ungrateful man! I am still foolish enough to be in despair at not being able to flatter myself that they have not reached you or been given into your hands. I detest your frankness. Did I ever ask you to tell me the truth sincerely? Why did you not leave me my love? You had only not to write; I did not seek to be enlightened. Am I not unhappy enough with all my inability to make the task of deceiving me difficult to you, and now at not being able to exculpate you. Know that I am convinced that you are unworthy of all my love, and that I understand all your base qualities. If, however, all that I have done for you deserves that you should pay some slight regard to the favours I ask of you, write no more to me, I beg you, and help me to forget you entirely. If you were to show, even slightly, that you had felt some grief at the reading of this letter, perchance I should believe you. Perchance, also, your acknowledgment and assent would vex and anger me, and all that would inflame my love afresh. Do not then take any account of my life, or you would doubtless overthrow all my plans, however you entered into them. I care not to know the result of this letter, and I beg of you not to disturb the peace which I am preparing for myself. Methinks you may content yourself with the harm which you have already caused me, whatever be the intention you formed to make me miserable. Do not tear me from my state of uncertainty; I hope in time to combine with it something like peace of heart. I promise not to hate you; indeed I distrust any violent feelings too much to adventure that. I am persuaded that I should find, it may be in this country, another lover more faithful and handsomer; but, alas! who could make me feel love? Would a passion for another man fill my thoughts? Has mine had any power over you? Have I not experienced that a tender heart never forgets what first awakened it to feelings it knew not that it was capable of? I have found that all the feelings of such a heart are bound up with the idol it has created for itself--that its first impressions, its first wounds, can neither be healed nor effaced--that all the passions which offer their help and attempt to fill and content it promise it but vainly an emotion which it never feels again--that all the pleasures which it seeks, without any desire of finding them, serve only to convince it that nothing is so dear as the remembrance of its sorrows? Why have you made me feel the imperfection and bitterness of an attachment which cannot endure for ever, and all the evils that result from a violent love, when it is not mutual? Why is it that blind inclination and cruel fate agree as a rule in determining us in favour of those who could only love others? Even if I could hope for some diversion in a new engagement, and could find a man of good faith, I pity myself so much that I should have great scruples in putting the worst man in the world in the condition to which you have brought me; and although I may not be obliged to spare you I could not make up my mind to avenge myself so cruelly, even though it were to depend on me, by a change which I certainly do not foresee. At this very moment I am seeking excuses for you, and I understand that a religious is not as a rule loveable. Methinks, however, if reason guided one’s choice one ought to be more attached to them than to other women. Nothing prevents their thinking constantly of their passion, and they are not turned aside by a thousand things which divert and occupy the mind in the world. Surely it cannot be very pleasing to see those whom one loves ever distracted by a thousand trifles, and one must needs have but little delicacy to suffer them (without being in despair at it) to talk of nothing but assemblies, dress, and promenades. One is constantly exposed to fresh jealousies, for they are tied down to attentions, politenesses, and conversations with all. Who can be assured that they find no pleasure in all these occasions, and that they always endure their husbands with extreme disgust and never of their freewill? Ah, how they ought to distrust a lover who does not make them render an exact account of all, who believes easily and without disquiet what they tell him, who in unruffled trust sees them bound to all these society duties. But I do not seek to prove to you by good reasons that you ought to love me; these are very ill means, and I have made use of much better, without success. Too well do I know my fate to try to rise above it. I shall be miserable all my life. Was I not so even when I saw you daily? I was dying for fear that you would not be faithful. I wished to see you every moment, and I could not. The danger you ran in entering the convent troubled me. I almost died when you were with the army. I was in despair at not being more beautiful and more worthy of you. I used to murmur against my modest rank,[36] and I often thought that the attachment you appeared to cherish for me would be hurtful to you in some way. Methought I did not love you enough. I feared the anger of my parents against you, and I was, in a word, in as lamentable a state then as now. If you had shown me any signs of affection since you left Portugal I should have made every effort to leave it, and I would have disguised myself to go and find you. Ah, what would have became of me if you had troubled no more about me after I had arrived in France?--what confusion, what a false step, what depths of shame for my family which is so dear to me since I have ceased to love you! I quite understand, you see, that I might have been even more wretched than I am. At least for once in my life I am speaking reasonably to you. How delighted you will doubtless be at my moderation, and how pleased with me? But I wish not to know it. I have already prayed you not to write to me again, and I repeat it now. Have you never reflected on the way in which you have treated me? Have you never considered that you owe me more than any one else in the world? I have loved you as a mad woman might. How I despised everything else!

