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diff --git a/.gitattributes b/.gitattributes new file mode 100644 index 0000000..d7b82bc --- /dev/null +++ b/.gitattributes @@ -0,0 +1,4 @@ +*.txt text eol=lf +*.htm text eol=lf +*.html text eol=lf +*.md text eol=lf diff --git a/LICENSE.txt b/LICENSE.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..6312041 --- /dev/null +++ b/LICENSE.txt @@ -0,0 +1,11 @@ +This eBook, including all associated images, markup, improvements, +metadata, and any other content or labor, has been confirmed to be +in the PUBLIC DOMAIN IN THE UNITED STATES. + +Procedures for determining public domain status are described in +the "Copyright How-To" at https://www.gutenberg.org. + +No investigation has been made concerning possible copyrights in +jurisdictions other than the United States. Anyone seeking to utilize +this eBook outside of the United States should confirm copyright +status under the laws that apply to them. diff --git a/README.md b/README.md new file mode 100644 index 0000000..5bee412 --- /dev/null +++ b/README.md @@ -0,0 +1,2 @@ +Project Gutenberg (https://www.gutenberg.org) public repository for +eBook #69891 (https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/69891) diff --git a/old/69891-0.txt b/old/69891-0.txt deleted file mode 100644 index df054ee..0000000 --- a/old/69891-0.txt +++ /dev/null @@ -1,8545 +0,0 @@ -The Project Gutenberg eBook of Les liaisons dangereuses, volume 1 (of -2), by Choderlos de Laclos - -This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and -most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions -whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms -of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at -www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you -will have to check the laws of the country where you are located before -using this eBook. - -Title: Les liaisons dangereuses, volume 1 (of 2) - or letters collected in a private society and published for the - instruction of others - -Author: Choderlos de Laclos - -Translator: Ernest Dowson - -Release Date: January 28, 2023 [eBook #69891] - -Language: English - -Produced by: Adam Buchbinder, Eleni Christofaki and the Online - Distributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net - -*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK LES LIAISONS DANGEREUSES, -VOLUME 1 (OF 2) *** - - - - - -Transcriber’s note - -Variable spelling and hyphenation have been retained. Minor punctuation -inconsistencies have been silently repaired. A list of the changes made -can be found at the end of the book. Formatting and special characters -are indicated as follows: - -_italic_ - - - - -LES LIAISONS DANGEREUSES VOL. I - - - - -_No._ 200 _of 360 Copies_ - - - - -[Illustration: _C. Monnet del. Langlois Jun. Sculpᵗ._] - - - - -LES LIAISONS DANGEREUSES - -OR - -_LETTERS COLLECTED IN A PRIVATE SOCIETY AND PUBLISHED FOR THE -INSTRUCTION OF OTHERS_ - -BY CHODERLOS DE LACLOS - -TRANSLATED BY ERNEST DOWSON - -VOL. I - -LONDON PRIVATELY PRINTED 1898 - - - - -NOTE TO THE PRESENT EDITION - -(A.D. 1898) - - -CHODERLOS DE LACLOS was the Gallic Richardson of the XVIIIth Century; -and he might more justly than Stendhal be called the father of French -realism. With inimitable wit and the finest analysis of character he -depicted the corrupt society of his day. His aim was excellent, but in -his endeavour to point his moral he painted the vice which he wished -to flagellate in colours so glowing that he appears more an advocate -than an opponent of immorality. In his attempt to pourtray the wiles of -the seducer for a warning to the unwary, the author of the “Liaisons -Dangereuses” produced the most complete manual of the art of seduction; -so that during the austere reign of Charles X. this masterpiece was -suppressed as throwing too lurid a reflection on the manners and morals -of the old régime. “Les Liaisons Dangereuses” is now for the first time -literally and completely translated into English by MR. ERNEST DOWSON, -whose rendering of “La Terre,” in the Lutetian Society’s issue of Zola, -gained such a warm meed of praise. - - -To render this edition of “Les Liaisons Dangereuses” worthy of its -fame as one of the chefs-d’œuvre of Literature, it is illustrated -with fine photogravure reproductions of the whole of the 15 charming -designs by Monnet, Fragonard fils, and Gérard, which appeared in -the much coveted French edition of 1796, and which are full of that -inexpressible grace and beauty inseparable from the work of these -Masters of French Art of the XVIIIth Century. - - - - -PUBLISHER’S NOTE TO THE FIRST EDITION (1784) - - -WE think it our duty to warn the public that, in spite of the title -of this work and of what the Editor says of it in his Preface, we -do not guarantee the authenticity of this narrative, and have even -strong reasons for believing that it is but a romance. It seems to -us, moreover, that the author, who yet seems to have sought after -verisimilitude, has himself destroyed that, and maladroitly, owing to -the period which he has chosen in which to place these adventures. -Certainly, several of the personages whom he brings on his stage have -morals so sorry that it were impossible to believe that they lived in -our century, in this century of philosophy, where the light shed on all -sides has rendered, as everyone knows, all men so honourable, all women -so modest and reserved. - -Our opinion is, therefore, that if the adventures related in this work -possess a foundation of truth, they could not have occurred save in -other places and in other times, and we must censure our author, who, -seduced apparently by his hope of being more diverting by treating -rather of his own age and country, has dared to clothe in our customs -and our costumes a state of morals so remote from us. - -To preserve the too credulous Reader, at least so far as it lies with -us, from all surprise in this matter, we will support our opinion with -an argument which we proffer to him in all confidence, because it seems -to us victorious and unanswerable; it is that, undoubtedly, like causes -should not fail to produce like effects, and that, nevertheless, we do -not hear to-day of young ladies with incomes of sixty thousand livres -turning nuns, nor of young and pretty dame-presidents dying of grief. - - - - -AUTHOR’S PREFACE - - -THIS work, or rather this compilation, which the public will, perhaps, -still find too voluminous, contains, however, but a very small -portion of the letters which composed the correspondence whence it is -extracted. Charged with the care of setting it in order by the persons -into whose hands it had come, and whom I knew to have the intention -of publishing it, I asked, for reward of my pains, no more than the -permission to prune it of all that appeared to me useless; and I have, -in fact, endeavoured to preserve only the letters which seemed to -me necessary, whether for the right understanding of events or the -development of the characters. If there be added to this light labour -that of arranging in order the letters I have let remain, an order in -which I have almost invariably followed that of the dates, and finally -some brief and rare notes, which, for the most part, have no other -object than that of indicating the source of certain quotations, or of -explaining certain abridgments which I have permitted myself, the share -which I have had in this work will have been told. My mission was of no -wider range. - -I had proposed alterations more considerable, and almost all in respect -of diction or style, against which will be found many offences. I -should have wished to be authorized to cut down certain too lengthy -letters, of which several treat separately, and almost without -transition, of matters quite extraneous to one another. This task, -which has not been permitted me, would doubtless not have sufficed to -give merit to the work, but it would, at least, have freed it from a -portion of its defects. - -It has been objected to me that it was the letters themselves which -it was desirable to make public, not merely a work made after those -letters; that it would be as great an offence against verisimilitude -as against truth, if all the eight or ten persons who participated -in this correspondence had written with an equal purity. And to my -representations that, far from that, there was not one of them, on the -contrary, who had not committed grave faults, which would not fail to -excite criticism, I was answered that any reasonable reader would be -certainly prepared to meet with faults in a compilation of letters -written by private individuals, since in all those hitherto published -by sundry esteemed authors, and even by certain academicians, none has -proved quite free of this reproach. These reasons have not persuaded -me, and I found them, as I find them still, easier to give than to -accept; but I was not my own master, and I gave way. Only, I reserved -to myself the right of protest, and of declaring that I was not of that -opinion: it is this protest I make here. - -What I must say at the outset is that, if my advice has been, as I -admit, to publish these letters, I am nevertheless far from hoping for -their success: and let not this sincerity on my part be taken for the -feigned modesty of an author; for I declare with equal frankness that, -if this compilation had not seemed to me worthy of being offered to -the public, I would not have meddled with it. Let us try and reconcile -these apparent contradictions. - -The deserts of a work are composed of its utility or of its charm, and -even of both these, when it is susceptible of them: but success, which -is not always a proof of merit, often depends more on the choice of -a subject than on its execution, on the sum of the objects which it -presents rather than on the manner in which they are treated. Now this -compilation containing, as its title announces, the letters of a whole -society, it is dominated by a diversity of interest which weakens that -of the reader. Nay more, almost all the sentiments therein expressed -being feigned or dissimulated, they but excite an interest of curiosity -which is ever inferior to that of sentiment, which less inclines the -mind for indulgence, and which permits a perception of the errors -contained in the details that is all the more keen in that these are -continually opposed to the only desire which one would have satisfied. - -These blemishes are, perhaps, redeemed, in part, by a quality which -is implied in the very nature of the work: it is the variety of the -styles, a merit which an author attains with difficulty, but which -here occurs of itself, and at least prevents the tedium of uniformity. -Many persons will also be able to count for something a considerable -number of observations, either new or little known, which are scattered -through these letters. That is all, I fear, that one can hope for in -the matter of charm, judging them even with the utmost favour. - -The utility of the work, which, perhaps, will be even more contested, -yet seems to me easier to establish. It seems to me, at any rate, that -it is to render a service to morals, to unveil the methods employed by -those whose own are bad in corrupting those whose conduct is good; and -I believe that these letters will effectually attain this end. There -will also be found the proof and example of two important verities -which one might believe unknown, for that they are so rarely practised: -the one, that every woman who consents to admit a man of loose morals -to her society ends by becoming his victim; the other, that a mother -is, to say the least, imprudent who allows any other than herself to -possess the confidence of her daughter. Young people of either sex -might also learn from these pages that the friendship which persons -of evil character appear to grant them so readily is never aught else -but a dangerous snare, as fatal to their happiness as to their virtue. -Abuse, however, always so near a neighbour to what is good, seems to -me here too greatly to be feared; and far from commending this work -for the perusal of youth, it seems to me most important to deter it -from all such reading. The time when it may cease to be perilous and -become useful seems to me to have been defined, for her sex, by a good -mother, who has not only wit but good sense: “I should deem,” she said -to me, after having read the manuscript of this correspondence, “that -I was doing a service to my daughter, if I gave her this book on the -day of her marriage.” If all mothers of families think thus, I shall -congratulate myself on having published it. - -But if, again, we put this favourable supposition on one side, I -continue to think that this collection can please very few. Men and -women who are depraved will have an interest in decrying a work -calculated to injure them; and, as they are not lacking in skill, -perhaps they will have sufficient to bring to their side the austere, -who will be alarmed at the picture of bad morals which we have not -feared to exhibit. - -The would-be free-thinkers will not be interested in a God-fearing -woman whom for that very reason they will regard as a ninny; while -pious people will be angry at seeing virtue defeated and will complain -that religion is not made to seem more powerful. - -On the other hand, persons of delicate taste will be disgusted by the -too simple and too faulty style of many of these letters; while the -mass of readers, led away with the idea that everything they see in -print is the fruit of labour, will think that they are beholding in -certain others the elaborate method of an author concealing himself -behind the person whom he causes to speak. - -Lastly, it will perhaps be pretty generally said that everything is -good in its own place; and that, although, as a rule, the too polished -style of the authors detracts from the charm of the letters of society, -the carelessness of the present ones becomes a real fault and makes -them insufferable when sent to the printer’s. - -I sincerely admit that all these reproaches may be well founded: I -think also that I should be able to reply to them without exceeding the -length permissible to a preface. But it must be plain that, to make it -necessary to reply to all, the book itself should be unable to reply to -any; and that, had I been of this opinion I would have suppressed at -once the preface and the book. - - - - -LIST OF PLATES - - -Vol. I. - - PAGE - - FRONTISPIECE to face the title - - “PARDON ME MY WRONGS: THE STRENGTH OF MY LOVE SHALL - EXPIATE THEM” 30 - - “I WILL CONFESS MY WEAKNESS: MY EYES WERE MOISTENED - BY TEARS” 56 - - “I ALLOWED HER TO CHANGE NEITHER HER POSITION NOR - COSTUME” 127 - - “I FOUND IT AMUSING TO SEND A LETTER WRITTEN IN - THE BED” 138 - - “I, A MERE WOMAN, BIT BY BIT, EXCITED HER TO THE POINT” 158 - - “AT MY FIRST KICK THE DOOR YIELDED” 210 - - “HE BETOOK HIMSELF TO HIS SWORD” 284 - - -Vol. II. - - FRONTISPIECE to face the title - - “ARMED WITH MY DARK LANTERN.... I PAID MY FIRST - VISIT TO YOUR PUPIL” 313 - - “THE LOVELY FORM LEANED UPON MY ARM” 329 - - “YESTERDAY, HAVING FOUND YOUR PUPIL.... WRITING TO HIM” 401 - - “YOU SHALL LISTEN TO ME, IT IS MY WISH” 435 - - “I COMMAND YOU TO TREAT MONSIEUR WITH ALL CONSIDERATION” 543 - - “I FEEL THAT MY ILLS WILL SOON BE ENDED” 549 - - - - -CONTENTS OF VOLUME THE FIRST - - PAGE - - Note to the Present Edition v - - Publisher’s Note to the First Edition vii - - Preface ix - - List of Plates xv - - LETTER - - I. Cécile Volanges to Sophie Carnay, at the Ursulines - of .... 1 - - II. The Marquise de Merteuil to the Vicomte de Valmont, - at the Château de .... 4 - - III. Cécile Volanges to Sophie Carnay 7 - - IV. The Vicomte de Valmont to the Marquise de Merteuil, - at Paris 9 - - V. The Marquise de Merteuil to the Vicomte de Valmont 12 - - VI. The Vicomte de Valmont to the Marquise de Merteuil 15 - - VII. Cécile Volanges to Sophie Carnay 19 - - VIII. The Présidente de Tourvel to Madame de Volanges 21 - - IX. Madame de Volanges to the Présidente de Tourvel 23 - - X. The Marquise de Merteuil to the Vicomte de Valmont 26 - - XI. The Présidente de Tourvel to Madame de Volanges 32 - - XII. Cécile Volanges to the Marquise de Merteuil 35 - - XIII. The Marquise de Merteuil to Cécile Volanges 36 - - XIV. Cécile Volanges to Sophie Carnay 37 - - XV. The Vicomte de Valmont to the Marquise de Merteuil 39 - - XVI. Cécile Volanges to Sophie Carnay 42 - - XVII. The Chevalier Danceny to Cécile Volanges 45 - - XVIII. Cécile Volanges to Sophie Carnay 47 - - XIX. Cécile Volanges to the Chevalier Danceny 50 - - XX. The Marquise de Merteuil to the Vicomte de Valmont 51 - - XXI. The Vicomte de Valmont to the Marquise de Merteuil 54 - - XXII. The Présidente de Tourvel to Madame de Volanges 58 - - XXIII. The Vicomte de Valmont to the Marquise de Merteuil 61 - - XXIV. The Vicomte de Valmont to the Présidente de Tourvel 67 - - XXV. The Vicomte de Valmont to the Marquise de Merteuil 70 - - XXVI. The Présidente de Tourvel to the Vicomte de Valmont 72 - - XXVII. Cécile Volanges to the Marquise de Merteuil 75 - - XXVIII. The Chevalier Danceny to Cécile Volanges 78 - - XXIX. Cécile Volanges to Sophie Carnay 80 - - XXX. Cécile Volanges to the Chevalier Danceny 82 - - XXXI. The Chevalier Danceny to Cécile Volanges 84 - - XXXII. Madame de Volanges to the Présidente de Tourvel 86 - - XXXIII. The Marquise de Merteuil to the Vicomte de Valmont 90 - - XXXIV. The Vicomte de Valmont to the Marquise de Merteuil 93 - - XXXV. The Vicomte de Valmont to the Présidente de Tourvel 98 - - XXXVI. The Vicomte de Valmont to the Présidente de Tourvel 101 - - XXXVII. The Présidente de Tourvel to Madame de Volanges 105 - - XXXVIII. The Marquise de Merteuil to the Vicomte de Valmont 107 - - XXXIX. Cécile Volanges to Sophie Carnay 110 - - XL. The Vicomte de Valmont to the Marquise de Merteuil 113 - - XLI. The Présidente de Tourvel to the Vicomte de Valmont 116 - - XLII. The Vicomte de Valmont to the Présidente de Tourvel 118 - - XL. _Continued_ The Vicomte de Valmont to the Marquise - de Merteuil 120 - - XLIII. The Présidente de Tourvel to the Vicomte de Valmont 123 - - XLIV. The Vicomte de Valmont to the Marquise de Merteuil 125 - - XLV. The Présidente de Tourvel to Madame de Volanges 133 - - XLVI. The Chevalier Danceny to Cécile Volanges 135 - - XLVII. The Vicomte de Valmont to the Marquise de Merteuil 137 - - XLVIII. The Vicomte de Valmont to the Présidente de Tourvel 140 - - XLIX. Cécile Volanges to the Chevalier Danceny 143 - - L. The Présidente de Tourvel to the Vicomte de Valmont 145 - - LI. The Marquise de Merteuil to the Vicomte de Valmont 148 - - LII. The Vicomte de Valmont to the Présidente de Tourvel 153 - - LIII. The Vicomte de Valmont to the Marquise de Merteuil 156 - - LIV. The Marquise de Merteuil to the Vicomte de Valmont 157 - - LV. Cécile Volanges to Sophie Carnay 160 - - LVI. The Présidente de Tourvel to the Vicomte de Valmont 163 - - LVII. The Vicomte de Valmont to the Marquise de Merteuil 166 - - LVIII. The Vicomte de Valmont to the Présidente de Tourvel 169 - - LIX. The Vicomte de Valmont to the Marquise de Merteuil 172 - - LX. The Chevalier Danceny to the Vicomte de Valmont 174 - - LXI. Cécile Volanges to Sophie Camay 175 - - LXII. Madame de Volanges to the Chevalier Danceny 177 - - LXIII. The Marquise de Merteuil to the Vicomte de Valmont 179 - - LXIV. The Chevalier Danceny to Madame de Volanges 187 - - LXV. The Chevalier Danceny to Cécile Volanges 191 - - LXVI. The Vicomte de Valmont to the Marquise de Merteuil 194 - - LXVII. The Présidente de Tourvel to the Vicomte de Valmont 197 - - LXVIII. The Vicomte de Valmont to the Présidente de Tourvel 199 - - LXIX. Cécile Volanges to the Chevalier Danceny 202 - - LXX. The Vicomte de Valmont to the Marquise de Merteuil 203 - - LXXI. The Vicomte de Valmont to the Marquise de Merteuil 207 - - LXXII. The Chevalier Danceny to Cécile Volanges 213 - - LXXIII. The Vicomte de Valmont to Cécile Volanges 215 - - LXXIV. The Marquise de Merteuil to the Vicomte de Valmont 217 - - LXXV. Cécile Volanges to Sophie Carnay 220 - - LXXVI. The Vicomte de Valmont to the Marquise de Merteuil 222 - - LXXVII. The Vicomte de Valmont to the Présidente de Tourvel 230 - - LXXVIII. The Présidente de Tourvel to the Vicomte de Valmont 233 - - LXXIX. The Vicomte de Valmont to the Marquise de Merteuil 237 - - LXXX. The Chevalier Danceny to Cécile Volanges 246 - - LXXXI. The Marquise de Merteuil to the Vicomte de Valmont 249 - - LXXXII. Cécile Volanges to the Chevalier Danceny 263 - - LXXXIII. The Vicomte de Valmont to the Présidente de Tourvel 266 - - LXXXIV. The Vicomte de Valmont to Cécile Volanges 270 - - LXXXV. The Marquise de Merteuil to the Vicomte de Valmont 274 - - LXXXVI. The Maréchale de *** to the Marquise de Merteuil 287 - - LXXXVII. The Marquise de Merteuil to Madame de Volanges 288 - - LXXXVIII. Cécile Volanges to the Vicomte de Valmont 292 - - LXXXIX. The Vicomte de Valmont to the Chevalier Danceny 294 - - XC. The Présidente de Tourvel to the Vicomte de Valmont 296 - - - - -LES LIAISONS DANGEREUSES - - - - -LETTER THE FIRST - -CÉCILE VOLANGES TO SOPHIE CARNAY, AT THE URSULINES OF .... - - -YOU see, my dear friend, that I keep my word to you, and that bonnets -and frills do not take up all my time; there will always be some left -for you. However, I have seen more adornments in this one single day -than in all the four years we passed together; and I think that the -superb Tanville[1] will have more vexation at my first visit, when I -shall certainly ask to see her, than she has ever fancied that she -afforded us, when she used to come and see us in _fiocchi_. Mamma has -consulted me in everything; she treats me much less as a school-girl -than of old. I have a waiting-maid of my own; I have a room and a -closet at my disposition; and I write this to you at a very pretty -desk, of which I have the key, and where I can lock up all that I wish. -Mamma has told me that I am to see her every day when she rises, that I -need not have my hair dressed before dinner, because we shall always -be alone, and that then she will tell me every day where I am to see -her in the afternoon. The rest of the time is at my disposal, and I -have my harp, my drawing, and books as at the convent, only there is -no Mother Perpétue here to scold me, and it is nothing to anybody but -myself, if I choose to do nothing at all. But as I have not my Sophie -here to sing and laugh with, I would just as soon occupy myself. - -It is not yet five o’clock; I have not to go and join Mamma until -seven: there’s time enough, if I had anything to tell you! But as -yet they have not spoken to me of anything, and were it not for the -preparations I see being made, and the number of milliners who all come -for me, I should believe that they had no thought of marrying me, and -that that was the nonsense of the good Joséphine.[2] However, Mamma has -told me so often that a young lady should stay in the convent until she -marries that, since she has taken me out, I suppose Joséphine was right. - -A carriage has just stopped at the door, and Mamma tells me to come to -her at once. If it were to be the Gentleman! I am not dressed, my hand -trembles and my heart is beating. I asked my waiting-maid if she knew -who was with my mother. “Certainly,” she said, “it’s Monsieur C***.” -And she laughed. Oh, I believe ’tis he! I will be sure to come back and -relate to you what passes. There is his name, at any rate. I must not -keep him waiting. For a moment, adieu.... - -How you will laugh at your poor Cécile! Oh, I have really been -disgraceful! But you would have been caught just as I. When I went in -to Mamma, I saw a gentleman in black standing by her. I bowed to him as -well as I could, and stood still without being able to budge an inch. -You can imagine how I scrutinized him. - -“Madame,” he said to my mother, as he bowed to me, “what a charming -young lady! I feel more than ever the value of your kindness.” At this -very definite remark, I was seized with a fit of trembling, so much so -that I could hardly stand: I found an arm-chair and sat down in it, -very red and disconcerted. Hardly was I there, when I saw the man at -my feet. Your poor Cécile quite lost her head; as Mamma said, I was -absolutely terrified. I jumped up, uttering a piercing cry, just as I -did that day when it thundered. Mamma burst out laughing, saying to -me, “Well! what is the matter with you? Sit down, and give your foot -to Monsieur.” Indeed, my dear friend, the gentleman was a shoe-maker. -I can’t describe to you how ashamed I was; mercifully there was no -one there but Mamma. I think that, when I am married, I shall give up -employing that shoe-maker. - -So much for our wisdom--admit it! Adieu. It is nearly six o’clock, and -my waiting-maid tells me that I must dress. Adieu, my dear Sophie, I -love you, just as well as if I were still at the convent. - -P.S. I don’t know by whom to send my letter, so that I shall wait until -Joséphine comes. - - Paris, 3rd August, 17**. - - - - -LETTER THE SECOND - -THE MARQUISE DE MERTEUIL TO THE VICOMTE DE VALMONT, AT THE CHÂTEAU DE -.... - - -COME back, my dear Vicomte, come back; what are you doing, what _can_ -you be doing with an old aunt, whose whole property is settled on -you? Set off at once; I have need of you. I have an excellent idea, -and I should like to confide its execution to you. A very few words -should suffice; and only too honoured at my choice, you ought to come, -with enthusiasm, to receive my orders on your knees: but you abuse -my kindness, even since you have ceased to take advantage of it, and -between the alternatives of an eternal hatred and excessive indulgence, -your happiness demands that my indulgence wins the day. I am willing -then to inform you of my projects, but swear to me like a faithful -cavalier that you embark on no other adventure till this one be brought -to an end. It is worthy of a hero: you will serve both love and -vengeance; it will be, in short, one _rouerie_[3] the more to include -in your Memoirs: yes, in your Memoirs, for I wish them to be printed, -and I will charge myself with the task of writing them. But let us -leave that, and come back to what is occupying me. - -Madame de Volanges is marrying her daughter: it is still a secret, but -she imparted it to me yesterday. And whom do you think she has chosen -for her son-in-law? The Comte de Gercourt. Who would have thought -that I should ever become Gercourt’s cousin? I was furious.... Well! -do you not divine me now? Oh, dull brains! Have you forgiven him then -the adventure of the Intendante! And I, have I not still more cause to -complain of him, monster that you are?[4] But I will calm myself, and -the hope of vengeance soothes my soul. - -You have been bored a hundred times, like myself, by the importance -which Gercourt sets upon the wife who shall be his, and by his fatuous -presumption, which leads him to believe he will escape the inevitable -fate. You know his ridiculous precautions as to conventual education -and his even more ridiculous prejudice in favour of the discretion -of _blondes_. In fact, I would wager, that for all that the little -Volanges has an income of sixty thousand livres, he would never have -made this marriage if she had been dark or had not been bred at the -convent. Let us prove to him then that he is but a fool: no doubt he -will be made so one of these days; it isn’t that of which I am afraid; -but ’twould be pleasant indeed if he were to make his _début_ as one! -How we should amuse ourselves on the day after, when we heard him -boasting, for he will boast; and then, if you once form this little -girl, it would be a rare mishap if Gercourt did not become, like -another man, the joke of all Paris. - -For the rest, the heroine of this new romance merits all your -attentions: she is really pretty; it is only fifteen, ’tis a rose-bud, -_gauche_ in truth, incredibly so, and quite without affectation. But -you men are not afraid of that; moreover, a certain languishing glance, -which really promises great things. Add to this that I exhort you to -it: you can only thank me and obey. - -You will receive this letter to-morrow morning. I request that -to-morrow, at seven o’clock in the evening, you may be with me. I shall -receive nobody until eight, not even the reigning Chevalier: he has not -head enough for such a mighty piece of work. You see that love does not -blind me. At eight o’clock I will grant you your liberty, and you shall -come back at ten to sup with the fair object; for mother and daughter -will sup with me. Adieu, it is past noon: soon I shall have put you out -of my thoughts. - - Paris, 4th August, 17**. - - - - -LETTER THE THIRD - -CÉCILE VOLANGES TO SOPHIE CARNAY - - -I KNOW nothing as yet, my dear friend. Mamma had a great number -of people to supper yesterday. In spite of the interest I took in -regarding them, the men especially, I was far from being diverted. Men -and women, everybody looked at me mightily, and then would whisper to -one another, and I saw they were speaking of me. That made me blush; I -could not prevent myself. I wish I could have, for I noticed that, when -the other women were looked at, they did not blush: or perhaps ’tis the -rouge they employ which prevents one seeing the red that is caused by -embarrassment; for it must be very difficult not to blush when a man -stares at you. - -What made me most uneasy was that I did not know what they thought in -my regard. I believe, however, that I heard two or three times the word -_pretty_; but I heard very distinctly the word _gauche_; and I think -that must be true, for the woman who said it is a kinswoman and friend -of my mother; she seemed even to have suddenly taken a liking to me. -She was the only person who spoke to me a little during the evening. We -are to sup with her to-morrow. - -I also heard, after supper, a man who, I am certain, was speaking of -me, and who said to another, “We must let it ripen; this winter we -shall see.” It is, perhaps, he who is to marry me, but then it will not -be for four months! I should so much like to know how it stands. - -Here is Joséphine, and she tells me she is in a hurry. Yet I must tell -you one more of my _gaucheries_. Oh, I am afraid that lady was right! - -After supper they started to play. I placed myself at Mamma’s side; -I do not know how it happened, but I fell asleep almost at once. I -was awakened by a great burst of laughter. I do not know if they were -laughing at me, but I believe so. Mamma gave me permission to retire, -and I was greatly pleased. Imagine, it was past eleven o’clock. Adieu, -my dear Sophie; always love your Cécile. I assure you that the world is -not so amusing as we imagined. - - Paris, 4th August, 17**. - - - - -LETTER THE FOURTH - -THE VICOMTE DE VALMONT TO THE MARQUISE DE MERTEUIL, AT PARIS - - -YOUR commands are charming; your fashion of conveying them is more -gracious still; you would make us in love with despotism. It is not -the first time, as you know, that I have regretted that I am no longer -your slave: and _monster_ though I be, according to you, I never recall -without pleasure the time when you honoured me with sweeter titles. -Indeed, I often desire to merit them again, and to end by setting, with -you, an example of constancy to the world. But greater interests call -us; to conquer is our destiny, we must follow it; perhaps at the end of -the course we shall meet again; for, may I say it without vexing you, -my fairest Marquise? you follow it at least as fast as I: and since -the day when, separating for the good of the world, we began to preach -the faith on our different sides, it seems to me that, in this mission -of love, you have made more proselytes than I. I know your zeal, your -ardent fervour; and if that god of ours judged us by our works, you -would one day be the patroness of some great city, whilst your friend -would be at most but a village saint. This language astounds you, does -it not? But for the last week I hear and speak no other, and it is to -perfect myself in it that I am forced to disobey you. - -Listen to me and do not be vexed. Depositary of all the secrets of my -heart, I will confide to you the most important project I have ever -formed. What is it you suggest to me? To seduce a young girl, who has -seen nothing, knows nothing, who would be, so to speak, delivered -defenceless into my hands, whom a first compliment would not fail to -intoxicate, and whom curiosity will perhaps more readily entice than -love. Twenty others can succeed and these as well as I. That is not -the case in the adventure which engrosses me; its success insures me -as much glory as pleasure. Love, who prepares my crown, hesitates, -himself, betwixt the myrtle and the laurel; or rather he will unite -them to honour my triumph. You yourself, my fair friend, will be seized -with a holy veneration and will say with enthusiasm, “Behold a man -after my own heart!” - -You know the Présidente de Tourvel, her piety, her conjugal love, her -austere principles. She it is whom I am attacking; there is the foe -meet for me; there the goal at which I dare to aim: - - Et si de l’obtenir, je n’emporte le prix, - J’aurai du moins l’honneur de l’avoir entrepris.[5] - -One may quote bad verses when a good poet has written them. You must -know then that the President is in Burgundy, in consequence of some -great law-suit: I hope to make him lose one of greater import! His -disconsolate better-half has to pass here the whole term of this -distressing widowhood. Mass every day; some visits to the poor of the -district; morning and evening prayers, solitary walks, pious interviews -with my old aunt, and sometimes a dismal game of whist, must be her -sole distractions. I am preparing some for her which shall be more -efficacious. My guardian angel has brought me here, for her happiness -and my own. Madman that I was, I regretted twenty-four hours which I -was sacrificing to my respect for the conventions. How I should be -punished if I were made to return to Paris! Luckily, four are needed to -play whist; and as there is no one here but the _curé_ of the place, my -eternal aunt has pressed me greatly to sacrifice a few days to her. You -can guess that I have agreed. You cannot imagine how she has cajoled me -since then, above all how edified she is at my regularity at prayers -and mass. She has no suspicion what divinity I adore. - -Here am I then for the last four days, in the throes of a doughty -passion. You know how keen are my desires, how I brush aside obstacles -to them: but what you do not know is how solitude adds ardour to -desire. I have but one idea; I think of it all day and dream of it all -night. It is very necessary that I should have this woman, if I would -save myself from the ridicule of being in love with her: for whither -may not thwarted desire lead one? O delicious pleasure! I implore thee -for my happiness, and above all for my repose. How lucky it is for us -that women defend themselves so badly! Else we should be to them no -more than timid slaves. At present I have a feeling of gratitude for -yielding women which brings me naturally to your feet. I prostrate -myself to implore your pardon, and so conclude this too long epistle. - -Adieu, my fairest friend, and bear me no malice. - - At the Château de ..., 5th August, 17**. - - - - -LETTER THE FIFTH - -THE MARQUISE DE MERTEUIL TO THE VICOMTE DE VALMONT - - -Do you know, Vicomte, that your letter is of an amazing insolence, -and that I have every excuse to be angry with you? But it has proved -clearly to me that you have lost your head, and that alone has saved -you from my indignation. Like a generous and sympathetic friend, I -forget my wrongs in order to concern myself with your peril; and -tiresome though argument be, I give way before the need you have of it, -at such a time. - -You, to have the Présidente de Tourvel! The ridiculous caprice! I -recognize there your froward imagination, which knows not how to desire -aught but what it believes to be unattainable. What is the woman then? -Regular features, if you like, but no expression; passably made, but -lacking grace; and always dressed in a fashion to set you laughing, -with her clusters of fichus on her bosom and her body running into her -chin! I warn you as a friend, you need but to have two such women, -and all your consideration will be lost. Remember the day when she -collected at Saint-Roch, and when you thanked me so for having procured -you such a spectacle. I think I see her still, giving her hand to that -great gawk with the long hair, stumbling at every step, with her four -yards of collecting-bag always over somebody’s head, and blushing at -every reverence. Who would have said then that you would ever desire -this woman? Come, Vicomte, blush too, and be yourself again! I promise -to keep your secret. - -And then, look at the disagreeables which await you! What rival have -you to encounter? A husband! Are you not humiliated at the very -word? What a disgrace if you fail! and how little glory even if you -succeed! I say more; expect no pleasure from it. Is there ever any -with your prudes? I mean those in good faith. Reserved in the very -midst of pleasure, they give you but a half-enjoyment. That utter -self-abandonment, that delirium of joy, where pleasure is purified by -its excess, those good things of love are not known to them. I warn -you: in the happiest supposition, your Présidente will think she has -done everything for you, if she treats you as her husband; and in the -most tender of conjugal _tête-à-têtes_ you are always two. Here it is -even worse; your prude is a _dévote_, with that devotion of worthy -women which condemns them to eternal infancy. Perhaps you will overcome -that obstacle; but do not flatter yourself that you will destroy it: -victorious over the love of God, you will not be so over the fear of -the Devil; and when, holding your mistress in your arms, you feel her -heart palpitate, it will be from fear and not from love. Perhaps, if -you had known this woman earlier, you would have been able to make -something of her; but it is two-and-twenty, and has been married nearly -two years. Believe me, Vicomte, when a woman is so _incrusted_ with -prejudice, it is best to abandon her to her fate; she will never be -anything but a _puppet_. - -Yet it is for this delightful creature that you refuse to obey me, -bury yourself in the tomb of your aunt, and renounce the most enticing -of adventures, and withal one so admirably suited to do you honour. By -what fatality then must Gercourt always hold some advantage over you? -Well, I am writing to you without temper: but, for the nonce, I am -tempted to believe that you don’t merit your reputation; I am tempted, -above all, to withdraw my confidence from you. I shall never get used -to telling my secrets to the lover of Madame de Tourvel. - -I must let you know, however, that the little Volanges has already -turned one head. Young Danceny is wild about her. He sings duets with -her; and really, she sings better than a school-girl should. They -must rehearse a good many duets, and I think that she takes nicely to -the _unison_; but this Danceny is a child, who will waste his time in -making love and will never finish. The little person, on her side, is -shy enough; and in any event it will be much less amusing than you -could have made it: wherefore I am in a bad humour and shall certainly -quarrel with the Chevalier at his next appearance. I advise him to -be gentle; for, at this moment, it would cost me nothing to break -with him. I am sure that, if I had the sense to leave him at present, -he would be in despair; and nothing amuses me so much as a lover’s -despair. He would call me perfidious, and that word “perfidious” has -always pleased me; it is, after the word “cruel,” the sweetest to a -woman’s ear, and less difficult to deserve.... Seriously, I shall have -to set about this rupture. There’s what you are the cause of; so I put -it on your conscience! Adieu. Recommend me to the prayers of your lady -President. - - Paris, 7th August, 17**. - - - - -LETTER THE SIXTH - -THE VICOMTE DE VALMONT TO THE MARQUISE DE MERTEUIL - - -THERE is never a woman then but abuses the empire she has known how -to seize! And yourself, you whom I have so often dubbed my indulgent -friend, you have discarded the title and are not afraid to attack me -in the object of my affections! With what traits you venture to depict -Madame de Tourvel!... What man but would have paid with his life for -such insolent boldness? What woman other than yourself would have -escaped without receiving at least an ungracious retort? In mercy, -put me not to such tests; I will not answer for my power to sustain -them. In the name of friendship, wait until I have had this woman, if -you wish to revile her. Do you not know that pleasure alone has the -right to remove the bandage from Love’s eyes? But what am I saying? -Has Madame de Tourvel any need of illusion? No; for to be adorable, -she has only need to be herself. You reproach her with dressing badly; -I quite agree: all adornment is hurtful to her, nothing that conceals -her adorns. It is in the freedom of her _négligé_ that she is really -ravishing. Thanks to the distressing heat which we are experiencing, -a _déshabillé_ of simple stuff permits me to see her round and supple -figure. Only a piece of muslin covers her breast; and my furtive but -penetrating gaze has already seized its enchanting form. Her face, -say you, has no expression. And, what should it express, in moments -when nothing speaks to her heart? No, doubtless, she has not, like our -coquettes, that false glance, which is sometimes seductive and always -deceives. She knows not how to gloss over the emptiness of a phrase -by a studied smile, and although she has the loveliest teeth in the -world, she never laughs, except when she is amused. But you should see, -in some frolicsome game, of what a frank and innocent gaiety she will -present the image! Near some poor wretch whom she is eager to succour, -what a pure joy and compassionate kindness her gaze denotes! You should -see, above all, how, at the least word of praise or flattery, her -heavenly face is tinged with the touching embarrassment of a modesty -that is not feigned!... She is a prude and devout, and so you judge -her to be cold and inanimate? I think very differently. What amazing -sensibility she must have, that it can reach even her husband, and that -she can always love a person who is always absent? What stronger proof -would you desire? Yet I have been able to procure another. - -I directed her walk in such a manner that a ditch had to be crossed; -and, although she is very agile, she is even more timid. You can -well believe how much a prude fears to _cross the ditch_![6] She -was obliged to trust herself to me. I held this modest woman in my -arms. Our preparations and the passage of my old aunt had caused the -playful _dévote_ to peal with laughter; but when I had once taken hold -of her, by a happy awkwardness our arms were interlaced. I pressed -her breast against my own; and in this short interval, I felt her -heart beat faster. An amiable flush suffused her face; and her modest -embarrassment taught me well enough _that her heart had throbbed with -love and not with fear_. My aunt, however, was deceived, as you are, -and said, “The child was frightened,” but the charming candour of _the -child_ did not permit her to lie, and she answered naively, “Oh no, -but....” That alone was an illumination. From that moment the sweetness -of hope has succeeded to my cruel uncertainty. I shall possess this -woman; I shall steal her from the husband who profanes her: I will -even dare ravish her from the God whom she adores. What delight, to -be in turns the object and the victor of her remorse! Far be it from -me to destroy the prejudices which sway her mind! They will add to my -happiness and my triumph. Let her believe in virtue, and sacrifice it -to me; let the idea of falling terrify her, without preventing her -fall; and may she, shaken by a thousand terrors, forget them, vanquish -them only in my arms. Then, I agree, let her say to me, “I adore thee;” -she, alone among women, is worthy to pronounce these words. I shall be -truly the God whom she has preferred. - -Let us be candid: in our arrangements, as cold as they are facile, -what we call happiness is hardly even a pleasure. Shall I tell you? I -thought my heart was withered; and finding nothing left but my senses, -I lamented my premature old age. Madame de Tourvel has restored to me -the charming illusions of youth. With her I have no need of pleasure -to be happy. The only thing which frightens me is the time which this -adventure is going to take; for I dare leave nothing to chance. ’Tis in -vain I recall my fortunate audacities; I cannot bring myself to put -them in practice here. To become truly happy, I require her to give -herself; and that is no slight affair. - -I am sure that you admire my prudence. I have not yet pronounced the -word “love;” but we have already come to those of confidence and -interest. To deceive her as little as possible, and above all to -counteract the effect of stories which might come to her ears, I have -myself told her, as though in self-accusation, of some of my most -notorious traits. You would laugh to see the candour with which she -lectures me. She wishes, she says, to convert me. She has no suspicion -as yet of what it will cost her to try. She is far from thinking, that -_in pleading_, to use her own words, _for the unfortunates I have -ruined_, she speaks in anticipation in her own cause. This idea struck -me yesterday in the midst of one of her dissertations, and I could not -resist the pleasure of interrupting her to tell her that she spoke like -a prophet. Adieu, my fairest of friends. You see that I am not lost -beyond all hope of return. - -P.S. By the way, that poor Chevalier--has he killed himself from -despair? Truly, you are a hundredfold naughtier person than myself, and -you would humiliate me, if I had any vanity. - - At the Château de ..., 9th August, 17**. - - - - -LETTER THE SEVENTH - -CÉCILE VOLANGES TO SOPHIE CARNAY[7] - - -IF I have told you nothing about my marriage, it is because I know no -more about it than I did the first day. I am accustoming myself to -think no more of it, and I am quite satisfied with my manner of life. -I study much at my singing and my harp; it seems to me that I like -them better since I have no longer a master, or perhaps it is because -I have a better one. M. le Chevalier Danceny, the gentleman of whom I -told you, and with whom I sang at Madame de Merteuil’s, is kind enough -to come here every day, and to sing with me for whole hours. He is -extremely amiable. He sings like an angel, and composes very pretty -airs, to which he also does the words. It is a great pity that he -is a Knight of Malta! It seems to me that, if he were to marry, his -wife would be very happy.... He has a charming gentleness. He never -has the air of paying you a compliment, and yet everything he says -flatters you. He takes me up constantly, now about my music, now about -something else; but he mingles his criticisms with so much gaiety and -interest, that it is impossible not to be grateful for them. If he only -looks at you, it seems as though he were saying something gracious. -Added to all that, he is very obliging. For instance, yesterday he was -invited to a great concert; he preferred to spend the whole evening at -Mamma’s. That pleased me very much; for, when he is not here, nobody -talks to me, and I bore myself: whereas, when he is here, we sing and -talk together. He and Madame de Merteuil are the only two persons I -find amiable. But adieu, my dearest friend; I have promised to learn -for to-day a little air with a very difficult accompaniment, and I -would not break my word. I am going to practise it until he comes. - - Paris, 7th August, 17**. - - - - -LETTER THE EIGHTH - -THE PRÉSIDENTE DE TOURVEL TO MADAME DE VOLANGES - - -No one, Madame, can be more sensible than I to the confidence you show -in me, nor take a keener interest in the establishment of Mademoiselle -de Volanges. It is, indeed, from my whole heart that I wish her a -happiness of which I make no doubt she is worthy, and which your -prudence will secure. I do not know M. le Comte de Gercourt; but being -honoured by your choice, I cannot but form a favourable opinion of him. -I confine myself, Madame, to wishing for this marriage a success as -assured as my own, which is equally your handiwork, and for which each -fresh day adds to my gratitude. May the happiness of your daughter be -the reward of that which you have procured for me; and may the best of -friends be also the happiest of mothers! - -I am really grieved that I cannot offer you by word of mouth the -homage of this sincere wish, nor make the acquaintance of Mademoiselle -de Volanges so soon as I should wish. After having known your truly -maternal kindness, I have a right to hope from her the tender -friendship of a sister. I beg you, Madame, to be so good as to ask this -from her in my behalf, while I wait until I have the opportunity of -deserving it. - -I expect to remain in the country all the time of M. de Tourvel’s -absence. I have taken advantage of this leisure to enjoy and profit by -the society of the venerable Madame de Rosemonde. This lady is always -charming; her great age has deprived her of nothing; she retains all -her memory and sprightliness. Her body alone is eighty-four years old; -her mind is only twenty. - -Our seclusion is enlivened by her nephew, the Vicomte de Valmont, -who has cared to devote a few days to us. I knew him only by his -reputation, which gave me small desire to make his acquaintance; but -he seems to me to be better than that. Here, where he is not spoilt by -the hubbub of the world, he talks rationally with extraordinary ease, -and excuses himself for his errors with rare candour. He speaks to me -with much confidence, and I preach to him with great severity. You, who -know him, will admit that it would be a fine conversion to make: but I -suspect, in spite of his promises, that a week of Paris will make him -forget all my sermons. His sojourn here will be at least so much saved -from his ordinary course of conduct; and I think, from his fashion of -life, that what he can best do is to do nothing at all. He knows that -I am engaged in writing to you and has charged me to present you with -his respectful homage. Pray accept my own also, with the goodness that -I know in you; and never doubt the sincere sentiments with which I have -the honour to be, etc. - - At the Château de ..., 9th August, 17**. - - - - -LETTER THE NINTH - -MADAME DE VOLANGES TO THE PRÉSIDENTE DE TOURVEL - - -I HAVE never doubted, my fair and youthful friend, either of the -kindness which you have for me, or of the sincere interest which you -take in all that concerns me. It is not to elucidate that point, -which I hope is settled between us, that I reply to your _reply_; but -I cannot refrain from having a talk with you on the subject of the -Vicomte de Valmont. - -I did not expect, I confess, ever to come across that name in your -letters. Indeed, what can there be in common between you and him? -You do not know this man; where should you have obtained any idea of -the soul of a libertine? You speak to me of his _rare candour_: yes, -indeed, the candour of Valmont must be most rare. Even more false and -dangerous than he is amiable and seductive, never since his extreme -youth has he taken a step or uttered a word without having some end in -view which was either dishonourable or criminal. My dear, you know me; -you know whether, of all the virtues which I try to acquire, charity be -not the one which I cherish the most. So that, if Valmont were led away -by the vehemence of his passions; if, like a thousand others, he were -seduced by the errors of his age: while I should blame his conduct, -I should pity him personally, and wait in silence for the time when -a happy reformation should restore him the esteem of honest folk. -But Valmont is not like that: his conduct is the consequence of his -principles. He can calculate to a nicety how many atrocities a man may -allow himself to commit, without compromising himself; and, in order to -be cruel and mischievous with impunity, he has selected women to be his -victims. I will not stop to count all those whom he has seduced: but -how many has he not ruined utterly? - -In the quiet and retired life which you lead, these scandalous stories -do not reach your ears. I could tell you some which would make you -shudder; but your eyes, which are as pure as your soul, would be -defiled by such pictures: secure of being in no danger from Valmont, -you have no need of such arms wherewith to defend yourself. The only -thing which I may tell you is that out of all the women to whom he has -paid attention, with or without success, there is not one who has not -had cause to complain of him. The Marquise de Merteuil is the single -exception to this general rule; she alone knew how to withstand and -disarm his villainy. I must confess that this episode in her life is -that which does her most honour in my eyes: it has also sufficed to -justify her fully, in the eyes of all, for certain inconsistencies with -which one had to reproach her at the commencement of her widowhood.[8] - -However this may be, my fair friend, what age, experience, and above -all, friendship, empower me to represent to you is that the absence -of Valmont is beginning to be noticed, in the world; and that, if it -becomes known that he has for some time made a third party to his aunt -and you, your reputation will be in his hands: the greatest misfortune -which can befall a woman. I advise you then to persuade his aunt not -to keep him there longer; and, if he insists upon remaining, I think -you should not hesitate to leave him in possession. But why should he -stay? What is he doing in your part of the country? If you were to -spy upon his proceedings, I am sure you would discover that he only -came there to have a more convenient shelter for some black deed he is -contemplating in the neighbourhood. But, as it is impossible to remedy -the evil, let us be content by ourselves avoiding it. - -Farewell, my lovely friend; at present the marriage of my daughter is -a little delayed. The Comte de Gercourt, whom we expected from day to -day, tells me that his regiment is ordered to Corsica; and as military -operations are still afoot, it will be impossible for him to absent -himself before the winter. This vexes me; but it causes me to hope -that we shall have the pleasure of seeing you at the wedding; and I -was sorry that it was to have taken place without you. Adieu; I am, -unreservedly and without compliment, entirely yours. - -P.S. Recall me to the recollection of Madame de Rosemonde, whom I -always love as dearly as she deserves. - - Paris, 11th August, 17**. - - - - -LETTER THE TENTH - -THE MARQUISE DE MERTEUIL TO THE VICOMTE DE VALMONT - - -VICOMTE, are you angry with me? Or are you, indeed, dead? Or, what -would not be unlike that, are you living only for your Présidente? -This woman, who has restored you _the illusions of youth_, will soon -restore you also its ridiculous prejudices. Here you are already timid -and a slave; you might as well be amorous. You renounce _your fortunate -audacities_. Behold you then conducting yourself without principles, -and trusting all to hazard, or rather to caprice. Do you no longer -remember that love, like medicine, is nothing but the _art of assisting -nature_? You see that I beat you with your own arms, but I will not -plume myself on that: it is indeed beating a man when he is down. _She -must give herself_, you tell me. Ah, no doubt, she must; she will give -herself like the others, with this difference, that it will be with a -bad grace. - -But if the end is that she should give herself, the true way is to -begin by taking her. This absurd distinction is indeed a true sign -of love’s madness! I say love; for you are in love. To speak to you -otherwise would be to cheat you, it would be to hide from you your ill. -Tell me then, languid lover, the women whom you have had, did you think -you had violated them? Why, however desirous one may be of giving -one’s self, however eager one may be, one still needs a pretext; and is -there any more convenient for us than that which gives us the air of -yielding to force? For me, I confess, one of the things which flatter -me the most is a well-timed and lively assault, where everything -succeeds in order, although with rapidity; which never throws us into -the painful embarrassment of having ourselves to repair a _gaucherie_ -from which, on the contrary, we should have profited; which is cunning -to maintain the air of violence even in things which we grant, and to -flatter adroitly our two favourite passions, the glory of resistance -and the pleasure of defeat. I grant that this talent, rarer than one -may think, has always given me pleasure, even when it has not seduced -me, and that sometimes, solely for recompense, it has induced me to -yield. So, in our ancient tourneys, beauty gave the prize of valour and -skill. - -But you, who are no longer you, are behaving as if you were afraid of -success. Ah! since when do you travel by short stages and cross-roads? -My friend, when one wishes to arrive, post-horses and the highway! But -let us drop this subject, which is all the more distasteful to me in -that it deprives me of the pleasure of seeing you. At least write to me -more often than you do, and keep me informed of your progress. Do you -know that it is now more than a fortnight since you have been occupied -by this ridiculous adventure, and have neglected all the world? - -_À propos_ of negligence, you are like those people who send regularly -to enquire after their sick friends, but who never trouble to get a -reply. You finish your last letter by asking me if the Chevalier be -dead. I do not answer, and you are no longer in the least concerned. -Are you no longer aware that my lover is your born friend? But reassure -yourself, he is not dead; or if he were, it would be for excess of joy. -This poor Chevalier, how tender he is! how excellently is he made for -love! how well he knows how to feel intensely! It makes my head reel. -Seriously, the perfect happiness which he derives from being loved by -me gives me a real attachment for him. - -The very same day upon which I wrote to you that I was going to promote -a rupture, how happy I made him! Yet I was mightily occupied, when they -announced him, about the means of putting him in despair. Was it reason -or caprice: he never seemed to me so fine. I nevertheless received him -with temper. He hoped to pass two hours with me, before the time when -my door would be open to everybody. I told him that I was going out: -he asked me whither I was going; I refused to tell him. He insisted: -“Where I shall not have your company,” I answered acidly. Luckily for -himself, he stood as though petrified by this answer; for had he said a -word, a scene would infallibly have ensued which would have led to the -projected rupture. Astonished by his silence, I cast my eyes upon him, -with no other intention, upon my oath, than to see what countenance he -would shew. I discovered on that charming face that sorrow, at once so -tender and so profound, to which, you yourself have admitted, it is so -difficult to resist. Like causes produce like effects: I was vanquished -a second time. - -From that moment, I was only busy in finding a means of preventing him -from having a grievance against me. “I am going out on business,” said -I, with a somewhat gentler air; “nay, even on business which concerns -you; but do not question me further. I shall sup at home; return, and -you shall know all.” At this he recovered the power of speech; but I -did not permit him to use it “I am in great haste,” I continued; “leave -me, until this evening.” He kissed my hand and went away. - -Immediately, to compensate him, perhaps to compensate myself, I decide -to acquaint him with my _petite maison_, of which he had no suspicion. -I called my faithful Victoire. I have my head-ache; I am gone to bed, -for all my household; and left alone at last with my _Trusty_, whilst -she disguises herself as a lackey, I don the costume of a waiting-maid. -She next calls a hackney-coach to the gate of my garden, and behold us -on our way! Arrived in this temple of love, I chose the most gallant -of _déshabillés_. This one is delicious; it is my own invention: it -lets nothing be seen and yet allows you to divine all. I promise you a -pattern of it for your Présidente, when you have rendered her worthy to -wear it. - -After these preliminaries, whilst Victoire busies herself with other -details, I read a chapter of _Le Sopha_,[9] a letter of Héloïse and two -Tales of La Fontaine, in order to rehearse the different tones which -I would assume. Meantime, my Chevalier arrives at my door with his -accustomed zeal. My porter denies him, and informs him that I am ill: -incident the first. At the same time he hands him a note from me, but -not in my hand-writing, after my prudent rule. He opens it and sees -written therein in Victoire’s hand: “At nine o’clock, punctually, on -the Boulevard, in front of the _cafés_.” Thither he betakes himself, -and there a little lackey whom he does not know, whom he believes, at -least, that he does not know, for of course it was Victoire, comes and -informs him that he must dismiss his carriage and follow her. All this -romantic promenade helped all the more to heat his mind, and a hot head -is by no means undesirable. At last, he arrives, and love and amazement -produced in him a veritable enchantment. To give him time to recover, -we strolled out for a while in the little wood; then I took him back -again to the house. He sees, at first, two covers laid; then a bed -prepared. We pass into the boudoir, which was richly adorned. There, -half pensively, half in sentiment, I threw my arms round him, and fell -on my knees. - -“O my friend,” said I, “in my desire to reserve the surprise of this -moment for you, I reproach myself with having grieved you with a -pretence of ill-humour; with having been able, for an instant, to veil -my heart to your gaze. Pardon me my wrongs: the strength of my love -shall expiate them.” - -You may judge of the effect of this sentimental oration. The happy -Chevalier lifted me up, and my pardon was sealed on that very same -ottoman where you and I once sealed so gallantly, and in like fashion, -our eternal rupture. - -As we had six hours to pass together, and I had resolved to make all -this time equally delicious for him, I moderated his transports, and -brought an amiable coquetry to replace tenderness. I do not think that -I have ever been at so great pains to please, nor that I have ever been -so pleased with myself. After supper, by turns childish and reasonable, -sensible and gay, even libertine at times, it was my pleasure to look -upon him as a sultan in the heart of his seraglio, of which I was by -turn the different favourites. In fact, his repeated acts of homage, -although always received by the same woman, were ever received by a -different mistress. - -[Illustration: C. Monnet del. N. le Mire sculp.] - -Finally, at the approach of day, we were obliged to separate; and -whatever he might say, or even do, to prove to me the contrary, he had -as much need of separation as he had little desire of it. At the moment -when we left the house, and for a last adieu, I took the key of this -abode of bliss, and giving it into his hands: “I had it but for you,” -said I; “it is right that you should be its master. It is for him who -sacrifices to have the disposition of the temple.” By such a piece of -adroitness, I anticipated him from the reflexions which might have been -suggested to him, by the possession, always suspicious, of a _petite -maison_. I know him well enough to be sure that he will never make use -of it except for me; and if the whim seized me to go there without him, -I have a second key. He would at all costs fix a day for return; but I -love him still too well, to care to exhaust him so soon. One must not -permit one’s self excesses, except with persons whom one wishes soon -to leave. He does not know that himself; but happily for him, I have -knowledge for two. - -I perceive that it is three o’clock in the morning, and that I have -written a volume, with the intention but to write a word. Such is the -charm of constant friendship: ’tis on account of that, that you are -always he whom I love the best; but, in truth, the Chevalier pleases me -more. - - Paris, 12th August, 17**. - - - - -LETTER THE ELEVENTH - -THE PRÉSIDENTE DE TOURVEL TO MADAME DE VOLANGES - - -YOUR severe letter would have alarmed me, Madame, if happily I had -not found here more causes for security than you give me for being -afraid. This redoubtable M. de Valmont, who must be the terror of every -woman, seems to have laid down his murderous arms before coming to -this _château_. Far from forming any projects there, he has not even -advanced any pretensions: and the quality of an amiable man, which even -his enemies accord him, almost disappears here, to be superseded by -that of frank good-nature. - -It is apparently the country air which has brought about this miracle. -What I can assure you is that, being constantly with me, even -seeming to take pleasure in my company, he has not let fall one word -which resembles love, not one of those phrases which all men permit -themselves, without having, like him, what is required to justify them. -He never compels one to that reserve which every woman who respects -herself is forced to maintain nowadays, in order to repress the men who -encircle her. He knows how not to abuse the gaiety which he inspires. -He is perhaps somewhat of a flatterer; but it is with so much delicacy, -that he would accustom modesty itself to praise. In short, if I had -a brother, I should desire him to be such as M. de Valmont reveals -himself here. Perhaps, many women would ask a more marked gallantry -from him; and I admit that I owe him infinite thanks for knowing how to -judge me so well as not to confound me with them. - -Doubtless, this portrait differs mightily from that which you send -me: and in spite of that, neither need contradict the other, if one -compares the dates. He confesses himself that he has committed many -faults; and some others will have been fathered on him. But I have -met few men who spoke of virtuous women with greater respect, I might -almost say enthusiasm. You teach me that at least in this matter he -is no deceiver. His conduct towards Madame de Merteuil is a proof of -this. He talks much to us of her, and it is always with so much praise, -and with the air of so true an attachment, that I believed, until I -received your letter, that what he called the friendship between the -two was actually love. I reproach myself for this hasty judgment, -wherein I was all the more wrong, in that he himself has often been at -the pains to justify her. I confess that I took for cunning what was -honest sincerity on his part. I do not know, but it seems to me a man -who is capable of so persistent a friendship for a woman so estimable -cannot be a libertine beyond salvation. I am, for the rest, ignorant -as to whether we owe the quiet manner of life which he leads here to -any projects he cherishes in the vicinity, as you assume. There are, -indeed, certain amiable women near us, but he rarely goes abroad, -except in the morning, and then he tells us that it is to shoot. It is -true that he rarely brings back any game; but he assures us that he -is not a skilful sportsman. Moreover, what he may do without causes me -little anxiety; and if I desired to know, it would only be in order to -be convinced of your opinion or to bring you back to mine. - -As to your suggestion to me to endeavour to cut short the stay which M. -de Valmont proposes to make here, it seems to me very difficult to dare -to ask his aunt not to have her nephew in her house, the more so in -that she is very fond of him. I promise you, however, but only out of -deference and not for any need, to seize any opportunity of making this -request, either to her or to himself. As for myself, M. de Tourvel is -aware of my project of remaining here until his return, and he would be -astonished, and rightly so, at my frivolity, were I to change my mind. - -These, Madame, are my very lengthy explanations: but I thought I owed -it to truth to bear my testimony in M. de Valmont’s favour; it seems to -me he stood in great need of it with you. I am none the less sensible -of the friendship which dictated your counsels. To that also I am -indebted for your obliging remarks to me on the occasion of the delay -as to your daughter’s marriage. I thank you for them most sincerely: -but however great the pleasure which I promise myself in passing those -moments with you, I would sacrifice them with a good will to my desire -to know Mlle. de Volanges more speedily happy, if, indeed, she could -ever be more so than with a mother so deserving of all her affection -and respect. I share with her those two sentiments which attach me to -you, and I pray you kindly to receive my assurance of them. - -I have the honour to be, etc. - - At the Château de ..., 13th August, 17**. - - - - -LETTER THE TWELFTH - -CÉCILE VOLANGES TO THE MARQUISE DE MERTEUIL - - -MAMMA is indisposed, Madame; she cannot leave the house, and I -must keep her company: I shall not, therefore, have the honour of -accompanying you to the Opera. I assure you that I do not regret the -performance nearly so much as not to be with you. I pray that you will -be convinced of this. I love you so much! Would you kindly tell M. le -Chevalier Danceny that I have not the selection of which he spoke to -me, and that if he can bring it to me to-morrow, it will give me great -pleasure? If he comes to-day, he will be told that we are not at home; -but that is because Mamma cannot receive anybody. I hope that she will -be better to-morrow. - -I have the honour to be, etc. - - Paris, 13th August, 17**. - - - - -LETTER THE THIRTEENTH - -THE MARQUISE DE MERTEUIL TO CÉCILE VOLANGES - - -I AM most grieved, my pretty one, both at being deprived of the -pleasure of seeing you, and at the cause of this privation. I hope that -the opportunity will recur. I will acquit myself of your commission -with the Chevalier Danceny, who will certainly be distressed to hear -of your Mamma’s sickness. If she can receive me to-morrow, I will -come and keep her company. She and I will assault the Chevalier de -Belleroche[10] at piquet, and while we win his money, we shall have the -additional pleasure of hearing you sing with your amiable master, to -whom I will suggest it. If this is convenient to your Mamma and to you, -I can answer for myself and my two cavaliers. Adieu, my pretty one; my -compliments to dear Madame de Volanges. I kiss you most tenderly. - - Paris, 13th August, 17**. - - - - -LETTER THE FOURTEENTH - -CÉCILE VOLANGES TO SOPHIE CARNAY - - -I DID not write to you yesterday, my dear Sophie, but it was not -pleasure which was the cause; of that I can assure you. Mamma was ill, -and I did not leave her all day. In the evening, when I retired, I -had no heart for anything at all, and I went to bed very quickly, to -make sure that the day was done; never have I passed a longer. It is -not that I do not love Mamma dearly; but I do not know what it was. I -was to have gone to the Opera with Madame de Merteuil; the Chevalier -Danceny was to have been there. You know well that they are the two -persons whom I like best. When the hour arrived when I should have been -there, my heart was sore in spite of me. I did not care for anything, -and I cried, cried, without being able to stop myself. Happily Mamma -had gone to bed, and could not see me. I am quite sure that the -Chevalier Danceny will have been sorry too, but he will have been -amused by the spectacle, and by everybody; that’s very different. - -Luckily, Mamma is better to-day, and Madame de Merteuil is coming with -somebody else and the Chevalier Danceny; but she always comes very -late, Madame de Merteuil; and when one is so long all by one’s self, -it is very tiresome. It is not yet eleven o’clock. It is true that -I must play on my harp; and then my toilette will take me some time, -for I want my hair to be done nicely to-day. I think Mother Perpétue -is right and that one becomes a coquette as soon as one enters the -world. I have never had such a desire to look pretty as during the last -few days, and I find I am not as much so as I thought; and then, by -the side of women who use rouge, one loses much. Madame de Merteuil, -for instance; I can see that all the men think her prettier than me: -that does not vex me much, because she is so fond of me; and then she -assures me that the Chevalier Danceny thinks I am prettier than she. It -is very nice of her to have told me that! She even seemed to be pleased -at it. Well, that’s a thing I can’t understand! It’s because she likes -me so much! And he!... Oh, that gives me so much pleasure! I think too -that only to look at him is enough to make one prettier. I should look -at him always, if I did not fear to meet his eyes: for every time that -that happens to me, it puts me out of countenance, and seems as though -it hurt me; but no matter! - -Adieu, my dear friend: I am going to make my toilette. I love you as -dearly as ever. - - Paris, 14th August, 17**. - - - - -LETTER THE FIFTEENTH - -THE VICOMTE DE VALMONT TO THE MARQUISE DE MERTEUIL - - -IT is very nice of you not to abandon me to my sad fate. The life I -lead here is really fatiguing, from the excess of its repose and its -insipid monotony. Reading your letter and the details of your charming -day, I was tempted a score of times to invent some business, to fly -to your feet, and beg of you an infidelity, in my favour, to your -Chevalier, who, after all, does not merit his happiness. Do you know -that you have made me jealous of him? Why talk to me of an eternal -rupture? I abjure that vow, uttered in a moment of frenzy: we should -not have been worthy to make it, had we meant to keep it. Ah, that I -might one day avenge myself, in your arms, for the involuntary vexation -which the happiness of your Chevalier has caused me! I am indignant, I -confess, when I think that this man, without reasoning, without giving -himself the least trouble, but quite stupidly following the instinct -of his heart, should find a felicity to which I cannot attain. Oh, I -will trouble it!... Promise me that I shall trouble it. You yourself, -are you not humiliated? You take the trouble to deceive him, and he is -happier than you. You believe he is in your chains! It is, indeed, -you, who are in his. He sleeps tranquilly, whilst you watch over his -pleasures. What more would his slave do? - -Listen, my lovely friend: so long as you divide yourself among many, -I have not the least jealousy; I see then in your lovers only the -successors of Alexander, incapable of preserving amongst them all that -empire over which I reigned alone. But that you should give yourself -entirely to one of them! That another man should exist as fortunate -as myself! I will not suffer it; do not hope that I shall suffer it. -Either take me back, or, at least, take someone else; and do not -betray, by an exclusive caprice, the inviolate bond of friendship which -we have sworn. - -It is quite enough, no doubt, that I should have to complain of love. -You see, I lend myself to your ideas, and confess my errors. In fact, -if to be in love is to be unable to live without possessing the object -of one’s desire, to sacrifice to it one’s time, one’s pleasures, one’s -life, I am very really in love. I am no more advanced for that. I -should not even have anything at all to tell you of in this matter, but -for an incident which gives me much food for reflexion, and as to which -I know not yet whether I must hope or fear. - -You know my _chasseur_, a treasure of intrigue, and a real valet of -comedy: you can imagine that his instructions bade him to fall in love -with the waiting-maid, and make the household drunk. The knave is more -fortunate than I: he has already succeeded. He has just discovered -that Madame de Tourvel has charged one of her people to inform himself -as to my behaviour, and even to follow me in my morning expeditions, -as far as he could without being observed. What is this woman’s -pretension? Thus then the most modest of them all yet dares do things -which we should hardly venture to permit ourselves. I swear...! But -before I think of avenging myself for this feminine ruse, let us occupy -ourselves over methods of turning it to our advantage. Hitherto, these -excursions which are suspected have had no object; needs must I give -them one. This deserves all my attention, and I take leave of you to -ponder upon it. Farewell, my lovely friend. - - Still at the Château de ..., 15th August, 17**. - - - - -LETTER THE SIXTEENTH - -CÉCILE VOLANGES TO SOPHIE CARNAY - - -AH, my Sophie, I have a heap of news! I ought not, perhaps, to tell -you: but I must talk to someone; it is stronger than I! This Chevalier -Danceny ... I am so perturbed that I can hardly write: I do not know -where to begin. Ever since I related to you the sweet evening[11] which -I passed at Mamma’s, with him and Madame de Merteuil, I have said no -more about him to you: it is because I did not want to speak of him -to anybody; but I was thinking of him constantly. Since then he has -grown so sad--oh, sad, sad!--that it gave me pain; and when I asked -him why, he answered that it was not so; but I could well see that it -_was_. Finally, yesterday he was even sadder than ordinarily. This did -not prevent him from having the kindness to sing with me as usual; -but every time that he looked at me it gripped my heart. When we had -finished singing, he went to shut up my harp in its case; and returning -the key to me, begged me to play again that evening when I was alone. -I had no suspicion of anything at all; I did not even want to play: but -he begged me so earnestly that I told him yes. He, certainly, had his -motive. In effect, when I had retired to my room and my waiting-maid -had gone, I went to get my harp. In the strings I found a letter, -simply folded, with no seal, and it was from him. Ah, if you knew all -he asks of me! Since I have read his letter, I feel so much delight -that I can think of nothing else. I read it four times straight off, -and then shut it up in my desk. I knew it by heart; and, when I was in -bed, I repeated it so often that I had no thought to sleep. As soon as -I shut my eyes, I saw him there; he told me himself all that I had just -read. I did not get to sleep till quite late; and, as soon as I was -awake (it was still quite early), I went to get his letter and read it -again at my ease. I carried it to bed with me, and then I kissed it as -if.... Perhaps I did wrong to kiss a letter like that, but I could not -check myself. - -At present, my dear friend, if I am very happy, I am also much -embarrassed; for, assuredly, I ought not to reply to this letter. I -know that I should not, and yet he asks me to; and, if I do not reply, -I am sure he will be sad again. All the same, it is very unfortunate -for him! What do you advise me to do? But you can no more tell than -I. I have a great desire to speak of it to Madame de Merteuil, who is -so fond of me. I should indeed like to console him; but I should not -like to do anything wrong. We are always recommended to cherish a kind -heart! and then they forbid us to follow its inspiration, directly -there is question of a man! That is not just either. Is not a man our -neighbour as much as a woman, if not more so? For, after all, has not -one one’s father as well as one’s mother, one’s brother as well as -one’s sister? The husband is still something extra. Nevertheless, if I -were to do something which was not right, perhaps M. Danceny himself -would no longer have a good opinion of me! Oh, rather than that, I -would sooner see him sad; and then, besides, I shall always have time -enough. Because he wrote yesterday, I am not obliged to write to-day: -I shall be sure to see Madame de Merteuil this evening, and, if I have -the courage, I will tell her all. If I only do what she tells me, I -shall have nothing to reproach myself with. And then, perhaps, she will -tell me that I may answer him _a little_, so that he need not be so -sad! Oh, I am in great trouble! - -Farewell, my dear friend; tell me, all the same, what you think. - - Paris, 19th August, 17**. - - - - -LETTER THE SEVENTEENTH - -THE CHEVALIER DANCENY TO CÉCILE VOLANGES - - -BEFORE succumbing, Mademoiselle, to the pleasure, or, shall I say, the -necessity of writing to you, I commence by imploring you to hear me. I -feel that, to be bold enough to declare my sentiments, I have need of -indulgence; did I but wish to justify them, it would be useless to me. -What am I about to do, after all, save to show you your handiwork? And -what have I to tell you, that my eyes, my embarrassment, my conduct -and even my silence have not told you already? And why should you -take offence at a sentiment to which you have given birth? Emanating -from you, it is worthy to be offered to you; if it is ardent as my -soul, it is pure as your own. Shall it be a crime to have known how to -appreciate your charming face, your seductive talents, your enchanting -graces, and that touching candour which adds inestimable value to -qualities already so precious? No, without a doubt: but without being -guilty, one may be unhappy; and that is the fate which awaits me if you -refuse to accept my homage. It is the first that my heart has offered. -But for you, I should have been, not happy, but tranquil. I have seen -you, repose has fled far away from me, and my happiness is insecure. -Yet you are surprised at my sadness; you ask me its cause: sometimes, -I have even thought to see that it affected you. Ah, speak but a word -and my felicity will be your handiwork! But, before you pronounce it, -remember that one word can also fill the cup of my misery. Be then -the arbiter of my destiny. Through you I am to be eternally happy -or wretched. In what dearer hands can I commit an interest of such -importance? - -I shall end as I have begun, by imploring your indulgence. I have -begged you to hear me; I will dare more, I will pray you to reply to -me. A refusal would lead me to think that you were offended and my -heart is a witness that my respect is equal to my love. - -P.S. You can make use, to send a reply, of the same method which I -employed to bring this letter into your hands; it seems to me as -convenient as it is secure. - - Paris, 18th August, 17**. - - - - -LETTER THE EIGHTEENTH - -CÉCILE VOLANGES TO SOPHIE CARNAY - - -WHAT, Sophie! You blame me in advance for what I am about to do! I -had already enough anxiety, and here you are increasing it. Clearly, -you say, I ought not to answer. You speak with great confidence; and -besides, you do not know exactly how things are: you are not here to -see. I am sure that, were you in my place, you would act like me. -Assuredly, as a general rule, one ought not to reply; and you can see -from my letter of yesterday that I did not want to either: but the -thing is, I do not think anyone has _ever_ found herself in quite my -case. - -And still to be obliged to take my decision all unaided! Madame de -Merteuil, whom I counted on seeing yesterday evening, did not come. -Everything conspires against me: it is through her that I know him! It -is almost always with her that I have seen him, that _I_ have spoken to -him. It is not that I have any grudge against her; but she leaves me -just in the embarrassing moment. Oh, I am greatly to be pitied! - -Imagine! He came here yesterday just as he used to. I was so confused -that I dared not look at him. He could not speak to me, because Mamma -was there. I quite expected that he would be grieved, when he should -find that I had not written to him. I did not know what face to wear. -A moment later he asked me if I should like him to bring me my harp. -My heart beat so quick, that it was as much as I could do to answer -yes. When he came back, it was even worse. I only looked at him for -a second. He--he did not look at me, but he had such a look that -one would have thought him ill. It made me very unhappy. He began -to tune my harp, and afterwards, coming close to me, he said, “Ah, -Mademoiselle!”.... He only said these two words; but it was with such -an accent that I was quite overwhelmed. I struck the first chords on my -harp without knowing what I was doing. Mamma asked me if we were not -going to sing. He excused himself, saying that he was not feeling well, -and I, who had no excuse--I had to sing. I could have wished that I had -never had a voice. I chose purposely an air which I did not know; for -I was quite sure that I could not sing anything, and was afraid that -something would be noticed. Luckily, there came a visit, and as soon as -I heard the carriage wheels, I stopped, and begged him to take away my -harp. I was very much afraid lest he should leave at the same time; but -he came back. - -Whilst Mamma and the lady who had arrived were talking together, I -wanted to look at him again for one instant. I met his eyes, and it was -impossible for me to turn away my own. A moment later, I saw the tears -rise, and he was obliged to turn away in order not to be observed. For -an instant I could no longer hold myself in; I felt that I too should -weep. I went out, and at once wrote in pencil, on a scrap of paper: “Do -not be so sad, I implore you; I promise to give you a reply.” Surely, -you cannot see any harm in that, and then it was stronger than I. I -put my paper in the strings of my harp, where his letter had been, and -returned to the _salon_. I felt more calm. - -It seemed to me very long until the lady went away. Luckily, she had -more visits to pay; she went away shortly afterwards. As soon as she -was gone, I said that I wanted to have my harp again, and begged him to -go and fetch it. I saw from his expression that he suspected nothing. -But, on his return, oh, how pleased he was! As he set down my harp in -front of me, he placed himself in such a position that Mamma could not -see, and he took my hand, which he squeezed ... but, in such a way! ... -it was only for a moment: but I could not tell you the pleasure which -it gave me. However, I withdrew it; so I have nothing for which to -reproach myself. - -And now, my dear friend, you must see that I cannot abstain from -writing to him, since I have given my promise; and then I am not going -to give him any more pain; for I suffer more than he does. If it were -a question of doing anything wrong, I should certainly not do it. -But what harm can there be in writing, especially when it is to save -somebody from being unhappy? What embarrasses me is that I do not know -how to write my letter: but he will surely feel that it is not my -fault; and then I am certain that as long as it only comes from me, it -will give him pleasure. - -Adieu, my dear friend. If you think that I am wrong, tell me; but I do -not think so. The nearer the moment of writing to him comes, the more -does my heart beat: more than you can conceive. I must do it, however, -since I have promised. Adieu. - - Paris, 17th August, 17**. - - - - -LETTER THE NINETEENTH - -CÉCILE VOLANGES TO THE CHEVALIER DANCENY - - -YOU were so sad yesterday, Monsieur, and that made me so sorry, that I -went so far as to promise to reply to the letter which you wrote me. I -none the less feel to-day that I ought not to do this: however, as I -have promised, I do not wish to break my word, and that must prove how -much friendship I feel for you. Now that you know that, I hope you will -not ask me to write to you again. I hope also that you will tell nobody -that I have written to you, because I should be certainly blamed, and -that might cause me a great deal of pain. I hope, above all, that you -yourself will not form a bad opinion of me, which would grieve me -more than anything. I can give you every assurance that I would not -have done as much to anyone except yourself. I should be very glad if -you would do me a favour in your turn, and be less sad than you were: -it takes away all the pleasure that I feel in seeing you. You see, -Monsieur, I speak to you very sincerely. I ask nothing better than that -I may always keep your friendship; but I beg of you do not write to me -again. - -I have the honour to be, - - CÉCILE VOLANGES. - - Paris, 20th August, 17**. - - - - -LETTER THE TWENTIETH - -THE MARQUISE DE MERTEUIL TO THE VICOMTE DE VALMONT - - -AH, wretch, so you flatter me, for fear that I shall make a mock of -you! Come, I pardon you: you write me such a heap of nonsense that -I must even forgive you the virtue in which you are kept by your -Présidente. I do not think my Chevalier would show as much indulgence -as I do; he would not be the man to approve the renewal of our -contract, or to find anything amusing in your mad idea. I have laughed -mightily over it, however, and was really vexed that I had to laugh -over it by myself. If you had been there, I know not whither this -merriment might not have led us; but I have had time for reflexion, -and am armed with severity. I do not say that I refuse for ever; but I -postpone, and I am right to do so. I should bring my vanity with me, -and once wounded at the game, one knows not where one stops. I should -be the woman to enslave you again, to make you forget your Présidente; -and if I--unworthy I--were to disgust you with virtue, consider the -scandal! To avoid these dangers, here are my conditions: - -As soon as you have had your lovely bigot, as soon as you can furnish -me with the proof, come to me and I am yours. But you cannot be -ignorant that, in affairs of importance, only written proofs are -admitted. By this arrangement, on one part, I shall become a recompense -instead of being a consolation, and that notion likes me better: on -the other hand, your success will have added piquancy by being itself -a means to an infidelity. Come then, come as soon as possible, and -bring me the gage of your triumph; like those valiant knights of ours, -who came to lay at their ladies’ feet the brilliant fruits of their -victory. Seriously, I am curious to know what a prude can write after -such a moment, and what veil she casts over her language, after having -discarded any from her person. It is for you to say whether I price -myself too high; but I forewarn you that there is no abatement. Till -then, my dear Vicomte, you will find it good that I remain faithful -to my Chevalier and amuse myself by making him happy, in spite of the -slight annoyance this may cause you. - -However, if my morals were less severe, I think you would have, at this -moment, a dangerous rival: the little Volanges girl. I am bewitched by -this child: it is a real passion. Unless I be deceived, she will become -one of our most fashionable women. I see her little heart developing, -and it is a ravishing spectacle. She already loves her Danceny with -ardour; but she knows nothing about it yet. He himself, although -greatly in love, has still the timidity of his age, and dares not as -yet tell her too much about it. The two of them are united in adoring -me. The little one especially has a mighty desire to confide her secret -to me. A few days ago, particularly, I saw her really oppressed, and -should have done her a great service by assisting her a little: but I -do not forget that she is a child, and I should not like to compromise -myself. Danceny has spoken to me somewhat more clearly; but with him -my course is resolved; I refuse to hear him. As to the little one, I am -often tempted to make her my pupil; it is a service that I would fain -render Gercourt. He leaves me the time, since he is to stay in Corsica -until the month of October. I have a notion to make use of that time, -and that we will give him a fully formed woman, instead of his innocent -school-girl. In effect, what must be the insolent sense of security -of this man, that he dare sleep in comfort, whilst a woman who has to -complain of him has not yet been avenged? Believe me, if the child were -here at this moment, I do not know what I would not say to her. - -Adieu, Vicomte; good-night, and success to you: but do, for God’s sake, -make progress. Bethink you that, if you do not have this woman, the -others will blush for having taken you. - - Paris, 20th August, 17**. - - - - -LETTER THE TWENTY-FIRST - -THE VICOMTE DE VALMONT TO THE MARQUISE DE MERTEUIL - - -AT last, my lovely friend, I have taken a step forward: a really great -step, and one which, if it has not taken me to my goal, has at least -let me know that I am on the right road, and dispelled the fear I was -in, that I was lost. I have at last declared my love; and although the -most obstinate silence had been maintained, I have obtained a reply -that is, perhaps, the least equivocal and the most flattering: but let -us not anticipate events, let us begin further back. - -You will remember that a watch was set upon my movements. Well, I -resolved that this scandalous means should turn to public edification; -and this is what I did. I charged my confidant with the task of finding -me some poor wretch in the neighbourhood who was in need of succour. -This commission was not difficult to fulfil. Yesterday afternoon, he -gave me the information that they were going to seize to-day, in the -morning, the goods of a whole family who could not pay their taxes. I -assured myself that there was no girl or woman amongst this household -whose age or face might render my action suspicious; and, when I was -well informed, I declared at supper my intention of going after game -in the morning. Here I must render justice to my Présidente; doubtless -she felt a certain remorse at the orders which she had given; and, not -having the strength to vanquish her curiosity, she had at least enough -to oppose my desire. It was going to be excessively hot; I ran the risk -of making myself ill; I should kill nothing, and tire myself to no -purpose; and during all this dialogue, her eyes, which spoke, perhaps, -better than she wished, let me see quite sufficiently that she desired -me to take these bad reasons for good. I was careful not to surrender, -as you may believe, and I even resisted a little diatribe against -sportsmen and sport and a little cloud of ill-humour which obscured, -during all the evening, that celestial brow. I feared for a moment -that her orders had been revoked, and that her delicacy might hinder -me. I did not calculate on the strength of a woman’s curiosity; and so -was deceived. My _chasseur_ reassured me the same evening, and I went -satisfied to bed. - -At daybreak I rose and started off. Barely fifty yards from the -_château_, I perceived the spy who was to follow me. I started after -the game, and walked across country to the village whither I wished -to make, with no other pleasure on the road than to give a run to the -rogue who followed me, and who, not daring to quit the road, often had -to cover, at full speed, a three times greater distance than mine. By -dint of exercising him, I was excessively hot myself, and I sat down -at the foot of a tree. He had the insolence to steal behind a bush, -not twenty paces from me, and to sit down as well! I was tempted for a -moment to fire my gun at him, which, although it only contained small -shot, would have given him a sufficient lesson as to the dangers of -curiosity: luckily for him, I remembered that he was useful and even -necessary to my projects; this reflexion saved him. - -However, I reach the village; I see the commotion; I step forward; I -question somebody; the facts are related. I have the collector called -to me; and, yielding to my generous compassion, I pay nobly fifty-six -livres, for lack of which five persons were to be left to straw and -their despair. After this simple action, you cannot imagine what a -crowd of benedictions echoed round me from the witnesses of the scene! -What tears of gratitude poured from the eyes of the aged head of the -family, and embellished his patriarchal face, which, a moment before, -had been rendered really hideous by the savage marks of despair! I was -watching this spectacle, when another peasant, younger, who led a woman -and two children by the hands, advanced to me with hasty steps and said -to them, “Let us all fall at the feet of this image of God;” and at the -same instant I was surrounded by the family, prostrate at my knees. I -will confess my weakness: my eyes were moistened by tears, and I felt -an involuntary but delicious emotion. I am astonished at the pleasure -one experiences in doing good; and I should be tempted to believe that -what we call virtuous people have not so much merit as they lead us to -suppose. However that may be, I found it just to pay these poor people -for the pleasure which they had given me. I had brought ten louis with -me, and I gave them these. The acknowledgments began again, but they -were not pathetic to the same degree: necessity had produced the great, -the true effect; the rest was but a simple expression of gratitude and -astonishment at superfluous gifts. - -[Illustration: Fragonard fils del. Bertaux et Dupréel sculpᵗ.] - -However, in the midst of the loquacious benedictions of this family, -I was by no means unlike the hero of a drama, in the scene of the -_dénouement_. Above all, you will remark the faithful spy was also -in this crowd. My purpose was fulfilled: I disengaged myself from -them all, and regained the _château_. On further consideration, I -congratulated myself on my inventive genius. This woman is, doubtless, -well worth all the pains I take; they will one day be my titles with -her; and having, in some sort, as it were, paid in advance, I shall -have the right to dispose of her, according to my fantasy, without -having any cause to reproach myself. - -I forgot to tell you that, to turn everything to profit, I asked these -good people to pray for the success of my projects. You shall see -whether their prayers have not been already in part hearkened to.... -But they come to tell me that supper is ready, and it would be too late -to dispatch this letter, if I waited to end it after rising from table. -“To be continued,” therefore, “in our next.” I am sorry, for the sequel -is the finest part. Adieu, my lovely friend. You steal from me a moment -of the pleasure of seeing her. - - At the Château de ..., 20th August, 17**. - - - - -LETTER THE TWENTY-SECOND - -THE PRÉSIDENTE DE TOURVEL TO MADAME DE VOLANGES - - -YOU will, doubtless, be well pleased, Madame, to hear of a trait in M. -de Valmont which is in great contrast to all those under which you have -represented him to me. It is so painful to have to think unfavourably -of anybody, so grievous to find only vices in people who should possess -all the qualities necessary to make virtue lovable! Moreover, you love -so well to be indulgent that, were it only to oblige you, I must give -you a reason for reconsidering your too harsh judgment. M. de Valmont -seems to me entitled to hope for this favour, I might almost say this -justice; and this is on what I base my opinion. - -This morning he made one of those excursions which might lead one to -believe in some project on his part, in the vicinity, just as the idea -came to you of one; an idea which I accuse myself of having entertained -with too much precipitation. Luckily for him, and above all luckily for -us, since we are thus saved from being unjust, one of my men happened -to be going in the same direction[12] and it is from this source that -my reprehensible but fortunate curiosity was satisfied. He related -to us that M. de Valmont, having found an unfortunate family in the -village of ---- whose goods were being sold because they were unable -to pay their taxes, not only hastened to pay the debt of these poor -people, but even added to this gift a considerable sum of money. My -servant was a witness of this virtuous action; and he related to me in -addition that the peasants, talking amongst themselves and with him, -had said that a servant, whom they described, and who is believed by -mine to be that of M. de Valmont, had sought information yesterday as -to any of the inhabitants of the village who might be in need of help. -If that be so, it was not merely a passing feeling of compassion, -suggested by the opportunity: it was the deliberate project of doing -good; it was a search for the chance of being benevolent; it was the -fairest virtue of the most noble souls: but be it chance or design, it -is none the less a laudable and generous action, the mere recital of -which moved me to tears. I will add more, and still from a sense of -justice, that when I spoke to him of this action, which he had never -mentioned, he began by excusing himself, and had the air of attaching -so little importance to it, that the merit of it was enhanced by his -modesty. - -After that, tell me, my esteemed friend, if M. de Valmont is indeed an -irreclaimable libertine? If he can be no more than that and yet behave -so, what is left for honest folk? What! are the wicked to share with -the good the sacred joy of charity? Would God permit that a virtuous -family should receive from the hands of a villain succour for which -they render thanks to Divine Providence, and could it please Him to -hear pure lips bestow their blessings upon a reprobate? No! I prefer -to hold that errors, long as they may have lasted, do not endure for -ever; and I cannot think that he who does good can be the enemy of -virtue. M. de Valmont is perhaps only one more instance of the danger -of associations. I remain of this opinion which pleases me. If, on one -side, it may serve to justify him in your opinion, on the other, it -renders more and more precious to me the tender friendship which unites -me to you for life. - -I have the honour to be, etc. - -P.S. Madame de Rosemonde and I are going this moment to see for -ourselves this worthy and unfortunate family, and to unite our tardy -aid to that of M. de Valmont. We shall take him with us. We shall at -least give these good people the pleasure of seeing their benefactor: -that is, I believe, all he has left for us to do. - - At the Château de ..., 20th August, 17**. - - - - -LETTER THE TWENTY-THIRD - -THE VICOMTE DE VALMONT TO THE MARQUISE DE MERTEUIL - - -I LEFT off at my return to the _château_: I resume my tale. - -I had only time to make a hurried toilette, ere I repaired to the -drawing-room, where my beauty was working at her tapestry, whilst the -_curé_ of the place was reading the gazette to my old aunt. I went -and took my seat by the frame. Glances sweeter than were customary, -and almost caressing, enabled me soon to divine that the servant had -already given an account of his mission. Indeed, the dear, inquisitive -lady could no longer keep the secret which she had acquired; and -without fear of interrupting a venerable pastor, whose recital indeed -resembled a sermon: “I too have a piece of news to recite,” said she; -and suddenly related my adventure, with an exactitude which did honour -to the intelligence of her historian. You may conceive what play I -made with my modesty: but who can stop a woman, when she praises the -man whom, without knowing it, she loves? I decided therefore to let -her have her head. One would have thought she was making the panegyric -of a saint. All this time I was observing, not without hope, all -the promises of love in her animated gaze; her gesture, which had -become more lively; and, above all, her voice, which, by its already -perceptible alteration, betrayed the emotion of her soul. She had -hardly finished speaking when: “Come, my nephew,” said Madame de -Rosemonde to me, “come and let me embrace you.” I felt at once that the -pretty preacher could not prevent herself from being embraced in her -turn. However, she wished to fly; but she was soon in my arms, and, so -far from having the strength to resist, she had scarcely sufficient to -maintain herself. The more I observe this woman, the more desirable she -appears to me. She hastened to return to her frame, and to everybody -had the appearance of resuming her tapestry. But I saw well that her -trembling hand prevented her from continuing her work. - -After dinner, the ladies insisted on going to see the unfortunates -whom I had so piously succoured; I accompanied them. I spare you the -tedium of this second scene of gratitude and praise. My heart, impelled -by a delicious recollection, hurries on the moment for return to the -_château_. On the way, my fair Présidente, more pensive than is her -wont, said never a word. Occupied as I was in seeking the means of -profiting by the effect which the episode of the day had produced, I -maintained the same silence. Madame de Rosemonde was the only one to -speak, and obtained from us but scant and few replies. We must have -bored her; that was my intention, and it succeeded. Thus, on stepping -from the carriage, she passed into her apartment and left my fair one -and myself _tête-à-tête_, in a dimly lighted room--a sweet obscurity -which emboldens timid love. - -I had not to be at the pains to lead the conversation into the channel -which I wished. The fervour of the amiable preacheress served me -better than any skill of my own. - -“When one is capable of doing good,” said she, letting her sweet gaze -rest on me, “how can one pass one’s life in doing ill?” - -“I do not deserve, either that praise or that censure,” said I, “and I -cannot imagine how you, who have so clear a wit, have not yet divined -me. Though my confidence may damage me in your eyes, you are far too -worthy of it that I should be able to refuse it. You will find the key -to my conduct in my character, which is unhappily far too easy-going. -Surrounded by persons of no morality, I have imitated their vices; I -have perhaps made it a point of vanity to surpass them. In the same -way, attracted here by the example of virtue, without ever hoping to -come up to you, I have, at least, endeavoured to imitate you. Ah, -perhaps the action for which you praise me to-day would lose all value -in your eyes if you knew its true motive!” (You see, my fair friend, -how near the truth I touched.) “It is not to myself,” I went on, -“that these unfortunates owe their rescue. Where you think you see a -praiseworthy action, I did but seek a means to please. I was nothing -else, since I must say it, but the weak agent of the divinity whom I -adore.” (Here she would have interrupted me, but I did not give her -time.) “At this very moment even,” I added, “my secret only escapes -from my weakness. I had vowed that I would be silent before you; I made -it my happiness to render to your virtues as much as to your charms a -pure homage of which you should always remain ignorant; but incapable -of deception, when I have before my eyes the example of candour, I -shall not have to reproach myself to you with guilty dissimulation. -Do not believe that I insult you by entertaining any criminal hope. I -shall be miserable, I know; but my sufferings will be dear to me: they -will prove to me the immensity of my love; it is at your feet, it is -on your bosom that I will cast down my woes. There shall I draw the -strength to suffer anew; there shall I find compassionate bounty, and -I shall deem myself consoled because you will have pitied me. Oh, you -whom I adore! hearken to me, pity me, succour me!” - -By this time I was at her feet, and I pressed her hands in mine; but -she suddenly disengaged them and, folding them over her eyes, cried -with an expression of despair, “Oh, wretched me!” then burst into -tears. Luckily I was exalted to such a degree that I also wept; and, -seizing her hands again, I bathed them with my tears. This precaution -was most necessary; for she was so full of her grief that she would -not have perceived my own, had I not taken this means of informing -her. I moreover gained the privilege of considering at my leisure that -charming face, yet more embellished by the potent charm of her tears. -My head grew hot, and so little was I master of myself that I was -tempted to profit by that moment. - -What is this weakness of ours? of what avail is the force of -circumstances if, forgetting my own projects, I risked losing, by a -premature triumph, the charms of a long battle and the details of a -painful defeat; if, seduced by the desires of youth, I thought of -exposing the conqueror of Madame de Tourvel to the pain of plucking, -for the fruit of victory, but the insipid consolation of having had -one woman more? Ah, let her surrender, but let her first fight; let -her, without having strength to conquer, have enough to resist; let her -relish at her leisure the sentiment of her weakness and be constrained -to confess her defeat! Let us leave it to the obscure poacher to kill -at a bound the stag he has surprised; your true hunter will give it -a run. Is not this project of mine sublime? Yet perhaps I should be -now regretting that I had not followed it, had not chance come to the -rescue of my prudence. - -We heard a noise. Someone was coming to the drawing-room. Madame de -Tourvel, in alarm, rose precipitately, seized one of the candles, and -left the room. I could not but let her go. It was only one of the -servants. As soon as I was assured of this, I followed her. I had -hardly gone a few paces, before, whether that she had recognized me, or -for some vague sentiment of terror, she quickened her steps, and flung -herself into, rather than entered, her chamber, the door of which she -closed behind her. I went after her; but the door was locked inside. I -was careful not to knock; that would have been to give her the chance -of a too easy resistance. I had the good and simple idea of peeping -through the key-hole, and I saw this adorable woman on her knees, -bathed with tears, and fervently praying. What God did she dare invoke? -Is there one potent enough to resist love? In vain, henceforward, will -she invoke extraneous aid! ’Tis I who will order her destiny. - -Thinking I had done enough for one day, I too withdrew to my own room, -and started to write to you. I hoped to see her again at supper; -but she had given out that she was indisposed, and had gone to bed. -Madame de Rosemonde wished to go up to her; but the cunning invalid -alleged a headache which prevented her from seeing anybody. You may -guess that after supper the interval was short, and that I too had my -headache. Withdrawing to my room, I wrote a long letter to complain -of this severity, and went to bed with the intention of delivering it -to her this morning. I slept badly, as you can see by the date of this -letter. I rose and re-read my epistle. I discovered that I had not been -sufficiently restrained, had exhibited less love than ardour. It must -be written again, but in a calmer mood. - -I see the day break, and I hope the freshness which accompanies it will -bring me sleep. I am going to return to my bed; and, whatever may be -the power of this woman over me, I promise you never to be so occupied -with her as to lack time to think much of you. Adieu, my lovely friend! - - At the Château de ..., 21st August, 17**, - at four o’clock in the morning. - - - - -LETTER THE TWENTY-FOURTH - -THE VICOMTE DE VALMONT TO THE PRÉSIDENTE DE TOURVEL - - -AH, Madame, deign in pity to calm the trouble of my soul, deign to tell -me what I am to hope or fear. Cast between the extremes of happiness -and misfortune, uncertainty is a cruel torment. Why did I speak to you? -Why did I not know how to resist the imperious charm which betrayed my -thoughts to you? Content to adore you in silence, I had at least the -consolation of my love; and this pure sentiment, untroubled then by -the image of your grief, sufficed for my felicity; but that source of -happiness has become my despair, since I saw your tears flow, since I -heard that cruel _Ah, wretched me!