I also drew near, saying, “Is this letter then so very dreadful?”
The shy dévote dared not raise her eyes; she said not a word; and, to hide her embarrassment, pretended to run over the epistle, which she was scarcely in a state to read. I enjoyed her confusion, and not being sorry to gird her a little, I added, “Your more tranquil air bids me hope that this letter has caused you more astonishment than pain.” Anger then inspired her better than prudence could have done.
“It contains,” she answered, “things which offend me, and that I am astounded anyone has dared to write to me.”
“Who has sent it?” interrupted Madame de Rosemonde.
“It is not signed,” answered the angry fair one; “but the letter and its author inspire me with equal contempt. You will oblige me by speaking no more of it.”
With that she tore up the audacious missive, put the pieces into her pocket, rose, and left the room.
In spite of this anger she has none the less had my letter; and I rely upon her curiosity to have taken care that she read it through.
The detailed relation of the day would take me too far. I add to this account the first draft of my two letters; you will thus be as fully informed as myself. If you want to be au courant with this correspondence, you must accustom yourself to deciphering my minutes; for nothing in the world could I support the tedium of copying them. Adieu, my lovely friend!
At the Château de ..., 25th August, 17**.