Besides, you have not acted like an honourable man. You must have had a natural aversion for me, since you have not loved me to distraction. I allowed myself to be enchanted by very mediocre qualities. What have you ever done to please me? What sacrifice have you made for me? Did you not always seek a thousand other pleasures? Did you ever give up gaming or the chase? Were you not ever the first to leave for the army, and did you not always come back the last? You exposed yourself rashly, although I had begged you to spare yourself for my sake. You never sought the means of settling down in Portugal, where you were esteemed. A single letter from your brother made you leave without a moment’s hesitation. Do I not know that during the voyage you were in the best of humours? It must be confessed that I ought to hate you with a deadly hatred. Ah, I have brought down all these misfortunes on myself. I accustomed you from the first to a boundless love, and that with too much ingenuousness, while one needs to employ artifice to make one’s self loved. One should seek the means of skilfully exciting it, for love of itself does not engender love. You wished me to love you, and since you had formed this design there is nothing that you would not have done to accomplish it. You would even have made up your mind to love me had that been necessary, but you knew that you could succeed in your enterprise without passion, and that you had no need of it. What treachery! did you think that you could deceive me with impunity? If any chance brings you again to this country, I declare that I will hand you over to the vengeance of my kinsfolk. I have lived too long, in an abandonment and idolatry which strikes me with horror, and feelings of remorse persecute me with unbearable severity. I feel a lively shame for the crimes which you have made me commit, and I have no more, alas! the love which prevented me from comprehending their enormity. When will this heart of mine cease to be torn? When shall I be freed from these cruel trammels?

In spite of all, methinks I do not wish you harm, and could resolve to consent to your being happy. But how could you be so, if you had a true heart? I mean to write you another letter, to show you that I shall perchance be more at peace some day. What pleasure I shall find in being able to reproach you for your injustice when I am no longer so vividly touched by it, in letting you know that I despise you, and that I can speak with indifference of your deceit, that I have forgotten all my pleasures and all my sorrows, and that I only remember you when I wish to do so! I recognise that you have a great advantage over me, and that you have inspired in me a love which has upset my reason; but at the same time you should take little credit to yourself for it. I was young, I was trustful, I had been shut up in this convent since my childhood,[37] I had only seen people whom I did not care for. I had never heard the praises which you constantly gave me. Methought I owed you the charms and the beauty which you found in me, and which you were the first to make me perceive: I heard you well talked of; every one spoke in your favour: you did all that was necessary to awake love in me. But I have at last returned to myself from this enchantment. You yourself helped me greatly, and I confess that I had much need of it. When I return you your letters I shall take care to keep the last two which you wrote me; and I shall re-read them more often than I have the previous ones, in order that I may not relapse into my former weakness. Ah! how dear they cost me, and how happy I should have been if you had allowed me to love you always. I well know that I am still a little too much taken up with my reproaches and your faithlessness, but remember that I have promised myself a state of greater peace, and that I shall reach it, or take some desperate resolve against myself, which you will learn, without great displeasure. But I wish no more of you, and I am foolish to repeat the same things so often. I must leave you, and think no more on you. I even think that I shall not write to you again. Am I under any obligation to render you an exact account of all I do?

LETTRES

PORTVGAISES

TRADVITES

EN FRANÇOIS

A PARIS,

Chez CLAVDE BARBIN, au
Palais, sur le second Perron
de la sainte Chapelle.