_ - -Madame, those words will echo long within my heart. By what fatality -can the sweetest of the sentiments inspire nothing but terror? What -then is this fear? Ah, it is not that of reciprocation: your heart, -which I have misunderstood, is not made for love; mine, which you -calumniate unceasingly is the only one which is disturbed: yours is -even pitiless. If it were not so, you would not have refused a word of -consolation to the wretch who told you of his sufferings; you would -not have withdrawn yourself from his sight, when he has no other -pleasure than that of seeing you; you would not have played a cruel -game with his anxiety by letting him be told that you were ill, without -permitting him to go and inform himself of your health; you would have -felt that the same night which did but mean for you twelve hours of -repose would be for him a century of pain. - -For what cause, tell me, have I deserved this intolerable severity? -I do not fear to take you for my judge: what have I done, then, but -yield to an involuntary sentiment, inspired by beauty and justified by -virtue, always restrained by respect, the innocent avowal of which was -the effect of trust and not of hope? Will you betray that trust, which -you yourself seemed to permit me, and to which I yielded myself without -reserve? No, I cannot believe that: it would be to imply a fault in -you, and my heart revolts at the bare idea of detecting one. I withdraw -my reproaches; write them I can, but think them never! Ah, let me -believe you perfect; it is the one pleasure which is left me! Prove to -me that you are so by granting me your generous aid. What poor wretch -have you ever helped who was in so much need as I? Do not abandon me -to the frenzy in which you have plunged me: lend me your reason since -you have ravished mine; after having corrected me, give me light to -complete your work. - -I would not deceive you; you will never succeed in subduing my -love; but you shall teach me to moderate it: by guiding my conduct, -by dictating my speech, you will save me, at least, from the dire -misfortune of displeasing you. Dispel above all that dreadful fear; -tell me that you forgive me, that you pity me; assure me of your -indulgence. You will never have as much as I should desire in you; but -I invoke that of which I have need: will you refuse it me? - -Adieu, Madame; be kind enough to receive the homage of my sentiments; -it hinders not that of my respect. - - At the Château de ..., 20th August, 17**. - - - - -LETTER THE TWENTY-FIFTH - -THE VICOMTE DE VALMONT TO THE MARQUISE DE MERTEUIL - - -THIS is yesterday’s bulletin. At eleven o’clock I visited Madame de -Rosemonde, and, under her auspices, I was introduced into the presence -of the pretended invalid, who was still in her bed. Her eyes looked -very worn; I hope she slept as badly as I did. I seized a moment when -Madame de Rosemonde had turned away to deliver my letter: it was -refused; but I left it on the bed, and went decorously to the side of -my old aunt’s arm-chair. She wished to be near _her dear child_. It -was necessary to conceal the letter to avoid scandal. The invalid was -artless enough to say that she thought she had a little fever. Madame -de Rosemonde persuaded me to feel her pulse, vaunting mightily my -knowledge of medicine. My beauty then had the double vexation of being -forced to give me her hand, and of feeling that her little falsehood -was to be discovered. I took her hand, which I pressed in one of -mine, whilst, with the other, I ran over her fresh and rounded arm. -The naughty creature made no response, which impelled me to say, as I -withdrew, “There is not even the slightest symptom.” I suspected that -her gaze would be severe, and, to punish her, I refused to meet it: a -moment later she said that she wished to rise, and we left her alone. -She appeared at dinner, which was a sombre one; she gave out that she -would not take a walk, which was as much as to tell me that I should -have no opportunity of conversing with her. I was well aware that, at -this point, I must put in a sigh and a mournful look; no doubt she was -waiting for that, for it was the one moment of the day when I succeeded -in meeting her eyes. Virtuous as she is, she has her little ruses like -another. I found a moment to ask of her “if she had had the kindness to -inform me of my fate,” and I was somewhat astonished when she answered, -“Yes, Monsieur, I have written to you.” I was mighty anxious to have -this letter, but whether it were a ruse again, or for awkwardness, -or shyness, she did not give it to me till the evening, when she was -retiring to her apartment. I send it you, as well as the first draft -of mine; read and judge; see with what signal falsity she says that -she feels no love, when I am sure of the contrary; and then she will -complain if I deceive her afterwards, when she does not fear to deceive -me before! My lovely friend, the cleverest of men can do no more than -keep on a level with the truest woman. I must needs, however, feign to -believe all this nonsense, and weary myself with despair, because it -pleases Madame to play at severity! It is hard not to be revenged on -such baseness! Ah, patience!... But adieu. I have still much to write. -By the way, return me the letter of the fair barbarian; it might happen -later that she would expect one to attach a value to those wretched -sheets, and one must be in order. - -I say nothing to you of the little Volanges; we will talk of her at an -early day. - - At the Château de ..., 22nd August, 17**. - - - - -LETTER THE TWENTY-SIXTH - -THE PRÉSIDENTE DE TOURVEL TO THE VICOMTE DE VALMONT - - -ASSUREDLY, Monsieur, you would never have received any letter from -me, did not my foolish conduct of yesterday evening compel me to-day -to have an explanation with you. Yes, I wept, I confess it: perhaps, -too, the words which you are so careful to quote to me did escape me; -tears and words, you remarked everything; I must then explain to you -everything. - -Accustomed to inspire only honourable sentiments, to hear only -conversation to which I can listen without a blush, and consequently to -enjoy a feeling of security which I venture to say I deserve, I know -not how either to dissimulate or to combat the impressions I receive. -The astonishment and embarrassment into which your conduct threw me; a -fear, I know not of what, inspired by a situation which should never -have been thrust upon me; perhaps, even the revolting idea of seeing -myself confounded with the women whom you despise, and treated as -lightly as they are: all these causes in conjunction provoked my tears, -and may have made me say, I think with reason, that I was wretched. -This expression, which you think so strong, would certainly have been -far too weak, if my tears and utterance had another motive; if, -instead of disapproving sentiments which must need offend me, I could -have feared lest I should share them. - -No, Monsieur, I have not that fear; if I had, I would fly a hundred -leagues away from you, I would go and weep in a desert at the -misfortune of having known you. Perhaps even, in spite of the certainty -in which I am of not loving you, of never loving you, perhaps I should -have done better to follow the counsels of my friends, and forbid you -to approach me. - -I believed, and it is my sole error, I believed that you would respect -a virtuous woman, who asked nothing better than to find you so and -to do you justice; who already was defending you, whilst you were -outraging her with your criminal avowals. You do not know me; no, -Monsieur, you do not know me. Otherwise you would not have thought -to make a right out of your error: because you had made proposals to -me which I ought not to hear, you would not have thought yourself -authorized to write me a letter which I ought not to read: and you ask -me _to guide your conduct, to dictate to you your speech_! Very well, -Monsieur, silence and forgetfulness, those are the counsels which it -becomes me to give you, as it will you to follow them; then you will -indeed have rights to my indulgence: it will only rest with you to -obtain even my gratitude.... But no, I will not address a request to a -man who has not respected me; I will give no mark of confidence to a -man who has abused my security. You force me to fear, perhaps to hate -you: I did not want to; I wished to see in you naught else than the -nephew of my most respected friend; I opposed the voice of friendship -to the public voice which accused you. You have destroyed it all; and -I foresee, you will not want to repair it. - -I am anxious, Monsieur, to make it clear to you that your sentiments -offend me; that their avowal is an outrage to me; and, above all, -that, so far from my coming one day to share them, you would force me -to refuse ever again to see you, if you do not impose on yourself, as -to this subject, the silence which it seems to me I have the right -to expect and even to demand from you. I enclose in this letter that -which you have written to me, and I beg that you will similarly return -me this: I should be sincerely grieved if any trace remained of an -incident which ought never to have occurred. - -I have the honour to be, etc. - - At the Château de ..., 21st August, 17**. - - - - -LETTER THE TWENTY-SEVENTH - -CÉCILE VOLANGES TO THE MARQUISE DE MERTEUIL - - -LORD! how good you are, Madame! how well you understood that it would -be easier to me to write to you than to speak! What I have to tell you, -too, is very difficult; but is it not true that you are my friend? Oh -yes, my very dear friend! I am going to try not to be afraid; and then, -I have so much need of you, of your counsels! I am so very grieved, it -seems to me that everybody guesses my thoughts; and, especially when he -is there, I blush as soon as anyone looks at me. Yesterday, when you -saw me crying, it was because I wished to speak to you, and then, I do -not know what prevented me; and, when you asked me what was the matter, -my tears flowed in spite of myself. I could not have said a single -word. But for you, Mamma would have noticed it; and what would have -become of me then? That is how I pass my life, especially since four -days ago! - -It was on that day, Madame, yes, I am going to tell you, it was on that -day that M. le Chevalier Danceny wrote to me: oh, I assure you that -when I found his letter, I did not know at all what it was: but, not to -tell a falsehood, I cannot tell you that I did not take a great deal -of pleasure in reading it; you see, I would sooner have sorrow all my -life than that he should not have written it. But I knew well that I -ought not to tell him that, and I can even assure you that I told him I -was vexed at it: but he said that it was stronger than himself, and I -quite believe it; for I had resolved not to answer him, and yet I could -not help myself. Oh, I have only written to him once, and even that was -partly to tell him not to write to me again: but, in spite of that, he -goes on writing to me; and, as I do not answer him, I see quite well -that he is sad, and that pains me more still: so much that I no longer -know what to do, nor what will happen, and I am much to be pitied. - -Tell me, I beg you, Madame, would it be very wrong to reply to him from -time to time? Only until he has been able to resolve not to write to -me any more himself, and to stay as we were before: for, as for me, if -this continues, I do not know what will happen to me. See, in reading -his last letter, I cried as though I should never have done; and I am -very sure that if I do not answer him again, it will cause us a great -deal of pain. - -I am going to send you his letter as well, or rather a copy, and you -will decide; you will quite see there is no harm in what he asks. -However, if you think that it must not be, I promise you to restrain -myself; but I believe that you will think like me, and that there is no -harm there. - -Whilst I am about it, Madame, permit me to ask you one more question. -They have always told me that it was wrong to love anyone; but why is -that? What makes me ask you is that M. le Chevalier Danceny maintains -that it is not wrong at all, and that almost everybody loves; if that -is so, I do not see why I should be the only one to refrain from it; -or is it then that it is only wrong for young ladies? For I have heard -Mamma herself say that Madame D*** was in love with Monsieur M***, and -she did not speak of it as a thing which was so very wrong; and yet -I am sure she would be angry with me, if she were only to suspect my -liking for M. Danceny. She treats me always like a child, does Mamma; -and she tells me nothing at all. I believed, when she took me from the -convent, that it was to marry me; but at present it seems no: it is -not that I care about it, I assure you; but you who are so friendly -with her know, perhaps, how it stands; and, if you know, I hope you -will tell me. This is a very long letter, Madame; but, since you have -allowed me to write to you, I have profited by it to tell you all, and -I count on your friendship. - -I have the honour to be, etc. - - Paris, 23rd August, 17**. - - - - -LETTER THE TWENTY-EIGHTH - -THE CHEVALIER DANCENY TO CÉCILE VOLANGES. - - -WHAT, Mademoiselle! you still refuse to answer me! Nothing can bend -you, and each day bears away with it the hope which it had brought! -What then is this friendship which you agree subsists between us, if -it be not even powerful enough to render you sensible to my pain; if -it leaves you cold and tranquil, whilst I experience the torments -of a fire that I cannot extinguish; if, far from inspiring you with -confidence, it does not even suffice to induce your pity? What! your -friend suffers and you do nothing to help him! He does but ask you for -a word, and you refuse him that! And you wish him to content himself -with a sentiment so feeble, of which you even fear to reiterate the -assurance! - -You would not be ungrateful, you said yesterday: ah, believe me, -Mademoiselle, to be ready to repay love with friendship is not to fear -ingratitude, it is to dread only the having the appearance of it. -However, I dare not discuss with you a sentiment which can only be a -burden to you, if it does not interest you; I must at least confine -it within myself until I learn how to conquer it. I feel how painful -this task will be; I do not hide from myself that I shall have need of -all my strength; I will attempt every means; there is one which will -cost my heart most dearly, it is that of repeating to myself often that -your own is insensible. I will even try to see you less often, and I am -already busy in seeking a plausible excuse. - -What! I should lose the sweet habit of seeing you every day! Ah, at -least I shall never cease to regret it! An eternal sorrow will be the -price of the most tender love; and you will have wished it, and it will -be your work! Never, I feel it, shall I recover the happiness I lose -to-day; you alone were made for my heart; with what delight I would -take a vow to live only for you! But this vow you will not accept; your -silence teaches me well enough that your heart says nothing to you in -my behalf: it is at once the surest proof of your indifference and the -most cruel fashion of announcing it to me. Adieu, Mademoiselle. - -I dare not flatter myself with the hope of a reply: love would have -written to me with impatience, friendship with pleasure, even pity with -complacence; but pity, friendship and love are equally strangers to -your heart. - - Paris, 13th August, 17**. - - - - -LETTER THE TWENTY-NINTH - -CÉCILE VOLANGES TO SOPHIE CARNAY - - -I TOLD you, Sophie, that there were cases in which one might write; and -I assure you that I reproach myself greatly with having followed your -advice, which has brought so much grief to the Chevalier Danceny and to -myself. The proof that I was right is that Madame de Merteuil, who is a -woman who surely knows, thinks as I do. I confessed everything to her. -She talked to me at first as you did: but when I had explained all to -her, she agreed that it was very different; she only asks me to shew -her all my letters and all those of the Chevalier Danceny, in order to -make sure that I say nothing but what I should; thus, at present, I am -tranquil. Heavens, how I love Madame de Merteuil! She is so good! and -she is a woman very much respected. Thus, there is nothing more to be -said. - -How I am going to write to M. Danceny, and how pleased he will be! He -will be even more so than he thinks, for hitherto I have only spoken -of my friendship, and he always wanted me to tell him of my love. I -think it was much the same thing; but anyhow, I did not dare, and he -longed for that. I told this to Madame de Merteuil; she told me that I -was right, and that one ought not to confess that one feels love, until -one can no longer restrain one’s self: now I am sure that I could not -restrain myself any longer; after all, it is the same thing, and it -will give him greater pleasure. - -Madame de Merteuil told me also that she would lend me books which -spoke of all that, and which would teach me to behave myself properly, -and to write better than I know now: for, you see, she tells me of -all my faults, which is a proof how much she likes me; she has only -recommended me to say nothing to Mamma of these books, because that -would seem to suggest that she has neglected my education, and that -might vex her. Oh, I shall say nothing about it to her! - -It is very extraordinary, however, that a woman who is scarcely related -to me should take more care of me than my mother! It is very lucky for -me to have known her! - -She has also asked Mamma to bring me the day after to-morrow to the -Opera, in her box; she has told me that we shall be quite alone there, -and we are to talk all the time, without fear of being overheard: -I like that much better than the opera. We shall speak also of my -marriage: for she has told me that it was quite true that I was to be -married; but we have not been able to say more about it. By the way, is -it not astonishing that Mamma has said nothing about it at all? - -Adieu, my Sophie, I am going to write to the Chevalier Danceny. Oh! I -am very happy. - - Paris, 24th August, 17**. - - - - -LETTER THE THIRTIETH - -CÉCILE VOLANGES TO THE CHEVALIER DANCENY - - -AT last, Monsieur, I consent to write to you, to assure you of my -friendship, of my _love_, since without that you would be unhappy. You -say that I have not a good heart; I assure you, indeed, that you are -mistaken, and I hope, at present, you no longer doubt it. If you have -been grieved that I have not written to you, do you suppose that that -did not grieve me as well? But the fact is that, for nothing in the -world, would I like to do anything that was wrong; and I would not even -have told you of my love, if I could have prevented myself: but your -sadness gave me too much pain. I hope that, at present, you will be sad -no longer, and that we shall both be very happy. - -I trust to have the pleasure of seeing you this evening, and that you -will come early; it will never be so early as I could wish. Mamma is to -sup at home, and I believe she will ask you to stay: I hope you will -not be engaged as you were the day before yesterday. Was the supper you -went to so very agreeable? For you went to it very early. But come, -let us not talk of that: now that you know I love you, I hope you will -remain with me as much as you can, for I am only happy when I am with -you, and I should like you to feel the same. - -I am very sorry that you are still sad at this moment, but it is not my -fault. I will ask if I may play on the harp as soon as you arrive, in -order that you may get my letter at once. I can do no more. - -Adieu, Monsieur. I love you well, with my whole heart: the more I tell -you, the better pleased I am; I hope that you will be so too. - - Paris, 24th August, 17**. - - - - -LETTER THE THIRTY-FIRST - -THE CHEVALIER DANCENY TO CÉCILE VOLANGES - - -YES, without a doubt, we shall be happy. My happiness is well assured, -since I am loved by you; yours will never end, if it is to last as long -as that which you have inspired in me. What! You love me, you no longer -fear to assure me of your _love_! _The more you tell me, the better -pleased you are!_ After reading that charming _I love you_, written -by your hand, I heard your sweet mouth repeat the confession. I saw -fixed upon me those charming eyes, which their expression of tenderness -embellished still more. I received your vow to live ever for me. Ah, -receive mine, to consecrate my whole life to your happiness; receive it -and be sure that I will never betray it! - -What a happy day we passed yesterday! Ah, why has not Madame de -Merteuil secrets to tell your Mamma every day? Why must it be that -the idea of constraint, which follows us, comes to mingle with -the delicious recollection which possesses me? Why can I not hold -unceasingly that pretty hand, which has written to me _I love you_, -cover it with kisses, and avenge myself so for the refusal you have -given me of a greater favour! - -Tell me, my Cécile, when your Mamma had returned; when we were forced -by her presence to have only indifferent looks for one another; when -you could no longer console me, with the assurance of your love, for -the refusal you made to give me any proofs of it: did you have no -sentiment of regret? Did you not say to yourself: a kiss would have -made him happier, and it is I who have kept this joy from him? Promise -me, my charming friend, that on the first opportunity you will be less -severe. With the aid of this promise, I shall find the courage to -support the vexations which circumstances have in store for us; and the -cruel privations will be at least softened by my certainty that you -share my regret. - -Adieu, my charming Cécile: the hour is at hand when I must go to your -house. It would be impossible to quit you, were it not to go and see -you again. Adieu, you whom I love so dearly! you whom I shall love ever -more and more! - - Paris, 25th August, 17**. - - - - -LETTER THE THIRTY-SECOND - -MADAME DE VOLANGES TO THE PRÉSIDENTE DE TOURVEL - - -YOU ask me then, Madame, to believe in the virtue of M. de Valmont? I -confess that I cannot bring myself to it, and that I should find it as -hard a task to believe in his honour, from the one fact that you relate -to me, as to believe in the viciousness of a man of known probity, -for the sake of one error. Humanity is not perfect in any fashion; no -more in the case of evil than in that of good. The criminal has his -virtues, just as the honest man has his weaknesses. This truth appears -to me all the more necessary to believe, in that from it is derived -the necessity of indulgence towards the wicked as well as to the good, -and that it safeguards the latter from pride as it does the former -from discouragement. You will doubtless think that I am practising but -sorrily, at this moment, the indulgence which I preach; but I see in it -only a dangerous weakness, when it leads us to treat the vicious and -the man of integrity alike. - -I will not permit myself to criticize the motives of M. de Valmont’s -action; I would fain believe them as laudable as the act itself: but -has he any the less spent his life in involving families in trouble, -scandal and dishonour? Listen, if you will, to the voice of the -wretched man he has succoured; but let not that prevent you from -hearing the cries of the hundred victims whom he has sacrificed. Were -he only, as you say, an instance of the danger of acquaintances, would -that make him any less dangerous as an acquaintance himself? You assume -him to be capable of a happy reformation? Let us go further: suppose -this miracle accomplished; would not public opinion remain against -him, and does not that suffice to regulate your conduct? God alone -can absolve at the moment of repentance; he reads in men’s hearts: -but men can only judge of thoughts by deeds; and none amongst them, -after having lost the esteem of others, has a right to complain of the -necessary distrust which renders this loss so difficult to repair. -Remember above all, my dear young friend, that it sometimes suffices -to lose this respect, merely to have the air of attaching too little -value to it; and do not tax this severity with injustice: for, apart -from our being obliged to believe that no one renounces this precious -possession who has the right to pretend to it, he is, indeed, more -liable to misdoing who is not restrained by this powerful brake. Such, -nevertheless, would be the aspect under which an intimate acquaintance -with M. de Valmont would display you, however innocent it might be. - -Alarmed at the warmth with which you defend him, I hasten to anticipate -the objections which I foresee you will make. You will quote Madame de -Merteuil, to whom this acquaintance has been pardoned; you will ask me -why I receive him at my house; you will tell me that, far from being -repulsed by people of honour, he is admitted, sought after, even, in -what is called good society. I believe I can answer everything. - -To begin with, Madame de Merteuil, a most estimable person indeed, -has perhaps no other fault save that of having too much confidence -in her own strength; she is a skilful guide who delights in taking a -carriage betwixt a mountain and a precipice, and who is only justified -by success: it is right to praise her, it would be imprudent to imitate -her; she herself admits it and reproaches herself for it. In proportion -as she has seen more, have her principles become more severe; and I do -not fear to assure you that she would think as I do. - -As to what concerns myself, I will not justify myself more than others. -No doubt I receive M. de Valmont, and he is received everywhere: it -is one inconsistency the more to add to the thousand others which -rule society. You know, as well as I do, how one passes one’s life in -remarking them, bemoaning them, and submitting to them. M. de Valmont, -with a great name, a great fortune, many amiable qualities, early -recognized that, to obtain an empire over society, it was sufficient -to employ, with equal skill, praise and ridicule. None possesses as he -does this double talent: he seduces with the one, and makes himself -feared with the other. People do not esteem him; but they flatter him. -Such is his existence in the midst of a world which, more prudent than -courageous, would rather humour than combat him. - -But neither Madame de Merteuil herself, nor any other woman, would -for a moment think of shutting herself up in the country, almost in -solitude, with such a man. It was reserved for the most virtuous, the -most modest of them all to set the example of such an inconsistency: -forgive the word, it escapes from my friendship. My lovely friend, -your very virtue betrays you by the security with which it fills you. -Reflect then that you will have for judges, on the one side, frivolous -folk, who will not believe in a virtue the pattern of which they do -not find in themselves; and on the other, the ill-natured, who will -feign not to believe in it, in order to punish you for its possession. -Consider that you are doing, at this moment, what certain men would -not venture to risk. In fact, amongst our young men, of whom M. de -Valmont has only too much rendered himself the oracle, I remark the -most prudent fear to seem too intimate with him; and you, are you not -afraid? Ah, come back, come back, I conjure you!... If my reasons are -not sufficient to convince you, yield to my friendship; it is that -which makes me renew my entreaties, it is for that to justify them. -You think it severe, and I trust that it may be needless; but I would -rather you had to complain of its anxiety than of its neglect. - - Paris, 24th August, 17**. - - - - -LETTER THE THIRTY-THIRD - -THE MARQUISE DE MERTEUIL TO THE VICOMTE DE VALMONT - - -THE moment that you are afraid of success, my dear Vicomte, the moment -that your plan is to furnish arms against yourself and that you are -less desirous to conquer than to fight, I have no more to say to you. -Your conduct is a masterpiece of prudence. It would be one of folly in -the contrary supposition; and, to tell the truth, I fear that you are -under an illusion. - -What I reproach you with is not that you did not take advantage of the -moment. On the one side, I do not clearly see that it had arrived; on -the other, I am quite aware, although they assert the contrary, that -an occasion once missed returns, whereas one never recovers a too -precipitate action. But the real blunder is that you should have let -yourself start a correspondence. I defy you at present to foretell -whither that may lead you. Do you hope, by any chance, to prove to this -woman that she must surrender? It appears to me that therein can only -lie a truth of sentiment and not of demonstration; and that to make her -admit it is a matter of acting on her feelings, and not of arguing; but -in what will it serve you to move her by letter, since you will not be -at hand to profit by it? If your fine phrases produce the intoxication -of love, do you flatter yourself that it will last so long that there -will be no time left for reflexion to prevent the confession of it? -Reflect only of the time it takes to write a letter, of that which -passes before it can be delivered, and see whether a woman, especially -one with the principles of your _dévote_, can wish so long that which -it is her endeavour to wish never. This method may succeed with -children, who, when they write, “I love you,” do not know that they say -“I yield myself.” But the argumentative virtue of Madame de Tourvel -seems to me to be fully aware of the value of terms. Thus, in spite of -the advantage which you had over her in your conversation, she beats -you in her letter. And then, do you know what happens? Merely for the -sake of argument, one refuses to yield. By dint of searching for good -reasons, one finds, one tells them; and afterwards one clings to them, -not because they are good, so much as in order not to give one’s self -the lie. - -In addition, a point which I wonder you have not yet made: there is -nothing so difficult in love as to write what you do not feel. I mean -to write in a convincing manner: it is not that you do not employ the -same words, but you do not arrange them in the same way; or rather, you -arrange them, and that suffices. Read over your letter: there is an -order presiding over it which betrays you at each turn. I would fain -believe that your Présidente is too little formed to perceive it: but -what matter? it has no less failed of its effect. It is the mistake of -novels; the author whips himself to grow heated, and the reader remains -cold. _Héloïse_ is the only one which forms an exception, and, in spite -of the talent of the author, this observation has ever made me believe -that the substance of it was true. It is not the same in speaking. The -habit of working the instrument gives sensibility to it; the facility -of tears is added; the expression of desire in the eyes is confounded -with that of tenderness; in short, the less coherent speech promotes -more easily that air of trouble and confusion which is the true -eloquence of love; and above all the presence of the beloved object -forbids reflexion, and makes us desire to be won. - -Believe me, Vicomte: you are asked to write no more; take advantage of -that to retrieve your mistake, and wait for an opportunity to speak. Do -you know, this woman has more strength than I believed? Her defence is -good; and, but for the length of her letter, and the pretext which she -gives you to return to the question in her phrase about gratitude, she -would not have betrayed herself at all. - -What appears to me, again, to ensure your success is the fact that she -uses too much strength at one time; I foresee that she will exhaust it -in the defence of the word, and that no more will be left her for that -of the thing. - -I return you your two letters, and, if you are prudent, they will be -the two last, until after the happy moment. If it were not so late, -I would speak to you of the little Volanges who is coming on quickly -enough, and with whom I am greatly pleased. I believe that I shall have -finished before you, and you ought to be very glad thereat. Adieu, for -to-day. - - Paris, 24th August, 17**. - - - - -LETTER THE THIRTY-FOURTH - -THE VICOMTE DE VALMONT TO THE MARQUISE DE MERTEUIL - - -YOU speak with perfect truth, my fair friend: but why put yourself to -so much fatigue to prove what nobody disputes? To move fast in love, -’tis better to speak than to write; that is, I believe, the whole -of your letter. Why, those are the most simple elements in the art -of seduction! I will only remark that you make but one exception to -this principle, and that there are two. To children, who walk in this -way from shyness and yield themselves from ignorance, must be added -the _femmes beaux-esprits_, who let themselves be enticed therein by -self-conceit and whom vanity leads into the snare. For instance, I am -quite sure that the Comtesse de B***, who answered my first letter -without any difficulty, had, at that time, no more love for me than I -for her, and that she only saw an occasion for treating a subject which -should be worthy of her pen. - -However that may be, an advocate will tell you that principles are not -applicable to the question. In fact, you suppose that I have a choice -between writing and speaking, which is not the case. Since the affair -of the 19th, my fair barbarian, who keeps on the defensive, has shown a -skill in avoiding interviews which has disconcerted my own. So much so -that, if this continues, I shall be forced to occupy myself seriously -with the means of regaining this advantage; for assuredly I will not be -routed by her in any way. My letters even are the subject of a little -war; not content with leaving them unanswered, she refuses to receive -them. For each one a fresh artifice is necessary, and it does not -always succeed. - -You will remember by what a simple means I gave her the first; the -second presented no further difficulty. She had asked me to return -her letter; I gave her my own instead, without her having the least -suspicion. But whether from vexation at having been caught, or from -caprice or, in short, virtue, for she will force me to believe in -it, she obstinately refused the third. I hope, however, that the -embarrassment into which the consequence of this refusal has happened -to throw her will correct her for the future. - -I was not much surprised that she would not receive this letter, which -I offered her quite simply; that would already have been to grant a -certain favour, and I am prepared for a longer defence. After this -essay, which was but an attempt made in passing, I put my letter in -an envelope; and seizing the moment of the toilette, when Madame de -Rosemonde and the chamber-maid were present, I sent it her by my -_chasseur_, with an order to tell her that it was the paper for which -she had asked me. I had rightly guessed that she would dread the -scandalous explanation which a refusal would necessitate: she took -the letter; and my ambassador, who had received orders to observe her -face, and who has good eyes, did but perceive a slight blush, and more -embarrassment than anger. - -I congratulated myself then, for sure, either that she would keep -this letter, or that, if she wished to return it to me, it would be -necessary for her to find herself alone with me, which would give me -a good occasion to speak. About an hour afterwards, one of her people -entered my room, and handed me, on behalf of his mistress, a packet -of another shape than mine, on the envelope of which I recognized the -writing so greatly longed for. I opened it in haste.... It was my -letter itself, the seal unbroken, merely folded in two. I suspect that -her fear that I might be less scrupulous than herself on the subject of -scandal had made her employ this devil’s ruse. - -You know me: I need be at no pains to depict to you my fury. It was -necessary, however, to regain one’s _sang-froid_, and seek for fresh -methods. This is the only one that I found: - -They send from here every morning to fetch the letters from the post, -which is about three quarters of a league away: they employ for -this purpose a box with a lid almost like an alms-box, of which the -post-master has one key and Madame de Rosemonde the other. Everyone -puts his letters in it during the day, when it seems good to him: -in the evening they are carried to the post, and in the morning -those which have arrived are sent for. All the servants, strange or -otherwise, perform this service. It was not the turn of my servant; -but he undertook to go, under the pretext that he had business in that -direction. - -Meantime I wrote my letter. I disguised my handwriting in the address, -and I counterfeited with some skill upon the envelope the stamp of -Dijon. I chose this town, because I found it merrier, since I was -asking for the same rights as the husband, to write also from the same -place, and also because my fair had spoken all day of the desire -she had to receive letters from Dijon. It seemed to me only right to -procure her this pleasure. - -These precautions once taken, it was easy enough to add this letter to -the others. I moreover succeeded by this expedient in being a witness -of the reception; for the custom is to assemble for breakfast, and to -wait for the arrival of the letters before separating. - -Madame de Rosemonde opened the box. “From Dijon,” she said, giving the -letter to Madame de Tourvel. - -“It is not my husband’s writing,” she answered in a troubled voice, -hastily breaking the seal. - -The first glances instructed her; and her face underwent such an -alteration that Madame de Rosemonde perceived it, and asked, “What is -the matter with you?” - -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**. - - - - -LETTER THE THIRTY-FIFTH - -THE VICOMTE DE VALMONT TO THE PRÉSIDENTE DE TOURVEL - - -I MUST needs obey you, Madame; I must prove to you that, in the midst -of the faults which you are pleased to ascribe to me, there is left me -at least enough delicacy not to permit myself a reproach, and enough -courage to impose on myself the most grievous sacrifices. You order me -to be silent and to forget! Well! I will force my love to be silent; -and I will forget, if that be possible, the cruel manner in which you -have met it. Doubtless my desire to please you did not bear with it the -right; and more, I confess that the need I had of your indulgence was -not a title to obtain it: but you look upon my love as an outrage; you -forget that if it could be a wrong, you would be at once its cause and -its excuse. - -You forget also, that, accustomed to open my soul to you, even when -that confidence might hurt me, it was impossible for me to conceal from -you the sentiments by which I was penetrated; and that which was the -result of my good faith you consider as the fruit of my audacity. As -a reward for the most tender, the most respectful, the truest love, -you cast me afar from you. You speak to me, lastly, of your hatred.... -What other than myself would not complain at being so treated? I alone -submit; I support it all, and murmur not; you strike, and I adore. -The inconceivable power which you have over me renders you absolute -mistress of my feelings; and if only my love resists you, if you cannot -destroy that, it is because it is your work and not my own. - -I do not ask for a love which I never flattered myself I should -receive. I do not even ask for that pity for which the interest you had -sometimes displayed in me might have allowed me to hope. But, I admit, -I think I can count on your sense of justice. - -You inform me, Madame, that people have sought to damage me in your -opinion. If you had believed the counsels of your friends, you would -not even have let me approach you: those are your expressions. Who then -are these officious friends? No doubt those people of such severity, -and of so rigid a virtue, consent to be named; no doubt they would not -cover themselves in an obscurity which would confound them with vile -calumniators; and I shall not be left ignorant either of their names -or of their accusations. Reflect, Madame, that I have the right to -know both, since it is after them you judge me. One does not condemn -a culprit without naming his accusers. I ask no other favour, and I -promise in advance to justify myself, and to force them to retract. - -If I have, perhaps, too much despised the vain clamours of a public -of which I make so little case, it is not thus with your esteem; and -when I devote my life to meriting that, I shall not let it be ravished -from me with impunity. It becomes all the more precious to me, in -that I shall owe to it doubtless that request which you fear to make -me, and which would give me, you say, _rights to your gratitude_. -Ah! far from exacting it, I shall believe myself your debtor, if you -procure me the occasion of being agreeable to you. Begin then to do me -greater justice by not leaving me in ignorance of what you desire of -me. If I could guess it, I would spare you the trouble of saying it. -To the pleasure of seeing you, add the happiness of serving you, and -I will congratulate myself on your indulgence. What then can prevent -you? It is not, I hope, the fear of a refusal: I feel that I could not -pardon you that. It is not only that I do not return you your letter. -More than you do I desire that it be no longer necessary to me: but -accustomed as I am to believing in the gentleness of your soul, it is -only in that letter that I can find you such as you would appear. When -I frame the vow to render you less hard, I see there that, rather than -consent, you would place yourself a hundred leagues away from me; when -everything in you augments and justifies my love, it is that still -which repeats to me that my love is an outrage to you; and when, seeing -you, that love seems to me the supreme good, I needs must read you to -feel that it is but a fearful torture. You can imagine now that my -greatest happiness would be to be able to return you this fatal letter: -to ask me for it now would be to authorize me to believe no longer what -it contains; you do not doubt, I hope, of my eagerness to return it to -you. - - At the Château de ..., 21st August, 17**. - - - - -LETTER THE THIRTY-SIXTH - -THE VICOMTE DE VALMONT TO THE PRÉSIDENTE DE TOURVEL - -(Bearing the postmark of Dijon) - - -YOUR severity augments daily, Madame; and, if I dare say it, you seem -to be less afraid of being unjust than of being indulgent. After -having condemned me without a hearing, you must have felt, in fact, -that ’twere easier for you not to read my arguments than to reply to -them. You refuse my letters obstinately; you send them back to me with -contempt. You force me, at last, to have recourse to a ruse, at the -very moment when my only aim is to convince you of my good faith. The -necessity in which you have put me to defend myself will doubtless -suffice to excuse my means. Convinced, moreover, by the sincerity of my -sentiments that, to justify them in your eyes, it is sufficient merely -that you should know them thoroughly, I thought that I might permit -myself this slight artifice. I dare believe also that you will pardon -me, and that you will be little surprised that love is more ingenious -in presenting itself than indifference in repelling it. - -Allow then, Madame, my heart to be entirely revealed to you. It belongs -to you, and it is just that you should know it. - -I was very far from foreseeing, when I arrived at Madame de -Rosemonde’s, the fate which awaited me. I did not know that you were -there, and I will add, with the sincerity which characterizes me, that, -if I had known, my sense of security would not have been troubled: not -that I did not render to your beauty the justice which one could not -refuse it; but, accustomed as I was to feel only desires, and to yield -myself only to those which were encouraged by hope, I did not know the -torments of love. - -You were a witness of the efforts which Madame de Rosemonde made to -keep me for some time. I had already passed one day with you, and yet I -yielded, or at least believed that I yielded, only to the pleasure, so -natural and so legitimate, of showing respect to a worthy relative. The -kind of life which one led here doubtless differed greatly from that -to which I was accustomed; it cost me nothing to conform to it; and, -without seeking to penetrate into the cause of the change which was -operating within me, I attributed it as yet solely to that easy-going -character of which I believe I have already spoken to you. - -Unfortunately (yet why need it be a misfortune?), coming to know you -better, I soon discovered that that bewitching face, which alone had -struck me, was but the least of your attractions; your heavenly soul -astonished and seduced my own. I admired the beauty, I worshipped the -virtue. Without pretending to win you, I bestirred myself to deserve -you. In begging your indulgence for the past, I was ambitious of your -support for the future. I sought for it in your utterance, I spied -for it in your eyes, in that glance whence came a poison all the more -dangerous in that it was distilled without design, and received without -distrust. - -Then I knew love. But how far was I from complaining. Determined to -bury it in an eternal silence, I abandoned myself without fear, as -without reserve, to this delicious sentiment. Each day augmented its -sway. Soon the pleasure of seeing you was changed to a need. Were you -absent for a moment? my heart was sore with sadness; at the sound which -announced your return, it palpitated with joy. I only existed for you -and through you. Nevertheless, it is yourself whom I call to witness: -in the merriment of our heedless sports or in the interest of a serious -conversation, did ever one word escape me which could betray the secret -of my heart? - -At last a day arrived when my evil fortune was to commence; by an -inconceivable fatality, a good deed was to be the signal for it. -Yes, Madame, it was in the midst of those unfortunates whom I had -succoured that, abandoning yourself to that precious sensibility which -embellishes even beauty and adds value to virtue, you completed your -work of destroying a heart which was already intoxicated with excess of -love. You will remember, perhaps, what a moodiness came over me on our -return! Alas! I was seeking to fight against an affection which I felt -was becoming stronger than myself. - -It was after I had exhausted my strength in this unequal contest, -that an unforeseen hazard made me find myself alone with you. There, -I confess, I succumbed. My heart was too full, and could withhold -neither its utterance nor its tears. But is this then a crime? and if -it be one, is it not amply punished by the dire torments to which I am -abandoned? - -Devoured by a love without hope, I implore your pity and I meet only -with your hate: with no other happiness than that of seeing you, my -eyes seek you in spite of myself, and I tremble to meet your gaze. -In the cruel state to which you have reduced me, I pass my days in -dissimulating my grief and my nights in abandoning myself to it; whilst -you, peaceful and calm, know of these torments only to cause them and -to applaud yourself for them. None the less, it is you who complain and -I who make excuse. - -That, however, Madame, is the faithful relation of what you call my -injuries, which it would, perhaps, be more just to call my misfortunes. -A pure and sincere love, a respect which has never belied itself, -a perfect submission; such are the sentiments with which you have -inspired me. I would not fear to present my homage of them to the -Divinity Himself. O you, who are His fairest handiwork, imitate Him in -His indulgence! Think on my cruel pains; think, above all, that, placed -by you between despair and supreme felicity, the first word which you -shall utter will for ever decide my lot. - - At the Château de ..., 23rd August, 17**. - - - - -LETTER THE THIRTY-SEVENTH - -THE PRÉSIDENTE DE TOURVEL TO MADAME DE VOLANGES - - -I YIELD, Madame, to the counsels which your friendship gives me. -Accustomed as I am to defer in all things to your opinions, I am ready -to believe that they are always based on reason. I will even admit that -M. de Valmont must be, indeed, infinitely dangerous, if he can, at the -same time, feign to be what he appears here and remain such a man as -you paint him. However that may be, since you request it, I will keep -him away from me; at least I will do my utmost: for often things which -ought to be at bottom the most simple become embarrassing in practice. - -It still seems to me impracticable to make this request to his aunt; -it would be equally ungracious both to her and to him. Neither would -I adopt the course, without the greatest repugnance, of going away -myself: for apart from the reasons I have already given you relative -to M. de Tourvel, if my departure were to annoy M. de Valmont, as is -possible, would it not be easy for him to follow me to Paris? And his -return, of which I should be--or at least should appear--the motive, -would it not seem more strange than a meeting in the country, at the -house of a lady who is known to be his relation and my friend? - -There is left me then no other resource than to induce himself to -consent to going away. I know that this proposal is difficult to make; -however, as he seems to me to have set his heart on proving to me that -he has, effectually, more honesty than is attributed to him, I do -not despair of success. I shall not be sorry even to attempt it, and -to have an occasion of judging whether, as he has often said, truly -virtuous women never have had, and never will have, to complain of -his behaviour. If he leaves, as I desire, it will indeed be out of -consideration for me; for I cannot doubt but that he proposes to spend -a great part of the autumn here. If he refuses my request and insists -upon remaining, there will still be time for me to leave myself, and -that I promise you. - -That is, I believe, Madame, all that your friendship demanded of me; -I am eager to satisfy it, and to prove to you that in spite of the -_warmth_ I may have used to defend M. de Valmont, I am none the less -disposed, not only to heed, but also to follow, the counsels of my -friends. - -I have the honour to be, etc. - - At the Château de ..., 25th August, 17**. - - - - -LETTER THE THIRTY-EIGHTH - -THE MARQUISE DE MERTEUIL TO THE VICOMTE DE VALMONT - - -YOUR enormous budget, my dear Vicomte, has this moment arrived. If -the date on it is exact, I ought to have received it twenty-four -hours earlier; be that as it may, if I were to take the time to read -it, I should have none left to reply to it. I prefer then simply to -acknowledge it now, and we will talk of something else. It is not that -I have anything to say to you on my own account; the autumn leaves -hardly a single man with a human face in Paris, so that for the last -month I have been perishing with virtue; and anyone else than my -Chevalier would be fatigued with the proofs of my constancy. Being -unable to occupy myself, I distract myself with the little Volanges, -and it is of her that I wish to speak. - -Do you know that you have lost more than you believe, in not -undertaking this child? She is really delicious! She has neither -character nor principles; judge how sweet and easy her society will -be. I do not think she will ever shine by sentiment; but everything -announces in her the liveliest sensations. Lacking wit and subtilty, -she has, however, if one may so speak, a certain natural falseness -which sometimes astonishes even me, and which will be all the more -successful, in that her face presents the image of candour and -ingenuousness. She is naturally very caressing, and I sometimes amuse -myself thereby: her little head grows excited with incredible rapidity, -and she is then all the more delightful, because she knows nothing, -absolutely nothing, of all that she so greatly desires to know. She -is seized with quite droll fits of impatience; she laughs, pouts, -cries, and then begs me to teach her with a truly seductive good faith. -Really, I am almost jealous of the man for whom that pleasure is -reserved. - -I do not know if I have told you that for the last four or five days -I have had the honour of being in her confidence. You can very well -guess that, at first, I acted severity: but as soon as I perceived that -she thought she had convinced me with her bad reasons, I had the air -of taking them for good ones; and she is intimately persuaded that she -owes this success to her eloquence: this precaution was necessary in -order not to compromise myself. I have permitted her to write, and to -say _I love_; and the same day, without her suspecting it, I contrived -for her a _tête-à-tête_ with her Danceny. But imagine, he is still such -a fool that he did not even obtain a kiss. The lad, however, writes -mighty pretty verses! La, how silly these witty folks are! This one is, -to such a degree that he embarrasses me; for, as for him, I cannot well -drive him! - -It is at this moment that you would be very useful to me. You are -sufficiently intimate with Danceny to obtain his confidence, and, if he -once gave it you, we should advance at full speed. Make haste, then, -with your Présidente; for, indeed, I will not have Gercourt escape: for -the rest, I spoke of him yesterday to the little person, and depicted -him so well to her that, if she had been his wife for ten years, she -could not hate him more. I preached much to her, however, upon the -subject of conjugal fidelity; nothing could equal my severity on this -point. By that, on the one side, I restore my reputation for virtue -with her, which too much condescension might destroy; on the other, I -augment in her that hatred with which I wish to gratify her husband. -And, finally, I hope that, by making her believe that it is not -permitted her to give way to love, except during the short time that -she remains a girl, she will more quickly decide to lose none of that -time. - -Adieu, Vicomte; I am going to attend to my toilette, what time I will -read your volume. - - Paris, 27th August, 17**. - - - - -LETTER THE THIRTY-NINTH - -CÉCILE VOLANGES TO SOPHIE CARNAY - - -I AM sad and anxious, my dear Sophie. I wept almost all night. It is -not that I am not, for the moment, very happy, but I foresee that it -will not last. - -I went yesterday to the Opera with Madame de Merteuil; we spoke much -of my marriage, and I have learned no good of it. It is M. le Comte de -Gercourt whom I am to wed, and it is to be in the month of October. He -is rich, he is a man of quality, he is colonel of the Regiment of ----. -So far, all very well. But, to begin with, he is old: imagine, he is -at least thirty-six! and then, Madame de Merteuil says he is gloomy -and stern, and she fears I shall not be happy with him. I could even -see quite well that she was sure of it, only that she would not say -so for fear of grieving me. She hardly talked to me of anything the -whole evening, except of the duties of wives to their husbands: she -admits that M. de Gercourt is not at all lovable, and yet she says I -must love him. Did not she say also that, once married, I ought not to -love the Chevalier Danceny any longer? as though that were possible! -Oh, you can be very sure I shall love him always! Do you know, I would -prefer not to be married. Let this M. de Gercourt look after himself, -I never went in search of him. He is in Corsica at present, far away -from here; I wish he would stay there ten years. If I were not afraid -of being sent back to the convent, I would certainly tell Mamma that -I don’t want a husband like that; but that would be still worse. I am -very much embarrassed. I feel that I have never loved M. Danceny so -well as I do now; and when I think that I have only a month more left -me, to be as I am now, the tears rush suddenly to my eyes; I have no -consolation except the friendship of Madame de Merteuil; she has such a -good heart! She shares in all my troubles as much as I do myself; and -then she is so amiable that, when I am with her, I hardly think any -more of them. Besides, she is very useful to me, for the little that I -know she has taught me: and she is so good that I can tell her all I -think, without being in the least ashamed. When she finds that it is -not right, she scolds me sometimes; but only quite gently, and then I -embrace her with all my heart, until she is no longer cross. Her, at -any rate, I can love as much as I like, without there being any harm in -it, and that pleases me very much. We have agreed, however, that I am -not to have the appearance of being so fond of her before everybody, -and especially not before Mamma, so that she may have no suspicions -about the Chevalier Danceny. I assure you that, if I could always live -as I do now, I believe I should be very happy. It’s only that horrid M. -de Gercourt.... But I will say no more about him, else I should get sad -again. Instead of that, I am going to write to the Chevalier Danceny; I -shall only speak to him of my love and not of my troubles, for I do not -want to distress him. - -Adieu, my dear friend. You can see now that you would be wrong to -complain, and that however _busy_ I have been, as you say, there is -time left me, all the same, to love you and to write to you.[13] - - - - -LETTER THE FORTIETH - -THE VICOMTE DE VALMONT TO THE MARQUISE DE MERTEUIL - - -NOT content with leaving my letters without reply, with refusing to -receive them, my inhuman wretch wishes to deprive me of the sight of -her; she insists on my departure. What will astonish you more is that -I am submitting to her severity. You will blame me. However, I thought -I ought not to lose the opportunity of obeying a command, persuaded as -I am, on the one side, that to command is to commit one’s self; and on -the other, that that illusive authority which we have the appearance -of allowing women to seize is one of the snares which they find it -most difficult to elude. Nay, more, the skill which this one has shown -in avoiding a solitary encounter with me placed me in a dangerous -situation, from which I thought I was bound to escape, whatever might -be the cost: for, being constantly with her, without being able to -occupy her with my love, there was reason to fear that she might grow -accustomed to seeing me without trouble, a disposition from which you -know how difficult it is to return. - -For the rest, you may guess that I did not submit without conditions. I -was even at the pains to impose one which it was impossible to grant, -as much for the sake of remaining always free to keep my word or break -it, as to promote a discussion, either by word of mouth or in writing, -at a time when my beauty is more contented with me, or has need that I -should be so with her: not to reckon that I should show a signal lack -of skill if I did not find a means to obtain some compensation for my -desisting from this pretension, untenable as it may be. - -After having explained my motives in this long preamble, I come to the -history of the last two days. I enclose as documentary evidence my -beauty’s letter and my reply. You will agree that few historians are as -precise as I. - -You will remember the effect produced by my letter from Dijon, on -the morning of the day before yesterday; the rest of the day was -most stormy. The pretty prude only appeared at dinner-time, and gave -out that she had a violent headache: a pretext with which she masked -one of the most furious fits of ill-humour that a woman could have. -It absolutely altered her face; the expression of gentleness, which -you know, was changed into a rebellious air which gave it a fresh -loveliness. I promise myself to make use of this discovery, and to -replace sometimes the tender mistress with the sullen. - -I foresaw that the time after dinner would be dull; and, to escape -from ennui, I made a pretext of having letters to write, and retired -to my own rooms. I returned to the salon about six o’clock; Madame de -Rosemonde suggested a drive, which was agreed to. But just as we were -getting into the carriage, the pretended invalid, with infernal malice, -alleged in her turn--perhaps to avenge herself for my absence--an -increase of the pain, and compelled me pitilessly to support a -_tête-à-tête_ with my old aunt. I know not whether the imprecations -which I called down on this feminine demon were heeded; but we found -her gone to bed on our return. - -On the following day, at breakfast, it was not the same woman. Her -natural sweetness had returned, and I had reason to believe myself -pardoned. Breakfast was hardly over, when the sweet person rose with an -indolent air, and went into the park; as you may believe, I followed -her. “Whence can spring this desire for walking?” said I, accosting -her. “I wrote much, this morning,” she answered, “and my head is a -little tired.” “I am not fortunate enough,” I went on, “to have to -reproach myself with this fatigue?” “Indeed, I have written to you,” -she answered again, “but I hesitate to give you my letter. It contains -a request, and you have not accustomed me to hope for success.” “Ah! I -swear, if it be possible--” “Nothing could be easier,” she broke in; -“and although you ought, perhaps, to grant it out of justice, I consent -to obtain it as a grace.” As she said these words, she handed me her -letter; seizing it, I also seized her hand, which she drew away, but -without anger, and with more embarrassment than vivacity. “The heat is -even greater than I thought,” she said, “I must go indoors.” And she -retraced her steps to the _château_. I made vain efforts to persuade -her to continue her walk, and I needed to remind myself that we might -be observed, in order to employ no more than eloquence. She entered -without a word, and I saw plainly that this pretended walk had no -other object than to hand me my letter. She went up to her own room as -soon as we came in, and I withdrew to mine, to read the epistle, which -you will do well to read also, as well as my reply, before proceeding -further.... - - - - -LETTER THE FORTY-FIRST - -THE PRÉSIDENTE DE TOURVEL TO THE VICOMTE DE VALMONT - - -IT seems to me, Monsieur, by your behaviour, as though you did but seek -to multiply daily the causes of complaint which I have against you. -Your obstinacy in wishing unceasingly to approach me with a sentiment -which I would not and may not heed, the abuse which you have not feared -to take of my good faith, or of my timidity, in order to put your -letters into my hands; above all the method, most indelicate I venture -to call it, which you employed to make the last reach me, without the -slightest fear of the effect of a surprise which might have compromised -me; all ought to give occasion on my part to reproaches as keen as -they are merited. However, instead of returning to these grievances, I -confine myself to putting a request to you, as simple as it is just; -and if I obtain it from you, I consent that all shall be forgotten. - -You yourself, have said to me, Monsieur, that I need not fear a -refusal; and, although, by an inconsistency which is peculiar to you, -this very phrase was followed by the only refusal which you could make -me,[14] I would fain believe that you will none the less keep to-day -that word, given to me formally so few days ago. - -I desire you then to have the complaisance to go away from me; to -leave this _château_, where a further stay on your part could not but -expose me more to the judgment of a public which is ever ready to -think ill of others, and which you have but too well accustomed to -fix its gaze upon the women who admit you to their society. Already -warned, long ago, of this danger by my friends, I neglected, I even -disputed their warning, so long as your behaviour towards myself -could make me believe that you would not confound me with the host -of women who all have had reason to complain of you. To-day, when -you treat me like them, as I can no longer but know, I owe it to the -public, to my friends, to myself, to adopt this necessary course. I -might add here that you would gain nothing by denying my request, as -I am determined to leave myself, if you insist on remaining; but I -do not seek to diminish the obligation which you will confer on me -by this complaisance, and I am quite willing that you should know -that, by rendering my departure hence necessary, you would upset my -arrangements. Prove to me then, Monsieur, that, as you have so often -told me, virtuous women shall never have cause to complain of you; -prove, at least, that, when you have done them wrong, you know how to -repair it. If I thought I had need to justify my request to you, it -would suffice to say that you have spent your life in rendering it -necessary; and that, notwithstanding, it has not rested with me that I -should ever make it. But let us not recall events which I would forget, -and which would oblige me to judge you with rigour at a moment when I -offer you an opportunity of earning all my gratitude. Adieu, Monsieur; -your conduct will teach me with what sentiments I must be, for life, -your most humble, etc. - - At the Château de ..., 25th August, 17**. - - - - -LETTER THE FORTY-SECOND - -THE VICOMTE DE VALMONT TO THE PRÉSIDENTE DE TOURVEL - - -HOWEVER hard, Madame, the conditions that you impose on me, I do not -refuse to fulfil them. I feel that it would be impossible for me to -thwart any of your desires. Once agreed upon this point, I dare flatter -myself in my turn that you will permit me to make certain requests to -you, far easier to grant than your own, which, however, I do not wish -to obtain, save by my complete submission to your will. - -The one, which I hope will be solicited by your sense of justice, is to -be so good as to name to me those who have accused me to you; they have -done me, it seems, harm enough to give me the right of knowing them: -the other, which I expect from your indulgence, is kindly to permit me -to repeat to you sometimes the homage of a love which will now, more -than ever, deserve your pity. - -Reflect, Madame, that I am hastening to obey you, even when I can but -do it at the expense of my happiness; I will say more, in spite of my -conviction that you only desire my absence in order to spare yourself -the spectacle, always painful, of the object of your injustice. - -Admit, Madame, you are less afraid of a public which is too much used -to respecting you to dare form a disrespectful judgment upon you than -you are annoyed by the presence of a man whom you find it easier to -punish than to blame. You drive me away from you as one turns away -one’s eyes from some poor wretch whom one does not wish to succour. - -But, whereas absence is about to redouble my torments, to whom other -than you can I address my complaints? From whom else can I expect the -consolations which are about to become so necessary to me? Will you -refuse me them, when you alone cause my pains? - -Doubtless, you will not be astonished either that, before I leave, I -have it on my heart to justify to you the sentiments which you have -inspired in me; as also that I do not find the courage to go away until -I receive the order from your mouth. This twofold reason compels me -to ask you for a moment’s interview. In vain would we seek to supply -the place of that by letters: one may write volumes and explain poorly -what a quarter of an hour’s conversation were enough to leave amply -understood. You will easily find the time to accord it me; for, however -eager I may be to obey you, you know that Madame de Rosemonde is aware -of my intention to spend a part of the autumn with her, and I must at -least wait for a letter in order to have the pretext of some business -to call me away. - -Adieu, Madame; never has this word cost me so much to write as at this -moment, when it brings me back to the idea of our separation. If you -could imagine what it makes me suffer, I dare believe you would have -some thanks for my docility. At least, receive with more indulgence the -assurance and the homage of the most tender and the most respectful -love. - - At the Château de ..., 26th August, 17**. - - - - -CONTINUATION OF LETTER THE FORTIETH - -THE VICOMTE DE VALMONT TO THE MARQUISE DE MERTEUIL - - -AND now let us sum up, my lovely friend. You can feel, like myself, -how the scrupulous, the virtuous Madame de Tourvel cannot grant me -the first of my requests, and betray the confidence of her friends, -by naming to me my accusers; thus, by promising everything on this -condition, I pledge myself to nothing. But you will feel also that the -refusal which she will give me will become a title to obtain everything -else; and that then I gain, by going away, the advantage of entering -into a regular correspondence with her, and by her consent: for I take -small account of the interview which I ask of her, and which has hardly -any other object than that of accustoming her beforehand not to refuse -me others when they become really needful. - -The only thing which remains for me to do before my departure is to -find out who are the people who busy themselves with damaging me in her -eyes. I presume it is her pedant of a husband; I would fain have it so: -apart from the fact that a conjugal prohibition is a spur to desire, I -should feel sure that, from the moment my beauty has consented to write -to me, I should have nothing to fear from her husband, since she would -already be under the necessity of deceiving him. - -But if she has a friend intimate enough to possess her confidence, and -this friend be against me, it seems to me necessary to embroil them, -and I count on succeeding in that: but before all I must be rightly -informed. - -I quite thought that I was going to be yesterday; but this woman does -nothing like another. We were visiting her at the moment when it was -announced that dinner was ready. Her toilette was only just completed; -and while I bestirred myself and made my apologies, I perceived that -she had left the key in her writing-desk; and I knew her custom was not -to remove that of her apartment. I was thinking of this during dinner, -when I heard her waiting-maid come down: I seized my chance at once; -I pretended that my nose was bleeding, and left the room. I flew to -the desk; but I found all the drawers open and not a sheet of writing. -Yet one has no opportunity of burning papers at this season. What does -she do with the letters she receives? And she receives them often. I -neglected nothing; everything was open, and I sought everywhere; but I -gained nothing except a conviction that this precious store-house must -be her pocket. - -How to obtain them? Ever since yesterday I have been busying myself -vainly in seeking for a means: yet I cannot overcome the desire. I -regret that I have not the talents of a thief. Should these not, in -fact, enter into the education of a man who is mixed up in intrigues? -Would it not be agreeable to filch the letter or the portrait of a -rival, or to pick from the pockets of a prude the wherewithal to unmask -her? But our parents have no thought for anything; and for me, ’tis all -very well to think of everything, I do but perceive that I am clumsy, -without being able to remedy it. - -However that may be, I returned to table much dissatisfied. My beauty, -however, soothed my ill-humour somewhat, with the air of interest which -my pretended indisposition gave her; and I did not fail to assure -her that for some time past I had had violent agitations which had -disturbed my health. Convinced as she is that it is she who causes -them, ought she not, in all conscience, to endeavour to assuage them? -But _dévote_ though she be, she has small stock of charity; she refuses -all amorous alms, and such a refusal, to my view, justifies a theft. -But adieu; for all the time I talk to you, I am thinking of those -cursed letters. - - At the Château de ..., 27th August, 17**. - - - - -LETTER THE FORTY-THIRD - -THE PRÉSIDENTE DE TOURVEL TO THE VICOMTE DE VALMONT - - -WHY seek, Monsieur, to diminish my gratitude? Why be willing to give me -but a half-obedience, and make, as it were, a bargain of an honourable -action? Is it not sufficient for you then that I feel the cost of it? -You not only ask much, but you ask things which are impossible. If, in -truth, my friends have spoken to me of you, they have only done it in -my interest: even if they have been deceived, their intention was none -the less good; and you propose to me to reward this mark of attachment -on their part by delivering you their secret! I have already done wrong -in speaking to you of it, and you make me very conscious of that at -this moment. What would have been no more than candour with another -becomes a blunder with you, and would lead me to an ignominy did I -yield to you. I appeal to yourself, to your honour; did you think me -capable of such a proceeding? Ought you to have suggested it to me? No, -without a doubt; and I am sure that, on further reflexion, you will not -repeat this request. - -That which you make as to writing to me is scarcely easier to grant; -and, if you care to be just, it is not me whom you will blame. I do not -wish to offend you; but, with the reputation which you have acquired, -and which, by your own confession, is at least in part deserved, what -woman could own to be in correspondence with you? and what virtuous -woman may determine to do something which she feels she will be obliged -to conceal? - -Again, if I were assured that your letters would be of a kind of which -I need never have to complain, so that I could always justify myself -in my own eyes for having received them! Perhaps then the desire of -proving to you that it is reason and not hate which sways me would -induce me to waive those powerful considerations, and to do much more -than I ought, in allowing you sometimes to write to me. If indeed you -desire to do so as much as you say, you will voluntarily submit to -the one condition which could make me consent; and if you have any -gratitude for what I am now doing for you, you will not defer your -departure. - -Permit me to remark to you on this subject that you received a letter -this morning, and that you have not taken advantage of it to announce -your going to Madame de Rosemonde, as you had promised me. I hope that -at present nothing need prevent you keeping your word. I count, above -all, on your not waiting for the interview which you ask of me, and to -which I absolutely decline to lend myself; and I hope that, instead -of the order which you pretend is necessary to you, you will content -yourself with the prayer which I renew to you. Adieu, Monsieur. - - At the Château de ..., 27th August, 17**. - - - - -LETTER THE FORTY-FOURTH - -THE VICOMTE DE VALMONT TO THE MARQUISE DE MERTEUIL - - -JOIN in my joy, my lovely friend; I am beloved, I have triumphed over -that rebellious heart. ’Tis in vain that it still dissimulates; my -fortunate skill has surprised its secret. Thanks to my energetic pains, -I know all that is of interest to me: since the night, the fortunate -night of yesterday, I am once more in my element; I have resumed my -existence; I have unveiled a double mystery of love and iniquity: -I will delight in the one, I will avenge myself for the other; I -will fly from pleasure to pleasure. The mere idea that I form of it -transports me to such a degree that I have some difficulty in recalling -my prudence; and shall have some, perhaps, in putting order into this -narrative which I make for you. Let us try, however. - -Yesterday, after I had written my letter to you, I received one from -the celestial _dévote_. I send it you; you will see in it that she -gives me, with as little clumsiness as is possible, permission to write -to her: but she urges on my departure; and I quite felt that I could -not defer it too long without injuring myself. - -Tormented, however, by the desire to know who could have written -against me, I was still uncertain as to what course I should take. I -tried to win over the chamber-maid and would fain persuade her to give -up to me her mistress’s pockets, which she could have easily laid hold -of in the evening, and which she could have replaced in the morning, -without exciting the least suspicion. I offered ten louis for this -slight service: but I only found a baggage, scrupulous or afraid, whom -neither my eloquence nor my money could vanquish. I was still preaching -to her when the supper-bell rang. I was forced to leave her; only too -glad that she was willing to promise me secrecy, on which you may judge -I scarcely counted. - -I had never been in a worse humour. I felt myself compromised, and I -reproached myself all the evening for my foolish attempt. - -When I had retired, not without anxiety, I sent for my _chasseur_, who, -in his quality of happy lover, ought to have some credit. I wanted him -either to persuade this girl to do what I had asked of her, or at least -to make sure of her discretion; but he, who ordinarily is afraid of -nothing, seemed doubtful of the success of the negociation, and made a -reflexion on the subject the profundity of which amazed me. - -“Monsieur surely knows better than I,” said he, “that to lie with a -girl is only to make her do what she likes to do: from that to making -her do what we like is often a long way.” - -_Le bon sens du maraud quelquefois m’épouvante._[15] - -“I can the less answer for her,” he added, “because I have reason -to believe she has a lover, and that I only owe her to the idleness -of country life. So that, were it not for my zeal in Monsieur’s -service, I should not have had her but once.” (He is a real treasure -this fellow!) “As for secrecy,” he went on, “what will be the good of -making her promise it, since she will run no risk in deceiving us? To -speak again to her about it would only be to let her know that it was -important, and thus make her all the more eager to use it for making up -to her mistress.” - -[Illustration: C. Monnet del. Godéfroy sculp.] - -The more just these reflexions seemed to me, the more was my -embarrassment heightened. Luckily the knave was started off to gossip; -and as I had need of him, I let him run on. While he was relating to me -his adventures with this wench, I learned that, as the chamber which -she occupied was only separated from that of her mistress by a bare -partition, through which any suspicious noise could be heard, it was -in his own that they met every night. At once, I formed my plan; I -communicated it to him and we carried it out with success. - -I waited until two o’clock in the morning; and then betook myself, as -we had agreed, to the scene of the _rendez-vous_, carrying a light with -me, and pretending that I had rung several times to no purpose. My -confidant, who plays his parts to a marvel, went through a little scene -of surprise, despair, and excuses, which I terminated by sending him -to heat me some water, of which I feigned to have a need; whilst the -scrupulous chamber-maid was all the more shamefaced, in that my rascal, -wishing to improve on my projects, had induced her to make a toilette -which the season suggested but did not excuse. - -As I felt that the more this wench was humiliated, the more easily I -should dispose of her, I allowed her to change neither her position nor -her costume; and after ordering my valet to await me in my room, I sat -down beside her on the bed, which was in great disorder, and commenced -my conversation. I had need to maintain the control which the situation -gave me over her; thus I preserved a coolness which would have done -honour to the continence of Scipio; and without taking the slightest -liberty with her--which, however, her freshness and the opportunity -seemed to give her the right to expect--I spoke of business to her as -calmly as I should have done with a lawyer. - -My conditions were that I would faithfully keep her secret, provided -that, on the morrow, at about the same hour, she would hand me the -pockets of her mistress. “Beside that,” I added, “I offered you ten -louis yesterday; I promise you them again to-day. I do not want to take -advantage of your situation.” Everything was granted, as you may well -believe; I then withdrew, and allowed the happy couple to make up for -lost time. - -I spent mine in sleep; and, on my awakening, desiring to have a pretext -for not replying to my fair one’s letter before I had investigated her -papers, which I could not do until the ensuing night, I resolved to go -out shooting, which I did for the greater part of the day. - -On my return, I was received coldly enough. I had a mind to believe -that we were a little offended at the small zeal I had shown in not -profiting by the time that was left, especially after the much kinder -letter which she had written me. I judge so from the fact that Madame -de Rosemonde, having addressed me some reproaches for this long -absence, my beauty remarked with a tone of acrimony, “Ah! do not let us -reproach M. de Valmont for giving himself up to the one pleasure which -he can find here.” I murmured at this injustice, and took advantage -of it to vow that I took so much pleasure in the ladies’ society that -I was sacrificing for them a most interesting letter which I had to -write. I added that, being unable to sleep for some nights past, I -had wished to try if fatigue would restore it me; and my eyes were -sufficiently explicit, both as to the subject of my letter and the -cause of my insomnia. I was at the pains to wear all that evening a -manner of melancholy sweetness, which seemed to sit on me well enough, -and which masked the impatience I was in to see the hour arrive which -was to deliver me the secret so obstinately withheld from me. At last -we separated, and, some time afterwards, the faithful chamber-maid came -to bring me the price agreed upon for my discretion. - -Once master of this treasure, I proceeded to the inventory with that -prudence which you know I possess: for it was important to put back -everything in its place. I fell at first upon two letters from the -husband--an undigested mixture of details of law-suits and effusions -of conjugal love, which I had the patience to read in their entirety, -and where I found no word that had any relation to myself. I replaced -them with temper: but this was soothed when my hand lighted upon the -pieces of my famous Dijon letter, carefully put together. Luckily the -whim seized me to run through it. Judge of my joy when I perceived very -distinct traces of my adorable _dévote’s_ tears. I confess, I gave -way to an impulse of youth, and kissed this letter with a transport -of which I had not believed myself any longer capable. I continued my -happy examination; I found all my letters in sequence and order of -date; and what gave me a still more agreeable surprise was to find -the first of all, the one which I thought the graceless creature had -returned to me, faithfully copied by her hand, and in an altered and -tremulous hand, ample witness to the soft perturbation of her heart -during that employment. - -Thus far I was entirely given over to love; soon it gave place to fury. -Who do you think it is, that wishes to ruin me in the eyes of the woman -whom I adore? What Fury do you suppose is vile enough to plot such a -black scheme? You know her: it is your friend, your kinswoman; it is -Madame de Volanges. You cannot imagine what a tissue of horrors this -infernal Megæra has written concerning me. It is she, she alone, who -has troubled the security of this angelic woman; it is through her -counsels, through her pernicious advice, that I see myself forced to -leave; it is she, in short, who has sacrificed me. Ah! without a doubt -her daughter must be seduced: but that is not enough, she must be -ruined; and, since this cursed woman’s age puts her beyond the reach of -my assaults, she must be hit in the object of her affections. - -So she wishes me to come back to Paris! she forces me to it! be it -so, I will go back; but she shall bewail my return. I am annoyed that -Danceny is the hero of that adventure; he possesses a fundamental -honesty which will embarrass us: however, he is in love, and I see him -often; perhaps one may make use of him. I am losing sight of myself in -my anger, and forgetting that I owe you an account of what has passed -to-day. To resume. - -This morning I saw my sensitive prude again. Never had I found her so -lovely. It must ever be so: a woman’s loveliest moment, the only one -when she can produce that intoxication of the soul of which we speak -so constantly and which we so rarely meet, is that one when, assured -of her love, we are not yet of her favours; and that is precisely the -case in which I find myself now. Perhaps too, the idea that I was going -to be deprived of the pleasure of seeing her served to beautify her. -Finally, with the arrival of the postman, I was handed your letter of -the 27th; and whilst I read it, I was still hesitating as to whether I -should keep my word: but I met my beauty’s eyes, and it would have been -impossible to me to refuse her aught. - -I then announced my departure. A moment later, Madame de Rosemonde left -us alone: but I was still four paces away from the coy creature when, -rising with an affrighted air: “Leave me, leave me, Monsieur,” she -said; “in God’s name, leave me.” - -This fervent prayer, which betrayed her emotion, could not but animate -me the more. I was already at her side, and I held her hands which she -had joined together with a quite touching expression; I was beginning -some tender complaints, when some hostile demon brought back Madame de -Rosemonde. The timid _dévote_, who had, in truth, some cause for fear, -took advantage of this to withdraw. - -I offered her my hand, however, which she accepted; and auguring well -from this mildness, which she had not shown for a long time, I sought -to press hers, whilst again commencing my complaints. At first she -would fain withdraw it; but at my more lively insistence, she abandoned -it with a good grace, although without replying either to the gesture -or to my remarks. Arrived before the door of her apartment, I wished -to kiss this hand, before I dropped it. The defence began by being -hearty: but a “remember that I am going away,” uttered most tenderly, -rendered it awkward and inefficient. Hardly had the kiss been given, -when the hand found strength enough to escape, and the fair one entered -her apartment, where her chamber-maid was in attendance. Here finishes -my history. - -As I presume that to-morrow you will be at the Maréchale’s, where I -certainly shall not go to look for you; as I think it very likely too -that, at our first interview, we shall have more than one affair to -discuss, and notably that of the little Volanges, whom I do not lose -sight of, I have decided to have myself preceded by this letter, and, -long as it is, I shall not close it, until the moment comes for sending -it to the post: for, at the point which I have reached, everything may -depend on an opportunity, and I leave you now to see if there be one. - -P.S. _Eight o’clock in the evening._ - -Nothing fresh; not the least little moment of liberty: care taken even -to avoid it. However, at least as much sorrow shown as decency permits. -Another incident which cannot be without consequences is that I am -charged by Madame de Rosemonde with an invitation to Madame de Volanges -to come and spend some time with her in the country. - -Adieu, my lovely friend; until to-morrow, or the day after, at the -latest - - At the Château de ..., 28th August, 17**. - - - - -LETTER THE FORTY-FIFTH - -THE PRÉSIDENTE DE TOURVEL TO MADAME DE VOLANGES - - -M. DE VALMONT left this morning, Madame; you seemed to me so anxious -for his departure, that I thought I ought to inform you of it. Madame -de Rosemonde much regrets her nephew, whose society, one must admit, -is agreeable: she passed the whole morning in talking of him, with -that sensibility which you know her to possess; she did not stint his -praises. I thought it was incumbent on me to listen to her without -contradiction, more especially as I must confess that on many points -she was right. In addition, I felt that I had to reproach myself with -being the cause of this separation, and I cannot hope to be able to -compensate her for the pleasure of which I have deprived her. You know -that I have by nature small store of gaiety, and the kind of life we -are going to lead here is not formed to increase it. - -If I had not acted according to your advice, I should fear that I had -behaved somewhat lightly; for I was really distressed at my venerable -friend’s grief; she touched me to such a degree that I could have -willingly mingled my tears with her own. - -We live at present in the hope that you will accept the invitation -which M. de Valmont is to bring you, on the part of Madame de -Rosemonde, to come and spend some time with her. I hope that you have -no doubt of the pleasure it will give me to see you; and, in truth, -you owe us this recompense. I shall be most delighted to have this -opportunity of making an earlier acquaintance with Mademoiselle de -Volanges, and to have the chance of convincing you more and more of the -respectful sentiments, etc. - - At the Château de ..., 29th August, 17**. - - - - -LETTER THE FORTY-SIXTH - -THE CHEVALIER DANCENY TO CÉCILE VOLANGES - - -WHAT has happened to you then, my adored Cécile? What can have caused -in you so sudden and cruel an alteration? What has become of your vows -of never changing? It was only yesterday that you repeated them with so -much pleasure! Who can have made you forget them to-day? It is useless -for me to examine myself; I cannot find the cause of it in me; and it -is terrible that I should have to seek it in you. Ah! doubtless you are -neither light nor deceitful; and even in this moment of despair, no -insulting suspicion shall defile my soul. Yet, by what fatality comes -it that you are no longer the same? No, cruel one, you are no longer -the same! The tender Cécile, the Cécile whom I adore, and whose vows I -have received, would not have avoided my gaze, would not have resisted -the happy chance which placed me beside her; or, if any reason which I -cannot understand had forced her to treat me with such severity, she -would, at least, have condescended to inform me of it. - -Ah, you do not know, you will never know, my Cécile, all that you have -made me suffer to-day, all that I suffer still at this moment. Do you -suppose then that I can live, if I am no longer loved by you? None the -less, when I asked you for a word, one single word to dispel my fears, -instead of answering me you pretended to be afraid of being overheard; -and that difficulty which did not then exist, you immediately brought -about yourself by the place which you chose in the circle. When, -compelled to leave you, I asked you at what hour I could see you again -to-morrow, you pretended that you could not say, and Madame de Volanges -had to be my informant. Thus the moment, ever desired so fondly, which -is to bring me into your presence, to-morrow, will only excite in me -anxiety; and the pleasure of seeing you, hitherto so dear to my heart, -will give place to the fear of being intrusive. - -I feel it already, this dread irks me, and I dare not speak to you -of my love. That _I love you_, which I loved so well to repeat when -I could hear it in my turn; that soft phrase which sufficed for my -felicity, offers me, if you are changed, no more than the image of an -eternal despair. I cannot believe, however, that that talisman of love -has lost all its power, and I am fain to employ it once more.[16] Yes, -my Cécile, _I love you_. Repeat after me then this expression of my -happiness. Remember that you have accustomed me to the hearing of it, -and that to deprive me of it is to condemn me to a torture which, like -my love, can only end with my life. - - Paris, 29th August, 17**. - - - - -LETTER THE FORTY-SEVENTH - -THE VICOMTE DE VALMONT TO THE MARQUISE DE MERTEUIL - - -TO-DAY again I shall not see you, my lovely friend, and here are my -reasons, which I beg you to meet with indulgence. - -Instead of returning here directly, I stopped with the Comtesse de ***, -whose _château_ lay almost upon my road, and of whom I asked a dinner. -I did not reach Paris until about seven o’clock, and I alighted at the -Opera, where I hoped to find you. - -The Opera over, I went to see my fair friends of the green-room; I -found there my whilom Émilie, surrounded by a numerous court, women -as well as men, to whom she was offering a supper that very evening -at P----. I had no sooner entered this assemblage than I was invited -to the supper by acclamation. I also received one from a little fat -and stumpy person, who stammered his invitation to me in the French -of Holland, and whom I recognized as the true hero of the _fête_. I -accepted. - -I learned upon my way that the house whither we were going was the -price agreed upon for Émilie’s favours towards this grotesque figure, -and that this supper was a veritable wedding-breakfast. The little -man could not contain himself for joy, in expectation of the pleasure -which awaited him; he seemed to me so satisfied with the prospect that -he gave me a longing to disturb it; which was, effectually, what I did. - -The only difficulty I found was that of persuading Émilie, who was -rendered somewhat scrupulous by the burgomaster’s wealth. She agreed, -however, after raising some objections, to the plan which I suggested -of filling this little beer-barrel with wine, and so putting him _hors -de combat_ for the rest of the night. - -The sublime idea which we had formed of a Dutch toper caused us to -employ all available means. We succeeded so well that, at dessert, he -was already without the strength to lift his glass: but the helpful -Émilie and myself vied with one another in filling him up. Finally, he -fell beneath the table, in so drunken a state, that it ought to last -for at least a week. We then decided to send him back to Paris; and, as -he had not kept his carriage, I had him carried into mine, and remained -in his stead. I thereupon received the congratulations of the company, -which soon afterwards retired, and left me in possession of the field. -This gaiety, and perhaps my long rustication, made Émilie seem so -desirable to me that I promised to stay with her until the Dutchman’s -resurrection. - -This complaisance on my part is the price of that which she has just -shown me, that of serving me for a desk upon which to write to my fair -puritan, to whom I found it amusing to send a letter written in the -bed, and almost in the arms, of a wench, a letter interrupted even to -complete an infidelity, in which I send her an exact account of my -position and my conduct. Émilie, who has read the epistle, laughed like -a mad girl over it, and I hope that you will laugh as well. - -[Illustration: C. Monnet del. Lingée sculp.] - -As my letter must needs bear the Paris post-mark, I send it to you; I -leave it open. Will you please read it, seal it up, and commit it to -the post. Above all, be careful not to employ your own seal, nor even -any amorous device; a simple head. Adieu, my lovely friend. - -P.S. I open my letter; I have persuaded Émilie to go to the -_Italiens_.... I shall take advantage of that moment to come and see -you. I shall be with you by six o’clock at the latest; and if it be -agreeable to you, we will go together, about seven o’clock, to Madame -de Volanges. Propriety commands that I do not postpone the invitation -with which I am charged for her from Madame de Rosemonde; moreover, I -shall be delighted to see the little Volanges. - -Adieu, most fair lady. I shall be as pleased to embrace you, as the -Chevalier will be jealous. - - At P..., 30th August, 17**. - - - - -LETTER THE FORTY-EIGHTH - -THE VICOMTE DE VALMONT TO THE PRÉSIDENTE DE TOURVEL - -(Bearing the postmark of Paris) - - -IT is after a stormy night, during which I have not closed my eyes; -it is after having been ceaselessly either in the agitation of a -devouring ardour, or in an utter annihilation of all the faculties of -my soul, that I come to seek with you, Madame, the calm of which I have -need, and which, however, I have as yet no hope to enjoy. In truth, -the situation in which I am, whilst writing to you, makes me realize -more than ever the irresistible power of love; I can hardly preserve -sufficient control over myself to put some order into my ideas; and -I foresee already that I shall not finish this letter without being -forced to interrupt it. What! Am I never to hope then that you will -some day share with me the trouble which overcomes me at this moment? -I dare believe, notwithstanding, that if you were well acquainted with -it, you would not be entirely insensible. Believe me, Madame, a cold -tranquillity, the soul’s slumber, the imitation of death do not conduce -to happiness; the active passions alone can lead us thither; and, in -spite of the torments which you make me suffer, I think I can assure -you without risk that at this moment I am happier than you. In vain do -you overwhelm me with your terrible severities; they do not prevent me -from abandoning myself utterly to love, and forgetting, in the delirium -which it causes me, the despair into which you cast me. It is so that -I would avenge myself for the exile to which you condemn me. Never -had I so much pleasure in writing to you; never have I experienced, -during such an occupation, an emotion so sweet and, at the same time, -so lively. Everything seems to enhance my transports; the air I breathe -is laden with pleasure; the very table upon which I write to you, -consecrated for the first time to this office, becomes love’s sacred -altar to me; how much it will be beautified in my eyes! I shall have -traced upon it the vow to love you for ever! Pardon, I beseech you, -the disorder of my senses. Perhaps, I ought to abandon myself less to -transports which you do not share: I must leave you for a moment to -dispel an intoxication which increases each moment, and which becomes -stronger than myself. - -I return to you, Madame, and doubtless, I return always with the same -eagerness. However, the sentiment of happiness has fled far away from -me; it has given place to that of cruel privation. What does it avail -me to speak of my sentiments, if I seek in vain the means to convince -you of them? After so many efforts, I am equally bereft of strength -and confidence. If I still tell over to myself the pleasures of love, -it is only to feel more keenly my sorrow at being deprived of them. I -see no other resource, save in your indulgence; and I am too sensible -at this moment of how greatly I need it, to hope to obtain it. Never, -however, has my love been more respectful, never could it be less -likely to offend you; it is of such a kind, I dare say, as the most -severe virtue need not fear: but I am myself afraid of describing to -you, at greater length, the sorrow which I experience. Assured as I am -that the object which causes it does not participate in it, I must at -any rate not abuse your kindness; and it would be to do that, were I to -spend more time in retracing for you that dolorous picture. I take only -enough to beg you to reply to me, and never to doubt of the sincerity -of my sentiments. - - Written at P...; dated from Paris, 30th August, 17**. - - - - -LETTER THE FORTY-NINTH - -CÉCILE VOLANGES TO THE CHEVALIER DANCENY - - -WITHOUT being either false or frivolous, Monsieur, it is enough for me -to be enlightened as to my conduct, to feel the necessity of altering -it; I have promised this sacrifice to God, until such a time when I can -offer Him also that of my sentiments towards you, which are rendered -even more criminal by the religious character of your estate. I feel -certain that it will only bring me sorrow, and I will not even hide -from you that, since the day before yesterday, I have wept every time -I have thought of you. But I hope that God will do me the grace of -giving me the needful strength to forget you, as I ask of Him morning -and evening. I expect also of your friendship and of your honour -that you will not seek to shake me in the good resolution which has -been inspired in me, and in which I strive to maintain myself. In -consequence, I beg you to have the kindness to write no more to me, the -more so as I warn you that I should no longer reply to you, and that -you would compel me to acquaint Mamma with all that has passed; and -that would deprive me entirely of the pleasure of seeing you. - -I shall, none the less, retain for you all the attachment which one may -have without there being harm in it; and it is indeed with all my soul -that I wish you every kind of happiness. I quite feel that you will no -longer love me as much as you did, and that, perhaps, you will soon -love another better than me. But that will be one penance the more for -the fault which I have committed in giving you my heart, which I ought -to give only to God and my husband when I have one. I hope that the -Divine mercy will take pity on my weakness, and that it will give me no -more sorrow than I am able to support. - -Adieu, Monsieur; I can truly assure you that, if I were permitted to -love anybody, I should never love anybody but you. But that is all I -may say to you; and perhaps even that is more than I ought to say. - - Paris, 31st August, 17**. - - - - -LETTER THE FIFTIETH - -THE PRÉSIDENTE DE TOURVEL TO THE VICOMTE DE VALMONT - - -Is it thus then, Monsieur, that you carry out the conditions upon which -I consented sometimes to receive your letters? And have I _no reason -for complaint_ when you speak to me of a sentiment to which I should -still fear to abandon myself, even if I could do so without violating -all my duties? For the rest, if I had need of fresh reasons to preserve -this salutary dread, it seems to me that I could find them in your last -letter. In effect, at the very moment when you think to make an apology -for love, what else are you doing but revealing to me its redoubtable -storms? Who can wish for happiness bought at the expense of reason, -whose short-lived pleasures are followed at any rate by regret, if not -by remorse? - -You yourself, in whom the habit of this dangerous delirium ought to -diminish its effect, are you not, however, compelled to confess that -it often becomes stronger than yourself; and are you not the first -to lament the involuntary trouble which it causes you? What fearful -ravages then would it not effect on a fresh and sensitive heart, which -would still augment its empire, by the sacrifices it would be forced to -make to it? - -You believe, Monsieur, or you feign to believe that love leads to -happiness; and I--I am so convinced that it would render me unhappy -that I would not even hear its name pronounced. It seems to me that -only to speak of it destroys tranquillity; and it is as much from -inclination as from duty that I beg you to be good enough to keep -silence on this subject. - -After all, this request should be very easy for you to grant me at -present. Returned to Paris, you will find there occasions enough to -forget a sentiment which, perhaps, only owed its birth to the habit -you are in of occupying yourself with such subjects, and its strength -to the idleness of country life. Are you not then in that town where -you had seen me with so much indifference? Can you take a step there -without encountering an example of your readiness to change? And are -you not surrounded there by women who, all more amiable than myself, -have better right to your homage? - -I am without the vanity with which my sex is reproached; I have still -less of that false modesty which is nothing but a refinement of pride; -and it is with the utmost good faith that I tell you here, I know -how few pleasing qualities I possess: had I all there were, I should -not believe them sufficient to retain you. To ask you then to occupy -yourself no longer with me is only to beg you to do to-day what you had -already done before, and what you would most assuredly do again in a -short time, even if I were to ask the contrary. - -This truth, which I do not lose sight of, would be, itself, a reason -strong enough to disincline me to listen to you. I have still a -thousand others, but without entering upon a long discussion, I -confine myself to begging you, as I have done before, to correspond -with me no further upon a sentiment to which I must not listen, and to -which I ought even less to reply. - - At the Château de ..., 1st September, 17**. - - - - -LETTER THE FIFTY-FIRST - -THE MARQUISE DE MERTEUIL TO THE VICOMTE DE VALMONT - - -REALLY, Vicomte, you are insupportable. You treat me as lightly as -though I were your mistress. Do you know that I shall get angry, and -that at the present moment I am in a fearful temper? Why! you have -to see Danceny to-morrow morning; you know how important it is that -I should speak to you before that interview; and without troubling -yourself any more about it, you keep me waiting all day to run off I -know not where. You are the cause of my arriving at Madame de Volanges’ -_indecently_ late, and of my being found _surprising_ by all the old -women. I was obliged to flatter them during the whole of the evening in -order to appease them: for one must never annoy the old women; it is -they who make the young one’s reputations. - -It is now one o’clock in the morning; and instead of going to bed, -which I am dying to do, I must needs write you a long letter, which -will make me twice as sleepy from the _ennui_ it causes me. You are -most fortunate that I have not time to scold you further. Do not -believe for that reason that I forgive you: it is only that I am -pressed for time. Listen to me then, I hasten to come to the point. - -However little skill you may exert, you are bound to-morrow to have -Danceny’s confidence. The moment is favourable for confidence: it is -the moment of unhappiness. The little girl has been to confession: like -a child, she has told everything; and ever since she has been tormented -to such a degree by the fear of the devil that she insists on breaking -it off. She related to me all her little scruples with a vivacity -which told me how excited she was. She showed me her letter announcing -the rupture, which was a real sermon. She babbled for an hour to me, -without uttering one word of common sense. But she embarrassed me none -the less; for you can imagine that I could not risk opening my mind to -such a wrong-headed creature. - -I saw, however, through all this verbiage, that she is as fond of her -Danceny as ever; I even remarked one of those resources which love -never fails to find, and of which the little girl is an amusing dupe. -Tormented by her desire to occupy herself with her lover, and by the -fear of being damned if she does so, she has invented the plan of -praying God that she may be able to forget him; and as she repeats -this prayer at every moment of the day, she finds a means thereby of -thinking of him unceasingly. - -With any more _experienced_ than Danceny, this little incident would -perhaps be more favourable than the reverse; but the young man is so -much of a Céladon that, if we do not help him, he will require so much -time to overcome the slightest obstacles that there will be none left -for us to carry out our project. - -You are quite right; it is a pity, and I am as vexed as you, that he -should be the hero of this adventure: but what would you have? What is -done is done; and it is your fault. I asked to see his reply;[17] it -was really pitiful. He produces arguments till he is out of breath, to -prove to her that an involuntary sentiment cannot be a crime: as if -it did not cease to be involuntary once one ceases to fight against -it! That idea is so simple that it even suggested itself to the little -girl. He complains of his unhappiness in a manner that is touching -enough: but his grief is so gentle, and seems so strong and so sincere, -that it seems to me impossible that a woman who finds occasion to -reduce a man to such a degree of despair, and with so little danger, is -not tempted to get rid of her fancy. Finally he explains that he is not -a monk, as the little one believed; and that is, without contradiction, -the best thing he has done: for, if it is a question of going so far as -to abandon yourself to monastic loves, it is assuredly not the Knights -of Malta who would deserve the preference. - -Be that as it may, instead of wasting time in arguments which would -have compromised me, perhaps without convincing, I approved her project -of rupture: but I said that it was nicer, in such a case, to tell your -reasons rather than to write them; that it was customary also to return -letters and any other trifles one might have received; and appearing -thus to enter into the views of the little person, I persuaded her to -grant an interview to Danceny. We formed our plans on the spot, and -I charged myself with the task of persuading the mother to go abroad -without her daughter; it is to-morrow afternoon that this decisive -moment will take place. Danceny is already informed of it; but for -God’s sake, if you get an opportunity, please persuade this pretty -swain to be less languorous, and teach him--since he must be told -everything--that the true fashion to overcome scruples is to leave -nothing to be lost by those who possess them. - -For the rest, in order to save a repetition of this ridiculous scene, -I did not fail to excite certain doubts in the little girl’s mind, as -to the discretion of confessors; and I assure you, she is paying now -for the fright which she gave me, by her terror lest hers should go and -tell everything to her mother. I hope that, after I have talked once or -twice more with her, she will give up going thus to tell her follies to -the first comer.