M. DC. LXIX

_Avec Privilege du Roy_

AV LECTEVR

_I ay trouué les moyens auec beaucoup de soin & de peine, de recouurer vne copie correcte de la traduction de cinq Lettres Portugaises, qui ont esté écrites a un Gentilhomme de qualité, qui seruoit en Portugal. I’ay veu tous ceux qui se connoissent en sentimens, ou les loüer, ou les chercher auec tant d’empressement, que j’ay crû que ie leur ferois un singulier plaisir de les imprimer. Ie ne sçay point le nom de celuy auquel on les à écrites, ny de celuy qui en a fait la traduction, mais il m’a semblé que ie ne deuois pas leur déplaire en les rendant publiques. Il est difficile quelles n’eussent, enfin, parû auec des fautes d’impression qui les eussent défigurées._

PREMIERE LETTRE

Considere, mon amour, jusqu’à quel excez tu as manqué de preuoyance. Ah mal-heureux! tu as esté trahy, & tu m’as trahie par des esperances trompeuses. Vne passion sur laquelle tu auois fait tant de projets de plaisirs, ne te cause presentement qu’vn mortel desespoir, qui ne peut estre comparé qu’à la cruauté de l’absence, qui le cause. Quoy? cette absence, à laquelle ma douleur, toute ingenieuse qu’elle est, ne peut donner vn nom assez funeste, me priuera donc pour toujours de regarder ces yeux, dans lesquels je voyois tāt d’amour, & qui me faisoient connoître des mouuemēs, qui me combloient de joye, qui me tenoient lieu de toutes choses, & qui enfin me suffisoient? Helas! les miens sont priuez de la seule lumiere, qui les animoit, il ne leur reste que des larmes & je ne les ay employez à aucun vsage, qu’à pleurer sans cesse, depuis que j’appris que vous estiez enfin resolu à vn éloignement, qui m’est si insupportable, qu’il me fera mourir en peu de temps. Cependant il me semble que j’ay quelque attachement pour des malheurs, dont vous estes la seule cause: Ie vous ay destiné ma vie aussi-tost que je vous ay veu; & je sens quelque plaisir en vous la sacrifiant. I’ enuoye mille fois le jour mes soupirs vers vous, ils vous cherchent en tous lieux, & ils ne me rapportent pour toute recompense de tant d’inquietudes, qu’vn aduertissement trop sincere, que me dōne ma mauuaise fortune, qui a la cruauté de ne souffrir pas, que je me flatte, & qui me dit à tous momens; Cesse, cesse Mariane infortunée de te consumer vainement: & de chercher vn Amant que tu ne verras iamais; qui a passé les Mers pour te fuir, qui est en France au milieu des plaisirs, qui ne pense pas vn seul moment à tes douleurs, & qui te dispense de tous ces transports, desquels il ne te sçait aucun gré? mais non, je ne puis me resoudre à juger si injurieusement de vous, & je suis trop interessée à vous justifier: Ie ne veux point m’imaginer que vous m’auez oubliée. Ne fuis-je pas assez malheureuse sans me tourmenter par de faux soupçons? Et pourquoy ferois-je des efforts pour ne me plus souuenir de tous les soins, que vous auez pris de me temoigner de l’amour? I’ay esté si charmée de tous ces soins, que je serois bien ingrate, si je ne vous aymois auec les mesmes emportemens, que ma Passion me donnoit, quand je joüissois des témoignages de la vostre. Comment se peut-il faire que les souuenirs des momens si agreables, soient deuenus si cruels? & faut-il que contre leur nature, ils ne seruent qu’à tyranniser mon cœur? Helas! vostre derniere