[18] - -Adieu, Vicomte; take charge of Danceny and guide his way. It would be -shameful if we could not do what we will with two children. If we find -it more difficult than we had thought at first, let us reflect, to -animate our zeal--you, that it is the daughter of Madame de Volanges -who is in question, I, that she is destined to become the wife of -Gercourt. Adieu. - - Paris, 15th September, 17**. - - - - -LETTER THE FIFTY-SECOND - -THE VICOMTE DE VALMONT TO THE PRÉSIDENTE DE TOURVEL - - -YOU forbid me, Madame, to speak to you of my love; but where am I to -find the necessary courage to obey you? Solely occupied by a sentiment -which should be so sweet, and which you render so cruel; languishing in -the exile to which you have condemned me; living only on privations and -regrets; in prey to torments all the more dolorous in that they remind -me unceasingly of your indifference; must I lose the only consolation -which remains to me? And can I have any other, save that of sometimes -laying bare to you a soul which you fill with trouble and bitterness? -Will you avert your gaze, that you may not see the tears you cause to -flow? Will you refuse even the homage of the sacrifices you demand? -Would it not be worthier of you, of your good and gentle soul, to pity -an unhappy one who is only rendered so by you, rather than to seek to -aggravate his pain by a refusal which is at once unjust and rigorous? - -You pretend to be afraid of love, and you will not see that you -alone are the cause of the evils with which you reproach it. Ah, no -doubt, the sentiment is painful, when the object which inspires it -does not reciprocate; but where is happiness to be found, if mutual -love does not procure it? Tender friendship, sweet confidence--the -only one which is without reserve--sorrow’s alleviation, pleasure’s -augmentation, hope’s enchantment, the delights of remembrance: where -find them else than in love? You calumniate it, you who, in order to -enjoy all the good which it offers you, have but to give up resisting -it; and I--I forget the pain which I experience in undertaking its -defence. - -You force me also to defend myself; for, whereas I consecrate my life -to your adoration, you pass yours in seeking reason to blame me: -already you have assumed that I am frivolous and a deceiver; and, -taking advantage of certain errors which I myself have confessed to -you, you are pleased to confound the man I was then with what I am at -present. Not content with abandoning me to the torment of living away -from you, you add to that a cruel banter as to pleasures to which you -know how you have rendered me insensible. You do not believe either -in my promises or my oaths: well! there remains one guarantee for me -to offer you, which you will not suspect. It is yourself. I only ask -you to question yourself in all good faith: if you do not believe in -my love, if you doubt for a moment that you reign supreme in my heart, -if you are not sure that you have fixed this heart, which, indeed, has -thus far been too fickle, I consent to bear the penalty of this error; -I shall suffer, but I will not appeal: but if, on the contrary, doing -justice to us both, you are forced to admit to yourself that you have -not, will never have a rival, ask me no more, I beg you, to fight with -chimeras, and leave me at least the consolation of seeing you no longer -in doubt as to a sentiment which _indeed_, will not finish, cannot -finish, but with my life. Permit me, Madame, to beg you to reply -positively to this part of my letter. - -If, however, I give up that period of my life which seems to damage me -so severely in your eyes, it is not because, in case of need, reasons -had failed me to defend it. - -What have I done, after all, but fail to resist the vortex into which I -was thrown? Entering the world, young and without experience; passed, -so to speak, from hand to hand by a crowd of women, who all hasten to -forestall, by their good-nature, a reflexion which they feel cannot but -be unfavourable to them; was it my part then to set the example of a -resistance which was never opposed to me? Or was I to punish myself for -a moment of error, which was often provoked, by a constancy undoubtedly -useless, and which would only have excited ridicule? Nay, what other -cause, save a speedy rupture, can justify a shameful choice? - -But, I can say it, this intoxication of the senses, perhaps even this -delirium of vanity, did not attain to my heart. Born for love, intrigue -might distract it, but did not suffice to occupy it; surrounded by -seducing but despicable objects, none of them reached as far as my -soul: I was offered pleasures, I sought for virtues; and in short, I -even thought myself inconstant because I was delicate and sensitive. - -It was when I saw you that I saw light: soon I understood that the -charm of love sprang from the qualities of the soul; that they alone -could cause its excess, and justify it. I felt, in short, that it was -equally impossible for me not to love you, or to love any other than -you. - -There, Madame, is the heart to which you fear to trust yourself, and on -whose fate you have to pronounce: but whatever may be the destiny you -reserve for it, you will change nothing of the sentiments which attach -it to you; they are as inalterable as the virtues which have given them -birth. - - Paris, 3rd September, 17**. - - - - -LETTER THE FIFTY-THIRD - -THE VICOMTE DE VALMONT TO THE MARQUISE DE MERTEUIL - - -I HAVE seen Danceny, but only obtained his half-confidence; he insists -especially on suppressing the name of the little Volanges, of whom -he only spoke to me as a woman of great virtue, even somewhat a -_dévote_: apart from that, he gave me a fairly veracious account of -his adventure, particularly the last incident. I excited him as best -I could, I bantered him greatly upon his delicacy and scruples; but -it seems that he clings to them, and I cannot answer for him: for the -rest, I shall be able to tell you more after to-morrow. I am taking -him to-morrow to Versailles, and I will occupy myself by studying -him on the road. The interview which is to take place to-day also -gives me some hope: everything may have happened to our satisfaction; -and perhaps there is nothing left for us at present but to obtain a -confession and collect the proofs. This task will be easier for you -than for me: for the little person is more confiding or, what comes to -the same thing, more talkative than her discreet lover. However, I will -do my utmost. - -Adieu, my lovely friend; I am in a mighty hurry; I shall not see you -this evening, nor to-morrow: if you, on your side, know anything, write -me a word on my return. I shall certainly come back to sleep in Paris. - - At ..., 3rd September, in the evening. - - - - -LETTER THE FIFTY-FOURTH - -THE MARQUISE DE MERTEUIL TO THE VICOMTE DE VALMONT - - -OH yes, it is certainly with Danceny that there is something to -discover! If he told you so, he was boasting. I know nobody so stupid -in an affair of love, and I reproach myself more and more with the -kindness we have shown him. Do you know that yesterday I thought I was -compromised through him. And it would have been a pure loss! Oh, I will -have my revenge, I promise you. - -When I arrived yesterday to fetch Madame de Volanges, she no longer -wanted to go out; she felt indisposed; I had need of all my eloquence -to persuade her, and I foresaw that Danceny might arrive before our -departure, which would have been all the more awkward, as Madame de -Volanges had told him the day before that she would not be at home. Her -daughter and I were on thorns. At last we went out; and the little one -pressed my hand so affectionately as she bid me adieu that, in spite -of her intended rupture, with which she believed herself, in all good -faith, still to be occupied, I prophesied wonders in the course of the -evening. - -I was not at the end of my anxieties. We had hardly been half an hour -at Madame de ***’s, when Madame de Volanges felt really unwell, and -naturally she wanted to return home: as for me, I was the less inclined -for it in that I was afraid, supposing we were to surprise the young -people (as the chances were we should), that my efforts to make the -mother go abroad might seem highly suspicious. I adopted the course of -frightening her upon her health, which luckily is not difficult; and I -kept her for an hour and a half, without consenting to drive her home, -by feigning fear at the consequences of the dangerous motion of the -carriage. We did not return until the hour that had been fixed. From -the shame-faced air which I remarked on our arrival, I confess I hoped -that at least my trouble had not been wasted. - -The desire I had for further information made me stay with Madame de -Volanges, who went to bed at once: and after having supped at her -bed-side, we left her at an early hour, under the pretext that she -had need of repose, and passed into her daughter’s apartment. The -latter had done, on her side, all that I had expected of her; vanished -scruples, fresh vows of eternal love, etc., etc.: in a word, she had -performed properly. But the fool, Danceny, had not by one point passed -the line where he had been before. Oh! one can safely quarrel with such -a one: reconciliations are not dangerous. - -The child assures me, however, that he wanted more, but that she knew -how to defend herself. I would wager that she brags, or that she -excuses him; indeed I made almost certain of it. The fantasy seized me -to find out how much one might rely on the defence of which she was -capable; and I, a mere woman, bit by bit, excited her to the point.... -In short, you may believe me, no one was ever more susceptible to a -surprise of the senses. She is really lovable, this dear child! She -deserves a different lover; she shall have at least a firm friend, for -I am becoming really fond of her. I have promised her that I will form -her, and I think I shall keep my word. I have often felt a need of -having a woman in my confidence, and I should prefer her to another; -but I can do nothing so long as she is not--what she needs to be; and -that is one reason the more for bearing a grudge against Danceny. - -[Illustration: C. Monnet del. Lingée sculpᵗ.] - -Adieu, Vicomte; do not come to me to-morrow, unless it be in the -forenoon. I have yielded to the entreaties of the Chevalier, for an -evening at the _petite maison_. - - Paris, 4th September, 17**. - - - - -LETTER THE FIFTY-FIFTH - -CÉCILE VOLANGES TO SOPHIE CARNAY - - -YOU were right, my dear Sophie; your prophesies succeed better than -your advice. Danceny, as you had predicted, has been stronger than my -confessor, than you, than myself; and here we are returned precisely to -our old position. Ah! I do not repent it; and if you scold me, it will -be only because you do not know the pleasure of loving Danceny. It is -very easy to say what one ought to do, nothing prevents you; but if you -had any experience of how we suffer from the pain of somebody we love, -of the way in which his pleasure becomes our own, of how difficult it -is to say no, when what we wish to say is yes, you would be astonished -at nothing: I myself, who have felt it, felt it most keenly, do not yet -understand it. Do you suppose, for instance that I could see Danceny -weep, without weeping myself? I assure you that that would be utterly -impossible to me; and, when he is happy, I am as happy as he. You may -say what you like: what one says does not change things from what they -are, and I am very certain that it is like that. - -I should like to see you in my place.... No, it is not that I wish to -say, for certainly I should not like to change places with anyone: but -I wish that you too loved somebody; not only because then you would -understand me better and scold me less; but also because you would be -happier, or, I should rather say, you would only then begin to know -happiness. - -Our amusements, our merriment--all that, you see, is only child’s play: -nothing is left, when once it is over. But love, ah, love!... a word, a -look, only to know he is there--that is happiness! When I see Danceny, -I ask for nothing more; when I cannot see him, I ask only for him. I do -not know how this is; but it would seem as though everything which I -like resembles him. When he is not with me, I dream of him; and when I -can dream of him utterly, without distraction, when I am quite alone, -for instance, I am still happy; I close my eyes, and suddenly I think I -see him; I remember his conversation, it causes me to sigh; and then I -feel a fire, an agitation.... I cannot keep in one place. It is like a -torment, and this torment gives me an unutterable pleasure. - -I even think that when once one has been in love, the effect of it is -shed even over friendship. That which I bear for you has not changed -however; it is always as it was at the convent: but what I tell you of -I feel for Madame de Merteuil. It seems as though I love her more as -I do Danceny than as yourself; and sometimes I wish that she were he. -This is so, perhaps, because it is not a children’s friendship like -our own, or else because I see them so often together, which makes me -deceive myself. Be that as it may, the truth is that, between the two -of them, they make me very happy; and, after all, I do not think there -is much harm in what I do. I would only ask to stay as I am; and it is -only the idea of marriage which distresses me: for if M. de Gercourt is -such a man as I am told, and I have no doubt of it, I do not know what -will become of me. Adieu, my Sophie; I love you always most tenderly. - - Paris, 4th September, 17**. - - - - -LETTER THE FIFTY-SIXTH - -THE PRÉSIDENTE DE TOURVEL TO THE VICOMTE DE VALMONT - - -HOW, Monsieur, would the answer which you ask of me serve you? To -believe in your sentiments would not that be one reason the more to -fear them? And without attacking or defending their sincerity, does it -not suffice, ought it not to suffice for yourself, to know that I will -not and may not reply to them? - -Supposing that you were to love me really (and it is only to prevent a -return to this subject that I consent to the supposition), would the -obstacles which separate us be less insurmountable? And should I have -aught else to do, but to wish that you might soon conquer this love, -and above all, to help you with all my power by hastening to deprive -you of any hope? You admit yourself that _this sentiment is painful, -when the object which inspires it does not reciprocate_. Now, you are -thoroughly well aware that it is impossible for me to reciprocate; -and even if this misfortune should befall me, I should be the more to -be pitied, without making you any happier. I hope that you respect me -enough, not to doubt of that for a moment. Cease then, I conjure you, -cease from troubling a heart to which tranquillity is so necessary; do -not force me to regret that I have known you. - -Loved and esteemed by a husband whom I both love and respect, my duty -and my pleasure are centred in the same object. I am happy, I must -be so. If pleasures more keen exist, I do not desire them; I would -not know them. Can there be any that are sweeter than that of being -at peace with one’s self, of knowing only days that are serene, of -sleeping without trouble and awaking without remorse? What you call -happiness is but a tumult of the senses, a tempest of passions of -which the mere view from the shore is terrible. Ah! why confront these -tempests? How dare embark upon a sea covered with the _débris_ of so -many thousand shipwrecks? And with whom? No, Monsieur, I stay on the -shore; I cherish the bonds which unite me to it. I would not break them -if I could; were I not held by them, I should hasten to procure them. - -Why attach yourself to my life? Why this obstinate resolve to follow -me? Your letters, which should be few, succeed each other with -rapidity. They should be sensible, and you speak to me in them of -nothing but your mad love. You besiege me with your idea, more than -you did with your person. Removed in one form, you reproduce yourself -under another. The things which I asked you not to say, you repeat -only in another way. It pleases you to embarrass me with captious -arguments; you shun my own. I do not wish to answer you, I will answer -you no more.... How you treat the women whom you have seduced! With -what contempt you speak of them! I would fain believe that some of them -deserve it: but are they all then so despicable? Ah, doubtless, since -they have violated their duties in order to give themselves up to a -criminal love. From that moment they have lost everything, even the -esteem of him for whom they have sacrificed everything. The punishment -is just, but the mere idea makes one tremble. What matters it, after -all? Why should I occupy myself with them or with you? By what right do -you come to trouble my tranquillity? Leave me, see me no more; do not -write to me again, I beg you; I demand it of you. This letter is the -last which you will receive from me. - - At the Château de ..., 5th September, 17**. - - - - -LETTER THE FIFTY-SEVENTH - -THE VICOMTE DE VALMONT TO THE MARQUISE DE MERTEUIL - - -I FOUND your letter yesterday on my arrival. Your anger quite -delighted me. You could not have had a more lively sense of Danceny’s -delinquencies, if they had been exercised against yourself. It is no -doubt out of vengeance that you get his mistress into the habit of -showing him slight infidelities; you are a very wicked person! Yes, you -are charming, and I am not surprised that you are more irresistible -than Danceny. - -At last I know him by heart, this pretty hero of romance! He has no -more secrets for me. I have told him so often that virtuous love was -the supreme good, that one emotion was worth ten intrigues, that I -was myself, at this moment, amorous and timid; he found in me, in -short, a fashion of thinking so conformable with his own, that, in the -enchantment which he felt at my candour, he told me everything and -vowed me a friendship without reserve. We are no more advanced for that -in our project. - -At first, it seemed to me that he went on the theory that a young girl -demands much more consideration than a woman, in that she has more to -lose. He thinks, above all, that nothing can justify a man for putting -a girl into the necessity of marrying him, or living dishonoured, when -the girl is far richer than the man, which is the case in which he -finds himself. The mother’s sense of security, the girl’s candour, all -this intimidates and arrests him. The difficulty would not be simply to -dispute these arguments, however true they may be. With a little skill, -and helped by passion, they would soon be destroyed; all the more, in -that they tend to be ridiculous, and one would have the sanction of -custom on one’s side. But what hinders one from having any hold over -him is that he is happy as he is. Indeed, if a first love appears -generally more virtuous, and, as one says, purer; if, at least, its -course is slower, it is not, as people think, from delicacy or shyness; -it is that the heart, astonished at an unknown emotion, halts, so to -speak, at every step, to relish the charm which it experiences, and -that this charm is so potent over a young heart that it occupies it to -such an extent that it is unmindful of every other pleasure. That is so -true, that a libertine in love--if such may befall a libertine--becomes -from that instant in less haste for pleasure; in fact, between -Danceny’s behaviour towards the little Volanges, and my own towards the -more prudish Madame de Tourvel, there is but a shade of difference. - -It would have needed, to warm our young man, more obstacles than he -has encountered; above all, that there should have been need for more -mystery, for mystery begets boldness. I am coming to believe that you -have hurt us by serving him so well; your conduct would have been -excellent with a man of _experience_, who would have only felt desires: -but you might have foreseen that, with a young man who is honourable -and in love, the greatest value of favours is that they should be the -proof of love; and, consequently, that, the surer he were of being -beloved, the less enterprising he would become. What is to be done at -present? I know nothing; but I have no hope that the child will be -caught before marriage, and we shall have wasted our time: I am sorry -for it, but I see no remedy. - -Whilst I am thus discoursing, you are doing better with your Chevalier. -That reminds me that you have promised me an infidelity in my favour; I -have your promise in writing, and I do not want it to be a dishonoured -draft. I admit that the date of payment has not yet come; but it would -be generous of you not to wait for that; and on my side, I would take -charge of the interest. What do you say, my lovely friend? Are you not -tired of your constancy? Is this Chevalier then such a miracle? Oh, -give me my way; I will indeed compel you to admit that if you have -found some merit in him, it is because you have forgotten me. - -Farewell, my lovely friend; I embrace you with all the ardour of my -desire; I defy all the kisses of the Chevalier to contain as much. - - At ..., 5th September, 17**. - - - - -LETTER THE FIFTY-EIGHTH - -THE VICOMTE DE VALMONT TO THE PRÉSIDENTE DE TOURVEL - - -PRAY, Madame, how have I deserved the reproaches which you make me, -and the anger which you display? The liveliest attachment and, withal, -the most respectful, the most entire submission to your least wishes: -there, in two words, is the history of my sentiments and my conduct. -Oppressed by the pains of an unhappy love, I had no other consolation -than that of seeing you; you bade me deprive myself of that; I obeyed -you without permitting myself a murmur. As a reward for this sacrifice, -you allowed me to write to you, and to-day you would rob me of that -solitary pleasure. Shall I see it ravished from me without seeking to -defend it? No, without a doubt: ah, how should it not be dear to my -heart? It is the only one which remains to me, and I owe it to you. - -My letters, you say, are too frequent! But reflect, I beseech you, that -during the ten days of my exile, I have not passed one moment without -thinking of you, and that yet you have only received two letters -from me. _I only speak to you of my love!_ Ah, what can I say, save -that which I think? All that I could do was to weaken the expression -of that; and you can believe me that I only let you see what it was -impossible for me to hide. Finally, you threaten me that you will no -longer reply to me! Thus, the man who prefers you to everybody, and -who respects even more than he loves you: not content with treating -him with severity, you would add to it your contempt! And why these -threats and this anger? What need have you of them? Are you not sure -of being obeyed, even when your orders are unjust? Is it possible -for me then to dispute even one of your desires, have I not already -proved it? But will you abuse this empire which you have over me? -After having rendered me unhappy, after having become unjust, will you -find it so easy then to enjoy that tranquillity which you assure me is -so necessary to you? Will you never say to yourself: he has made me -mistress of his fate, and I have made him unhappy? He implored my aid, -and I looked at him without pity? Do you know to what point my despair -may carry me? No. To be able to appreciate my sufferings, you would -need to know the extent to which I love you, and you do not know my -heart. - -To what do you sacrifice me? To chimerical fears. And who inspires them -in you? A man who adores you; a man over whom you will never cease to -hold an absolute empire. What do you fear, what can you fear, from a -sentiment over which you will ever be mistress, to direct as you will? -But your imagination creates monsters for itself, and you attribute the -fright which they cause you to love. A little confidence, and these -phantoms will disappear. - -A wise man said that, to dispel fears, it is almost always sufficient -to penetrate into their causes.[19] It is in love especially that -this truth finds its application. Love, and your fears will vanish. -In the place of objects which affright you, you will find a delicious -emotion, a lover tender and submissive, and all your days, marked by -happiness, will leave you no other regret than that of having lost any -by indifference. I myself, since I repented of my errors and exist only -for love, regret a time which I thought I had passed in pleasure; and I -feel that it lies with you alone to make me happy. But, I beseech you, -let not the pleasure which I take in writing to you be disturbed by -the fear of displeasing you. I would not disobey you; but I am at your -knees; it is there I claim the happiness of which you would rob me, -the only one which you have left me; I cry to you, heed my prayers and -behold my tears; ah, Madame, will you refuse me? - - At ..., 7th September, 17**. - - - - -LETTER THE FIFTY-NINTH - -THE VICOMTE DE VALMONT TO THE MARQUISE DE MERTEUIL - - -TELL me, if you know, what is the meaning of this effusion of Danceny? -What has happened to him, and what has he lost? Has his fair one, -perchance, grown vexed with his eternal respect? One must be just; -we should be vexed for less. What am I to say to him this evening at -the _rendez-vous_ which he asks of me, and which I have given him at -all costs? Assuredly, I will not waste my time in listening to his -complaints, if that is to lead us nowhither. Amorous complaints are not -good to hear, save in a _recitato obbligato_ or _arietta_. Let me know -then what it is, and what I have to do, or really I shall desert, to -avoid the tedium which I foresee. Shall I be able to have a talk with -you this morning? If you are _engaged_, at least send me a word, and -give me the cues to my part. - -Where were you yesterday, pray? I never succeed in seeing you now. -Truly, it was not worth the trouble of keeping me in Paris in the month -of September. Make up your mind, however, as I have just received a -very pressing invitation from the Comtesse de B*** to go and see her -in the country; and, as she tells me, humorously enough, “her husband -has the finest woods in the world, which he carefully preserves for -the pleasure of his friends.” Now you know I have certainly some rights -over the woods in question; and I shall go and revisit them if I am -of no use to you. Adieu; remember Danceny will be with me about four -o’clock. - - Paris, 8th September, 17**. - - - - -LETTER THE SIXTIETH - -THE CHEVALIER DANCENY TO THE VICOMTE DE VALMONT - -(Enclosed in the preceding letter) - - -AH, Monsieur, I am in despair, I have lost all! I dare not confide to -writing the secret of my woes: but I feel a need to unburden them in -the ear of a sure and trusty friend. At what hour could I see you, and -ask you for advice and consolation? I was so happy on the day when I -opened my soul to you! Now, what a difference! All is changed with me. -What I suffer on my own account is but the least part of my torments; -my anxiety on behalf of a far dearer object, that is what I cannot -support. Happier than I, you will be able to see her, and I count on -your friendship not to refuse me this favour: but I must see you and -instruct you. You will pity me, you will help me; I have no hope save -in you. You are a man of sensibility, you know what love is, and you -are the only one in whom I can confide; do not refuse me your aid. - -Adieu, Monsieur; the only alleviation of my pain is the reflexion that -such a friend as yourself is left to me. Let me know, I beg you, at -what hour I can find you. If it is not this morning, I should like it -to be early in the afternoon. - - Paris, 8th September, 17**. - - - - -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**. - - - - -LETTER THE SIXTY-SECOND[20] - -MADAME DE VOLANGES TO THE CHEVALIER DANCENY - - -AFTER having abused, Monsieur, a mother’s confidence and the innocence -of a child, you will doubtless not be surprised if you are no longer -received in a house where you have responded to the marks of a most -sincere friendship, by a forgetfulness of all that is fitting. I -prefer to beg you not to call upon me again, than to give orders at -the door, which would compromise all alike, by the remarks which the -lackeys would not fail to make. I have a right to hope that you will -not force me to have recourse to such a means. I warn you also that -if you make in future the least attempt to support my daughter in the -folly into which you have beguiled her, an austere and eternal retreat -shall shelter her from your pursuit. It is for you to decide, Monsieur, -whether you will shrink as little from being the cause of her misery, -as you have from attempting her dishonour. As for me, my choice is -made, and I have acquainted her with it. - -You will find enclosed the packet containing your letters. I reckon -upon you to send me in return all those of my daughter, and to do your -utmost to leave no trace of an incident the memory of which I could not -retain without indignation, she without shame, and you without remorse. - -I have the honour to be, etc. - - Paris, 7th September, 17**. - - - - -LETTER THE SIXTY-THIRD - -THE MARQUISE DE MERTEUIL TO THE VICOMTE DE VALMONT - - -INDEED, yes, I will explain Danceny’s letter to you. The incident -which caused him to write it is my handiwork, and it is, I think, my -_chef-d’œuvre_. I wasted no time since your last letter, and I said -with the Athenian architect, “What he has said, I will do.” - -It is obstacles then that this fine hero of romance needs, and he -slumbers in felicity! Oh, let him look to me, I will give him some -work: and if his slumber is going to be peaceful any longer, I am -mistaken. Indeed, he had to be taught the value of time, and I flatter -myself that by now he is regretting all he has lost. It were well also, -said you, that he had need of more mystery: well, that need won’t be -lacking him now. I have this quality, I--that my mistakes have only -to be pointed out to me; then I take no repose until I have retrieved -them. Let me tell you now what I did. - -When I returned home in the morning of the day before yesterday, I -read your letter; I found it luminous. Convinced that you had put your -finger on the cause of the evil, my sole concern now was to find a -means of curing it. I commenced, however, by retiring to bed; for the -indefatigable Chevalier had not let me sleep a moment, and I thought I -was sleepy: but not at all; absorbed in Danceny, my desire to cure him -of his indolence, or to punish him for it, did not let me close an eye, -and it was only after I had thoroughly completed my plan, that I could -take two hours’ rest. - -I went that same evening to Madame de Volanges, and, according to -my project, I told her confidentially that I felt sure a dangerous -intimacy existed between her daughter and Danceny. This woman, who -sees so clearly in your case, was so blind that she answered me at -first that I was certainly mistaken, that her daughter was a child, -etc., etc. I could not tell her all I knew; but I quoted certain looks -and remarks _whereat my virtue and my friendship had taken alarm_. In -short, I spoke almost as well as a _dévote_ would have done; and to -strike the decisive blow, I went so far as to say that I thought I had -seen a letter given and received. “That reminds me,” I added, “one -day she opened before me a drawer in her desk in which I saw a number -of papers, which she doubtless preserves. Do you know if she has any -frequent correspondence?” Here Madame de Volanges’ face changed, and -I saw some tears rise to her eyes. “I thank you, my kind friend,” she -said, as she pressed my hand; “I will clear this up.” - -After this conversation, which was too short to excite suspicion, I -went over to the young person. I left her soon afterwards, to beg her -mother not to compromise me in her daughter’s eyes; she promised me -this the more willingly, when I pointed out to her how fortunate it -would be if the child were to take sufficient confidence in me to open -her heart to me, and thus afford me the occasion of giving her _my wise -counsels_. I feel certain that she will keep her promise, because -she will doubtless seek to vaunt her penetration in her daughter’s -eyes. Thus I am authorized to maintain my friendly tone towards the -child, without seeming false to Madame de Volanges, which I wished to -avoid. I have also gained for the future the right to be as long and -as privately as I like with the young person, without the mother being -able to take umbrage. - -I took advantage of this, that very evening; and when my game was over, -I took the child aside in a corner, and set her on the subject of -Danceny, upon which she is inexhaustible. I amused myself by exciting -her with the pleasure she will have when she sees him to-morrow; there -is no kind of folly that I did not make her say. I needs must restore -to her in hope what I had deprived her of in reality; and besides all -that ought to render the blow more forcible, and I am persuaded that, -the more she suffers, the greater will be her haste to compensate -herself for it, on the next occasion. ’Tis wise, moreover, to accustom -to great events anyone whom one destines for great adventures. - -After all, may she not pay for the pleasure of having her Danceny with -a few tears? She dotes on him! Well, I promise her that she shall have -him, and even sooner than she would have done, but for this storm. It -is like a bad dream, the awakening from which will be delicious; and, -considering all, I think she owes me gratitude: after all, if I have -put a spice of malice into it, one must amuse oneself: - - _“Les sots sont ici-bas pour nos menus-plaisirs.”_[21] - -I withdrew at last, thoroughly satisfied with myself. Either, said -I to myself, Danceny’s love, excited by obstacles, will redouble in -intensity, and then I shall serve him with all my power; or, if he is -nothing but a fool, as I am sometimes tempted to believe, he will be -in despair, and will look upon himself as beaten: now, in that case, -I shall at least have been as well avenged on him as he has been on -me; on my way, I shall have increased the mother’s esteem for me, the -daughter’s friendship, and the confidence of both. As for Gercourt, the -first object of my care, I should be very unlucky, or very clumsy, if, -mistress over his bride’s mind, as I am, and as I intend to be even -more, I did not find a thousand ways of making him what I mean him to -be. I went to bed with these pleasant thoughts: I slept well, too, and -awoke very late. - -On my awakening I found two letters, one from the mother and one from -the daughter; and I could not refrain from laughing when I encountered, -in both, literally this same phrase: “_It is from you alone that I -expect any consolation._” Is it not amusing to console for and against, -and to be the single agent of two directly contrary interests? Behold -me, like the Divinity, receiving the diverse petitions of blind -mortals, and altering nothing in my immutable decrees. I have deserted -that august part, however, to assume that of the consoling angel; -and have been, as the precept bids us, to visit my friends in their -affliction. - -I began with the mother; I found her wrapped in a sadness which already -avenges you in part for the obstacles she has thrown in your way, on -the side of your fair prude. Everything has succeeded marvellously, -and my only anxiety was lest Madame de Volanges should take advantage -of the moment to gain her daughter’s confidence: which would have -been quite easy, had she employed with her the language of kindness -and affection, and given to reasonable counsels the air and tone of -indulgent tenderness. Luckily she had armed herself with severity; in -short, she had behaved so unwisely that I could only applaud. It is -true that she thought of frustrating all our schemes, by the course -which she had resolved on of sending her daughter back to the convent: -but I warded off this blow, and induced her merely to make a threat of -it, in the event of Danceny continuing his pursuit; this in order to -compel both to a circumspection which I believe necessary to success. - -I next went to the daughter. You would not believe how grief improves -her! If she does but take to coquetry, I warrant that she will be often -weeping; but this time she wept in all sincerity.... Struck by this -new charm, which I had not known in her, and which I was very pleased -to observe, I gave her at first but clumsy consolations, which rather -increased her sorrow than assuaged it; and by this means I brought her -well nigh to choking-point. She wept no more, and for a moment I was -afraid of convulsions. I advised her to go to bed, to which she agreed; -I served her for waiting-maid: she had made no toilette, and soon her -dishevelled hair was falling over her shoulders and bosom, which were -entirely bare; I embraced her; she abandoned herself in my arms, and -her tears began to flow again without an effort. Lord! how beautiful -she was! Ah, if the Magdalen was like that, she must have been far more -dangerous in her penitence than when she sinned. - -When the disconsolate fair one was in bed, I started to console her in -good faith. I first reassured her as to her fear about the convent. I -excited a hope in her of seeing Danceny in secret; and sitting upon the -bed: “If _he_ was here,” said I; then, embroidering on this theme, I -led her from distraction to distraction, until she had quite forgotten -her affliction. We should have separated in a complete satisfaction -with one another, if she had not wished to charge me with a letter to -Danceny; which I consistently refused. Here are my reasons for this, -which you will doubtless approve: - -To begin with, it would have been to compromise myself openly with -Danceny; and though this was the only reason I could employ with the -little one, there are plenty of others which hold between you and me. -Would it not have been to risk the fruit of my labours to give our -young people so soon a means so easy of lightening their pains? And -then, I should not be sorry to compel them to introduce some servants -into this adventure; for, if it is to work out well, which is what I -hope for, it must become known immediately after the marriage, and -there are few surer methods of publishing it. Or if, by a miracle, the -servants were not to speak, we would speak ourselves, and it will be -more convenient to lay the indiscretion to their account. - -You must give this idea, then, to-day to Danceny; and as I am not sure -of the waiting-maid of the little Volanges, and she seems to distrust -her herself, suggest my own to him, my faithful Victoire. I will take -care that the enterprise is successful. This idea pleases me all the -more, as the confidence will only be useful to us and not to them: for -I am not at the end of my story. - -Whilst I was excusing myself from carrying the child’s letter, I was -afraid every moment that she would suggest that I should send it by -the post, which I could hardly have refused to do. Luckily, either in -her confusion or in her ignorance, or again because she was less set -on her letter than on a reply to it, which she could not have obtained -by this means, she did not speak of it to me; but, to prevent this -idea coming to her, or at least her being able to use it, I made up -my mind on the spot; and on returning to her mother, persuaded her to -send her daughter away for some time, to take her to the country.... -And where? Does not your heart beat with joy?... To your Aunt, to the -old Rosemonde. She is to apprise her of it to-day; so, behold you -authorized to return to your Puritan, who will no longer be able to -reproach you with the scandal of a _tête-à-tête_; and thanks to my -pains, Madame de Volanges will herself repair the wrong she had done -you. - -But listen to me, and do not be so constantly wrapped up in your own -affairs as to lose sight of this one; remember that I am interested in -it. I want you to become the go-between and counsellor of the two young -people. Inform Danceny of this journey and offer him your services. -Find no difficulty, except as to getting your letter of credit into the -fair one’s hands; and demolish this obstacle on the spot by suggesting -to him the services of my waiting-maid. There is no doubt but that -he will accept; and you will have, as reward for your trouble, the -confidence of a young heart, which is always interesting. Poor child, -how she will blush when she hands you her first letter! In truth, this -_rôle_ of confidant, against which a sort of prejudice has grown up, -seems to me a very pretty relaxation, when you are occupied elsewhere; -and that is the case in which you will be. - -It is upon your attention that the _dénouement_ of this intrigue -will depend. Judge the moment when the actors must be reunited. The -country offers a thousand ways; and Danceny cannot fail to be ready -at your first signal. A night, a disguise, a window ... what do I -know? But mark me, if the little girl comes back as she went away, -I shall quarrel with you. If you consider that she has need of any -encouragement from me, send word to me. I think I have given her such -a good lesson on the danger of keeping letters, that I may venture to -write to her now; and I still cherish the design of making her my pupil. - -I believe I forgot to tell you that her suspicions with regard to the -surprised correspondence fell at first upon her waiting-maid, but that -I turned them towards the confessor. That was a way of killing two -birds with one stone. - -Adieu, Vicomte, I have been writing to you a long time now, and my -dinner is the later for it: but self-love and friendship dictated my -letter, and both are garrulous. For the rest, it will be with you by -three o’clock, and that is all you need. - -Pity me now, if you dare; and go and visit the woods of the Comte de -B***, if they tempt you. You say that he keeps them for the pleasure of -his friends! Is the man a friend of all the world then? But adieu, I am -hungry. - - Paris, 9th September, 17**. - - - - -LETTER THE SIXTY-FOURTH - -THE CHEVALIER DANCENY TO MADAME DE VOLANGES - -(A draft enclosed in letter the sixty-sixth, from the Vicomte to the -Marquise) - - -WITHOUT seeking, Madame, to justify my conduct, and without complaining -of yours, I cannot but grieve at an event which brings unhappiness to -three persons, all three worthier of a happier fate. More sensible -to the grief of being the cause of it than even to that of being its -victim, I have tried frequently, since yesterday, to have the honour -to write to you, without being able to find the strength. I have, -however, so many things to say to you that I must make a great effort -over myself; and if this letter has little order and sequence, you -must be sufficiently sensible of my painful situation to grant me some -indulgence. - -Permit me, first, to protest against the first sentence of your letter. -I venture to say that I have abused neither your confidence nor the -innocence of Mademoiselle de Volanges; in my actions I respected both. -These alone depended on me; and when you would render me responsible -for an involuntary sentiment, I am not afraid to add that that which -Mademoiselle your daughter has inspired in me is of a kind which may -be displeasing to you but cannot offend you. Upon this subject, which -touches me more than I can say, I wish for no other judge than you, and -my letters for my witnesses. - -You forbid me to present myself at your house in future, and doubtless -I shall submit to everything which it shall please you to order on this -subject: but will not this sudden and total absence give as much cause -for the remarks which you would avoid as the order which, for that very -same reason, you did not wish to leave at your door? I insist all the -more on this point, in that it is far more important for Mademoiselle -de Volanges than for me. I beg you then to weigh everything -attentively, and not to permit your severity to lessen your prudence. -Persuaded that the simple interest of Mademoiselle your daughter will -dictate your resolves, I shall await fresh orders from you. - -Meanwhile, in case you should permit me to pay you my court sometimes, -I undertake, Madame (and you can count on my promise), not to abuse -the opportunity by attempting to speak privately with Mademoiselle de -Volanges, or to send any letter to her. The fear of compromising her -reputation decides me to this sacrifice; and the happiness of sometimes -seeing her will be my reward. - -This paragraph of my letter is also the only reply that I can make -to what you tell me as to the fate you reserve for Mademoiselle de -Volanges, and which you would make dependent on my conduct. I should -deceive you were I to promise you more. A vile seducer can adapt his -plans to circumstances, and calculate upon events; but the love which -animates me permits me only two sentiments, courage and constancy. -What, I! consent to be forgotten by Mademoiselle de Volanges, to -forget her myself! No, no, never! I will be faithful to her, she has -received my vow, and I renew it this day. Forgive me, Madame, I am -losing myself, I must return. - -There remains one other matter to discuss with you; that of the letters -which you demand from me. I am truly pained to have to add a refusal to -the wrongs which you already accuse me of: but I beg you, listen to my -reasons, and deign to remember, in order to appreciate them, that the -only consolation of my unhappiness at having lost your friendship is -the hope of retaining your esteem. - -The letters of Mademoiselle de Volanges, always so precious to me, have -become doubly so at present. They are the solitary good thing which -remains to me; they alone retrace for me a sentiment which is all the -charm of life to me. However, you may believe me, I should not hesitate -an instant in making the sacrifice, and my regret at being deprived -of them would yield to my desire of proving to you my respectful -deference; but considerations more powerful restrain me, and I assure -you that you yourself cannot blame me for them. - -You have, it is true, the secret of Mademoiselle de Volanges; but -permit me to say that I am authorized to believe it is the result of -surprise and not of confidence. I do not pretend to blame a proceeding -which is, perhaps, authorized by maternal solicitude. I respect your -rights, but they do not extend so far as to dispense me from my duties. -The most sacred of all is never to betray the confidence which is -entrusted to you. It would be to fail in this to expose to the eyes of -another the secrets of a heart which did but wish to reveal them to -mine. If Mademoiselle your daughter consents to confide them to you, -let her speak; her letters are of no use to you. If she wishes, on -the contrary, to lock her secret within herself, you doubtless cannot -expect me to be the person to instruct you. - -As for the mystery in which you desire this incident to be buried, rest -assured, Madame, that, in all that concerns Mademoiselle de Volanges, -I can rival even a mother’s heart. To complete my work of removing all -cause for anxiety from you, I have foreseen everything. This precious -deposit, which bore hitherto the inscription: _Papers to be burned_, -carries now the words: _Papers belonging to Madame de Volanges_. The -course which I have taken should prove to you also that my refusal does -not refer to any fear that you might find in these letters one single -sentiment with which you could personally find fault. - -This, Madame, is indeed a long letter. It will not have been long -enough, if it leaves you the least doubt as to the honesty of my -sentiments, my very sincere regret at having displeased you, and the -profound respect with which I have the honour to be, etc. - - Paris, 9th September, 17**. - - - - -LETTER THE SIXTY-FIFTH - -THE CHEVALIER DANCENY TO CÉCILE VOLANGES - -(Sent open to the Marquise de Merteuil in letter the sixty-sixth from -the Vicomte) - - -O MY Cécile! what is to become of us? What God will save us from the -misfortunes which threaten us? Let love, at least, give us the courage -to support them! How can I paint for you my astonishment, my despair, -at the sight of my letters, at the reading of Madame de Volanges’ -missive? Who can have betrayed us? On whom do your suspicions fall? -Could you have committed any imprudence? What are you doing now? What -have they said to you? I would know everything, and I am ignorant of -all. Perhaps, you yourself are no better informed than I. - -I send you your Mamma’s note and a copy of my reply. I hope that you -will approve of what I have said. I need also your approval of all -the measures I have taken since this fatal event; they are all with -the object of having news of you, of giving you mine; and, who knows? -perhaps of seeing you again, and more freely than ever. - -Imagine, my Cécile, the pleasure of finding ourselves together again, -of being able to seal anew our vows of eternal love, and of seeing in -our eyes, of feeling in our souls, that this vow will not be falsified! -What pain will not so sweet a moment make us forget! Ah, well, I have -hope of seeing it arrive, and I owe it to these same measures which I -beg you to approve. What am I saying? I owe it to the consoling care of -the most tender of friends; and my sole request is that you will permit -this friend to become also your own. - -Perhaps, I ought not to have given your confidence away without your -consent; but I had misfortune and necessity for my excuse. It is love -which has guided me; it is that which claims your indulgence, which -begs you to pardon a confidence that was necessary, and without which -we should, perhaps, have been separated for ever.[22] You know the -friend of whom I speak: he is the friend of the woman whom you love -best. It is the Vicomte de Valmont. - -My plan in addressing him was, at first, to beg him to induce Madame -de Merteuil to take charge of a letter for you. He did not think this -method could succeed, but, in default of the mistress, he answered for -the maid, who was under obligations to him. It is she who will give you -this letter; and you can give her your reply. - -This assistance will hardly be of use to us, if, as M. de Valmont -believes, you leave immediately for the country. But then it will be -he himself who will serve us. The lady to whom you are going is his -kinswoman. He will take advantage of this pretext to repair thither at -the same time that you do; and it will be through him that our mutual -correspondence will pass. He assures me, even, that if you will let -yourself be guided by him, he will procure us the means of meeting, -without your running the risk of being in any way compromised. - -Now, my Cécile, if you love me, if you pity my misery, if, as I hope, -you share my regret, will you refuse your confidence to a man who -will become our guardian angel? Without him, I should be reduced to -the despair of being unable even to alleviate the grief I have caused -you. It will finish, I hope: but promise me, my tender friend, not to -abandon yourself overmuch to it, not to let it break you down. The -idea of your grief is insupportable torture to me. I would give my -life to make you happy! You know that well. May the certainty that you -are adored carry some consolation to your soul! Mine has need of your -assurance that you pardon love for the ills it has made you suffer. - -Adieu, my Cécile, adieu, my tender love! - - Paris, 9th September, 17**. - - - - -LETTER THE SIXTY-SIXTH - -THE VICOMTE DE VALMONT TO THE MARQUISE DE MERTEUIL - - -YOU will see, my lovely friend, by a perusal of the two enclosed -letters, whether I have well fulfilled your project. Although both are -dated to-day, they were written yesterday at my house, and beneath my -eyes; that to the little girl says all that we wanted. One can but -humble one’s self before the profundity of your views, when one judges -of it by the success of your measures. Danceny is all on fire; and -assuredly, at the first opportunity, you will have no more reproaches -to make him. If his fair _ingénue_ choose to be tractable, all will -be finished a short time after her arrival in the country; I have a -hundred methods all prepared. Thanks to your care, behold me decidedly -_the friend of Danceny_; it only remains for him to become _Prince_.[23] - -He is still very young, this Danceny! Would you believe it, I have -never been able to prevail on him to promise the mother to renounce -his love; as if there were much hindrance in a promise, when one is -determined not to keep it! It would be deceit, he kept on repeating to -me: is not this scruple edifying, especially in the would-be seducer -of the daughter? That is so like men! all equally rascally in their -designs, the weakness they display in the execution they christen -probity. - -It is your affair to prevent Madame de Volanges from taking alarm at -the little sallies which our young man has permitted himself in his -letter; preserve us from the convent; try also to make her abandon her -request for the child’s letters. To begin with, he will not give them -up, and I am of his opinion; here love and reason are in accord. I have -read them, these letters; I have assimilated the tedium of them. They -may become useful. I will explain. - -In spite of the prudence which we shall employ, there may arise a -scandal; this would break off the marriage, would it not? and spoil all -our Gercourt projects. But, as on my side I have to be revenged on the -mother, I reserve for myself in such a case the daughter’s dishonour. -By selecting carefully from this correspondence, and producing only a -part of it, the little Volanges would appear to have made all the first -overtures, and to have absolutely thrown herself at his head. Some of -the letters would even compromise the mother, and would, at any rate, -convict her of unpardonable negligence. I am quite aware that the -scrupulous Danceny would revolt against this at first; but, as he would -be personally attacked, I think he would be open to reason. It is a -thousand chances to one that things will not turn out so; but one must -foresee everything. - -Adieu, my lovely friend: it would be very amiable of you to come and -sup to-morrow at the Maréchale de ***’s; I could not refuse. - -I presume I have no need to recommend you secrecy, as regards Madame de -Volanges, upon my country project. She would at once decide to stay -in Town: whereas, once arrived there, she will not start off again the -next day; and, if she only gives us a week, I answer for everything. - - Paris, 9th September, 17**. - - - - -LETTER THE SIXTY-SEVENTH - -THE PRÉSIDENTE DE TOURVEL TO THE VICOMTE DE VALMONT - - -I DID not mean to answer you again, Monsieur, and, perhaps, the -embarrassment I feel at the present moment is itself an effectual proof -that I ought not. However, I would not leave you any cause of complaint -against me; I wish to convince you that I have done for you everything -I could. - -I permitted you to write to me, you say? I agree; but when you remind -me of that permission, do you think I forget on what conditions it was -given? If I had been as faithful as you have proved the reverse, would -you have received a single reply from me? This is, however, the third; -and when you do all that in you lies to compel me to break off this -correspondence, it is I who am busy with the means of continuing it. -There is one, but only one; and if you refuse to take it, it will prove -to me, whatever you may say, how little value you set upon it. - -Forsake, then, a language to which I may not and will not listen; -renounce a sentiment which offends and alarms me, and to which you -would perhaps be less attached, if you reflected that it is the -obstacle which separates us. Is this sentiment the only one, then, -that you can understand? And must love have this one fault the more in -my eyes, that it excludes friendship? Would you yourself be so wrong as -not to wish for your friend her in whom you have desired more tender -sentiments? I would not believe it: that humiliating idea would revolt -me, would divide me from you without hope of return. - -In offering you my friendship, Monsieur, I give you all that is mine -to give, all of which I can dispose. What can you desire more? To give -way to this sentiment, so gentle, so suited to my heart, I only await -your assent and the word which I ask of you, that this friendship will -suffice for your happiness. I will forget all that I may have been -told; I will trust in you to be at the pains of justifying my choice. - -You see my frankness; it should prove to you my confidence; it will -rest with you only, if it is to be further augmented: but I warn you -that the first word of love destroys it for ever, and restores to me -all my fears; above all, that it will become the signal for my eternal -silence with regard to you. - -If, as you say, you have turned away from your errors, will you not -rather be the object of a virtuous woman’s friendship than of a guilty -woman’s remorse? Adieu, Monsieur; you feel that, after having spoken -thus, I can say nothing more until you have replied to me. - - At the Château de ..., 9th September, 17**. - - - - -LETTER THE SIXTY-EIGHTH - -THE VICOMTE DE VALMONT TO THE PRÉSIDENTE DE TOURVEL - - -HOW, Madame, am I to answer your last letter? How dare be true, when -my sincerity may ruin my cause with you? No matter, I must; I will -have the courage. I tell myself, I repeat to myself, that it is better -to deserve you than to obtain you: and, must you deny me for ever a -happiness that I shall never cease to desire, I must at least prove to -you that my heart is worthy of it. - -What a pity, that, as you say, I have _turned away from my errors!_ -With what transports of joy I should have read that same letter, -to which I tremble to-day to reply. You speak to me therein with -_frankness_, you display me _confidence_, and you offer me your -_friendship_: what good things, Madame, and how I regret that I can not -profit by them! Why am I no longer what I was? - -If I were, indeed, if I felt for you only an ordinary fancy, that light -fancy which is the child of seduction and pleasure, which to-day, -however, is christened love, I should hasten to extract advantage from -all that I could obtain. With scant delicacy as to means, provided -that they procured me success, I should encourage your frankness from -my need of finding you out; I should desire your confidence with the -design of betraying it; I should accept your friendship with the hope -of beguiling it.... What, Madame! does this picture alarm you?... Ah, -well, it would be a true picture of me, were I to tell you that I -consented to be no more than your friend. - -What, I! I consent to share with any one a sentiment which has emanated -from your soul! If I ever tell you so, do not believe me. From that -moment I should seek to deceive you; I might desire you still, but I -should assuredly love you no longer. - -It is not that amiable frankness, sweet confidence, sensible friendship -are without value in my eyes.... But love! True love, and such as you -inspire, by uniting all these sentiments, by giving them more energy, -would not know how to lend itself, like them, to that tranquillity, to -that coldness of soul, which permits comparisons, which even suffers -preferences. No, Madame, I will not be your friend; I will love you -with the most tender, even the most ardent love, although the most -respectful. You can drive it to despair, but you cannot annihilate it. - -By what right do you pretend to dispose of a heart whose homage you -refuse? By what refinement of cruelty do you rob me of even the -happiness of loving you? That happiness is mine; it is independent of -you; I shall know how to defend it. If it is the source of my ills, it -is also their remedy. - -No, once more, no. Persist in your cruel refusals, but leave me my -love. You take pleasure in making me unhappy! ah, well! be it so, -endeavour to wear out my courage, I shall know how to force you at -least to decide my fate; and perhaps some day you will render me more -justice. It is not that I hope ever to make you susceptible: but, -without being persuaded, you will be convinced; you will say to -yourself: I judged him ill. - -To put it rightly, it is to yourself that you are unjust. To know -you without loving you, to love you without being constant, are two -things which are equally impossible; and, in spite of the modesty which -adorns you, it must be easier for you to feel pity than surprise at -the sentiments which you arouse. For me, whose only merit is that I -have known how to appreciate you, I will not lose that; and far from -accepting your insidious offers, I renew at your feet my vow to love -you always. - - Paris, 10th September, 17**. - - - - -LETTER THE SIXTY-NINTH - -CÉCILE VOLANGES TO THE CHEVALIER DANCENY - -(A note written in pencil, and copied out by Danceny) - - -YOU ask me what I am doing; I love you and I weep. My mother no longer -speaks to me; she has taken pens, ink, and paper away from me; I am -making use of a pencil which has happily been left to me, and I am -writing on a fragment of your letter. I needs must approve all you have -done; I love you too well not to take every means of having news of you -and of giving you my own. I did not like M. de Valmont, and I did not -know he was so great a friend of yours; I will try to get used to him, -and I will love him for your sake. I do not know who it is that has -betrayed us; it can only be my waiting-maid or my confessor. I am very -miserable: we are going to the country to-morrow; I do not know for -how long. My God! to see you no more! I have no more room: adieu, try -to read me. These words traced in pencil will perhaps be effaced, but -never the sentiments engraved on my heart. - - Paris, 10th September, 17**. - - - - -LETTER THE SEVENTIETH - -THE VICOMTE DE VALMONT TO THE MARQUISE DE MERTEUIL - - -I HAVE an important warning to give you, my dear friend. As you know, -I supped yesterday with the Maréchale de ***: you were spoken of, and -I said, not all the good which I think, but all that which I do not -think. Everyone appeared to be of my opinion, and the conversation -languished, as ever happens when one says only good of one’s neighbour, -when a voice was raised in contradiction: it was Prévan’s. - -“Heaven forbid,” he said, rising, “that I should doubt the virtue of -Madame de Merteuil! But I would dare believe that she owes it more -to her lightness of character than to her principles. It is perhaps -more difficult to follow her than to please her; and, as one rarely -fails, when one runs after a woman, to meet others on the way; as, -after all, these others may be as good as she is, or better; some are -distracted by a fresh fancy, others stop short from lassitude; and she -is, perhaps, the woman in all Paris who has had least cause to defend -herself. As for me,” he added, encouraged by the smile of some of the -women, “I shall not believe in Madame de Merteuil’s virtue, until I -have killed six horses in paying my court to her.” - -This ill-natured joke succeeded, as do all those which savour of -scandal; and, during the laugh which it excited, Prévan resumed his -place, and the general conversation changed. But the two Comtesses de -B***, by the side of whom our sceptic sat, had a private conversation -with him, which luckily I was in a position to overhear. - -The challenge to render you susceptible was accepted; word was pledged -that everything was to be told: and of all the pledges that might -be given in this adventure, this one should assuredly be the most -religiously kept. But there you are, forewarned, and you know the -proverb. - -It remains for me to tell you that this Prévan, whom you do not know, -is infinitely amiable, and even more adroit. If you have sometimes -heard me declare the contrary, it is only that I do not like him, that -it is my pleasure to thwart his success, and that I am not ignorant of -the weight of my suffrage with thirty or so of our most fashionable -women. In fact, I prevented him for long, by this means, from appearing -on what we call the great scene; and he did prodigies, without for that -winning any more reputation. But the fame of his triple adventure, by -turning people’s eyes on him, gave him that confidence which hitherto -he had lacked, and which has rendered him really formidable. He is, in -short, to-day perhaps the only man whom I should fear to meet in my -path; and, apart from your own interest, you will be rendering me a -real service by making him appear ridiculous by the way. I leave him -in good hands, and I cherish the hope that, on my return, he will be a -ruined man. - -I promise, in revenge, to carry through the adventure of your pupil, -and to concern myself as much with her as with my fair prude. - -The latter has just sent me a letter of capitulation. The whole letter -announces her desire to be deceived. It is impossible to suggest a -method more time-worn or more easy. She wishes me to become _her -friend_. But I, who love new and difficult methods, do not mean to cry -quits with her so cheaply; and I most certainly should not have been at -such pains with her, to conclude with an ordinary seduction. - -What I propose, on the contrary, is that she should feel, and feel -thoroughly, the value of each one of the sacrifices she shall make -me; not to lead her too swiftly for remorse to follow her; to let her -virtue expire in a slow agony; to concentrate her, unceasingly, upon -the heartbreaking spectacle; and only to grant her the happiness of -having me in her arms, after compelling her no longer to dissimulate -her desire. In truth, I am of little worth indeed, if I am not worth -the trouble of asking for. And can I take a less revenge for the -haughtiness of a woman who seems to blush to confess that she adores? - -I have, therefore, refused the precious friendship, and have held to -my title of lover. As I do not deny that this title, which seems at -first no more than a verbal quibble, is, however, of real importance -to obtain, I have taken a great deal of pains with my letter, and -endeavoured to be lavish of that disorder which alone can depict -sentiment. I have, in short, been as irrational as it was possible for -me to be: for, without one be irrational, there is no tenderness; and -it is for this reason, I believe, that women are so much our superiors -in love-letters. - -I concluded mine with a piece of cajolery; and that is another -result of my profound observation. After a woman’s heart has been for -some time exercised, it has need of repose; and I have remarked that -cajolery was, to all, the softest pillow that could be offered. - -Adieu, my lovely friend; I leave to-morrow. If you have any commands -to give me for the Comtesse de ***, I will halt at her house, at any -rate for dinner. I am vexed to leave without seeing you. Send me your -sublime instructions, and aid me with your wise counsels, in this -critical moment. - -Above all, defend yourself against Prévan; and grant that I may make -amends to you one day for the sacrifice! Adieu. - - Paris, 11th September, 17**. - - - - -LETTER THE SEVENTY-FIRST - -THE VICOMTE DE VALMONT TO THE MARQUISE DE MERTEUIL - - -MY idiot of a _chasseur_ has left my desk in Paris! My fair one’s -letters, those of Danceny to the little Volanges: all have remained -behind, and I have need of all. He is going off to repair his -stupidity; and whilst he is saddling his horse, I will tell you my -night’s story: for I beg you to believe I do not waste my time. - -The adventure in itself is but a small thing; a _réchauffé_ with -the Vicomtesse de M***. But it interested me in its details. I am -delighted, moreover, to let you see that, if I have a talent for -ruining women, I have none the less, when I wish it, that of saving -them. The most difficult course or the merriest is the one I choose; -and I never reproach myself for a good action, provided that it has -kept me in practice or amused me. - -I found the Vicomtesse here, and as she joined her entreaties to the -persecutions with which they would make me pass the night at the -_château_: “Well, I consent,” I said to her, “on condition that I pass -it with you.” “That is impossible,” she answered: “Vressac is here.” -So far, I had but meant to say the polite thing to her; but the word -impossible revolted me as usual. I felt humiliated at being sacrificed -to Vressac, and I resolved not to suffer it; I insisted therefore. - -Circumstances were not favourable to me. This Vressac had been awkward -enough to give offence to the Vicomte; so much so that the Vicomtesse -can no longer receive him at home, and this visit to the good Comtesse -had been arranged between them, in order to try and snatch a few -nights. The Vicomte had at first even shown signs of ill-humour at -meeting Vressac there; but, as his love of sport is even stronger than -his jealousy, he stayed none the less: and the Comtesse, always the -same as you know her, after lodging the wife in the great corridor, put -the husband on one side and the lover on the other, and left them to -arrange things amongst themselves. The evil destiny of both willed that -I should be housed opposite them. - -That very day, that is to say, yesterday, Vressac, who, as you will -well believe, cajoles the Vicomte, went out shooting with him in spite -of his distaste for sport, and quite counted on consoling himself at -night in the wife’s arms for the _ennui_ which the husband caused him -all day: but I judged that he would have need of repose, and busied -myself with the means of persuading his mistress to give him the time -to take it. - -I succeeded, and persuaded her to pick a quarrel with him concerning -that very same shooting party to which, very obviously, he had only -consented for her sake. She could not have chosen a more sorry pretext; -but no woman is better endowed than the Vicomtesse with that talent, -common to all women, of putting ill-humour in the place of reason, and -of being never so difficult to appease as when she is in the wrong. -Neither was the moment convenient for explanations; and, as I only -wished her for one night, I consented to their reconciliation on the -morrow. - -Vressac was greeted sullenly on his return. He sought to demand the -cause; he was abused. He tried to justify himself; the husband, who was -present, served for a pretext to break off the conversation; finally, -he attempted to take advantage of a moment when the husband was absent, -to ask that she would be kind enough to listen to him that night: it -was then that the Vicomtesse became sublime. She declaimed against the -audacity of men who, because they have experienced a woman’s favours, -suppose that they have the right to abuse her, even when she has cause -of complaint against him; and, having thus skilfully changed the issue, -she talked sentiment and delicacy so well that Vressac grew dumb and -confused, and I myself was tempted to believe that she was right: for -you must know that, as a friend of both of them, I made a third at this -conversation. - -In the end, she declared positively that she would not add the fatigues -of love to those of the chase, and that she would reproach herself -were she to disturb such sweet pleasures. The husband returned. The -disconsolate Vressac, who was no longer at liberty to reply, addressed -himself to me; and, having, at great length, expounded his reasons, -which I knew as well as he, he begged me to speak to the Vicomtesse, -and I promised him to do so. I spoke to her, in effect; but it was -in order to thank her, and to arrange the hour and manner of our -_rendez-vous_. - -She told me that, situated as she was between her husband and her -lover, she had thought it more prudent to go to Vressac than to receive -him in her apartment; and that, since I was placed opposite her, she -thought it was safer also to come to me; that she would repair to my -room as soon as her waiting-maid had left her alone; that I had only to -leave my door ajar and await her. - -Everything was carried out as we had arranged; and she came to my room -about one o’clock in the morning, - - _“Dans le simple appareil - D’une beauté qu’on vient d’arracher au sommeil.”_[24] - -As I am quite without vanity, I will not go into the details of the -night; but you know me, and I was satisfied with myself. - -At day-break, we had to separate. It is here that the interest begins. -The imprudent woman had thought to have left her door ajar; we found it -shut, and the key was left inside. You have no idea of the expression -of despair, with which the Vicomtesse said to me at once: “Ah, I am -lost!” You must admit it would have been amusing to have left her in -this situation: but could I suffer a woman to be ruined for me who -had not been ruined by me? And should I, like the commonalty of men, -let myself be overcome by circumstances? A method had to be found -therefore. What would you have done, my fair friend? Hear what was my -conduct; it was successful. - -I soon realized that the door in question could be burst in, on -condition that one made a mighty amount of noise. I persuaded the -Vicomtesse, therefore, not without difficulty, to utter some piercing -cries of terror, such as _thieves, murder_, etc., etc. And we arranged -that, at the first cry, I should break in the door, and she should rush -to her bed. You would not believe how much time it needed to decide -her, even after she had consented. However, it had to be done that way, -and at my first kick the door yielded. The Vicomtesse did well not -to lose time; for, at the same instant, the Vicomte and Vressac were in -the corridor, and the waiting-maid had also run up to her mistress’s -chamber. I alone kept my coolness, and I profited by it to go and -extinguish a night-light which still burned, for you can imagine how -ridiculous it would have been to feign this panic terror with a light -in one’s room. I then took husband and lover to task for their sluggish -sleep, assuring them that the cries, at which I had run up, and my -efforts to burst open the door, had lasted at least five minutes. - -[Illustration: C. Monnet inv.del N. Le Mire Sculp.] - -The Vicomtesse, who had regained her courage in bed, seconded me -well enough, and swore by all her gods that there had been a thief -in her chamber; she protested with all the more sincerity in that -she had never had such a fright in her life. We searched everywhere -and found nothing, when I pointed to the overturned night-light, and -concluded that, without a doubt, a rat had caused the damage and the -alarm; my opinion was accepted unanimously; and, after some well-worn -pleasantries on the subject of rats, the Vicomte was the first to -regain his chamber and his bed, praying his wife for the future to keep -her rats quieter. - -Vressac, who was left alone with us, approached the Vicomtesse to tell -her tenderly that it was a vengeance of Love; to which she answered, -glancing at me, “He was indeed angry then, for he has taken ample -vengeance; but,” she added, “I am exhausted with fatigue and I want to -sleep.” - -I was in a good-humoured moment; consequently, before we separated, I -pleaded Vressac’s cause and effected a reconciliation. The two lovers -embraced, and I, in my turn, was embraced by both. I had no more -relish for the kisses of the Vicomtesse; but I confess that Vressac’s -pleased me. We went out together; and after I had accepted his lengthy -thanks, we both betook ourselves to bed. - -If you find this history amusing, I do not ask you to keep it secret. -Now that I have had my amusement out of it, it is but just that the -public should have its turn. For the moment, I am only speaking of the -story; perhaps, we shall soon say as much of the heroine. - -Adieu! My _chasseur_ has been waiting for an hour; I take only the time -to embrace you, and to recommend you, above all, to beware of Prévan. - - At the Château de ..., 15th September, 17**. - - - - -LETTER THE SEVENTY-SECOND - -THE CHEVALIER DANCENY TO CÉCILE VOLANGES - -(Not delivered until the 14th) - - -O MY Cécile! how I envy Valmont’s lot! To-morrow he will see you: it -is he who will give you this letter, and I, languishing afar from you, -must drag on my painful existence betwixt unhappiness and regret. My -friend, my tender friend, pity my misfortunes; above all, pity me for -your own: it is in the face of them that my courage deserts me. - -How terrible it is to me that I should have caused your misfortune! But -for me, you would be happy and tranquil. Can you forgive me? Ah, say, -say that you forgive me; tell me also that you love me, that you will -always love me. I need that you repeat it to me. It is not that I doubt -it: but it seems to me that, the more sure I am of it, the sweeter it -is to hear it said. You love me, do you not? Yes, you love me with all -your soul. I do not forget that it is the last word I heard you utter. -How I have treasured it in my heart! How deeply it is graven there! And -with what transports has not mine replied to it! - -Alas, in that moment of happiness, I was far from foreseeing the awful -fate which awaited us! Let us occupy ourselves, my Cécile, with the -means of alleviating it. If I am to believe my friend, it will suffice, -to attain this, that you should treat him with the confidence which he -deserves. - -I was grieved, I confess, at the unfavourable opinion you appear to -have had of him. I recognized there the prejudices of your Mamma; it -was to submit to them that, for some time past, I had neglected that -truly amiable man, who to-day does everything for me; who, in short, -labours to reunite us, whom your Mamma has separated. I implore you, -my dear friend, look upon him with a more favourable eye. Reflect that -he is my friend, that he wishes to be yours, that he can afford me -the happiness of seeing you. If these reasons do not convince you, my -Cécile, you do not love me as well as I love you, you do not love me -as much as you used to love me. Ah, if ever you were to come to love -me less! But no, the heart of my Cécile is mine, it is mine for life; -and if I have to dread the pain of a love which is unfortunate, her -constancy will save me at least from the torments of a love betrayed. - -Adieu, my charming friend; do not forget how I suffer, and that it only -rests with you to make me happy, completely happy. Hear my heart’s vow, -and receive the most tender kisses of love. - - Paris, 11th September, 17**. - - - - -LETTER THE SEVENTY-THIRD - -THE VICOMTE DE VALMONT TO CÉCILE VOLANGES - -(Delivered with the preceding) - - -THE friend who serves you knows that you have no writing materials, and -he has already provided for this want. You will find in the ante-room -of the apartment you occupy, beneath the great press, on the left-hand -side, a supply of pens, ink, and paper, which he will renew when you -require it, and which, so it seems to him, you can leave in the same -place, if you do not find a surer one. - -He asks you not to be offended with him, if he seems to pay no -attention to you in public, and only to regard you as a child. This -behaviour seems to him necessary, in order to inspire the sense -of security of which he has need, and to enable him to work more -effectively for his friend’s happiness and your own. He will try to -find occasions for speaking with you, when he has anything to tell you -or give to you; and he hopes to succeed, if you show any zeal to second -him. - -He also advises you to return to him, successively, the letters which -you may have received, in order that there may be less risk of your -compromising yourself. - -He concludes by assuring you that, if you will give him your -confidence, he will take every care to alleviate the persecution that -a too harsh mother is using against two persons of whom one is already -his best friend, whilst the other seems to him worthy of the most -tender interest. - - At the Château de ..., 14th September, 17**. - - - - -LETTER THE SEVENTY-FOURTH - -THE MARQUISE DE MERTEUIL TO THE VICOMTE DE VALMONT - - -AH, since when, my friend, do you take alarm so easily? Is this -Prévan so very formidable then? But see how simple and modest am I! I -have often met him, this haughty conqueror; I hardly looked at him! -It required nothing less than your letter to excite that amount of -attention from me. I repaired my injustice yesterday. He was at the -Opera, almost exactly opposite me, and I took stock of him. He is -handsome at any rate, yes, very handsome: fine and delicate features! -He must gain by being seen close at hand. And you tell me he wants to -have me! Assuredly it will be my honour and pleasure. Seriously, I have -a fancy for it, and I now confide to you that I have taken the first -steps. I do not know if they will succeed. Thus the matter stands. - -He was not two paces off from me, as we came out from the Opera, and -I, very loudly, made an appointment with the Marquise de *** to sup -on Friday with the Maréchale. It is, I think, the only house where I -can meet him. I have no doubt that he heard me.... If the ungrateful -fellow were not to come! But tell me, do you think he will come? Do -you know that, if he were not to come, I should be in a bad humour -all the evening? You see that he will not find so much difficulty in -_following me_; what will more astonish you is that he will have still -less in _pleasing me_. He would, he said, kill six horses in paying -his court to me! Oh, I will save those horses’ lives! I shall never -have the patience to wait so long a time. You know it is not one of my -principles to leave people languishing, when once I am decided; and I -am for him. - -Please now confess that there is some pleasure in talking reason to me! -Has not your _important warning_ been a great success? But what would -you have? I have been vegetating for so long! It is more than six weeks -since I permitted myself a diversion. This one presents itself; can I -refuse myself it? Is not the object worth the trouble? Is there any -more agreeable, in whatever sense you take the word? - -You yourself are forced to do him justice; you do more than praise him, -you are jealous of him. Ah, well! I will not set up as judge between -the two of you; but, to begin with, one should investigate, and that is -what I want to do. I shall be an impartial judge, and you shall both be -weighed in the same balance. As for you, I already have your papers, -and your affair is thoroughly enquired into. Is it not only just that -I should now occupy myself with your adversary? Come now, yield with -a good grace; and as a commencement, let me hear, I beg you, what is -this triple adventure of which he is the hero. You speak of it to me as -though I knew of nothing else, and I do not know the first word of it. -Apparently, it must have occurred during my expedition to Geneva, and -your jealousy prevented you from writing to me about it. Repair this -fault at the earliest possible; remember that _nothing which interests -him is alien to me_. I certainly think that they were still talking -of it when I returned; but I was otherwise occupied, and I rarely -listen to anything of that sort which is not the affair of to-day or of -yesterday. - -Even if what I ask of you should go somewhat against the grain, is it -not the least price you can pay for the pains I have taken for you? -Have these not sent you back to your Présidente, when your blunders -had separated you from her? Was it not I, again, who put into your -hands the wherewithal to revenge yourself for the bitter zeal of Madame -de Volanges? You have complained so often of the time you waste in -searching after your adventures! Now, you have them under your thumb. -Betwixt love and hate, you have but to choose; they both lie under the -same roof; and you can double your existence, caress with one hand -and strike with the other. It is even to me, again, that you owe the -adventure of the Vicomtesse. I am quite satisfied with it; but, as you -say, it must be talked about; for if the situation could induce you, -as I conceive, to prefer for a moment mystery to _éclat_, it must be -admitted, none the less, that the woman did not merit so honourable a -procedure. - -I have besides, cause of complaint against her. The Chevalier de -Belleroche finds her prettier than is to my liking; and, for many -reasons, I shall be glad to have a pretext for breaking with her: now -none is more convenient than to be obliged to say: One cannot possibly -know that woman any longer. - -Adieu, Vicomte; remember that, situated as you are, time is precious; I -shall employ mine by occupying myself with Prévan’s happiness. - - Paris, 15th September, 17**. - - - - -LETTER THE SEVENTY-FIFTH - -CÉCILE VOLANGES TO SOPHIE CARNAY - -[_N.B. In this letter, Cécile Volanges relates with the utmost detail -all that concerns her in the events which the Reader already knows from -the conclusion of the fifty-ninth and following letters. It seemed as -well to suppress this repetition. She finally speaks of the Vicomte de -Valmont, and expresses herself thus:_] - - -... I ASSURE you that he is a most remarkable man. Mamma speaks mighty -ill of him, but the Chevalier Danceny says much in his favour, and I -think that he is right. I have never seen a man so clever. When he gave -me Danceny’s letter, it was in the midst of all the company, and nobody -saw anything of it: it is true I was terribly frightened, because I -had not expected anything; but now I shall be prepared. I have already -quite understood what he wants me to do when I give him my answer. -It is very easy to understand him, because he has a look which says -anything he wants. I don’t know how he does it: he told me in his note -that he would appear not to take any notice of me before Mamma; indeed, -one would say, all the time, that he never thinks of me, and yet, every -time I seek his eyes, I am sure to meet them at once. - -There is a great friend of Mamma’s here, whom I did not know, who also -has the air of not loving M. de Valmont too well, although he is full -of attentions for her. I am afraid that he will bore himself soon with -the life one leads here, and go back to Paris; that would be very -vexing. He must indeed have a good heart to have come on purpose to do -a service to his friend and me. I should much like to show my gratitude -to him, but I do not know how to get speech with him; and when I find -the occasion, I should be so ashamed that, perhaps, I should not know -what to say to him. - -It is only to Madame de Merteuil that I talk freely, when I speak of -my love. Perhaps, even with you, to whom I tell everything, I should -feel embarrassed if we were talking. With Danceny himself, I have often -felt, as though in spite of myself, a certain alarm which prevented me -from telling him all that I thought. I reproach myself greatly for this -now, and I would give everything in the world to find a moment to tell -him once, only once, how much I love him. M. de Valmont promised him -that, if I would be guided by him, he would contrive an opportunity for -us to see one another again. I will certainly do everything he wants; -but I cannot conceive how it is possible. Adieu, my dear friend; I have -no more room left.[25] - - At the Château de ..., 14th September, 17**. - - - - -LETTER THE SEVENTY-SIXTH - -THE VICOMTE DE VALMONT TO THE MARQUISE DE MERTEUIL - - -EITHER your letter is a piece of banter which I have not understood, or -you were in a dangerous delirium when you wrote it. If I knew you less -well, my lovely friend, I should truly be most alarmed; and, whatever -you may say, I do not take alarm too easily. - -It is in vain that I read and re-read your letter, I am none the more -advanced; for to take it in the natural sense which it presents is -out of the question. What was it then you wished to say? Is it merely -that it was useless to take so much trouble with an enemy who was so -little to be feared? In that case, you might be wrong. Prévan is really -attractive; he is more so than you believe; he has, above all, the most -useful talent of interesting people greatly in his love, by the skill -with which he will bring it up in society, and before the company, -by making use of the first conversation which occurs. There are few -women who do not fall into the trap and reply to him, because, all -having pretensions to subtilty, none wishes to lose an opportunity of -displaying it. Now you are well aware that the woman who consents to -talk of love soon finishes by feeling it, or at least by behaving as if -she did. He gains again at this method, which he has really brought to -perfection, in that he can often call the women themselves in testimony -of their defeat; and this I tell you, as one who has seen it. - -I was never in the secret except at second-hand; for I have never been -intimate with Prévan: but, in a word, there were six of us: and the -Comtesse de P***, thinking herself very artful all the time, and having -the air indeed, to any one who was not initiated, of conversing in the -abstract, told us, with the utmost detail, both how she had succumbed -to Prévan, and all that had passed between them. She told this -narrative with such a sense of security that she was not even disturbed -by a smile which came over all our six faces at the same time; and I -shall always remember that one of us, having sought, by way of excuse, -to feign a doubt as to what she said, or rather of what she had the air -of saying, she answered gravely that we were certainly, none of us, -so well informed as she was; and she was not afraid even to address -herself to Prévan, and ask him if she had said a word which was not -true. - -I was right then in believing this man dangerous to everybody: but for -you, Marquise, was it not enough that he was _handsome, very handsome_, -as you tell me yourself? Or that he should make _one of those attacks -on you which you sometimes amuse yourself by rewarding, for no other -reason than that you find them well contrived?_ Or that you should have -found it amusing to succumb for any reason whatever? Or--what do I -know? Can I divine the thousand and one caprices which govern a woman’s -head, and in which alone you continue to take after your sex? Now that -you are forewarned of the danger, I have no doubt that you will easily -avoid it: but it was none the less necessary to forewarn you. I return -to my text therefore: what did you mean to say? - -If it is only a piece of banter against Prévan, apart from its being -very long, it was of no use, addressed to me; it is in society that he -must suffer some excellent piece of ridicule, and I renew my prayer to -you on this subject. - -Ah! I think I hold the key to the enigma! Your letter is a prophecy, -not of what you will do, but of what he will think you ready to do, at -the moment of the fall which you have prepared for him. I quite approve -of this plan: it requires, however, great precautions. You know as -well as I do that, as far as the public is concerned, to have a man -or to receive his attentions is absolutely the same thing, unless the -man be a fool, which Prévan is very far from being. If he can gain the -appearances, he will boast, and all will have been said. Fools will -believe him, the malicious will have the air of believing; where will -your resources be? Remember, I am afraid. It is not that I doubt your -skill: but it is the good swimmers who get drowned. - -I hold myself to be no duller than another: as for means of -dishonouring a woman, I have found a hundred, I have found a thousand; -but when I have busied myself to seek how the woman could escape, I -have never seen the possibility. You yourself, my fair friend, whose -conduct is a masterpiece, I have a hundred times found you to have had -more good-luck than you have shown skill. - -But, after all, I am, perhaps, seeking for a reason where none exists. -I am amazed, however, to think that, for the last hour, I should have -been treating seriously what is surely a mere jest on your part. You -intend to make fun of me! Ah well! so be it; but make haste, and let -us speak of something else. Something else! I am mistaken, it is always -the same; always women to have or to ruin, and often both. - -I have here, as you remark, the wherewithal to exercise myself in -both kinds, but not with equal ease. I foresee that vengeance will go -quicker than love. The little Volanges has succumbed, I answer for -that; she only awaits an opportunity, and I undertake to bring it -about. But it is not the same with Madame de Tourvel: this woman is -disheartening, I did not conceive it of her; I have a hundred proofs of -her love, but I have a thousand of her resistance; and, in truth, I am -afraid lest she escape me. - -The first effect which my return produced gave me more hope. You -will guess that I wished to judge for myself; and, to make sure of -seeing the first emotions, I sent no one ahead to announce me, and I -calculated my stages so as to arrive when they should be at table. In -fact, I dropped from the clouds, like a divinity at the opera, who -comes to effect a _dénouement_. - -Having made enough noise at my entry to attract all eyes to me, I could -see, in one glance, the joy of my old aunt, the annoyance of Madame de -Volanges and the confused pleasure of her daughter. My fair one, owing -to the seat she occupied, had her back turned to the door. Busy at the -moment in carving something, she did not even turn her head: but I said -a word to Madame de Rosemonde; and at the first sound, the sensitive -Puritan, recognizing my voice, uttered a cry in which I thought I -distinguished more love than terror or surprise. I was then in a -position to see her face; the tumult of her soul, the struggle between -her ideas and sentiments, were depicted on it in a score of different -fashions. I sat down to table by her side; she did not know precisely -anything of what she did or said. She endeavoured to go on eating; it -was out of the question: finally, not a quarter of an hour later, her -pleasure and confusion becoming too strong for her, she could devise -nothing better than to ask permission to leave the table, and she -escaped into the park, on the pretext that she needed to take the air. -Madame de Volanges wanted to accompany her; the tender prude would not -permit it, too happy, no doubt, to have a pretext for being alone, and -to give way without constraint to the soft emotion of her heart! - -I made the dinner as short as it was possible to do. Dessert was hardly -served, when the infernal Volanges woman, pressed apparently by her -need to injure me, rose from her seat to go and find the charming -invalid: but I had foreseen this project and I thwarted it. I feigned -therefore to take this particular movement for the general signal; and, -having risen at the same time, the little Volanges and the _curé_ of -the place followed the double example; so that Madame de Rosemonde was -left alone at the table with the old Commandant de T***; and they also -both decided to leave. We all went then to rejoin my fair one, whom we -found in the grove near the _château_: as it was solitude she wanted -and not a walk, she was just as pleased to return with us as to make us -stay with her. - -As soon as I was certain that Madame de Volanges would have no -opportunity to speak apart with her, I thought of fulfilling your -orders, and busied myself about the interests of your pupil. -Immediately after coffee, I went up to my room, and went into the -others also, to explore the territory; I took measures to ensure the -little girl’s correspondence; after this first piece of benevolence, I -wrote a word of instruction to her and to beg for her confidence; and I -added my note to the letter from Danceny. I returned to the _salon_. I -found my beauty reclining on a long chair, in an attitude of delicious -unconstraint. - -This spectacle, whilst exciting my desires, illumined my gaze; I felt -that this must be tender and beseeching, and I placed myself in such -a position that I could bring it into play. Its first effect was to -cause the big, modest eyes of the heavenly prude to be cast down. For -some time I considered that angelic face; then, glancing over all her -person, I amused myself by divining forms and contours through the -light clothing, which I could have wished away. After having descended -from head to feet, I returned from feet to head.... My fair friend, her -soft gaze was fixed upon me; it was immediately lowered; but wishing to -promote its return, I averted my eyes. Then was established between us -that tacit convention, a first treaty of bashful love, which, in order -to satisfy the reciprocal need of seeing, allows the looks to succeed -one another, until the moment comes when they are mingled. - -Convinced that this new pleasure occupied my fair one completely, -I charged myself with the task of watching over our common safety; -but, having assured myself that conversation was brisk enough to save -us from the notice of the company, I sought to obtain from her eyes -that they should frankly speak their language. For this, I began by -surprising certain glances, but with so much reserve that modesty could -not take alarm; and to put the bashful creature more at her ease, I -appeared to be as embarrassed as herself. - -Little by little our eyes, grown accustomed to encounter, were fixed -for a longer interval; until at last they quitted each other no more, -and I saw in hers that sweet languor which is the happy signal of love -and desire: but it was only for a moment; soon recovering herself, she -changed, not without a certain shame, her attitude and her look. - -Being unwilling that she should suspect I had observed her different -movements, I rose with vivacity, asking her, with an air of alarm, if -she were unwell. At once, everybody rushed round her. I let them all -pass in front of me; and as the little Volanges, who was working at her -tapestry near a window, needed some time before she could leave her -task, I seized the moment to deliver Danceny’s letter. - -I was at a little distance from her; I threw the letter into her lap. -In truth she did not know what to do. You would have laughed over much -at her air of surprise and embarrassment; however, I did not laugh, for -I feared lest so much clumsiness might betray us. But a quick glance -and gesture, strongly accentuated, gave her to understand at last that -she was to put the packet in her pocket. - -The rest of the day contained nothing of interest. What has passed -since will, perhaps, bring about events with which you will be pleased, -at any rate in so far as your pupil is concerned: but it is better to -employ one’s time in carrying out one’s projects than in describing -them. This is, moreover, the eighth sheet I have written, and I am -wearied; and so, adieu. - -You will rightly suppose, without my telling it you, that the child has -replied to Danceny.