lettre le reduisit en vn estrange état: il eut des mouuemens si sensibles qu’il fit, ce semble, des efforts, pour se separer de moy, & pour vous aller trouuer: Ie fus si accablée de toutes ces émotions violentes, que je demeuray plus de trois heures abandonnée de tous mes sens: je me défendis de reuenir à vne vie que je dois perdre pour vous: puis que je ne puis la cōnserver pour vous, je reuis enfin, malgré moy la lumiere, je me flatois de sentir que je mourois d’amour; & d’ailleurs j’estois bien-aise de n’estre plus exposée à voir mon cœur déchiré par la douleur de vostre absence. Apres ces accidens, j’ay eu beaucoup de differētes indispositions: mais, puis-je jamais estre sans maux, tant que je ne vous verray pas? Ie les supporte cependant sans murmurer, puis qu’ils viennent de vous. Quoy? est-ce là la recompēse, que vous me donnez, pour vous auoir si tendrement aymé? Mais il n’importe, je suis resoluë à vous adorer toute ma vie, & à ne voir jamais personne; & je vous asseure que vous ferez bien aussi de n’aymer personne. Pourriez vous estre content d’vne Passion moins ardente que la miēne? Vous trouuerez, peut-estre, plus de beauté (vous m’auez pourtant dit autrefois, que j’estois assez belle) mais vous ne trouuerez jamais tant d’amour, & tout le reste n’est rien. Ne remplissez plus vos lettres de choses inutiles, & ne m’escriuez plus de me souuenir de vous? Ie ne puis vous oublier, & je n’oublie pas aussi, que vous m’auez fait esperer, que vous viēdriez passer quelque temps auec moy. Helas! pourquoy n’y voulez vous pas passer toute vostre vie? S’il m’estoit possible de sortir de ce malheureux Cloistre, je n’attendrois pas en Portugal l’effet de vos promesses: j’irois, sans garder aucune mesure, vous chercher, vous suiure, & vous aymer par tout le monde: je n’ose me flater que cela puisse estre, je ne veux point nourrir vne esperance, qui me donneroit asseurément quelque plaisir, & je ne veux plus estre sensible qu’aux douleurs. I’auouë cependant que l’occasion, que mon frere m’a donnée de vous escrire, a surpris en moy quelques mouuemens de joye, & qu’elle a suspendu pour vn moment le desespoir, où je suis. Ie vous coniure de me dire, pourquoy vous vous estes attaché à m’enchanter, comme vous auez fait, puisque vous sçauiez bien que vous deuiez m’abandonner? Et pourquoy auez vous esté si acharné à me rendre malheureuse? que ne me laissiez vous en repos dans mon Cloistre? vous auois-ie fait quelque iniure? Mais ie vous demande pardon: ie ne vous impute rien: ie ne suis pas en estat de penser à ma vengeance, & i’accuse seulement la rigueur de mon Destin. Il me semble qu’en nous separant, il nous a fait tout le mal, que nous pouuiōs craindre; il ne sçauroit separer nos cœurs; l’amour qui est plus puissant que luy, les a vnis pour toute nostre vie. Si vous prenez quelque interest à la mienne, escriuez moy souuent. Ie merite bien que vous preniez quelque soin de m’apprendre l’estat de vostre cœur, & de vostre fortune, sur tout venez me voir. Adieu, ie ne puis quitter ce papier, il tombera entre vos mains, ie voudrois bien auoir le mesme bon-heur: Helas! insensée que ie suis, ie m’apperçois bien que cela n’est pas possible. Adieu, ie n’en puis plus. Adieu, aymez moy toûjours; & faites moy souffrir encore plus de maux.