[26] I have also had a reply from my fair, to whom -I wrote on the morrow of my arrival. I send you the two letters. You -will or you will not read them: for this incessant, tedious repetition, -which already is none too amusing to me, must be insipid indeed to any -person not concerned. - -Once more, adieu. I am ever mightily fond of you; but I beg you, if you -write to me of Prévan, do so in such a manner that I may understand you. - - At the Château de ..., 17th September, 17**. - - - - -LETTER THE SEVENTY-SEVENTH - -THE VICOMTE DE VALMONT TO THE PRÉSIDENTE DE TOURVEL - - -WHENCE, Madame, can arise the cruel pains which you are at to shun me? -How can it be that the most tender zeal on my part meets on yours only -with the treatment which one would barely permit one’s self with the -man against whom one had the greatest cause to complain? What! Love -calls me back to your feet; and when a happy chance places me at your -side, you prefer to feign indisposition, to alarm your friends, rather -than consent to remain near me! How many times, yesterday, did you not -turn away your eyes to deprive me of the favour of a glance! And if for -one single moment I was able to see less severity there, that moment -was so short that it seemed as though you wished less to have me enjoy -it than to make me feel what I should lose by being deprived of it. - -That is not, I venture to say, either the treatment which love -deserves, or that which friendship may be allowed; and yet, of these -two sentiments, you know whether the one does not animate me; and the -other I was, it seems to me, authorized to believe that you did not -withhold. This precious friendship, of which you doubtless thought -me worthy, since you were kind enough to offer it me--what have I -done that I should lose it since? Could I have damaged myself by my -confidence, and will you punish me for my frankness? At least, have -you no fear lest you abuse the one and the other? In effect, was it -not to the bosom of my friend that I entrusted the secret of my heart? -Was it not face to face with her alone that I thought myself obliged -to refuse conditions which I had only to accept in order to obtain the -facility for leaving them unfulfilled, and perhaps of abusing them to -my advantage? Would you, in short, by a rigour so undeserved, force -me to believe that I had needed but to deceive you in order to obtain -greater indulgence? - -I do not repent of a conduct which I owed you, as I owed it to myself; -but by what fatality does each praiseworthy action of mine become the -signal for a fresh misfortune? - -It was after giving occasion for the only praise you have ever yet -deigned to accord my conduct that I had to groan, for the first time, -over the misfortune of having displeased you. It was after proving -my perfect submission by depriving myself of the happiness of seeing -you, simply to reassure your delicacy, that you wished to break off -all correspondence with me, to rob me of that feeble compensation for -a sacrifice which you had required, and to take from me even the very -love which alone had given you the right to ask it. It is, in short, -after having spoken to you with a sincerity which even the interest of -that love could not abate that you shun me to-day, like some dangerous -seducer whose perfidy you have found out. - -Will you, then, never grow weary of being unjust? At least, tell me -what new wrongs can have urged you to such severity, and do not refuse -to dictate to me the orders which you wish me to obey; when I pledge -myself to fulfil them, is it too great a pretension to ask that I may -know them? - - At the Château de ..., 15th September, 17**. - - - - -LETTER THE SEVENTY-EIGHTH - -THE PRÉSIDENTE DE TOURVEL TO THE VICOMTE DE VALMONT - - -YOU seem surprised at my behaviour, Monsieur, and within an ace of -asking me to account to you for it, as though you had the right to -blame it. I confess that I should have thought it was rather I who was -authorized to be astonished and to complain; but, since the refusal -contained in your last letter, I have adopted the course of wrapping -myself in an indifference which affords no ground for remarks or -reproaches. However, as you ask me for enlightenment, and I, thanks be -to Heaven, am conscious of naught within me which should prevent my -granting your request, I am quite willing to enter once more into an -explanation with you. - -Anyone reading your letters would believe me to be fantastic or -unjust. I think it is not in my deserts that anyone should have this -opinion of me; it seems to me, above all, that you, less than any -other, have cause to form it. Doubtless, you felt that, in requiring -my justification, you forced me to recall all that has passed between -us. Apparently, you thought you had only to gain by this examination: -as I, on my side, believe I have nothing to lose by it, at least in -your eyes, I do not fear to undertake it. Perhaps, it is indeed the -only means of discovering which of us has the right to complain of the -other. - -To start, Monsieur, from the day of your arrival in this _château_, you -will admit, I suppose, that your reputation, at least, authorized me -to employ a certain reserve with you; and that I might have confined -myself to the bare expression of the coldest politeness, without -fearing to be taxed with excessive prudery. You yourself would have -treated me with indulgence, and would have thought it natural that -a woman so little formed should not have the necessary merits to -appreciate yours. That, surely, had been the part of prudence; and it -would have cost me the less to follow in that, I will not conceal from -you, when Madame de Rosemonde informed me of your arrival, I had need -to remind myself of my friendship for her, and of her own for you, not -to betray how greatly this news annoyed me. - -I admit willingly that you showed yourself at first under a more -favourable aspect than I had imagined; but you will agree, in your -turn, that it lasted but a little while, and you were soon tired -of a constraint for which, apparently, you did not find yourself -sufficiently compensated by the advantageous notion it had given -me of you. It was then that, abusing my good faith, my feeling of -security, you were not afraid to pester me with a sentiment by which -you could not doubt but that I should be offended; and I, whilst you -were occupied in aggravating your errors by repeating them, sought -a reason for forgetting them, by offering you the opportunity of, -at least in part, retrieving them. My request was so just that you -yourself thought you ought not to refuse it; but making a right out -of my indulgence, you profited by it to ask for a permission which, -without a doubt, I ought not to have granted you, and which, however, -you obtained. Conditions were attached to it: you have kept no one of -them; and your correspondence has been of such a kind that each one of -your letters made it my duty not to reply to you. It was at the very -moment when your obstinacy was forcing me to send you away from me -that, by a perhaps culpable condescension, I attempted the only means -which could permit me to be concerned with you: but what value has -virtuous sentiment in your eyes? Friendship you despise; and, in your -mad intoxication, counting shame and misery for naught, you seek only -for pleasures and for victims. - -As frivolous in your proceedings as inconsequent in your reproaches, -you forget your promises, or rather you make a jest of violating them; -and, after consenting to go away from me, you return here without being -recalled; without thought for my prayers or my arguments; without even -having the consideration to inform me, you were not afraid to expose -me to a surprise whose effect, although assuredly very simple, might -have been interpreted to my detriment by the persons who surrounded -us. Far from seeking to distract from or to dissipate the moment of -embarrassment you had occasioned, you seem to have given all your pains -to increase it. At table you choose your seat precisely at the side of -my own; a slight indisposition forces me to leave before the others, -and, instead of respecting my solitude, you contrive that all the -company should come to trouble it. On my return to the drawing-room, -I cannot make a step but I find you at my side; if I say a word, it -is always you who reply to me. The most indifferent remark serves you -for a pretext to bring up a conversation which I refuse to hear, which -might even compromise me; for, in short, Monsieur, whatever the address -you may bring to bear, I think that what I understand may also be -understood by the others. - -Forced thus to take refuge in immobility and silence, you none the less -continue to persecute me; I cannot raise my eyes without encountering -yours. I am incessantly compelled to avert my gaze; and by an -incomprehensible inconsequence you draw upon me the eyes of the company -at a moment when I would have even wished it possible to escape from my -own. - -And you complain of my behaviour! and you are surprised at my eagerness -to avoid you! Ah, blame rather my indulgence; be surprised that I did -not leave at the moment of your arrival. I ought, perhaps, to have done -so, and you will compel me to this violent, but necessary, course, if -you do not finally cease your offensive pursuit. No, I do not forget, I -never shall forget what I owe to myself, what I owe to the ties I have -formed, which I respect and cherish; and I pray you to believe that, if -ever I found myself reduced to the unhappy choice of sacrificing them, -or of sacrificing myself, I should not hesitate an instant. Adieu, -Monsieur. - - At the Château de ..., 16th September, 17**. - - - - -LETTER THE SEVENTY-NINTH - -THE VICOMTE DE VALMONT TO THE MARQUISE DE MERTEUIL - - -I INTENDED to go hunting this morning: but the weather was detestable. -All that I have to read is a new romance which would bore even -a school-girl. It will be two hours, at the earliest, before we -breakfast: so that, in spite of my long letter of yesterday, I will -have another talk with you. I am very certain not to weary you, for I -shall tell you of _the handsome Prévan_. How was it you never heard of -his famous adventure, the one which separated the _inseparables_? I -wager that you will recall it at the first word. Here it is, however, -since you desire it. - -You will remember that all Paris marvelled that three women, all -three pretty, all three with like qualities and able to make the same -pretensions, should remain intimately allied amongst themselves, ever -since the moment of their entry into the world. At first, one seemed to -find the reason in their extreme shyness: but soon, surrounded, as they -were, by a numerous court whose homages they shared, and enlightened -as to their value by the eagerness and zeal of which they were the -objects, their union only became the firmer; and one would have said -that the triumph of one was always that of the two others. One hoped -at least that the moment of love would lead to a certain rivalry. Our -rakes disputed the honour of being the apple of discord; and I myself -should have entered their ranks, had the great consideration in which -the Comtesse de *** was held at the time permitted me to be unfaithful -to her before I had obtained the favours I demanded. - -However, our three beauties, during the same carnival, made their -choice as though in concert; and, far from this exciting the storms -which had been predicted, it only rendered their friendship more -interesting, by the charm of the confidences entailed. - -The crowd of unhappy suitors was added, then, to that of jealous women, -and such scandalous constancy was held up to public censure. Some -pretended that, in this society of _inseparables_ (so it was dubbed at -that time), the fundamental law was the community of goods, and that -love itself was included therein; others asserted that, if the three -lovers were exempt from rivals of their own sex, they were not from -those of the other: people went so far as to say that they had but been -admitted for decency’s sake, and had obtained only a title without an -office. - -These rumours, true or false, had not the effect which one would have -predicted. The three couples, on the contrary, felt that they were lost -if they separated at such a moment; they decided to set their heads -against the storm. The public, which tires of everything, soon tired -of an ineffectual satire. Borne on the wings of its natural levity, it -busied itself with other objects: then, casting back to that one with -its habitual inconsequence, its criticism was converted into praise. -As all things go by fashion here, the enthusiasm gained; it was become -a real delirium, when Prévan undertook to verify these prodigies, and -settle the public opinion about them, as well as his own. - -He sought out therefore these models of perfection. He was easily -admitted into their society, and drew a favourable omen from this. -He was well aware that happy persons are not so easy of access. He -soon saw, in fact, that this so vaunted happiness was, like that of -kings, rather to be envied than desired. He remarked that, amongst -these pretended inseparables, they were beginning to seek for -pleasures abroad, and even to occupy themselves with distractions; -and he concluded therefrom, that the bonds of love or friendship were -already loosened or broken, and that those of self-conceit and custom -alone retained some strength. The women, however, whose need brought -them together, kept up amongst themselves an appearance of the same -intimacy: but the men, who were freer in their proceedings, discovered -duties to fulfil, or affairs to carry on; they still complained of -these, but no longer neglected them, and the evenings were rarely -complete. - -This conduct on their part was profitable to the assiduous Prévan, who, -being naturally placed beside the deserted one of the day, found a -means of offering alternately, and according to circumstances, the same -homage to each of the three friends. He could easily perceive that to -make a choice between them was to lose everything; that false shame at -proving the first to be unfaithful would make the preferred one afraid; -that the wounded vanity of the two others would render them the enemies -of the new lover, and that they would not fail to oppose him with the -severity of their high principles; in short, that jealousy would surely -revive the zeal of a rival who might be still to fear. Everything -would be an obstacle; in his triple project all became easy: each woman -was indulgent because she was interested in it; each man, because he -thought that he was not. - -Prévan, who had, at that time, but one woman to sacrifice, was lucky -enough to see her become a celebrity. Her quality of foreigner, and the -homage of a great Prince, adroitly refused, had fixed on her the eyes -of the Court and the Town; her lover participated in the honour, and -profited from it with his new mistresses. The only difficulty was to -conduct his three intrigues at an equal pace; their progress had, of -course, to be regulated by that of the one which lagged the most; in -fact, I heard from one of his confidants, that his greatest difficulty -was to hold in hand one which was ripe for gathering nearly a fortnight -before the rest. - -At last the great day arrived. Prévan, who had obtained the three -avowals, was already master of the situation, and arranged it as you -will see. Of the three husbands, one was absent, the other was leaving -the next day at day-break, the third was in town. The inseparable -friends were to sup at the future widow’s; but the new master had -permitted the former gallants to be invited there. On the morning of -that very day, he divided the letters of his fair into three lots; -he enclosed in one the portrait which he had received from her, in -the second an amorous device which she had painted herself, in the -third a tress of her hair; each of the friends received this third of -a sacrifice as the whole, and consented, in return, to send to her -disgraced lover a signal letter of rupture. - -This was much; but it was not enough. She whose husband was in Town -could only dispose of the day; it was arranged that a pretended -indisposition should dispense her from going to supper with her friend, -and that the evening should be given entirely to Prévan; the night was -granted by her whose husband was absent; and day-break, the moment of -the departure of the third spouse, was appointed by the last for the -shepherd’s hour. - -Prévan, who neglected nothing, next hastened to the fair foreigner, -brought there and aroused the humour which he required, and only left -after having brought about a quarrel which assured him four-and-twenty -hours of liberty. His dispositions thus made, he returned home, -intending to take some hours’ repose. Other business was awaiting him. - -The letters of rupture had brought a flash of light to the disgraced -lovers: none of them had any doubt but that he had been sacrificed -to Prévan; and spite at being tricked uniting with the ill-humour -which is almost always engendered by the petty humiliation of being -deserted, all three, without communicating with one another, but as -though in concert, resolved to have satisfaction, and took the course -of demanding it from their fortunate rival. - -The latter found the three challenges awaiting him; he accepted them -loyally, but not wishing to sacrifice either his pleasures or the -glamour of this adventure, he fixed the _rendez-vous_ for the following -morning, and gave all three assignations at the same place and the same -hour. It was at one of the gates of the Bois de Boulogne. - -When evening came, he ran his triple course with equal success; at -least, he boasted subsequently that each one of his new mistresses had -received three times the wage and declaration of his love. In this, as -you may imagine, proofs are lacking to history; all that the impartial -historian can do is to point out to the incredulous reader that vanity -and exalted imagination can beget prodigies; nay more, that the -morning which was to follow so brilliant a night seemed to promise a -dispensation from all concern for the future. Be that as it may, the -facts which follow are more authentic. - -Prévan repaired punctually to the _rendez-vous_ which he had selected; -he found there his three rivals, somewhat surprised at meeting, and -each of them, perhaps, a trifle consoled at the sight of his companions -in misfortune. He accosted them with a blunt but affable air, and used -this language to them--it has been faithfully reported to me: - -“Gentlemen,” said he, “as I find you all here together, you have -doubtless divined that you have all three the same cause of complaint -against me. I am ready to give you satisfaction. Let chance decide -between you which of the three shall first attempt a vengeance to which -you have all an equal right. I have brought with me neither second -nor witnesses. I did not include any in my offence; I seek none in my -reparation.” Then, agreeable to his character as a gamester, he added, -“I know one rarely holds in three hands running; but, whatever fortune -may befall me, one has always lived long enough when one has had time -to win the love of women and the esteem of men.” - -Whilst his astonished adversaries looked at one another in silence, and -their delicacy, perhaps, reflected that this triple contest rendered -the game hardly fair, Prévan resumed: - -“I do not hide from you that the night which I have just passed has -cruelly fatigued me. It would be generous of you to permit me to -recruit my strength. I have given orders for a breakfast to be served -on the ground; do me the honour to partake of it. Let us breakfast -together, and, above all, let us breakfast gaily. One can fight for -such trifles; but they ought not, I think, to spoil our good humour.” - -The breakfast was accepted. Never, it is said, was Prévan more amiable. -He was skilled enough to avoid humiliating any one of his rivals, to -persuade them that they would have easily had a like success, and, -above all, to make them admit that, no more than he, would they have -let the occasion slip. These facts once admitted, everything arranged -itself. The breakfast was not finished before they had repeated a dozen -times that such women did not deserve that men of honour should fight -for them. This idea promoted cordiality; it was so well fortified by -wine that, a few moments later, it was not enough merely to bear no -more ill-will: they swore an unreserved friendship. - -Prévan, who doubtless liked this _dénouement_ as well as the other, -would not for that, however, lose any of his celebrity. In consequence, -adroitly adapting his plans to circumstances: “In truth,” he said to -the three victims, “it is not on me but on your faithless mistresses -that you should take revenge. I offer you the opportunity. I begin to -feel already, like yourselves, an injury which would soon be my share: -for if none of you could succeed in retaining a single one, how can I -hope to retain all three? Your quarrel becomes my own. Accept a supper -this evening at my _petite maison_, and I hope your vengeance may not -be long postponed.” They wished to make him explain: but, with that -tone of superiority which the circumstances authorized him to adopt, -he answered, “Gentlemen, I think I have proved to you that my conduct -is founded on a certain wit; trust in me.” All consented; and, after -having embraced their new friend, they separated till the evening to -await the issue of his promises. - -Prévan returns to Paris without wasting time, and goes, according to -the usage, to visit his new conquests. He obtained a promise from each -to come the same evening and sup _tête-à-tête_ at his pleasure-house. -Two of them raised a few objections; but what can one refuse on the -day after? He fixed the _rendez-vous_ for a late hour, time being -necessary for his plans. After these preparations he retired, sent word -to the other three conspirators, and all four went gaily to await their -victims. - -The first is heard arriving. Prévan comes forward alone, receives her -with an air of alacrity, conducts her into the sanctuary of which she -believed herself to be the divinity; then, disappearing under some -slight pretext, he allows himself to be forthwith replaced by the -outraged lover. - -You may guess how the confusion of a woman who had not yet the habit -of adventures rendered triumph easy: any reproach not made was counted -for a grace; and the truant slave, once more handed over to her former -master, was only too happy to be able to hope for pardon by resuming -her former chain. The treaty of peace was ratified in a more solitary -place, and the empty stage was successively filled by the other actors -in almost the same fashion, and always with the same result. Each of -the women, however, still thought herself alone to be in question. -Their astonishment and embarrassment increased when, at supper-time, -the three couples were united; but confusion reached its height when -Prévan, reappearing in their midst, had the cruelty to make his excuses -to the three faithless ones, which, by revealing their secret, told -them completely to what a point they had been fooled. - -However, they went to table, and soon afterwards countenances cleared; -the men gave themselves up, the women submitted. All had hatred in -their hearts; but the conversation was none the less tender: gaiety -aroused desire, which, in its turn, lent to gaiety fresh charm. This -astounding orgy lasted until morning; and, when they separated, the -women had thought to be pardoned: but the men, who had retained their -resentment, made on the following morning a rupture which was never -healed; and, not content with leaving their fickle mistresses, they -sealed their vengeance by making their adventure public. Since that -time one has gone into a convent, and the two other languish in exile -on their estates. - -That is the story of Prévan; it is for you to say whether you wish to -add to his glory, and tie yourself to his car of triumph. Your letter -has really given me some anxiety, and I await impatiently a more -prudent and clearer reply to the last I wrote you. - -Adieu, my fair friend; distrust those queer or amusing ideas which -too easily seduce you. Remember that, in the career which you are -leading, wit alone does not suffice; one single imprudence becomes an -irremediable ill. In short, allow a prudent friendship to be sometimes -the guide of your pleasures. - -Adieu. I love you nevertheless, just as much as though you were -reasonable. - - At the Château de ..., 18th September, 17**. - - - - -LETTER THE EIGHTIETH - -THE CHEVALIER DANCENY TO CÉCILE VOLANGES - - -CÉCILE, my dear Cécile, when will the time come for us to meet again? -How shall I learn to live afar from you? Who will give me the courage -and the strength? Never, never shall I be able to support this fatal -absence. Each day adds to my unhappiness: and there is no term to look -forward to! - -Valmont, who had promised me help and consolation, Valmont neglects -and, perhaps, forgets me! He is near the object of his love; he forgets -what one feels when one is parted from it. When forwarding your last -letter to me, he did not write to me. It is he, however, who should -tell me when, and by what means, I shall be able to see you. Has he -nothing then to tell me? You yourself do not speak of it to me; could -it be that you do not participate in my desire? Ah, Cécile, Cécile, I -am very unhappy! I love you more than ever: but this love which makes -the charm of my life becomes its torture. - -No, I can no longer live thus; I must see you, I must, were it only for -a moment. When I rise, I say to myself: I shall not see her. I lie down -saying: I have not seen her.... The long, long days contain no moment -of happiness. All is privation, regret, despair; and all these ills -come to me from the source whence I expected every pleasure! Add to -these mortal pains my anxiety about yours, and you will have an idea of -my situation. I think of you uninterruptedly, and never without dismay. -If I see you afflicted, unhappy, I suffer for all your sorrows; if I -see you calm and consoled, my own are redoubled. Everywhere I find -unhappiness. - -Ah, how different it was from this, when you dwelt in the same -places as I did! All was pleasure then. The certainty of seeing you -embellished even the moments of absence; the time which had to be -passed away from you glided away as it brought you nearer to me. The -use I made of it was never unknown to you. If I fulfilled my duties, -they rendered me more worthy of you; if I cultivated any talent, -I hoped the more to please you. Even when the distractions of the -world carried me far away from you, I was not parted from you. At the -play-house I sought to divine what would have pleased you; a concert -reminded me of your talents and our sweet occupations. In company, on -my walks, I seized upon the slightest resemblance. I compared you with -all; everywhere you had the advantage. Every moment of the day was -marked by fresh homage, and every evening I brought the tribute of it -to your feet. - -Nowadays, what remains to me? Dolorous regrets, eternal privations, and -a faint hope that Valmont’s silence may be broken, that yours shall be -changed to inquietude. Ten leagues alone divide us, and that distance, -so easy to traverse, becomes to me alone an insurmountable obstacle! -And when I implore my friend, my mistress, to help me to overcome it, -both remain cold and unmoved! Far from aiding me, they do not even -reply. - -What has become then of the active friendship of Valmont? What, above -all, has become of your tender sentiments, which made you so ingenious -in discovering the means of our daily meetings? Sometimes, I remember, -without ceasing to desire them, I found myself compelled to forego them -for considerations, duties; what did you not say to me then? With how -many pretexts did you not combat my reasons? And let me remind you, -my Cécile, my reasons always gave way to your wishes. I do not make a -merit of it; it has not even that of sacrifice. What you desired to -obtain I was burning to bestow. But now I ask in my turn; and what is -the request? To see you for a moment, to renew to you and to receive -a vow of eternal love. Does that no longer make your happiness as it -makes mine? I thrust aside that despairing idea, which would set the -crown upon my ills. You love me, you will always love me, I believe it, -I am sure of it, I will never doubt it: but my situation is frightful, -and I can not endure it much longer. Adieu, Cécile. - - Paris, 18th September, 17**. - - - - -LETTER THE EIGHTY-FIRST - -THE MARQUISE DE MERTEUIL TO THE VICOMTE DE VALMONT - - -HOW your fears excite my pity! How they prove to me my superiority over -you! And you want to teach me, to be my guide? Ah, my poor Valmont, -what a distance there is between you and me! No, all the pride of your -sex would not suffice to bridge over the gulf which separates us. -Because you could not execute my projects, you judge them impossible! -Proud and weak being, it well becomes you to seek to weigh my means and -judge of my resources! In truth, Vicomte, your counsels have put me in -an ill-humour, and I will not conceal it from you. - -That, to mask your incredible stupidity with your Présidente, you -should blazon out to me, as a triumph, the fact of your having for a -moment put out of countenance this woman who is timid and who loves -you: I agree to that; of having obtained a look, a single look: I -smile, and grant it you. That, feeling, in spite of yourself, the poor -value of your conduct, you should hope to distract my attention from -it by gratifying me with the story of your sublime effort to bring -together two children who are both burning to see one another, and who, -I may mention by the way, owe to me alone the ardour of their desire: -I grant you that also. That, finally, you should feel authorized by -these brilliant achievements to write to me, in doctorial tones, _that -it is better to employ one’s time in carrying out one’s projects than -in describing them_: such vanity does me no harm and I forgive it. But -that you could believe that I had need of your prudence, that I should -lose my way unless I deferred to your advice, that I ought to sacrifice -a pleasure or a whim: in truth, Vicomte, that is indeed to plume -yourself over much on the confidence which I am quite willing to place -in you! - -And, pray, what have you done that I have not surpassed a thousand -times? You have seduced, ruined even, very many women: but what -difficulties have you had to overcome? What obstacles to surmount? -What merit lies therein that is really your own? A handsome face, the -pure result of chance; graces, which habit almost always brings; wit, -in truth: but jargon would supply its place at need; a praiseworthy -impudence, perhaps due solely to the ease of your first successes; if -I am not mistaken, these are your means, for, as for the celebrity -you have succeeded in acquiring, you will not ask me, I suppose, to -count for much the art of giving birth to a scandal or seizing the -opportunity of one. - -As for prudence, _finesse_, I do not speak of myself: but where is the -woman who has not more than you? Why, your Présidente leads you like a -child! - -Believe me, Vicomte, it is rarely one acquires qualities which cannot -be dispensed with. Fighting without risk, you are bound to act without -precaution. For you men, a defeat is but one success the less. In so -unequal a match, we are fortunate if we do not lose, as it is your -misfortune if you do not win. Even were I to grant you as many talents -as ourselves, by how many should we not still need to surpass you, from -the necessity we are under to make a perpetual use of them! - -Supposing, I admit, that you brought as much skill to the task of -conquering us as we show in defending ourselves or in yielding, you -will at least agree that it becomes useless to you after your success. -Absorbed solely in your new fancy, you abandon yourself to it without -fear, without reserve: it is not to you that its duration is important. - -In fact, those bonds reciprocally given and received, to talk love’s -jargon, you alone can tighten or break at your will: we are even lucky -if, in your wantonness, preferring mystery to noise, you are satisfied -with an humiliating desertion, without making the idol of yesterday the -victim of to-morrow. - -But when an unfortunate woman has once felt the weight of her chain, -what risks she has to run, if she but endeavours to shake it off! It is -only with trembling that she can attempt to dismiss from her the man -whom her heart repulses with violence. Does he insist on remaining, she -must yield to fear what she had granted to love: - - “_Ses bras s’ouvrent encor quand son cœur est ferme._” - -Her prudence must skilfully unravel those same bonds which you would -have broken. At the mercy of her enemy, if he be without generosity, -she is without resources: and how can she hope generosity from him -when, although he is sometimes praised for having it, he is never -blamed for lacking it? - -Doubtless, you will not deny these truths, which are so evident as -to have become trivial. If, however, you have seen me, disposing of -opinions and events, making these formidable men the toys of my fantasy -and my caprice, depriving some of the power, some of the will to hurt -me; if I have known, turn by turn, according to my fickle fancy, how to -attach to my service or drive far away from me - - “_Ces tyrans détrônés devenus mes esclaves;_”[27] - -if in the midst of these frequent revolutions my reputation has still -remained pure; ought you not to have concluded that, being born to -avenge my sex and to dominate yours, I had devised methods previously -unknown? - -Oh! keep your advice and your fears for those delirious women who -call themselves _sentimental_; whose exalted imagination would make -one believe that nature has placed their senses in their heads; who, -having never reflected, persist in confounding love with the lover; -who, in their mad illusion, believe that he with whom they have pursued -pleasure is its sole depository; and, truly superstitious, show the -priest the respect and faith which is only due to the divinity. Be -still more afraid for those who, their vanity being larger than their -prudence, do not know, at need, how to consent to being abandoned. -Tremble, above all, for those women, active in their indolence, whom -you call _women of sensibility_, and over whom love takes hold so -easily and with such power; who feel the need of being occupied with -it, even when they are not enjoying it; and, giving themselves up -unreservedly to the fermentation of their ideas, bring forth from them -those letters so sweet, but so dangerous to write, and are not afraid -to confide these proofs of their weakness to the object which causes -it: imprudent ones, who do not know how to discern in their present -lover their enemy to be. - -But what have I in common with these unreflecting women? When have you -ever seen me depart from the rules I have laid down, or be false to -my principles? I say my principles, and I say so designedly; for they -are not, like those of other women, the result of chance, received -without scrutiny, and followed out of habit; they are the fruit of my -profound reflexions; I have created them, and I may say that I am my -own handiwork. - -Entering the world at a time when, still a girl, I was compelled by my -condition to be silent and inert, I knew how to profit by observing -and reflecting. Whilst I was thought heedless or inattentive, and, in -truth, listened little to the remarks that they were careful to make to -me, I carefully gathered up those which they sought to hide from me. - -This useful curiosity, while serving to instruct me, also taught me -dissimulation; often forced to conceal the objects of my attention from -the eyes of those who surrounded me, I sought to direct my own whither -I desired; I learned then how to assume at will that remote look which -you have so often praised. Encouraged by this first success, I tried -to govern equally the different movements of my face. Did I experience -some vexation, I studied to assume an air of serenity, even of joy; -I have carried my zeal so far as to inflict voluntary pain on myself, -in order to seek, at that time, an expression of pleasure. I laboured, -with the same care and greater difficulty, to repress the symptoms -of unexpected joy. It was thus that I gained that command over my -physiognomy at which I have sometimes seen you so astonished. - -I was very young still, and almost without interest: my thoughts were -all that I had, and I was indignant that these should be stolen from -me or surprised against my will. Armed with these first weapons, I -amused myself by showing myself under different forms. Sure of my -gestures, I kept a watch upon my speech; I regulated both according to -circumstances, or even merely according to my whim; from that moment -the colour of my thought was my secret, and I never revealed more of it -than it was useful for me to show. - -This labour spent upon myself had fixed my attention on the expression -of faces and the character of physiognomy; and I thus gained that -penetrating glance to which experience, indeed, has taught me not to -trust entirely, but which, on the whole, has rarely deceived me. I was -not fifteen years old, I possessed already the talents to which the -greater part of our politicians owe their reputation, and I was as yet -only at the rudiments of the science which I wished to acquire. You may -well imagine that, like all young girls, I sought to find out about -love and its pleasures; but having never been to the convent, having -no confidential friend, and being watched by a vigilant mother, I had -only vague notions, which I could not fix; even nature, which later, I -had, assuredly, no reason to do aught but praise, as yet afforded me -no hint. One might have said that it was working in silence at the -perfection of its handiwork. My head alone was in a ferment; I did -not desire enjoyment, I wanted to know: the desire for information -suggested to me the means. - -I felt that the only man with whom I could speak on this matter without -compromising myself was my confessor. I took my course at once; I -surmounted my slight feeling of shame; and vaunting myself for a sin -which I had not committed, I accused myself of having done _all that -women do_. That was my expression; but, in speaking so, I did not -know, in truth, what idea I was expressing. My hope was not altogether -deceived, nor entirely fulfilled; the fear of betraying myself -prevented me from enlightening myself: but the good father represented -the ill as so great that I concluded the pleasure to be extreme; and to -the desire of knowing it the desire of tasting it succeeded. - -I do not know whither this desire would have led me; and, devoid of -experience as I was at that time, perhaps a single opportunity would -have ruined me: luckily for me, my mother informed me, a few days -later, that I was to be married; the certainty of knowing extinguished -my curiosity at once, and I came a virgin to the arms of M. de Merteuil. - -I waited with calmness for the moment which was to enlighten me, and -I had need of reflexion, in order to exhibit embarrassment and fear. -The first night, of which ordinarily one entertains an idea so painful -or so sweet, presented itself to me only as an occasion of experience: -pain and pleasure, I observed all carefully, and saw in these different -sensations only facts upon which to reflect and meditate. This form of -study soon succeeded in pleasing me: but, faithful to my principles, -and feeling by instinct perhaps that no one ought to be further from -my confidence than my husband, I resolved to appear the more impassive -in his eyes, the more sensible I really was. This apparent coldness -was subsequently the impregnable foundation of his blind confidence; -as a second reflexion, I joined to it the mischievous air which my age -justified; and he never thought me more of a child than when I was -tricking him most. - -Meanwhile, I will admit, I, at first, let myself be dragged into -the vortex of society, and gave myself up completely to its futile -distractions. But, after some months, M. de Merteuil having taken me -to his dismal country estate, the dread of _ennui_ revived the taste -for study in me: and as I found myself there surrounded by people whose -distance from me put me out of the reach of all suspicion, I profited -by it to give a vaster field to my experience. It was there especially -that I assured myself that love, which they vaunt to us as the cause of -our pleasures, is, at the most, only the pretext for them. - -The illness of M. de Merteuil came to interrupt these sweet -occupations; it was necessary to follow him to Town, where he went to -seek for aid. He died, as you know, shortly afterwards; and although, -considering all things, I had no complaint to make against him, I had, -none the less, a lively feeling of the value of the liberty which my -widowhood would give me, and I promised myself to take advantage of -it. My mother calculated on my entering a convent, or returning to -live with her. I refused to take either course, and all I granted to -decency, was to go back to the same country estate, where there were -still some observations left for me to make. - -I supplemented these with the help of reading: but do not imagine it -was all of the kind you suppose. I studied our manners in novels, our -opinions in the philosophers; I even went to the most severe moralists -to see what they expected from us; and I thus made sure of what one -could do, of what one ought to think, and of how one must appear. My -mind once settled upon these three matters, the last alone presented -any difficulties in its execution; I hoped to overcome them, and I -meditated on the means. - -I began to grow tired of my rustic pleasures, which were not varied -enough for my active brain; I felt the need of coquetry, which should -reunite me to love, not in order that I might really feel it, but to -feign and inspire it. In vain had I been told, and had I read, that -one could not feign this sentiment; I saw that, to succeed there, -it sufficed to join the talent of a comedian to an author’s wit. I -exercised myself in both kinds, and, perhaps, with some success: but, -instead of seeking the vain applause of the theatre, I resolved to -employ for my happiness that which so many others sacrificed to vanity. - -A year passed in these different occupations. My mourning then allowing -me to reappear, I returned to Town with my great projects; I was not -prepared for the first obstacle which I encountered. - -My long solitude and austere retreat had covered me with a veneer -of prudery which frightened our _beaux_; they kept their distance, -and left me at the mercy of a crowd of tedious fellows, who all were -aspirants for my hand. The embarrassment did not lie in refusing -them; but many of these refusals displeased my family, and in these -internal disputes I lost the time of which I had promised myself to -make such charming use. I was obliged, then, in order to recall some -and drive away the others, to display certain inconsistencies, and to -take as much pains in damaging my reputation as I had thought to take -in preserving it. I succeeded easily, as you may believe: but, being -carried away by no passion, I only did what I thought necessary, and -measured out my doses of indiscretion with caution. - -As soon as I had touched the goal which I would attain, I retraced my -steps, and gave the honour of my amendment to some of those women who, -being impotent as far as any pretensions to charm are concerned, fall -back on those of merit and virtue. This was a move which was of more -value to me than I had hoped. These grateful duennas set themselves up -as my apologists; and their blind zeal for what they called their work -was carried to such an extent that, at the least reflexion which might -be made on me, the whole party of prudes cried scandal and outrage. -The same method procured me also the suffrages of the women with -pretensions, who, being persuaded that I had renounced the thought of -following the same career as theirs, selected me as a subject for their -praise, each time they wished to prove that they did not speak ill of -all the world. - -Meanwhile, my previous conduct had brought back the lovers; and to -compromise between them and the unfaithful women who had become my -patronesses, I passed as a woman of sensibility, but rigour, whom the -excess of her delicacy furnished with arms against love. - -I then began to display upon the great stage the talents which had -been given me. My first care was to acquire the reputation of being -invincible. To attain it, the men who did not please me were always the -only ones whose homage I had the air of accepting. I employed them -usefully to obtain for me the honours of resistance, whilst to the -preferred lover I abandoned myself without fear. But the latter, my -pretended shyness never permitted to follow me in the world; and the -gaze of society has thus been always fixed on the unhappy lover. - -You know with what rapidity I choose: it is because I have observed -that it is nearly always the previous attentions which disclose a -woman’s secret. Whatever one may say, the tone is never the same before -and after success. This difference does not escape the attentive -observer; and I have found it less dangerous to be deceived in my -choice than to let that choice be penetrated. I gain here again by -removing probabilities, by which alone we can be judged. - -These precautions and that of never writing, of never giving any proof -of my defeat, might appear excessive, and to me have ever appeared -insufficient. I have looked into my own heart, I have studied in it the -heart of others. I saw there that there is nobody who does not keep a -secret there which it is of importance to him should not be divulged: -a truth which antiquity seems to have known better than we, and of -which the history of Samson might be no more than an ingenious symbol. -Like a new Delilah, I have always employed my power in surprising -this important secret. Ah, of how many of our modern Samsons have not -the locks fallen beneath my shears? And these, I have ceased to fear -them; they are the only ones whom I have sometimes permitted myself -to humiliate. More supple with the others, the art of rendering them -unfaithful lest I should appear to them fickle, a feint of friendship, -an appearance of confidence, a few generous measures, the flattering -notion, which each one retains, of having been my only lover, have -secured me their discretion. Finally, when these methods failed me, -foreseeing the rupture, I knew how to crush in advance, beneath -ridicule or calumny, the credence which these dangerous men could have -obtained. - -All this which I tell you you have seen me practise unceasingly; and -you doubt of my prudence! Ah, indeed! recall to mind the time when -you paid me your first attentions: no homage was ever more flattering -to me; I desired you before I had ever seen you. Seduced by your -reputation, it seemed to me that you were wanting to my glory; I burned -with a desire for a hand-to-hand combat with you. It is the only one of -my fancies which ever had a moment’s empire over me. However, if you -had wished to destroy me, what means would you have found? Empty talk -which leaves no trace behind it, which your very reputation would have -helped to render suspect, and a tissue of improbable facts, the sincere -relation of which would have had the air of a badly conceived novel. It -is true, since that time, I have handed you over all my secrets: but -you know what interests unite us, and that, if it be one of us, it is -not I who can be taxed with imprudence.[28] - -Since I have started off to render account to you, I will do it -precisely. I hear you tell me now that I am at any rate at the mercy -of my chamber-maid; in fact, if she is not in the secret of my -sentiments, she is of my actions. When you spoke of it to me once -before, I answered that I was sure of her; and my proof that this -reply was sufficient then for your tranquillity is that you have since -confided to her mighty dangerous secrets of your own. But, now that you -have taken umbrage at Prévan, and that your head is turned, I doubt -whether you will believe me any more on my word. I must therefore edify -you. - -In the first place, the girl is my foster-sister, and this bond, which -does not seem one to us, is not without force amongst people of her -condition: in addition, I have her secret and better still, the victim -of a love madness, she was ruined, if I had not saved her. Her parents, -bristling with honour, would be satisfied by nothing less than her -imprisonment. They applied to me. I saw at a glance how useful their -anger might be made to me. I seconded them and solicited the order, -which I obtained. Then, suddenly turning to the side of clemency, to -which I persuaded her parents, and profiting by my influence with the -old minister, I made them all consent to make me the depositary of -this order, free to stay it or demand its execution, according to the -judgment I should form of the girl’s future conduct. She knows, then, -that I have her lot within my hands; and if, to assume the impossible, -these potent reasons should not prevent her, is it not evident that -the revelation of her conduct and her authentic punishment would soon -deprive her language of all credit? - -To these precautions, which I call fundamental, are joined a thousand -others, local or occasional, which habit and reflexion allow me to -find at need; of which the details would be tedious, although their -practice is important; and which you must take the trouble to pick out -from the general view of my conduct, if you would succeed in knowing -them. - -But to pretend that I have been at so much pains, and am not to cull -the fruit of them; that, after having raised myself, by my arduous -labours, so high above other women, I am to consent to grope along, -like them, betwixt imprudence and timidity; that, above all, I should -fear any man to such an extent as to see no other salvation than in -flight? No, Vicomte, never! I must conquer or perish. As for Prévan, I -wish to have him, and I shall have him; he wishes to tell of it, and he -shall not tell of it: that, in two words, is our little romance. Adieu. - - Paris, 20th September, 17**. - - - - -LETTER THE EIGHTY-SECOND - -CÉCILE VOLANGES TO THE CHEVALIER DANCENY - - -AH, God, what pain your letter gave me! I need well have felt such -impatience to receive it! I hoped to find in it consolation, and here -am I more afflicted than I was ere I received it. I shed many tears -when I read it: it is not that with which I reproach you; I have -already wept many times because of you, without its being painful to -me. But this time, it is not the same thing. - -What is it that you wish to say, pray? that your love is grown a -torment to you, that you cannot longer live thus, nor any more support -your situation? Do you mean that you are going to cease to love me, -because it is not so agreeable as it used to be? It seems to me that -I am no happier than you are, quite the contrary; and yet I only love -you the more for that. If M. de Valmont has not written to you, it is -not my fault; I could not beg him to, because I have not been alone -with him, and we have agreed that we would never speak before people: -and that again is for your sake, so that he can the better do what you -desire. I do not say that I do not desire it also, and you ought to be -assured of this: but what would you have me do? If you believe it to be -so easy, please find the means, I ask nothing better. - -Do you think it is so very agreeable for me to be scolded every day -by Mamma, who once never said anything to me? Quite the contrary. Now -it is worse than if I were at the convent. I consoled myself for it, -however, by reflecting that it was for you; there were even moments -when I found I was quite content; but when I see that you are vexed -too, without its being in the least my fault, I have more grief than I -had for all that has hitherto happened to me. - -Even merely to receive your letters is embarrassing, so that, if M. -de Valmont were not so obliging and so clever as he is, I should not -know what to do; and, as to writing to you, that is more difficult -still. All the morning I dare not, because Mamma is close by me, and -she may come, at any moment, into my room. Sometimes, I am able to, in -the afternoon, under pretence of singing or playing on the harp; even -then I have to interrupt myself after every line, to let them hear I -am studying. Luckily my waiting-maid sometimes grows sleepy in the -evening, and I tell her that I can quite well get to bed by myself, so -that she may go away and leave me the light. And then, I am obliged -to get behind my curtain, so that no light can be seen; and then, to -listen for the least sound, so that I can hide everything in my bed, if -anyone comes. I wish you were there to see! You would soon see that one -must indeed love anyone to do it. In short, it is quite true that I do -all that I can, and I would it lay within my power to do more. - -Certainly, I do not refuse to tell you that I love you, and that I -shall always love you; I never told it you with a fuller heart; and -you are vexed! Yet you had assured me, before I said it, that that was -enough to make you happy. You cannot deny it; it is in your letters. -Although I have them no longer, I remember them as well as when I used -to read them every day. And you, because you are absent now, no longer -think the same! But perhaps this absence will not always last? Ah, God, -how unhappy I am! And it is indeed you who are the cause of it!... - -With regard to your letters, I hope that you have kept those which -Mamma took from me, and which she sent back to you; a time must come, -some day, when I shall not be so restrained as at present, and you -will give them all back to me. How happy I shall be when I am able to -see them! Now I return them to M. de Valmont, because there would be -too much danger otherwise; in spite of that, I never give them to him -without feeling a deal of pain. - -Adieu, my dear friend. I love you with all my heart. I shall love you -all my life. I hope that now you are no longer vexed, and, were I sure -of it, I should not be so myself. Write to me, as soon as you are able, -for I feel that till then I shall continue sad. - - At the Château de ..., 21st September, 17**. - - - - -LETTER THE EIGHTY-THIRD - -THE VICOMTE DE VALMONT TO THE PRÉSIDENTE DE TOURVEL - - -FOR mercy’s sake, Madame, let us repeat that interview which was so -unhappily broken! Oh, that I could complete my work of proving to you -how much I differ from the odious portrait which has been made of me; -that, above all, I could again enjoy that amiable confidence which you -began to grant me! How many are the charms with which you know how -to endow virtue! How you beautify, and render dear, every virtuous -sentiment! Ah, therein lies your fascination; it is the strongest; it -is the only one which is at once powerful and worthy of respect. - -Doubtless, it is enough to see you to desire to please you; to hear -you in company for that desire to be redoubled. But he who has the -happiness of knowing you better, who can sometimes read in your soul, -soon yields to a more noble enthusiasm, and, penetrated by veneration -as by love, worships in you the image of all the virtues. Better made -than another, perhaps, to love and follow them, although seduced by -certain errors which had separated me from them, it is you who have -brought me back, who have caused me to feel anew all their charm: -will you make a crime of this new love of mine? Will you blame your -handiwork? Would you reproach yourself even with the interest which you -might take in it? What harm is to be feared from so pure a sentiment, -and what sweetness might there not be to taste in it? - -My love alarms you, you find it violent, unrestrained! Temper it with a -gentler love; do not disdain the empire which I offer you, from which I -swear never to escape, and which, I dare believe, would not be entirely -lost to virtue. What sacrifice could seem hard to me, once sure that -your heart could keep its price for me? Where is the man, then, who is -so unhappy as not to know how to delight in the privations which he -imposes on himself, as not to prefer a word, a glance, accorded, to all -the pleasures which he could steal or surprise? And you believed that -I was such a man, and you feared me! Ah, why does not your happiness -depend on my own! What vengeance I would take on you, by rendering you -happy! But this gentle empire is no result of a barren friendship; it -is only due to love. - -That word frightens you! And why? A more tender attachment, a stronger -union, a common thought, a like happiness and a like pain, what is -there in that alien to your soul? Yet love is all that! Such, at least, -is the love which you inspire and I experience. It is that, above all, -which, calculating without interest, knows how to appreciate actions -according to their merit and not their price; it is the inexhaustible -treasure of sensitive souls, and all things become precious that are -done for or by it. - -What, then, have these truths, so easy to grasp, so sweet to practise, -that can alarm? What fear, either, can a man of sensibility cause you, -to whom love permits no other happiness than your own? This is the -solitary vow I make to-day: I will sacrifice all to fulfil it, except -the sentiment by which it is inspired; and this sentiment itself, if -you do but consent to share it, you shall order as you will. But let -us suffer it no longer to divide us, when it should unite us. If the -friendship you have offered me is not an idle word; if, as you told me -yesterday, it is the sweetest sentiment known to your soul, let that be -the bond between us; I will not reject it: but, being arbiter of love, -let it consent to listen to it; a refusal to hear it would become an -injustice, and friendship is not unjust. - -A second interview will present no greater difficulty than the first: -chance can again furnish the occasion; you could yourself indicate the -right moment. I am willing to believe that I am wrong; would you not be -better pleased to convince me than to combat me, and do you doubt my -docility? If that inopportune third party had not come to interrupt us, -perhaps I had already been brought round entirely to your opinion: who -knows the full extent of your power? - -Shall I say it to you? This invincible power, to which I abandon -myself without venturing on calculation, this irresistible charm, -which renders you sovereign of my thoughts as of my actions: it comes -to me sometimes to fear them. Alas, perhaps it is I who should be -afraid of this interview for which I ask! After it, perhaps, bound -by my promises, I shall see myself compelled to consume away with a -love which, I am well aware, can never be extinguished, without daring -to implore your aid! Ah, Madame, for mercy’s sake, do not abuse your -authority! But what then! if you are to be the happier for it, if I am -thereby to appear worthier of you, what pains are not alleviated by -these consoling ideas! Yes, I feel it; to speak again with you is to -give you stronger arms against me; it is to submit myself more entirely -to your will. It is easier to defend myself against your letters; -they are indeed your very utterances, but you are not there to lend -them fresh strength. However, the pleasure of hearing you leads me to -brave the danger: at least I shall have the pleasure of having dared -everything for you, even against myself; and my sacrifices will become -an homage. I am too happy to prove to you in a thousand manners, as I -feel in a thousand fashions, that you are and ever will be, without -excepting myself, the object dearest to my heart. - - At the Château de ..., 23rd September, 17**. - - - - -LETTER THE EIGHTY-FOURTH - -THE VICOMTE DE VALMONT TO CÉCILE VOLANGES - - -YOU saw how greatly the chance was against us yesterday. All day long -I was unable to hand you the letter which I had for you; I know not -whether I shall find it any easier to-day. I am afraid of compromising -you, by showing more zeal than discretion; and I should never forgive -myself for an imprudence which might prove so fatal to you, and cause -the despair of my friend, by rendering you eternally miserable. -However, I am aware of the impatience of love; I feel how painful it -must be to you, in your situation, to meet with any delay in the only -consolation you can know at this moment. By dint of busying myself with -the means of removing the obstacles, I have found one the execution of -which, if you take some pains, will be easy. - -I think I have remarked that the key of the door of your chamber, -which opens into the corridor, is always on your Mamma’s mantel-shelf. -Everything would be easy with this key, you must be well aware; but in -default of it, I will procure you one like it, which will serve in its -stead. To succeed in this, it will be sufficient to have the other at -my disposition for an hour or two. You will easily find an opportunity -for taking it; and, in order that its absence may not be noticed, -I enclose, in this, one of my own which is so far like it that no -difference will be seen, unless they try it; this they are not likely -to do. You must only take care to tie it to a faded blue ribbon, like -that which is on your own. - -It would be well to try and have this key by to-morrow or the day -after, at breakfast-time; because it will be easier for you to give it -me then, and it can be returned to its place in the evening, a time -when your Mamma might pay more attention to it. I shall be able to -return it to you at dinner-time, if we arrange well. - -You know that, when we move from the _salon_ to the dining-room, it is -always Madame de Rosemonde who walks last. I shall give her my hand. -You will only have to take some time in putting away your tapestry, or -even to let something drop, so that you may remain behind: you will -see then how to take the key from me, which I shall be careful to -hold behind me. You must not neglect, as soon as you have taken it, -to rejoin my old aunt and pay her a few attentions. If by chance you -should let the key fall, do not lose your countenance; I will feign -that it was done by me, and I answer for everything. - -The lack of confidence your Mamma shows in you, and her harsh behaviour -towards you, authorize this little deception. It is, moreover, the -only way to continue to receive the letters of Danceny, and to forward -him yours; all others are really too dangerous and might ruin you both -irretrievably: thus my prudent friendship would reproach itself, were I -to employ them further. - -Once having the key, there remain some precautions for us to take -against the noise of door and lock; but they are very easy. You will -find, beneath the same press where I placed your paper, oil and a -feather. You sometimes go to your room at times when you are alone -there: you must profit by it to oil the lock and hinges. The only -attention you need pay is to be careful of stains which might betray -you. You had better wait also until night arrives, because, if it be -done with the intelligence of which you are capable, there will be -no trace of it on the following morning. If, however, it should be -perceived, then you must say that it is the indoor polisher. You must -in this case specify the time, and even the conversation which you had -with him: as, for instance, that he takes this precaution against rust -with all the locks which are not in use. For you see that it would be -unlikely that you should have witnessed this proceeding without asking -the reason. It is these little details which give probability; and -probability renders a lie without consequence, by diminishing people’s -desire to verify it. - -After you have read this letter, I beg you to read it again and even -to study it: to begin with, one should be well acquainted with what -one wishes to do well; next, to assure yourself that I have omitted -nothing. Little accustomed to employ _finesse_ on my own account, I -have no great use for it; indeed it needed nothing less than my keen -friendship for Danceny, and the interest which you inspire in me, to -induce me to employ these means, however innocent they may be. I hate -anything which has the air of deception; that is my character. But -your misfortunes have touched me to such a degree that I will attempt -everything to alleviate them. - -You can imagine that, with this means of communication once established -between us, it will be far easier for me to procure for you the -interview with Danceny which he desires. However, do not yet speak to -him of all this: you would only increase his impatience, and the moment -for satisfying it is not yet quite arrived. You owe it to him, I think, -to calm rather than to excite him. I depend in this matter on your -delicacy. Adieu, my fair pupil, for you are my pupil. Love your tutor -a little, and above all be docile to him: you will be rewarded. I am -occupied with your happiness; rest assured that I shall find therein my -own. - - At the Château de ..., 24th September, 17**. - - - - -LETTER THE EIGHTY-FIFTH - -THE MARQUISE DE MERTEUIL TO THE VICOMTE DE VALMONT - - -AT last you may be tranquil, and, above all, you can render me justice. -Listen, and do not confound me again with other women. I have brought -my adventure with Prévan to a close. _To a close!_ Do you fully -understand what that implies? Now you shall judge whether it is I, or -he, who can vaunt himself. The story will not be as amusing as the -adventure: neither would it be just that you, who have done no more -than reason ill or well about the affair, should reap as much pleasure -from it as I, who have given my time and labour. - -In the meantime, if you have some great scheme to try, if you would -attempt some enterprise in which this dangerous rival should seem to -you to be feared, this is your time. He leaves the field free to you, -at least for some time; perhaps, even, he will never recover from the -blow I have given him. - -How fortunate you are to have me for a friend! I am a benevolent fairy -to you. You languish afar from the beauty who engrosses you; I say -one word, and you find yourself once more at her side. You wish to -revenge yourself on a woman who injures you; I point out to you the -place where you have to strike, and abandon her to your tender mercies. -Finally, to drive a formidable competitor from the lists, it is once -more I whom you invoke, and I give heed to you. Truly, if you do not -spend your life in thanking me, it means that you are an ingrate. I -return to my adventure and take it up from the beginning. - -The _rendez-vous_ made so loudly, on leaving the Opera, was understood -as I had hoped. Prévan repaired to it; and when the Maréchale said to -him politely that she congratulated herself on seeing him twice in -succession at her days, he was careful to reply that, since Tuesday -night, he had cancelled a thousand engagements, in order that he might -thus dispose of that evening. _À bon entendeur, salut!_ As I wished, -however, to know with more certainty whether I was, or was not, the -veritable object of this flattering zeal, I resolved to compel the new -aspirant to choose between me and his dominant passion. I declared that -I should not play; and he, on his side, found a thousand pretexts for -not playing, and my first triumph was over lansquenet. - -I secured the Bishop of *** for my gossip; I chose him because of his -intimacy with the hero of the day, to whom I wished to give every -facility to approach me. I was contented also to have a respectable -witness, who could, at need, depose to my behaviour and my language. -This arrangement was successful. - -After the vague and customary remarks, Prévan, having soon made himself -the leader of the conversation, tried different tones in turn, in order -to discover which was likely to please me. I refused that of sentiment, -as though I had no faith in it; I stopped, by my seriousness, his -gaiety, which seemed to me too frivolous for a _début_; he fell back -upon delicate friendship; and it was beneath this well-worn flag that -we began our reciprocal attack. - -At supper-time, the Bishop did not descend; Prévan then gave me his -hand, and was naturally placed by my side at table. One must be just; -he maintained with much skill our private conversation, while seeming -only to be occupied with the general conversation, to which he had the -air of being the largest contributor. At dessert, they spoke of a new -piece which was to be given on the following Monday at the _Français_. -I expressed some regret that I had not my box; he offered me his own, -which at first, as is the usage, I refused: to which he answered -humorously enough, that I did not understand him; that certainly, he -would not make the sacrifice of his box to anyone whom he did not know; -but that he only let me know it was at Madame la Maréchale’s disposal. -She lent herself to this pleasantry, and I accepted. - -On our return to the _salon_, he asked, as you may well believe, for -a place in this box; and when the Maréchale, who treats him with -great kindness, promised him it, _if he were good_, he made it the -occasion of one of those double-edged conversations, at which you have -extolled his talent to me. Indeed, having fallen on his knees, like a -submissive child, he said, under pretext of begging for her counsel -and tasking her opinion, he uttered many a flattering and tender -thing, the application of which I could easily take to myself. Several -persons having not returned to play after supper, the conversation was -more general and less interesting: but our eyes spoke much. I say our -eyes: I should have said his; for mine spoke but one language--that of -surprise. He must have thought I was astonished, and quite absorbed -in the prodigious effect which he had on me. I think I left him highly -satisfied; I was no less pleased myself. - -On the following Monday I was at the _Français_, as we had agreed. -In spite of your literary curiosity, I can tell you nothing of the -performance, except that Prévan has a marvellous talent for cajolery, -and that the piece failed: that is all that I learned. I was sorry to -see the evening come to an end; it had really pleased me mightily; and, -in order to prolong it, I invited the Maréchale to come and sup with -me: this gave me a pretext for proposing it to the amiable flatterer, -who only asked the time to hasten to the Comtesses de P***,[29] -and free himself from an engagement. This name brought back all my -anger; I saw plainly that he was going to begin his confidences; I -remembered your wise counsels, and promised myself ... to proceed with -the adventure; I was certain that I should cure him of this dangerous -indiscretion. - -Being new to my company, which was not very numerous that evening, he -owed me the customary usages; thus, when we went to supper, he offered -me his hand. I was malicious enough, when accepting it, to allow mine -to tremble slightly, and to walk with my eyes cast down, and a quick -respiration. I had the air of having a presentiment of my defeat, and -of being afraid of my victor. He noticed it readily; then the traitor -promptly changed his tone and aspect. He had been gallant, he became -tender. It was not that his language did not remain much the same: -circumstances compelled that; but his gaze had become less keen and -more caressing; the inflexion of his voice softer; his smile was no -longer the smile of _finesse_, but of satisfaction. Finally, in his -conversation, suppressing more and more the fire of his sallies, wit -gave place to delicacy. I ask you, could you have done better yourself? - -On my side, I grew pensive to such a point that the company was forced -to perceive it; and when I was reproached for it, I was clever enough -to defend myself indifferently, and to cast on Prévan a rapid, yet shy -and embarrassed glance, that was to make him believe that all my fear -was lest he should divine the cause of my trouble. - -After supper, I profited by the moment when the good Maréchale was -telling one of those stories which she is always telling, to settle -myself on my ottoman, in that languorous condition which is induced -by a tender _rêverie_. I was not sorry for Prévan to see me thus; in -truth, he honoured me with most particular attention. You may well -imagine that my timid glances did not dare to seek the eyes of my -conqueror: but directed towards him in a more humble fashion, they soon -informed me that I was obtaining the effect which I sought to produce. -I still needed to persuade him that I shared it; so that, when the -Maréchale announced she was going to retire, I cried out in a faint and -tender voice, “_Ah Dieu!_ I was so comfortable here!” I rose, however: -but, before taking leave of her, I asked her her plans, in order to -have a pretext for telling her mine, and of letting her know that I -should stay at home the whole of the following day. Upon this, we all -separated. - -I then started reflecting. I had no doubt but that Prévan would profit -by the sort of _rendez-vous_ I had given him; that he would come early -enough to find me alone, and that the attack would be a fierce one: but -I was quite sure also that, owing to my reputation, he would not treat -me with that lightness which is only employed with women of occasion -or with those who have no experience; and I foresaw a certain success, -if he pronounced the word love, above all, if he had the pretension of -obtaining it from me. - -How convenient it is to have dealings with you _people of principles_! -Sometimes a clumsy lover disconcerts us by his bashfulness or -embarrasses us with his fiery transports; it is a fever which, like -the other, has its chills and ardours, and sometimes varies in its -symptoms. But the even tenor of your way is so easily divined! - -The arrival, the aspect, the tone, the language: I knew it all the day -before. - -I will not report our conversation to you, then; you will easily supply -it for yourself. Only remark that, in my feigned defence, I aided him -with all my power: embarrassment, to give him time to speak; sorry -reasons, that he might combat them; distrust and fear, to revive his -protestations; and that perpetual refrain on his side of _I ask you -only for a word_; and the silence on mine, which seemed but to delay -him in order to make him desire the more: during all that, a hand -seized a hundred times, a hand always withdrawn yet never refused. -One might pass a whole day thus; we passed a mortal hour: we should -be there, perhaps, still, if we had not heard a carriage entering my -court-yard. This fortunate occurrence naturally rendered his entreaties -livelier; and I, seeing the moment arrive when I was out of danger -of any surprise, prepared myself by a long sigh, and granted him the -precious word. The visitor was announced, and soon afterwards, I was -surrounded by a numerous circle. - -Prévan begged to be allowed to come on the following morning, and I -consented: but, careful to defend myself, I ordered my waiting-maid to -remain all through the time of this visit in my bed-chamber, whence, -you know, one can see all that passes in my dressing-room, and it was -there that I received him. Free in our conversation and having both the -same desire, we were soon in agreement: but it was necessary to get rid -of this inopportune spectator; it was for that I was waiting. - -Then, painting an imaginative picture of my home life, I persuaded him -without difficulty that we should never find a moment’s liberty, and -that he must consider as a sort of miracle that which we had enjoyed -yesterday, and even that contained too great a risk for me to expose -myself to, since at any moment someone might enter my _salon_. I did -not fail to add that all these usages were established, because, until -that day, they had never interfered with me; and I insisted at the -same time upon the impossibility of changing them without compromising -myself in the eyes of my household. He attempted sadness, assumed -ill-humour, told me that I had little love; and you can guess how -much all that touched me! But, wishing to strike the decisive blow, -I summoned tears to my aid. It was precisely the _Zaïre, you are -weeping_. The empire which he thought to have gained over me, and the -hope he had conceived of compassing my ruin at his will, stood him in -good stead for all the love of Orosmane. - -This dramatic scene accomplished, we returned to our arrangements. The -day being out of the question, we turned our attention to the night: -but my Swiss became an insurmountable obstacle, and I would not permit -any attempt to bribe him. He suggested the wicket-gate of my garden; -but this I had foreseen, and I invented a dog who, although calm and -silent enough by day, became a real demon at night. The ease with which -I entered into all these details was well fitted to embolden him. Thus -he went on to propose the most ridiculous of expedients to me, and it -was this which I accepted. - -To begin with, his servant was as trusty as himself: in this he did -not lie to me; the one was quite as little so as the other. I was to -give a great supper at my house; he was to be there, and was to select -a moment when he could leave alone. The cunning confidant would call -his carriage, open the door, whilst he, Prévan, would slip adroitly on -one side. In no way could his coachman perceive this; so that, whilst -everybody believed him to have left, he had really remained with me; -the question remained whether he could reach my apartment. I confess -that, at first, I had some difficulty in finding reasons against this -project weak enough for him to be able to destroy; he answered me with -instances. To hear him, nothing was more ordinary than this method; he -himself had often employed it; it was even that one which he used the -most, as being the least dangerous. - -Subjugated by these irrefutable authorities, I admitted with candour -that I had a private staircase which led to the near neighbourhood of -my _boudoir_; that I could leave the key of it, and it was possible for -him to shut himself in there and wait, without undue risk, until my -women had retired; and then, to give more probability to my consent, -the moment after I was unwilling: I only relented on the condition of a -perfect docility, of a propriety--oh, a propriety! In short I was quite -willing to prove my love to him, but not so much to gratify his own. - -The exit, of which I was forgetting to tell you, was to be made by the -wicket-gate of my garden; it was only a matter of waiting for daybreak, -when the Cerberus would not utter a sound. Not a soul passes at that -hour, and people are in the soundest slumber. If you are astonished at -this heap of sorry reasons, it is because you forget our reciprocal -situation. What need had we of better ones? He asked nothing better -than for the thing to be known, and as for me, I was quite certain that -it should not be known. The next day but one was the day fixed. - -You will notice that there is the affair settled, and that no one has -yet seen Prévan in my society. I meet him at supper at the house of one -of my friends, he offers her his box for a new piece, and I accept a -place in it. I invite this woman to supper, during the piece and before -Prévan; I can hardly avoid inviting him to be of the party. He accepts, -and pays me two days later the visit exacted by custom. ’Tis true, he -comes to see me on the morning of the next day: but besides the fact -that morning visits no longer count, it only rests with me to find this -one too free; and in fact I put him in the category of persons less -intimate with me, by a written invitation to a supper of ceremony. I -can well cry, with Annette: “_Albeit that is all!_” - -The fatal day having come, the day on which I was to lose my virtue -and my reputation, I gave my instructions to the faithful Victoire, -and she executed them as you will presently see. In the meantime, -evening arrived. I had already a great company with me, when Prévan was -announced. I received him with a marked politeness, which testified -to the slightness of my acquaintance with him; and I put him by the -side of the Maréchale, as being the person through whom I had made it. -The evening produced nothing but a very short note, which the discreet -lover found a means of giving me, and which, according to my custom, I -burned. It informed me that I could trust him; and this essential word -was surrounded by all the parasitical words, such as love, happiness, -etc., which never fail to appear at such a festival. - -By midnight, the rubbers being over, I proposed a short medley.[30] I -had the double design of favouring Prévan’s escape, and at the same -time of causing it to be noticed; that could not fail to happen, -considering his reputation as a gamester. I was not sorry, either, that -it might be remembered, if need were, that I had not been in a hurry -to be left alone. The game lasted longer than I had thought. The devil -tempted me, and I was succumbing to my desire to console the impatient -prisoner. I was thus rushing on to my ruin, when I reflected that, once -having quite surrendered, I should not have sufficient control over him -to keep him in the costume of decency which my plans required. I had -the strength to resist. I retraced my steps, and returned, not without -some ill-humour, to resume my place at the eternal game. It finished, -however, and every one left. As for me, I rang for my women, undressed -very rapidly, and sent them also away. - -Can you see me, Vicomte, in my light toilette, walking with timid -and circumspect steps to open the door to my conqueror? He saw -me; lightning is not more prompt. What shall I say to you? I was -vanquished, quite vanquished, before I could say one word to arrest -him or defend myself. He then wanted to take a convenient position and -one more suitable to the circumstances. He cursed his finery which, he -said, kept him aloof from me; he would combat me with equal arms: but -my extreme timidity was opposed to this project, and my soft caresses -did not leave him time. He was occupied with other things. - -His rights were redoubled, his pretensions were renewed; but then: -“Listen to me,” I said; “you will have thus far a merry story enough to -tell the two Comtesses de P***, and a thousand others; but I am curious -to know how you will relate the end of the adventure.” Speaking thus, -I rang the bell with all my strength. For the nonce it was my turn, -and my action was quicker than my speech. He had only stammered out -something, when I heard Victoire running up and calling the servants, -whom she had kept near her, as I had ordered. Then, assuming my queenly -tone, raising my voice: “Leave me, Monsieur,” I went on, “and, never -come into my presence again.” Whereupon a crowd of my people entered. - -Poor Prévan lost his head, and, fancying an ambush in what was at -bottom no more than a joke, he betook himself to his sword. It did -him no good, for my _valet-de-chambre_, who is brave and active, -caught him round the body and hurled him to the ground. I was in a -mortal fright, I vow. I cried to them to cease, and bade them let his -retreat go unmolested, so long as they made certain that he was -gone. My men obeyed me: but there was great commotion amongst them; -they were indignant that anyone should have dared to fail in respect -towards _their virtuous mistress_. They all accompanied the unfortunate -Chevalier, noisily and with the scandal which I desired. Victoire -only stayed behind, and we occupied ourselves during this interval in -repairing the disorder of my bed. - -[Illustration: C. Monnet del. Triere sculp.] - -My household returned in the same state of commotion; and I, _still -upset by my emotion_, asked them by what lucky chance they happened to -be not yet gone to bed. Victoire then related to me how she had asked -two women friends to supper, how they had sat up with her, and, in -short, all that we had together agreed upon. I thanked them all, and -let them retire, bidding one of them, however, to go immediately and -summon my physician. It seemed to me that I was justified in fearing -ill effects from _my mortal fright_; and it was a sure means of giving -wind and celebrity to the news. He came in effect, condoled with me -mightily, and prescribed repose. In addition, I bade Victoire go abroad -early in the morning and gossip in the neighbourhood. - -Everything succeeded so well that, before noon, and as soon as I was -awake, my pious neighbour was already at my bedside, to know the truth -and the details of this terrible adventure. I was obliged to moan with -her for an hour over the corruption of the age. A moment later, I -received from the Maréchale the note which I enclose. Finally, about -five o’clock, to my great astonishment, Monsieur *** arrived.[31] He -came, he told me, to bring his excuses that an officer of his regiment -should have been so grossly wanting in respect. He had only heard -of it at dinner, at the Maréchale’s, and had immediately sent word -to Prévan to consider himself under arrest. I asked for his pardon, -and he refused it me. I then thought that, as an accomplice, I ought -to dispatch myself on my side, and at least keep myself under strict -guard. I caused my door to be shut, and word to be given that I was -indisposed. - -’Tis to my solitude that you owe this long letter! I shall write one -to Madame de Volanges, which she will be sure to read aloud, and from -which you will hear this story as it is to be told. I forgot to tell -you that Belleroche is enraged, and absolutely wants to fight Prévan. -The poor fellow! Luckily I shall have time to calm his head. In the -meantime, I am going to repose my own, which is tired with writing. -Adieu, Vicomte. - - Paris, 25th September, 17**. - - - - -LETTER THE EIGHTY-SIXTH - -THE MARÉCHALE DE *** TO THE MARQUISE DE MERTEUIL - -(A note enclosed in the preceding one) - - -AH, Heavens! what do I hear, my dear Madame? Is it possible that that -little Prévan should commit such abominations? And to you above all! -What is one not exposed to! One is no longer safe in one’s own house! -Truly such events console one for being old. But that for which I shall -never console myself is that I have been partly the cause of your -receiving such a monster at your house. I promise you that, if what I -am told is true, he shall never more set foot within my doors; that is -the course which all nice persons will adopt towards him, if they do -their duty. - -I am told that you have been quite ill, and I am anxious about your -health. Give me, I pray you, your precious news, or send by one of -your women, if you cannot come yourself. I only ask a word to reassure -me. I should have hastened to you this morning, had it not been for my -baths, which my doctor will not allow me to interrupt; and I must go to -Versailles this afternoon, always on my nephew’s business. - -Adieu, dear Madame; count upon my sincere friendship for life. - - Paris, September 25th, 17**. - - - - -LETTER THE EIGHTY-SEVENTH - -THE MARQUISE DE MERTEUIL TO MADAME DE VOLANGES - - -I WRITE to you from my bed, my dear, kind friend. The most disagreeable -event, and the most impossible to have foreseen, has made me ill with -fright and annoyance. It is, assuredly, not because I have aught to -reproach myself with; but it is always so painful for a virtuous woman, -who retains the modesty which becomes her sex, to have public attention -drawn upon her that I would give anything in the world to have been -able to avoid this unhappy adventure; and I am still uncertain whether -I may not decide to go to the country and wait until it be forgotten. -This is the affair I allude to. - -I met at the Maréchale de ***’s a certain M. de Prévan, whom you are -sure to know by name, and whom I knew in no other way. But, meeting him -at such a house, I was, it seems to me, quite justified in believing -him to be of good society. He is well enough made personally, and -seemed to me not lacking in wit. Chance and the tedium of play left -me the only woman alone with him and the Bishop of ***, the rest of -the company being occupied with lansquenet. The three of us conversed -together till supper-time. At the table, a new piece, of which -there was some talk, gave him the occasion to offer his box to the -Maréchale, who accepted it; and it was arranged that I should have a -place in it. It was for Monday last at the _Français_. As the Maréchale -was coming to sup with me at the close of the performance, I proposed -to this gentleman to accompany her, and he came. Two days later he paid -me a visit, which passed with the customary compliments, and without -the occurrence of anything marked. On the following day, he came to see -me in the morning, and this appeared to me a trifle bold; but I thought -that, instead of making him feel this by my fashion of receiving him, -it were better to remind him, by a politeness, that we were not yet on -so intimate a footing as he seemed to imply. To this end I sent him -that same day a very dry and very ceremonious invitation for a supper -that I was giving the day before yesterday. I did not speak four words -to him all the evening; and he, on his side, retired as soon as his -game was finished. You will admit that thus far nothing has less the -air of leading up to an adventure: after the other games, we played a -medley which lasted till nearly two o’clock, and finally I went to bed. - -It must have been a mortal half hour at least after my women had -retired, when I heard a noise in my room. I opened my curtains with -much alarm, and saw a man enter by the door which leads into my -_boudoir_. I uttered a piercing cry; and I recognized, by the light of -my night-light, this M. de Prévan, who, with inconceivable effrontery, -told me not to alarm myself; that he would enlighten me as to the -mystery of his conduct; and that he begged me not to make any noise. -Thus speaking, he lit a candle; I was so confounded that I could not -speak. His tranquil and assured air petrified me, I think, even -more. But he had not said two words, when I saw what this pretended -mystery was; and my only reply, as you will believe, was to clutch my -bell-rope. By an incredible piece of good fortune, all my household -had been sitting up with one of my women, and were not yet in bed. My -chamber-maid, who, on coming to me, heard me speaking with much heat, -was alarmed, and summoned all this company. You can imagine what a -scandal! My people were furious; there was a moment when I thought my -_valet-de-chambre_ would kill Prévan. I confess that, at the moment, -I was quite relieved to find myself in force: on reflexion to-day, I -should have found it preferable if only my chamber-maid had come; she -would have sufficed, and I should, perhaps, have escaped all this noise -which afflicts me. - -In place of that, the tumult awoke the neighbours, the household -talked, and it is the gossip of all Paris since yesterday. M. de Prévan -is in prison by order of the commanding-officer of his regiment, who -had the courtesy to call upon me to offer me his excuses, he said. -This arrest will still further augment the noise, but I could not -obtain that it should be otherwise. The Town and the Court have been -to inscribe their names at my door, which I have closed to everyone. -The few persons I have seen tell me that justice is rendered me, and -that public indignation against Prévan is at its height: assuredly, -he well merits it, but that does not detract from the disagreeables -of this adventure. Moreover, the man has certainly some friends; and -his friends are bound to be mischievous; who knows, who can tell what -they will invent to my injury? Ah, Lord! how unfortunate to be a young -woman! She has done nothing yet, when she has put herself out of the -reach of slander; she has need even to give the lie to calumny. - -Write me, I beg of you, what you would have done, what you would do -in my place; in short, all your thought. It is always from you that I -receive the sweetest consolation and the most prudent counsel; it is -from you also that I love best to receive it. - -Adieu, my dear and kind friend; you know the sentiments which for ever -attach me to you. I embrace your amiable daughter. - - Paris, 26th September, 17**. - - - - -LETTER THE EIGHTY-EIGHTH - -CECILE VOLANGES TO THE VICOMTE DE VALMONT - - -IN spite of all the pleasure that I take, Monsieur, in the letters of -M. le Chevalier Danceny, and although I am no less desirous than he is -that we might be able to see one another again without hindrance, I -have not, however, dared to do what you suggest to me. - -In the first place, it is too dangerous; this key, which you want me -to put in the other’s place, is like enough to it, in truth; but not -so much so, however, that the difference is not to be seen, and Mamma -looks at and takes notice of everything. Again, although it has not yet -been made use of since we have been here, there needs but a mischance; -and, if it was to be perceived, I should be lost for ever. And then, it -seems to me too that it would be very wrong; to make a duplicate key -like that: it is very strong! It is true that it is you who would be -kind enough to undertake it; but in spite of that, if it became known, -I should, none the less, have to bear the blame and the odium, since -it would be for me that you had done it. Lastly, I have twice tried -to take it, and certainly it would be easy enough if it were anything -else: but I do not know why, I always started trembling, and have never -had the courage. I think then we had better stay as we are. - -If you continue to have the kindness to be as complaisant as hitherto, -you will easily find a means of giving me a letter. Even with the last, -but for the ill chance which made you suddenly turn round at a certain -moment, we should have been quite secure. I can quite feel that you -cannot, like myself, be thinking only of that; but I would rather have -more patience and not risk so much. I am sure that M. Danceny would -speak as I do: for, every time that he wanted something which caused me -too much pain, he always consented that it should not be. - -I will give you back, Monsieur, at the same time as this letter, your -own, that of M. Danceny, and your key. I am none the less grateful for -all your kindnesses, and I beseech you to continue them. It is very -true that I am most unhappy, and without you I should be even more -so; but, after all, she is my mother; I must needs have patience. And -provided that M. Danceny goes on loving me, and you do not abandon me, -perhaps a happier time will come. - -I have the honour to be, Monsieur, with much gratitude, your most -humble and obedient servant. - - At the Château de ..., 26th September, 17**. - - - - -LETTER THE EIGHTY-NINTH - -THE VICOMTE DE VALMONT TO THE CHEVALIER DANCENY - - -IF your affairs do not always advance as quickly as you could wish, my -friend, it is not entirely me whom you must blame. I have more than -one obstacle to overcome here. The vigilance and severity of Madame de -Volanges are not the only ones; your young friend also throws some in -my way. Whether from coldness or timidity, she does not always do as -I advise her; and I think, none the less, that I know better than she -what must be done. - -I had found a sure and simple means of giving her your letters, and -even of facilitating, subsequently, the interviews which you desire: -but I could not persuade her to employ it. I am all the more distressed -at this, as I cannot see any other means of bringing you together; -and as, even with your correspondence, I am constantly afraid of -compromising us all three. Now you may imagine that I am no more -anxious to run that risk myself than to expose either of you to it. - -I should be truly grieved, however, if your little friend’s lack of -confidence were to prevent me from being useful to you; perhaps, you -would do well to write to her on the subject. Consider what you want to -do, it is for you alone to decide; for it is not enough to serve one’s -friends, one must also serve them in their own manner. This might also -be one means the more to assure yourself of her sentiments towards you; -for the woman who keeps a will of her own does not love as much as she -says. - -’Tis not that I suspect your mistress of inconstancy: but she is very -young; she has a great fear of her Mamma, who, as you know, only seeks -to injure you; and perhaps it would be dangerous to stay too long -without occupying her with you. Do not, however, render yourself unduly -anxious by what I tell you. I have at bottom no reason for distrust; it -is entirely the solicitude of friendship. - -I do not write to you at greater length, because I too have certain -affairs of my own. I am not as far advanced as you, but I am as fond; -that is a consoling thought; and, even if I should not succeed for -myself, if I succeed in being useful to you, I shall consider that my -time has been well employed. Adieu, my friend. - - At the Château de ..., 26th September, 17**. - - - - -LETTER THE NINETIETH - -THE PRÉSIDENTE DE TOURVEL TO THE VICOMTE DE VALMONT - - -I AM greatly desirous, Monsieur, that this letter should not cause you -any distress; or that, if it must do so, it may be at least softened -by that which I experience in writing to you. You must know me well -enough by this time to be well assured that it is not my wish to grieve -you; but neither would you wish, doubtless, to plunge me into eternal -despair. I conjure you then, in the name of the tender friendship which -I have promised you, in the name, even, of the sentiments, perhaps more -vivid, but assuredly not more sincere, which you have for me: let us -cease to see one another; depart; and, in the meantime, let us shun -all those private and too perilous interviews in which, forced by some -inconceivable power, though I never succeed in saying what I wish to -say to you, I pass my time in listening to what I never ought to hear. - -Only yesterday, when you came to join me in the park, my sole intention -was to tell you that which I am writing to you to-day; and yet, what -did I do, but occupy myself with your love--your love--to which I am -bound never to respond! Ah, for pity’s sake remove yourself from me! - -Do not think that absence will ever alter my sentiments for you: how -shall I ever succeed in overcoming them, when I have no longer the -courage to combat them? You see, I tell you all; I fear less to confess -my weakness than to succumb to it: but that control which I have lost -over my feelings I shall retain over my actions; yes, I shall retain -it, I am resolved, be it at the cost of my life. - -Alas! the time is not far distant when I believed myself very sure -of never having such struggles to undergo. I congratulated myself, I -vaunted myself for this, perhaps overmuch. Heaven has punished, cruelly -punished this pride: but, full of mercy, at the very moment when it -strikes us it forewarns me again before a fall; and I should be doubly -guilty if I continued to fail in prudence, warned as I am already that -I have no more strength. - -You have told me a hundred times that you would have none of a -happiness purchased by my tears. Ah! let us speak no more of happiness, -but leave me to regain some calm. - -In acceding to my request, what fresh rights do you not acquire over my -heart? And from those rights, founded upon virtue, I shall have need to -defend myself. What pleasure I shall take in my gratitude! I shall owe -you the sweetness of tasting without remorse a delicious sentiment. At -present, on the contrary, terrified by my sentiments, by my thoughts, -I am equally afraid of occupying myself with either you or myself; the -very idea of you alarms me: when I cannot escape from it, I combat it; -I do not drive it from me, but I repel it. - -Is it not better for both of us to put a stop to this state of trouble -and anxiety? Oh, you, whose ever sensitive soul, even in the midst of -its errors, has continued the friend of virtue, you will respect my -painful situation, you will not reject my prayer! A sweeter, but not -less tender interest will succeed to these violent agitations: then, -breathing again through your benevolence, I shall cherish existence, -and shall say, in the joy of my heart: This calm, I owe it to my friend. - -In causing you to undergo a few deprivations, which I do not impose -upon you, but which I beg of you, will you think you are buying the end -of my torments at too dear a price? Ah! if, to make you happy, I had -but to consent to unhappiness, you may believe me, I would not hesitate -for a moment.... But to become guilty!... No, my friend, no; rather -would I die a thousand deaths. Already, assailed by shame, on the eve -of remorse, I dread both others and myself; I blush in the midst of -company, and tremble in solitude; I lead only a life of pain; I shall -have no peace unless you consent. My most praiseworthy resolutions do -not suffice to reassure me; I formed this one yesterday, and yet I have -passed the night in tears. - -Behold your friend, she whom you love, suppliant and confused, begging -you for innocence and repose. Ah, God! But for you, would she ever have -been reduced to so humiliating a request? I reproach you with nothing; -I feel too strongly, myself, how difficult it is to resist an imperious -sentiment. A complaint is not a reproach. Do, out of generosity, what I -do from duty; and to all the sentiments which you have inspired in me, -I will add that of eternal gratitude. Adieu, Monsieur, adieu. - - At the Château de ..., 27th September, 17**. - -END OF VOLUME THE FIRST - - - - - -FOOTNOTES: - -[1] A pupil at the same convent. - -[2] The portress of the convent. - -[3] The words _roué_ and _rouerie_, which are now happily falling into -disuse in good society, were much in vogue at the time when these -Letters were written. - -[4] To understand this passage, it must be mentioned that the Comte -de Gercourt had deserted the Marquise de Merteuil for the Intendante -de ***, who had sacrificed for him the Vicomte de Valmont, and it was -then that the Marquise and the Vicomte formed an attachment. As this -adventure is long anterior to the events which are in question in these -Letters, it seemed right to suppress all that correspondence. - -[5] La Fontaine. - -[6] One sees here the deplorable taste for puns, which was becoming the -fashion, and which has since made so much progress. - -[7] Not to abuse the Reader’s patience, many of the letters in this -correspondence, from day to day, have been suppressed; only those have -been given which have been found necessary for the elucidation of -events. For the same reason all the replies of Sophie Carnay and many -letters of the other actors in these adventures have been omitted. - -[8] The error, into which Madame de Volanges falls, shows us that, like -other criminals, Valmont did not betray his accomplices. - -[9] An ingenious but very gallant romance by Monsieur de Crébillon -_fils_. _Translator’s Note._ - -[10] This is the same gentleman who is mentioned in the letters of -Madame de Merteuil. - -[11] The letter in which this _soirée_ is spoken of has not been found. -There seems reason to believe it is that suggested in the note of -Madame de Merteuil, which is also mentioned in the preceding letter of -Cécile Volanges. - -[12] Madame de Tourvel then does not dare to say that it was by her -order! - -[13] We continue to omit the letters of Cécile Volanges and of the -Chevalier Danceny, these being of little interest and containing no -incidents. - -[14] See Letter the Thirty-Fifth. - -[15] Piron, _Métromanie_. - -[16] Those who have not had occasion sometimes to feel the value of a -word, an expression, consecrated by love will find no meaning in this -sentence. - -[17] This letter has not been recovered. - -[18] The reader must have guessed already, by the conduct of Madame de -Merteuil, how little respect she had for religion. This passage would -have been suppressed, only it was thought that, whilst showing results, -one ought not to neglect to make the causes known. - -[19] We believe it was Rousseau in _Émile_: but the quotation is not -exact, and the application which Valmont makes of it entirely false; -and then, had Madame de Tourvel read _Émile_? - -[20] We have suppressed the letter of Cécile Volanges to the Marquise, -as it contained merely the same facts as the preceding letter, but with -less detail. That to the Chevalier Danceny has not been recovered: the -reason of this will appear in letter the sixty-third, from Madame de -Merteuil to the Vicomte. - -[21] Gresset: _Le Méchant._ - -[22] M. Danceny does not confess the truth. He had already given -his confidence to M. de Valmont before this event. See letter the -fifty-seventh. - -[23] This expression refers to a passage in a poem by M. de Voltaire. - -[24] Racine: _Britannicus_. - - “In just such plain array, - As beauty wears when fresh from slumber’s sway.” - -[25] Mademoiselle de Volanges having shortly afterwards changed her -confidant, as will appear in the subsequent letters, this collection -will include no more of those which she continued to write to her -friend at the convent: they would teach the Reader nothing that he did -not know. - -[26] This letter has not been recovered. - -[27] We are unaware whether this line, “_These tyrants dragged from -off their thrones and made my slaves_,” as well as that which occurs -above, “_Her arms are open still; her heart is shut_,” are quotations -from little-known works, or part of the prose of Madame de Merteuil. -What would lead us to believe the latter is the number of faults of -this nature which are found in all the letters of this correspondence. -Those of the Chevalier Danceny form the only exception: perhaps, as he -sometimes occupied himself with poetry, his more practised ear rendered -it easier for him to avoid this fault. - -[28] It will appear, in letter the hundred and fifty-second, not what -M. de Valmont’s secret was, but more or less of what nature it was; and -the Reader will see that we have not been able to enlighten him further -on the subject. - -[29] See letter the seventieth. - -[30] Some persons may not, perhaps, be aware that a medley -(_macédoine_) is a succession of sundry different games of chance, -amongst which each player has a right to choose when it is his turn to -deal. It is one of the inventions of the century. - -[31] The commanding-officer of the regiment to which Prévan belonged. - - - - -Corrections - -The first line indicates the original, the second the correction. - -p. 71 - - At the Château of ..., 22nd August, 17**. - At the Château de ..., 22nd August, 17**. - -p. 298 - - interest will suceed to these violent agitations: - interest will succeed to these violent agitations: - -*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK LES LIAISONS DANGEREUSES, -VOLUME 1 (OF 2) *** - -Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions will -be renamed. - -Creating the works from print editions not protected by U.S. copyright -law means that no one owns a United States copyright in these works, -so the Foundation (and you!) can copy and distribute it in the -United States without permission and without paying copyright -royalties. 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You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms -of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online -at <a href="https://www.gutenberg.org">www.gutenberg.org</a>. If you -are not located in the United States, you will have to check the laws of the -country where you are located before using this eBook. -</div> - -<p style='display:block; margin-top:1em; margin-bottom:0; margin-left:2em; text-indent:-2em'>Title: Les liaisons dangereuses, volume 1 (of 2)</p> -<p style='display:block; margin-left:2em; text-indent:0; margin-top:0; margin-bottom:1em;'>or letters collected in a private society and published for the instruction of others</p> -<p style='display:block; margin-top:1em; margin-bottom:0; margin-left:2em; text-indent:-2em'>Author: Choderlos de Laclos</p> -<p style='display:block; margin-top:1em; margin-bottom:0; margin-left:2em; text-indent:-2em'>Translator: Ernest Dowson</p> -<p style='display:block; text-indent:0; margin:1em 0'>Release Date: January 28, 2023 [eBook #69891]</p> -<p style='display:block; text-indent:0; margin:1em 0'>Language: English</p> - <p style='display:block; margin-top:1em; margin-bottom:0; margin-left:2em; text-indent:-2em; text-align:left'>Produced by: Adam Buchbinder, Eleni Christofaki and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net</p> -<div style='margin-top:2em; margin-bottom:4em'>*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK LES LIAISONS DANGEREUSES, VOLUME 1 (OF 2) ***</div> - -<div class="transnote"><h3>Transcriber’s note</h3> - -<p class="noin">Variable spelling and hyphenation have been retained. Minor punctuation -inconsistencies have been silently repaired. A list of the changes made -can be found <a href="#Corrections">at the end of the book</a>. </p></div> - -<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> - -<div class="chapter"> -<h1 class="nobreak">LES LIAISONS DANGEREUSES <span class="smcap">Vol. I</span></h1> -</div> - -<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> - -<div class="chapter"> -<p class="center p4"><i>No.</i> 200 <i>of 360 Copies</i></p> -</div> - -<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> - -<div class="figcenter illowp44" id="004" style="max-width: 30.5625em;"> - <img class="w100" src="images/004.jpg" alt=""> - <div class="caption"><i>C. Monnet del.</i> <span class="captionr"><i>Langlois Jun. Sculp<sup>t</sup>.</i></span></div> -</div> - -<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> - -<div class="chapter"> -<p class="nobreak center">LES LIAISONS DANGEREUSES -<br> -<small>OR</small> -<br> -<i>LETTERS COLLECTED IN A PRIVATE SOCIETY<br> -AND PUBLISHED FOR THE INSTRUCTION<br> -OF OTHERS</i></p> - -<p class="center p2"><small>BY</small><br> -CHODERLOS DE LACLOS</p> - -<p class="center p2"><small>TRANSLATED BY</small><br> -ERNEST DOWSON</p> - -<p class="center p2"><span class="smcap">Vol</span>. I</p> - -<p class="center p2">LONDON<br> -PRIVATELY PRINTED<br> -1898</p> -</div> -<div class="figcenter illowp41" id="cover" style="max-width: 73.125em;"> - <img class="w100" src="images/cover.jpg" alt=""> -</div> -<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> - -<div class="chapter"> -<h2 class="nobreak"><a id="NOTE_TO_THE_PRESENT_EDITION"></a>NOTE TO THE PRESENT EDITION</h2> -</div> - -<p class="center">(A.D. 1898)</p> - -<p class="noin"><span class="smcap">Choderlos de Laclos</span> was the Gallic Richardson of the -XVIIIth Century; and he might more justly than Stendhal -be called the father of French realism. With inimitable -wit and the finest analysis of character he depicted the -corrupt society of his day. His aim was excellent, but -in his endeavour to point his moral he painted the vice -which he wished to flagellate in colours so glowing that -he appears more an advocate than an opponent of -immorality. In his attempt to pourtray the wiles of the -seducer for a warning to the unwary, the author of the -“Liaisons Dangereuses” produced the most complete -manual of the art of seduction; so that during the austere -reign of Charles X. this masterpiece was suppressed as -throwing too lurid a reflection on the manners and morals -of the old régime. “Les Liaisons Dangereuses” is now -for the first time literally and completely translated into -English by <span class="smcap">Mr. Ernest Dowson</span>, whose rendering of -“La Terre,” in the Lutetian Society’s issue of Zola, gained -such a warm meed of praise.</p> - -<p class="p2">To render this edition of “Les Liaisons Dangereuses”<span class="pagenum" id="Page_vi">[vi]</span> -worthy of its fame as one of the chefs-d’œuvre of Literature, -it is illustrated with fine photogravure reproductions of -the whole of the 15 charming designs by Monnet, Fragonard -fils, and Gérard, which appeared in the much coveted -French edition of 1796, and which are full of that -inexpressible grace and beauty inseparable from the work -of these Masters of French Art of the XVIIIth Century.</p> - -<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> - -<div class="chapter"> -<h2 class="nobreak"><a id="PUBLISHERS_NOTE"></a>PUBLISHER’S NOTE TO THE -FIRST EDITION (1784)</h2> -</div> - -<p class="noin"><span class="smcap">We</span> think it our duty to warn the public that, in spite -of the title of this work and of what the Editor says of -it in his Preface, we do not guarantee the authenticity of -this narrative, and have even strong reasons for believing -that it is but a romance. It seems to us, moreover, that -the author, who yet seems to have sought after verisimilitude, -has himself destroyed that, and maladroitly, owing -to the period which he has chosen in which to place -these adventures. Certainly, several of the personages -whom he brings on his stage have morals so sorry that -it were impossible to believe that they lived in our -century, in this century of philosophy, where the light -shed on all sides has rendered, as everyone knows, all -men so honourable, all women so modest and reserved.</p> - -<p>Our opinion is, therefore, that if the adventures related -in this work possess a foundation of truth, they could not -have occurred save in other places and in other times, -and we must censure our author, who, seduced apparently -by his hope of being more diverting by treating rather -of his own age and country, has dared to clothe in our -customs and our costumes a state of morals so remote -from us.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_viii">[viii]</span></p> - -<p>To preserve the too credulous Reader, at least so far -as it lies with us, from all surprise in this matter, we will -support our opinion with an argument which we proffer -to him in all confidence, because it seems to us victorious -and unanswerable; it is that, undoubtedly, like causes should -not fail to produce like effects, and that, nevertheless, we -do not hear to-day of young ladies with incomes of sixty -thousand livres turning nuns, nor of young and pretty -dame-presidents dying of grief.</p> - -<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> - -<div class="chapter"> -<h2 class="nobreak"><a id="AUTHORS_PREFACE"></a>AUTHOR’S PREFACE</h2> -</div> - -<p class="noin"><span class="smcap">This</span> work, or rather this compilation, which the public -will, perhaps, still find too voluminous, contains, however, -but a very small portion of the letters which composed -the correspondence whence it is extracted. Charged with -the care of setting it in order by the persons into whose -hands it had come, and whom I knew to have the intention -of publishing it, I asked, for reward of my pains, -no more than the permission to prune it of all that -appeared to me useless; and I have, in fact, endeavoured -to preserve only the letters which seemed to me necessary, -whether for the right understanding of events or the -development of the characters. If there be added to this -light labour that of arranging in order the letters I have -let remain, an order in which I have almost invariably -followed that of the dates, and finally some brief and -rare notes, which, for the most part, have no other object -than that of indicating the source of certain quotations, -or of explaining certain abridgments which I have permitted -myself, the share which I have had in this work will have -been told. My mission was of no wider range.</p> - -<p>I had proposed alterations more considerable, and almost -all in respect of diction or style, against which will be -found many offences. I should have wished to be -authorized to cut down certain too lengthy letters, of -which several treat separately, and almost without transition, -of matters quite extraneous to one another. This<span class="pagenum" id="Page_x">[x]</span> -task, which has not been permitted me, would doubtless -not have sufficed to give merit to the work, but it would, -at least, have freed it from a portion of its defects.</p> - -<p>It has been objected to me that it was the letters -themselves which it was desirable to make public, not -merely a work made after those letters; that it would be -as great an offence against verisimilitude as against truth, -if all the eight or ten persons who participated in this -correspondence had written with an equal purity. And -to my representations that, far from that, there was not one -of them, on the contrary, who had not committed grave -faults, which would not fail to excite criticism, I was -answered that any reasonable reader would be certainly -prepared to meet with faults in a compilation of letters -written by private individuals, since in all those hitherto -published by sundry esteemed authors, and even by -certain academicians, none has proved quite free of this -reproach. These reasons have not persuaded me, and I -found them, as I find them still, easier to give than to -accept; but I was not my own master, and I gave way. -Only, I reserved to myself the right of protest, and of -declaring that I was not of that opinion: it is this protest -I make here.</p> - -<p>What I must say at the outset is that, if my advice -has been, as I admit, to publish these letters, I am -nevertheless far from hoping for their success: and let -not this sincerity on my part be taken for the feigned -modesty of an author; for I declare with equal frankness -that, if this compilation had not seemed to me -worthy of being offered to the public, I would not have -meddled with it. Let us try and reconcile these apparent -contradictions.</p> - -<p>The deserts of a work are composed of its utility -or of its charm, and even of both these, when it is -susceptible of them: but success, which is not always<span class="pagenum" id="Page_xi">[xi]</span> -a proof of merit, often depends more on the choice of -a subject than on its execution, on the sum of the objects -which it presents rather than on the manner in which -they are treated. Now this compilation containing, as -its title announces, the letters of a whole society, it is -dominated by a diversity of interest which weakens that -of the reader. Nay more, almost all the sentiments -therein expressed being feigned or dissimulated, they but -excite an interest of curiosity which is ever inferior to that -of sentiment, which less inclines the mind for indulgence, -and which permits a perception of the errors contained -in the details that is all the more keen in that these are -continually opposed to the only desire which one would -have satisfied.</p> - -<p>These blemishes are, perhaps, redeemed, in part, by a -quality which is implied in the very nature of the work: -it is the variety of the styles, a merit which an author -attains with difficulty, but which here occurs of itself, and -at least prevents the tedium of uniformity. Many persons -will also be able to count for something a considerable -number of observations, either new or little known, which -are scattered through these letters. That is all, I fear, -that one can hope for in the matter of charm, judging -them even with the utmost favour.</p> - -<p>The utility of the work, which, perhaps, will be even -more contested, yet seems to me easier to establish. It -seems to me, at any rate, that it is to render a service to -morals, to unveil the methods employed by those whose -own are bad in corrupting those whose conduct is good; -and I believe that these letters will effectually attain this -end. There will also be found the proof and example -of two important verities which one might believe unknown, -for that they are so rarely practised: the one, that every -woman who consents to admit a man of loose morals to -her society ends by becoming his victim; the other, that<span class="pagenum" id="Page_xii">[xii]</span> -a mother is, to say the least, imprudent who allows -any other than herself to possess the confidence of her -daughter. Young people of either sex might also learn -from these pages that the friendship which persons of -evil character appear to grant them so readily is never -aught else but a dangerous snare, as fatal to their happiness -as to their virtue. Abuse, however, always so near a -neighbour to what is good, seems to me here too greatly -to be feared; and far from commending this work for the -perusal of youth, it seems to me most important to deter -it from all such reading. The time when it may cease -to be perilous and become useful seems to me to have -been defined, for her sex, by a good mother, who has -not only wit but good sense: “I should deem,” she said -to me, after having read the manuscript of this correspondence, -“that I was doing a service to my daughter, -if I gave her this book on the day of her marriage.” -If all mothers of families think thus, I shall congratulate -myself on having published it.</p> - -<p>But if, again, we put this favourable supposition on one -side, I continue to think that this collection can please -very few. Men and women who are depraved will have -an interest in decrying a work calculated to injure them; -and, as they are not lacking in skill, perhaps they will -have sufficient to bring to their side the austere, who will -be alarmed at the picture of bad morals which we have -not feared to exhibit.</p> - -<p>The would-be free-thinkers will not be interested in a -God-fearing woman whom for that very reason they will -regard as a ninny; while pious people will be angry at -seeing virtue defeated and will complain that religion is -not made to seem more powerful.</p> - -<p>On the other hand, persons of delicate taste will be -disgusted by the too simple and too faulty style of many -of these letters; while the mass of readers, led away with<span class="pagenum" id="Page_xiii">[xiii]</span> -the idea that everything they see in print is the fruit -of labour, will think that they are beholding in certain -others the elaborate method of an author concealing -himself behind the person whom he causes to speak.</p> - -<p>Lastly, it will perhaps be pretty generally said that -everything is good in its own place; and that, although, -as a rule, the too polished style of the authors detracts -from the charm of the letters of society, the carelessness -of the present ones becomes a real fault and makes them -insufferable when sent to the printer’s.</p> - -<p>I sincerely admit that all these reproaches may be well -founded: I think also that I should be able to reply to -them without exceeding the length permissible to a preface. -But it must be plain that, to make it necessary to reply -to all, the book itself should be unable to reply to any; -and that, had I been of this opinion I would have -suppressed at once the preface and the book.</p> - -<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> - -<div class="chapter"> -<h2 class="nobreak"><a id="LIST_OF_PLATES"></a>LIST OF PLATES</h2> -</div> - -<h3><span class="smcap">Vol.</span> I.</h3> - -<table> - <tr><th> </th> -<th><span class="allsmcap">PAGE</span></th></tr> - -<tr><td><span class="allsmcap">FRONTISPIECE</span></td> - <td class="tdr"><a href="#004">to face the title</a></td> -</tr> -<tr><td><span class="allsmcap">“PARDON ME MY WRONGS: THE STRENGTH OF MY LOVE SHALL -EXPIATE THEM”</span></td> <td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_30">30</a></td> -</tr> -<tr><td><span class="allsmcap">“I WILL CONFESS MY WEAKNESS: MY EYES WERE MOISTENED -BY TEARS”</span></td> <td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_56">56</a></td> -</tr> -<tr><td><span class="allsmcap">“I ALLOWED HER TO CHANGE NEITHER HER POSITION NOR -COSTUME”</span></td> <td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_127">127</a></td> -</tr> -<tr><td><span class="allsmcap">“I FOUND IT AMUSING TO SEND A LETTER WRITTEN IN -THE BED”</span></td> <td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_138">138</a></td> -</tr> -<tr><td><span class="allsmcap">“I, A MERE WOMAN, BIT BY BIT, EXCITED HER TO THE POINT”</span></td> <td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_158">158</a></td> -</tr> -<tr><td><span class="allsmcap">“AT MY FIRST KICK THE DOOR YIELDED”</span></td> <td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_210">210</a></td> -</tr> -<tr><td><span class="allsmcap">“HE BETOOK HIMSELF TO HIS SWORD”</span></td> <td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_284">284</a></td> -</tr> -</table> - -<h3><span class="smcap">Vol.</span> II.</h3> - -<table> -<tr><td><span class="allsmcap">FRONTISPIECE</span></td> <td class="tdr">to face the title</td> -</tr> -<tr><td><span class="allsmcap">“ARMED WITH MY DARK LANTERN.... I PAID MY FIRST -VISIT TO YOUR PUPIL”</span></td> <td class="tdr">313</td> -</tr> -<tr><td><span class="allsmcap">“THE LOVELY FORM LEANED UPON MY ARM”</span></td> <td class="tdr">329</td> -</tr> -<tr><td><span class="allsmcap">“YESTERDAY, HAVING FOUND YOUR PUPIL.... WRITING TO HIM”</span></td> <td class="tdr">401</td> -</tr> -<tr><td><span class="allsmcap">“YOU SHALL LISTEN TO ME, IT IS MY WISH”</span></td> <td class="tdr">435</td> -</tr> -<tr><td><span class="allsmcap">“I COMMAND YOU TO TREAT MONSIEUR WITH ALL CONSIDERATION”</span></td> <td class="tdr">543</td> -</tr> -<tr><td><span class="allsmcap">“I FEEL THAT MY ILLS WILL SOON BE ENDED”</span></td> <td class="tdr">549</td> -</tr></table> - -<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> - -<div class="chapter"> -<h2 class="nobreak">CONTENTS OF VOLUME THE FIRST</h2> -</div> - -<table> - <tr><td> </td> <td> </td> - <td><span class="allsmcap">PAGE</span></td></tr> -<tr><td> </td> -<td>Note to the Present Edition</td> -<td class="tdr"><a href="#NOTE_TO_THE_PRESENT_EDITION">v</a></td> -</tr> -<tr><td> </td> -<td>Publisher’s Note to the First Edition</td> -<td class="tdr"><a href="#PUBLISHERS_NOTE">vii</a></td></tr> -<tr><td> </td> -<td>Preface</td> -<td class="tdr"><a href="#AUTHORS_PREFACE">ix</a></td></tr> -<tr><td> </td> -<td>List of Plates</td> -<td class="tdr"><a href="#LIST_OF_PLATES">xv</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td><span class="allsmcap">LETTER</span></td><td> </td><td> </td> -</tr> -<tr><td class="tdr">I.</td> <td>Cécile Volanges to Sophie Carnay, at the Ursulines -of ....</td> -<td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_1">1</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td class="tdr">II.</td> <td>The Marquise de Merteuil to the Vicomte de Valmont, -at the Château de .... </td> -<td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_4">4</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td class="tdr">III.</td> <td>Cécile Volanges to Sophie Carnay</td> -<td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_7">7</a></td> -</tr> -<tr><td class="tdr">IV.</td> <td>The Vicomte de Valmont to the Marquise de Merteuil, -at Paris </td> -<td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_9">9</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td class="tdr">V.</td> <td>The Marquise de Merteuil to the Vicomte de Valmont</td> -<td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_12">12</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td class="tdr">VI.</td> <td>The Vicomte de Valmont to the Marquise de Merteuil</td> -<td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_15">15</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td class="tdr">VII.</td> <td>Cécile Volanges to Sophie Carnay</td> -<td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_19">19</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td class="tdr">VIII.</td> <td>The Présidente de Tourvel to Madame de Volanges</td> - <td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_21">21</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td class="tdr">IX.</td> <td>Madame de Volanges to the Présidente de Tourvel</td> - <td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_23">23</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td class="tdr">X.</td> <td>The Marquise de Merteuil to the Vicomte de Valmont</td> - <td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_26">26</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td class="tdr">XI.</td> <td>The Présidente de Tourvel to Madame de Volanges</td> - <td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_32">32</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td class="tdr">XII.</td> <td>Cécile Volanges to the Marquise de Merteuil</td> - <td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_35">35</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td class="tdr">XIII.</td> <td>The Marquise de Merteuil to Cécile Volanges</td> - <td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_36">36</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td class="tdr">XIV.</td> <td>Cécile Volanges to Sophie Carnay</td> - <td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_37">37</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td class="tdr">XV.</td> <td>The Vicomte de Valmont to the Marquise de Merteuil</td> - <td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_39">39</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td class="tdr">XVI.</td> <td>Cécile Volanges to Sophie Carnay</td> - <td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_42">42</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td class="tdr">XVII.</td> <td>The Chevalier Danceny to Cécile Volanges</td> - <td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_45">45</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td class="tdr">XVIII.</td> <td>Cécile Volanges to Sophie Carnay</td> - <td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_47">47</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td class="tdr"><span class="pagenum" id="Page_xviii">[xviii]</span> -XIX.</td> <td>Cécile Volanges to the Chevalier Danceny</td> - <td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_50">50</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td class="tdr">XX.</td> <td>The Marquise de Merteuil to the Vicomte de Valmont</td> -<td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_51">51</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td class="tdr">XXI.</td> <td>The Vicomte de Valmont to the Marquise de Merteuil</td> - <td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_54">54</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td class="tdr">XXII.</td> <td>The Présidente de Tourvel to Madame de Volanges</td> - <td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_58">58</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td class="tdr">XXIII.</td> <td>The Vicomte de Valmont to the Marquise de Merteuil</td> - <td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_61">61</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td class="tdr">XXIV.</td> <td>The Vicomte de Valmont to the Présidente de Tourvel</td> - <td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_67">67</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td class="tdr">XXV.</td> <td>The Vicomte de Valmont to the Marquise de Merteuil</td> - <td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_70">70</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td class="tdr">XXVI.</td> <td>The Présidente de Tourvel to the Vicomte de Valmont</td> - <td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_72">72</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td class="tdr">XXVII.</td> <td>Cécile Volanges to the Marquise de Merteuil</td> - <td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_75">75</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td class="tdr">XXVIII.</td> <td>The Chevalier Danceny to Cécile Volanges</td> - <td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_78">78</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td class="tdr">XXIX.</td> <td>Cécile Volanges to Sophie Carnay</td> - <td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_80">80</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td class="tdr">XXX.</td> <td>Cécile Volanges to the Chevalier Danceny</td> - <td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_82">82</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td class="tdr">XXXI.</td> <td>The Chevalier Danceny to Cécile Volanges</td> - <td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_84">84</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td class="tdr">XXXII.</td> <td>Madame de Volanges to the Présidente de Tourvel</td> - <td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_86">86</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td class="tdr">XXXIII.</td> <td>The Marquise de Merteuil to the Vicomte de Valmont</td> - <td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_90">90</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td class="tdr">XXXIV.</td> <td>The Vicomte de Valmont to the Marquise de Merteuil</td> - <td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_93">93</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td class="tdr">XXXV.</td> <td>The Vicomte de Valmont to the Présidente de Tourvel</td> - <td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_98">98</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td class="tdr">XXXVI.</td> <td>The Vicomte de Valmont to the Présidente de Tourvel</td> - <td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_101">101</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td class="tdr">XXXVII.</td> <td>The Présidente de Tourvel to Madame de Volanges</td> -<td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_105">105</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td class="tdr">XXXVIII.</td> <td>The Marquise de Merteuil to the Vicomte de Valmont</td> -<td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_107">107</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td class="tdr">XXXIX.</td> <td>Cécile Volanges to Sophie Carnay</td> - <td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_110">110</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td class="tdr">XL.</td> <td>The Vicomte de Valmont to the Marquise de Merteuil</td> - <td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_113">113</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td class="tdr">XLI.</td> <td>The Présidente de Tourvel to the Vicomte de Valmont</td> - <td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_116">116</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td class="tdr">XLII.</td> <td>The Vicomte de Valmont to the Présidente de Tourvel</td> -<td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_118">118</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td class="tdr">XL.</td> <td><i>Continued</i> The Vicomte de Valmont to the Marquise -de Merteuil</td> - <td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_120">120</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td class="tdr">XLIII.</td> <td>The Présidente de Tourvel to the Vicomte de Valmont</td> -<td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_123">123</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td class="tdr">XLIV.</td> <td>The Vicomte de Valmont to the Marquise de Merteuil</td> - <td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_125">125</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td class="tdr">XLV.</td> <td>The Présidente de Tourvel to Madame de Volanges</td> -<td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_133">133</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td class="tdr">XLVI.</td> <td>The Chevalier Danceny to Cécile Volanges</td> - <td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_135">135</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td class="tdr">XLVII.</td> <td>The Vicomte de Valmont to the Marquise de Merteuil</td> - <td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_137">137</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td class="tdr">XLVIII.</td> <td>The Vicomte de Valmont to the Présidente de Tourvel</td> - <td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_140">140</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td class="tdr">XLIX.</td> <td>Cécile Volanges to the Chevalier Danceny</td> -<td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_143">143</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td class="tdr">L.</td> <td>The Présidente de Tourvel to the Vicomte de Valmont</td> - <td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_145">145</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td class="tdr"><span class="pagenum" id="Page_xix">[xix]</span> -LI.</td> <td>The Marquise de Merteuil to the Vicomte de Valmont</td> -<td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_148">148</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td class="tdr">LII.</td> <td>The Vicomte de Valmont to the Présidente de Tourvel</td> - <td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_153">153</a></td> -</tr> -<tr><td class="tdr">LIII.</td> <td>The Vicomte de Valmont to the Marquise de Merteuil</td> - <td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_156">156</a></td> -</tr> -<tr><td class="tdr">LIV.</td> <td>The Marquise de Merteuil to the Vicomte de Valmont</td> - <td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_157">157</a></td> -</tr> -<tr><td class="tdr">LV.</td> <td>Cécile Volanges to Sophie Carnay</td> - <td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_160">160</a></td> -</tr> -<tr><td class="tdr">LVI.</td> <td>The Présidente de Tourvel to the Vicomte de Valmont</td> - <td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_163">163</a></td> -</tr> -<tr><td class="tdr">LVII.</td> <td>The Vicomte de Valmont to the Marquise de Merteuil</td> -<td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_166">166</a></td> -</tr> -<tr><td class="tdr">LVIII.</td> <td>The Vicomte de Valmont to the Présidente de Tourvel</td> - <td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_169">169</a></td> -</tr> -<tr><td class="tdr">LIX.</td> <td>The Vicomte de Valmont to the Marquise de Merteuil</td> - <td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_172">172</a></td> -</tr> -<tr><td class="tdr">LX.</td> <td>The Chevalier Danceny to the Vicomte de Valmont</td> - <td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_174">174</a></td> -</tr> -<tr><td class="tdr">LXI.</td> <td>Cécile Volanges to Sophie Camay</td> - <td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_175">175</a></td> -</tr> -<tr><td class="tdr">LXII.</td> <td>Madame de Volanges to the Chevalier Danceny</td> - <td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_177">177</a></td> -</tr> -<tr><td class="tdr">LXIII.</td> <td>The Marquise de Merteuil to the Vicomte de Valmont</td> - <td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_179">179</a></td> -</tr> -<tr><td class="tdr">LXIV.</td> <td>The Chevalier Danceny to Madame de Volanges</td> - <td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_187">187</a></td> -</tr> -<tr><td class="tdr">LXV.</td> <td>The Chevalier Danceny to Cécile Volanges</td> - <td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_191">191</a></td> -</tr> -<tr><td class="tdr">LXVI.</td> <td>The Vicomte de Valmont to the Marquise de Merteuil</td> - <td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_194">194</a></td> -</tr> -<tr><td class="tdr">LXVII.</td> <td>The Présidente de Tourvel to the Vicomte de Valmont</td> - <td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_197">197</a></td> -</tr> -<tr><td class="tdr">LXVIII.</td> <td>The Vicomte de Valmont to the Présidente de Tourvel</td> - <td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_199">199</a></td> -</tr> -<tr><td class="tdr">LXIX.</td> <td>Cécile Volanges to the Chevalier Danceny</td> - <td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_202">202</a></td> -</tr> -<tr><td class="tdr">LXX.</td> <td>The Vicomte de Valmont to the Marquise de Merteuil</td> -<td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_203">203</a></td> -</tr> -<tr><td class="tdr">LXXI.</td> <td>The Vicomte de Valmont to the Marquise de Merteuil</td> - <td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_207">207</a></td> -</tr> -<tr><td class="tdr">LXXII.</td> <td>The Chevalier Danceny to Cécile Volanges</td> - <td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_213">213</a></td> -</tr> -<tr><td class="tdr">LXXIII.</td> <td>The Vicomte de Valmont to Cécile Volanges</td> - <td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_215">215</a></td> -</tr> -<tr><td class="tdr">LXXIV.</td> <td>The Marquise de Merteuil to the Vicomte de Valmont</td> - <td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_217">217</a></td> -</tr> -<tr><td class="tdr">LXXV.</td> <td>Cécile Volanges to Sophie Carnay</td> - <td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_220">220</a></td> -</tr> -<tr><td class="tdr">LXXVI.</td> <td>The Vicomte de Valmont to the Marquise de Merteuil</td> - <td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_222">222</a></td> -</tr> -<tr><td class="tdr">LXXVII.</td> <td>The Vicomte de Valmont to the Présidente de Tourvel</td> - <td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_230">230</a></td> -</tr> -<tr><td class="tdr">LXXVIII.</td> <td>The Présidente de Tourvel to the Vicomte de Valmont</td> - <td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_233">233</a></td> -</tr> -<tr><td class="tdr">LXXIX.</td> <td>The Vicomte de Valmont to the Marquise de Merteuil</td> - <td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_237">237</a></td> -</tr> -<tr><td class="tdr">LXXX.</td> <td>The Chevalier Danceny to Cécile Volanges</td> - <td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_246">246</a></td> -</tr> -<tr><td class="tdr">LXXXI.</td> <td>The Marquise de Merteuil to the Vicomte de Valmont</td> - <td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_249">249</a></td> -</tr> -<tr><td class="tdr">LXXXII.</td> <td>Cécile Volanges to the Chevalier Danceny</td> - <td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_263">263</a></td> -</tr> -<tr><td class="tdr">LXXXIII.</td> <td>The Vicomte de Valmont to the Présidente de Tourvel</td> -<td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_266">266</a></td> -</tr> -<tr><td class="tdr">LXXXIV.</td> <td>The Vicomte de Valmont to Cécile Volanges</td> -<td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_270">270</a></td> -</tr> -<tr><td class="tdr"><span class="pagenum" id="Page_xx">[xx]</span> - -LXXXV.</td> <td>The Marquise de Merteuil to the Vicomte de Valmont</td> - <td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_274">274</a></td> -</tr> -<tr><td class="tdr">LXXXVI.</td> <td>The Maréchale de *** to the Marquise de Merteuil</td> - <td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_287">287</a></td> -</tr> -<tr><td class="tdr">LXXXVII.</td> <td>The Marquise de Merteuil to Madame de Volanges</td> - <td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_288">288</a></td> -</tr> -<tr><td class="tdr">LXXXVIII.</td> <td>Cécile Volanges to the Vicomte de Valmont</td> -<td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_292">292</a></td> -</tr> -<tr><td class="tdr">LXXXIX.</td> <td>The Vicomte de Valmont to the Chevalier Danceny</td> -<td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_294">294</a></td> -</tr> -<tr><td class="tdr">XC.</td> <td>The Présidente de Tourvel to the Vicomte de Valmont</td> -<td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_296">296</a></td></tr> -</table> - -<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> - -<div class="chapter"> -<p class="nobreak center"><span class="large">LES -LIAISONS DANGEREUSES</span><span class="pagenum" id="Page_1">[1]</span></p> - -<h2 class="nobreak" id="LETTER_THE_FIRST">LETTER THE FIRST -<br> -<small>CÉCILE VOLANGES TO SOPHIE CARNAY, AT THE -URSULINES OF ....</small></h2> -</div> - -<p class="noin"><span class="smcap">You</span> see, my dear friend, that I keep my word to you, -and that bonnets and frills do not take up all my time; -there will always be some left for you. However, I have -seen more adornments in this one single day than in all -the four years we passed together; and I think that the -superb Tanville<a id="FNanchor_1" href="#Footnote_1" class="fnanchor">[1]</a> will have more vexation at my first visit, -when I shall certainly ask to see her, than she has ever -fancied that she afforded us, when she used to come and -see us in <i>fiocchi</i>. Mamma has consulted me in everything; -she treats me much less as a school-girl than of old. I -have a waiting-maid of my own; I have a room and a -closet at my disposition; and I write this to you at a -very pretty desk, of which I have the key, and where I can -lock up all that I wish. Mamma has told me that I am -to see her every day when she rises, that I need not have -my hair dressed before dinner, because we shall always<span class="pagenum" id="Page_2">[2]</span> -be alone, and that then she will tell me every day where -I am to see her in the afternoon. The rest of the time -is at my disposal, and I have my harp, my drawing, and -books as at the convent, only there is no Mother Perpétue -here to scold me, and it is nothing to anybody but myself, -if I choose to do nothing at all. But as I have not -my Sophie here to sing and laugh with, I would just as -soon occupy myself.</p> - -<p>It is not yet five o’clock; I have not to go and join -Mamma until seven: there’s time enough, if I had anything -to tell you! But as yet they have not spoken to me of -anything, and were it not for the preparations I see being -made, and the number of milliners who all come for me, -I should believe that they had no thought of marrying -me, and that that was the nonsense of the good Joséphine.<a id="FNanchor_2" href="#Footnote_2" class="fnanchor">[2]</a> -However, Mamma has told me so often that a young -lady should stay in the convent until she marries that, -since she has taken me out, I suppose Joséphine was -right.</p> - -<p>A carriage has just stopped at the door, and Mamma -tells me to come to her at once. If it were to be the -Gentleman! I am not dressed, my hand trembles and -my heart is beating. I asked my waiting-maid if she -knew who was with my mother. “Certainly,” she said, -“it’s Monsieur C***.” And she laughed. Oh, I believe -’tis he! I will be sure to come back and relate to you -what passes. There is his name, at any rate. I must -not keep him waiting. For a moment, adieu....</p> - -<p>How you will laugh at your poor Cécile! Oh, I have -really been disgraceful! But you would have been caught<span class="pagenum" id="Page_3">[3]</span> -just as I. When I went in to Mamma, I saw a gentleman -in black standing by her. I bowed to him as well as I -could, and stood still without being able to budge an inch. -You can imagine how I scrutinized him.</p> - -<p>“Madame,” he said to my mother, as he bowed to -me, “what a charming young lady! I feel more than -ever the value of your kindness.” At this very definite -remark, I was seized with a fit of trembling, so much so -that I could hardly stand: I found an arm-chair and sat -down in it, very red and disconcerted. Hardly was I -there, when I saw the man at my feet. Your poor Cécile -quite lost her head; as Mamma said, I was absolutely -terrified. I jumped up, uttering a piercing cry, just as I -did that day when it thundered. Mamma burst out -laughing, saying to me, “Well! what is the matter with -you? Sit down, and give your foot to Monsieur.” Indeed, -my dear friend, the gentleman was a shoe-maker. I can’t -describe to you how ashamed I was; mercifully there -was no one there but Mamma. I think that, when I am -married, I shall give up employing that shoe-maker.</p> - -<p>So much for our wisdom—admit it! Adieu. It is -nearly six o’clock, and my waiting-maid tells me that I -must dress. Adieu, my dear Sophie, I love you, just as -well as if I were still at the convent.</p> - -<p>P.S. I don’t know by whom to send my letter, so that -I shall wait until Joséphine comes.</p> - -<p class="right"> -Paris, 3rd August, 17**. -</p> -<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> - -<div class="chapter"> -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_4">[4]</span></p> - -<h2 class="nobreak" id="LETTER_THE_SECOND">LETTER THE SECOND -<br> -<small>THE MARQUISE DE MERTEUIL TO THE VICOMTE DE VALMONT, -AT THE CHÂTEAU DE ....</small></h2> -</div> - -<p class="noin"><span class="smcap">Come</span> back, my dear Vicomte, come back; what are you -doing, what <i>can</i> you be doing with an old aunt, whose -whole property is settled on you? Set off at once; I have -need of you. I have an excellent idea, and I should like -to confide its execution to you. A very few words should -suffice; and only too honoured at my choice, you ought to -come, with enthusiasm, to receive my orders on your knees: -but you abuse my kindness, even since you have ceased -to take advantage of it, and between the alternatives of -an eternal hatred and excessive indulgence, your happiness -demands that my indulgence wins the day. I am willing -then to inform you of my projects, but swear to me like -a faithful cavalier that you embark on no other adventure -till this one be brought to an end. It is worthy of a -hero: you will serve both love and vengeance; it will be, -in short, one <i>rouerie</i><a id="FNanchor_3" href="#Footnote_3" class="fnanchor">[3]</a> the more to include in your Memoirs: -yes, in your Memoirs, for I wish them to be printed, and I -will charge myself with the task of writing them. But let -us leave that, and come back to what is occupying me.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_5">[5]</span></p> - -<p>Madame de Volanges is marrying her daughter: it is still -a secret, but she imparted it to me yesterday. And whom -do you think she has chosen for her son-in-law? The -Comte de Gercourt. Who would have thought that I -should ever become Gercourt’s cousin? I was furious.... -Well! do you not divine me now? Oh, dull brains! -Have you forgiven him then the adventure of the Intendante! -And I, have I not still more cause to complain -of him, monster that you are?<a id="FNanchor_4" href="#Footnote_4" class="fnanchor">[4]</a> But I will calm myself, -and the hope of vengeance soothes my soul.</p> - -<p>You have been bored a hundred times, like myself, -by the importance which Gercourt sets upon the wife who -shall be his, and by his fatuous presumption, which leads -him to believe he will escape the inevitable fate. You -know his ridiculous precautions as to conventual education -and his even more ridiculous prejudice in favour of the -discretion of <i>blondes</i>. In fact, I would wager, that for -all that the little Volanges has an income of sixty thousand -livres, he would never have made this marriage if she -had been dark or had not been bred at the convent. -Let us prove to him then that he is but a fool: no doubt -he will be made so one of these days; it isn’t that of -which I am afraid; but ’twould be pleasant indeed if -he were to make his <i>début</i> as one! How we should amuse -ourselves on the day after, when we heard him boasting, -for he will boast; and then, if you once form this little<span class="pagenum" id="Page_6">[6]</span> -girl, it would be a rare mishap if Gercourt did not -become, like another man, the joke of all Paris.</p> - -<p>For the rest, the heroine of this new romance merits -all your attentions: she is really pretty; it is only fifteen, -’tis a rose-bud, <i>gauche</i> in truth, incredibly so, and quite -without affectation. But you men are not afraid of that; -moreover, a certain languishing glance, which really promises -great things. Add to this that I exhort you to it: -you can only thank me and obey.</p> - -<p>You will receive this letter to-morrow morning. I request -that to-morrow, at seven o’clock in the evening, you may -be with me. I shall receive nobody until eight, not even -the reigning Chevalier: he has not head enough for such -a mighty piece of work. You see that love does not -blind me. At eight o’clock I will grant you your liberty, -and you shall come back at ten to sup with the fair -object; for mother and daughter will sup with me. Adieu, -it is past noon: soon I shall have put you out of my -thoughts.</p> - -<p class="right"> -Paris, 4th August, 17**. -</p> -<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> - -<div class="chapter"> -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_7">[7]</span></p> - -<h2 class="nobreak" id="LETTER_THE_THIRD">LETTER THE THIRD -<br> - -<small>CÉCILE VOLANGES TO SOPHIE CARNAY</small></h2> -</div> - -<p class="noin"><span class="smcap">I know</span> nothing as yet, my dear friend. Mamma had a -great number of people to supper yesterday. In spite of -the interest I took in regarding them, the men especially, I -was far from being diverted. Men and women, everybody -looked at me mightily, and then would whisper to -one another, and I saw they were speaking of me. That -made me blush; I could not prevent myself. I wish I -could have, for I noticed that, when the other women -were looked at, they did not blush: or perhaps ’tis the -rouge they employ which prevents one seeing the red -that is caused by embarrassment; for it must be very difficult -not to blush when a man stares at you.</p> - -<p>What made me most uneasy was that I did not know -what they thought in my regard. I believe, however, that -I heard two or three times the word <i>pretty</i>; but I heard -very distinctly the word <i>gauche</i>; and I think that must be -true, for the woman who said it is a kinswoman and -friend of my mother; she seemed even to have suddenly -taken a liking to me. She was the only person who -spoke to me a little during the evening. We are to sup -with her to-morrow.</p> - -<p>I also heard, after supper, a man who, I am certain,<span class="pagenum" id="Page_8">[8]</span> -was speaking of me, and who said to another, “We must -let it ripen; this winter we shall see.” It is, perhaps, he -who is to marry me, but then it will not be for four -months! I should so much like to know how it stands.</p> - -<p>Here is Joséphine, and she tells me she is in a hurry. -Yet I must tell you one more of my <i>gaucheries</i>. Oh, I -am afraid that lady was right!</p> - -<p>After supper they started to play. I placed myself at -Mamma’s side; I do not know how it happened, but I -fell asleep almost at once. I was awakened by a great -burst of laughter. I do not know if they were laughing -at me, but I believe so. Mamma gave me permission to -retire, and I was greatly pleased. Imagine, it was past -eleven o’clock. Adieu, my dear Sophie; always love your -Cécile. I assure you that the world is not so amusing as -we imagined.</p> - -<p class="right"> -Paris, 4th August, 17**. -</p> -<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> - -<div class="chapter"> -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_9">[9]</span></p> - -<h2 class="nobreak" id="LETTER_THE_FOURTH">LETTER THE FOURTH <br> - -<small>THE VICOMTE DE VALMONT TO THE MARQUISE DE MERTEUIL, -AT PARIS</small></h2> -</div> - -<p class="noin"><span class="smcap">Your</span> commands are charming; your fashion of conveying -them is more gracious still; you would make us in love -with despotism. It is not the first time, as you know, that -I have regretted that I am no longer your slave: and -<i>monster</i> though I be, according to you, I never recall -without pleasure the time when you honoured me with -sweeter titles. Indeed, I often desire to merit them -again, and to end by setting, with you, an example of -constancy to the world. But greater interests call us; to -conquer is our destiny, we must follow it; perhaps at the -end of the course we shall meet again; for, may I say it -without vexing you, my fairest Marquise? you follow it at -least as fast as I: and since the day when, separating -for the good of the world, we began to preach the faith -on our different sides, it seems to me that, in this mission -of love, you have made more proselytes than I. I -know your zeal, your ardent fervour; and if that god of -ours judged us by our works, you would one day be the -patroness of some great city, whilst your friend would be -at most but a village saint. This language astounds you, -does it not? But for the last week I hear and speak no -other, and it is to perfect myself in it that I am forced -to disobey you.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_10">[10]</span></p> - -<p>Listen to me and do not be vexed. Depositary of all -the secrets of my heart, I will confide to you the most -important project I have ever formed. What is it you -suggest to me? To seduce a young girl, who has seen -nothing, knows nothing, who would be, so to speak, delivered -defenceless into my hands, whom a first compliment -would not fail to intoxicate, and whom curiosity will perhaps -more readily entice than love. Twenty others can -succeed and these as well as I. That is not the case in -the adventure which engrosses me; its success insures me -as much glory as pleasure. Love, who prepares my -crown, hesitates, himself, betwixt the myrtle and the laurel; -or rather he will unite them to honour my triumph. You -yourself, my fair friend, will be seized with a holy veneration -and will say with enthusiasm, “Behold a man after -my own heart!”</p> - -<p>You know the Présidente de Tourvel, her piety, her -conjugal love, her austere principles. She it is whom I -am attacking; there is the foe meet for me; there the goal -at which I dare to aim:</p> - -<div class="poetry-container"> -<div class="poetry"> - <div class="stanza"> - <div class="verse indent0">Et si de l’obtenir, je n’emporte le prix,</div> - <div class="verse indent0">J’aurai du moins l’honneur de l’avoir entrepris.<a id="FNanchor_5" href="#Footnote_5" class="fnanchor">[5]</a></div> - </div> -</div> -</div> - -<p>One may quote bad verses when a good poet has -written them. You must know then that the President is -in Burgundy, in consequence of some great law-suit: I -hope to make him lose one of greater import! His disconsolate -better-half has to pass here the whole term of this -distressing widowhood. Mass every day; some visits to -the poor of the district; morning and evening prayers, -solitary walks, pious interviews with my old aunt, and<span class="pagenum" id="Page_11">[11]</span> -sometimes a dismal game of whist, must be her sole -distractions. I am preparing some for her which shall be -more efficacious. My guardian angel has brought me here, -for her happiness and my own. Madman that I was, I -regretted twenty-four hours which I was sacrificing to my -respect for the conventions. How I should be punished if -I were made to return to Paris! Luckily, four are needed -to play whist; and as there is no one here but the <i>curé</i> -of the place, my eternal aunt has pressed me greatly to -sacrifice a few days to her. You can guess that I have -agreed. You cannot imagine how she has cajoled me since -then, above all how edified she is at my regularity at prayers -and mass. She has no suspicion what divinity I adore.</p> - -<p>Here am I then for the last four days, in the -throes of a doughty passion. You know how keen are -my desires, how I brush aside obstacles to them: but -what you do not know is how solitude adds ardour to -desire. I have but one idea; I think of it all day and -dream of it all night. It is very necessary that I should -have this woman, if I would save myself from the ridicule -of being in love with her: for whither may not thwarted -desire lead one? O delicious pleasure! I implore thee -for my happiness, and above all for my repose. How -lucky it is for us that women defend themselves so badly! -Else we should be to them no more than timid slaves. -At present I have a feeling of gratitude for yielding -women which brings me naturally to your feet. I prostrate -myself to implore your pardon, and so conclude this too -long epistle.</p> - -<p>Adieu, my fairest friend, and bear me no malice.</p> - -<p class="right"> -At the Château de ..., 5th August, 17**. -</p> -<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> - -<div class="chapter"> -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_12">[12]</span></p> - -<h2 class="nobreak" id="LETTER_THE_FIFTH">LETTER THE FIFTH<br> - -<small>THE MARQUISE DE MERTEUIL TO THE VICOMTE DE VALMONT</small></h2> -</div> - -<p class="noin">Do you know, Vicomte, that your letter is of an -amazing insolence, and that I have every excuse to be -angry with you? But it has proved clearly to me that you -have lost your head, and that alone has saved you from -my indignation. Like a generous and sympathetic friend, -I forget my wrongs in order to concern myself with your -peril; and tiresome though argument be, I give way before -the need you have of it, at such a time.</p> - -<p>You, to have the Présidente de Tourvel! The ridiculous -caprice! I recognize there your froward imagination, which -knows not how to desire aught but what it believes to be -unattainable. What is the woman then? Regular features, -if you like, but no expression; passably made, but lacking -grace; and always dressed in a fashion to set you laughing, -with her clusters of fichus on her bosom and her body -running into her chin! I warn you as a friend, you need -but to have two such women, and all your consideration -will be lost. Remember the day when she collected at -Saint-Roch, and when you thanked me so for having -procured you such a spectacle. I think I see her still, giving -her hand to that great gawk with the long hair, stumbling -at every step, with her four yards of collecting-bag always<span class="pagenum" id="Page_13">[13]</span> -over somebody’s head, and blushing at every reverence. -Who would have said then that you would ever desire -this woman? Come, Vicomte, blush too, and be yourself -again! I promise to keep your secret.</p> - -<p>And then, look at the disagreeables which await you! -What rival have you to encounter? A husband! Are -you not humiliated at the very word? What a disgrace -if you fail! and how little glory even if you succeed! I -say more; expect no pleasure from it. Is there ever any -with your prudes? I mean those in good faith. Reserved -in the very midst of pleasure, they give you but a half-enjoyment. -That utter self-abandonment, that delirium of -joy, where pleasure is purified by its excess, those good -things of love are not known to them. I warn you: in -the happiest supposition, your Présidente will think she -has done everything for you, if she treats you as her -husband; and in the most tender of conjugal <i>tête-à-têtes</i> -you are always two. Here it is even worse; your prude -is a <i>dévote</i>, with that devotion of worthy women which -condemns them to eternal infancy. Perhaps you will -overcome that obstacle; but do not flatter yourself that -you will destroy it: victorious over the love of God, you -will not be so over the fear of the Devil; and when, -holding your mistress in your arms, you feel her heart -palpitate, it will be from fear and not from love. Perhaps, -if you had known this woman earlier, you would have -been able to make something of her; but it is two-and-twenty, -and has been married nearly two years. Believe -me, Vicomte, when a woman is so <i>incrusted</i> with prejudice, -it is best to abandon her to her fate; she will never be -anything but a <i>puppet</i>.</p> - -<p>Yet it is for this delightful creature that you refuse to<span class="pagenum" id="Page_14">[14]</span> -obey me, bury yourself in the tomb of your aunt, and -renounce the most enticing of adventures, and withal one -so admirably suited to do you honour. By what fatality -then must Gercourt always hold some advantage over -you? Well, I am writing to you without temper: but, for -the nonce, I am tempted to believe that you don’t merit -your reputation; I am tempted, above all, to withdraw -my confidence from you. I shall never get used to telling -my secrets to the lover of Madame de Tourvel.</p> - -<p>I must let you know, however, that the little Volanges -has already turned one head. Young Danceny is wild -about her. He sings duets with her; and really, she sings -better than a school-girl should. They must rehearse a -good many duets, and I think that she takes nicely to the -<i>unison</i>; but this Danceny is a child, who will waste his -time in making love and will never finish. The little person, -on her side, is shy enough; and in any event it will be -much less amusing than you could have made it: wherefore -I am in a bad humour and shall certainly quarrel with the -Chevalier at his next appearance. I advise him to be -gentle; for, at this moment, it would cost me nothing to -break with him. I am sure that, if I had the sense to -leave him at present, he would be in despair; and nothing -amuses me so much as a lover’s despair. He would call -me perfidious, and that word “perfidious” has always -pleased me; it is, after the word “cruel,” the sweetest to -a woman’s ear, and less difficult to deserve.... Seriously, -I shall have to set about this rupture. There’s what you -are the cause of; so I put it on your conscience! Adieu. -Recommend me to the prayers of your lady President.</p> - -<p class="right"> -Paris, 7th August, 17**. -</p> -<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> - -<div class="chapter"> -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_15">[15]</span></p> - -<h2 class="nobreak" id="LETTER_THE_SIXTH">LETTER THE SIXTH -<br> - <small>THE VICOMTE DE VALMONT TO THE MARQUISE DE MERTEUIL</small></h2> -</div> - -<p class="noin"><span class="smcap">There</span> is never a woman then but abuses the empire -she has known how to seize! And yourself, you whom -I have so often dubbed my indulgent friend, you have -discarded the title and are not afraid to attack me in the -object of my affections! With what traits you venture to -depict Madame de Tourvel!... What man but would -have paid with his life for such insolent boldness? What -woman other than yourself would have escaped without -receiving at least an ungracious retort? In mercy, put -me not to such tests; I will not answer for my power to -sustain them. In the name of friendship, wait until I -have had this woman, if you wish to revile her. Do you -not know that pleasure alone has the right to remove the -bandage from Love’s eyes? But what am I saying? Has -Madame de Tourvel any need of illusion? No; for to -be adorable, she has only need to be herself. You reproach -her with dressing badly; I quite agree: all adornment is -hurtful to her, nothing that conceals her adorns. It is -in the freedom of her <i>négligé</i> that she is really ravishing. -Thanks to the distressing heat which we are experiencing, -a <i>déshabillé</i> of simple stuff permits me to see her round -and supple figure. Only a piece of muslin covers her<span class="pagenum" id="Page_16">[16]</span> -breast; and my furtive but penetrating gaze has already -seized its enchanting form. Her face, say you, has no -expression. And, what should it express, in moments when -nothing speaks to her heart? No, doubtless, she has not, -like our coquettes, that false glance, which is sometimes -seductive and always deceives. She knows not how to -gloss over the emptiness of a phrase by a studied smile, -and although she has the loveliest teeth in the world, she -never laughs, except when she is amused. But you should -see, in some frolicsome game, of what a frank and -innocent gaiety she will present the image! Near some -poor wretch whom she is eager to succour, what a pure -joy and compassionate kindness her gaze denotes! You -should see, above all, how, at the least word of praise or -flattery, her heavenly face is tinged with the touching -embarrassment of a modesty that is not feigned!... She -is a prude and devout, and so you judge her to be cold -and inanimate? I think very differently. What amazing -sensibility she must have, that it can reach even her -husband, and that she can always love a person who is -always absent? What stronger proof would you desire? -Yet I have been able to procure another.</p> - -<p>I directed her walk in such a manner that a ditch had -to be crossed; and, although she is very agile, she is even -more timid. You can well believe how much a prude -fears to <i>cross the ditch</i>!<a id="FNanchor_6" href="#Footnote_6" class="fnanchor">[6]</a> She was obliged to trust herself -to me. I held this modest woman in my arms. Our -preparations and the passage of my old aunt had caused -the playful <i>dévote</i> to peal with laughter; but when I had -once taken hold of her, by a happy awkwardness our<span class="pagenum" id="Page_17">[17]</span> -arms were interlaced. I pressed her breast against my -own; and in this short interval, I felt her heart beat -faster. An amiable flush suffused her face; and her modest -embarrassment taught me well enough <i>that her heart had -throbbed with love and not with fear</i>. My aunt, however, -was deceived, as you are, and said, “The child was -frightened,” but the charming candour of <i>the child</i> did not -permit her to lie, and she answered naively, “Oh no, -but....” That alone was an illumination. From that -moment the sweetness of hope has succeeded to my cruel -uncertainty. I shall possess this woman; I shall steal her -from the husband who profanes her: I will even dare -ravish her from the God whom she adores. What delight, -to be in turns the object and the victor of her remorse! -Far be it from me to destroy the prejudices which sway -her mind! They will add to my happiness and my -triumph. Let her believe in virtue, and sacrifice it to me; -let the idea of falling terrify her, without preventing her -fall; and may she, shaken by a thousand terrors, forget -them, vanquish them only in my arms. Then, I agree, -let her say to me, “I adore thee;” she, alone among -women, is worthy to pronounce these words. I shall be -truly the God whom she has preferred.</p> - -<p>Let us be candid: in our arrangements, as cold as they -are facile, what we call happiness is hardly even a pleasure. -Shall I tell you? I thought my heart was withered; and -finding nothing left but my senses, I lamented my premature -old age. Madame de Tourvel has restored to me the -charming illusions of youth. With her I have no need of -pleasure to be happy. The only thing which frightens -me is the time which this adventure is going to take; -for I dare leave nothing to chance. ’Tis in vain I recall<span class="pagenum" id="Page_18">[18]</span> -my fortunate audacities; I cannot bring myself to put -them in practice here. To become truly happy, I require -her to give herself; and that is no slight affair.</p> - -<p>I am sure that you admire my prudence. I have not -yet pronounced the word “love;” but we have already -come to those of confidence and interest. To deceive her -as little as possible, and above all to counteract the effect -of stories which might come to her ears, I have myself -told her, as though in self-accusation, of some of my most -notorious traits. You would laugh to see the candour -with which she lectures me. She wishes, she says, to convert -me. She has no suspicion as yet of what it will cost her -to try. She is far from thinking, that <i>in pleading</i>, to use -her own words, <i>for the unfortunates I have ruined</i>, she -speaks in anticipation in her own cause. This idea struck -me yesterday in the midst of one of her dissertations, -and I could not resist the pleasure of interrupting her to -tell her that she spoke like a prophet. Adieu, my fairest -of friends. You see that I am not lost beyond all hope -of return.</p> - -<p>P.S. By the way, that poor Chevalier—has he killed -himself from despair? Truly, you are a hundredfold -naughtier person than myself, and you would humiliate -me, if I had any vanity.</p> - -<p class="right"> -At the Château de ..., 9th August, 17**. -</p> -<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> - -<div class="chapter"> -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_19">[19]</span></p> - -<h2 class="nobreak" id="LETTER_THE_SEVENTH">LETTER THE SEVENTH -<br> -<small>CÉCILE VOLANGES TO SOPHIE CARNAY</small><a id="FNanchor_7" href="#Footnote_7" class="fnanchor"><small>[7]</small></a></h2> -</div> - -<p class="noin"><span class="smcap">If</span> I have told you nothing about my marriage, it is because -I know no more about it than I did the first day. -I am accustoming myself to think no more of it, and I am -quite satisfied with my manner of life. I study much at my -singing and my harp; it seems to me that I like them -better since I have no longer a master, or perhaps it is -because I have a better one. M. le Chevalier Danceny, -the gentleman of whom I told you, and with whom I sang -at Madame de Merteuil’s, is kind enough to come here -every day, and to sing with me for whole hours. He is -extremely amiable. He sings like an angel, and composes -very pretty airs, to which he also does the words. It is -a great pity that he is a Knight of Malta! It seems to -me that, if he were to marry, his wife would be very -happy.... He has a charming gentleness. He never has -the air of paying you a compliment, and yet everything -he says flatters you. He takes me up constantly, now<span class="pagenum" id="Page_20">[20]</span> -about my music, now about something else; but he mingles -his criticisms with so much gaiety and interest, that it is -impossible not to be grateful for them. If he only looks at -you, it seems as though he were saying something gracious. -Added to all that, he is very obliging. For instance, -yesterday he was invited to a great concert; he preferred -to spend the whole evening at Mamma’s. That pleased -me very much; for, when he is not here, nobody talks -to me, and I bore myself: whereas, when he is here, -we sing and talk together. He and Madame de Merteuil -are the only two persons I find amiable. But adieu, my -dearest friend; I have promised to learn for to-day a little -air with a very difficult accompaniment, and I would not -break my word. I am going to practise it until he comes.</p> - -<p class="right"> -Paris, 7th August, 17**. -</p> -<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> - -<div class="chapter"> -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_21">[21]</span></p> - -<h2 class="nobreak" id="LETTER_THE_EIGHTH">LETTER THE EIGHTH -<br> -<small>THE PRÉSIDENTE DE TOURVEL TO MADAME DE VOLANGES</small></h2> -</div> - -<p class="noin">No one, Madame, can be more sensible than I to the -confidence you show in me, nor take a keener interest in -the establishment of Mademoiselle de Volanges. It is, -indeed, from my whole heart that I wish her a happiness -of which I make no doubt she is worthy, and which your -prudence will secure. I do not know M. le Comte de -Gercourt; but being honoured by your choice, I cannot -but form a favourable opinion of him. I confine myself, -Madame, to wishing for this marriage a success as assured -as my own, which is equally your handiwork, and for -which each fresh day adds to my gratitude. May the -happiness of your daughter be the reward of that which -you have procured for me; and may the best of friends -be also the happiest of mothers!</p> - -<p>I am really grieved that I cannot offer you by word -of mouth the homage of this sincere wish, nor make the -acquaintance of Mademoiselle de Volanges so soon as I -should wish. After having known your truly maternal -kindness, I have a right to hope from her the tender -friendship of a sister. I beg you, Madame, to be so good -as to ask this from her in my behalf, while I wait until -I have the opportunity of deserving it.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_22">[22]</span></p> - -<p>I expect to remain in the country all the time of M. -de Tourvel’s absence. I have taken advantage of this -leisure to enjoy and profit by the society of the venerable -Madame de Rosemonde. This lady is always charming; -her great age has deprived her of nothing; she retains all -her memory and sprightliness. Her body alone is eighty-four -years old; her mind is only twenty.</p> - -<p>Our seclusion is enlivened by her nephew, the Vicomte -de Valmont, who has cared to devote a few days to us. -I knew him only by his reputation, which gave me small -desire to make his acquaintance; but he seems to me to -be better than that. Here, where he is not spoilt by the -hubbub of the world, he talks rationally with extraordinary -ease, and excuses himself for his errors with rare candour. -He speaks to me with much confidence, and I preach to -him with great severity. You, who know him, will admit -that it would be a fine conversion to make: but I suspect, -in spite of his promises, that a week of Paris will make -him forget all my sermons. His sojourn here will be at -least so much saved from his ordinary course of conduct; -and I think, from his fashion of life, that what he can -best do is to do nothing at all. He knows that I am -engaged in writing to you and has charged me to present -you with his respectful homage. Pray accept my own -also, with the goodness that I know in you; and never -doubt the sincere sentiments with which I have the honour -to be, etc.</p> - -<p class="right"> -At the Château de ..., 9th August, 17**. -</p> -<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> - -<div class="chapter"> -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_23">[23]</span></p> - -<h2 class="nobreak" id="LETTER_THE_NINTH">LETTER THE NINTH -<br> -<small>MADAME DE VOLANGES TO THE PRÉSIDENTE DE TOURVEL</small></h2> -</div> - -<p class="noin">I <span class="smcap">have</span> never doubted, my fair and youthful friend, either -of the kindness which you have for me, or of the sincere -interest which you take in all that concerns me. It is -not to elucidate that point, which I hope is settled between -us, that I reply to your <i>reply</i>; but I cannot refrain from -having a talk with you on the subject of the Vicomte de -Valmont.</p> - -<p>I did not expect, I confess, ever to come across that -name in your letters. Indeed, what can there be in -common between you and him? You do not know this -man; where should you have obtained any idea of the -soul of a libertine? You speak to me of his <i>rare candour</i>: -yes, indeed, the candour of Valmont must be most rare. -Even more false and dangerous than he is amiable and -seductive, never since his extreme youth has he taken a -step or uttered a word without having some end in view -which was either dishonourable or criminal. My dear, you -know me; you know whether, of all the virtues which I -try to acquire, charity be not the one which I cherish the -most. So that, if Valmont were led away by the vehemence -of his passions; if, like a thousand others, he were seduced -by the errors of his age: while I should blame his conduct,<span class="pagenum" id="Page_24">[24]</span> -I should pity him personally, and wait in silence for the -time when a happy reformation should restore him the -esteem of honest folk. But Valmont is not like that: his -conduct is the consequence of his principles. He can -calculate to a nicety how many atrocities a man may -allow himself to commit, without compromising himself; -and, in order to be cruel and mischievous with impunity, -he has selected women to be his victims. I will not stop -to count all those whom he has seduced: but how many -has he not ruined utterly?</p> - -<p>In the quiet and retired life which you lead, these -scandalous stories do not reach your ears. I could tell -you some which would make you shudder; but your eyes, -which are as pure as your soul, would be defiled by such -pictures: secure of being in no danger from Valmont, you -have no need of such arms wherewith to defend yourself. -The only thing which I may tell you is that out of all -the women to whom he has paid attention, with or without -success, there is not one who has not had cause to complain -of him. The Marquise de Merteuil is the single exception -to this general rule; she alone knew how to withstand and -disarm his villainy. I must confess that this episode in -her life is that which does her most honour in my eyes: -it has also sufficed to justify her fully, in the eyes of all, -for certain inconsistencies with which one had to reproach -her at the commencement of her widowhood.<a id="FNanchor_8" href="#Footnote_8" class="fnanchor">[8]</a></p> - -<p>However this may be, my fair friend, what age, experience, -and above all, friendship, empower me to represent -to you is that the absence of Valmont is beginning to be<span class="pagenum" id="Page_25">[25]</span> -noticed, in the world; and that, if it becomes known that -he has for some time made a third party to his aunt -and you, your reputation will be in his hands: the greatest -misfortune which can befall a woman. I advise you then -to persuade his aunt not to keep him there longer; and, -if he insists upon remaining, I think you should not hesitate -to leave him in possession. But why should he stay? -What is he doing in your part of the country? If you were -to spy upon his proceedings, I am sure you would discover -that he only came there to have a more convenient shelter -for some black deed he is contemplating in the neighbourhood. -But, as it is impossible to remedy the evil, let -us be content by ourselves avoiding it.</p> - -<p>Farewell, my lovely friend; at present the marriage of -my daughter is a little delayed. The Comte de Gercourt, -whom we expected from day to day, tells me that his -regiment is ordered to Corsica; and as military operations -are still afoot, it will be impossible for him to absent -himself before the winter. This vexes me; but it causes -me to hope that we shall have the pleasure of seeing you -at the wedding; and I was sorry that it was to have taken -place without you. Adieu; I am, unreservedly and without -compliment, entirely yours.</p> - -<p>P.S. Recall me to the recollection of Madame de -Rosemonde, whom I always love as dearly as she deserves.</p> - -<p class="right"> -Paris, 11th August, 17**. -</p> -<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> - -<div class="chapter"> -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_26">[26]</span></p> - -<h2 class="nobreak" id="LETTER_THE_TENTH">LETTER THE TENTH -<br> - <small>THE MARQUISE DE MERTEUIL TO THE VICOMTE DE VALMONT</small></h2> -</div> - -<p class="noin"><span class="smcap">Vicomte</span>, are you angry with me? Or are you, indeed, -dead? Or, what would not be unlike that, are you living -only for your Présidente? This woman, who has restored -you <i>the illusions of youth</i>, will soon restore you also its -ridiculous prejudices. Here you are already timid and a -slave; you might as well be amorous. You renounce <i>your -fortunate audacities</i>. Behold you then conducting yourself -without principles, and trusting all to hazard, or rather to -caprice. Do you no longer remember that love, like -medicine, is nothing but the <i>art of assisting nature</i>? You -see that I beat you with your own arms, but I will not -plume myself on that: it is indeed beating a man when -he is down. <i>She must give herself</i>, you tell me. Ah, -no doubt, she must; she will give herself like the others, -with this difference, that it will be with a bad grace.</p> - -<p>But if the end is that she should give herself, the true -way is to begin by taking her. This absurd distinction -is indeed a true sign of love’s madness! I say love; for -you are in love. To speak to you otherwise would be -to cheat you, it would be to hide from you your ill. -Tell me then, languid lover, the women whom you have -had, did you think you had violated them? Why, however<span class="pagenum" id="Page_27">[27]</span> -desirous one may be of giving one’s self, however eager one -may be, one still needs a pretext; and is there any more convenient -for us than that which gives us the air of yielding -to force? For me, I confess, one of the things which -flatter me the most is a well-timed and lively assault, -where everything succeeds in order, although with rapidity; -which never throws us into the painful embarrassment of -having ourselves to repair a <i>gaucherie</i> from which, on the -contrary, we should have profited; which is cunning to -maintain the air of violence even in things which we grant, -and to flatter adroitly our two favourite passions, the glory of -resistance and the pleasure of defeat. I grant that this -talent, rarer than one may think, has always given me -pleasure, even when it has not seduced me, and that -sometimes, solely for recompense, it has induced me to -yield. So, in our ancient tourneys, beauty gave the prize -of valour and skill.</p> - -<p>But you, who are no longer you, are behaving as if you -were afraid of success. Ah! since when do you travel by -short stages and cross-roads? My friend, when one wishes -to arrive, post-horses and the highway! But let us drop -this subject, which is all the more distasteful to me in -that it deprives me of the pleasure of seeing you. At -least write to me more often than you do, and keep me -informed of your progress. Do you know that it is now -more than a fortnight since you have been occupied by this -ridiculous adventure, and have neglected all the world?</p> - -<p><i>À propos</i> of negligence, you are like those people who -send regularly to enquire after their sick friends, but who -never trouble to get a reply. You finish your last -letter by asking me if the Chevalier be dead. I do not -answer, and you are no longer in the least concerned.<span class="pagenum" id="Page_28">[28]</span> -Are you no longer aware that my lover is your born -friend? But reassure yourself, he is not dead; or if he -were, it would be for excess of joy. This poor Chevalier, -how tender he is! how excellently is he made for love! how -well he knows how to feel intensely! It makes my head reel. -Seriously, the perfect happiness which he derives from -being loved by me gives me a real attachment for him.</p> - -<p>The very same day upon which I wrote to you that -I was going to promote a rupture, how happy I made -him! Yet I was mightily occupied, when they announced -him, about the means of putting him in despair. Was it -reason or caprice: he never seemed to me so fine. -I nevertheless received him with temper. He hoped to -pass two hours with me, before the time when my door -would be open to everybody. I told him that I was going -out: he asked me whither I was going; I refused to tell -him. He insisted: “Where I shall not have your company,” -I answered acidly. Luckily for himself, he stood as -though petrified by this answer; for had he said a word, a -scene would infallibly have ensued which would have led -to the projected rupture. Astonished by his silence, I -cast my eyes upon him, with no other intention, upon my -oath, than to see what countenance he would shew. I -discovered on that charming face that sorrow, at once so -tender and so profound, to which, you yourself have -admitted, it is so difficult to resist. Like causes produce -like effects: I was vanquished a second time.</p> - -<p>From that moment, I was only busy in finding a means -of preventing him from having a grievance against me. “I -am going out on business,” said I, with a somewhat gentler -air; “nay, even on business which concerns you; but do -not question me further. I shall sup at home; return, and<span class="pagenum" id="Page_29">[29]</span> -you shall know all.” At this he recovered the power of -speech; but I did not permit him to use it “I am in -great haste,” I continued; “leave me, until this evening.” -He kissed my hand and went away.</p> - -<p>Immediately, to compensate him, perhaps to compensate -myself, I decide to acquaint him with my <i>petite maison</i>, of -which he had no suspicion. I called my faithful Victoire. -I have my head-ache; I am gone to bed, for all my -household; and left alone at last with my <i>Trusty</i>, whilst -she disguises herself as a lackey, I don the costume of a -waiting-maid. She next calls a hackney-coach to the gate -of my garden, and behold us on our way! Arrived in -this temple of love, I chose the most gallant of <i>déshabillés</i>. -This one is delicious; it is my own invention: it lets -nothing be seen and yet allows you to divine all. I promise -you a pattern of it for your Présidente, when you -have rendered her worthy to wear it.</p> - -<p>After these preliminaries, whilst Victoire busies herself -with other details, I read a chapter of <i>Le Sopha</i>,<a id="FNanchor_9" href="#Footnote_9" class="fnanchor">[9]</a> a letter -of Héloïse and two Tales of La Fontaine, in order to -rehearse the different tones which I would assume. Meantime, -my Chevalier arrives at my door with his accustomed -zeal. My porter denies him, and informs him that I am -ill: incident the first. At the same time he hands him a -note from me, but not in my hand-writing, after my -prudent rule. He opens it and sees written therein in -Victoire’s hand: “At nine o’clock, punctually, on the Boulevard, -in front of the <i>cafés</i>.” Thither he betakes himself, -and there a little lackey whom he does not know, whom<span class="pagenum" id="Page_30">[30]</span> -he believes, at least, that he does not know, for of course it -was Victoire, comes and informs him that he must dismiss -his carriage and follow her. All this romantic promenade -helped all the more to heat his mind, and a hot head -is by no means undesirable. At last, he arrives, and love -and amazement produced in him a veritable enchantment. -To give him time to recover, we strolled out for a while -in the little wood; then I took him back again to the house. -He sees, at first, two covers laid; then a bed prepared. -We pass into the boudoir, which was richly adorned. -There, half pensively, half in sentiment, I threw my arms -round him, and fell on my knees.</p> - -<p>“O my friend,” said I, “in my desire to reserve the -surprise of this moment for you, I reproach myself with -having grieved you with a pretence of ill-humour; with -having been able, for an instant, to veil my heart to your -gaze. Pardon me my wrongs: the strength of my love -shall expiate them.”</p> - -<p>You may judge of the effect of this sentimental oration. -The happy Chevalier lifted me up, and my pardon was -sealed on that very same ottoman where you and I once -sealed so gallantly, and in like fashion, our eternal rupture.</p> - -<p>As we had six hours to pass together, and I had resolved -to make all this time equally delicious for him, I -moderated his transports, and brought an amiable coquetry -to replace tenderness. I do not think that I have ever -been at so great pains to please, nor that I have ever been -so pleased with myself. After supper, by turns childish -and reasonable, sensible and gay, even libertine at times, -it was my pleasure to look upon him as a sultan in the -heart of his seraglio, of which I was by turn the different -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_31">[31]</span>favourites. In fact, his repeated acts of homage, although -always received by the same woman, were ever received -by a different mistress.</p> - -<div class="figcenter illowp46" id="053" style="max-width: 31.6875em;"> - <img class="w100" src="images/053.jpg" alt=""> - <div class="caption"><i>C. Monnet del.</i> <span class="captionr"><i>N. le Mire sculp.</i></span></div> -</div> -<div class="sync"> </div> -<p>Finally, at the approach of day, we were obliged to -separate; and whatever he might say, or even do, to prove -to me the contrary, he had as much need of separation -as he had little desire of it. At the moment when we -left the house, and for a last adieu, I took the key of this -abode of bliss, and giving it into his hands: “I had it -but for you,” said I; “it is right that you should be its -master. It is for him who sacrifices to have the disposition -of the temple.” By such a piece of adroitness, I anticipated -him from the reflexions which might have been suggested -to him, by the possession, always suspicious, of a <i>petite -maison</i>. I know him well enough to be sure that he will -never make use of it except for me; and if the whim -seized me to go there without him, I have a second key. -He would at all costs fix a day for return; but I love -him still too well, to care to exhaust him so soon. One -must not permit one’s self excesses, except with persons -whom one wishes soon to leave. He does not know that -himself; but happily for him, I have knowledge for two.</p> - -<p>I perceive that it is three o’clock in the morning, and -that I have written a volume, with the intention but to -write a word. Such is the charm of constant friendship: -’tis on account of that, that you are always he whom -I love the best; but, in truth, the Chevalier pleases me -more.</p> - -<p class="right"> -Paris, 12th August, 17**. -</p> -<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> - -<div class="chapter"> -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_32">[32]</span></p> - -<h2 class="nobreak" id="LETTER_THE_ELEVENTH">LETTER THE ELEVENTH -<br> -<small>THE PRÉSIDENTE DE TOURVEL TO MADAME DE VOLANGES</small></h2> -</div> - -<p class="noin"><span class="smcap">Your</span> severe letter would have alarmed me, Madame, if -happily I had not found here more causes for security -than you give me for being afraid. This redoubtable M. -de Valmont, who must be the terror of every woman, -seems to have laid down his murderous arms before coming -to this <i>château</i>. Far from forming any projects there, he -has not even advanced any pretensions: and the quality -of an amiable man, which even his enemies accord him, -almost disappears here, to be superseded by that of frank -good-nature.</p> - -<p>It is apparently the country air which has brought -about this miracle. What I can assure you is that, being -constantly with me, even seeming to take pleasure in my -company, he has not let fall one word which resembles -love, not one of those phrases which all men permit -themselves, without having, like him, what is required -to justify them. He never compels one to that reserve -which every woman who respects herself is forced -to maintain nowadays, in order to repress the men -who encircle her. He knows how not to abuse the -gaiety which he inspires. He is perhaps somewhat of a -flatterer; but it is with so much delicacy, that he would<span class="pagenum" id="Page_33">[33]</span> -accustom modesty itself to praise. In short, if I had a -brother, I should desire him to be such as M. de Valmont -reveals himself here. Perhaps, many women would ask a -more marked gallantry from him; and I admit that I owe -him infinite thanks for knowing how to judge me so well -as not to confound me with them.</p> - -<p>Doubtless, this portrait differs mightily from that which -you send me: and in spite of that, neither need contradict -the other, if one compares the dates. He confesses -himself that he has committed many faults; and some -others will have been fathered on him. But I have met -few men who spoke of virtuous women with greater -respect, I might almost say enthusiasm. You teach me -that at least in this matter he is no deceiver. His conduct -towards Madame de Merteuil is a proof of this. He -talks much to us of her, and it is always with so much -praise, and with the air of so true an attachment, that I -believed, until I received your letter, that what he called -the friendship between the two was actually love. I -reproach myself for this hasty judgment, wherein I was -all the more wrong, in that he himself has often been -at the pains to justify her. I confess that I took for cunning -what was honest sincerity on his part. I do not know, but -it seems to me a man who is capable of so persistent a -friendship for a woman so estimable cannot be a libertine -beyond salvation. I am, for the rest, ignorant as -to whether we owe the quiet manner of life which he -leads here to any projects he cherishes in the vicinity, -as you assume. There are, indeed, certain amiable women -near us, but he rarely goes abroad, except in the morning, -and then he tells us that it is to shoot. It is true that -he rarely brings back any game; but he assures us that<span class="pagenum" id="Page_34">[34]</span> -he is not a skilful sportsman. Moreover, what he may do -without causes me little anxiety; and if I desired to know, -it would only be in order to be convinced of your opinion -or to bring you back to mine.</p> - -<p>As to your suggestion to me to endeavour to cut short -the stay which M. de Valmont proposes to make here, it -seems to me very difficult to dare to ask his aunt not to -have her nephew in her house, the more so in that she -is very fond of him. I promise you, however, but only -out of deference and not for any need, to seize any -opportunity of making this request, either to her or to -himself. As for myself, M. de Tourvel is aware of my -project of remaining here until his return, and he would -be astonished, and rightly so, at my frivolity, were I to -change my mind.</p> - -<p>These, Madame, are my very lengthy explanations: -but I thought I owed it to truth to bear my testimony in -M. de Valmont’s favour; it seems to me he stood in -great need of it with you. I am none the less sensible of -the friendship which dictated your counsels. To that also -I am indebted for your obliging remarks to me on the -occasion of the delay as to your daughter’s marriage. I -thank you for them most sincerely: but however great the -pleasure which I promise myself in passing those moments -with you, I would sacrifice them with a good will to my -desire to know Mlle. de Volanges more speedily happy, -if, indeed, she could ever be more so than with a mother -so deserving of all her affection and respect. I share with -her those two sentiments which attach me to you, and I -pray you kindly to receive my assurance of them.</p> - -<p>I have the honour to be, etc.</p> - -<p class="right"> -At the Château de ..., 13th August, 17**. -</p> -<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> - -<div class="chapter"> -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_35">[35]</span></p> - -<h2 class="nobreak" id="LETTER_THE_TWELFTH">LETTER THE TWELFTH - -<br><small>CÉCILE VOLANGES TO THE MARQUISE DE MERTEUIL</small></h2> -</div> - -<p class="noin"><span class="smcap">Mamma</span> is indisposed, Madame; she cannot leave the house, -and I must keep her company: I shall not, therefore, -have the honour of accompanying you to the Opera. -I assure you that I do not regret the performance nearly so -much as not to be with you. I pray that you will be -convinced of this. I love you so much! Would you -kindly tell M. le Chevalier Danceny that I have not the -selection of which he spoke to me, and that if he can -bring it to me to-morrow, it will give me great pleasure? -If he comes to-day, he will be told that we are not at -home; but that is because Mamma cannot receive anybody. -I hope that she will be better to-morrow.</p> - -<p>I have the honour to be, etc.</p> - -<p class="right"> -Paris, 13th August, 17**. -</p> -<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> - -<div class="chapter"> -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_36">[36]</span></p> - -<h2 class="nobreak" id="LETTER_THE_THIRTEENTH">LETTER THE THIRTEENTH - -<br><small>THE MARQUISE DE MERTEUIL TO CÉCILE VOLANGES</small></h2> -</div> - -<p class="noin">I <span class="smcap">am</span> most grieved, my pretty one, both at being deprived -of the pleasure of seeing you, and at the cause of this -privation. I hope that the opportunity will recur. I will -acquit myself of your commission with the Chevalier Danceny, -who will certainly be distressed to hear of your -Mamma’s sickness. If she can receive me to-morrow, -I will come and keep her company. She and I will -assault the Chevalier de Belleroche<a id="FNanchor_10" href="#Footnote_10" class="fnanchor">[10]</a> at piquet, and while -we win his money, we shall have the additional pleasure -of hearing you sing with your amiable master, to whom -I will suggest it. If this is convenient to your Mamma -and to you, I can answer for myself and my two cavaliers. -Adieu, my pretty one; my compliments to dear Madame -de Volanges. I kiss you most tenderly.</p> - -<p class="right"> -Paris, 13th August, 17**. -</p> -<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> - -<div class="chapter"> -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_37">[37]</span></p> - -<h2 class="nobreak" id="LETTER_THE_FOURTEENTH">LETTER THE FOURTEENTH - -<br><small>CÉCILE VOLANGES TO SOPHIE CARNAY</small></h2> -</div> - -<p class="noin">I <span class="smcap">did</span> not write to you yesterday, my dear Sophie, but it -was not pleasure which was the cause; of that I can assure -you. Mamma was ill, and I did not leave her all day. -In the evening, when I retired, I had no heart for anything -at all, and I went to bed very quickly, to make sure -that the day was done; never have I passed a longer. -It is not that I do not love Mamma dearly; but I do -not know what it was. I was to have gone to the Opera -with Madame de Merteuil; the Chevalier Danceny was to -have been there. You know well that they are the two -persons whom I like best. When the hour arrived when -I should have been there, my heart was sore in spite of -me. I did not care for anything, and I cried, cried, without -being able to stop myself. Happily Mamma had gone to -bed, and could not see me. I am quite sure that the -Chevalier Danceny will have been sorry too, but he will -have been amused by the spectacle, and by everybody; -that’s very different.</p> - -<p>Luckily, Mamma is better to-day, and Madame de -Merteuil is coming with somebody else and the Chevalier -Danceny; but she always comes very late, Madame de -Merteuil; and when one is so long all by one’s self, it<span class="pagenum" id="Page_38">[38]</span> -is very tiresome. It is not yet eleven o’clock. It is true -that I must play on my harp; and then my toilette will -take me some time, for I want my hair to be done nicely -to-day. I think Mother Perpétue is right and that one -becomes a coquette as soon as one enters the world. I -have never had such a desire to look pretty as during -the last few days, and I find I am not as much so as I -thought; and then, by the side of women who use rouge, -one loses much. Madame de Merteuil, for instance; I -can see that all the men think her prettier than me: that -does not vex me much, because she is so fond of me; -and then she assures me that the Chevalier Danceny -thinks I am prettier than she. It is very nice of her to -have told me that! She even seemed to be pleased at it. -Well, that’s a thing I can’t understand! It’s because she -likes me so much! And he!... Oh, that gives me so -much pleasure! I think too that only to look at him -is enough to make one prettier. I should look at him -always, if I did not fear to meet his eyes: for every time -that that happens to me, it puts me out of countenance, -and seems as though it hurt me; but no matter!</p> - -<p>Adieu, my dear friend: I am going to make my toilette. -I love you as dearly as ever.</p> - -<p class="right"> -Paris, 14th August, 17**. -</p> -<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> - -<div class="chapter"> -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_39">[39]</span></p> - -<h2 class="nobreak" id="LETTER_THE_FIFTEENTH">LETTER THE FIFTEENTH - -<br><small>THE VICOMTE DE VALMONT TO THE MARQUISE DE MERTEUIL</small></h2> -</div> - -<p class="noin"><span class="smcap">It</span> is very nice of you not to abandon me to my sad -fate. The life I lead here is really fatiguing, from the -excess of its repose and its insipid monotony. Reading -your letter and the details of your charming day, I was -tempted a score of times to invent some business, to -fly to your feet, and beg of you an infidelity, in my -favour, to your Chevalier, who, after all, does not merit -his happiness. Do you know that you have made me -jealous of him? Why talk to me of an eternal rupture? -I abjure that vow, uttered in a moment of frenzy: we -should not have been worthy to make it, had we meant -to keep it. Ah, that I might one day avenge myself, in -your arms, for the involuntary vexation which the happiness -of your Chevalier has caused me! I am indignant, I confess, -when I think that this man, without reasoning, without -giving himself the least trouble, but quite stupidly following -the instinct of his heart, should find a felicity to which I -cannot attain. Oh, I will trouble it!... Promise me -that I shall trouble it. You yourself, are you not humiliated? -You take the trouble to deceive him, and he is -happier than you. You believe he is in your chains! It<span class="pagenum" id="Page_40">[40]</span> -is, indeed, you, who are in his. He sleeps tranquilly, -whilst you watch over his pleasures. What more would -his slave do?</p> - -<p>Listen, my lovely friend: so long as you divide yourself -among many, I have not the least jealousy; I see then in -your lovers only the successors of Alexander, incapable of -preserving amongst them all that empire over which I -reigned alone. But that you should give yourself entirely -to one of them! That another man should exist as fortunate -as myself! I will not suffer it; do not hope that -I shall suffer it. Either take me back, or, at least, take -someone else; and do not betray, by an exclusive -caprice, the inviolate bond of friendship which we have -sworn.</p> - -<p>It is quite enough, no doubt, that I should have to -complain of love. You see, I lend myself to your ideas, -and confess my errors. In fact, if to be in love is to be -unable to live without possessing the object of one’s -desire, to sacrifice to it one’s time, one’s pleasures, one’s -life, I am very really in love. I am no more advanced -for that. I should not even have anything at all to tell -you of in this matter, but for an incident which gives me -much food for reflexion, and as to which I know not yet -whether I must hope or fear.</p> - -<p>You know my <i>chasseur</i>, a treasure of intrigue, and a -real valet of comedy: you can imagine that his instructions -bade him to fall in love with the waiting-maid, and make -the household drunk. The knave is more fortunate than -I: he has already succeeded. He has just discovered that -Madame de Tourvel has charged one of her people to -inform himself as to my behaviour, and even to follow -me in my morning expeditions, as far as he could without<span class="pagenum" id="Page_41">[41]</span> -being observed. What is this woman’s pretension? Thus -then the most modest of them all yet dares do things -which we should hardly venture to permit ourselves. I -swear...! But before I think of avenging myself for -this feminine ruse, let us occupy ourselves over methods -of turning it to our advantage. Hitherto, these excursions -which are suspected have had no object; needs must I give -them one. This deserves all my attention, and I take leave -of you to ponder upon it. Farewell, my lovely friend.</p> - -<p> -Still at the Château de ..., 15th August, 17**. -</p> -<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> - -<div class="chapter"> -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_42">[42]</span></p> - -<h2 class="nobreak" id="LETTER_THE_SIXTEENTH">LETTER THE SIXTEENTH - -<br><small>CÉCILE VOLANGES TO SOPHIE CARNAY</small></h2> -</div> - -<p class="noin"><span class="smcap">Ah</span>, my Sophie, I have a heap of news! I ought not, -perhaps, to tell you: but I must talk to someone; it is -stronger than I! This Chevalier Danceny ... I am -so perturbed that I can hardly write: I do not know -where to begin. Ever since I related to you the sweet -evening<a id="FNanchor_11" href="#Footnote_11" class="fnanchor">[11]</a> which I passed at Mamma’s, with him and -Madame de Merteuil, I have said no more about him to -you: it is because I did not want to speak of him to -anybody; but I was thinking of him constantly. Since -then he has grown so sad—oh, sad, sad!—that it gave me -pain; and when I asked him why, he answered that it -was not so; but I could well see that it <i>was</i>. Finally, -yesterday he was even sadder than ordinarily. This did -not prevent him from having the kindness to sing with -me as usual; but every time that he looked at me it -gripped my heart. When we had finished singing, he -went to shut up my harp in its case; and returning the -key to me, begged me to play again that evening when<span class="pagenum" id="Page_43">[43]</span> -I was alone. I had no suspicion of anything at all; I -did not even want to play: but he begged me so earnestly -that I told him yes. He, certainly, had his motive. In -effect, when I had retired to my room and my waiting-maid -had gone, I went to get my harp. In the strings -I found a letter, simply folded, with no seal, and it was -from him. Ah, if you knew all he asks of me! Since I -have read his letter, I feel so much delight that I can -think of nothing else. I read it four times straight off, -and then shut it up in my desk. I knew it by heart; -and, when I was in bed, I repeated it so often that I -had no thought to sleep. As soon as I shut my eyes, I -saw him there; he told me himself all that I had just -read. I did not get to sleep till quite late; and, as soon -as I was awake (it was still quite early), I went to get -his letter and read it again at my ease. I carried it to -bed with me, and then I kissed it as if.... Perhaps I -did wrong to kiss a letter like that, but I could not check -myself.</p> - -<p>At present, my dear friend, if I am very happy, I am -also much embarrassed; for, assuredly, I ought not to -reply to this letter. I know that I should not, and yet -he asks me to; and, if I do not reply, I am sure he will -be sad again. All the same, it is very unfortunate for -him! What do you advise me to do? But you can no -more tell than I. I have a great desire to speak of it to -Madame de Merteuil, who is so fond of me. I should -indeed like to console him; but I should not like to do -anything wrong. We are always recommended to cherish -a kind heart! and then they forbid us to follow its inspiration, -directly there is question of a man! That is not -just either. Is not a man our neighbour as much as a<span class="pagenum" id="Page_44">[44]</span> -woman, if not more so? For, after all, has not one one’s -father as well as one’s mother, one’s brother as well -as one’s sister? The husband is still something extra. -Nevertheless, if I were to do something which was not -right, perhaps M. Danceny himself would no longer have -a good opinion of me! Oh, rather than that, I would -sooner see him sad; and then, besides, I shall always have -time enough. Because he wrote yesterday, I am not -obliged to write to-day: I shall be sure to see Madame -de Merteuil this evening, and, if I have the courage, I -will tell her all. If I only do what she tells me, I shall -have nothing to reproach myself with. And then, perhaps, -she will tell me that I may answer him <i>a little</i>, so that -he need not be so sad! Oh, I am in great trouble!</p> - -<p>Farewell, my dear friend; tell me, all the same, what -you think.</p> - -<p class="right"> -Paris, 19th August, 17**. -</p> -<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> - -<div class="chapter"> -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_45">[45]</span></p> - -<h2 class="nobreak" id="LETTER_THE_SEVENTEENTH">LETTER THE SEVENTEENTH - -<br><small>THE CHEVALIER DANCENY TO CÉCILE VOLANGES</small></h2> -</div> - -<p class="noin"><span class="smcap">Before</span> succumbing, Mademoiselle, to the pleasure, or, -shall I say, the necessity of writing to you, I commence -by imploring you to hear me. I feel that, to be bold -enough to declare my sentiments, I have need of indulgence; -did I but wish to justify them, it would be useless -to me. What am I about to do, after all, save to show -you your handiwork? And what have I to tell you, that -my eyes, my embarrassment, my conduct and even my -silence have not told you already? And why should you -take offence at a sentiment to which you have given -birth? Emanating from you, it is worthy to be offered to -you; if it is ardent as my soul, it is pure as your own. -Shall it be a crime to have known how to appreciate your -charming face, your seductive talents, your enchanting -graces, and that touching candour which adds inestimable -value to qualities already so precious? No, without a -doubt: but without being guilty, one may be unhappy; -and that is the fate which awaits me if you refuse to -accept my homage. It is the first that my heart has -offered. But for you, I should have been, not happy, but -tranquil. I have seen you, repose has fled far away from -me, and my happiness is insecure. Yet you are surprised<span class="pagenum" id="Page_46">[46]</span> -at my sadness; you ask me its cause: sometimes, I have -even thought to see that it affected you. Ah, speak but -a word and my felicity will be your handiwork! But, before -you pronounce it, remember that one word can also fill the -cup of my misery. Be then the arbiter of my destiny. -Through you I am to be eternally happy or wretched. -In what dearer hands can I commit an interest of such -importance?</p> - -<p>I shall end as I have begun, by imploring your indulgence. -I have begged you to hear me; I will dare -more, I will pray you to reply to me. A refusal would -lead me to think that you were offended and my heart is -a witness that my respect is equal to my love.</p> - -<p>P.S. You can make use, to send a reply, of the same -method which I employed to bring this letter into your -hands; it seems to me as convenient as it is secure.</p> - -<p class="right"> -Paris, 18th August, 17**. -</p> -<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> - -<div class="chapter"> -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_47">[47]</span></p> - -<h2 class="nobreak" id="LETTER_THE_EIGHTEENTH">LETTER THE EIGHTEENTH - -<br><small>CÉCILE VOLANGES TO SOPHIE CARNAY</small></h2> -</div> - -<p class="noin"><span class="smcap">What</span>, Sophie! You blame me in advance for what I -am about to do! I had already enough anxiety, and -here you are increasing it. Clearly, you say, I ought not -to answer. You speak with great confidence; and besides, -you do not know exactly how things are: you are not -here to see. I am sure that, were you in my place, you -would act like me. Assuredly, as a general rule, one -ought not to reply; and you can see from my letter of -yesterday that I did not want to either: but the thing is, I do -not think anyone has <i>ever</i> found herself in quite my case.</p> - -<p>And still to be obliged to take my decision all unaided! -Madame de Merteuil, whom I counted on seeing yesterday -evening, did not come. Everything conspires against -me: it is through her that I know him! It is almost -always with her that I have seen him, that <i>I</i> have -spoken to him. It is not that I have any grudge against -her; but she leaves me just in the embarrassing moment. -Oh, I am greatly to be pitied!</p> - -<p>Imagine! He came here yesterday just as he used to. -I was so confused that I dared not look at him. He -could not speak to me, because Mamma was there. I -quite expected that he would be grieved, when he should<span class="pagenum" id="Page_48">[48]</span> -find that I had not written to him. I did not know what -face to wear. A moment later he asked me if I should -like him to bring me my harp. My heart beat so quick, -that it was as much as I could do to answer yes. When -he came back, it was even worse. I only looked at him -for a second. He—he did not look at me, but he had -such a look that one would have thought him ill. It -made me very unhappy. He began to tune my harp, -and afterwards, coming close to me, he said, “Ah, Mademoiselle!”