SECONDE LETTRE

Il me semble que je fais le plus grād tort du monde aux sentimēs de mon cœur, de tascher de vous les faire connoistre en les écriuant: que je serois heureuse, si vous en pouuiez biē iuger par la violence des vostres! mais ie ne dois pas m’en rapporter a vous, & ie ne puis m’empescher de vous dire, bien moins vivement, que je ne le sens, que vous ne devriez pas me maltraitter, comme vous faites, par vn oubly, qui me met an desespoir, & qui est mesme honteux pour vous; il est bien iuste au moins, que vous souffriez que ie me plaigne des malheurs, que i’avois bien preveus, quand ie vous vis resolu de me quitter ie connois bien que ie me suis abuseé lorsque i’ay pensé, que vous auriez vn procedé de meilleure foy, qu’on n’a accoustumé d’auoir, parce que l’excez de mon amour me mettoit, ce semble, au dessus de toutes sortes de soupçons, & qu’il meritoit plus de fidelité, qu’on n’en trouue d’ordinaire: mais la dispositiō, que vous auez à me trahir, l’emporte enfin sur la justice, que vous deuez à tout ce que i’ay fait pour vous, ie ne laisserois pas d’estre bien malheureuse, si vous ne m’aymiez, que parce que ie vous ayme, & ie voudrois tout deuoir à vostre seule inclination mais ie suis si éloignée d’estre en cét estat, que ie n’ay pas receu vne seule lettre de vous depuis six mois: j’attribuë tout ce mal-heur à l’aueuglement, auec lequel ie me suis abandonnée à m’attacher a vous: ne deuois-je pas preuoir que mes plaisirs finiroient plûtost que mon amour? pouuois-ie esperer, que vous demeureriez toute vostre vie en Portugal, & que vous renonceriez à vostre fortune & à vostre Pays, pour ne penser qu’à moy? mes douleurs ne peuuent receuoir aucun soulagement, & le souuenir de mes plaisirs me comble de desespoir: Quoy! tous mes desirs seront donc inutiles, & ie ne vous verray iamais en ma chambre avec toute l’ardeur, & tout l’emportement, que vous me faisiez voir? mais helas! je m’abuse, & je ne connois que trop, que tous les mouuemens, qui occupoient ma teste, & mon cœur, n’estoient excitez en vous, que par quelques plaisirs, & qu’ils finissoient aussi-tost qu’eux; il falloit que dans ces momens trop heureux j’appellasse ma raison à mon secours pour moderer l’excez funeste de mes delices, & pour m’annoncer tout ce que ie souffre presentement: mais ie me donnois toute à vous, & ie n’estois pas en estat de penser à ce qui eût pû empoisonner ma ioye, & m’empescher de ioüyr pleinement des témoignages ardens de vostre passion; ie m’apperceuois trop agreablement que i’estois auec vous pour penser que vous seriez vn iour éloigné de moy: ie me souuiens pourtant de vous auoir dit quelquefois que vous me rendriez malheureuse: mais ces frayeurs estoient bien-tost dissipées, & ie prenois plaisir, à vous les sacrifier, & à m’abandonner à l’enchantement, & à la mauuaise foy de vos protestations: ie voy bien le remede à tous mes maux, & i’en ferois bien-tost déliurée si ie ne vous aymois plus: mais, helas! quel remède; non i’ayme mieux souffrir encore dauantage, que vous oublier. Helas! cela dépend il de moy? Ie ne puis me reprocher d’auoir souhaité vn seul moment de ne vous plus aymer: vous estes plus à plaindre; que je ne suis, & il vaut mieux souffrir tout ce que je souffre, que de ioüir des plaisirs languisans, que vous donnent vos Maitresses de France: ie n’enuie point vostre indifference, & vous me faites pitié: Ie vous défie de m’oublier entierement: Ie me flatte de vous auoir mis en estat de n’auoir sans moy, que des plaisirs imparfaits, & ie suis plus heureuse que vous, puisque ie suis plus occupée. L’on m’a fait depuis peu Portiere en ce Conuent: tous ceux qui me parlent, croyent que ie sois fole, ie ne sçay ce que ie leur répons: Et il faut que les Religieuses soyent aussi insensées que moy, pour m’auoir crû capable de quelque soin. Ah! i’enuie le bon-heur d’Emanuel, & de Francisque; pourquoy ne suis-je pas incessamment auec vous, comme eux? ie vous aurois suiuy, & ie vous aurois asseurément seruy de meilleur cœur, ie ne souhaite rien en ce mōde, que vous voir; au moins souuenez vous de moy? ie me contente de vostre souuenir: mais ie n’ose m’en asseurer; ie no bornois pas mes esperances à vostre souuenir, quād ie vous voyois tous les iours: mais vous m’auez bien apris, qu’il faut que ie me soûmette à tout ce que vous voudrez: cependāt ie no me repēs point de vous auoir adoré, ie suis bien-aise, que vous m’ayez seduite: vostre absence rigoureuse, & peut-estre éternelle, ne diminuë en rien l’emportement de mon amour: ie veux que tout le mond le sçache, ie n’en fais point vn mystere, & ie suis rauie d’auoir fait tout ce que i’ay fait pour vous contre toute sorte de bien-seance: ie ne mets plus mon honneur, & ma religion qu’à vous aymer éperdüement toute ma vie, puisque i’ay commencé à vous aymer: ie ne vous dis point toutes ces choses, pour vous obliger à m’escrire. Ah! ne vous contraignez point; ie ne veux de vous, que ce qui viendra de vostre mouuement, & ie refuse tous les témoignages de vostre amour dont vous pourriez vous empescher: j’auray du plaisir à vous excuser, parce que vous aurez, peut-estre, du plaisir à ne pas prendre la peine de m’écrire: & ie sens vne profonde disposition à vous pardonner toutes vos fautes. Vn Officier François a eu la charité de me parler ce matin plus de trois heures de vous, il m’a dit que la paix de France estoit faite: si cela est, ne pourriez vous pas me venir voir, & m’emmener en Frāce? Mai’s ie ne le merite pas, faites tout ce qu’il vous plaira, mon amour ne depend plus de la maniere, dont vous me traiterez; depuis que vous estes party, je n’ay pas eu vn seul moment de santé, & je n’ay aucun plaisir qu’en nomment vostre nō mille fois le iour; quelques Religieuses, qui sçauent l’estat deplorable, où vous m’auez plongée, me parlent de vous fort souuent: je sors le moins qu’il m’est possible de ma chambre, où vous estes venu tant de fois, & ie regarde sans cesse vôtre portrait, qui m’est mille fois plus cher que ma vie, il me donne quelque plaisir: mais il me donne aussi bien de la douleur, lors que ie pense que ie ne vous reuerray, peut-estre jamais; pourquoy faut-il qu’il soit possible que ie ne vous verray, peut-estre, iamais? M’auez vous pour toûjours abandonnée? Ie suis au desespoir, vostre pauure Mariane n’en peut plus, elle s’éuanoüit en finissant cette Lettre. Adieu, adieu, ayez pitié de moy.