.... -He only said these two words; but it was -with such an accent that I was quite overwhelmed. I -struck the first chords on my harp without knowing what I -was doing. Mamma asked me if we were not going to sing. -He excused himself, saying that he was not feeling well, -and I, who had no excuse—I had to sing. I could have -wished that I had never had a voice. I chose purposely -an air which I did not know; for I was quite sure that I -could not sing anything, and was afraid that something -would be noticed. Luckily, there came a visit, and as soon -as I heard the carriage wheels, I stopped, and begged -him to take away my harp. I was very much afraid lest -he should leave at the same time; but he came back.</p> - -<p>Whilst Mamma and the lady who had arrived were -talking together, I wanted to look at him again for one -instant. I met his eyes, and it was impossible for me to -turn away my own. A moment later, I saw the tears -rise, and he was obliged to turn away in order not to be -observed. For an instant I could no longer hold myself -in; I felt that I too should weep. I went out, and at -once wrote in pencil, on a scrap of paper: “Do not be -so sad, I implore you; I promise to give you a reply.” -Surely, you cannot see any harm in that, and then it<span class="pagenum" id="Page_49">[49]</span> -was stronger than I. I put my paper in the strings of my -harp, where his letter had been, and returned to the <i>salon</i>. -I felt more calm.</p> - -<p>It seemed to me very long until the lady went away. -Luckily, she had more visits to pay; she went away shortly -afterwards. As soon as she was gone, I said that I -wanted to have my harp again, and begged him to go -and fetch it. I saw from his expression that he suspected -nothing. But, on his return, oh, how pleased he was! -As he set down my harp in front of me, he placed himself -in such a position that Mamma could not see, and -he took my hand, which he squeezed ... but, in such a -way! ... it was only for a moment: but I could not tell -you the pleasure which it gave me. However, I withdrew -it; so I have nothing for which to reproach myself.</p> - -<p>And now, my dear friend, you must see that I cannot -abstain from writing to him, since I have given my -promise; and then I am not going to give him any -more pain; for I suffer more than he does. If it were a -question of doing anything wrong, I should certainly -not do it. But what harm can there be in writing, -especially when it is to save somebody from being -unhappy? What embarrasses me is that I do not know -how to write my letter: but he will surely feel that it is -not my fault; and then I am certain that as long as it -only comes from me, it will give him pleasure.</p> - -<p>Adieu, my dear friend. If you think that I am wrong, -tell me; but I do not think so. The nearer the moment -of writing to him comes, the more does my heart beat: -more than you can conceive. I must do it, however, -since I have promised. Adieu.</p> - -<p class="right"> -Paris, 17th August, 17**. -</p> -<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> - -<div class="chapter"> -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_50">[50]</span></p> - -<h2 class="nobreak" id="LETTER_THE_NINETEENTH">LETTER THE NINETEENTH - -<br><small>CÉCILE VOLANGES TO THE CHEVALIER DANCENY</small></h2> -</div> - -<p class="noin"><span class="smcap">You</span> were so sad yesterday, Monsieur, and that made me -so sorry, that I went so far as to promise to reply to the -letter which you wrote me. I none the less feel to-day -that I ought not to do this: however, as I have promised, -I do not wish to break my word, and that must prove -how much friendship I feel for you. Now that you know -that, I hope you will not ask me to write to you again. -I hope also that you will tell nobody that I have written -to you, because I should be certainly blamed, and that -might cause me a great deal of pain. I hope, above all, -that you yourself will not form a bad opinion of me, -which would grieve me more than anything. I can give -you every assurance that I would not have done as -much to anyone except yourself. I should be very glad -if you would do me a favour in your turn, and be less -sad than you were: it takes away all the pleasure that -I feel in seeing you. You see, Monsieur, I speak to you -very sincerely. I ask nothing better than that I may -always keep your friendship; but I beg of you do not -write to me again.</p> - -<p>I have the honour to be,</p> - -<p class="margin"> -<span class="smcap">Cécile Volanges.</span></p> -<p class="right"> -Paris, 20th August, 17**. -</p> -<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> - -<div class="chapter"> -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_51">[51]</span></p> - -<h2 class="nobreak" id="LETTER_THE_TWENTIETH">LETTER THE TWENTIETH - -<br><small>THE MARQUISE DE MERTEUIL TO THE VICOMTE DE VALMONT</small></h2> -</div> - -<p class="noin"><span class="smcap">Ah</span>, wretch, so you flatter me, for fear that I shall -make a mock of you! Come, I pardon you: you -write me such a heap of nonsense that I must even forgive -you the virtue in which you are kept by your Présidente. -I do not think my Chevalier would show as -much indulgence as I do; he would not be the man to -approve the renewal of our contract, or to find anything -amusing in your mad idea. I have laughed mightily over -it, however, and was really vexed that I had to laugh over -it by myself. If you had been there, I know not whither -this merriment might not have led us; but I have had -time for reflexion, and am armed with severity. I do not -say that I refuse for ever; but I postpone, and I am right -to do so. I should bring my vanity with me, and once -wounded at the game, one knows not where one stops. -I should be the woman to enslave you again, to make -you forget your Présidente; and if I—unworthy I—were to -disgust you with virtue, consider the scandal! To avoid -these dangers, here are my conditions:</p> - -<p>As soon as you have had your lovely bigot, as soon as -you can furnish me with the proof, come to me and I -am yours. But you cannot be ignorant that, in affairs of<span class="pagenum" id="Page_52">[52]</span> -importance, only written proofs are admitted. By this -arrangement, on one part, I shall become a recompense -instead of being a consolation, and that notion likes me -better: on the other hand, your success will have added -piquancy by being itself a means to an infidelity. Come -then, come as soon as possible, and bring me the gage of -your triumph; like those valiant knights of ours, who came -to lay at their ladies’ feet the brilliant fruits of their -victory. Seriously, I am curious to know what a prude -can write after such a moment, and what veil she casts -over her language, after having discarded any from her -person. It is for you to say whether I price myself too -high; but I forewarn you that there is no abatement. -Till then, my dear Vicomte, you will find it good that I -remain faithful to my Chevalier and amuse myself by -making him happy, in spite of the slight annoyance this -may cause you.</p> - -<p>However, if my morals were less severe, I think you -would have, at this moment, a dangerous rival: the little -Volanges girl. I am bewitched by this child: it is a real -passion. Unless I be deceived, she will become one of -our most fashionable women. I see her little heart developing, -and it is a ravishing spectacle. She already loves -her Danceny with ardour; but she knows nothing about -it yet. He himself, although greatly in love, has still the -timidity of his age, and dares not as yet tell her too -much about it. The two of them are united in adoring -me. The little one especially has a mighty desire to confide -her secret to me. A few days ago, particularly, I saw her -really oppressed, and should have done her a great service -by assisting her a little: but I do not forget that she is -a child, and I should not like to compromise myself.<span class="pagenum" id="Page_53">[53]</span> -Danceny has spoken to me somewhat more clearly; but -with him my course is resolved; I refuse to hear him. -As to the little one, I am often tempted to make her my -pupil; it is a service that I would fain render Gercourt. -He leaves me the time, since he is to stay in Corsica -until the month of October. I have a notion to make use -of that time, and that we will give him a fully formed -woman, instead of his innocent school-girl. In effect, what -must be the insolent sense of security of this man, that -he dare sleep in comfort, whilst a woman who has to -complain of him has not yet been avenged? Believe me, -if the child were here at this moment, I do not know -what I would not say to her.</p> - -<p>Adieu, Vicomte; good-night, and success to you: but -do, for God’s sake, make progress. Bethink you that, if you -do not have this woman, the others will blush for having -taken you.</p> - -<p class="right"> -Paris, 20th August, 17**. -</p> -<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> - -<div class="chapter"> -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_54">[54]</span></p> - -<h2 class="nobreak" id="LETTER_THE_TWENTY-FIRST">LETTER THE TWENTY-FIRST - -<br><small>THE VICOMTE DE VALMONT TO THE MARQUISE DE MERTEUIL</small></h2> -</div> - -<p class="noin"><span class="smcap">At</span> last, my lovely friend, I have taken a step forward: -a really great step, and one which, if it has not taken me -to my goal, has at least let me know that I am on the -right road, and dispelled the fear I was in, that I was -lost. I have at last declared my love; and although the -most obstinate silence had been maintained, I have -obtained a reply that is, perhaps, the least equivocal and -the most flattering: but let us not anticipate events, let -us begin further back.</p> - -<p>You will remember that a watch was set upon my -movements. Well, I resolved that this scandalous means -should turn to public edification; and this is what I did. -I charged my confidant with the task of finding me some -poor wretch in the neighbourhood who was in need of -succour. This commission was not difficult to fulfil. Yesterday -afternoon, he gave me the information that they were -going to seize to-day, in the morning, the goods of a -whole family who could not pay their taxes. I assured myself -that there was no girl or woman amongst this household -whose age or face might render my action suspicious; and, -when I was well informed, I declared at supper my intention<span class="pagenum" id="Page_55">[55]</span> -of going after game in the morning. Here I must render -justice to my Présidente; doubtless she felt a certain remorse -at the orders which she had given; and, not having -the strength to vanquish her curiosity, she had at least -enough to oppose my desire. It was going to be excessively -hot; I ran the risk of making myself ill; I should kill -nothing, and tire myself to no purpose; and during all -this dialogue, her eyes, which spoke, perhaps, better than -she wished, let me see quite sufficiently that she desired -me to take these bad reasons for good. I was careful -not to surrender, as you may believe, and I even resisted -a little diatribe against sportsmen and sport and a little -cloud of ill-humour which obscured, during all the evening, -that celestial brow. I feared for a moment that her orders -had been revoked, and that her delicacy might hinder me. -I did not calculate on the strength of a woman’s curiosity; -and so was deceived. My <i>chasseur</i> reassured me the same -evening, and I went satisfied to bed.</p> - -<p>At daybreak I rose and started off. Barely fifty yards -from the <i>château</i>, I perceived the spy who was to follow -me. I started after the game, and walked across country -to the village whither I wished to make, with no other -pleasure on the road than to give a run to the rogue who -followed me, and who, not daring to quit the road, often -had to cover, at full speed, a three times greater distance -than mine. By dint of exercising him, I was excessively -hot myself, and I sat down at the foot of a tree. He -had the insolence to steal behind a bush, not twenty paces -from me, and to sit down as well! I was tempted for a -moment to fire my gun at him, which, although it only -contained small shot, would have given him a sufficient -lesson as to the dangers of curiosity: luckily for him, I<span class="pagenum" id="Page_56">[56]</span> -remembered that he was useful and even necessary to my -projects; this reflexion saved him.</p> - -<p>However, I reach the village; I see the commotion; I -step forward; I question somebody; the facts are related. -I have the collector called to me; and, yielding to my -generous compassion, I pay nobly fifty-six livres, for lack -of which five persons were to be left to straw and their -despair. After this simple action, you cannot imagine -what a crowd of benedictions echoed round me from the -witnesses of the scene! What tears of gratitude poured -from the eyes of the aged head of the family, and -embellished his patriarchal face, which, a moment before, -had been rendered really hideous by the savage marks of -despair! I was watching this spectacle, when another peasant, -younger, who led a woman and two children by the -hands, advanced to me with hasty steps and said to them, -“Let us all fall at the feet of this image of God;” and at -the same instant I was surrounded by the family, prostrate -at my knees. I will confess my weakness: my eyes were -moistened by tears, and I felt an involuntary but delicious -emotion. I am astonished at the pleasure one experiences -in doing good; and I should be tempted to believe that -what we call virtuous people have not so much merit as -they lead us to suppose. However that may be, I found -it just to pay these poor people for the pleasure which -they had given me. I had brought ten louis with me, -and I gave them these. The acknowledgments began -again, but they were not pathetic to the same degree: -necessity had produced the great, the true effect; the rest -was but a simple expression of gratitude and astonishment -at superfluous gifts.</p> - -<div class="figcenter illowp46" id="081" style="max-width: 31.3125em;"> - <img class="w100" src="images/081.jpg" alt=""> -<div class="caption"><i>Fragonard fils del.</i> <span class="captionr"><i>Bertaux et Dupréel sculp<sup>t</sup></i>.</span></div> -</div> -<div class="sync"> </div> -<p>However, in the midst of the loquacious benedictions of -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_57">[57]</span>this family, I was by no means unlike the hero of a drama, -in the scene of the <i>dénouement</i>. Above all, you will remark -the faithful spy was also in this crowd. My purpose -was fulfilled: I disengaged myself from them all, and regained -the <i>château</i>. On further consideration, I congratulated -myself on my inventive genius. This woman -is, doubtless, well worth all the pains I take; they will one -day be my titles with her; and having, in some sort, as -it were, paid in advance, I shall have the right to dispose -of her, according to my fantasy, without having any cause -to reproach myself.</p> - -<p>I forgot to tell you that, to turn everything to profit, -I asked these good people to pray for the success of my -projects. You shall see whether their prayers have not -been already in part hearkened to.... But they come to -tell me that supper is ready, and it would be too late to -dispatch this letter, if I waited to end it after rising from -table. “To be continued,” therefore, “in our next.” -I am sorry, for the sequel is the finest part. Adieu, -my lovely friend. You steal from me a moment of the -pleasure of seeing her.</p> - -<p class="right"> -At the Château de ..., 20th August, 17**. -</p> -<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> - -<div class="chapter"> -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_58">[58]</span></p> - -<h2 class="nobreak" id="LETTER_THE_TWENTY-SECOND">LETTER THE TWENTY-SECOND - -<br><small>THE PRÉSIDENTE DE TOURVEL TO MADAME DE VOLANGES</small></h2> -</div> - -<p class="noin"><span class="smcap">You</span> will, doubtless, be well pleased, Madame, to hear of -a trait in M. de Valmont which is in great contrast to -all those under which you have represented him to me. -It is so painful to have to think unfavourably of anybody, -so grievous to find only vices in people who should -possess all the qualities necessary to make virtue lovable! -Moreover, you love so well to be indulgent that, were it only -to oblige you, I must give you a reason for reconsidering -your too harsh judgment. M. de Valmont seems to -me entitled to hope for this favour, I might almost say -this justice; and this is on what I base my opinion.</p> - -<p>This morning he made one of those excursions which -might lead one to believe in some project on his part, -in the vicinity, just as the idea came to you of one; -an idea which I accuse myself of having entertained -with too much precipitation. Luckily for him, and above -all luckily for us, since we are thus saved from being -unjust, one of my men happened to be going in the -same direction<a id="FNanchor_12" href="#Footnote_12" class="fnanchor">[12]</a> and it is from this source that my -reprehensible but fortunate curiosity was satisfied. He<span class="pagenum" id="Page_59">[59]</span> -related to us that M. de Valmont, having found an -unfortunate family in the village of —— whose goods were -being sold because they were unable to pay their taxes, -not only hastened to pay the debt of these poor people, -but even added to this gift a considerable sum of money. -My servant was a witness of this virtuous action; and he -related to me in addition that the peasants, talking -amongst themselves and with him, had said that a -servant, whom they described, and who is believed by -mine to be that of M. de Valmont, had sought information -yesterday as to any of the inhabitants of the village who -might be in need of help. If that be so, it was not -merely a passing feeling of compassion, suggested by the -opportunity: it was the deliberate project of doing good; -it was a search for the chance of being benevolent; it -was the fairest virtue of the most noble souls: but be it -chance or design, it is none the less a laudable and -generous action, the mere recital of which moved me to -tears. I will add more, and still from a sense of justice, -that when I spoke to him of this action, which he had -never mentioned, he began by excusing himself, and had -the air of attaching so little importance to it, that the -merit of it was enhanced by his modesty.</p> - -<p>After that, tell me, my esteemed friend, if M. de Valmont -is indeed an irreclaimable libertine? If he can be no more -than that and yet behave so, what is left for honest folk? -What! are the wicked to share with the good the sacred -joy of charity? Would God permit that a virtuous family -should receive from the hands of a villain succour for -which they render thanks to Divine Providence, and could -it please Him to hear pure lips bestow their blessings upon -a reprobate? No! I prefer to hold that errors, long as they<span class="pagenum" id="Page_60">[60]</span> -may have lasted, do not endure for ever; and I cannot -think that he who does good can be the enemy of virtue. -M. de Valmont is perhaps only one more instance of the -danger of associations. I remain of this opinion which -pleases me. If, on one side, it may serve to justify him -in your opinion, on the other, it renders more and more -precious to me the tender friendship which unites me to -you for life.</p> - -<p>I have the honour to be, etc.</p> - -<p>P.S. Madame de Rosemonde and I are going this -moment to see for ourselves this worthy and unfortunate -family, and to unite our tardy aid to that of M. de Valmont. -We shall take him with us. We shall at least -give these good people the pleasure of seeing their benefactor: -that is, I believe, all he has left for us to do.</p> - -<p class="right"> -At the Château de ..., 20th August, 17**. -</p> -<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> - -<div class="chapter"> -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_61">[61]</span></p> - -<h2 class="nobreak" id="LETTER_THE_TWENTY-THIRD">LETTER THE TWENTY-THIRD - -<br><small>THE VICOMTE DE VALMONT TO THE MARQUISE DE MERTEUIL</small></h2> -</div> - -<p class="noin">I <span class="smcap">left</span> off at my return to the <i>château</i>: I resume my -tale.</p> - -<p>I had only time to make a hurried toilette, ere I repaired -to the drawing-room, where my beauty was working -at her tapestry, whilst the <i>curé</i> of the place was -reading the gazette to my old aunt. I went and took -my seat by the frame. Glances sweeter than were -customary, and almost caressing, enabled me soon to -divine that the servant had already given an account of -his mission. Indeed, the dear, inquisitive lady could no -longer keep the secret which she had acquired; and -without fear of interrupting a venerable pastor, whose -recital indeed resembled a sermon: “I too have a piece -of news to recite,” said she; and suddenly related my -adventure, with an exactitude which did honour to the -intelligence of her historian. You may conceive what play I -made with my modesty: but who can stop a woman, when -she praises the man whom, without knowing it, she loves? I -decided therefore to let her have her head. One would have -thought she was making the panegyric of a saint. All -this time I was observing, not without hope, all the promises -of love in her animated gaze; her gesture, which<span class="pagenum" id="Page_62">[62]</span> -had become more lively; and, above all, her voice, which, -by its already perceptible alteration, betrayed the emotion -of her soul. She had hardly finished speaking when: -“Come, my nephew,” said Madame de Rosemonde to me, -“come and let me embrace you.” I felt at once that the -pretty preacher could not prevent herself from being -embraced in her turn. However, she wished to fly; but -she was soon in my arms, and, so far from having the -strength to resist, she had scarcely sufficient to maintain -herself. The more I observe this woman, the more desirable -she appears to me. She hastened to return to her -frame, and to everybody had the appearance of resuming -her tapestry. But I saw well that her trembling hand -prevented her from continuing her work.</p> - -<p>After dinner, the ladies insisted on going to see the -unfortunates whom I had so piously succoured; I accompanied -them. I spare you the tedium of this second -scene of gratitude and praise. My heart, impelled by a -delicious recollection, hurries on the moment for return -to the <i>château</i>. On the way, my fair Présidente, more -pensive than is her wont, said never a word. Occupied -as I was in seeking the means of profiting by the effect -which the episode of the day had produced, I maintained -the same silence. Madame de Rosemonde was the only -one to speak, and obtained from us but scant and few -replies. We must have bored her; that was my intention, -and it succeeded. Thus, on stepping from the carriage, she -passed into her apartment and left my fair one and myself -<i>tête-à-tête</i>, in a dimly lighted room—a sweet obscurity -which emboldens timid love.</p> - -<p>I had not to be at the pains to lead the conversation -into the channel which I wished. The fervour of the<span class="pagenum" id="Page_63">[63]</span> -amiable preacheress served me better than any skill of -my own.</p> - -<p>“When one is capable of doing good,” said she, letting -her sweet gaze rest on me, “how can one pass one’s life -in doing ill?”</p> - -<p>“I do not deserve, either that praise or that censure,” -said I, “and I cannot imagine how you, who have so -clear a wit, have not yet divined me. Though my confidence -may damage me in your eyes, you are far too -worthy of it that I should be able to refuse it. You will -find the key to my conduct in my character, which is -unhappily far too easy-going. Surrounded by persons of -no morality, I have imitated their vices; I have perhaps -made it a point of vanity to surpass them. In the same way, -attracted here by the example of virtue, without ever hoping -to come up to you, I have, at least, endeavoured to -imitate you. Ah, perhaps the action for which you praise -me to-day would lose all value in your eyes if you knew -its true motive!” (You see, my fair friend, how near the truth -I touched.) “It is not to myself,” I went on, “that -these unfortunates owe their rescue. Where you think -you see a praiseworthy action, I did but seek a means to -please. I was nothing else, since I must say it, but the -weak agent of the divinity whom I adore.” (Here she -would have interrupted me, but I did not give her time.) -“At this very moment even,” I added, “my secret only -escapes from my weakness. I had vowed that I would -be silent before you; I made it my happiness to render -to your virtues as much as to your charms a pure homage -of which you should always remain ignorant; but incapable of -deception, when I have before my eyes the example of -candour, I shall not have to reproach myself to you with<span class="pagenum" id="Page_64">[64]</span> -guilty dissimulation. Do not believe that I insult you -by entertaining any criminal hope. I shall be miserable, -I know; but my sufferings will be dear to me: they -will prove to me the immensity of my love; it is at your -feet, it is on your bosom that I will cast down my woes. -There shall I draw the strength to suffer anew; there -shall I find compassionate bounty, and I shall deem myself -consoled because you will have pitied me. Oh, you -whom I adore! hearken to me, pity me, succour me!”</p> - -<p>By this time I was at her feet, and I pressed her hands -in mine; but she suddenly disengaged them and, folding -them over her eyes, cried with an expression of despair, -“Oh, wretched me!” then burst into tears. Luckily I was -exalted to such a degree that I also wept; and, seizing -her hands again, I bathed them with my tears. This precaution -was most necessary; for she was so full of her grief -that she would not have perceived my own, had I not -taken this means of informing her. I moreover gained -the privilege of considering at my leisure that charming -face, yet more embellished by the potent charm of her -tears. My head grew hot, and so little was I master of -myself that I was tempted to profit by that moment.</p> - -<p>What is this weakness of ours? of what avail is the -force of circumstances if, forgetting my own projects, I -risked losing, by a premature triumph, the charms of a long -battle and the details of a painful defeat; if, seduced by the -desires of youth, I thought of exposing the conqueror of -Madame de Tourvel to the pain of plucking, for the fruit of -victory, but the insipid consolation of having had one woman -more? Ah, let her surrender, but let her first fight; let her, -without having strength to conquer, have enough to resist; -let her relish at her leisure the sentiment of her weakness<span class="pagenum" id="Page_65">[65]</span> -and be constrained to confess her defeat! Let us leave it -to the obscure poacher to kill at a bound the stag he has -surprised; your true hunter will give it a run. Is not -this project of mine sublime? Yet perhaps I should be -now regretting that I had not followed it, had not chance -come to the rescue of my prudence.</p> - -<p>We heard a noise. Someone was coming to the drawing-room. -Madame de Tourvel, in alarm, rose precipitately, -seized one of the candles, and left the room. I could not -but let her go. It was only one of the servants. As -soon as I was assured of this, I followed her. I had hardly -gone a few paces, before, whether that she had recognized -me, or for some vague sentiment of terror, she quickened -her steps, and flung herself into, rather than entered, her -chamber, the door of which she closed behind her. I -went after her; but the door was locked inside. I was careful -not to knock; that would have been to give her the chance -of a too easy resistance. I had the good and simple -idea of peeping through the key-hole, and I saw this -adorable woman on her knees, bathed with tears, and -fervently praying. What God did she dare invoke? Is -there one potent enough to resist love? In vain, henceforward, -will she invoke extraneous aid! ’Tis I who will -order her destiny.</p> - -<p>Thinking I had done enough for one day, I too withdrew -to my own room, and started to write to you. I -hoped to see her again at supper; but she had given out -that she was indisposed, and had gone to bed. Madame -de Rosemonde wished to go up to her; but the cunning -invalid alleged a headache which prevented her from -seeing anybody. You may guess that after supper the -interval was short, and that I too had my headache. Withdrawing<span class="pagenum" id="Page_66">[66]</span> -to my room, I wrote a long letter to complain of -this severity, and went to bed with the intention of delivering -it to her this morning. I slept badly, as you can see by -the date of this letter. I rose and re-read my epistle. I -discovered that I had not been sufficiently restrained, had -exhibited less love than ardour. It must be written again, -but in a calmer mood.</p> - -<p>I see the day break, and I hope the freshness which -accompanies it will bring me sleep. I am going to return -to my bed; and, whatever may be the power of this -woman over me, I promise you never to be so occupied -with her as to lack time to think much of you. Adieu, -my lovely friend!</p> - -<p> -At the Château de ..., 21st August, 17**, -at four o’clock in the morning.<br> -</p> -<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> - -<div class="chapter"> -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_67">[67]</span></p> - -<h2 class="nobreak" id="LETTER_THE_TWENTY-FOURTH">LETTER THE TWENTY-FOURTH - -<br><small>THE VICOMTE DE VALMONT TO THE PRÉSIDENTE DE TOURVEL</small></h2> -</div> - -<p class="noin"><span class="smcap">Ah</span>, Madame, deign in pity to calm the trouble of my -soul, deign to tell me what I am to hope or fear. Cast -between the extremes of happiness and misfortune, -uncertainty is a cruel torment. Why did I speak to -you? Why did I not know how to resist the imperious -charm which betrayed my thoughts to you? Content -to adore you in silence, I had at least the consolation -of my love; and this pure sentiment, untroubled then -by the image of your grief, sufficed for my felicity; -but that source of happiness has become my despair, -since I saw your tears flow, since I heard that cruel <i>Ah, -wretched me!</i></p> - -<p>Madame, those words will echo long within my heart. -By what fatality can the sweetest of the sentiments -inspire nothing but terror? What then is this fear? Ah, -it is not that of reciprocation: your heart, which I have -misunderstood, is not made for love; mine, which you -calumniate unceasingly is the only one which is disturbed: -yours is even pitiless. If it were not so, you would not -have refused a word of consolation to the wretch who -told you of his sufferings; you would not have withdrawn -yourself from his sight, when he has no other pleasure<span class="pagenum" id="Page_68">[68]</span> -than that of seeing you; you would not have played a cruel -game with his anxiety by letting him be told that you -were ill, without permitting him to go and inform himself -of your health; you would have felt that the same night -which did but mean for you twelve hours of repose would -be for him a century of pain.</p> - -<p>For what cause, tell me, have I deserved this intolerable -severity? I do not fear to take you for my judge: -what have I done, then, but yield to an involuntary -sentiment, inspired by beauty and justified by virtue, -always restrained by respect, the innocent avowal of -which was the effect of trust and not of hope? Will you -betray that trust, which you yourself seemed to permit me, -and to which I yielded myself without reserve? No, I -cannot believe that: it would be to imply a fault in you, -and my heart revolts at the bare idea of detecting one. -I withdraw my reproaches; write them I can, but think -them never! Ah, let me believe you perfect; it is the -one pleasure which is left me! Prove to me that you -are so by granting me your generous aid. What poor -wretch have you ever helped who was in so much need -as I? Do not abandon me to the frenzy in which you -have plunged me: lend me your reason since you have -ravished mine; after having corrected me, give me light -to complete your work.</p> - -<p>I would not deceive you; you will never succeed in -subduing my love; but you shall teach me to moderate -it: by guiding my conduct, by dictating my speech, you -will save me, at least, from the dire misfortune of displeasing -you. Dispel above all that dreadful fear; tell me that -you forgive me, that you pity me; assure me of your -indulgence. You will never have as much as I should<span class="pagenum" id="Page_69">[69]</span> -desire in you; but I invoke that of which I have need: -will you refuse it me?</p> - -<p>Adieu, Madame; be kind enough to receive the homage -of my sentiments; it hinders not that of my respect.</p> - -<p class="right"> -At the Château de ..., 20th August, 17**. -</p> -<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> - -<div class="chapter"> -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_70">[70]</span></p> - -<h2 class="nobreak" id="LETTER_THE_TWENTY-FIFTH">LETTER THE TWENTY-FIFTH - -<br><small>THE VICOMTE DE VALMONT TO THE MARQUISE DE MERTEUIL</small></h2> -</div> - -<p class="noin"><span class="smcap">This</span> is yesterday’s bulletin. At eleven o’clock I visited -Madame de Rosemonde, and, under her auspices, I was -introduced into the presence of the pretended invalid, who -was still in her bed. Her eyes looked very worn; I hope -she slept as badly as I did. I seized a moment when -Madame de Rosemonde had turned away to deliver my -letter: it was refused; but I left it on the bed, and went decorously -to the side of my old aunt’s arm-chair. She wished to -be near <i>her dear child</i>. It was necessary to conceal the letter -to avoid scandal. The invalid was artless enough to say that -she thought she had a little fever. Madame de Rosemonde -persuaded me to feel her pulse, vaunting mightily my -knowledge of medicine. My beauty then had the double -vexation of being forced to give me her hand, and of -feeling that her little falsehood was to be discovered. -I took her hand, which I pressed in one of mine, -whilst, with the other, I ran over her fresh and rounded -arm. The naughty creature made no response, which impelled -me to say, as I withdrew, “There is not even the -slightest symptom.” I suspected that her gaze would be -severe, and, to punish her, I refused to meet it: a moment -later she said that she wished to rise, and we left her<span class="pagenum" id="Page_71">[71]</span> -alone. She appeared at dinner, which was a sombre -one; she gave out that she would not take a walk, which -was as much as to tell me that I should have no opportunity -of conversing with her. I was well aware that, -at this point, I must put in a sigh and a mournful look; -no doubt she was waiting for that, for it was the one -moment of the day when I succeeded in meeting her -eyes. Virtuous as she is, she has her little ruses like -another. I found a moment to ask of her “if she had had -the kindness to inform me of my fate,” and I was somewhat -astonished when she answered, “Yes, Monsieur, I have -written to you.” I was mighty anxious to have this letter, -but whether it were a ruse again, or for awkwardness, or -shyness, she did not give it to me till the evening, -when she was retiring to her apartment. I send -it you, as well as the first draft of mine; read and judge; -see with what signal falsity she says that she feels no love, -when I am sure of the contrary; and then she will complain -if I deceive her afterwards, when she does not fear -to deceive me before! My lovely friend, the cleverest -of men can do no more than keep on a level with the -truest woman. I must needs, however, feign to believe -all this nonsense, and weary myself with despair, because -it pleases Madame to play at severity! It is hard not to -be revenged on such baseness! Ah, patience!... But -adieu. I have still much to write. By the way, return -me the letter of the fair barbarian; it might happen -later that she would expect one to attach a value to -those wretched sheets, and one must be in order.</p> - -<p>I say nothing to you of the little Volanges; we will talk -of her at an early day.</p> - -<p class="right"> -At the Château <span class="err" title="original: of">de</span> ..., 22nd August, 17**. -</p> -<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> - -<div class="chapter"> -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_72">[72]</span></p> - -<h2 class="nobreak" id="LETTER_THE_TWENTY-SIXTH">LETTER THE TWENTY-SIXTH - -<br><small>THE PRÉSIDENTE DE TOURVEL TO THE VICOMTE DE VALMONT</small></h2> -</div> - -<p class="noin"><span class="smcap">Assuredly</span>, Monsieur, you would never have received any -letter from me, did not my foolish conduct of yesterday -evening compel me to-day to have an explanation with -you. Yes, I wept, I confess it: perhaps, too, the -words which you are so careful to quote to me did -escape me; tears and words, you remarked everything; -I must then explain to you everything.</p> - -<p>Accustomed to inspire only honourable sentiments, to -hear only conversation to which I can listen without a -blush, and consequently to enjoy a feeling of security -which I venture to say I deserve, I know not how either -to dissimulate or to combat the impressions I receive. -The astonishment and embarrassment into which your -conduct threw me; a fear, I know not of what, inspired -by a situation which should never have been thrust upon -me; perhaps, even the revolting idea of seeing myself -confounded with the women whom you despise, and -treated as lightly as they are: all these causes in conjunction -provoked my tears, and may have made me -say, I think with reason, that I was wretched. This -expression, which you think so strong, would certainly have -been far too weak, if my tears and utterance had another<span class="pagenum" id="Page_73">[73]</span> -motive; if, instead of disapproving sentiments which must -need offend me, I could have feared lest I should share -them.</p> - -<p>No, Monsieur, I have not that fear; if I had, I would -fly a hundred leagues away from you, I would go and -weep in a desert at the misfortune of having known you. -Perhaps even, in spite of the certainty in which I am -of not loving you, of never loving you, perhaps I should -have done better to follow the counsels of my friends, and -forbid you to approach me.</p> - -<p>I believed, and it is my sole error, I believed that you -would respect a virtuous woman, who asked nothing better -than to find you so and to do you justice; who already -was defending you, whilst you were outraging her with your -criminal avowals. You do not know me; no, Monsieur, -you do not know me. Otherwise you would not have -thought to make a right out of your error: because you -had made proposals to me which I ought not to hear, -you would not have thought yourself authorized to write -me a letter which I ought not to read: and you ask me -<i>to guide your conduct, to dictate to you your speech</i>! -Very well, Monsieur, silence and forgetfulness, those are -the counsels which it becomes me to give you, as it will -you to follow them; then you will indeed have rights to my -indulgence: it will only rest with you to obtain even -my gratitude.... But no, I will not address a request -to a man who has not respected me; I will give no mark -of confidence to a man who has abused my security. You -force me to fear, perhaps to hate you: I did not want -to; I wished to see in you naught else than the -nephew of my most respected friend; I opposed the -voice of friendship to the public voice which accused<span class="pagenum" id="Page_74">[74]</span> -you. You have destroyed it all; and I foresee, you will -not want to repair it.</p> - -<p>I am anxious, Monsieur, to make it clear to you that -your sentiments offend me; that their avowal is an outrage -to me; and, above all, that, so far from my coming one -day to share them, you would force me to refuse ever -again to see you, if you do not impose on yourself, as to -this subject, the silence which it seems to me I have the -right to expect and even to demand from you. I enclose -in this letter that which you have written to me, and I beg -that you will similarly return me this: I should be sincerely -grieved if any trace remained of an incident which ought -never to have occurred.</p> - -<p>I have the honour to be, etc.</p> - -<p class="right"> -At the Château de ..., 21st August, 17**. -</p> -<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> - -<div class="chapter"> -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_75">[75]</span></p> - -<h2 class="nobreak" id="LETTER_THE_TWENTY-SEVENTH">LETTER THE TWENTY-SEVENTH - -<br><small>CÉCILE VOLANGES TO THE MARQUISE DE MERTEUIL</small></h2> -</div> - -<p class="noin"><span class="smcap">Lord</span>! how good you are, Madame! how well you understood -that it would be easier to me to write to you than -to speak! What I have to tell you, too, is very difficult; -but is it not true that you are my friend? Oh yes, my -very dear friend! I am going to try not to be afraid; and -then, I have so much need of you, of your counsels! I -am so very grieved, it seems to me that everybody guesses -my thoughts; and, especially when he is there, I blush as -soon as anyone looks at me. Yesterday, when you saw -me crying, it was because I wished to speak to you, and -then, I do not know what prevented me; and, when you -asked me what was the matter, my tears flowed in spite of -myself. I could not have said a single word. But for -you, Mamma would have noticed it; and what would -have become of me then? That is how I pass my life, -especially since four days ago!</p> - -<p>It was on that day, Madame, yes, I am going to tell -you, it was on that day that M. le Chevalier Danceny -wrote to me: oh, I assure you that when I found his -letter, I did not know at all what it was: but, not to -tell a falsehood, I cannot tell you that I did not take -a great deal of pleasure in reading it; you see, I<span class="pagenum" id="Page_76">[76]</span> -would sooner have sorrow all my life than that he should not -have written it. But I knew well that I ought not to -tell him that, and I can even assure you that I told him -I was vexed at it: but he said that it was stronger than -himself, and I quite believe it; for I had resolved not to -answer him, and yet I could not help myself. Oh, -I have only written to him once, and even that was -partly to tell him not to write to me again: but, in spite -of that, he goes on writing to me; and, as I do not answer -him, I see quite well that he is sad, and that pains me -more still: so much that I no longer know what to do, -nor what will happen, and I am much to be pitied.</p> - -<p>Tell me, I beg you, Madame, would it be very -wrong to reply to him from time to time? Only until he -has been able to resolve not to write to me any more -himself, and to stay as we were before: for, as for me, -if this continues, I do not know what will happen to me. -See, in reading his last letter, I cried as though I should -never have done; and I am very sure that if I do not -answer him again, it will cause us a great deal of pain.</p> - -<p>I am going to send you his letter as well, or rather a -copy, and you will decide; you will quite see there is no -harm in what he asks. However, if you think that it must -not be, I promise you to restrain myself; but I believe -that you will think like me, and that there is no harm -there.</p> - -<p>Whilst I am about it, Madame, permit me to ask you -one more question. They have always told me that it was -wrong to love anyone; but why is that? What makes -me ask you is that M. le Chevalier Danceny maintains -that it is not wrong at all, and that almost everybody -loves; if that is so, I do not see why I should be the<span class="pagenum" id="Page_77">[77]</span> -only one to refrain from it; or is it then that it is only -wrong for young ladies? For I have heard Mamma herself -say that Madame D*** was in love with Monsieur M***, and -she did not speak of it as a thing which was so very wrong; -and yet I am sure she would be angry with me, if she -were only to suspect my liking for M. Danceny. She -treats me always like a child, does Mamma; and she -tells me nothing at all. I believed, when she took me from -the convent, that it was to marry me; but at present -it seems no: it is not that I care about it, I assure you; -but you who are so friendly with her know, perhaps, how -it stands; and, if you know, I hope you will tell me. This -is a very long letter, Madame; but, since you have allowed -me to write to you, I have profited by it to tell you -all, and I count on your friendship.</p> - -<p>I have the honour to be, etc.</p> - -<p class="right"> -Paris, 23rd August, 17**. -</p> -<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> - -<div class="chapter"> -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_78">[78]</span></p> - -<h2 class="nobreak" id="LETTER_THE_TWENTY-EIGHTH">LETTER THE TWENTY-EIGHTH -<br><small>THE CHEVALIER DANCENY TO CÉCILE VOLANGES.</small></h2> -</div> - -<p class="noin"><span class="smcap">What</span>, Mademoiselle! you still refuse to answer me! -Nothing can bend you, and each day bears away with it -the hope which it had brought! What then is this friendship -which you agree subsists between us, if it be not even -powerful enough to render you sensible to my pain; if -it leaves you cold and tranquil, whilst I experience the -torments of a fire that I cannot extinguish; if, far from -inspiring you with confidence, it does not even suffice to -induce your pity? What! your friend suffers and you -do nothing to help him! He does but ask you for a -word, and you refuse him that! And you wish him to -content himself with a sentiment so feeble, of which you -even fear to reiterate the assurance!</p> - -<p>You would not be ungrateful, you said yesterday: ah, -believe me, Mademoiselle, to be ready to repay love with -friendship is not to fear ingratitude, it is to dread only -the having the appearance of it. However, I dare not -discuss with you a sentiment which can only be a burden -to you, if it does not interest you; I must at least confine -it within myself until I learn how to conquer it. I feel -how painful this task will be; I do not hide from myself -that I shall have need of all my strength; I will attempt<span class="pagenum" id="Page_79">[79]</span> -every means; there is one which will cost my heart most -dearly, it is that of repeating to myself often that your -own is insensible. I will even try to see you less often, -and I am already busy in seeking a plausible excuse.</p> - -<p>What! I should lose the sweet habit of seeing you every -day! Ah, at least I shall never cease to regret it! An -eternal sorrow will be the price of the most tender love; -and you will have wished it, and it will be your work! -Never, I feel it, shall I recover the happiness I lose -to-day; you alone were made for my heart; with what -delight I would take a vow to live only for you! But this -vow you will not accept; your silence teaches me well -enough that your heart says nothing to you in my behalf: -it is at once the surest proof of your indifference and the -most cruel fashion of announcing it to me. Adieu, Mademoiselle.</p> - -<p>I dare not flatter myself with the hope of a reply: love -would have written to me with impatience, friendship with -pleasure, even pity with complacence; but pity, friendship -and love are equally strangers to your heart.</p> - -<p class="right"> -Paris, 13th August, 17**. -</p> -<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> - -<div class="chapter"> -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_80">[80]</span></p> - -<h2 class="nobreak" id="LETTER_THE_TWENTY-NINTH">LETTER THE TWENTY-NINTH - -<br><small>CÉCILE VOLANGES TO SOPHIE CARNAY</small></h2> -</div> - -<p class="noin">I <span class="smcap">told</span> you, Sophie, that there were cases in which one -might write; and I assure you that I reproach myself -greatly with having followed your advice, which has brought -so much grief to the Chevalier Danceny and to myself. -The proof that I was right is that Madame de Merteuil, -who is a woman who surely knows, thinks as I do. -I confessed everything to her. She talked to me at -first as you did: but when I had explained all to -her, she agreed that it was very different; she only asks -me to shew her all my letters and all those of the Chevalier -Danceny, in order to make sure that I say nothing but -what I should; thus, at present, I am tranquil. Heavens, -how I love Madame de Merteuil! She is so good! and -she is a woman very much respected. Thus, there is -nothing more to be said.</p> - -<p>How I am going to write to M. Danceny, and how -pleased he will be! He will be even more so than he -thinks, for hitherto I have only spoken of my friendship, -and he always wanted me to tell him of my love. I think -it was much the same thing; but anyhow, I did not dare, -and he longed for that. I told this to Madame de Merteuil; -she told me that I was right, and that one ought -not to confess that one feels love, until one can no longer<span class="pagenum" id="Page_81">[81]</span> -restrain one’s self: now I am sure that I could not restrain -myself any longer; after all, it is the same thing, and it -will give him greater pleasure.</p> - -<p>Madame de Merteuil told me also that she would lend -me books which spoke of all that, and which would teach -me to behave myself properly, and to write better than I -know now: for, you see, she tells me of all my faults, -which is a proof how much she likes me; she has only -recommended me to say nothing to Mamma of these books, -because that would seem to suggest that she has neglected -my education, and that might vex her. Oh, I shall say -nothing about it to her!</p> - -<p>It is very extraordinary, however, that a woman who is -scarcely related to me should take more care of me than -my mother! It is very lucky for me to have known her!</p> - -<p>She has also asked Mamma to bring me the day after -to-morrow to the Opera, in her box; she has told me that -we shall be quite alone there, and we are to talk all the -time, without fear of being overheard: I like that much -better than the opera. We shall speak also of my marriage: -for she has told me that it was quite true that I was to -be married; but we have not been able to say more about -it. By the way, is it not astonishing that Mamma has said -nothing about it at all?</p> - -<p>Adieu, my Sophie, I am going to write to the Chevalier -Danceny. Oh! I am very happy.</p> - -<p class="right"> -Paris, 24th August, 17**. -</p> -<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> - -<div class="chapter"> -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_82">[82]</span></p> - -<h2 class="nobreak" id="LETTER_THE_THIRTIETH">LETTER THE THIRTIETH - -<br><small>CÉCILE VOLANGES TO THE CHEVALIER DANCENY</small></h2> -</div> - -<p class="noin"><span class="smcap">At</span> last, Monsieur, I consent to write to you, to assure you -of my friendship, of my <i>love</i>, since without that you would -be unhappy. You say that I have not a good heart; -I assure you, indeed, that you are mistaken, and I hope, -at present, you no longer doubt it. If you have been -grieved that I have not written to you, do you suppose -that that did not grieve me as well? But the fact is that, -for nothing in the world, would I like to do anything -that was wrong; and I would not even have told you of my -love, if I could have prevented myself: but your sadness -gave me too much pain. I hope that, at present, you will -be sad no longer, and that we shall both be very happy.</p> - -<p>I trust to have the pleasure of seeing you this evening, -and that you will come early; it will never be so early -as I could wish. Mamma is to sup at home, and I -believe she will ask you to stay: I hope you will not be -engaged as you were the day before yesterday. Was the -supper you went to so very agreeable? For you went to it -very early. But come, let us not talk of that: now that -you know I love you, I hope you will remain with me -as much as you can, for I am only happy when I am -with you, and I should like you to feel the same.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_83">[83]</span></p> - -<p>I am very sorry that you are still sad at this moment, but -it is not my fault. I will ask if I may play on the harp -as soon as you arrive, in order that you may get my -letter at once. I can do no more.</p> - -<p>Adieu, Monsieur. I love you well, with my whole heart: -the more I tell you, the better pleased I am; I hope that -you will be so too.</p> - -<p class="right"> -Paris, 24th August, 17**. -</p> -<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> - -<div class="chapter"> -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_84">[84]</span></p> - -<h2 class="nobreak" id="LETTER_THE_THIRTY-FIRST">LETTER THE THIRTY-FIRST - -<br><small>THE CHEVALIER DANCENY TO CÉCILE VOLANGES</small></h2> -</div> - -<p class="noin"><span class="smcap">Yes</span>, without a doubt, we shall be happy. My happiness -is well assured, since I am loved by you; yours will never -end, if it is to last as long as that which you have -inspired in me. What! You love me, you no longer -fear to assure me of your <i>love</i>! <i>The more you tell me, the -better pleased you are!</i> After reading that charming <i>I love -you</i>, written by your hand, I heard your sweet mouth -repeat the confession. I saw fixed upon me those -charming eyes, which their expression of tenderness -embellished still more. I received your vow to live ever -for me. Ah, receive mine, to consecrate my whole life -to your happiness; receive it and be sure that I will never -betray it!</p> - -<p>What a happy day we passed yesterday! Ah, why -has not Madame de Merteuil secrets to tell your Mamma -every day? Why must it be that the idea of constraint, -which follows us, comes to mingle with the delicious -recollection which possesses me? Why can I not hold -unceasingly that pretty hand, which has written to me -<i>I love you</i>, cover it with kisses, and avenge myself so for -the refusal you have given me of a greater favour!</p> - -<p>Tell me, my Cécile, when your Mamma had returned;<span class="pagenum" id="Page_85">[85]</span> -when we were forced by her presence to have only indifferent -looks for one another; when you could no -longer console me, with the assurance of your love, for the -refusal you made to give me any proofs of it: did you -have no sentiment of regret? Did you not say to yourself: -a kiss would have made him happier, and it is I who -have kept this joy from him? Promise me, my charming -friend, that on the first opportunity you will be less severe. -With the aid of this promise, I shall find the courage to -support the vexations which circumstances have in store -for us; and the cruel privations will be at least softened -by my certainty that you share my regret.</p> - -<p>Adieu, my charming Cécile: the hour is at hand when -I must go to your house. It would be impossible to -quit you, were it not to go and see you again. Adieu, -you whom I love so dearly! you whom I shall love -ever more and more!</p> - -<p class="right"> -Paris, 25th August, 17**. -</p> -<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> - -<div class="chapter"> -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_86">[86]</span></p> - -<h2 class="nobreak" id="LETTER_THE_THIRTY-SECOND">LETTER THE THIRTY-SECOND - -<br><small>MADAME DE VOLANGES TO THE PRÉSIDENTE DE TOURVEL</small></h2> -</div> - -<p class="noin"><span class="smcap">You</span> ask me then, Madame, to believe in the virtue of -M. de Valmont? I confess that I cannot bring myself -to it, and that I should find it as hard a task to believe -in his honour, from the one fact that you relate to me, as -to believe in the viciousness of a man of known probity, -for the sake of one error. Humanity is not perfect in -any fashion; no more in the case of evil than in that of -good. The criminal has his virtues, just as the honest -man has his weaknesses. This truth appears to me all -the more necessary to believe, in that from it is derived -the necessity of indulgence towards the wicked as well as -to the good, and that it safeguards the latter from pride -as it does the former from discouragement. You will -doubtless think that I am practising but sorrily, at this -moment, the indulgence which I preach; but I see in it -only a dangerous weakness, when it leads us to treat the -vicious and the man of integrity alike.</p> - -<p>I will not permit myself to criticize the motives of -M. de Valmont’s action; I would fain believe them as -laudable as the act itself: but has he any the less spent -his life in involving families in trouble, scandal and dishonour? -Listen, if you will, to the voice of the wretched man -he has succoured; but let not that prevent you from<span class="pagenum" id="Page_87">[87]</span> -hearing the cries of the hundred victims whom he has -sacrificed. Were he only, as you say, an instance of -the danger of acquaintances, would that make him any -less dangerous as an acquaintance himself? You assume -him to be capable of a happy reformation? Let us go -further: suppose this miracle accomplished; would not -public opinion remain against him, and does not that -suffice to regulate your conduct? God alone can absolve -at the moment of repentance; he reads in men’s hearts: -but men can only judge of thoughts by deeds; and none -amongst them, after having lost the esteem of others, has -a right to complain of the necessary distrust which -renders this loss so difficult to repair. Remember above -all, my dear young friend, that it sometimes suffices to -lose this respect, merely to have the air of attaching too -little value to it; and do not tax this severity with injustice: -for, apart from our being obliged to believe that -no one renounces this precious possession who has the -right to pretend to it, he is, indeed, more liable to misdoing -who is not restrained by this powerful brake. Such, -nevertheless, would be the aspect under which an intimate -acquaintance with M. de Valmont would display -you, however innocent it might be.</p> - -<p>Alarmed at the warmth with which you defend him, -I hasten to anticipate the objections which I foresee you -will make. You will quote Madame de Merteuil, to whom -this acquaintance has been pardoned; you will ask me -why I receive him at my house; you will tell me that, far -from being repulsed by people of honour, he is admitted, -sought after, even, in what is called good society. I -believe I can answer everything.</p> - -<p>To begin with, Madame de Merteuil, a most estimable<span class="pagenum" id="Page_88">[88]</span> -person indeed, has perhaps no other fault save that of -having too much confidence in her own strength; she is -a skilful guide who delights in taking a carriage betwixt -a mountain and a precipice, and who is only justified by -success: it is right to praise her, it would be imprudent -to imitate her; she herself admits it and reproaches herself -for it. In proportion as she has seen more, have her -principles become more severe; and I do not fear to -assure you that she would think as I do.</p> - -<p>As to what concerns myself, I will not justify myself -more than others. No doubt I receive M. de Valmont, -and he is received everywhere: it is one inconsistency -the more to add to the thousand others which rule society. -You know, as well as I do, how one passes one’s life in -remarking them, bemoaning them, and submitting to them. -M. de Valmont, with a great name, a great fortune, many -amiable qualities, early recognized that, to obtain an -empire over society, it was sufficient to employ, with -equal skill, praise and ridicule. None possesses as he does -this double talent: he seduces with the one, and makes -himself feared with the other. People do not esteem him; -but they flatter him. Such is his existence in the midst -of a world which, more prudent than courageous, would -rather humour than combat him.</p> - -<p>But neither Madame de Merteuil herself, nor any other -woman, would for a moment think of shutting herself up -in the country, almost in solitude, with such a man. It -was reserved for the most virtuous, the most modest of -them all to set the example of such an inconsistency: -forgive the word, it escapes from my friendship. My lovely -friend, your very virtue betrays you by the security with -which it fills you. Reflect then that you will have for<span class="pagenum" id="Page_89">[89]</span> -judges, on the one side, frivolous folk, who will not believe -in a virtue the pattern of which they do not find in themselves; -and on the other, the ill-natured, who will feign -not to believe in it, in order to punish you for its possession. -Consider that you are doing, at this moment, what certain -men would not venture to risk. In fact, amongst our -young men, of whom M. de Valmont has only too much -rendered himself the oracle, I remark the most prudent -fear to seem too intimate with him; and you, are you not -afraid? Ah, come back, come back, I conjure you!... -If my reasons are not sufficient to convince you, yield to -my friendship; it is that which makes me renew my entreaties, -it is for that to justify them. You think it severe, -and I trust that it may be needless; but I would rather -you had to complain of its anxiety than of its neglect.</p> - -<p class="right"> -Paris, 24th August, 17**. -</p> -<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> - -<div class="chapter"> -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_90">[90]</span></p> - -<h2 class="nobreak" id="LETTER_THE_THIRTY-THIRD">LETTER THE THIRTY-THIRD - -<br><small>THE MARQUISE DE MERTEUIL TO THE VICOMTE DE VALMONT</small></h2> -</div> - -<p class="noin"><span class="smcap">The</span> moment that you are afraid of success, my dear -Vicomte, the moment that your plan is to furnish arms -against yourself and that you are less desirous to conquer -than to fight, I have no more to say to you. Your -conduct is a masterpiece of prudence. It would be one -of folly in the contrary supposition; and, to tell the truth, -I fear that you are under an illusion.</p> - -<p>What I reproach you with is not that you did not take -advantage of the moment. On the one side, I do not clearly -see that it had arrived; on the other, I am quite aware, -although they assert the contrary, that an occasion once -missed returns, whereas one never recovers a too precipitate -action. But the real blunder is that you should have -let yourself start a correspondence. I defy you at present -to foretell whither that may lead you. Do you hope, by -any chance, to prove to this woman that she must surrender? -It appears to me that therein can only lie a -truth of sentiment and not of demonstration; and that -to make her admit it is a matter of acting on her -feelings, and not of arguing; but in what will it serve you -to move her by letter, since you will not be at hand to -profit by it? If your fine phrases produce the intoxication<span class="pagenum" id="Page_91">[91]</span> -of love, do you flatter yourself that it will last so long -that there will be no time left for reflexion to prevent the -confession of it? Reflect only of the time it takes to -write a letter, of that which passes before it can be delivered, -and see whether a woman, especially one with the -principles of your <i>dévote</i>, can wish so long that which it -is her endeavour to wish never. This method may succeed -with children, who, when they write, “I love you,” do -not know that they say “I yield myself.” But the argumentative -virtue of Madame de Tourvel seems to me to -be fully aware of the value of terms. Thus, in spite of -the advantage which you had over her in your conversation, -she beats you in her letter. And then, do you -know what happens? Merely for the sake of argument, -one refuses to yield. By dint of searching for good reasons, -one finds, one tells them; and afterwards one clings to -them, not because they are good, so much as in order -not to give one’s self the lie.</p> - -<p>In addition, a point which I wonder you have not yet -made: there is nothing so difficult in love as to write -what you do not feel. I mean to write in a convincing -manner: it is not that you do not employ the same words, -but you do not arrange them in the same way; or rather, -you arrange them, and that suffices. Read over your letter: -there is an order presiding over it which betrays you at -each turn. I would fain believe that your Présidente is too -little formed to perceive it: but what matter? it has no less -failed of its effect. It is the mistake of novels; the author -whips himself to grow heated, and the reader remains cold. -<i>Héloïse</i> is the only one which forms an exception, and, -in spite of the talent of the author, this observation has -ever made me believe that the substance of it was true.<span class="pagenum" id="Page_92">[92]</span> -It is not the same in speaking. The habit of working the -instrument gives sensibility to it; the facility of tears is -added; the expression of desire in the eyes is confounded -with that of tenderness; in short, the less coherent speech -promotes more easily that air of trouble and confusion -which is the true eloquence of love; and above all the -presence of the beloved object forbids reflexion, and makes -us desire to be won.</p> - -<p>Believe me, Vicomte: you are asked to write no more; -take advantage of that to retrieve your mistake, and wait -for an opportunity to speak. Do you know, this woman -has more strength than I believed? Her defence is good; -and, but for the length of her letter, and the pretext which -she gives you to return to the question in her phrase about -gratitude, she would not have betrayed herself at all.</p> - -<p>What appears to me, again, to ensure your success is the -fact that she uses too much strength at one time; I foresee -that she will exhaust it in the defence of the word, and -that no more will be left her for that of the thing.</p> - -<p>I return you your two letters, and, if you are prudent, -they will be the two last, until after the happy moment. -If it were not so late, I would speak to you of the little -Volanges who is coming on quickly enough, and with whom -I am greatly pleased. I believe that I shall have finished -before you, and you ought to be very glad thereat. -Adieu, for to-day.</p> - -<p class="right"> -Paris, 24th August, 17**. -</p> -<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> - -<div class="chapter"> -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_93">[93]</span></p> - -<h2 class="nobreak" id="LETTER_THE_THIRTY-FOURTH">LETTER THE THIRTY-FOURTH - -<br><small>THE VICOMTE DE VALMONT TO THE MARQUISE DE MERTEUIL</small></h2> -</div> - -<p class="noin"><span class="smcap">You</span> speak with perfect truth, my fair friend: but why put -yourself to so much fatigue to prove what nobody disputes? -To move fast in love, ’tis better to speak than to write; -that is, I believe, the whole of your letter. Why, -those are the most simple elements in the art of seduction! -I will only remark that you make but one exception to -this principle, and that there are two. To children, who -walk in this way from shyness and yield themselves from -ignorance, must be added the <i>femmes beaux-esprits</i>, -who let themselves be enticed therein by self-conceit and -whom vanity leads into the snare. For instance, I am -quite sure that the Comtesse de B***, who answered my -first letter without any difficulty, had, at that time, no more -love for me than I for her, and that she only saw an occasion -for treating a subject which should be worthy of her pen.</p> - -<p>However that may be, an advocate will tell you that -principles are not applicable to the question. In fact, -you suppose that I have a choice between writing and -speaking, which is not the case. Since the affair of the -19th, my fair barbarian, who keeps on the defensive, -has shown a skill in avoiding interviews which has disconcerted -my own. So much so that, if this continues,<span class="pagenum" id="Page_94">[94]</span> -I shall be forced to occupy myself seriously with the means -of regaining this advantage; for assuredly I will not be -routed by her in any way. My letters even are the subject -of a little war; not content with leaving them unanswered, -she refuses to receive them. For each one a -fresh artifice is necessary, and it does not always succeed.</p> - -<p>You will remember by what a simple means I gave her -the first; the second presented no further difficulty. She -had asked me to return her letter; I gave her my own -instead, without her having the least suspicion. But whether -from vexation at having been caught, or from caprice or, -in short, virtue, for she will force me to believe in it, she -obstinately refused the third. I hope, however, that the -embarrassment into which the consequence of this refusal -has happened to throw her will correct her for the future.</p> - -<p>I was not much surprised that she would not receive -this letter, which I offered her quite simply; that would -already have been to grant a certain favour, and I am -prepared for a longer defence. After this essay, which -was but an attempt made in passing, I put my letter in -an envelope; and seizing the moment of the toilette, when -Madame de Rosemonde and the chamber-maid were -present, I sent it her by my <i>chasseur</i>, with an order to -tell her that it was the paper for which she had asked -me. I had rightly guessed that she would dread the -scandalous explanation which a refusal would necessitate: -she took the letter; and my ambassador, who had -received orders to observe her face, and who has good -eyes, did but perceive a slight blush, and more embarrassment -than anger.</p> - -<p>I congratulated myself then, for sure, either that she would -keep this letter, or that, if she wished to return it to me,<span class="pagenum" id="Page_95">[95]</span> -it would be necessary for her to find herself alone with -me, which would give me a good occasion to speak. About -an hour afterwards, one of her people entered my room, -and handed me, on behalf of his mistress, a packet of -another shape than mine, on the envelope of which I -recognized the writing so greatly longed for. I opened -it in haste.... It was my letter itself, the seal unbroken, -merely folded in two. I suspect that her fear that I -might be less scrupulous than herself on the subject of -scandal had made her employ this devil’s ruse.</p> - -<p>You know me: I need be at no pains to depict to you -my fury. It was necessary, however, to regain one’s <i>sang-froid</i>, -and seek for fresh methods. This is the only one -that I found:</p> - -<p>They send from here every morning to fetch the letters -from the post, which is about three quarters of a league -away: they employ for this purpose a box with a lid almost -like an alms-box, of which the post-master has one key -and Madame de Rosemonde the other. Everyone puts -his letters in it during the day, when it seems good to -him: in the evening they are carried to the post, and in -the morning those which have arrived are sent for. All -the servants, strange or otherwise, perform this service. -It was not the turn of my servant; but he undertook -to go, under the pretext that he had business in that -direction.</p> - -<p>Meantime I wrote my letter. I disguised my handwriting -in the address, and I counterfeited with some skill upon -the envelope the stamp of Dijon. I chose this town, -because I found it merrier, since I was asking for the -same rights as the husband, to write also from the same place, -and also because my fair had spoken all day of the desire<span class="pagenum" id="Page_96">[96]</span> -she had to receive letters from Dijon. It seemed to me -only right to procure her this pleasure.</p> - -<p>These precautions once taken, it was easy enough to -add this letter to the others. I moreover succeeded by -this expedient in being a witness of the reception; for -the custom is to assemble for breakfast, and to wait for the -arrival of the letters before separating.</p> - -<p>Madame de Rosemonde opened the box. “From Dijon,” -she said, giving the letter to Madame de Tourvel.</p> - -<p>“It is not my husband’s writing,” she answered in a -troubled voice, hastily breaking the seal.</p> - -<p>The first glances instructed her; and her face underwent -such an alteration that Madame de Rosemonde perceived -it, and asked, “What is the matter with you?”</p> - -<p>I also drew near, saying, “Is this letter then so very -dreadful?”</p> - -<p>The shy <i>dévote</i> 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.</p> - -<p>“It contains,” she answered, “things which offend me, and -that I am astounded anyone has dared to write to me.”</p> - -<p>“Who has sent it?” interrupted Madame de Rosemonde.</p> - -<p>“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.”</p> - -<p>With that she tore up the audacious missive, put the -pieces into her pocket, rose, and left the room.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_97">[97]</span></p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>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 <i>au courant</i> 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!</p> - -<p class="right"> -At the Château de ..., 25th August, 17**. -</p> -<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> - -<div class="chapter"> -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_98">[98]</span></p> - -<h2 class="nobreak" id="LETTER_THE_THIRTY-FIFTH">LETTER THE THIRTY-FIFTH - -<br><small>THE VICOMTE DE VALMONT TO THE PRÉSIDENTE DE TOURVEL</small></h2> -</div> - -<p class="noin">I <span class="smcap">must</span> needs obey you, Madame; I must prove to you -that, in the midst of the faults which you are pleased to -ascribe to me, there is left me at least enough delicacy -not to permit myself a reproach, and enough courage to -impose on myself the most grievous sacrifices. You order -me to be silent and to forget! Well! I will force my -love to be silent; and I will forget, if that be possible, -the cruel manner in which you have met it. Doubtless -my desire to please you did not bear with it the right; -and more, I confess that the need I had of your indulgence -was not a title to obtain it: but you look upon -my love as an outrage; you forget that if it could be a -wrong, you would be at once its cause and its excuse.</p> - -<p>You forget also, that, accustomed to open my soul to -you, even when that confidence might hurt me, it was -impossible for me to conceal from you the sentiments by -which I was penetrated; and that which was the result -of my good faith you consider as the fruit of my audacity. -As a reward for the most tender, the most respectful, the -truest love, you cast me afar from you. You speak to -me, lastly, of your hatred.... What other than myself -would not complain at being so treated? I alone<span class="pagenum" id="Page_99">[99]</span> -submit; I support it all, and murmur not; you strike, and -I adore. The inconceivable power which you have over -me renders you absolute mistress of my feelings; and if -only my love resists you, if you cannot destroy that, it -is because it is your work and not my own.</p> - -<p>I do not ask for a love which I never flattered myself -I should receive. I do not even ask for that pity for -which the interest you had sometimes displayed in me -might have allowed me to hope. But, I admit, I think -I can count on your sense of justice.</p> - -<p>You inform me, Madame, that people have sought to -damage me in your opinion. If you had believed the -counsels of your friends, you would not even have let -me approach you: those are your expressions. Who then -are these officious friends? No doubt those people of -such severity, and of so rigid a virtue, consent to be -named; no doubt they would not cover themselves in an -obscurity which would confound them with vile calumniators; -and I shall not be left ignorant either of their -names or of their accusations. Reflect, Madame, that I -have the right to know both, since it is after them you -judge me. One does not condemn a culprit without -naming his accusers. I ask no other favour, and I promise -in advance to justify myself, and to force them to -retract.</p> - -<p>If I have, perhaps, too much despised the vain clamours -of a public of which I make so little case, it is not thus -with your esteem; and when I devote my life to meriting -that, I shall not let it be ravished from me with impunity. -It becomes all the more precious to me, in that I shall -owe to it doubtless that request which you fear to make -me, and which would give me, you say, <i>rights to your<span class="pagenum" id="Page_100">[100]</span> -gratitude</i>. Ah! far from exacting it, I shall believe myself -your debtor, if you procure me the occasion of being -agreeable to you. Begin then to do me greater justice -by not leaving me in ignorance of what you desire of me. -If I could guess it, I would spare you the trouble of -saying it. To the pleasure of seeing you, add the happiness -of serving you, and I will congratulate myself on -your indulgence. What then can prevent you? It is not, -I hope, the fear of a refusal: I feel that I could not -pardon you that. It is not only that I do not return -you your letter. More than you do I desire that it be -no longer necessary to me: but accustomed as I am to -believing in the gentleness of your soul, it is only in -that letter that I can find you such as you would appear. -When I frame the vow to render you less hard, I see -there that, rather than consent, you would place yourself -a hundred leagues away from me; when everything in -you augments and justifies my love, it is that still which -repeats to me that my love is an outrage to you; and -when, seeing you, that love seems to me the supreme -good, I needs must read you to feel that it is but a -fearful torture. You can imagine now that my greatest -happiness would be to be able to return you this fatal -letter: to ask me for it now would be to authorize me to -believe no longer what it contains; you do not doubt, I -hope, of my eagerness to return it to you.</p> - -<p class="right"> -At the Château de ..., 21st August, 17**. -</p> -<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> - -<div class="chapter"> -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_101">[101]</span></p> - -<h2 class="nobreak" id="LETTER_THE_THIRTY-SIXTH">LETTER THE THIRTY-SIXTH - -<br><small>THE VICOMTE DE VALMONT TO THE PRÉSIDENTE DE TOURVEL</small></h2> -</div> - -<p class="center">(Bearing the postmark of Dijon)</p> - -<p class="noin"><span class="smcap">Your</span> severity augments daily, Madame; and, if I dare -say it, you seem to be less afraid of being unjust than of -being indulgent. After having condemned me without a -hearing, you must have felt, in fact, that ’twere easier -for you not to read my arguments than to reply to them. -You refuse my letters obstinately; you send them back to -me with contempt. You force me, at last, to have -recourse to a ruse, at the very moment when my only -aim is to convince you of my good faith. The necessity -in which you have put me to defend myself will doubtless -suffice to excuse my means. Convinced, moreover, by -the sincerity of my sentiments that, to justify them in -your eyes, it is sufficient merely that you should know -them thoroughly, I thought that I might permit myself -this slight artifice. I dare believe also that you will -pardon me, and that you will be little surprised that love is -more ingenious in presenting itself than indifference in -repelling it.</p> - -<p>Allow then, Madame, my heart to be entirely revealed -to you. It belongs to you, and it is just that you -should know it.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_102">[102]</span></p> - -<p>I was very far from foreseeing, when I arrived at Madame -de Rosemonde’s, the fate which awaited me. I did not -know that you were there, and I will add, with the -sincerity which characterizes me, that, if I had known, my -sense of security would not have been troubled: not that -I did not render to your beauty the justice which one -could not refuse it; but, accustomed as I was to feel only -desires, and to yield myself only to those which were -encouraged by hope, I did not know the torments of love.</p> - -<p>You were a witness of the efforts which Madame de -Rosemonde made to keep me for some time. I had already -passed one day with you, and yet I yielded, or at -least believed that I yielded, only to the pleasure, so natural -and so legitimate, of showing respect to a worthy relative. -The kind of life which one led here doubtless differed -greatly from that to which I was accustomed; it cost me -nothing to conform to it; and, without seeking to penetrate -into the cause of the change which was operating within -me, I attributed it as yet solely to that easy-going character -of which I believe I have already spoken to you.</p> - -<p>Unfortunately (yet why need it be a misfortune?), coming -to know you better, I soon discovered that that bewitching -face, which alone had struck me, was but the least of your -attractions; your heavenly soul astonished and seduced my -own. I admired the beauty, I worshipped the virtue. -Without pretending to win you, I bestirred myself to deserve -you. In begging your indulgence for the past, I was ambitious -of your support for the future. I sought for it in your -utterance, I spied for it in your eyes, in that glance -whence came a poison all the more dangerous in that it -was distilled without design, and received without distrust.</p> - -<p>Then I knew love. But how far was I from complaining.<span class="pagenum" id="Page_103">[103]</span> -Determined to bury it in an eternal silence, I abandoned -myself without fear, as without reserve, to this delicious -sentiment. Each day augmented its sway. Soon the -pleasure of seeing you was changed to a need. Were -you absent for a moment? my heart was sore with sadness; -at the sound which announced your return, it palpitated -with joy. I only existed for you and through you. -Nevertheless, it is yourself whom I call to witness: in the -merriment of our heedless sports or in the interest of a -serious conversation, did ever one word escape me which -could betray the secret of my heart?</p> - -<p>At last a day arrived when my evil fortune was to -commence; by an inconceivable fatality, a good deed was -to be the signal for it. Yes, Madame, it was in the midst -of those unfortunates whom I had succoured that, abandoning -yourself to that precious sensibility which embellishes -even beauty and adds value to virtue, you completed -your work of destroying a heart which was already intoxicated -with excess of love. You will remember, perhaps, what a -moodiness came over me on our return! Alas! I was -seeking to fight against an affection which I felt was becoming -stronger than myself.</p> - -<p>It was after I had exhausted my strength in this unequal -contest, that an unforeseen hazard made me find myself -alone with you. There, I confess, I succumbed. My heart -was too full, and could withhold neither its utterance nor -its tears. But is this then a crime? and if it be one, is -it not amply punished by the dire torments to which I -am abandoned?</p> - -<p>Devoured by a love without hope, I implore your pity -and I meet only with your hate: with no other happiness -than that of seeing you, my eyes seek you in spite of<span class="pagenum" id="Page_104">[104]</span> -myself, and I tremble to meet your gaze. In the cruel -state to which you have reduced me, I pass my days in -dissimulating my grief and my nights in abandoning myself -to it; whilst you, peaceful and calm, know of these -torments only to cause them and to applaud yourself for -them. None the less, it is you who complain and I who -make excuse.</p> - -<p>That, however, Madame, is the faithful relation of what -you call my injuries, which it would, perhaps, be more -just to call my misfortunes. A pure and sincere love, a -respect which has never belied itself, a perfect submission; -such are the sentiments with which you have inspired me. -I would not fear to present my homage of them to the -Divinity Himself. O you, who are His fairest handiwork, -imitate Him in His indulgence! Think on my cruel pains; -think, above all, that, placed by you between despair and -supreme felicity, the first word which you shall utter will -for ever decide my lot.</p> - -<p class="right"> -At the Château de ..., 23rd August, 17**. -</p> -<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> - -<div class="chapter"> -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_105">[105]</span></p> - -<h2 class="nobreak" id="LETTER_THE_THIRTY-SEVENTH">LETTER THE THIRTY-SEVENTH - -<br><small>THE PRÉSIDENTE DE TOURVEL TO MADAME DE VOLANGES</small></h2> -</div> - -<p class="noin">I <span class="smcap">yield</span>, Madame, to the counsels which your friendship -gives me. Accustomed as I am to defer in all -things to your opinions, I am ready to believe that they -are always based on reason. I will even admit that M. -de Valmont must be, indeed, infinitely dangerous, if he -can, at the same time, feign to be what he appears here -and remain such a man as you paint him. However that -may be, since you request it, I will keep him away from -me; at least I will do my utmost: for often things which -ought to be at bottom the most simple become embarrassing -in practice.</p> - -<p>It still seems to me impracticable to make this request -to his aunt; it would be equally ungracious both to her -and to him. Neither would I adopt the course, without -the greatest repugnance, of going away myself: for apart -from the reasons I have already given you relative to M. -de Tourvel, if my departure were to annoy M. de Valmont, -as is possible, would it not be easy for him to follow me -to Paris? And his return, of which I should be—or at -least should appear—the motive, would it not seem more -strange than a meeting in the country, at the house of a -lady who is known to be his relation and my friend?</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_106">[106]</span></p> - -<p>There is left me then no other resource than to induce -himself to consent to going away. I know that this proposal -is difficult to make; however, as he seems to me to -have set his heart on proving to me that he has, effectually, -more honesty than is attributed to him, I do not -despair of success. I shall not be sorry even to attempt -it, and to have an occasion of judging whether, as he has -often said, truly virtuous women never have had, and never -will have, to complain of his behaviour. If he leaves, as -I desire, it will indeed be out of consideration for me; -for I cannot doubt but that he proposes to spend a -great part of the autumn here. If he refuses my request -and insists upon remaining, there will still be time for me -to leave myself, and that I promise you.</p> - -<p>That is, I believe, Madame, all that your friendship -demanded of me; I am eager to satisfy it, and to prove -to you that in spite of the <i>warmth</i> I may have used to -defend M. de Valmont, I am none the less disposed, not -only to heed, but also to follow, the counsels of my -friends.</p> - -<p>I have the honour to be, etc.</p> - -<p class="right"> -At the Château de ..., 25th August, 17**. -</p> -<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> - -<div class="chapter"> -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_107">[107]</span></p> - -<h2 class="nobreak" id="LETTER_THE_THIRTY-EIGHTH">LETTER THE THIRTY-EIGHTH - -<br><small>THE MARQUISE DE MERTEUIL TO THE VICOMTE DE VALMONT</small></h2> -</div> - -<p class="noin"><span class="smcap">Your</span> enormous budget, my dear Vicomte, has this moment -arrived. If the date on it is exact, I ought to have -received it twenty-four hours earlier; be that as it may, -if I were to take the time to read it, I should have none -left to reply to it. I prefer then simply to acknowledge -it now, and we will talk of something else. It is not that -I have anything to say to you on my own account; the -autumn leaves hardly a single man with a human face in -Paris, so that for the last month I have been perishing -with virtue; and anyone else than my Chevalier would -be fatigued with the proofs of my constancy. Being unable -to occupy myself, I distract myself with the little Volanges, -and it is of her that I wish to speak.</p> - -<p>Do you know that you have lost more than you believe, -in not undertaking this child? She is really delicious! -She has neither character nor principles; judge how sweet -and easy her society will be. I do not think she -will ever shine by sentiment; but everything announces in -her the liveliest sensations. Lacking wit and subtilty, she -has, however, if one may so speak, a certain natural falseness -which sometimes astonishes even me, and which -will be all the more successful, in that her face presents<span class="pagenum" id="Page_108">[108]</span> -the image of candour and ingenuousness. She is naturally -very caressing, and I sometimes amuse myself thereby: -her little head grows excited with incredible rapidity, and -she is then all the more delightful, because she knows -nothing, absolutely nothing, of all that she so greatly -desires to know. She is seized with quite droll fits of -impatience; she laughs, pouts, cries, and then begs me to -teach her with a truly seductive good faith. Really, I am -almost jealous of the man for whom that pleasure is -reserved.</p> - -<p>I do not know if I have told you that for the last -four or five days I have had the honour of being in her -confidence. You can very well guess that, at first, I -acted severity: but as soon as I perceived that she thought -she had convinced me with her bad reasons, I had the -air of taking them for good ones; and she is intimately -persuaded that she owes this success to her eloquence: -this precaution was necessary in order not to compromise -myself. I have permitted her to write, and to say <i>I love</i>; -and the same day, without her suspecting it, I contrived -for her a <i>tête-à-tête</i> with her Danceny. But imagine, he is -still such a fool that he did not even obtain a kiss. -The lad, however, writes mighty pretty verses! La, -how silly these witty folks are! This one is, to such a -degree that he embarrasses me; for, as for him, I cannot -well drive him!</p> - -<p>It is at this moment that you would be very useful to -me. You are sufficiently intimate with Danceny to obtain -his confidence, and, if he once gave it you, we should -advance at full speed. Make haste, then, with your -Présidente; for, indeed, I will not have Gercourt escape: -for the rest, I spoke of him yesterday to the little person,<span class="pagenum" id="Page_109">[109]</span> -and depicted him so well to her that, if she had been -his wife for ten years, she could not hate him more. I -preached much to her, however, upon the subject of -conjugal fidelity; nothing could equal my severity on this -point. By that, on the one side, I restore my reputation -for virtue with her, which too much condescension might -destroy; on the other, I augment in her that hatred with -which I wish to gratify her husband. And, finally, I hope -that, by making her believe that it is not permitted her -to give way to love, except during the short time that -she remains a girl, she will more quickly decide to lose -none of that time.</p> - -<p>Adieu, Vicomte; I am going to attend to my toilette, -what time I will read your volume.</p> - -<p class="right"> -Paris, 27th August, 17**. -</p> -<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> - -<div class="chapter"> -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_110">[110]</span></p> - -<h2 class="nobreak" id="LETTER_THE_THIRTY-NINTH">LETTER THE THIRTY-NINTH - -<br><small>CÉCILE VOLANGES TO SOPHIE CARNAY</small></h2> -</div> - -<p class="noin">I <span class="smcap">am</span> sad and anxious, my dear Sophie. I wept almost -all night. It is not that I am not, for the moment, very -happy, but I foresee that it will not last.</p> - -<p>I went yesterday to the Opera with Madame de Merteuil; -we spoke much of my marriage, and I have learned no -good of it. It is M. le Comte de Gercourt whom I am -to wed, and it is to be in the month of October. He is -rich, he is a man of quality, he is colonel of the Regiment -of ——. So far, all very well. But, to begin with, he is -old: imagine, he is at least thirty-six! and then, Madame -de Merteuil says he is gloomy and stern, and she fears -I shall not be happy with him. I could even see quite -well that she was sure of it, only that she would not say -so for fear of grieving me. She hardly talked to me of -anything the whole evening, except of the duties of wives -to their husbands: she admits that M. de Gercourt is -not at all lovable, and yet she says I must love him. -Did not she say also that, once married, I ought not to -love the Chevalier Danceny any longer? as though that -were possible! Oh, you can be very sure I shall love -him always! Do you know, I would prefer not to be -married. Let this M. de Gercourt look after himself,<span class="pagenum" id="Page_111">[111]</span> -I never went in search of him. He is in Corsica at -present, far away from here; I wish he would stay there -ten years. If I were not afraid of being sent back to -the convent, I would certainly tell Mamma that I don’t -want a husband like that; but that would be still worse. -I am very much embarrassed. I feel that I have never -loved M. Danceny so well as I do now; and when I think -that I have only a month more left me, to be as I am -now, the tears rush suddenly to my eyes; I have no -consolation except the friendship of Madame de Merteuil; -she has such a good heart! She shares in all my troubles -as much as I do myself; and then she is so amiable that, -when I am with her, I hardly think any more of them. -Besides, she is very useful to me, for the little that I -know she has taught me: and she is so good that I can -tell her all I think, without being in the least ashamed. -When she finds that it is not right, she scolds me sometimes; -but only quite gently, and then I embrace her with -all my heart, until she is no longer cross. Her, at any rate, -I can love as much as I like, without there being any -harm in it, and that pleases me very much. We have -agreed, however, that I am not to have the appearance -of being so fond of her before everybody, and especially -not before Mamma, so that she may have no suspicions -about the Chevalier Danceny. I assure you that, if I -could always live as I do now, I believe I should be very -happy. It’s only that horrid M. de Gercourt.... But I -will say no more about him, else I should get sad again. -Instead of that, I am going to write to the Chevalier -Danceny; I shall only speak to him of my love and not -of my troubles, for I do not want to distress him.</p> - -<p>Adieu, my dear friend. You can see now that you<span class="pagenum" id="Page_112">[112]</span> -would be wrong to complain, and that however <i>busy</i> I -have been, as you say, there is time left me, all the same, -to love you and to write to you.<a id="FNanchor_13" href="#Footnote_13" class="fnanchor">[13]</a></p> -<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> - -<div class="chapter"> -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_113">[113]</span></p> - -<h2 class="nobreak" id="LETTER_THE_FORTIETH">LETTER THE FORTIETH - -<br><small>THE VICOMTE DE VALMONT TO THE MARQUISE DE MERTEUIL</small></h2> -</div> - -<p class="noin"><span class="smcap">Not</span> content with leaving my letters without reply, with -refusing to receive them, my inhuman wretch wishes to -deprive me of the sight of her; she insists on my departure. -What will astonish you more is that I am submitting to -her severity. You will blame me. However, I thought I -ought not to lose the opportunity of obeying a command, -persuaded as I am, on the one side, that to command is to -commit one’s self; and on the other, that that illusive -authority which we have the appearance of allowing -women to seize is one of the snares which they find it -most difficult to elude. Nay, more, the skill which this -one has shown in avoiding a solitary encounter with me -placed me in a dangerous situation, from which I thought -I was bound to escape, whatever might be the cost: for, -being constantly with her, without being able to occupy -her with my love, there was reason to fear that she might -grow accustomed to seeing me without trouble, a disposition -from which you know how difficult it is to return.</p> - -<p>For the rest, you may guess that I did not submit -without conditions. I was even at the pains to impose -one which it was impossible to grant, as much for the -sake of remaining always free to keep my word or<span class="pagenum" id="Page_114">[114]</span> -break it, as to promote a discussion, either by word of -mouth or in writing, at a time when my beauty is more -contented with me, or has need that I should be so with -her: not to reckon that I should show a signal lack of -skill if I did not find a means to obtain some compensation -for my desisting from this pretension, untenable as -it may be.</p> - -<p>After having explained my motives in this long preamble, -I come to the history of the last two days. I enclose as -documentary evidence my beauty’s letter and my reply. -You will agree that few historians are as precise as I.</p> - -<p>You will remember the effect produced by my letter -from Dijon, on the morning of the day before yesterday; -the rest of the day was most stormy. The pretty prude -only appeared at dinner-time, and gave out that she had -a violent headache: a pretext with which she masked one -of the most furious fits of ill-humour that a woman could -have. It absolutely altered her face; the expression of -gentleness, which you know, was changed into a rebellious -air which gave it a fresh loveliness. I promise myself -to make use of this discovery, and to replace sometimes -the tender mistress with the sullen.</p> - -<p>I foresaw that the time after dinner would be dull; and, -to escape from ennui, I made a pretext of having letters -to write, and retired to my own rooms. I returned to -the salon about six o’clock; Madame de Rosemonde -suggested a drive, which was agreed to. But just as we -were getting into the carriage, the pretended invalid, with -infernal malice, alleged in her turn—perhaps to avenge -herself for my absence—an increase of the pain, and -compelled me pitilessly to support a <i>tête-à-tête</i> with my -old aunt. I know not whether the imprecations which<span class="pagenum" id="Page_115">[115]</span> -I called down on this feminine demon were heeded; but -we found her gone to bed on our return.</p> - -<p>On the following day, at breakfast, it was not the same -woman. Her natural sweetness had returned, and I had -reason to believe myself pardoned. Breakfast was hardly -over, when the sweet person rose with an indolent air, -and went into the park; as you may believe, I followed -her. “Whence can spring this desire for walking?” said -I, accosting her. “I wrote much, this morning,” she -answered, “and my head is a little tired.” “I am not -fortunate enough,” I went on, “to have to reproach myself -with this fatigue?” “Indeed, I have written to you,” she -answered again, “but I hesitate to give you my letter. It -contains a request, and you have not accustomed me to -hope for success.” “Ah! I swear, if it be possible—” -“Nothing could be easier,” she broke in; “and although -you ought, perhaps, to grant it out of justice, I consent -to obtain it as a grace.” As she said these words, she -handed me her letter; seizing it, I also seized her hand, -which she drew away, but without anger, and with more -embarrassment than vivacity. “The heat is even greater -than I thought,” she said, “I must go indoors.” And -she retraced her steps to the <i>château</i>. I made vain -efforts to persuade her to continue her walk, and I needed -to remind myself that we might be observed, in order to -employ no more than eloquence. She entered without a -word, and I saw plainly that this pretended walk had no -other object than to hand me my letter. She went up to -her own room as soon as we came in, and I withdrew to -mine, to read the epistle, which you will do well to read -also, as well as my reply, before proceeding further....</p> -<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> - -<div class="chapter"> -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_116">[116]</span></p> - -<h2 class="nobreak" id="LETTER_THE_FORTY-FIRST">LETTER THE FORTY-FIRST - -<br><small>THE PRÉSIDENTE DE TOURVEL TO THE VICOMTE DE VALMONT</small></h2> -</div> - -<p class="noin"><span class="smcap">It</span> seems to me, Monsieur, by your behaviour, as though -you did but seek to multiply daily the causes of complaint -which I have against you. Your obstinacy in wishing -unceasingly to approach me with a sentiment which I would -not and may not heed, the abuse which you have not -feared to take of my good faith, or of my timidity, in order -to put your letters into my hands; above all the method, -most indelicate I venture to call it, which you employed -to make the last reach me, without the slightest fear of -the effect of a surprise which might have compromised -me; all ought to give occasion on my part to reproaches -as keen as they are merited. However, instead of returning -to these grievances, I confine myself to putting a request -to you, as simple as it is just; and if I obtain it from you, -I consent that all shall be forgotten.</p> - -<p>You yourself, have said to me, Monsieur, that I need -not fear a refusal; and, although, by an inconsistency -which is peculiar to you, this very phrase was followed -by the only refusal which you could make me,<a id="FNanchor_14" href="#Footnote_14" class="fnanchor">[14]</a> I would -fain believe that you will none the less keep to-day that -word, given to me formally so few days ago.</p> - -<p>I desire you then to have the complaisance to go away<span class="pagenum" id="Page_117">[117]</span> -from me; to leave this <i>château</i>, where a further stay on -your part could not but expose me more to the judgment -of a public which is ever ready to think ill of others, and -which you have but too well accustomed to fix its gaze -upon the women who admit you to their society. Already -warned, long ago, of this danger by my friends, I neglected, -I even disputed their warning, so long as your behaviour -towards myself could make me believe that you would not -confound me with the host of women who all have had reason -to complain of you. To-day, when you treat me like them, -as I can no longer but know, I owe it to the public, to my -friends, to myself, to adopt this necessary course. I might -add here that you would gain nothing by denying my request, -as I am determined to leave myself, if you insist on remaining; -but I do not seek to diminish the obligation -which you will confer on me by this complaisance, and -I am quite willing that you should know that, by rendering -my departure hence necessary, you would upset my arrangements. -Prove to me then, Monsieur, that, as you have -so often told me, virtuous women shall never have cause -to complain of you; prove, at least, that, when you have -done them wrong, you know how to repair it. If I thought I -had need to justify my request to you, it would suffice to -say that you have spent your life in rendering it necessary; -and that, notwithstanding, it has not rested with me that I -should ever make it. But let us not recall events which I -would forget, and which would oblige me to judge you with -rigour at a moment when I offer you an opportunity of earning -all my gratitude. Adieu, Monsieur; your conduct will -teach me with what sentiments I must be, for life, your most -humble, etc.</p> - -<p class="right"> -At the Château de ..., 25th August, 17**. -</p> -<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> - -<div class="chapter"> -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_118">[118]</span></p> - -<h2 class="nobreak" id="LETTER_THE_FORTY-SECOND">LETTER THE FORTY-SECOND - -<br><small>THE VICOMTE DE VALMONT TO THE PRÉSIDENTE DE TOURVEL</small></h2> -</div> - -<p class="noin"><span class="smcap">However</span> hard, Madame, the conditions that you impose -on me, I do not refuse to fulfil them. I feel that it -would be impossible for me to thwart any of your desires. -Once agreed upon this point, I dare flatter myself -in my turn that you will permit me to make certain -requests to you, far easier to grant than your own, which, -however, I do not wish to obtain, save by my complete -submission to your will.</p> - -<p>The one, which I hope will be solicited by your sense -of justice, is to be so good as to name to me those who -have accused me to you; they have done me, it seems, -harm enough to give me the right of knowing them: the -other, which I expect from your indulgence, is kindly to -permit me to repeat to you sometimes the homage of a -love which will now, more than ever, deserve your pity.</p> - -<p>Reflect, Madame, that I am hastening to obey you, -even when I can but do it at the expense of my happiness; -I will say more, in spite of my conviction that you -only desire my absence in order to spare yourself the -spectacle, always painful, of the object of your injustice.</p> - -<p>Admit, Madame, you are less afraid of a public which -is too much used to respecting you to dare form a disrespectful<span class="pagenum" id="Page_119">[119]</span> -judgment upon you than you are annoyed by -the presence of a man whom you find it easier to punish -than to blame. You drive me away from you as one -turns away one’s eyes from some poor wretch whom one -does not wish to succour.</p> - -<p>But, whereas absence is about to redouble my torments, -to whom other than you can I address my complaints? -From whom else can I expect the consolations which are -about to become so necessary to me? Will you refuse me -them, when you alone cause my pains?</p> - -<p>Doubtless, you will not be astonished either that, before -I leave, I have it on my heart to justify to you the sentiments -which you have inspired in me; as also that I do -not find the courage to go away until I receive the order -from your mouth. This twofold reason compels me to -ask you for a moment’s interview. In vain would we seek -to supply the place of that by letters: one may write -volumes and explain poorly what a quarter of an hour’s -conversation were enough to leave amply understood. You -will easily find the time to accord it me; for, however -eager I may be to obey you, you know that Madame de -Rosemonde is aware of my intention to spend a part of the -autumn with her, and I must at least wait for a letter in -order to have the pretext of some business to call me away.</p> - -<p>Adieu, Madame; never has this word cost me so much -to write as at this moment, when it brings me back to the -idea of our separation. If you could imagine what it -makes me suffer, I dare believe you would have some -thanks for my docility. At least, receive with more -indulgence the assurance and the homage of the most -tender and the most respectful love.</p> - -<p class="right"> -At the Château de ..., 26th August, 17**. -</p> -<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> - -<div class="chapter"> -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_120">[120]</span></p> - -<h2 class="nobreak" id="CONTINUATION_OF_LETTER_THE_FORTIETH">CONTINUATION OF LETTER THE FORTIETH - -<br><small>THE VICOMTE DE VALMONT TO THE MARQUISE DE MERTEUIL</small></h2> -</div> - -<p class="noin"><span class="smcap">And</span> now let us sum up, my lovely friend. You can -feel, like myself, how the scrupulous, the virtuous Madame -de Tourvel cannot grant me the first of my requests, and -betray the confidence of her friends, by naming to me my -accusers; thus, by promising everything on this condition, -I pledge myself to nothing. But you will feel also that -the refusal which she will give me will become a title to -obtain everything else; and that then I gain, by going away, -the advantage of entering into a regular correspondence -with her, and by her consent: for I take small account of -the interview which I ask of her, and which has hardly any -other object than that of accustoming her beforehand not -to refuse me others when they become really needful.</p> - -<p>The only thing which remains for me to do before my -departure is to find out who are the people who busy -themselves with damaging me in her eyes. I presume it is -her pedant of a husband; I would fain have it so: apart -from the fact that a conjugal prohibition is a spur to desire, -I should feel sure that, from the moment my beauty has -consented to write to me, I should have nothing to fear -from her husband, since she would already be under the -necessity of deceiving him.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_121">[121]</span></p> - -<p>But if she has a friend intimate enough to possess her -confidence, and this friend be against me, it seems to me -necessary to embroil them, and I count on succeeding in -that: but before all I must be rightly informed.</p> - -<p>I quite thought that I was going to be yesterday; but -this woman does nothing like another. We were visiting -her at the moment when it was announced that dinner -was ready. Her toilette was only just completed; and -while I bestirred myself and made my apologies, I perceived -that she had left the key in her writing-desk; and I -knew her custom was not to remove that of her apartment. -I was thinking of this during dinner, when I heard her -waiting-maid come down: I seized my chance at once; -I pretended that my nose was bleeding, and left the room. -I flew to the desk; but I found all the drawers open -and not a sheet of writing. Yet one has no opportunity -of burning papers at this season. What does she do with -the letters she receives? And she receives them often. I -neglected nothing; everything was open, and I sought -everywhere; but I gained nothing except a conviction -that this precious store-house must be her pocket.</p> - -<p>How to obtain them? Ever since yesterday I have -been busying myself vainly in seeking for a means: -yet I cannot overcome the desire. I regret that I -have not the talents of a thief. Should these not, in -fact, enter into the education of a man who is mixed -up in intrigues? Would it not be agreeable to filch the -letter or the portrait of a rival, or to pick from the -pockets of a prude the wherewithal to unmask her? But -our parents have no thought for anything; and for me, -’tis all very well to think of everything, I do but perceive -that I am clumsy, without being able to remedy it.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_122">[122]</span></p> - -<p>However that may be, I returned to table much dissatisfied. -My beauty, however, soothed my ill-humour -somewhat, with the air of interest which my pretended -indisposition gave her; and I did not fail to assure her -that for some time past I had had violent agitations which -had disturbed my health. Convinced as she is that it -is she who causes them, ought she not, in all conscience, -to endeavour to assuage them? But <i>dévote</i> though she -be, she has small stock of charity; she refuses all amorous -alms, and such a refusal, to my view, justifies a theft. -But adieu; for all the time I talk to you, I am thinking of -those cursed letters.</p> - -<p class="right"> -At the Château de ..., 27th August, 17**. -</p> -<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> - -<div class="chapter"> -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_123">[123]</span></p> - -<h2 class="nobreak" id="LETTER_THE_FORTY-THIRD">LETTER THE FORTY-THIRD - -<br><small>THE PRÉSIDENTE DE TOURVEL TO THE VICOMTE DE VALMONT</small></h2> -</div> - -<p class="noin"><span class="smcap">Why</span> seek, Monsieur, to diminish my gratitude? Why be -willing to give me but a half-obedience, and make, as it -were, a bargain of an honourable action? Is it not sufficient -for you then that I feel the cost of it? You not -only ask much, but you ask things which are impossible. -If, in truth, my friends have spoken to me of you, they -have only done it in my interest: even if they have been -deceived, their intention was none the less good; and -you propose to me to reward this mark of attachment on -their part by delivering you their secret! I have already -done wrong in speaking to you of it, and you make -me very conscious of that at this moment. What would -have been no more than candour with another becomes -a blunder with you, and would lead me to an ignominy -did I yield to you. I appeal to yourself, to your honour; -did you think me capable of such a proceeding? Ought -you to have suggested it to me? No, without a doubt; -and I am sure that, on further reflexion, you will not -repeat this request.</p> - -<p>That which you make as to writing to me is scarcely -easier to grant; and, if you care to be just, it is not me -whom you will blame. I do not wish to offend you;<span class="pagenum" id="Page_124">[124]</span> -but, with the reputation which you have acquired, and -which, by your own confession, is at least in part deserved, -what woman could own to be in correspondence with -you? and what virtuous woman may determine to do something -which she feels she will be obliged to conceal?</p> - -<p>Again, if I were assured that your letters would be -of a kind of which I need never have to complain, so -that I could always justify myself in my own eyes for having -received them! Perhaps then the desire of proving to -you that it is reason and not hate which sways me would -induce me to waive those powerful considerations, and to -do much more than I ought, in allowing you sometimes -to write to me. If indeed you desire to do so as much -as you say, you will voluntarily submit to the one condition -which could make me consent; and if you have any -gratitude for what I am now doing for you, you will not -defer your departure.</p> - -<p>Permit me to remark to you on this subject that you -received a letter this morning, and that you have not -taken advantage of it to announce your going to Madame -de Rosemonde, as you had promised me. I hope that -at present nothing need prevent you keeping your word. -I count, above all, on your not waiting for the interview -which you ask of me, and to which I absolutely decline -to lend myself; and I hope that, instead of the order -which you pretend is necessary to you, you will content -yourself with the prayer which I renew to you. Adieu, -Monsieur.</p> - -<p class="right"> -At the Château de ..., 27th August, 17**. -</p> -<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> - -<div class="chapter"> -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_125">[125]</span></p> - -<h2 class="nobreak" id="LETTER_THE_FORTY-FOURTH">LETTER THE FORTY-FOURTH - -<br><small>THE VICOMTE DE VALMONT TO THE MARQUISE DE MERTEUIL</small></h2> -</div> - -<p class="noin"><span class="smcap">Join</span> in my joy, my lovely friend; I am beloved, I have -triumphed over that rebellious heart. ’Tis in vain that it -still dissimulates; my fortunate skill has surprised its -secret. Thanks to my energetic pains, I know all that -is of interest to me: since the night, the fortunate night -of yesterday, I am once more in my element; I have -resumed my existence; I have unveiled a double mystery -of love and iniquity: I will delight in the one, I will -avenge myself for the other; I will fly from pleasure to -pleasure. The mere idea that I form of it transports -me to such a degree that I have some difficulty in recalling -my prudence; and shall have some, perhaps, in putting -order into this narrative which I make for you. Let us -try, however.</p> - -<p>Yesterday, after I had written my letter to you, I -received one from the celestial <i>dévote</i>. I send it you; -you will see in it that she gives me, with as little -clumsiness as is possible, permission to write to her: but -she urges on my departure; and I quite felt that I could -not defer it too long without injuring myself.</p> - -<p>Tormented, however, by the desire to know who could -have written against me, I was still uncertain as to what<span class="pagenum" id="Page_126">[126]</span> -course I should take. I tried to win over the chamber-maid -and would fain persuade her to give up to me her -mistress’s pockets, which she could have easily laid hold -of in the evening, and which she could have replaced -in the morning, without exciting the least suspicion. I -offered ten louis for this slight service: but I only found -a baggage, scrupulous or afraid, whom neither my eloquence -nor my money could vanquish. I was still preaching to -her when the supper-bell rang. I was forced to leave her; -only too glad that she was willing to promise me secrecy, -on which you may judge I scarcely counted.</p> - -<p>I had never been in a worse humour. I felt myself -compromised, and I reproached myself all the evening for -my foolish attempt.</p> - -<p>When I had retired, not without anxiety, I sent for my -<i>chasseur</i>, who, in his quality of happy lover, ought to have -some credit. I wanted him either to persuade this girl -to do what I had asked of her, or at least to make sure -of her discretion; but he, who ordinarily is afraid of -nothing, seemed doubtful of the success of the negociation, -and made a reflexion on the subject the profundity of -which amazed me.</p> - -<p>“Monsieur surely knows better than I,” said he, “that -to lie with a girl is only to make her do what she likes -to do: from that to making her do what we like is -often a long way.”</p> - -<blockquote><p><i>Le bon sens du maraud quelquefois m’épouvante.</i><a id="FNanchor_15" href="#Footnote_15" class="fnanchor">[15]</a></p> -</blockquote> -<p>“I can the less answer for her,” he added, “because I -have reason to believe she has a lover, and that I only -owe her to the idleness of country life. So that, were it -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_127">[127]</span>not for my zeal in Monsieur’s service, I should not -have had her but once.” (He is a real treasure this fellow!) -“As for secrecy,” he went on, “what will be the -good of making her promise it, since she will run no risk -in deceiving us? To speak again to her about it would -only be to let her know that it was important, and thus -make her all the more eager to use it for making up to -her mistress.”</p> - -<div class="figcenter illowp45" id="154" style="max-width: 30.5625em;"> - <img class="w100" src="images/154.jpg" alt=""> -<div class="caption"><i>C. Monnet del.</i> <span class="captionr"><i>Godéfroy sculp.</i></span></div> -</div> -<div class="sync"> </div> -<p>The more just these reflexions seemed to me, the more -was my embarrassment heightened. Luckily the knave -was started off to gossip; and as I had need of him, I let -him run on. While he was relating to me his adventures -with this wench, I learned that, as the chamber which -she occupied was only separated from that of her mistress -by a bare partition, through which any suspicious noise -could be heard, it was in his own that they met every -night. At once, I formed my plan; I communicated it -to him and we carried it out with success.</p> - -<p>I waited until two o’clock in the morning; and then -betook myself, as we had agreed, to the scene of the -<i>rendez-vous</i>, carrying a light with me, and pretending that -I had rung several times to no purpose. My confidant, -who plays his parts to a marvel, went through a little -scene of surprise, despair, and excuses, which I terminated -by sending him to heat me some water, of which I feigned -to have a need; whilst the scrupulous chamber-maid was -all the more shamefaced, in that my rascal, wishing to -improve on my projects, had induced her to make a -toilette which the season suggested but did not excuse.</p> - -<p>As I felt that the more this wench was humiliated, the -more easily I should dispose of her, I allowed her to -change neither her position nor her costume; and after<span class="pagenum" id="Page_128">[128]</span> -ordering my valet to await me in my room, I sat down -beside her on the bed, which was in great disorder, -and commenced my conversation. I had need to maintain -the control which the situation gave me over her; thus I -preserved a coolness which would have done honour to -the continence of Scipio; and without taking the slightest -liberty with her—which, however, her freshness and the -opportunity seemed to give her the right to expect—I -spoke of business to her as calmly as I should have done -with a lawyer.</p> - -<p>My conditions were that I would faithfully keep her -secret, provided that, on the morrow, at about the same -hour, she would hand me the pockets of her mistress. -“Beside that,” I added, “I offered you ten louis yesterday; -I promise you them again to-day. I do not want to -take advantage of your situation.” Everything was -granted, as you may well believe; I then withdrew, -and allowed the happy couple to make up for lost -time.</p> - -<p>I spent mine in sleep; and, on my awakening, desiring -to have a pretext for not replying to my fair one’s letter -before I had investigated her papers, which I could not -do until the ensuing night, I resolved to go out shooting, -which I did for the greater part of the day.</p> - -<p>On my return, I was received coldly enough. I had -a mind to believe that we were a little offended at the -small zeal I had shown in not profiting by the time that -was left, especially after the much kinder letter which she -had written me. I judge so from the fact that Madame -de Rosemonde, having addressed me some reproaches for -this long absence, my beauty remarked with a tone of -acrimony, “Ah! do not let us reproach M. de Valmont<span class="pagenum" id="Page_129">[129]</span> -for giving himself up to the one pleasure which he can -find here.” I murmured at this injustice, and took advantage -of it to vow that I took so much pleasure in the ladies’ -society that I was sacrificing for them a most interesting -letter which I had to write. I added that, being unable -to sleep for some nights past, I had wished to try if fatigue -would restore it me; and my eyes were sufficiently explicit, -both as to the subject of my letter and the cause of my -insomnia. I was at the pains to wear all that evening a -manner of melancholy sweetness, which seemed to sit on -me well enough, and which masked the impatience I -was in to see the hour arrive which was to deliver me -the secret so obstinately withheld from me. At last we -separated, and, some time afterwards, the faithful chamber-maid -came to bring me the price agreed upon for my -discretion.</p> - -<p>Once master of this treasure, I proceeded to the inventory -with that prudence which you know I possess: -for it was important to put back everything in its place. -I fell at first upon two letters from the husband—an undigested -mixture of details of law-suits and effusions of -conjugal love, which I had the patience to read in their -entirety, and where I found no word that had any relation -to myself. I replaced them with temper: but this was -soothed when my hand lighted upon the pieces of my -famous Dijon letter, carefully put together. Luckily the -whim seized me to run through it. Judge of my joy when -I perceived very distinct traces of my adorable <i>dévote’s</i> tears. -I confess, I gave way to an impulse of youth, and kissed -this letter with a transport of which I had not believed -myself any longer capable. I continued my happy examination; -I found all my letters in sequence and order<span class="pagenum" id="Page_130">[130]</span> -of date; and what gave me a still more agreeable surprise -was to find the first of all, the one which I thought the -graceless creature had returned to me, faithfully copied by -her hand, and in an altered and tremulous hand, ample -witness to the soft perturbation of her heart during that -employment.</p> - -<p>Thus far I was entirely given over to love; soon it gave -place to fury. Who do you think it is, that wishes -to ruin me in the eyes of the woman whom I adore? -What Fury do you suppose is vile enough to plot such a -black scheme? You know her: it is your friend, your -kinswoman; it is Madame de Volanges. You cannot -imagine what a tissue of horrors this infernal Megæra has -written concerning me. It is she, she alone, who has -troubled the security of this angelic woman; it is through -her counsels, through her pernicious advice, that I see myself -forced to leave; it is she, in short, who has sacrificed me. Ah! -without a doubt her daughter must be seduced: but that -is not enough, she must be ruined; and, since this cursed -woman’s age puts her beyond the reach of my assaults, -she must be hit in the object of her affections.</p> - -<p>So she wishes me to come back to Paris! she forces -me to it! be it so, I will go back; but she shall bewail -my return. I am annoyed that Danceny is the hero of that -adventure; he possesses a fundamental honesty which will -embarrass us: however, he is in love, and I see him often; -perhaps one may make use of him. I am losing sight of -myself in my anger, and forgetting that I owe you an -account of what has passed to-day. To resume.</p> - -<p>This morning I saw my sensitive prude again. Never -had I found her so lovely. It must ever be so: a woman’s -loveliest moment, the only one when she can produce that<span class="pagenum" id="Page_131">[131]</span> -intoxication of the soul of which we speak so constantly -and which we so rarely meet, is that one when, assured -of her love, we are not yet of her favours; and that is -precisely the case in which I find myself now. Perhaps -too, the idea that I was going to be deprived of the -pleasure of seeing her served to beautify her. Finally, -with the arrival of the postman, I was handed your letter -of the 27th; and whilst I read it, I was still hesitating -as to whether I should keep my word: but I met my -beauty’s eyes, and it would have been impossible to me to -refuse her aught.</p> - -<p>I then announced my departure. A moment later, Madame -de Rosemonde left us alone: but I was still four -paces away from the coy creature when, rising with an -affrighted air: “Leave me, leave me, Monsieur,” she said; -“in God’s name, leave me.”</p> - -<p>This fervent prayer, which betrayed her emotion, could -not but animate me the more. I was already at her side, -and I held her hands which she had joined together with -a quite touching expression; I was beginning some tender -complaints, when some hostile demon brought back Madame -de Rosemonde. The timid <i>dévote</i>, who had, in -truth, some cause for fear, took advantage of this to -withdraw.</p> - -<p>I offered her my hand, however, which she accepted; -and auguring well from this mildness, which she had not -shown for a long time, I sought to press hers, whilst again -commencing my complaints. At first she would fain -withdraw it; but at my more lively insistence, she abandoned -it with a good grace, although without replying -either to the gesture or to my remarks. Arrived before -the door of her apartment, I wished to kiss this hand,<span class="pagenum" id="Page_132">[132]</span> -before I dropped it. The defence began by being hearty: -but a “remember that I am going away,” uttered most -tenderly, rendered it awkward and inefficient. Hardly -had the kiss been given, when the hand found strength -enough to escape, and the fair one entered her apartment, -where her chamber-maid was in attendance. Here finishes -my history.</p> - -<p>As I presume that to-morrow you will be at the Maréchale’s, -where I certainly shall not go to look for you; as I -think it very likely too that, at our first interview, we shall -have more than one affair to discuss, and notably that of the -little Volanges, whom I do not lose sight of, I have decided -to have myself preceded by this letter, and, long as it is, -I shall not close it, until the moment comes for sending -it to the post: for, at the point which I have reached, -everything may depend on an opportunity, and I leave -you now to see if there be one.</p> - -<p>P.S. <i>Eight o’clock in the evening.</i></p> - -<p>Nothing fresh; not the least little moment of liberty: -care taken even to avoid it. However, at least as much -sorrow shown as decency permits. Another incident which -cannot be without consequences is that I am charged by -Madame de Rosemonde with an invitation to Madame de -Volanges to come and spend some time with her in the -country.</p> - -<p>Adieu, my lovely friend; until to-morrow, or the day -after, at the latest</p> - -<p class="right"> -At the Château de ..., 28th August, 17**. -</p> -<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> - -<div class="chapter"> -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_133">[133]</span></p> - -<h2 class="nobreak" id="LETTER_THE_FORTY-FIFTH">LETTER THE FORTY-FIFTH - -<br><small>THE PRÉSIDENTE DE TOURVEL TO MADAME DE VOLANGES</small></h2> -</div> - -<p class="noin">M. <span class="smcap">de Valmont</span> left this morning, Madame; you seemed -to me so anxious for his departure, that I thought I ought -to inform you of it. Madame de Rosemonde much regrets -her nephew, whose society, one must admit, is agreeable: -she passed the whole morning in talking of him, with that -sensibility which you know her to possess; she did not -stint his praises. I thought it was incumbent on me to -listen to her without contradiction, more especially as I must -confess that on many points she was right. In addition, -I felt that I had to reproach myself with being the cause -of this separation, and I cannot hope to be able to compensate -her for the pleasure of which I have deprived -her. You know that I have by nature small store of -gaiety, and the kind of life we are going to lead here is -not formed to increase it.</p> - -<p>If I had not acted according to your advice, I should -fear that I had behaved somewhat lightly; for I was -really distressed at my venerable friend’s grief; she touched -me to such a degree that I could have willingly mingled -my tears with her own.</p> - -<p>We live at present in the hope that you will accept -the invitation which M. de Valmont is to bring you, on<span class="pagenum" id="Page_134">[134]</span> -the part of Madame de Rosemonde, to come and spend -some time with her. I hope that you have no doubt -of the pleasure it will give me to see you; and, in -truth, you owe us this recompense. I shall be most -delighted to have this opportunity of making an earlier -acquaintance with Mademoiselle de Volanges, and to have -the chance of convincing you more and more of the -respectful sentiments, etc.</p> - -<p class="right"> -At the Château de ..., 29th August, 17**. -</p> -<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> - -<div class="chapter"> -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_135">[135]</span></p> - -<h2 class="nobreak" id="LETTER_THE_FORTY-SIXTH">LETTER THE FORTY-SIXTH - -<br><small>THE CHEVALIER DANCENY TO CÉCILE VOLANGES</small></h2> -</div> - -<p class="noin"><span class="smcap">What</span> has happened to you then, my adored Cécile? -What can have caused in you so sudden and cruel an -alteration? What has become of your vows of never -changing? It was only yesterday that you repeated them -with so much pleasure! Who can have made you forget -them to-day? It is useless for me to examine myself; I -cannot find the cause of it in me; and it is terrible that -I should have to seek it in you. Ah! doubtless you are -neither light nor deceitful; and even in this moment of -despair, no insulting suspicion shall defile my soul. Yet, -by what fatality comes it that you are no longer the same? -No, cruel one, you are no longer the same! The tender -Cécile, the Cécile whom I adore, and whose vows I -have received, would not have avoided my gaze, would -not have resisted the happy chance which placed me -beside her; or, if any reason which I cannot understand -had forced her to treat me with such severity, she would, -at least, have condescended to inform me of it.</p> - -<p>Ah, you do not know, you will never know, my Cécile, -all that you have made me suffer to-day, all that I -suffer still at this moment. Do you suppose then that I -can live, if I am no longer loved by you? None the<span class="pagenum" id="Page_136">[136]</span> -less, when I asked you for a word, one single word to -dispel my fears, instead of answering me you pretended -to be afraid of being overheard; and that difficulty which -did not then exist, you immediately brought about yourself -by the place which you chose in the circle. When, -compelled to leave you, I asked you at what hour -I could see you again to-morrow, you pretended that -you could not say, and Madame de Volanges had to be -my informant. Thus the moment, ever desired so fondly, -which is to bring me into your presence, to-morrow, will -only excite in me anxiety; and the pleasure of seeing you, -hitherto so dear to my heart, will give place to the fear -of being intrusive.</p> - -<p>I feel it already, this dread irks me, and I dare not -speak to you of my love. That <i>I love you</i>, which I loved -so well to repeat when I could hear it in my turn; -that soft phrase which sufficed for my felicity, offers me, -if you are changed, no more than the image of an eternal -despair. I cannot believe, however, that that -talisman of love has lost all its power, and I am fain to -employ it once more.<a id="FNanchor_16" href="#Footnote_16" class="fnanchor">[16]</a> Yes, my Cécile, <i>I love you</i>. -Repeat after me then this expression of my happiness. -Remember that you have accustomed me to the hearing -of it, and that to deprive me of it is to condemn me to -a torture which, like my love, can only end with my life.</p> - -<p class="right"> -Paris, 29th August, 17**. -</p> -<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> - -<div class="chapter"> -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_137">[137]</span></p> - -<h2 class="nobreak" id="LETTER_THE_FORTY-SEVENTH">LETTER THE FORTY-SEVENTH -<br><small>THE VICOMTE DE VALMONT TO THE MARQUISE DE MERTEUIL</small></h2> -</div> - -<p class="noin"><span class="smcap">To-day</span> again I shall not see you, my lovely friend, and -here are my reasons, which I beg you to meet with -indulgence.</p> - -<p>Instead of returning here directly, I stopped with the -Comtesse de ***, whose <i>château</i> lay almost upon my road, -and of whom I asked a dinner. I did not reach Paris -until about seven o’clock, and I alighted at the Opera, -where I hoped to find you.</p> - -<p>The Opera over, I went to see my fair friends of the -green-room; I found there my whilom Émilie, surrounded by -a numerous court, women as well as men, to whom she -was offering a supper that very evening at P——. I had -no sooner entered this assemblage than I was invited to -the supper by acclamation. I also received one from a -little fat and stumpy person, who stammered his invitation -to me in the French of Holland, and whom I recognized -as the true hero of the <i>fête</i>. I accepted.</p> - -<p>I learned upon my way that the house whither we -were going was the price agreed upon for Émilie’s favours -towards this grotesque figure, and that this supper was a -veritable wedding-breakfast. The little man could not -contain himself for joy, in expectation of the pleasure which<span class="pagenum" id="Page_138">[138]</span> -awaited him; he seemed to me so satisfied with the -prospect that he gave me a longing to disturb it; which -was, effectually, what I did.</p> - -<p>The only difficulty I found was that of persuading -Émilie, who was rendered somewhat scrupulous by the -burgomaster’s wealth. She agreed, however, after raising -some objections, to the plan which I suggested of filling -this little beer-barrel with wine, and so putting him <i>hors -de combat</i> for the rest of the night.</p> - -<p>The sublime idea which we had formed of a Dutch -toper caused us to employ all available means. We -succeeded so well that, at dessert, he was already without -the strength to lift his glass: but the helpful Émilie and -myself vied with one another in filling him up. Finally, -he fell beneath the table, in so drunken a state, that it -ought to last for at least a week. We then decided -to send him back to Paris; and, as he had not kept his -carriage, I had him carried into mine, and remained in -his stead. I thereupon received the congratulations of the -company, which soon afterwards retired, and left me in -possession of the field. This gaiety, and perhaps my long -rustication, made Émilie seem so desirable to me that I -promised to stay with her until the Dutchman’s resurrection.</p> - -<p>This complaisance on my part is the price of that -which she has just shown me, that of serving me for a -desk upon which to write to my fair puritan, to whom I -found it amusing to send a letter written in the bed, and -almost in the arms, of a wench, a letter interrupted even -to complete an infidelity, in which I send her an exact -account of my position and my conduct. Émilie, who has -read the epistle, laughed like a mad girl over it, and I -hope that you will laugh as well.</p> - -<div class="figcenter illowp45" id="167-gray" style="max-width: 30.625em;"> - <img class="w100" src="images/167-gray.jpg" alt=""> -<div class="caption"><i>C. Monnet del.</i> <span class="captionr"><i>Lingée sculp.</i></span></div> -</div> -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_139">[139]</span></p> - -<p>As my letter must needs bear the Paris post-mark, I -send it to you; I leave it open. Will you please read it, -seal it up, and commit it to the post. Above all, be -careful not to employ your own seal, nor even any -amorous device; a simple head. Adieu, my lovely friend.</p> - -<p>P.S. I open my letter; I have persuaded Émilie to go -to the <i>Italiens</i>.... I shall take advantage of that moment -to come and see you. I shall be with you by six o’clock -at the latest; and if it be agreeable to you, we will go -together, about seven o’clock, to Madame de Volanges. -Propriety commands that I do not postpone the invitation -with which I am charged for her from Madame de -Rosemonde; moreover, I shall be delighted to see the -little Volanges.</p> - -<p>Adieu, most fair lady. I shall be as pleased to embrace -you, as the Chevalier will be jealous.</p> - -<p class="right"> -At P..., 30th August, 17**. -</p> -<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> - -<div class="chapter"> -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_140">[140]</span></p> - -<h2 class="nobreak" id="LETTER_THE_FORTY-EIGHTH">LETTER THE FORTY-EIGHTH - -<br><small>THE VICOMTE DE VALMONT TO THE PRÉSIDENTE DE TOURVEL</small></h2> -</div> - -<p class="center">(Bearing the postmark of Paris)</p> - -<p class="noin"><span class="smcap">It</span> is after a stormy night, during which I have not closed -my eyes; it is after having been ceaselessly either in the -agitation of a devouring ardour, or in an utter annihilation -of all the faculties of my soul, that I come to seek with -you, Madame, the calm of which I have need, and -which, however, I have as yet no hope to enjoy. In -truth, the situation in which I am, whilst writing to you, -makes me realize more than ever the irresistible power of -love; I can hardly preserve sufficient control over myself -to put some order into my ideas; and I foresee already -that I shall not finish this letter without being forced to -interrupt it. What! Am I never to hope then that you -will some day share with me the trouble which overcomes -me at this moment? I dare believe, notwithstanding, that -if you were well acquainted with it, you would not be -entirely insensible. Believe me, Madame, a cold tranquillity, -the soul’s slumber, the imitation of death do not -conduce to happiness; the active passions alone can lead -us thither; and, in spite of the torments which you make me -suffer, I think I can assure you without risk that at this<span class="pagenum" id="Page_141">[141]</span> -moment I am happier than you. In vain do you overwhelm -me with your terrible severities; they do not -prevent me from abandoning myself utterly to love, and -forgetting, in the delirium which it causes me, the despair -into which you cast me. It is so that I would avenge -myself for the exile to which you condemn me. Never -had I so much pleasure in writing to you; never have I -experienced, during such an occupation, an emotion so -sweet and, at the same time, so lively. Everything seems -to enhance my transports; the air I breathe is laden -with pleasure; the very table upon which I write to you, -consecrated for the first time to this office, becomes love’s -sacred altar to me; how much it will be beautified in -my eyes! I shall have traced upon it the vow to love -you for ever! Pardon, I beseech you, the disorder of my -senses. Perhaps, I ought to abandon myself less to transports -which you do not share: I must leave you for a -moment to dispel an intoxication which increases each -moment, and which becomes stronger than myself.</p> - -<p>I return to you, Madame, and doubtless, I return always -with the same eagerness. However, the sentiment of -happiness has fled far away from me; it has given place -to that of cruel privation. What does it avail me to speak -of my sentiments, if I seek in vain the means to convince -you of them? After so many efforts, I am equally bereft -of strength and confidence. If I still tell over to myself -the pleasures of love, it is only to feel more keenly my -sorrow at being deprived of them. I see no other resource, -save in your indulgence; and I am too sensible at this -moment of how greatly I need it, to hope to obtain it. -Never, however, has my love been more respectful, never -could it be less likely to offend you; it is of such a kind,<span class="pagenum" id="Page_142">[142]</span> -I dare say, as the most severe virtue need not fear: but -I am myself afraid of describing to you, at greater length, -the sorrow which I experience. Assured as I am that the -object which causes it does not participate in it, I must -at any rate not abuse your kindness; and it would be to -do that, were I to spend more time in retracing for you -that dolorous picture. I take only enough to beg you to -reply to me, and never to doubt of the sincerity of my -sentiments.</p> - -<p> -Written at P...; dated from Paris, 30th August, 17**. -</p> -<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> - -<div class="chapter"> -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_143">[143]</span></p> - -<h2 class="nobreak" id="LETTER_THE_FORTY-NINTH">LETTER THE FORTY-NINTH - -<br><small>CÉCILE VOLANGES TO THE CHEVALIER DANCENY</small></h2> -</div> - -<p class="noin"><span class="smcap">Without</span> being either false or frivolous, Monsieur, it is -enough for me to be enlightened as to my conduct, to -feel the necessity of altering it; I have promised this -sacrifice to God, until such a time when I can offer Him -also that of my sentiments towards you, which are rendered -even more criminal by the religious character of your estate. -I feel certain that it will only bring me sorrow, and I will -not even hide from you that, since the day before yesterday, -I have wept every time I have thought of you. But -I hope that God will do me the grace of giving me the -needful strength to forget you, as I ask of Him morning -and evening. I expect also of your friendship and of your -honour that you will not seek to shake me in the good -resolution which has been inspired in me, and in which -I strive to maintain myself. In consequence, I beg you -to have the kindness to write no more to me, the more -so as I warn you that I should no longer reply to you, -and that you would compel me to acquaint Mamma with -all that has passed; and that would deprive me entirely -of the pleasure of seeing you.</p> - -<p>I shall, none the less, retain for you all the attachment -which one may have without there being harm in it; and<span class="pagenum" id="Page_144">[144]</span> -it is indeed with all my soul that I wish you every kind -of happiness. I quite feel that you will no longer love -me as much as you did, and that, perhaps, you will soon -love another better than me. But that will be one -penance the more for the fault which I have committed -in giving you my heart, which I ought to give only to -God and my husband when I have one. I hope that -the Divine mercy will take pity on my weakness, and that -it will give me no more sorrow than I am able to support.</p> - -<p>Adieu, Monsieur; I can truly assure you that, if I were -permitted to love anybody, I should never love anybody -but you. But that is all I may say to you; and perhaps -even that is more than I ought to say.</p> - -<p class="right"> -Paris, 31st August, 17**. -</p> -<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> - -<div class="chapter"> -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_145">[145]</span></p> - -<h2 class="nobreak" id="LETTER_THE_FIFTIETH">LETTER THE FIFTIETH<br> -<small> -THE PRÉSIDENTE DE TOURVEL TO THE VICOMTE DE VALMONT</small></h2> -</div> - -<p class="noin"><span class="smcap">Is</span> it thus then, Monsieur, that you carry out the conditions -upon which I consented sometimes to receive your -letters? And have I <i>no reason for complaint</i> when you -speak to me of a sentiment to which I should still fear -to abandon myself, even if I could do so without violating -all my duties? For the rest, if I had need of fresh -reasons to preserve this salutary dread, it seems to me -that I could find them in your last letter. In effect, at -the very moment when you think to make an apology -for love, what else are you doing but revealing to me -its redoubtable storms? Who can wish for happiness -bought at the expense of reason, whose short-lived -pleasures are followed at any rate by regret, if not by -remorse?</p> - -<p>You yourself, in whom the habit of this dangerous -delirium ought to diminish its effect, are you not, however, -compelled to confess that it often becomes stronger -than yourself; and are you not the first to lament the -involuntary trouble which it causes you? What fearful -ravages then would it not effect on a fresh and sensitive -heart, which would still augment its empire, by the -sacrifices it would be forced to make to it?</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_146">[146]</span></p> - -<p>You believe, Monsieur, or you feign to believe that -love leads to happiness; and I—I am so convinced that -it would render me unhappy that I would not even hear -its name pronounced. It seems to me that only to speak -of it destroys tranquillity; and it is as much from inclination -as from duty that I beg you to be good enough -to keep silence on this subject.</p> - -<p>After all, this request should be very easy for you to -grant me at present. Returned to Paris, you will find -there occasions enough to forget a sentiment which, perhaps, -only owed its birth to the habit you are in of -occupying yourself with such subjects, and its strength -to the idleness of country life. Are you not then in -that town where you had seen me with so much -indifference? Can you take a step there without -encountering an example of your readiness to change? -And are you not surrounded there by women who, -all more amiable than myself, have better right to your -homage?</p> - -<p>I am without the vanity with which my sex is reproached; -I have still less of that false modesty which is nothing -but a refinement of pride; and it is with the utmost -good faith that I tell you here, I know how few pleasing -qualities I possess: had I all there were, I should not -believe them sufficient to retain you. To ask you then -to occupy yourself no longer with me is only to beg -you to do to-day what you had already done before, -and what you would most assuredly do again in a short -time, even if I were to ask the contrary.</p> - -<p>This truth, which I do not lose sight of, would be, -itself, a reason strong enough to disincline me to listen to -you. I have still a thousand others, but without entering<span class="pagenum" id="Page_147">[147]</span> -upon a long discussion, I confine myself to begging you, -as I have done before, to correspond with me no further -upon a sentiment to which I must not listen, and to -which I ought even less to reply.</p> - -<p class="right"> -At the Château de ..., 1st September, 17**. -</p> -<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> - -<div class="chapter"> -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_148">[148]</span></p> - -<h2 class="nobreak" id="LETTER_THE_FIFTY-FIRST">LETTER THE FIFTY-FIRST - -<br><small>THE MARQUISE DE MERTEUIL TO THE VICOMTE DE VALMONT</small></h2> -</div> - -<p class="noin"><span class="smcap">Really</span>, Vicomte, you are insupportable. You treat me -as lightly as though I were your mistress. Do you know -that I shall get angry, and that at the present moment I -am in a fearful temper? Why! you have to see Danceny -to-morrow morning; you know how important it is that I -should speak to you before that interview; and without -troubling yourself any more about it, you keep me waiting -all day to run off I know not where. You are the -cause of my arriving at Madame de Volanges’ <i>indecently</i> -late, and of my being found <i>surprising</i> by all the old -women. I was obliged to flatter them during the whole of -the evening in order to appease them: for one must never -annoy the old women; it is they who make the young -one’s reputations.</p> - -<p>It is now one o’clock in the morning; and instead of -going to bed, which I am dying to do, I must needs -write you a long letter, which will make me twice as -sleepy from the <i>ennui</i> it causes me. You are most -fortunate that I have not time to scold you further. Do -not believe for that reason that I forgive you: it is only -that I am pressed for time. Listen to me then, I hasten -to come to the point.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_149">[149]</span></p> - -<p>However little skill you may exert, you are bound -to-morrow to have Danceny’s confidence. The moment -is favourable for confidence: it is the moment of unhappiness. -The little girl has been to confession: like a child, she has -told everything; and ever since she has been tormented -to such a degree by the fear of the devil that she insists -on breaking it off. She related to me all her little scruples -with a vivacity which told me how excited she was. She -showed me her letter announcing the rupture, which was -a real sermon. She babbled for an hour to me, without -uttering one word of common sense. But she embarrassed -me none the less; for you can imagine that I could not -risk opening my mind to such a wrong-headed creature.</p> - -<p>I saw, however, through all this verbiage, that she is -as fond of her Danceny as ever; I even remarked one of -those resources which love never fails to find, and of -which the little girl is an amusing dupe. Tormented by -her desire to occupy herself with her lover, and by the -fear of being damned if she does so, she has invented -the plan of praying God that she may be able to forget -him; and as she repeats this prayer at every moment of -the day, she finds a means thereby of thinking of him -unceasingly.</p> - -<p>With any more <i>experienced</i> than Danceny, this little -incident would perhaps be more favourable than the reverse; -but the young man is so much of a Céladon that, if we -do not help him, he will require so much time to overcome -the slightest obstacles that there will be none left -for us to carry out our project.</p> - -<p>You are quite right; it is a pity, and I am as vexed as -you, that he should be the hero of this adventure: but -what would you have? What is done is done; and it is<span class="pagenum" id="Page_150">[150]</span> -your fault. I asked to see his reply;<a id="FNanchor_17" href="#Footnote_17" class="fnanchor">[17]</a> it was really pitiful. -He produces arguments till he is out of breath, to prove -to her that an involuntary sentiment cannot be a crime: -as if it did not cease to be involuntary once one ceases -to fight against it! That idea is so simple that it even -suggested itself to the little girl. He complains of his -unhappiness in a manner that is touching enough: but -his grief is so gentle, and seems so strong and so sincere, -that it seems to me impossible that a woman who finds -occasion to reduce a man to such a degree of despair, -and with so little danger, is not tempted to get rid of -her fancy. Finally he explains that he is not a monk, as -the little one believed; and that is, without contradiction, -the best thing he has done: for, if it is a question of going -so far as to abandon yourself to monastic loves, it is -assuredly not the Knights of Malta who would deserve -the preference.</p> - -<p>Be that as it may, instead of wasting time in arguments -which would have compromised me, perhaps without convincing, -I approved her project of rupture: but I said that -it was nicer, in such a case, to tell your reasons rather -than to write them; that it was customary also to return -letters and any other trifles one might have received; and -appearing thus to enter into the views of the little person, -I persuaded her to grant an interview to Danceny. We -formed our plans on the spot, and I charged myself with -the task of persuading the mother to go abroad without -her daughter; it is to-morrow afternoon that this decisive -moment will take place. Danceny is already informed of -it; but for God’s sake, if you get an opportunity, please<span class="pagenum" id="Page_151">[151]</span> -persuade this pretty swain to be less languorous, and teach -him—since he must be told everything—that the true -fashion to overcome scruples is to leave nothing to be -lost by those who possess them.</p> - -<p>For the rest, in order to save a repetition of this ridiculous -scene, I did not fail to excite certain doubts in the -little girl’s mind, as to the discretion of confessors; and I -assure you, she is paying now for the fright which she -gave me, by her terror lest hers should go and tell everything -to her mother. I hope that, after I have talked -once or twice more with her, she will give up going thus -to tell her follies to the first comer.<a id="FNanchor_18" href="#Footnote_18" class="fnanchor">[18]</a></p> - -<p>Adieu, Vicomte; take charge of Danceny and guide his -way. It would be shameful if we could not do what we -will with two children. If we find it more difficult than -we had thought at first, let us reflect, to animate our -zeal—you, that it is the daughter of Madame de Volanges -who is in question, I, that she is destined to become the -wife of Gercourt. Adieu.</p> - -<p class="right"> -Paris, 15th September, 17**. -</p> -<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> - -<div class="chapter"> -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_152">[152]</span></p> - -<h2 class="nobreak" id="LETTER_THE_FIFTY-SECOND">LETTER THE FIFTY-SECOND - -<br><small>THE VICOMTE DE VALMONT TO THE PRÉSIDENTE DE TOURVEL</small></h2> -</div> - -<p class="noin"><span class="smcap">You</span> forbid me, Madame, to speak to you of my love; -but where am I to find the necessary courage to obey -you? Solely occupied by a sentiment which should be -so sweet, and which you render so cruel; languishing in -the exile to which you have condemned me; living only -on privations and regrets; in prey to torments all the more -dolorous in that they remind me unceasingly of your -indifference; must I lose the only consolation which remains -to me? And can I have any other, save that of -sometimes laying bare to you a soul which you fill with -trouble and bitterness? Will you avert your gaze, that -you may not see the tears you cause to flow? Will you -refuse even the homage of the sacrifices you demand? -Would it not be worthier of you, of your good and gentle -soul, to pity an unhappy one who is only rendered so by -you, rather than to seek to aggravate his pain by a refusal -which is at once unjust and rigorous?</p> - -<p>You pretend to be afraid of love, and you will not see -that you alone are the cause of the evils with which you -reproach it. Ah, no doubt, the sentiment is painful, when -the object which inspires it does not reciprocate; but where -is happiness to be found, if mutual love does not procure<span class="pagenum" id="Page_153">[153]</span> -it? Tender friendship, sweet confidence—the only one -which is without reserve—sorrow’s alleviation, pleasure’s -augmentation, hope’s enchantment, the delights of remembrance: -where find them else than in love? You -calumniate it, you who, in order to enjoy all the good -which it offers you, have but to give up resisting it; and -I—I forget the pain which I experience in undertaking -its defence.</p> - -<p>You force me also to defend myself; for, whereas I -consecrate my life to your adoration, you pass yours in -seeking reason to blame me: already you have assumed -that I am frivolous and a deceiver; and, taking advantage -of certain errors which I myself have confessed to you, you -are pleased to confound the man I was then with what I am -at present. Not content with abandoning me to the torment -of living away from you, you add to that a cruel banter as -to pleasures to which you know how you have rendered -me insensible. You do not believe either in my promises -or my oaths: well! there remains one guarantee for me -to offer you, which you will not suspect. It is yourself. -I only ask you to question yourself in all good faith: if you -do not believe in my love, if you doubt for a moment -that you reign supreme in my heart, if you are not sure -that you have fixed this heart, which, indeed, has thus -far been too fickle, I consent to bear the penalty of this -error; I shall suffer, but I will not appeal: but if, on the -contrary, doing justice to us both, you are forced to admit -to yourself that you have not, will never have a rival, ask -me no more, I beg you, to fight with chimeras, and leave -me at least the consolation of seeing you no longer in -doubt as to a sentiment which <i>indeed</i>, will not finish, -cannot finish, but with my life. Permit me, Madame,<span class="pagenum" id="Page_154">[154]</span> -to beg you to reply positively to this part of my letter.</p> - -<p>If, however, I give up that period of my life which -seems to damage me so severely in your eyes, it is not -because, in case of need, reasons had failed me to defend -it.</p> - -<p>What have I done, after all, but fail to resist the vortex -into which I was thrown? Entering the world, young and -without experience; passed, so to speak, from hand to -hand by a crowd of women, who all hasten to forestall, -by their good-nature, a reflexion which they feel cannot -but be unfavourable to them; was it my part then to set -the example of a resistance which was never opposed to -me? Or was I to punish myself for a moment of error, -which was often provoked, by a constancy undoubtedly -useless, and which would only have excited ridicule? Nay, -what other cause, save a speedy rupture, can justify a -shameful choice?</p> - -<p>But, I can say it, this intoxication of the senses, perhaps -even this delirium of vanity, did not attain to my heart. -Born for love, intrigue might distract it, but did not suffice -to occupy it; surrounded by seducing but despicable objects, -none of them reached as far as my soul: I was offered -pleasures, I sought for virtues; and in short, I even -thought myself inconstant because I was delicate and -sensitive.</p> - -<p>It was when I saw you that I saw light: soon I understood -that the charm of love sprang from the qualities of -the soul; that they alone could cause its excess, and justify -it. I felt, in short, that it was equally impossible for me -not to love you, or to love any other than you.</p> - -<p>There, Madame, is the heart to which you fear to trust -yourself, and on whose fate you have to pronounce: but<span class="pagenum" id="Page_155">[155]</span> -whatever may be the destiny you reserve for it, you will -change nothing of the sentiments which attach it to you; -they are as inalterable as the virtues which have given -them birth.</p> - -<p class="right"> -Paris, 3rd September, 17**. -</p> -<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> - -<div class="chapter"> -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_156">[156]</span></p> - -<h2 class="nobreak" id="LETTER_THE_FIFTY-THIRD">LETTER THE FIFTY-THIRD - -<br><small>THE VICOMTE DE VALMONT TO THE MARQUISE DE MERTEUIL</small></h2> -</div> - -<p class="noin">I <span class="smcap">have</span> seen Danceny, but only obtained his half-confidence; -he insists especially on suppressing the name of -the little Volanges, of whom he only spoke to me as a -woman of great virtue, even somewhat a <i>dévote</i>: apart from -that, he gave me a fairly veracious account of his adventure, -particularly the last incident. I excited him as best I could, -I bantered him greatly upon his delicacy and scruples; but -it seems that he clings to them, and I cannot answer for -him: for the rest, I shall be able to tell you more after -to-morrow. I am taking him to-morrow to Versailles, and -I will occupy myself by studying him on the road. The -interview which is to take place to-day also gives me some -hope: everything may have happened to our satisfaction; -and perhaps there is nothing left for us at present but to -obtain a confession and collect the proofs. This task will be -easier for you than for me: for the little person is more confiding -or, what comes to the same thing, more talkative -than her discreet lover. However, I will do my utmost.</p> - -<p>Adieu, my lovely friend; I am in a mighty hurry; I -shall not see you this evening, nor to-morrow: if you, on -your side, know anything, write me a word on my return. -I shall certainly come back to sleep in Paris.</p> - -<p class="right"> -At ..., 3rd September, in the evening. -</p> -<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> - -<div class="chapter"> -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_157">[157]</span></p> - -<h2 class="nobreak" id="LETTER_THE_FIFTY-FOURTH">LETTER THE FIFTY-FOURTH - -<br><small>THE MARQUISE DE MERTEUIL TO THE VICOMTE DE VALMONT</small></h2> -</div> - -<p class="noin"><span class="smcap">Oh</span> yes, it is certainly with Danceny that there is something -to discover! If he told you so, he was boasting. -I know nobody so stupid in an affair of love, and I -reproach myself more and more with the kindness we -have shown him. Do you know that yesterday I -thought I was compromised through him. And it would -have been a pure loss! Oh, I will have my revenge, I -promise you.</p> - -<p>When I arrived yesterday to fetch Madame de Volanges, -she no longer wanted to go out; she felt indisposed; I -had need of all my eloquence to persuade her, and I -foresaw that Danceny might arrive before our departure, -which would have been all the more awkward, as Madame -de Volanges had told him the day before that she would -not be at home. Her daughter and I were on thorns. -At last we went out; and the little one pressed my hand -so affectionately as she bid me adieu that, in spite of her -intended rupture, with which she believed herself, in all -good faith, still to be occupied, I prophesied wonders in -the course of the evening.</p> - -<p>I was not at the end of my anxieties. We had hardly -been half an hour at Madame de ***’s, when Madame<span class="pagenum" id="Page_158">[158]</span> -de Volanges felt really unwell, and naturally she wanted -to return home: as for me, I was the less inclined for it -in that I was afraid, supposing we were to surprise -the young people (as the chances were we should), that my -efforts to make the mother go abroad might seem highly -suspicious. I adopted the course of frightening her upon -her health, which luckily is not difficult; and I kept her -for an hour and a half, without consenting to drive her -home, by feigning fear at the consequences of the dangerous -motion of the carriage. We did not return until the hour -that had been fixed. From the shame-faced air which I -remarked on our arrival, I confess I hoped that at least -my trouble had not been wasted.</p> - -<p>The desire I had for further information made me stay -with Madame de Volanges, who went to bed at once: -and after having supped at her bed-side, we left her at -an early hour, under the pretext that she had need of -repose, and passed into her daughter’s apartment. The -latter had done, on her side, all that I had expected of -her; vanished scruples, fresh vows of eternal love, etc., -etc.: in a word, she had performed properly. But the fool, -Danceny, had not by one point passed the line where he -had been before. Oh! one can safely quarrel with such -a one: reconciliations are not dangerous.</p> - -<p>The child assures me, however, that he wanted more, -but that she knew how to defend herself. I would wager -that she brags, or that she excuses him; indeed I made -almost certain of it. The fantasy seized me to find out -how much one might rely on the defence of which she -was capable; and I, a mere woman, bit by bit, excited -her to the point.... In short, you may believe me, no -one was ever more susceptible to a surprise of the senses. -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_159">[159]</span>She is really lovable, this dear child! She deserves a -different lover; she shall have at least a firm friend, for -I am becoming really fond of her. I have promised her -that I will form her, and I think I shall keep my word. -I have often felt a need of having a woman in my confidence, -and I should prefer her to another; but I can do -nothing so long as she is not—what she needs to be; -and that is one reason the more for bearing a grudge -against Danceny.</p> - -<div class="figcenter illowp45" id="189" style="max-width: 30.625em;"> - <img class="w100" src="images/189.jpg" alt=""> - <div class="caption"><i>C. Monnet del.</i> <span class="captionr"><i>Lingée sculp<sup>t</sup>.</i></span> -</div> -</div> -<div class="sync"> </div> -<p>Adieu, Vicomte; do not come to me to-morrow, unless -it be in the forenoon. I have yielded to the entreaties -of the Chevalier, for an evening at the <i>petite maison</i>.</p> - -<p class="right"> -Paris, 4th September, 17**. -</p> -<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> - -<div class="chapter"> -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_160">[160]</span></p> - -<h2 class="nobreak" id="LETTER_THE_FIFTY-FIFTH">LETTER THE FIFTY-FIFTH - -<br><small>CÉCILE VOLANGES TO SOPHIE CARNAY</small></h2> -</div> - -<p class="noin"><span class="smcap">You</span> were right, my dear Sophie; your prophesies succeed -better than your advice. Danceny, as you had -predicted, has been stronger than my confessor, than -you, than myself; and here we are returned precisely to -our old position. Ah! I do not repent it; and if you -scold me, it will be only because you do not know the -pleasure of loving Danceny. It is very easy to say what -one ought to do, nothing prevents you; but if you -had any experience of how we suffer from the pain of -somebody we love, of the way in which his pleasure -becomes our own, of how difficult it is to say no, when -what we wish to say is yes, you would be astonished -at nothing: I myself, who have felt it, felt it most keenly, -do not yet understand it. Do you suppose, for instance -that I could see Danceny weep, without weeping myself? -I assure you that that would be utterly impossible to me; -and, when he is happy, I am as happy as he. You may -say what you like: what one says does not change -things from what they are, and I am very certain that -it is like that.</p> - -<p>I should like to see you in my place.... No, it -is not that I wish to say, for certainly I should not<span class="pagenum" id="Page_161">[161]</span> -like to change places with anyone: but I wish that you -too loved somebody; not only because then you would -understand me better and scold me less; but also because -you would be happier, or, I should rather say, you would -only then begin to know happiness.</p> - -<p>Our amusements, our merriment—all that, you see, is -only child’s play: nothing is left, when once it is over. -But love, ah, love!... a word, a look, only to know -he is there—that is happiness! When I see Danceny, -I ask for nothing more; when I cannot see him, I ask -only for him. I do not know how this is; but it would -seem as though everything which I like resembles him. -When he is not with me, I dream of him; and when -I can dream of him utterly, without distraction, when -I am quite alone, for instance, I am still happy; I -close my eyes, and suddenly I think I see him; I -remember his conversation, it causes me to sigh; and then -I feel a fire, an agitation.... I cannot keep in one -place. It is like a torment, and this torment gives me -an unutterable pleasure.</p> - -<p>I even think that when once one has been in love, the -effect of it is shed even over friendship. That which I bear -for you has not changed however; it is always as it was -at the convent: but what I tell you of I feel for Madame -de Merteuil. It seems as though I love her more as I -do Danceny than as yourself; and sometimes I wish that -she were he. This is so, perhaps, because it is not a -children’s friendship like our own, or else because I -see them so often together, which makes me deceive myself. -Be that as it may, the truth is that, between the -two of them, they make me very happy; and, after all, I -do not think there is much harm in what I do. I would<span class="pagenum" id="Page_162">[162]</span> -only ask to stay as I am; and it is only the idea of marriage -which distresses me: for if M. de Gercourt is such -a man as I am told, and I have no doubt of it, I do -not know what will become of me. Adieu, my Sophie; -I love you always most tenderly.</p> - -<p class="right"> -Paris, 4th September, 17**. -</p> -<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> - -<div class="chapter"> -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_163">[163]</span></p> - -<h2 class="nobreak" id="LETTER_THE_FIFTY-SIXTH">LETTER THE FIFTY-SIXTH - -<br><small>THE PRÉSIDENTE DE TOURVEL TO THE VICOMTE DE VALMONT</small></h2> -</div> - -<p class="noin"><span class="smcap">How</span>, Monsieur, would the answer which you ask of me -serve you? To believe in your sentiments would not that -be one reason the more to fear them? And without -attacking or defending their sincerity, does it not suffice, -ought it not to suffice for yourself, to know that I will -not and may not reply to them?</p> - -<p>Supposing that you were to love me really (and it is -only to prevent a return to this subject that I consent to -the supposition), would the obstacles which separate us be -less insurmountable? And should I have aught else to -do, but to wish that you might soon conquer this love, -and above all, to help you with all my power by -hastening to deprive you of any hope? You admit -yourself that <i>this sentiment is painful, when the object which -inspires it does not reciprocate</i>. Now, you are thoroughly -well aware that it is impossible for me to reciprocate; -and even if this misfortune should befall me, I should -be the more to be pitied, without making you any -happier. I hope that you respect me enough, not to -doubt of that for a moment. Cease then, I conjure you, -cease from troubling a heart to which tranquillity is so -necessary; do not force me to regret that I have known you.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_164">[164]</span></p> - -<p>Loved and esteemed by a husband whom I both love -and respect, my duty and my pleasure are centred in -the same object. I am happy, I must be so. If pleasures -more keen exist, I do not desire them; I would not -know them. Can there be any that are sweeter than -that of being at peace with one’s self, of knowing only days -that are serene, of sleeping without trouble and awaking -without remorse? What you call happiness is but a -tumult of the senses, a tempest of passions of which the -mere view from the shore is terrible. Ah! why confront -these tempests? How dare embark upon a sea covered -with the <i>débris</i> of so many thousand shipwrecks? And -with whom? No, Monsieur, I stay on the shore; I -cherish the bonds which unite me to it. I would not -break them if I could; were I not held by them, I should -hasten to procure them.</p> - -<p>Why attach yourself to my life? Why this obstinate -resolve to follow me? Your letters, which should be few, -succeed each other with rapidity. They should be sensible, -and you speak to me in them of nothing but your mad -love. You besiege me with your idea, more than you -did with your person. Removed in one form, you reproduce -yourself under another. The things which I asked -you not to say, you repeat only in another way. -It pleases you to embarrass me with captious arguments; -you shun my own. I do not wish to answer you, I will -answer you no more.... How you treat the women whom -you have seduced! With what contempt you speak of -them! I would fain believe that some of them deserve -it: but are they all then so despicable? Ah, doubtless, -since they have violated their duties in order to give -themselves up to a criminal love. From that moment<span class="pagenum" id="Page_165">[165]</span> -they have lost everything, even the esteem of him for whom -they have sacrificed everything. The punishment is just, -but the mere idea makes one tremble. What matters it, -after all? Why should I occupy myself with them or -with you? By what right do you come to trouble my -tranquillity? Leave me, see me no more; do not write -to me again, I beg you; I demand it of you. This -letter is the last which you will receive from me.</p> - -<p class="right"> -At the Château de ..., 5th September, 17**. -</p> -<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> - -<div class="chapter"> -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_166">[166]</span></p> - -<h2 class="nobreak" id="LETTER_THE_FIFTY-SEVENTH">LETTER THE FIFTY-SEVENTH - -<br><small>THE VICOMTE DE VALMONT TO THE MARQUISE DE MERTEUIL</small></h2> -</div> - -<p class="noin">I <span class="smcap">found</span> your letter yesterday on my arrival. Your anger -quite delighted me. You could not have had a more -lively sense of Danceny’s delinquencies, if they had been -exercised against yourself. It is no doubt out of vengeance -that you get his mistress into the habit of showing -him slight infidelities; you are a very wicked person! -Yes, you are charming, and I am not surprised that you -are more irresistible than Danceny.</p> - -<p>At last I know him by heart, this pretty hero of -romance! He has no more secrets for me. I have told -him so often that virtuous love was the supreme good, -that one emotion was worth ten intrigues, that I was myself, -at this moment, amorous and timid; he found in me, -in short, a fashion of thinking so conformable with his -own, that, in the enchantment which he felt at my candour, -he told me everything and vowed me a friendship without -reserve. We are no more advanced for that in our -project.</p> - -<p>At first, it seemed to me that he went on the theory -that a young girl demands much more consideration than a -woman, in that she has more to lose. He thinks, above -all, that nothing can justify a man for putting a girl into<span class="pagenum" id="Page_167">[167]</span> -the necessity of marrying him, or living dishonoured, -when the girl is far richer than the man, which is the -case in which he finds himself. The mother’s sense of -security, the girl’s candour, all this intimidates and arrests -him. The difficulty would not be simply to dispute -these arguments, however true they may be. With a -little skill, and helped by passion, they would soon be -destroyed; all the more, in that they tend to be ridiculous, -and one would have the sanction of custom on one’s side. -But what hinders one from having any hold over him is -that he is happy as he is. Indeed, if a first love appears -generally more virtuous, and, as one says, purer; if, at -least, its course is slower, it is not, as people think, from -delicacy or shyness; it is that the heart, astonished at an -unknown emotion, halts, so to speak, at every step, to -relish the charm which it experiences, and that this charm -is so potent over a young heart that it occupies it to -such an extent that it is unmindful of every other pleasure. -That is so true, that a libertine in love—if such may -befall a libertine—becomes from that instant in less haste -for pleasure; in fact, between Danceny’s behaviour -towards the little Volanges, and my own towards the more -prudish Madame de Tourvel, there is but a shade of -difference.</p> - -<p>It would have needed, to warm our young man, more -obstacles than he has encountered; above all, that there -should have been need for more mystery, for mystery -begets boldness. I am coming to believe that you have -hurt us by serving him so well; your conduct would have -been excellent with a man of <i>experience</i>, who would -have only felt desires: but you might have foreseen -that, with a young man who is honourable and in love,<span class="pagenum" id="Page_168">[168]</span> -the greatest value of favours is that they should be the -proof of love; and, consequently, that, the surer he were of -being beloved, the less enterprising he would become. -What is to be done at present? I know nothing; but I -have no hope that the child will be caught before -marriage, and we shall have wasted our time: I am sorry -for it, but I see no remedy.</p> - -<p>Whilst I am thus discoursing, you are doing better with -your Chevalier. That reminds me that you have promised -me an infidelity in my favour; I have your promise in -writing, and I do not want it to be a dishonoured draft. -I admit that the date of payment has not yet come; but -it would be generous of you not to wait for that; and on -my side, I would take charge of the interest. What do -you say, my lovely friend? Are you not tired of your -constancy? Is this Chevalier then such a miracle? Oh, -give me my way; I will indeed compel you to admit that -if you have found some merit in him, it is because you -have forgotten me.</p> - -<p>Farewell, my lovely friend; I embrace you with all the -ardour of my desire; I defy all the kisses of the Chevalier -to contain as much.</p> - -<p class="right"> -At ..., 5th September, 17**. -</p> -<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> - -<div class="chapter"> -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_169">[169]</span></p> - -<h2 class="nobreak" id="LETTER_THE_FIFTY-EIGHTH">LETTER THE FIFTY-EIGHTH - -<br><small>THE VICOMTE DE VALMONT TO THE PRÉSIDENTE DE TOURVEL</small></h2> -</div> - -<p class="noin"><span class="smcap">Pray</span>, Madame, how have I deserved the reproaches which -you make me, and the anger which you display? The -liveliest attachment and, withal, the most respectful, the -most entire submission to your least wishes: there, in two -words, is the history of my sentiments and my conduct. -Oppressed by the pains of an unhappy love, I had no -other consolation than that of seeing you; you bade me -deprive myself of that; I obeyed you without permitting -myself a murmur. As a reward for this sacrifice, you -allowed me to write to you, and to-day you would rob -me of that solitary pleasure. Shall I see it ravished from -me without seeking to defend it? No, without a doubt: -ah, how should it not be dear to my heart? It is the -only one which remains to me, and I owe it to you.</p> - -<p>My letters, you say, are too frequent! But reflect, I -beseech you, that during the ten days of my exile, I -have not passed one moment without thinking of you, and -that yet you have only received two letters from me. <i>I -only speak to you of my love!</i> Ah, what can I say, save -that which I think? All that I could do was to weaken -the expression of that; and you can believe me that -I only let you see what it was impossible for me<span class="pagenum" id="Page_170">[170]</span> -to hide. Finally, you threaten me that you will no -longer reply to me! Thus, the man who prefers you to -everybody, and who respects even more than he loves -you: not content with treating him with severity, you would -add to it your contempt! And why these threats and -this anger? What need have you of them? Are you not -sure of being obeyed, even when your orders are unjust? -Is it possible for me then to dispute even one of your -desires, have I not already proved it? But will you abuse -this empire which you have over me? After having -rendered me unhappy, after having become unjust, will -you find it so easy then to enjoy that tranquillity which -you assure me is so necessary to you? Will you never -say to yourself: he has made me mistress of his fate, and -I have made him unhappy? He implored my aid, and I -looked at him without pity? Do you know to what point -my despair may carry me? No. To be able to appreciate -my sufferings, you would need to know the extent to -which I love you, and you do not know my heart.</p> - -<p>To what do you sacrifice me? To chimerical fears. And -who inspires them in you? A man who adores you; a -man over whom you will never cease to hold an absolute -empire. What do you fear, what can you fear, from a -sentiment over which you will ever be mistress, to direct as -you will? But your imagination creates monsters for itself, -and you attribute the fright which they cause you to love. -A little confidence, and these phantoms will disappear.</p> - -<p>A wise man said that, to dispel fears, it is almost always -sufficient to penetrate into their causes.<a id="FNanchor_19" href="#Footnote_19" class="fnanchor">[19]</a> It is in love<span class="pagenum" id="Page_171">[171]</span> -especially that this truth finds its application. Love, and -your fears will vanish. In the place of objects which -affright you, you will find a delicious emotion, a lover -tender and submissive, and all your days, marked by -happiness, will leave you no other regret than that of -having lost any by indifference. I myself, since I repented -of my errors and exist only for love, regret a time which I -thought I had passed in pleasure; and I feel that it lies -with you alone to make me happy. But, I beseech you, -let not the pleasure which I take in writing to you be -disturbed by the fear of displeasing you. I would not -disobey you; but I am at your knees; it is there I claim -the happiness of which you would rob me, the only one -which you have left me; I cry to you, heed my prayers -and behold my tears; ah, Madame, will you refuse me?</p> - -<p class="right"> -At ..., 7th September, 17**. -</p> -<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> - -<div class="chapter"> -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_172">[172]</span></p> - -<h2 class="nobreak" id="LETTER_THE_FIFTY-NINTH">LETTER THE FIFTY-NINTH - -<br><small>THE VICOMTE DE VALMONT TO THE MARQUISE DE MERTEUIL</small></h2> -</div> - -<p class="noin"><span class="smcap">Tell</span> me, if you know, what is the meaning of this -effusion of Danceny? What has happened to him, and -what has he lost? Has his fair one, perchance, grown -vexed with his eternal respect? One must be just; we -should be vexed for less. What am I to say to him this -evening at the <i>rendez-vous</i> which he asks of me, and -which I have given him at all costs? Assuredly, I will -not waste my time in listening to his complaints, if that -is to lead us nowhither. Amorous complaints are not good -to hear, save in a <i>recitato obbligato</i> or <i>arietta</i>. Let me -know then what it is, and what I have to do, or really I -shall desert, to avoid the tedium which I foresee. Shall I -be able to have a talk with you this morning? If you -are <i>engaged</i>, at least send me a word, and give me the -cues to my part.</p> - -<p>Where were you yesterday, pray? I never succeed in -seeing you now. Truly, it was not worth the trouble of -keeping me in Paris in the month of September. Make -up your mind, however, as I have just received a very -pressing invitation from the Comtesse de B*** to go and -see her in the country; and, as she tells me, humorously -enough, “her husband has the finest woods in the world,<span class="pagenum" id="Page_173">[173]</span> -which he carefully preserves for the pleasure of his friends.” -Now you know I have certainly some rights over the -woods in question; and I shall go and revisit them if I -am of no use to you. Adieu; remember Danceny will be -with me about four o’clock.</p> - -<p class="right"> -Paris, 8th September, 17**. -</p> -<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> - -<div class="chapter"> -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_174">[174]</span></p> - -<h2 class="nobreak" id="LETTER_THE_SIXTIETH">LETTER THE SIXTIETH - -<br><small>THE CHEVALIER DANCENY TO THE VICOMTE DE VALMONT</small></h2> -</div> - -<p class="center">(Enclosed in the preceding letter)</p> - -<p class="noin"><span class="smcap">Ah</span>, Monsieur, I am in despair, I have lost all! I dare -not confide to writing the secret of my woes: but I feel -a need to unburden them in the ear of a sure and trusty -friend. At what hour could I see you, and ask you for -advice and consolation? I was so happy on the day when -I opened my soul to you! Now, what a difference! All -is changed with me. What I suffer on my own account is -but the least part of my torments; my anxiety on behalf of -a far dearer object, that is what I cannot support. Happier -than I, you will be able to see her, and I count on your -friendship not to refuse me this favour: but I must see -you and instruct you. You will pity me, you will help -me; I have no hope save in you. You are a man of -sensibility, you know what love is, and you are the only one -in whom I can confide; do not refuse me your aid.</p> - -<p>Adieu, Monsieur; the only alleviation of my pain is the -reflexion that such a friend as yourself is left to me. Let me -know, I beg you, at what hour I can find you. If it is not -this morning, I should like it to be early in the afternoon.</p> - -<p class="right"> -Paris, 8th September, 17**. -</p> -<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> - -<div class="chapter"> -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_175">[175]</span></p> - -<h2 class="nobreak" id="LETTER_THE_SIXTY-FIRST">LETTER THE SIXTY-FIRST - -<br><small>CÉCILE VOLANGES TO SOPHIE CARNAY</small></h2> -</div> - -<p class="noin"><span class="smcap">My</span> 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.</p> - -<p>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.<span class="pagenum" id="Page_176">[176]</span> -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.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>Adieu, my dear Sophie, I can say no more to you; my -tears choke me.</p> - -<p class="right"> -Paris, 7th September, 17**. -</p> -<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> - -<div class="chapter"> -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_177">[177]</span></p> - -<h2 class="nobreak" id="LETTER_THE_SIXTY-SECOND20">LETTER THE SIXTY-SECOND<a id="FNanchor_20" href="#Footnote_20" class="fnanchor">[20]</a> - -<br><small>MADAME DE VOLANGES TO THE CHEVALIER DANCENY</small></h2> -</div> - -<p class="noin"><span class="smcap">After</span> having abused, Monsieur, a mother’s confidence -and the innocence of a child, you will doubtless not be -surprised if you are no longer received in a house where -you have responded to the marks of a most sincere -friendship, by a forgetfulness of all that is fitting. I prefer to -beg you not to call upon me again, than to give orders -at the door, which would compromise all alike, by -the remarks which the lackeys would not fail to make. -I have a right to hope that you will not force me to -have recourse to such a means. I warn you also that if -you make in future the least attempt to support my -daughter in the folly into which you have beguiled her, -an austere and eternal retreat shall shelter her from your -pursuit. It is for you to decide, Monsieur, whether you -will shrink as little from being the cause of her misery, -as you have from attempting her dishonour. As for me, -my choice is made, and I have acquainted her with it.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_178">[178]</span></p> - -<p>You will find enclosed the packet containing your letters. -I reckon upon you to send me in return all those of -my daughter, and to do your utmost to leave no trace -of an incident the memory of which I could not retain -without indignation, she without shame, and you without -remorse.</p> - -<p>I have the honour to be, etc.</p> - -<p class="right"> -Paris, 7th September, 17**. -</p> -<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> - -<div class="chapter"> -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_179">[179]</span></p> - -<h2 class="nobreak" id="LETTER_THE_SIXTY-THIRD">LETTER THE SIXTY-THIRD - -<br><small>THE MARQUISE DE MERTEUIL TO THE VICOMTE DE VALMONT</small></h2> -</div> - -<p class="noin"><span class="smcap">Indeed</span>, yes, I will explain Danceny’s letter to you. The -incident which caused him to write it is my handiwork, -and it is, I think, my <i>chef-d’œuvre</i>. I wasted no time -since your last letter, and I said with the Athenian -architect, “What he has said, I will do.”</p> - -<p>It is obstacles then that this fine hero of romance -needs, and he slumbers in felicity! Oh, let him look -to me, I will give him some work: and if his slumber -is going to be peaceful any longer, I am mistaken. -Indeed, he had to be taught the value of time, and I -flatter myself that by now he is regretting all he has lost. -It were well also, said you, that he had need of more -mystery: well, that need won’t be lacking him now. I have -this quality, I—that my mistakes have only to be pointed -out to me; then I take no repose until I have retrieved -them. Let me tell you now what I did.</p> - -<p>When I returned home in the morning of the day before -yesterday, I read your letter; I found it luminous. Convinced -that you had put your finger on the cause of the evil, my -sole concern now was to find a means of curing it. I -commenced, however, by retiring to bed; for the indefatigable -Chevalier had not let me sleep a moment, and I thought<span class="pagenum" id="Page_180">[180]</span> -I was sleepy: but not at all; absorbed in Danceny, my -desire to cure him of his indolence, or to punish him for -it, did not let me close an eye, and it was only after I -had thoroughly completed my plan, that I could take -two hours’ rest.</p> - -<p>I went that same evening to Madame de Volanges, and, -according to my project, I told her confidentially that I -felt sure a dangerous intimacy existed between her daughter -and Danceny. This woman, who sees so clearly in -your case, was so blind that she answered me at first -that I was certainly mistaken, that her daughter was a -child, etc., etc. I could not tell her all I knew; but -I quoted certain looks and remarks <i>whereat my virtue and -my friendship had taken alarm</i>. In short, I spoke almost as -well as a <i>dévote</i> would have done; and to strike the decisive -blow, I went so far as to say that I thought I had seen -a letter given and received. “That reminds me,” I added, -“one day she opened before me a drawer in her desk -in which I saw a number of papers, which she doubtless -preserves. Do you know if she has any frequent correspondence?” -Here Madame de Volanges’ face changed, -and I saw some tears rise to her eyes. “I thank you, my -kind friend,” she said, as she pressed my hand; “I will -clear this up.”</p> - -<p>After this conversation, which was too short to excite -suspicion, I went over to the young person. I left her -soon afterwards, to beg her mother not to compromise me -in her daughter’s eyes; she promised me this the more -willingly, when I pointed out to her how fortunate it would -be if the child were to take sufficient confidence in me -to open her heart to me, and thus afford me the occasion -of giving her <i>my wise counsels</i>. I feel certain that she will<span class="pagenum" id="Page_181">[181]</span> -keep her promise, because she will doubtless seek to vaunt -her penetration in her daughter’s eyes. Thus I am -authorized to maintain my friendly tone towards the child, -without seeming false to Madame de Volanges, which I -wished to avoid. I have also gained for the future the -right to be as long and as privately as I like with the -young person, without the mother being able to take -umbrage.</p> - -<p>I took advantage of this, that very evening; and when -my game was over, I took the child aside in a corner, -and set her on the subject of Danceny, upon which -she is inexhaustible. I amused myself by exciting her -with the pleasure she will have when she sees him -to-morrow; there is no kind of folly that I did not make -her say. I needs must restore to her in hope what I -had deprived her of in reality; and besides all that ought -to render the blow more forcible, and I am persuaded -that, the more she suffers, the greater will be her haste to -compensate herself for it, on the next occasion. ’Tis wise, -moreover, to accustom to great events anyone whom one -destines for great adventures.</p> - -<p>After all, may she not pay for the pleasure of having -her Danceny with a few tears? She dotes on him! -Well, I promise her that she shall have him, and even -sooner than she would have done, but for this storm. It -is like a bad dream, the awakening from which will be -delicious; and, considering all, I think she owes me gratitude: -after all, if I have put a spice of malice into it, one must -amuse oneself:</p> - -<div class="blockquot"> - -<p><i>“Les sots sont ici-bas pour nos menus-plaisirs.”</i><a id="FNanchor_21" href="#Footnote_21" class="fnanchor">[21]</a></p> -</div> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_182">[182]</span></p> - -<p>I withdrew at last, thoroughly satisfied with myself. -Either, said I to myself, Danceny’s love, excited by obstacles, -will redouble in intensity, and then I shall serve him with -all my power; or, if he is nothing but a fool, as I am -sometimes tempted to believe, he will be in despair, and -will look upon himself as beaten: now, in that case, I -shall at least have been as well avenged on him as he -has been on me; on my way, I shall have increased the -mother’s esteem for me, the daughter’s friendship, and the -confidence of both. As for Gercourt, the first object of -my care, I should be very unlucky, or very clumsy, if, -mistress over his bride’s mind, as I am, and as I intend to -be even more, I did not find a thousand ways of making -him what I mean him to be. I went to bed with these -pleasant thoughts: I slept well, too, and awoke very -late.</p> - -<p>On my awakening I found two letters, one from the -mother and one from the daughter; and I could not -refrain from laughing when I encountered, in both, literally -this same phrase: “<i>It is from you alone that I expect -any consolation.</i>” Is it not amusing to console for and -against, and to be the single agent of two directly contrary -interests? Behold me, like the Divinity, receiving -the diverse petitions of blind mortals, and altering nothing -in my immutable decrees. I have deserted that august -part, however, to assume that of the consoling angel; and -have been, as the precept bids us, to visit my friends in -their affliction.</p> - -<p>I began with the mother; I found her wrapped in a -sadness which already avenges you in part for the -obstacles she has thrown in your way, on the side of your -fair prude. Everything has succeeded marvellously, and<span class="pagenum" id="Page_183">[183]</span> -my only anxiety was lest Madame de Volanges should -take advantage of the moment to gain her daughter’s -confidence: which would have been quite easy, had she -employed with her the language of kindness and affection, -and given to reasonable counsels the air and tone of indulgent -tenderness. Luckily she had armed herself with severity; -in short, she had behaved so unwisely that I could only -applaud. It is true that she thought of frustrating all our -schemes, by the course which she had resolved on of -sending her daughter back to the convent: but I warded -off this blow, and induced her merely to make a threat -of it, in the event of Danceny continuing his pursuit; -this in order to compel both to a circumspection which -I believe necessary to success.</p> - -<p>I next went to the daughter. You would not believe -how grief improves her! If she does but take to coquetry, -I warrant that she will be often weeping; but this -time she wept in all sincerity.... Struck by this new -charm, which I had not known in her, and which I was -very pleased to observe, I gave her at first but clumsy -consolations, which rather increased her sorrow than -assuaged it; and by this means I brought her well nigh to -choking-point. She wept no more, and for a moment I -was afraid of convulsions. I advised her to go to bed, to -which she agreed; I served her for waiting-maid: she -had made no toilette, and soon her dishevelled hair was -falling over her shoulders and bosom, which were entirely -bare; I embraced her; she abandoned herself in my arms, -and her tears began to flow again without an effort. -Lord! how beautiful she was! Ah, if the Magdalen was -like that, she must have been far more dangerous in her -penitence than when she sinned.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_184">[184]</span></p> - -<p>When the disconsolate fair one was in bed, I started -to console her in good faith. I first reassured her as to -her fear about the convent. I excited a hope in her of -seeing Danceny in secret; and sitting upon the bed: “If -<i>he</i> was here,” said I; then, embroidering on this theme, -I led her from distraction to distraction, until she had -quite forgotten her affliction. We should have separated -in a complete satisfaction with one another, if she had -not wished to charge me with a letter to Danceny; which -I consistently refused. Here are my reasons for this, -which you will doubtless approve:</p> - -<p>To begin with, it would have been to compromise -myself openly with Danceny; and though this was the only -reason I could employ with the little one, there are plenty -of others which hold between you and me. Would it -not have been to risk the fruit of my labours to give -our young people so soon a means so easy of lightening -their pains? And then, I should not be sorry to compel -them to introduce some servants into this adventure; -for, if it is to work out well, which is what I hope for, -it must become known immediately after the marriage, and -there are few surer methods of publishing it. Or if, by -a miracle, the servants were not to speak, we would -speak ourselves, and it will be more convenient to lay -the indiscretion to their account.</p> - -<p>You must give this idea, then, to-day to Danceny; and -as I am not sure of the waiting-maid of the little Volanges, -and she seems to distrust her herself, suggest my own -to him, my faithful Victoire. I will take care that the -enterprise is successful. This idea pleases me all the -more, as the confidence will only be useful to us and -not to them: for I am not at the end of my story.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_185">[185]</span></p> - -<p>Whilst I was excusing myself from carrying the child’s -letter, I was afraid every moment that she would suggest -that I should send it by the post, which I could hardly -have refused to do. Luckily, either in her confusion -or in her ignorance, or again because she was less set -on her letter than on a reply to it, which she could not -have obtained by this means, she did not speak of it to -me; but, to prevent this idea coming to her, or at least -her being able to use it, I made up my mind on the spot; -and on returning to her mother, persuaded her to send -her daughter away for some time, to take her to the -country.... And where? Does not your heart beat with -joy?... To your Aunt, to the old Rosemonde. She -is to apprise her of it to-day; so, behold you authorized -to return to your Puritan, who will no longer be able to -reproach you with the scandal of a <i>tête-à-tête</i>; and thanks -to my pains, Madame de Volanges will herself repair the -wrong she had done you.</p> - -<p>But listen to me, and do not be so constantly wrapped -up in your own affairs as to lose sight of this one; -remember that I am interested in it. I want you to -become the go-between and counsellor of the two young -people. Inform Danceny of this journey and offer him -your services. Find no difficulty, except as to getting your -letter of credit into the fair one’s hands; and demolish -this obstacle on the spot by suggesting to him the services -of my waiting-maid. There is no doubt but that he will -accept; and you will have, as reward for your trouble, the -confidence of a young heart, which is always interesting. -Poor child, how she will blush when she hands you her -first letter! In truth, this <i>rôle</i> of confidant, against which -a sort of prejudice has grown up, seems to me a very<span class="pagenum" id="Page_186">[186]</span> -pretty relaxation, when you are occupied elsewhere; and -that is the case in which you will be.</p> - -<p>It is upon your attention that the <i>dénouement</i> of this -intrigue will depend. Judge the moment when the actors -must be reunited. The country offers a thousand ways; -and Danceny cannot fail to be ready at your first signal. -A night, a disguise, a window ... what do I know? -But mark me, if the little girl comes back as she went away, -I shall quarrel with you. If you consider that she has -need of any encouragement from me, send word to me. -I think I have given her such a good lesson on the -danger of keeping letters, that I may venture to write to -her now; and I still cherish the design of making her my -pupil.</p> - -<p>I believe I forgot to tell you that her suspicions with -regard to the surprised correspondence fell at first upon -her waiting-maid, but that I turned them towards the -confessor. That was a way of killing two birds with one -stone.</p> - -<p>Adieu, Vicomte, I have been writing to you a long -time now, and my dinner is the later for it: but self-love -and friendship dictated my letter, and both are garrulous. -For the rest, it will be with you by three o’clock, and -that is all you need.</p> - -<p>Pity me now, if you dare; and go and visit the woods -of the Comte de B***, if they tempt you. You say -that he keeps them for the pleasure of his friends! Is -the man a friend of all the world then? But adieu, I -am hungry.</p> - -<p class="right"> -Paris, 9th September, 17**. -</p> -<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> - -<div class="chapter"> -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_187">[187]</span></p> - -<h2 class="nobreak" id="LETTER_THE_SIXTY-FOURTH">LETTER THE SIXTY-FOURTH - -<br><small>THE CHEVALIER DANCENY TO MADAME DE VOLANGES</small></h2> -</div> - -<p class="center">(A draft enclosed in letter the <a href="#LETTER_THE_SIXTY-SIXTH">sixty-sixth</a>, from the Vicomte -to the Marquise)</p> - -<p class="noin"><span class="smcap">Without</span> seeking, Madame, to justify my conduct, and -without complaining of yours, I cannot but grieve at an -event which brings unhappiness to three persons, all -three worthier of a happier fate. More sensible to the -grief of being the cause of it than even to that of being -its victim, I have tried frequently, since yesterday, to have -the honour to write to you, without being able to find -the strength. I have, however, so many things to say to -you that I must make a great effort over myself; and if -this letter has little order and sequence, you must be -sufficiently sensible of my painful situation to grant me -some indulgence.</p> - -<p>Permit me, first, to protest against the first sentence of -your letter. I venture to say that I have abused neither -your confidence nor the innocence of Mademoiselle de -Volanges; in my actions I respected both. These alone -depended on me; and when you would render me responsible -for an involuntary sentiment, I am not afraid to add -that that which Mademoiselle your daughter has inspired -in me is of a kind which may be displeasing to you but<span class="pagenum" id="Page_188">[188]</span> -cannot offend you. Upon this subject, which touches me -more than I can say, I wish for no other judge than -you, and my letters for my witnesses.</p> - -<p>You forbid me to present myself at your house in -future, and doubtless I shall submit to everything which -it shall please you to order on this subject: but will -not this sudden and total absence give as much cause -for the remarks which you would avoid as the order which, -for that very same reason, you did not wish to leave at -your door? I insist all the more on this point, in that -it is far more important for Mademoiselle de Volanges -than for me. I beg you then to weigh everything attentively, -and not to permit your severity to lessen your prudence. -Persuaded that the simple interest of Mademoiselle your -daughter will dictate your resolves, I shall await fresh -orders from you.</p> - -<p>Meanwhile, in case you should permit me to pay you -my court sometimes, I undertake, Madame (and you -can count on my promise), not to abuse the opportunity -by attempting to speak privately with Mademoiselle de -Volanges, or to send any letter to her. The fear of -compromising her reputation decides me to this sacrifice; -and the happiness of sometimes seeing her will be my -reward.</p> - -<p>This paragraph of my letter is also the only reply that -I can make to what you tell me as to the fate you -reserve for Mademoiselle de Volanges, and which you -would make dependent on my conduct. I should deceive -you were I to promise you more. A vile seducer can -adapt his plans to circumstances, and calculate upon -events; but the love which animates me permits me only -two sentiments, courage and constancy. What, I!<span class="pagenum" id="Page_189">[189]</span> -consent to be forgotten by Mademoiselle de Volanges, to -forget her myself! No, no, never! I will be faithful to -her, she has received my vow, and I renew it this day. -Forgive me, Madame, I am losing myself, I must return.</p> - -<p>There remains one other matter to discuss with you; that -of the letters which you demand from me. I am truly -pained to have to add a refusal to the wrongs which you -already accuse me of: but I beg you, listen to my reasons, -and deign to remember, in order to appreciate them, that -the only consolation of my unhappiness at having lost -your friendship is the hope of retaining your esteem.</p> - -<p>The letters of Mademoiselle de Volanges, always so -precious to me, have become doubly so at present. They -are the solitary good thing which remains to me; they -alone retrace for me a sentiment which is all the charm -of life to me. However, you may believe me, I should -not hesitate an instant in making the sacrifice, and my -regret at being deprived of them would yield to my -desire of proving to you my respectful deference; but -considerations more powerful restrain me, and I assure -you that you yourself cannot blame me for them.</p> - -<p>You have, it is true, the secret of Mademoiselle de Volanges; -but permit me to say that I am authorized to believe -it is the result of surprise and not of confidence. I -do not pretend to blame a proceeding which is, perhaps, -authorized by maternal solicitude. I respect your rights, -but they do not extend so far as to dispense me from my -duties. The most sacred of all is never to betray the -confidence which is entrusted to you. It would be to fail -in this to expose to the eyes of another the secrets of a -heart which did but wish to reveal them to mine. If -Mademoiselle your daughter consents to confide them to<span class="pagenum" id="Page_190">[190]</span> -you, let her speak; her letters are of no use to you. If -she wishes, on the contrary, to lock her secret within herself, -you doubtless cannot expect me to be the person to -instruct you.</p> - -<p>As for the mystery in which you desire this incident to -be buried, rest assured, Madame, that, in all that -concerns Mademoiselle de Volanges, I can rival even a -mother’s heart. To complete my work of removing all -cause for anxiety from you, I have foreseen everything. -This precious deposit, which bore hitherto the inscription: -<i>Papers to be burned</i>, carries now the words: <i>Papers belonging -to Madame de Volanges</i>. The course which I have -taken should prove to you also that my refusal does not -refer to any fear that you might find in these letters one -single sentiment with which you could personally find -fault.</p> - -<p>This, Madame, is indeed a long letter. It will not have -been long enough, if it leaves you the least doubt as to -the honesty of my sentiments, my very sincere regret at -having displeased you, and the profound respect with -which I have the honour to be, etc.</p> - -<p class="right"> -Paris, 9th September, 17**. -</p> -<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> - -<div class="chapter"> -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_191">[191]</span></p> - -<h2 class="nobreak" id="LETTER_THE_SIXTY-FIFTH">LETTER THE SIXTY-FIFTH - -<br><small>THE CHEVALIER DANCENY TO CÉCILE VOLANGES</small></h2> -</div> - -<p class="center">(Sent open to the Marquise de Merteuil in letter the <a href="#LETTER_THE_SIXTY-SIXTH">sixty-sixth</a> -from the Vicomte)</p> - -<p class="noin">O <span class="smcap">my</span> Cécile! what is to become of us? What God -will save us from the misfortunes which threaten us? Let -love, at least, give us the courage to support them! How -can I paint for you my astonishment, my despair, at the -sight of my letters, at the reading of Madame de Volanges’ -missive? Who can have betrayed us? On whom do your -suspicions fall? Could you have committed any imprudence? -What are you doing now? What have they said to you? -I would know everything, and I am ignorant of all. -Perhaps, you yourself are no better informed than I.</p> - -<p>I send you your Mamma’s note and a copy of my reply. -I hope that you will approve of what I have said. I need -also your approval of all the measures I have taken since -this fatal event; they are all with the object of having -news of you, of giving you mine; and, who knows? -perhaps of seeing you again, and more freely than ever.</p> - -<p>Imagine, my Cécile, the pleasure of finding ourselves -together again, of being able to seal anew our vows of -eternal love, and of seeing in our eyes, of feeling in our -souls, that this vow will not be falsified! What pain<span class="pagenum" id="Page_192">[192]</span> -will not so sweet a moment make us forget! Ah, well, -I have hope of seeing it arrive, and I owe it to these -same measures which I beg you to approve. What am I -saying? I owe it to the consoling care of the most -tender of friends; and my sole request is that you will -permit this friend to become also your own.</p> - -<p>Perhaps, I ought not to have given your confidence -away without your consent; but I had misfortune and -necessity for my excuse. It is love which has guided -me; it is that which claims your indulgence, which begs -you to pardon a confidence that was necessary, and without -which we should, perhaps, have been separated for ever.<a id="FNanchor_22" href="#Footnote_22" class="fnanchor">[22]</a> -You know the friend of whom I speak: he is the friend -of the woman whom you love best. It is the Vicomte -de Valmont.</p> - -<p>My plan in addressing him was, at first, to beg him -to induce Madame de Merteuil to take charge of a letter -for you. He did not think this method could succeed, but, -in default of the mistress, he answered for the maid, -who was under obligations to him. It is she who will -give you this letter; and you can give her your reply.</p> - -<p>This assistance will hardly be of use to us, if, as M. de -Valmont believes, you leave immediately for the country. -But then it will be he himself who will serve us. The -lady to whom you are going is his kinswoman. He -will take advantage of this pretext to repair thither at the -same time that you do; and it will be through him that -our mutual correspondence will pass. He assures me, even, -that if you will let yourself be guided by him, he will<span class="pagenum" id="Page_193">[193]</span> -procure us the means of meeting, without your running -the risk of being in any way compromised.</p> - -<p>Now, my Cécile, if you love me, if you pity my misery, -if, as I hope, you share my regret, will you refuse -your confidence to a man who will become our guardian -angel? Without him, I should be reduced to the despair -of being unable even to alleviate the grief I have caused -you. It will finish, I hope: but promise me, my tender -friend, not to abandon yourself overmuch to it, not to -let it break you down. The idea of your grief is insupportable -torture to me. I would give my life to make -you happy! You know that well. May the certainty -that you are adored carry some consolation to your -soul! Mine has need of your assurance that you pardon -love for the ills it has made you suffer.</p> - -<p>Adieu, my Cécile, adieu, my tender love!</p> - -<p class="right"> -Paris, 9th September, 17**. -</p> -<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> - -<div class="chapter"> -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_194">[194]</span></p> - -<h2 class="nobreak" id="LETTER_THE_SIXTY-SIXTH">LETTER THE SIXTY-SIXTH - -<br><small>THE VICOMTE DE VALMONT TO THE MARQUISE DE -MERTEUIL</small></h2> -</div> - -<p class="noin"><span class="smcap">You</span> will see, my lovely friend, by a perusal of the two -enclosed letters, whether I have well fulfilled your project. -Although both are dated to-day, they were written yesterday -at my house, and beneath my eyes; that to the little -girl says all that we wanted. One can but humble one’s -self before the profundity of your views, when one judges -of it by the success of your measures. Danceny is all on -fire; and assuredly, at the first opportunity, you will have -no more reproaches to make him. If his fair <i>ingénue</i> choose -to be tractable, all will be finished a short time after -her arrival in the country; I have a hundred methods all -prepared. Thanks to your care, behold me decidedly <i>the -friend of Danceny</i>; it only remains for him to become <i>Prince</i>.