TROISIESME LETTRE

Qv’est-ce que je deuiendray, & qu’est-ce que vous voulez que ie fasse? Ie me trouue bien éloignée de tout ce que j’auois preueu: I’esperois que vous m’écririez de tous les endroits, où vous passeriez, & que vos lettres seroient fort longues; que vous soustiēdrez ma Passion par l’esperance de vous reuoir, qu’vne entiere confiance en vostre fidelité me donneroit quelque sorte de repos, & que ie demeurerois cependant dans vn estat assez supportable sans d’extrèmes douleurs: j’auois mesme pensé à quelques foibles projets de faire tous les efforts dont ie serois capable, pour me guerir, si ie pouuois connoistre bien certainement que vous m’eussiez tout à fait oubliée; vostre éloignement, quelques mouuemens de deuotiō; la crainte de ruiner entierement le reste de ma santé par tant de veilles, & par tant d’inquietudes; le peu d’apparence de vostre retour: la froideur de vostre Passion, & de vos derniers adieux; vostre depart, fondé sur d’assez meschās pretextes, & mille autres raisons, qui ne sont que trop bonnes, & que trop inutiles, sembloient me promettre vn secours assez asseuré, s’il me deuenoit necessaire: n’ayant enfin à combatre que contre moy mesme, ie ne pouuois jamais me défier de toutes mes foiblesses, ny apprehender tout ce que ie souffre aujourd’huy. Helas! que ie suis à plaindre, de ne partager pas mes douleurs auec vous, & d’estre toute seule malheureuse: cette pensée me tuë, & je meurs de frayeur, que vous n’ayez iamais esté extrémement sensible à tous nos plaisirs: Oüy, ie connois presentement la mauuaise foy de tous vos mouuemens: vous m’auez trahie toutes les fois, que vous m’auez dit, que vous estiez rauy d’estre seul auec moy; ie ne dois qu’a mes importunitez vos empressemens, & vos transports; vous auiez fait de sens froid vn dessein de m’enflamer, vous n’auez regardé ma Passion que comme vne victoire, & vostre cœur n’en a jamais esté profondement touché, n’estes vous pas bien malheureux, & n’auez vous pas bien peu de delicatesse, de n’auoir sçeu profiter qu’en cette maniere de mes emportemens? Et comment est-il possible qu’auec tant d’amour ie n’aye pû vous rendre tout a fait heureux? ie regrette pour l’amour de vous seulement les plaisirs infinis, que vous auez perdus: faut-il que vous n’ayez pas voulu en ioüir? Ah! si vous les cōnoissiez, vous trouueriez sans doute qu’ils sont plus sensibles, que celuy de m’auoir abusée, & vous auriez esprouué, qu’on est beaucoup plus heureux, & qu’on sent quelque chose de bien plus touchant, quand on ayme violamment, que lors’qu’on est aymé. Ie ne sçay, ny ce que ie suis, ny ce que ie fais, ny ce que ie desire: ie suis deschirée par mille mouuemens contraires: Peut-on s’imaginer vn estat si deplorable? Ie vous ayme éperduëment, & ie vous mesnage assez pour n’oser, peut-estre, souhaiter que vous soyez agité des mesmes transports: ie me tuërois, ou ie mourrois de douleur sans me tuër, si j’estois asseurée que vous n’auez jamais aucun repos, que vostre vie n’est que trouble, & qu’agitation, que vous pleurez sans cesse, & que tout vous est odieux; je ne puis suffire à mes maux, comment pourrois-je supporter la douleur, que me donneroient les vostres, qui me seroient mille fois plus sensibles? Cependant ie ne puis aussi me resoudre à desirer que vous ne pensiez point à moy; & à vous parler sincerement, ie suis ialouse auec fureur de tout ce qui vous donne de la joye, & qui touche vostre cœur, & vostre goust en France. Ie ne sçay pourquoy ie vous écris, ie voy bien que vous aurez seulement pitié de moy, & ie ne veux point de vostre pitié; j’ay bien du depit cōtre moy-mesme, quand ie sais reflexion sur tout ce que ie vous ay sacrifié: j’ay perdu ma reputation, je me suis exposée a la fureur de mes parens, à la severité des loix de ce Païs contre les Religieuses, & à vostre ingratitude, qui me paroist le plus grand de tous les malheurs: cependant je sens bien que mes remors ne sont pas veritables, que ie voudrois du meilleur de mon cœur, auoir couru pour l’amour de vous de plus grans dangers, & que i’ay vn plaisir funeste d’auoir hazardé ma vie & mō honneur, tout ce que i’ay de plus precieux, ne devoit-il pas estre en vostre disposition? Et ne dois-je pas estre bien aise de l’auoir employé, comme i’ay fait: il me semble mesme que ie ne suis gueres contente ny de mes douleurs, ny de l’excez de mon amour, quoi que ie ne puisse, helas! me flater assez pour étre contente de vous; je vis, infidelle que ie suis, & ie fais autant de choses pour conserver ma vie, que pour la perdre, Ah! j’en meurs de honte: mon desespoir n’est donc que dans mes Lettres? Si je vous aimois autant que ie vous l’ay dit mille fois, ne serois-je pas morte, il y a long-temps? Ie vous ay trompé, c’est à vous à vous plaindre de moy: Helas! pourquoy ne vous en plaignez vous pas? Ie vous ay veu partir, ie ne puis esperer de vous voir iamais de retour, & ie respire cependant: ie vous ay trahy, ie vous en demande pardon: mais ne me l’accordez pas? Traittez moy seueremēt? Ne trouuez point que mes sentimens soient assez violens? Soyez plus difficile à contēter? Mandez moy que vo’ voulez que ie meure d’amour pour vous? Et ie vous conjure de me donner ce secours, afin que ie surmonte la foiblesse de mon sexe, & que ie finisse toutes mes irresolutions par vn veritable desespoir; vne fin tragique vo’ obligeroit sans doute à penser souuent à moy, ma memoire vous seroit chere, & vous seriez, peut-estre, sensiblement touché d’vne mort extraordinaire, ne vaut-elle pas mieux que l’estat, où vous m’auez reduite? Adieu, ie voudrois bien ne vous auoir iamais veu. Ah! ie sens viuement la fausseté de ce sentiment, & ie connois dans le moment que ie vous écris, que i’aime bien mieux estre malheureuse en vo’ aimant, que de ne vous auoir iamais veu; je consens donc sans murmure à ma mauuaise destinée, puisque vous n’auez pas voulu la rendre meilleure. Adieu, promettez, moy de me regretter tendrement, si ie meurs de douleur, & qu’au moins la violence de ma Passion vous donne du dégoust & de l’éloignement pour toutes choses; cette consolation me suffira, & s’il faut que ie vous abandonne pour toûjours, ie voudrois bien ne vous laisser pas à vne autre. Ne seriez vous pas bien cruel de vous seruir de mon desespoir, pour vous rendre plus aimable, & pour faire voir, que vous auez donné la plus grande Passion du monde? Adieu encore vne fois, ie vous écris des lettres trop longues, je n’ay pas assez d’égard pour vous, ie vous en demande pardon, & j’ose esperer que vous aurez quelque indulgence pour vne pauure insensée, qui ne l’estoit pas, comme vous sçauez, auant qu’elle vous aimât. Adieu, il me semble que ie vous parle trop souuent de l’estat insuportable où ie suis: cependant ie vous remercie dans le fonds de mon cœur du desespoir, que vous me causez, & ie deteste la tranquillité, où j’ay vescu, auant que je vous connusse. Adieu, ma Passion augmente à chaque moment. Ah! que j’ay de choses à vous dire.

QVATRIESME LETTRE