<a id="FNanchor_23" href="#Footnote_23" class="fnanchor">[23]</a></p> - -<p>He is still very young, this Danceny! Would you -believe it, I have never been able to prevail on him to -promise the mother to renounce his love; as if there were -much hindrance in a promise, when one is determined -not to keep it! It would be deceit, he kept on repeating -to me: is not this scruple edifying, especially in the would-be -seducer of the daughter? That is so like men! all<span class="pagenum" id="Page_195">[195]</span> -equally rascally in their designs, the weakness they display -in the execution they christen probity.</p> - -<p>It is your affair to prevent Madame de Volanges from -taking alarm at the little sallies which our young man has -permitted himself in his letter; preserve us from the -convent; try also to make her abandon her request for -the child’s letters. To begin with, he will not give them -up, and I am of his opinion; here love and reason are -in accord. I have read them, these letters; I have assimilated -the tedium of them. They may become useful. -I will explain.</p> - -<p>In spite of the prudence which we shall employ, there may -arise a scandal; this would break off the marriage, would -it not? and spoil all our Gercourt projects. But, as on -my side I have to be revenged on the mother, I reserve -for myself in such a case the daughter’s dishonour. By -selecting carefully from this correspondence, and producing -only a part of it, the little Volanges would appear to -have made all the first overtures, and to have absolutely -thrown herself at his head. Some of the letters would -even compromise the mother, and would, at any rate, -convict her of unpardonable negligence. I am quite aware -that the scrupulous Danceny would revolt against this at -first; but, as he would be personally attacked, I think he -would be open to reason. It is a thousand chances to -one that things will not turn out so; but one must foresee -everything.</p> - -<p>Adieu, my lovely friend: it would be very amiable -of you to come and sup to-morrow at the Maréchale -de ***’s; I could not refuse.</p> - -<p>I presume I have no need to recommend you secrecy, -as regards Madame de Volanges, upon my country project.<span class="pagenum" id="Page_196">[196]</span> -She would at once decide to stay in Town: whereas, once -arrived there, she will not start off again the next day; -and, if she only gives us a week, I answer for everything.</p> - -<p class="right"> -Paris, 9th September, 17**. -</p> -<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> - -<div class="chapter"> -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_197">[197]</span></p> - -<h2 class="nobreak" id="LETTER_THE_SIXTY-SEVENTH">LETTER THE SIXTY-SEVENTH - -<br><small>THE PRÉSIDENTE DE TOURVEL TO THE VICOMTE DE VALMONT</small></h2> -</div> - -<p class="noin">I <span class="smcap">did</span> not mean to answer you again, Monsieur, and, -perhaps, the embarrassment I feel at the present moment -is itself an effectual proof that I ought not. However, I -would not leave you any cause of complaint against me; -I wish to convince you that I have done for you everything -I could.</p> - -<p>I permitted you to write to me, you say? I agree; -but when you remind me of that permission, do you -think I forget on what conditions it was given? If I -had been as faithful as you have proved the reverse, -would you have received a single reply from me? This -is, however, the third; and when you do all that in you -lies to compel me to break off this correspondence, it is -I who am busy with the means of continuing it. There -is one, but only one; and if you refuse to take it, it will -prove to me, whatever you may say, how little value you -set upon it.</p> - -<p>Forsake, then, a language to which I may not and -will not listen; renounce a sentiment which offends and -alarms me, and to which you would perhaps be less -attached, if you reflected that it is the obstacle which -separates us. Is this sentiment the only one, then,<span class="pagenum" id="Page_198">[198]</span> -that you can understand? And must love have this -one fault the more in my eyes, that it excludes friendship? -Would you yourself be so wrong as not to wish for your -friend her in whom you have desired more tender sentiments? -I would not believe it: that humiliating idea -would revolt me, would divide me from you without hope -of return.</p> - -<p>In offering you my friendship, Monsieur, I give you -all that is mine to give, all of which I can dispose. -What can you desire more? To give way to this sentiment, -so gentle, so suited to my heart, I only await your -assent and the word which I ask of you, that this friendship -will suffice for your happiness. I will forget all that I -may have been told; I will trust in you to be at the -pains of justifying my choice.</p> - -<p>You see my frankness; it should prove to you my -confidence; it will rest with you only, if it is to be -further augmented: but I warn you that the first word -of love destroys it for ever, and restores to me all my -fears; above all, that it will become the signal for -my eternal silence with regard to you.</p> - -<p>If, as you say, you have turned away from your errors, -will you not rather be the object of a virtuous woman’s -friendship than of a guilty woman’s remorse? Adieu, -Monsieur; you feel that, after having spoken thus, I can -say nothing more until you have replied to me.</p> - -<p class="right"> -At the Château de ..., 9th September, 17**. -</p> -<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> - -<div class="chapter"> -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_199">[199]</span></p> - -<h2 class="nobreak" id="LETTER_THE_SIXTY-EIGHTH">LETTER THE SIXTY-EIGHTH - -<br><small>THE VICOMTE DE VALMONT TO THE PRÉSIDENTE DE TOURVEL</small></h2> -</div> - -<p class="noin"><span class="smcap">How</span>, Madame, am I to answer your last letter? How -dare be true, when my sincerity may ruin my cause with -you? No matter, I must; I will have the courage. I -tell myself, I repeat to myself, that it is better to deserve -you than to obtain you: and, must you deny me for ever -a happiness that I shall never cease to desire, I must at -least prove to you that my heart is worthy of it.</p> - -<p>What a pity, that, as you say, I have <i>turned away -from my errors!</i> With what transports of joy I should -have read that same letter, to which I tremble to-day -to reply. You speak to me therein with <i>frankness</i>, you -display me <i>confidence</i>, and you offer me your <i>friendship</i>: -what good things, Madame, and how I regret that I can -not profit by them! Why am I no longer what I was?</p> - -<p>If I were, indeed, if I felt for you only an ordinary -fancy, that light fancy which is the child of seduction -and pleasure, which to-day, however, is christened love, I -should hasten to extract advantage from all that I could -obtain. With scant delicacy as to means, provided that -they procured me success, I should encourage your frankness -from my need of finding you out; I should desire your -confidence with the design of betraying it; I should accept<span class="pagenum" id="Page_200">[200]</span> -your friendship with the hope of beguiling it.... What, -Madame! does this picture alarm you?... Ah, well, it -would be a true picture of me, were I to tell you that I -consented to be no more than your friend.</p> - -<p>What, I! I consent to share with any one a sentiment -which has emanated from your soul! If I ever tell you -so, do not believe me. From that moment I should seek -to deceive you; I might desire you still, but I should -assuredly love you no longer.</p> - -<p>It is not that amiable frankness, sweet confidence, sensible -friendship are without value in my eyes.... But love! -True love, and such as you inspire, by uniting all these -sentiments, by giving them more energy, would not know -how to lend itself, like them, to that tranquillity, to that -coldness of soul, which permits comparisons, which even -suffers preferences. No, Madame, I will not be your -friend; I will love you with the most tender, even the most -ardent love, although the most respectful. You can drive -it to despair, but you cannot annihilate it.</p> - -<p>By what right do you pretend to dispose of a heart -whose homage you refuse? By what refinement of -cruelty do you rob me of even the happiness of loving -you? That happiness is mine; it is independent of you; -I shall know how to defend it. If it is the source of my -ills, it is also their remedy.</p> - -<p>No, once more, no. Persist in your cruel refusals, -but leave me my love. You take pleasure in making -me unhappy! ah, well! be it so, endeavour to wear -out my courage, I shall know how to force you at -least to decide my fate; and perhaps some day you will -render me more justice. It is not that I hope ever to -make you susceptible: but, without being persuaded,<span class="pagenum" id="Page_201">[201]</span> -you will be convinced; you will say to yourself: I judged -him ill.</p> - -<p>To put it rightly, it is to yourself that you are unjust. -To know you without loving you, to love you without -being constant, are two things which are equally impossible; -and, in spite of the modesty which adorns you, it must -be easier for you to feel pity than surprise at the sentiments -which you arouse. For me, whose only merit is -that I have known how to appreciate you, I will not lose -that; and far from accepting your insidious offers, I renew -at your feet my vow to love you always.</p> - -<p class="right"> -Paris, 10th September, 17**. -</p> -<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> - -<div class="chapter"> -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_202">[202]</span></p> - -<h2 class="nobreak" id="LETTER_THE_SIXTY-NINTH">LETTER THE SIXTY-NINTH - -<br><small>CÉCILE VOLANGES TO THE CHEVALIER DANCENY</small></h2> -</div> - -<p class="center">(A note written in pencil, and copied out by Danceny)</p> - -<p class="noin"><span class="smcap">You</span> ask me what I am doing; I love you and I weep. -My mother no longer speaks to me; she has taken pens, -ink, and paper away from me; I am making use of a -pencil which has happily been left to me, and I am writing -on a fragment of your letter. I needs must approve all -you have done; I love you too well not to take every -means of having news of you and of giving you my own. -I did not like M. de Valmont, and I did not know he -was so great a friend of yours; I will try to get used to -him, and I will love him for your sake. I do not know -who it is that has betrayed us; it can only be my waiting-maid -or my confessor. I am very miserable: we are going -to the country to-morrow; I do not know for how long. -My God! to see you no more! I have no more room: -adieu, try to read me. These words traced in pencil -will perhaps be effaced, but never the sentiments engraved -on my heart.</p> - -<p class="right"> -Paris, 10th September, 17**. -</p> -<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> - -<div class="chapter"> -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_203">[203]</span></p> - -<h2 class="nobreak" id="LETTER_THE_SEVENTIETH">LETTER THE SEVENTIETH - -<br><small>THE VICOMTE DE VALMONT TO THE MARQUISE DE MERTEUIL</small></h2> -</div> - -<p class="noin">I <span class="smcap">have</span> an important warning to give you, my dear friend. -As you know, I supped yesterday with the Maréchale -de ***: you were spoken of, and I said, not all the good -which I think, but all that which I do not think. Everyone -appeared to be of my opinion, and the conversation -languished, as ever happens when one says only good of -one’s neighbour, when a voice was raised in contradiction: -it was Prévan’s.</p> - -<p>“Heaven forbid,” he said, rising, “that I should doubt -the virtue of Madame de Merteuil! But I would dare -believe that she owes it more to her lightness of character -than to her principles. It is perhaps more difficult to -follow her than to please her; and, as one rarely fails, when -one runs after a woman, to meet others on the way; -as, after all, these others may be as good as she is, or -better; some are distracted by a fresh fancy, others stop -short from lassitude; and she is, perhaps, the woman in -all Paris who has had least cause to defend herself. As -for me,” he added, encouraged by the smile of some of -the women, “I shall not believe in Madame de Merteuil’s -virtue, until I have killed six horses in paying my court -to her.”</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_204">[204]</span></p> - -<p>This ill-natured joke succeeded, as do all those which -savour of scandal; and, during the laugh which it excited, -Prévan resumed his place, and the general conversation -changed. But the two Comtesses de B***, by the side -of whom our sceptic sat, had a private conversation -with him, which luckily I was in a position to overhear.</p> - -<p>The challenge to render you susceptible was accepted; -word was pledged that everything was to be told: and of -all the pledges that might be given in this adventure, this -one should assuredly be the most religiously kept. But -there you are, forewarned, and you know the proverb.</p> - -<p>It remains for me to tell you that this Prévan, whom -you do not know, is infinitely amiable, and even more -adroit. If you have sometimes heard me declare the -contrary, it is only that I do not like him, that it is -my pleasure to thwart his success, and that I am not -ignorant of the weight of my suffrage with thirty or -so of our most fashionable women. In fact, I prevented -him for long, by this means, from appearing on what -we call the great scene; and he did prodigies, without -for that winning any more reputation. But the fame of -his triple adventure, by turning people’s eyes on him, -gave him that confidence which hitherto he had -lacked, and which has rendered him really formidable. -He is, in short, to-day perhaps the only man whom I -should fear to meet in my path; and, apart from your own -interest, you will be rendering me a real service by making -him appear ridiculous by the way. I leave him in good -hands, and I cherish the hope that, on my return, he will -be a ruined man.</p> - -<p>I promise, in revenge, to carry through the adventure of<span class="pagenum" id="Page_205">[205]</span> -your pupil, and to concern myself as much with her as -with my fair prude.</p> - -<p>The latter has just sent me a letter of capitulation. -The whole letter announces her desire to be deceived. -It is impossible to suggest a method more time-worn or -more easy. She wishes me to become <i>her friend</i>. But I, -who love new and difficult methods, do not mean to cry quits -with her so cheaply; and I most certainly should not have -been at such pains with her, to conclude with an ordinary -seduction.</p> - -<p>What I propose, on the contrary, is that she should feel, -and feel thoroughly, the value of each one of the sacrifices -she shall make me; not to lead her too swiftly for -remorse to follow her; to let her virtue expire in a slow -agony; to concentrate her, unceasingly, upon the heartbreaking -spectacle; and only to grant her the happiness -of having me in her arms, after compelling her no -longer to dissimulate her desire. In truth, I am of little -worth indeed, if I am not worth the trouble of asking for. -And can I take a less revenge for the haughtiness of a -woman who seems to blush to confess that she adores?</p> - -<p>I have, therefore, refused the precious friendship, and -have held to my title of lover. As I do not deny that -this title, which seems at first no more than a verbal -quibble, is, however, of real importance to obtain, I have -taken a great deal of pains with my letter, and endeavoured -to be lavish of that disorder which alone can depict -sentiment. I have, in short, been as irrational as it was -possible for me to be: for, without one be irrational, there -is no tenderness; and it is for this reason, I believe, that -women are so much our superiors in love-letters.</p> - -<p>I concluded mine with a piece of cajolery; and that is<span class="pagenum" id="Page_206">[206]</span> -another result of my profound observation. After a -woman’s heart has been for some time exercised, it has -need of repose; and I have remarked that cajolery was, -to all, the softest pillow that could be offered.</p> - -<p>Adieu, my lovely friend; I leave to-morrow. If you -have any commands to give me for the Comtesse de ***, -I will halt at her house, at any rate for dinner. I am -vexed to leave without seeing you. Send me your sublime -instructions, and aid me with your wise counsels, in this -critical moment.</p> - -<p>Above all, defend yourself against Prévan; and grant that -I may make amends to you one day for the sacrifice! -Adieu.</p> - -<p class="right"> -Paris, 11th September, 17**. -</p> -<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> - -<div class="chapter"> -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_207">[207]</span></p> - -<h2 class="nobreak" id="LETTER_THE_SEVENTY-FIRST">LETTER THE SEVENTY-FIRST - -<br><small>THE VICOMTE DE VALMONT TO THE MARQUISE DE MERTEUIL</small></h2> -</div> - -<p class="noin"><span class="smcap">My</span> idiot of a <i>chasseur</i> has left my desk in Paris! My fair -one’s letters, those of Danceny to the little Volanges: all have -remained behind, and I have need of all. He is going -off to repair his stupidity; and whilst he is saddling his -horse, I will tell you my night’s story: for I beg you to -believe I do not waste my time.</p> - -<p>The adventure in itself is but a small thing; a <i>réchauffé</i> -with the Vicomtesse de M***. But it interested me in its -details. I am delighted, moreover, to let you see that, if -I have a talent for ruining women, I have none the less, -when I wish it, that of saving them. The most difficult -course or the merriest is the one I choose; and I never -reproach myself for a good action, provided that it has kept -me in practice or amused me.</p> - -<p>I found the Vicomtesse here, and as she joined her entreaties -to the persecutions with which they would make me pass the -night at the <i>château</i>: “Well, I consent,” I said to her, “on -condition that I pass it with you.” “That is impossible,” -she answered: “Vressac is here.” So far, I had but meant -to say the polite thing to her; but the word impossible revolted -me as usual. I felt humiliated at being sacrificed to Vressac, -and I resolved not to suffer it; I insisted therefore.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_208">[208]</span></p> - -<p>Circumstances were not favourable to me. This Vressac -had been awkward enough to give offence to the Vicomte; -so much so that the Vicomtesse can no longer receive him -at home, and this visit to the good Comtesse had been -arranged between them, in order to try and snatch a few -nights. The Vicomte had at first even shown signs of ill-humour -at meeting Vressac there; but, as his love of sport -is even stronger than his jealousy, he stayed none the -less: and the Comtesse, always the same as you know her, -after lodging the wife in the great corridor, put the husband -on one side and the lover on the other, and left them -to arrange things amongst themselves. The evil destiny of -both willed that I should be housed opposite them.</p> - -<p>That very day, that is to say, yesterday, Vressac, who, -as you will well believe, cajoles the Vicomte, went out -shooting with him in spite of his distaste for sport, and -quite counted on consoling himself at night in the wife’s -arms for the <i>ennui</i> which the husband caused him all -day: but I judged that he would have need of repose, -and busied myself with the means of persuading his mistress -to give him the time to take it.</p> - -<p>I succeeded, and persuaded her to pick a quarrel with -him concerning that very same shooting party to which, -very obviously, he had only consented for her sake. She -could not have chosen a more sorry pretext; but no -woman is better endowed than the Vicomtesse with that -talent, common to all women, of putting ill-humour in the -place of reason, and of being never so difficult to appease -as when she is in the wrong. Neither was the moment -convenient for explanations; and, as I only wished her for -one night, I consented to their reconciliation on the morrow.</p> - -<p>Vressac was greeted sullenly on his return. He sought<span class="pagenum" id="Page_209">[209]</span> -to demand the cause; he was abused. He tried to justify -himself; the husband, who was present, served for a pretext -to break off the conversation; finally, he attempted to take -advantage of a moment when the husband was absent, to -ask that she would be kind enough to listen to him that -night: it was then that the Vicomtesse became sublime. -She declaimed against the audacity of men who, because -they have experienced a woman’s favours, suppose that -they have the right to abuse her, even when she has -cause of complaint against him; and, having thus skilfully -changed the issue, she talked sentiment and delicacy so -well that Vressac grew dumb and confused, and I myself -was tempted to believe that she was right: for you must -know that, as a friend of both of them, I made a third at -this conversation.</p> - -<p>In the end, she declared positively that she would not -add the fatigues of love to those of the chase, and that -she would reproach herself were she to disturb such sweet -pleasures. The husband returned. The disconsolate Vressac, -who was no longer at liberty to reply, addressed himself -to me; and, having, at great length, expounded his reasons, -which I knew as well as he, he begged me to speak to -the Vicomtesse, and I promised him to do so. I spoke -to her, in effect; but it was in order to thank her, and -to arrange the hour and manner of our <i>rendez-vous</i>.</p> - -<p>She told me that, situated as she was between her -husband and her lover, she had thought it more prudent -to go to Vressac than to receive him in her apartment; -and that, since I was placed opposite her, she thought it -was safer also to come to me; that she would repair to my -room as soon as her waiting-maid had left her alone; -that I had only to leave my door ajar and await her.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_210">[210]</span></p> - -<p>Everything was carried out as we had arranged; and -she came to my room about one o’clock in the morning,</p> - -<div class="poetry-container"> -<div class="poetry"> - <div class="stanza"> - <div class="verse indent19"><i>“Dans le simple appareil</i></div> - <div class="verse indent0"><i>D’une beauté qu’on vient d’arracher au sommeil.”</i><a id="FNanchor_24" href="#Footnote_24" class="fnanchor">[24]</a></div> - </div> -</div> -</div> - -<p>As I am quite without vanity, I will not go into the -details of the night; but you know me, and I was satisfied -with myself.</p> - -<p>At day-break, we had to separate. It is here that the -interest begins. The imprudent woman had thought to -have left her door ajar; we found it shut, and the key -was left inside. You have no idea of the expression of -despair, with which the Vicomtesse said to me at once: -“Ah, I am lost!” You must admit it would have been -amusing to have left her in this situation: but could I suffer -a woman to be ruined for me who had not been ruined by -me? And should I, like the commonalty of men, let myself -be overcome by circumstances? A method had to be -found therefore. What would you have done, my fair -friend? Hear what was my conduct; it was successful.</p> - -<p>I soon realized that the door in question could be burst -in, on condition that one made a mighty amount of noise. -I persuaded the Vicomtesse, therefore, not without difficulty, -to utter some piercing cries of terror, such as <i>thieves, -murder</i>, etc., etc. And we arranged that, at the first cry, -I should break in the door, and she should rush to her -bed. You would not believe how much time it needed -to decide her, even after she had consented. However, -it had to be done that way, and at my first kick the door -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_211">[211]</span>yielded. The Vicomtesse did well not to lose time; for, -at the same instant, the Vicomte and Vressac were in the -corridor, and the waiting-maid had also run up to her -mistress’s chamber. I alone kept my coolness, and I -profited by it to go and extinguish a night-light which -still burned, for you can imagine how ridiculous it would -have been to feign this panic terror with a light in one’s -room. I then took husband and lover to task for their -sluggish sleep, assuring them that the cries, at which I -had run up, and my efforts to burst open the door, had -lasted at least five minutes.</p> - -<div class="figcenter illowp45" id="243" style="max-width: 30.875em;"> - <img class="w100" src="images/243.jpg" alt=""> - <div class="caption"><i>C. Monnet inv.del</i> <span class="captionr"><i>N. Le Mire Sculp.</i></span></div> -</div> -<div class="sync"> </div> -<p>The Vicomtesse, who had regained her courage in bed, -seconded me well enough, and swore by all her gods that -there had been a thief in her chamber; she protested -with all the more sincerity in that she had never had -such a fright in her life. We searched everywhere and -found nothing, when I pointed to the overturned night-light, -and concluded that, without a doubt, a rat had -caused the damage and the alarm; my opinion was -accepted unanimously; and, after some well-worn pleasantries -on the subject of rats, the Vicomte was the first to -regain his chamber and his bed, praying his wife for the -future to keep her rats quieter.</p> - -<p>Vressac, who was left alone with us, approached the -Vicomtesse to tell her tenderly that it was a vengeance -of Love; to which she answered, glancing at me, “He -was indeed angry then, for he has taken ample vengeance; -but,” she added, “I am exhausted with fatigue and I -want to sleep.”</p> - -<p>I was in a good-humoured moment; consequently, -before we separated, I pleaded Vressac’s cause and -effected a reconciliation. The two lovers embraced, and<span class="pagenum" id="Page_212">[212]</span> -I, in my turn, was embraced by both. I had no more -relish for the kisses of the Vicomtesse; but I confess -that Vressac’s pleased me. We went out together; and -after I had accepted his lengthy thanks, we both betook -ourselves to bed.</p> - -<p>If you find this history amusing, I do not ask you to -keep it secret. Now that I have had my amusement -out of it, it is but just that the public should have its turn. -For the moment, I am only speaking of the story; perhaps, -we shall soon say as much of the heroine.</p> - -<p>Adieu! My <i>chasseur</i> has been waiting for an hour; -I take only the time to embrace you, and to recommend -you, above all, to beware of Prévan.</p> - -<p class="right"> -At the Château de ..., 15th September, 17**. -</p> -<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> - -<div class="chapter"> -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_213">[213]</span></p> - -<h2 class="nobreak" id="LETTER_THE_SEVENTY-SECOND">LETTER THE SEVENTY-SECOND - -<br><small>THE CHEVALIER DANCENY TO CÉCILE VOLANGES</small></h2> -</div> - -<p class="center">(Not delivered until the 14th)</p> - -<p class="noin">O <span class="smcap">my</span> Cécile! how I envy Valmont’s lot! To-morrow he -will see you: it is he who will give you this letter, and I, -languishing afar from you, must drag on my painful -existence betwixt unhappiness and regret. My friend, my -tender friend, pity my misfortunes; above all, pity me for -your own: it is in the face of them that my courage -deserts me.</p> - -<p>How terrible it is to me that I should have caused -your misfortune! But for me, you would be happy and -tranquil. Can you forgive me? Ah, say, say that you -forgive me; tell me also that you love me, that you will -always love me. I need that you repeat it to me. It is -not that I doubt it: but it seems to me that, the more -sure I am of it, the sweeter it is to hear it said. You -love me, do you not? Yes, you love me with all your -soul. I do not forget that it is the last word I heard -you utter. How I have treasured it in my heart! How -deeply it is graven there! And with what transports has -not mine replied to it!</p> - -<p>Alas, in that moment of happiness, I was far from foreseeing -the awful fate which awaited us! Let us occupy<span class="pagenum" id="Page_214">[214]</span> -ourselves, my Cécile, with the means of alleviating it. If -I am to believe my friend, it will suffice, to attain this, -that you should treat him with the confidence which he -deserves.</p> - -<p>I was grieved, I confess, at the unfavourable opinion -you appear to have had of him. I recognized there the -prejudices of your Mamma; it was to submit to them -that, for some time past, I had neglected that truly amiable -man, who to-day does everything for me; who, in short, -labours to reunite us, whom your Mamma has separated. -I implore you, my dear friend, look upon him with a -more favourable eye. Reflect that he is my friend, that -he wishes to be yours, that he can afford me the happiness -of seeing you. If these reasons do not convince you, my -Cécile, you do not love me as well as I love you, you -do not love me as much as you used to love me. Ah, -if ever you were to come to love me less! But no, the -heart of my Cécile is mine, it is mine for life; and if I -have to dread the pain of a love which is unfortunate, -her constancy will save me at least from the torments of -a love betrayed.</p> - -<p>Adieu, my charming friend; do not forget how I suffer, -and that it only rests with you to make me happy, completely -happy. Hear my heart’s vow, and receive the -most tender kisses of love.</p> - -<p class="right"> -Paris, 11th September, 17**. -</p> -<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> - -<div class="chapter"> -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_215">[215]</span></p> - -<h2 class="nobreak" id="LETTER_THE_SEVENTY-THIRD">LETTER THE SEVENTY-THIRD - -<br><small>THE VICOMTE DE VALMONT TO CÉCILE VOLANGES</small></h2> -</div> - -<p class="center">(Delivered with the preceding)</p> - -<p class="noin"><span class="smcap">The</span> friend who serves you knows that you have no -writing materials, and he has already provided for this -want. You will find in the ante-room of the apartment -you occupy, beneath the great press, on the left-hand -side, a supply of pens, ink, and paper, which he will -renew when you require it, and which, so it seems to -him, you can leave in the same place, if you do not find -a surer one.</p> - -<p>He asks you not to be offended with him, if he seems -to pay no attention to you in public, and only to regard -you as a child. This behaviour seems to him necessary, -in order to inspire the sense of security of which he has -need, and to enable him to work more effectively for his -friend’s happiness and your own. He will try to find -occasions for speaking with you, when he has anything -to tell you or give to you; and he hopes to succeed, -if you show any zeal to second him.</p> - -<p>He also advises you to return to him, successively, the -letters which you may have received, in order that there -may be less risk of your compromising yourself.</p> - -<p>He concludes by assuring you that, if you will give him<span class="pagenum" id="Page_216">[216]</span> -your confidence, he will take every care to alleviate the -persecution that a too harsh mother is using against two -persons of whom one is already his best friend, whilst the -other seems to him worthy of the most tender interest.</p> - -<p class="right"> -At the Château de ..., 14th September, 17**. -</p> -<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> - -<div class="chapter"> -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_217">[217]</span></p> - -<h2 class="nobreak" id="LETTER_THE_SEVENTY-FOURTH">LETTER THE SEVENTY-FOURTH - -<br><small>THE MARQUISE DE MERTEUIL TO THE VICOMTE DE VALMONT</small></h2> -</div> - -<p class="noin"><span class="smcap">Ah</span>, since when, my friend, do you take alarm so easily? -Is this Prévan so very formidable then? But see how -simple and modest am I! I have often met him, this -haughty conqueror; I hardly looked at him! It required -nothing less than your letter to excite that amount of -attention from me. I repaired my injustice yesterday. -He was at the Opera, almost exactly opposite me, and -I took stock of him. He is handsome at any rate, yes, -very handsome: fine and delicate features! He must gain -by being seen close at hand. And you tell me he wants -to have me! Assuredly it will be my honour and pleasure. -Seriously, I have a fancy for it, and I now confide to you -that I have taken the first steps. I do not know if they -will succeed. Thus the matter stands.</p> - -<p>He was not two paces off from me, as we came out -from the Opera, and I, very loudly, made an appointment -with the Marquise de *** to sup on Friday with the -Maréchale. It is, I think, the only house where I can -meet him. I have no doubt that he heard me.... If -the ungrateful fellow were not to come! But tell me, do -you think he will come? Do you know that, if he were -not to come, I should be in a bad humour all the evening?<span class="pagenum" id="Page_218">[218]</span> -You see that he will not find so much difficulty in <i>following -me</i>; what will more astonish you is that he will have still -less in <i>pleasing me</i>. He would, he said, kill six horses in -paying his court to me! Oh, I will save those horses’ -lives! I shall never have the patience to wait so long a -time. You know it is not one of my principles to leave -people languishing, when once I am decided; and I am -for him.</p> - -<p>Please now confess that there is some pleasure in talking -reason to me! Has not your <i>important warning</i> been a -great success? But what would you have? I have been -vegetating for so long! It is more than six weeks since -I permitted myself a diversion. This one presents itself; -can I refuse myself it? Is not the object worth the trouble? -Is there any more agreeable, in whatever sense you take -the word?</p> - -<p>You yourself are forced to do him justice; you do more -than praise him, you are jealous of him. Ah, well! I will -not set up as judge between the two of you; but, to begin -with, one should investigate, and that is what I want to -do. I shall be an impartial judge, and you shall both be -weighed in the same balance. As for you, I already have -your papers, and your affair is thoroughly enquired into. -Is it not only just that I should now occupy myself with -your adversary? Come now, yield with a good grace; -and as a commencement, let me hear, I beg you, what -is this triple adventure of which he is the hero. You -speak of it to me as though I knew of nothing else, and -I do not know the first word of it. Apparently, it must -have occurred during my expedition to Geneva, and your -jealousy prevented you from writing to me about it. Repair -this fault at the earliest possible; remember that <i>nothing<span class="pagenum" id="Page_219">[219]</span> -which interests him is alien to me</i>. I certainly think that -they were still talking of it when I returned; but I was -otherwise occupied, and I rarely listen to anything of that -sort which is not the affair of to-day or of yesterday.</p> - -<p>Even if what I ask of you should go somewhat against -the grain, is it not the least price you can pay for the -pains I have taken for you? Have these not sent you back -to your Présidente, when your blunders had separated you -from her? Was it not I, again, who put into your hands -the wherewithal to revenge yourself for the bitter zeal of -Madame de Volanges? You have complained so often -of the time you waste in searching after your adventures! -Now, you have them under your thumb. Betwixt love and -hate, you have but to choose; they both lie under the -same roof; and you can double your existence, caress -with one hand and strike with the other. It is even to me, -again, that you owe the adventure of the Vicomtesse. I -am quite satisfied with it; but, as you say, it must be -talked about; for if the situation could induce you, as I -conceive, to prefer for a moment mystery to <i>éclat</i>, it must -be admitted, none the less, that the woman did not merit -so honourable a procedure.</p> - -<p>I have besides, cause of complaint against her. The -Chevalier de Belleroche finds her prettier than is to my -liking; and, for many reasons, I shall be glad to have a -pretext for breaking with her: now none is more convenient -than to be obliged to say: One cannot possibly know that -woman any longer.</p> - -<p>Adieu, Vicomte; remember that, situated as you are, time -is precious; I shall employ mine by occupying myself with -Prévan’s happiness.</p> - -<p class="right"> -Paris, 15th September, 17**. -</p> -<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> - -<div class="chapter"> -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_220">[220]</span></p> - -<h2 class="nobreak" id="LETTER_THE_SEVENTY-FIFTH">LETTER THE SEVENTY-FIFTH - -<br><small>CÉCILE VOLANGES TO SOPHIE CARNAY</small></h2> -</div> - -<p class="noin">[<i>N.B. In this letter, Cécile Volanges relates with the utmost -detail all that concerns her in the events which the Reader -already knows from the conclusion of the <a href="#LETTER_THE_FIFTY-NINTH">fifty-ninth</a> and -following letters. It seemed as well to suppress this repetition. -She finally speaks of the Vicomte de Valmont, and expresses -herself thus:</i>]</p> - -<p>... I <span class="smcap">assure</span> you that he is a most remarkable man. -Mamma speaks mighty ill of him, but the Chevalier Danceny -says much in his favour, and I think that he is right. I -have never seen a man so clever. When he gave me -Danceny’s letter, it was in the midst of all the company, -and nobody saw anything of it: it is true I was terribly -frightened, because I had not expected anything; but now -I shall be prepared. I have already quite understood what -he wants me to do when I give him my answer. It is -very easy to understand him, because he has a look which -says anything he wants. I don’t know how he does it: -he told me in his note that he would appear not to take -any notice of me before Mamma; indeed, one would say, -all the time, that he never thinks of me, and yet, every -time I seek his eyes, I am sure to meet them at once.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_221">[221]</span></p> - -<p>There is a great friend of Mamma’s here, whom I did -not know, who also has the air of not loving M. de Valmont -too well, although he is full of attentions for her. I am -afraid that he will bore himself soon with the life one -leads here, and go back to Paris; that would be very -vexing. He must indeed have a good heart to have come -on purpose to do a service to his friend and me. I should -much like to show my gratitude to him, but I do not -know how to get speech with him; and when I find the -occasion, I should be so ashamed that, perhaps, I should -not know what to say to him.</p> - -<p>It is only to Madame de Merteuil that I talk freely, -when I speak of my love. Perhaps, even with you, to -whom I tell everything, I should feel embarrassed if we -were talking. With Danceny himself, I have often felt, -as though in spite of myself, a certain alarm which prevented -me from telling him all that I thought. I reproach -myself greatly for this now, and I would give everything -in the world to find a moment to tell him once, only -once, how much I love him. M. de Valmont promised -him that, if I would be guided by him, he would contrive -an opportunity for us to see one another again. I will -certainly do everything he wants; but I cannot conceive -how it is possible. Adieu, my dear friend; I have no -more room left.<a id="FNanchor_25" href="#Footnote_25" class="fnanchor">[25]</a></p> - -<p class="right"> -At the Château de ..., 14th September, 17**. -</p> -<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> - -<div class="chapter"> -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_222">[222]</span></p> - -<h2 class="nobreak" id="LETTER_THE_SEVENTY-SIXTH">LETTER THE SEVENTY-SIXTH - -<br><small>THE VICOMTE DE VALMONT TO THE MARQUISE DE MERTEUIL</small></h2> -</div> - -<p class="noin"><span class="smcap">Either</span> your letter is a piece of banter which I have not -understood, or you were in a dangerous delirium when you -wrote it. If I knew you less well, my lovely friend, I should -truly be most alarmed; and, whatever you may say, I do -not take alarm too easily.</p> - -<p>It is in vain that I read and re-read your letter, I -am none the more advanced; for to take it in the natural -sense which it presents is out of the question. What was -it then you wished to say? Is it merely that it was useless -to take so much trouble with an enemy who was so little -to be feared? In that case, you might be wrong. Prévan -is really attractive; he is more so than you believe; he -has, above all, the most useful talent of interesting people -greatly in his love, by the skill with which he will bring -it up in society, and before the company, by making use -of the first conversation which occurs. There are few -women who do not fall into the trap and reply to him, -because, all having pretensions to subtilty, none wishes to -lose an opportunity of displaying it. Now you are well -aware that the woman who consents to talk of love soon -finishes by feeling it, or at least by behaving as if she did. -He gains again at this method, which he has really brought<span class="pagenum" id="Page_223">[223]</span> -to perfection, in that he can often call the women themselves -in testimony of their defeat; and this I tell you, as -one who has seen it.</p> - -<p>I was never in the secret except at second-hand; for I -have never been intimate with Prévan: but, in a word, there -were six of us: and the Comtesse de P***, thinking -herself very artful all the time, and having the air indeed, -to any one who was not initiated, of conversing in the -abstract, told us, with the utmost detail, both how she had -succumbed to Prévan, and all that had passed between -them. She told this narrative with such a sense of security -that she was not even disturbed by a smile which came -over all our six faces at the same time; and I shall always -remember that one of us, having sought, by way of excuse, -to feign a doubt as to what she said, or rather of what -she had the air of saying, she answered gravely that we -were certainly, none of us, so well informed as she was; -and she was not afraid even to address herself to Prévan, -and ask him if she had said a word which was not -true.</p> - -<p>I was right then in believing this man dangerous to -everybody: but for you, Marquise, was it not enough that -he was <i>handsome, very handsome</i>, as you tell me yourself? -Or that he should make <i>one of those attacks on you which -you sometimes amuse yourself by rewarding, for no other -reason than that you find them well contrived?</i> Or that -you should have found it amusing to succumb for any -reason whatever? Or—what do I know? Can I divine -the thousand and one caprices which govern a woman’s -head, and in which alone you continue to take after your sex? -Now that you are forewarned of the danger, I have no doubt -that you will easily avoid it: but it was none the less<span class="pagenum" id="Page_224">[224]</span> -necessary to forewarn you. I return to my text therefore: -what did you mean to say?</p> - -<p>If it is only a piece of banter against Prévan, apart from -its being very long, it was of no use, addressed to me; -it is in society that he must suffer some excellent piece -of ridicule, and I renew my prayer to you on this subject.</p> - -<p>Ah! I think I hold the key to the enigma! Your -letter is a prophecy, not of what you will do, but of what -he will think you ready to do, at the moment of the fall -which you have prepared for him. I quite approve of this -plan: it requires, however, great precautions. You know -as well as I do that, as far as the public is concerned, -to have a man or to receive his attentions is absolutely the -same thing, unless the man be a fool, which Prévan is -very far from being. If he can gain the appearances, he -will boast, and all will have been said. Fools will believe -him, the malicious will have the air of believing; where -will your resources be? Remember, I am afraid. It is -not that I doubt your skill: but it is the good swimmers -who get drowned.</p> - -<p>I hold myself to be no duller than another: as for -means of dishonouring a woman, I have found a hundred, -I have found a thousand; but when I have busied myself -to seek how the woman could escape, I have never seen -the possibility. You yourself, my fair friend, whose conduct -is a masterpiece, I have a hundred times found you to -have had more good-luck than you have shown skill.</p> - -<p>But, after all, I am, perhaps, seeking for a reason where -none exists. I am amazed, however, to think that, for -the last hour, I should have been treating seriously what -is surely a mere jest on your part. You intend to make -fun of me! Ah well! so be it; but make haste, and let<span class="pagenum" id="Page_225">[225]</span> -us speak of something else. Something else! I am -mistaken, it is always the same; always women to have -or to ruin, and often both.</p> - -<p>I have here, as you remark, the wherewithal to exercise -myself in both kinds, but not with equal ease. I foresee -that vengeance will go quicker than love. The little -Volanges has succumbed, I answer for that; she only -awaits an opportunity, and I undertake to bring it about. -But it is not the same with Madame de Tourvel: this -woman is disheartening, I did not conceive it of her; I -have a hundred proofs of her love, but I have a thousand -of her resistance; and, in truth, I am afraid lest she -escape me.</p> - -<p>The first effect which my return produced gave me more -hope. You will guess that I wished to judge for myself; -and, to make sure of seeing the first emotions, I sent no -one ahead to announce me, and I calculated my stages -so as to arrive when they should be at table. In fact, I -dropped from the clouds, like a divinity at the opera, who -comes to effect a <i>dénouement</i>.</p> - -<p>Having made enough noise at my entry to attract all -eyes to me, I could see, in one glance, the joy of my old -aunt, the annoyance of Madame de Volanges and the -confused pleasure of her daughter. My fair one, owing to -the seat she occupied, had her back turned to the door. -Busy at the moment in carving something, she did not -even turn her head: but I said a word to Madame de -Rosemonde; and at the first sound, the sensitive Puritan, -recognizing my voice, uttered a cry in which I thought -I distinguished more love than terror or surprise. I -was then in a position to see her face; the tumult of -her soul, the struggle between her ideas and sentiments,<span class="pagenum" id="Page_226">[226]</span> -were depicted on it in a score of different fashions. I sat -down to table by her side; she did not know precisely -anything of what she did or said. She endeavoured to go -on eating; it was out of the question: finally, not a quarter -of an hour later, her pleasure and confusion becoming -too strong for her, she could devise nothing better than -to ask permission to leave the table, and she escaped into -the park, on the pretext that she needed to take the air. -Madame de Volanges wanted to accompany her; the tender -prude would not permit it, too happy, no doubt, to have -a pretext for being alone, and to give way without constraint -to the soft emotion of her heart!</p> - -<p>I made the dinner as short as it was possible to do. -Dessert was hardly served, when the infernal Volanges -woman, pressed apparently by her need to injure me, rose -from her seat to go and find the charming invalid: but I -had foreseen this project and I thwarted it. I feigned -therefore to take this particular movement for the general -signal; and, having risen at the same time, the little -Volanges and the <i>curé</i> of the place followed the double -example; so that Madame de Rosemonde was left alone -at the table with the old Commandant de T***; and -they also both decided to leave. We all went then to -rejoin my fair one, whom we found in the grove near the -<i>château</i>: as it was solitude she wanted and not a walk, -she was just as pleased to return with us as to make us -stay with her.</p> - -<p>As soon as I was certain that Madame de Volanges -would have no opportunity to speak apart with her, I -thought of fulfilling your orders, and busied myself about -the interests of your pupil. Immediately after coffee, I -went up to my room, and went into the others also, to<span class="pagenum" id="Page_227">[227]</span> -explore the territory; I took measures to ensure the little -girl’s correspondence; after this first piece of benevolence, -I wrote a word of instruction to her and to beg for her -confidence; and I added my note to the letter from -Danceny. I returned to the <i>salon</i>. I found my beauty -reclining on a long chair, in an attitude of delicious -unconstraint.</p> - -<p>This spectacle, whilst exciting my desires, illumined my -gaze; I felt that this must be tender and beseeching, and -I placed myself in such a position that I could bring it -into play. Its first effect was to cause the big, modest -eyes of the heavenly prude to be cast down. For some -time I considered that angelic face; then, glancing over -all her person, I amused myself by divining forms and -contours through the light clothing, which I could have -wished away. After having descended from head to feet, -I returned from feet to head.... My fair friend, her soft gaze -was fixed upon me; it was immediately lowered; but wishing -to promote its return, I averted my eyes. Then was -established between us that tacit convention, a first treaty -of bashful love, which, in order to satisfy the reciprocal -need of seeing, allows the looks to succeed one another, -until the moment comes when they are mingled.</p> - -<p>Convinced that this new pleasure occupied my fair one -completely, I charged myself with the task of watching -over our common safety; but, having assured myself that -conversation was brisk enough to save us from the notice -of the company, I sought to obtain from her eyes that -they should frankly speak their language. For this, I began -by surprising certain glances, but with so much reserve that -modesty could not take alarm; and to put the bashful creature -more at her ease, I appeared to be as embarrassed as herself.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_228">[228]</span></p> - -<p>Little by little our eyes, grown accustomed to encounter, -were fixed for a longer interval; until at last they quitted -each other no more, and I saw in hers that sweet languor -which is the happy signal of love and desire: but it was -only for a moment; soon recovering herself, she changed, -not without a certain shame, her attitude and her look.</p> - -<p>Being unwilling that she should suspect I had observed -her different movements, I rose with vivacity, asking her, -with an air of alarm, if she were unwell. At once, everybody -rushed round her. I let them all pass in front of -me; and as the little Volanges, who was working at her -tapestry near a window, needed some time before she could -leave her task, I seized the moment to deliver Danceny’s -letter.</p> - -<p>I was at a little distance from her; I threw the letter -into her lap. In truth she did not know what to do. You -would have laughed over much at her air of surprise and -embarrassment; however, I did not laugh, for I feared -lest so much clumsiness might betray us. But a quick -glance and gesture, strongly accentuated, gave her to understand -at last that she was to put the packet in her pocket.</p> - -<p>The rest of the day contained nothing of interest. What -has passed since will, perhaps, bring about events with -which you will be pleased, at any rate in so far as your -pupil is concerned: but it is better to employ one’s time -in carrying out one’s projects than in describing them. -This is, moreover, the eighth sheet I have written, and I -am wearied; and so, adieu.</p> - -<p>You will rightly suppose, without my telling it you, that -the child has replied to Danceny.<a id="FNanchor_26" href="#Footnote_26" class="fnanchor">[26]</a> I have also had a<span class="pagenum" id="Page_229">[229]</span> -reply from my fair, to whom I wrote on the morrow of -my arrival. I send you the two letters. You will or you -will not read them: for this incessant, tedious repetition, -which already is none too amusing to me, must be insipid -indeed to any person not concerned.</p> - -<p>Once more, adieu. I am ever mightily fond of you; -but I beg you, if you write to me of Prévan, do so in -such a manner that I may understand you.</p> - -<p class="right"> -At the Château de ..., 17th September, 17**. -</p> -<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> - -<div class="chapter"> -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_230">[230]</span></p> - -<h2 class="nobreak" id="LETTER_THE_SEVENTY-SEVENTH">LETTER THE SEVENTY-SEVENTH - -<br><small>THE VICOMTE DE VALMONT TO THE PRÉSIDENTE DE TOURVEL</small></h2> -</div> - -<p class="noin"><span class="smcap">Whence</span>, Madame, can arise the cruel pains which you -are at to shun me? How can it be that the most tender -zeal on my part meets on yours only with the treatment which -one would barely permit one’s self with the man against -whom one had the greatest cause to complain? What! -Love calls me back to your feet; and when a happy chance -places me at your side, you prefer to feign indisposition, -to alarm your friends, rather than consent to remain -near me! How many times, yesterday, did you not turn -away your eyes to deprive me of the favour of a glance! -And if for one single moment I was able to see less -severity there, that moment was so short that it seemed -as though you wished less to have me enjoy it than -to make me feel what I should lose by being deprived -of it.</p> - -<p>That is not, I venture to say, either the treatment which -love deserves, or that which friendship may be allowed; -and yet, of these two sentiments, you know whether the one -does not animate me; and the other I was, it seems to -me, authorized to believe that you did not withhold. This -precious friendship, of which you doubtless thought me -worthy, since you were kind enough to offer it me—what<span class="pagenum" id="Page_231">[231]</span> -have I done that I should lose it since? Could I have -damaged myself by my confidence, and will you punish -me for my frankness? At least, have you no fear lest -you abuse the one and the other? In effect, was it not -to the bosom of my friend that I entrusted the secret of -my heart? Was it not face to face with her alone that I -thought myself obliged to refuse conditions which I had -only to accept in order to obtain the facility for leaving them -unfulfilled, and perhaps of abusing them to my advantage? -Would you, in short, by a rigour so undeserved, force -me to believe that I had needed but to deceive you in -order to obtain greater indulgence?</p> - -<p>I do not repent of a conduct which I owed you, as I -owed it to myself; but by what fatality does each praiseworthy -action of mine become the signal for a fresh misfortune?</p> - -<p>It was after giving occasion for the only praise you -have ever yet deigned to accord my conduct that I -had to groan, for the first time, over the misfortune of -having displeased you. It was after proving my perfect -submission by depriving myself of the happiness of -seeing you, simply to reassure your delicacy, that you -wished to break off all correspondence with me, to rob -me of that feeble compensation for a sacrifice which you -had required, and to take from me even the very love -which alone had given you the right to ask it. It is, in -short, after having spoken to you with a sincerity which -even the interest of that love could not abate that you -shun me to-day, like some dangerous seducer whose perfidy -you have found out.</p> - -<p>Will you, then, never grow weary of being unjust? At -least, tell me what new wrongs can have urged you to<span class="pagenum" id="Page_232">[232]</span> -such severity, and do not refuse to dictate to me the orders -which you wish me to obey; when I pledge myself to -fulfil them, is it too great a pretension to ask that I may -know them?</p> - -<p class="right"> -At the Château de ..., 15th September, 17**. -</p> -<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> - -<div class="chapter"> -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_233">[233]</span></p> - -<h2 class="nobreak" id="LETTER_THE_SEVENTY-EIGHTH">LETTER THE SEVENTY-EIGHTH - -<br><small>THE PRÉSIDENTE DE TOURVEL TO THE VICOMTE DE VALMONT</small></h2> -</div> - -<p class="noin"><span class="smcap">You</span> seem surprised at my behaviour, Monsieur, and -within an ace of asking me to account to you for it, as -though you had the right to blame it. I confess that I -should have thought it was rather I who was authorized -to be astonished and to complain; but, since the refusal -contained in your last letter, I have adopted the course -of wrapping myself in an indifference which affords no -ground for remarks or reproaches. However, as you ask -me for enlightenment, and I, thanks be to Heaven, am -conscious of naught within me which should prevent my -granting your request, I am quite willing to enter once -more into an explanation with you.</p> - -<p>Anyone reading your letters would believe me to be -fantastic or unjust. I think it is not in my deserts that -anyone should have this opinion of me; it seems to me, -above all, that you, less than any other, have cause to form -it. Doubtless, you felt that, in requiring my justification, you -forced me to recall all that has passed between us. -Apparently, you thought you had only to gain by this -examination: as I, on my side, believe I have nothing to -lose by it, at least in your eyes, I do not fear to undertake -it. Perhaps, it is indeed the only means of discovering<span class="pagenum" id="Page_234">[234]</span> -which of us has the right to complain of the other.</p> - -<p>To start, Monsieur, from the day of your arrival in this -<i>château</i>, you will admit, I suppose, that your reputation, -at least, authorized me to employ a certain reserve with -you; and that I might have confined myself to the bare -expression of the coldest politeness, without fearing to be -taxed with excessive prudery. You yourself would have -treated me with indulgence, and would have thought -it natural that a woman so little formed should not -have the necessary merits to appreciate yours. That, -surely, had been the part of prudence; and it would have -cost me the less to follow in that, I will not conceal -from you, when Madame de Rosemonde informed me of -your arrival, I had need to remind myself of my friendship -for her, and of her own for you, not to betray -how greatly this news annoyed me.</p> - -<p>I admit willingly that you showed yourself at first under -a more favourable aspect than I had imagined; but you -will agree, in your turn, that it lasted but a little while, and -you were soon tired of a constraint for which, apparently, -you did not find yourself sufficiently compensated by the -advantageous notion it had given me of you. It was then -that, abusing my good faith, my feeling of security, you -were not afraid to pester me with a sentiment by which -you could not doubt but that I should be offended; and -I, whilst you were occupied in aggravating your errors by -repeating them, sought a reason for forgetting them, by -offering you the opportunity of, at least in part, retrieving -them. My request was so just that you yourself thought -you ought not to refuse it; but making a right out of my -indulgence, you profited by it to ask for a permission -which, without a doubt, I ought not to have granted you,<span class="pagenum" id="Page_235">[235]</span> -and which, however, you obtained. Conditions were attached -to it: you have kept no one of them; and your correspondence -has been of such a kind that each one of your -letters made it my duty not to reply to you. It was at -the very moment when your obstinacy was forcing me to -send you away from me that, by a perhaps culpable condescension, -I attempted the only means which could permit -me to be concerned with you: but what value has virtuous -sentiment in your eyes? Friendship you despise; -and, in your mad intoxication, counting shame and misery -for naught, you seek only for pleasures and for victims.</p> - -<p>As frivolous in your proceedings as inconsequent in your -reproaches, you forget your promises, or rather you make -a jest of violating them; and, after consenting to go away -from me, you return here without being recalled; without -thought for my prayers or my arguments; without even -having the consideration to inform me, you were not afraid -to expose me to a surprise whose effect, although assuredly -very simple, might have been interpreted to my detriment -by the persons who surrounded us. Far from seeking to -distract from or to dissipate the moment of embarrassment -you had occasioned, you seem to have given all your pains -to increase it. At table you choose your seat precisely at -the side of my own; a slight indisposition forces me to leave -before the others, and, instead of respecting my solitude, -you contrive that all the company should come to trouble it. -On my return to the drawing-room, I cannot make a step -but I find you at my side; if I say a word, it is always -you who reply to me. The most indifferent remark serves -you for a pretext to bring up a conversation which I refuse -to hear, which might even compromise me; for, in short, -Monsieur, whatever the address you may bring to bear, I<span class="pagenum" id="Page_236">[236]</span> -think that what I understand may also be understood by -the others.</p> - -<p>Forced thus to take refuge in immobility and silence, -you none the less continue to persecute me; I cannot -raise my eyes without encountering yours. I am incessantly -compelled to avert my gaze; and by an incomprehensible -inconsequence you draw upon me the eyes of the company -at a moment when I would have even wished it possible -to escape from my own.</p> - -<p>And you complain of my behaviour! and you are surprised -at my eagerness to avoid you! Ah, blame rather -my indulgence; be surprised that I did not leave at the -moment of your arrival. I ought, perhaps, to have done -so, and you will compel me to this violent, but necessary, -course, if you do not finally cease your offensive pursuit. -No, I do not forget, I never shall forget what I owe to -myself, what I owe to the ties I have formed, which I -respect and cherish; and I pray you to believe that, if -ever I found myself reduced to the unhappy choice of -sacrificing them, or of sacrificing myself, I should not -hesitate an instant. Adieu, Monsieur.</p> - -<p class="right"> -At the Château de ..., 16th September, 17**. -</p> -<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> - -<div class="chapter"> -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_237">[237]</span></p> - -<h2 class="nobreak" id="LETTER_THE_SEVENTY-NINTH">LETTER THE SEVENTY-NINTH - -<br><small>THE VICOMTE DE VALMONT TO THE MARQUISE DE MERTEUIL</small></h2> -</div> - -<p class="noin">I <span class="smcap">intended</span> to go hunting this morning: but the weather -was detestable. All that I have to read is a new romance -which would bore even a school-girl. It will be two hours, -at the earliest, before we breakfast: so that, in spite of my -long letter of yesterday, I will have another talk with you. -I am very certain not to weary you, for I shall tell you of -<i>the handsome Prévan</i>. How was it you never heard of his -famous adventure, the one which separated the <i>inseparables</i>? -I wager that you will recall it at the first word. Here it -is, however, since you desire it.</p> - -<p>You will remember that all Paris marvelled that three -women, all three pretty, all three with like qualities -and able to make the same pretensions, should remain -intimately allied amongst themselves, ever since the -moment of their entry into the world. At first, one -seemed to find the reason in their extreme shyness: -but soon, surrounded, as they were, by a numerous -court whose homages they shared, and enlightened as to -their value by the eagerness and zeal of which they were -the objects, their union only became the firmer; and one -would have said that the triumph of one was always that -of the two others. One hoped at least that the moment<span class="pagenum" id="Page_238">[238]</span> -of love would lead to a certain rivalry. Our rakes disputed -the honour of being the apple of discord; and I -myself should have entered their ranks, had the great -consideration in which the Comtesse de *** was held at the -time permitted me to be unfaithful to her before I had -obtained the favours I demanded.</p> - -<p>However, our three beauties, during the same carnival, -made their choice as though in concert; and, far from this -exciting the storms which had been predicted, it only -rendered their friendship more interesting, by the charm -of the confidences entailed.</p> - -<p>The crowd of unhappy suitors was added, then, to that -of jealous women, and such scandalous constancy was held -up to public censure. Some pretended that, in this society -of <i>inseparables</i> (so it was dubbed at that time), the fundamental -law was the community of goods, and that love -itself was included therein; others asserted that, if the -three lovers were exempt from rivals of their own sex, they -were not from those of the other: people went so far as -to say that they had but been admitted for decency’s sake, -and had obtained only a title without an office.</p> - -<p>These rumours, true or false, had not the effect which one -would have predicted. The three couples, on the contrary, -felt that they were lost if they separated at such a -moment; they decided to set their heads against the storm. -The public, which tires of everything, soon tired of an -ineffectual satire. Borne on the wings of its natural -levity, it busied itself with other objects: then, casting back -to that one with its habitual inconsequence, its criticism -was converted into praise. As all things go by fashion -here, the enthusiasm gained; it was become a real delirium, -when Prévan undertook to verify these prodigies,<span class="pagenum" id="Page_239">[239]</span> -and settle the public opinion about them, as well as -his own.</p> - -<p>He sought out therefore these models of perfection. -He was easily admitted into their society, and drew a -favourable omen from this. He was well aware that -happy persons are not so easy of access. He soon saw, -in fact, that this so vaunted happiness was, like that of -kings, rather to be envied than desired. He remarked -that, amongst these pretended inseparables, they were -beginning to seek for pleasures abroad, and even to occupy -themselves with distractions; and he concluded therefrom, -that the bonds of love or friendship were already loosened -or broken, and that those of self-conceit and custom alone -retained some strength. The women, however, whose -need brought them together, kept up amongst themselves -an appearance of the same intimacy: but the men, who -were freer in their proceedings, discovered duties to fulfil, -or affairs to carry on; they still complained of these, but no -longer neglected them, and the evenings were rarely complete.</p> - -<p>This conduct on their part was profitable to the assiduous -Prévan, who, being naturally placed beside the -deserted one of the day, found a means of offering -alternately, and according to circumstances, the same -homage to each of the three friends. He could easily -perceive that to make a choice between them was -to lose everything; that false shame at proving the first -to be unfaithful would make the preferred one afraid; -that the wounded vanity of the two others would render -them the enemies of the new lover, and that they would -not fail to oppose him with the severity of their high -principles; in short, that jealousy would surely revive the -zeal of a rival who might be still to fear. Everything<span class="pagenum" id="Page_240">[240]</span> -would be an obstacle; in his triple project all became -easy: each woman was indulgent because she was interested -in it; each man, because he thought that he was not.</p> - -<p>Prévan, who had, at that time, but one woman to -sacrifice, was lucky enough to see her become a celebrity. -Her quality of foreigner, and the homage of a great -Prince, adroitly refused, had fixed on her the eyes of the -Court and the Town; her lover participated in the honour, -and profited from it with his new mistresses. The only -difficulty was to conduct his three intrigues at an equal -pace; their progress had, of course, to be regulated by that -of the one which lagged the most; in fact, I heard from -one of his confidants, that his greatest difficulty was to -hold in hand one which was ripe for gathering nearly a -fortnight before the rest.</p> - -<p>At last the great day arrived. Prévan, who had obtained -the three avowals, was already master of the situation, -and arranged it as you will see. Of the three -husbands, one was absent, the other was leaving the next -day at day-break, the third was in town. The inseparable -friends were to sup at the future widow’s; but -the new master had permitted the former gallants to be -invited there. On the morning of that very day, he -divided the letters of his fair into three lots; he enclosed -in one the portrait which he had received from her, in -the second an amorous device which she had painted -herself, in the third a tress of her hair; each of the friends -received this third of a sacrifice as the whole, and consented, -in return, to send to her disgraced lover a signal -letter of rupture.</p> - -<p>This was much; but it was not enough. She whose -husband was in Town could only dispose of the day;<span class="pagenum" id="Page_241">[241]</span> -it was arranged that a pretended indisposition should -dispense her from going to supper with her friend, -and that the evening should be given entirely to Prévan; -the night was granted by her whose husband was absent; -and day-break, the moment of the departure of the third -spouse, was appointed by the last for the shepherd’s hour.</p> - -<p>Prévan, who neglected nothing, next hastened to the fair -foreigner, brought there and aroused the humour which -he required, and only left after having brought about a -quarrel which assured him four-and-twenty hours of liberty. -His dispositions thus made, he returned home, intending to -take some hours’ repose. Other business was awaiting him.</p> - -<p>The letters of rupture had brought a flash of light -to the disgraced lovers: none of them had any doubt but -that he had been sacrificed to Prévan; and spite at being -tricked uniting with the ill-humour which is almost always -engendered by the petty humiliation of being deserted, all -three, without communicating with one another, but as -though in concert, resolved to have satisfaction, and took -the course of demanding it from their fortunate rival.</p> - -<p>The latter found the three challenges awaiting him; he -accepted them loyally, but not wishing to sacrifice either his -pleasures or the glamour of this adventure, he fixed the -<i>rendez-vous</i> for the following morning, and gave all three -assignations at the same place and the same hour. It was -at one of the gates of the Bois de Boulogne.</p> - -<p>When evening came, he ran his triple course with equal -success; at least, he boasted subsequently that each one of -his new mistresses had received three times the wage and -declaration of his love. In this, as you may imagine, proofs -are lacking to history; all that the impartial historian can do is -to point out to the incredulous reader that vanity and exalted<span class="pagenum" id="Page_242">[242]</span> -imagination can beget prodigies; nay more, that the morning -which was to follow so brilliant a night seemed to promise -a dispensation from all concern for the future. Be that as -it may, the facts which follow are more authentic.</p> - -<p>Prévan repaired punctually to the <i>rendez-vous</i> which he -had selected; he found there his three rivals, somewhat -surprised at meeting, and each of them, perhaps, a trifle -consoled at the sight of his companions in misfortune. -He accosted them with a blunt but affable air, and used this -language to them—it has been faithfully reported to me:</p> - -<p>“Gentlemen,” said he, “as I find you all here together, -you have doubtless divined that you have all three the -same cause of complaint against me. I am ready to give -you satisfaction. Let chance decide between you which of -the three shall first attempt a vengeance to which you have -all an equal right. I have brought with me neither second -nor witnesses. I did not include any in my offence; -I seek none in my reparation.” Then, agreeable to his -character as a gamester, he added, “I know one rarely -holds in three hands running; but, whatever fortune -may befall me, one has always lived long enough when -one has had time to win the love of women and the -esteem of men.”</p> - -<p>Whilst his astonished adversaries looked at one another -in silence, and their delicacy, perhaps, reflected that this -triple contest rendered the game hardly fair, Prévan resumed:</p> - -<p>“I do not hide from you that the night which I have just -passed has cruelly fatigued me. It would be generous of -you to permit me to recruit my strength. I have given -orders for a breakfast to be served on the ground; do me -the honour to partake of it. Let us breakfast together, -and, above all, let us breakfast gaily. One can fight for<span class="pagenum" id="Page_243">[243]</span> -such trifles; but they ought not, I think, to spoil our good -humour.”</p> - -<p>The breakfast was accepted. Never, it is said, was -Prévan more amiable. He was skilled enough to avoid -humiliating any one of his rivals, to persuade them that -they would have easily had a like success, and, above all, -to make them admit that, no more than he, would they -have let the occasion slip. These facts once admitted, -everything arranged itself. The breakfast was not finished -before they had repeated a dozen times that such women -did not deserve that men of honour should fight for them. -This idea promoted cordiality; it was so well fortified by -wine that, a few moments later, it was not enough merely -to bear no more ill-will: they swore an unreserved -friendship.</p> - -<p>Prévan, who doubtless liked this <i>dénouement</i> as well as -the other, would not for that, however, lose any of his -celebrity. In consequence, adroitly adapting his plans -to circumstances: “In truth,” he said to the three victims, -“it is not on me but on your faithless mistresses that -you should take revenge. I offer you the opportunity. I -begin to feel already, like yourselves, an injury which -would soon be my share: for if none of you could succeed -in retaining a single one, how can I hope to retain -all three? Your quarrel becomes my own. Accept a -supper this evening at my <i>petite maison</i>, and I hope your -vengeance may not be long postponed.” They wished -to make him explain: but, with that tone of superiority -which the circumstances authorized him to adopt, he -answered, “Gentlemen, I think I have proved to you that -my conduct is founded on a certain wit; trust in me.” All -consented; and, after having embraced their new friend, they<span class="pagenum" id="Page_244">[244]</span> -separated till the evening to await the issue of his -promises.</p> - -<p>Prévan returns to Paris without wasting time, and goes, -according to the usage, to visit his new conquests. He -obtained a promise from each to come the same evening -and sup <i>tête-à-tête</i> at his pleasure-house. Two of them -raised a few objections; but what can one refuse on the -day after? He fixed the <i>rendez-vous</i> for a late hour, time -being necessary for his plans. After these preparations -he retired, sent word to the other three conspirators, and -all four went gaily to await their victims.</p> - -<p>The first is heard arriving. Prévan comes forward alone, -receives her with an air of alacrity, conducts her into the -sanctuary of which she believed herself to be the divinity; -then, disappearing under some slight pretext, he allows -himself to be forthwith replaced by the outraged lover.</p> - -<p>You may guess how the confusion of a woman who -had not yet the habit of adventures rendered triumph -easy: any reproach not made was counted for a grace; -and the truant slave, once more handed over to her former -master, was only too happy to be able to hope for pardon -by resuming her former chain. The treaty of peace was -ratified in a more solitary place, and the empty stage was -successively filled by the other actors in almost the same -fashion, and always with the same result. Each of the -women, however, still thought herself alone to be in question. -Their astonishment and embarrassment increased -when, at supper-time, the three couples were united; but -confusion reached its height when Prévan, reappearing in -their midst, had the cruelty to make his excuses to the -three faithless ones, which, by revealing their secret, told -them completely to what a point they had been fooled.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_245">[245]</span></p> - -<p>However, they went to table, and soon afterwards countenances -cleared; the men gave themselves up, the women -submitted. All had hatred in their hearts; but the conversation -was none the less tender: gaiety aroused desire, -which, in its turn, lent to gaiety fresh charm. This -astounding orgy lasted until morning; and, when they -separated, the women had thought to be pardoned: but -the men, who had retained their resentment, made on -the following morning a rupture which was never healed; -and, not content with leaving their fickle mistresses, they -sealed their vengeance by making their adventure public. -Since that time one has gone into a convent, and the two -other languish in exile on their estates.</p> - -<p>That is the story of Prévan; it is for you to say whether -you wish to add to his glory, and tie yourself to his car -of triumph. Your letter has really given me some anxiety, -and I await impatiently a more prudent and clearer reply -to the last I wrote you.</p> - -<p>Adieu, my fair friend; distrust those queer or amusing -ideas which too easily seduce you. Remember that, in -the career which you are leading, wit alone does not -suffice; one single imprudence becomes an irremediable -ill. In short, allow a prudent friendship to be sometimes -the guide of your pleasures.</p> - -<p>Adieu. I love you nevertheless, just as much as though -you were reasonable.</p> - -<p class="right"> -At the Château de ..., 18th September, 17**. -</p> -<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> - -<div class="chapter"> -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_246">[246]</span></p> - -<h2 class="nobreak" id="LETTER_THE_EIGHTIETH">LETTER THE EIGHTIETH - -<br><small>THE CHEVALIER DANCENY TO CÉCILE VOLANGES</small></h2> -</div> - -<p class="noin"><span class="smcap">Cécile</span>, my dear Cécile, when will the time come for us to -meet again? How shall I learn to live afar from you? -Who will give me the courage and the strength? Never, -never shall I be able to support this fatal absence. Each -day adds to my unhappiness: and there is no term to -look forward to!</p> - -<p>Valmont, who had promised me help and consolation, -Valmont neglects and, perhaps, forgets me! He is near -the object of his love; he forgets what one feels when -one is parted from it. When forwarding your last letter -to me, he did not write to me. It is he, however, who -should tell me when, and by what means, I shall be able -to see you. Has he nothing then to tell me? You yourself -do not speak of it to me; could it be that you do -not participate in my desire? Ah, Cécile, Cécile, I am -very unhappy! I love you more than ever: but this love -which makes the charm of my life becomes its torture.</p> - -<p>No, I can no longer live thus; I must see you, I must, -were it only for a moment. When I rise, I say to myself: -I shall not see her. I lie down saying: I have not -seen her.... The long, long days contain no moment of -happiness. All is privation, regret, despair; and all these<span class="pagenum" id="Page_247">[247]</span> -ills come to me from the source whence I expected every -pleasure! Add to these mortal pains my anxiety about -yours, and you will have an idea of my situation. I think -of you uninterruptedly, and never without dismay. If I -see you afflicted, unhappy, I suffer for all your sorrows; -if I see you calm and consoled, my own are redoubled. -Everywhere I find unhappiness.</p> - -<p>Ah, how different it was from this, when you dwelt in -the same places as I did! All was pleasure then. The -certainty of seeing you embellished even the moments of -absence; the time which had to be passed away from -you glided away as it brought you nearer to me. The -use I made of it was never unknown to you. If I fulfilled -my duties, they rendered me more worthy of you; -if I cultivated any talent, I hoped the more to please you. -Even when the distractions of the world carried me far away -from you, I was not parted from you. At the play-house -I sought to divine what would have pleased you; a concert -reminded me of your talents and our sweet occupations. -In company, on my walks, I seized upon the slightest -resemblance. I compared you with all; everywhere you -had the advantage. Every moment of the day was marked -by fresh homage, and every evening I brought the tribute -of it to your feet.</p> - -<p>Nowadays, what remains to me? Dolorous regrets, -eternal privations, and a faint hope that Valmont’s silence -may be broken, that yours shall be changed to inquietude. -Ten leagues alone divide us, and that distance, so easy -to traverse, becomes to me alone an insurmountable -obstacle! And when I implore my friend, my mistress, to -help me to overcome it, both remain cold and unmoved! -Far from aiding me, they do not even reply.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_248">[248]</span></p> - -<p>What has become then of the active friendship of Valmont? -What, above all, has become of your tender sentiments, -which made you so ingenious in discovering the means -of our daily meetings? Sometimes, I remember, without -ceasing to desire them, I found myself compelled to forego -them for considerations, duties; what did you not say to -me then? With how many pretexts did you not combat -my reasons? And let me remind you, my Cécile, my -reasons always gave way to your wishes. I do not make -a merit of it; it has not even that of sacrifice. What -you desired to obtain I was burning to bestow. But now -I ask in my turn; and what is the request? To see you -for a moment, to renew to you and to receive a vow -of eternal love. Does that no longer make your happiness -as it makes mine? I thrust aside that despairing idea, -which would set the crown upon my ills. You love me, -you will always love me, I believe it, I am sure of it, -I will never doubt it: but my situation is frightful, and I -can not endure it much longer. Adieu, Cécile.</p> - -<p class="right"> -Paris, 18th September, 17**. -</p> -<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> - -<div class="chapter"> -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_249">[249]</span></p> - -<h2 class="nobreak" id="LETTER_THE_EIGHTY-FIRST">LETTER THE EIGHTY-FIRST - -<br><small>THE MARQUISE DE MERTEUIL TO THE VICOMTE DE VALMONT</small></h2> -</div> - -<p class="noin"><span class="smcap">How</span> your fears excite my pity! How they prove to me -my superiority over you! And you want to teach me, to -be my guide? Ah, my poor Valmont, what a distance -there is between you and me! No, all the pride of your -sex would not suffice to bridge over the gulf which -separates us. Because you could not execute my projects, -you judge them impossible! Proud and weak being, it -well becomes you to seek to weigh my means and judge of -my resources! In truth, Vicomte, your counsels have put -me in an ill-humour, and I will not conceal it from you.</p> - -<p>That, to mask your incredible stupidity with your -Présidente, you should blazon out to me, as a triumph, -the fact of your having for a moment put out of countenance -this woman who is timid and who loves you: I -agree to that; of having obtained a look, a single look: -I smile, and grant it you. That, feeling, in spite of yourself, -the poor value of your conduct, you should hope to -distract my attention from it by gratifying me with the -story of your sublime effort to bring together two children -who are both burning to see one another, and who, I -may mention by the way, owe to me alone the ardour -of their desire: I grant you that also. That, finally, you<span class="pagenum" id="Page_250">[250]</span> -should feel authorized by these brilliant achievements to -write to me, in doctorial tones, <i>that it is better to employ -one’s time in carrying out one’s projects than in describing -them</i>: such vanity does me no harm and I forgive it. -But that you could believe that I had need of your prudence, -that I should lose my way unless I deferred to your -advice, that I ought to sacrifice a pleasure or a whim: in -truth, Vicomte, that is indeed to plume yourself over -much on the confidence which I am quite willing to -place in you!</p> - -<p>And, pray, what have you done that I have not -surpassed a thousand times? You have seduced, ruined -even, very many women: but what difficulties have you -had to overcome? What obstacles to surmount? What -merit lies therein that is really your own? A handsome -face, the pure result of chance; graces, which habit -almost always brings; wit, in truth: but jargon would -supply its place at need; a praiseworthy impudence, -perhaps due solely to the ease of your first successes; if -I am not mistaken, these are your means, for, as for the -celebrity you have succeeded in acquiring, you will not -ask me, I suppose, to count for much the art of giving -birth to a scandal or seizing the opportunity of one.</p> - -<p>As for prudence, <i>finesse</i>, I do not speak of myself: but -where is the woman who has not more than you? Why, -your Présidente leads you like a child!</p> - -<p>Believe me, Vicomte, it is rarely one acquires qualities -which cannot be dispensed with. Fighting without risk, -you are bound to act without precaution. For you men, -a defeat is but one success the less. In so unequal a -match, we are fortunate if we do not lose, as it is your -misfortune if you do not win. Even were I to grant you<span class="pagenum" id="Page_251">[251]</span> -as many talents as ourselves, by how many should we not -still need to surpass you, from the necessity we are under -to make a perpetual use of them!</p> - -<p>Supposing, I admit, that you brought as much skill to -the task of conquering us as we show in defending -ourselves or in yielding, you will at least agree that it -becomes useless to you after your success. Absorbed solely -in your new fancy, you abandon yourself to it without -fear, without reserve: it is not to you that its duration is -important.</p> - -<p>In fact, those bonds reciprocally given and received, -to talk love’s jargon, you alone can tighten or break at -your will: we are even lucky if, in your wantonness, -preferring mystery to noise, you are satisfied with an -humiliating desertion, without making the idol of yesterday -the victim of to-morrow.</p> - -<p>But when an unfortunate woman has once felt the weight -of her chain, what risks she has to run, if she but endeavours -to shake it off! It is only with trembling that she -can attempt to dismiss from her the man whom her heart -repulses with violence. Does he insist on remaining, she -must yield to fear what she had granted to love:</p> - -<div class="blockquot"> - -<p>“<i>Ses bras s’ouvrent encor quand son cœur est ferme.</i>”</p> -</div> - -<p class="noin">Her prudence must skilfully unravel those same bonds -which you would have broken. At the mercy of her -enemy, if he be without generosity, she is without resources: -and how can she hope generosity from him when, -although he is sometimes praised for having it, he is -never blamed for lacking it?</p> - -<p>Doubtless, you will not deny these truths, which are so -evident as to have become trivial. If, however, you have<span class="pagenum" id="Page_252">[252]</span> -seen me, disposing of opinions and events, making these -formidable men the toys of my fantasy and my caprice, -depriving some of the power, some of the will to hurt me; -if I have known, turn by turn, according to my fickle -fancy, how to attach to my service or drive far away -from me</p> - -<div class="blockquot"> - -<p>“<i>Ces tyrans détrônés devenus mes esclaves;</i>”<a id="FNanchor_27" href="#Footnote_27" class="fnanchor">[27]</a></p> -</div> - -<p class="noin">if in the midst of these frequent revolutions my reputation -has still remained pure; ought you not to have concluded -that, being born to avenge my sex and to dominate yours, -I had devised methods previously unknown?</p> - -<p>Oh! keep your advice and your fears for those delirious -women who call themselves <i>sentimental</i>; whose exalted -imagination would make one believe that nature has placed -their senses in their heads; who, having never reflected, -persist in confounding love with the lover; who, in their -mad illusion, believe that he with whom they have pursued -pleasure is its sole depository; and, truly superstitious, -show the priest the respect and faith which is only due to -the divinity. Be still more afraid for those who, their -vanity being larger than their prudence, do not know, at -need, how to consent to being abandoned. Tremble, above -all, for those women, active in their indolence, whom you<span class="pagenum" id="Page_253">[253]</span> -call <i>women of sensibility</i>, and over whom love takes hold -so easily and with such power; who feel the need of being -occupied with it, even when they are not enjoying it; and, -giving themselves up unreservedly to the fermentation of -their ideas, bring forth from them those letters so sweet, -but so dangerous to write, and are not afraid to confide -these proofs of their weakness to the object which causes -it: imprudent ones, who do not know how to discern in -their present lover their enemy to be.</p> - -<p>But what have I in common with these unreflecting -women? When have you ever seen me depart from the -rules I have laid down, or be false to my principles? I -say my principles, and I say so designedly; for they are -not, like those of other women, the result of chance, -received without scrutiny, and followed out of habit; they -are the fruit of my profound reflexions; I have created -them, and I may say that I am my own handiwork.</p> - -<p>Entering the world at a time when, still a girl, I was -compelled by my condition to be silent and inert, I knew -how to profit by observing and reflecting. Whilst I was -thought heedless or inattentive, and, in truth, listened little -to the remarks that they were careful to make to me, -I carefully gathered up those which they sought to hide -from me.</p> - -<p>This useful curiosity, while serving to instruct me, also -taught me dissimulation; often forced to conceal the objects -of my attention from the eyes of those who surrounded -me, I sought to direct my own whither I desired; I learned -then how to assume at will that remote look which you -have so often praised. Encouraged by this first success, -I tried to govern equally the different movements of my -face. Did I experience some vexation, I studied to assume<span class="pagenum" id="Page_254">[254]</span> -an air of serenity, even of joy; I have carried my zeal so -far as to inflict voluntary pain on myself, in order to seek, -at that time, an expression of pleasure. I laboured, with -the same care and greater difficulty, to repress the symptoms -of unexpected joy. It was thus that I gained that command -over my physiognomy at which I have sometimes -seen you so astonished.</p> - -<p>I was very young still, and almost without interest: my -thoughts were all that I had, and I was indignant that -these should be stolen from me or surprised against my -will. Armed with these first weapons, I amused myself -by showing myself under different forms. Sure of my gestures, -I kept a watch upon my speech; I regulated both -according to circumstances, or even merely according to -my whim; from that moment the colour of my thought -was my secret, and I never revealed more of it than it -was useful for me to show.</p> - -<p>This labour spent upon myself had fixed my attention on -the expression of faces and the character of physiognomy; -and I thus gained that penetrating glance to which experience, -indeed, has taught me not to trust entirely, but -which, on the whole, has rarely deceived me. I was not -fifteen years old, I possessed already the talents to which -the greater part of our politicians owe their reputation, and -I was as yet only at the rudiments of the science which -I wished to acquire. You may well imagine that, like all -young girls, I sought to find out about love and its pleasures; -but having never been to the convent, having no confidential -friend, and being watched by a vigilant mother, -I had only vague notions, which I could not fix; even -nature, which later, I had, assuredly, no reason to do aught -but praise, as yet afforded me no hint. One might have<span class="pagenum" id="Page_255">[255]</span> -said that it was working in silence at the perfection of its -handiwork. My head alone was in a ferment; I did not -desire enjoyment, I wanted to know: the desire for -information suggested to me the means.</p> - -<p>I felt that the only man with whom I could speak on -this matter without compromising myself was my confessor. -I took my course at once; I surmounted my slight feeling -of shame; and vaunting myself for a sin which I had not -committed, I accused myself of having done <i>all that -women do</i>. That was my expression; but, in speaking so, -I did not know, in truth, what idea I was expressing. My -hope was not altogether deceived, nor entirely fulfilled; -the fear of betraying myself prevented me from enlightening -myself: but the good father represented the ill as so great -that I concluded the pleasure to be extreme; and to -the desire of knowing it the desire of tasting it succeeded.</p> - -<p>I do not know whither this desire would have led me; -and, devoid of experience as I was at that time, perhaps -a single opportunity would have ruined me: luckily for -me, my mother informed me, a few days later, that I was -to be married; the certainty of knowing extinguished my -curiosity at once, and I came a virgin to the arms of -M. de Merteuil.</p> - -<p>I waited with calmness for the moment which was to -enlighten me, and I had need of reflexion, in order to -exhibit embarrassment and fear. The first night, of which -ordinarily one entertains an idea so painful or so sweet, -presented itself to me only as an occasion of experience: -pain and pleasure, I observed all carefully, and saw in -these different sensations only facts upon which to reflect -and meditate. This form of study soon succeeded in -pleasing me: but, faithful to my principles, and feeling by<span class="pagenum" id="Page_256">[256]</span> -instinct perhaps that no one ought to be further from my -confidence than my husband, I resolved to appear the -more impassive in his eyes, the more sensible I really was. -This apparent coldness was subsequently the impregnable -foundation of his blind confidence; as a second reflexion, -I joined to it the mischievous air which my age justified; -and he never thought me more of a child than when I -was tricking him most.</p> - -<p>Meanwhile, I will admit, I, at first, let myself be dragged -into the vortex of society, and gave myself up completely -to its futile distractions. But, after some months, M. de -Merteuil having taken me to his dismal country estate, the -dread of <i>ennui</i> revived the taste for study in me: and as -I found myself there surrounded by people whose distance -from me put me out of the reach of all suspicion, I profited -by it to give a vaster field to my experience. It was there -especially that I assured myself that love, which they vaunt -to us as the cause of our pleasures, is, at the most, only -the pretext for them.</p> - -<p>The illness of M. de Merteuil came to interrupt these -sweet occupations; it was necessary to follow him to Town, -where he went to seek for aid. He died, as you know, -shortly afterwards; and although, considering all things, I -had no complaint to make against him, I had, none the -less, a lively feeling of the value of the liberty which my -widowhood would give me, and I promised myself to take -advantage of it. My mother calculated on my entering -a convent, or returning to live with her. I refused to take -either course, and all I granted to decency, was to go -back to the same country estate, where there were still some -observations left for me to make.</p> - -<p>I supplemented these with the help of reading: but do<span class="pagenum" id="Page_257">[257]</span> -not imagine it was all of the kind you suppose. I studied -our manners in novels, our opinions in the philosophers; -I even went to the most severe moralists to see what -they expected from us; and I thus made sure of what -one could do, of what one ought to think, and of how -one must appear. My mind once settled upon these three -matters, the last alone presented any difficulties in its -execution; I hoped to overcome them, and I meditated -on the means.</p> - -<p>I began to grow tired of my rustic pleasures, which -were not varied enough for my active brain; I felt the -need of coquetry, which should reunite me to love, not -in order that I might really feel it, but to feign and -inspire it. In vain had I been told, and had I read, that -one could not feign this sentiment; I saw that, to succeed -there, it sufficed to join the talent of a comedian to an -author’s wit. I exercised myself in both kinds, and, -perhaps, with some success: but, instead of seeking the -vain applause of the theatre, I resolved to employ for my -happiness that which so many others sacrificed to vanity.</p> - -<p>A year passed in these different occupations. My -mourning then allowing me to reappear, I returned to -Town with my great projects; I was not prepared for the -first obstacle which I encountered.</p> - -<p>My long solitude and austere retreat had covered me -with a veneer of prudery which frightened our <i>beaux</i>; -they kept their distance, and left me at the mercy of a -crowd of tedious fellows, who all were aspirants for my -hand. The embarrassment did not lie in refusing them; but -many of these refusals displeased my family, and in these -internal disputes I lost the time of which I had promised -myself to make such charming use. I was obliged, then,<span class="pagenum" id="Page_258">[258]</span> -in order to recall some and drive away the others, to -display certain inconsistencies, and to take as much pains in -damaging my reputation as I had thought to take in -preserving it. I succeeded easily, as you may believe: -but, being carried away by no passion, I only did what I -thought necessary, and measured out my doses of indiscretion -with caution.</p> - -<p>As soon as I had touched the goal which I would -attain, I retraced my steps, and gave the honour of my -amendment to some of those women who, being impotent -as far as any pretensions to charm are concerned, fall -back on those of merit and virtue. This was a move -which was of more value to me than I had hoped. These -grateful duennas set themselves up as my apologists; and -their blind zeal for what they called their work was carried -to such an extent that, at the least reflexion which might -be made on me, the whole party of prudes cried scandal -and outrage. The same method procured me also the -suffrages of the women with pretensions, who, being -persuaded that I had renounced the thought of following -the same career as theirs, selected me as a subject for -their praise, each time they wished to prove that they -did not speak ill of all the world.</p> - -<p>Meanwhile, my previous conduct had brought back the -lovers; and to compromise between them and the unfaithful -women who had become my patronesses, I passed as a -woman of sensibility, but rigour, whom the excess of her -delicacy furnished with arms against love.</p> - -<p>I then began to display upon the great stage the talents -which had been given me. My first care was to acquire -the reputation of being invincible. To attain it, the men -who did not please me were always the only ones whose<span class="pagenum" id="Page_259">[259]</span> -homage I had the air of accepting. I employed them -usefully to obtain for me the honours of resistance, whilst -to the preferred lover I abandoned myself without fear. -But the latter, my pretended shyness never permitted to -follow me in the world; and the gaze of society has thus -been always fixed on the unhappy lover.</p> - -<p>You know with what rapidity I choose: it is because -I have observed that it is nearly always the previous -attentions which disclose a woman’s secret. Whatever one -may say, the tone is never the same before and after -success. This difference does not escape the attentive -observer; and I have found it less dangerous to be deceived -in my choice than to let that choice be penetrated. -I gain here again by removing probabilities, by which -alone we can be judged.</p> - -<p>These precautions and that of never writing, of never -giving any proof of my defeat, might appear excessive, -and to me have ever appeared insufficient. I have -looked into my own heart, I have studied in it the heart -of others. I saw there that there is nobody who does -not keep a secret there which it is of importance to him -should not be divulged: a truth which antiquity seems -to have known better than we, and of which the -history of Samson might be no more than an ingenious -symbol. Like a new Delilah, I have always employed -my power in surprising this important secret. Ah, of -how many of our modern Samsons have not the locks -fallen beneath my shears? And these, I have ceased -to fear them; they are the only ones whom I have sometimes -permitted myself to humiliate. More supple with the -others, the art of rendering them unfaithful lest I should -appear to them fickle, a feint of friendship, an appearance<span class="pagenum" id="Page_260">[260]</span> -of confidence, a few generous measures, the flattering -notion, which each one retains, of having been my -only lover, have secured me their discretion. Finally, -when these methods failed me, foreseeing the rupture, I -knew how to crush in advance, beneath ridicule or calumny, -the credence which these dangerous men could -have obtained.</p> - -<p>All this which I tell you you have seen me practise -unceasingly; and you doubt of my prudence! Ah, -indeed! recall to mind the time when you paid me your -first attentions: no homage was ever more flattering to -me; I desired you before I had ever seen you. Seduced -by your reputation, it seemed to me that you were -wanting to my glory; I burned with a desire for a hand-to-hand -combat with you. It is the only one of my -fancies which ever had a moment’s empire over me. -However, if you had wished to destroy me, what means -would you have found? Empty talk which leaves no trace -behind it, which your very reputation would have helped -to render suspect, and a tissue of improbable facts, the -sincere relation of which would have had the air of a -badly conceived novel. It is true, since that time, I -have handed you over all my secrets: but you know -what interests unite us, and that, if it be one of us, it -is not I who can be taxed with imprudence.<a id="FNanchor_28" href="#Footnote_28" class="fnanchor">[28]</a></p> - -<p>Since I have started off to render account to you, I -will do it precisely. I hear you tell me now that I am -at any rate at the mercy of my chamber-maid; in fact,<span class="pagenum" id="Page_261">[261]</span> -if she is not in the secret of my sentiments, she is of my -actions. When you spoke of it to me once before, I -answered that I was sure of her; and my proof that this -reply was sufficient then for your tranquillity is that you -have since confided to her mighty dangerous secrets of -your own. But, now that you have taken umbrage at -Prévan, and that your head is turned, I doubt whether -you will believe me any more on my word. I must -therefore edify you.</p> - -<p>In the first place, the girl is my foster-sister, and this -bond, which does not seem one to us, is not without -force amongst people of her condition: in addition, I have -her secret and better still, the victim of a love madness, -she was ruined, if I had not saved her. Her parents, -bristling with honour, would be satisfied by nothing less -than her imprisonment. They applied to me. I saw at a -glance how useful their anger might be made to me. I -seconded them and solicited the order, which I obtained. -Then, suddenly turning to the side of clemency, to which I -persuaded her parents, and profiting by my influence with -the old minister, I made them all consent to make me -the depositary of this order, free to stay it or demand its -execution, according to the judgment I should form of the -girl’s future conduct. She knows, then, that I have her -lot within my hands; and if, to assume the impossible, -these potent reasons should not prevent her, is it not -evident that the revelation of her conduct and her -authentic punishment would soon deprive her language of -all credit?</p> - -<p>To these precautions, which I call fundamental, are -joined a thousand others, local or occasional, which habit -and reflexion allow me to find at need; of which the details<span class="pagenum" id="Page_262">[262]</span> -would be tedious, although their practice is important; and -which you must take the trouble to pick out from the -general view of my conduct, if you would succeed in -knowing them.</p> - -<p>But to pretend that I have been at so much pains, and -am not to cull the fruit of them; that, after having raised -myself, by my arduous labours, so high above other women, -I am to consent to grope along, like them, betwixt imprudence -and timidity; that, above all, I should fear any -man to such an extent as to see no other salvation than -in flight? No, Vicomte, never! I must conquer or perish. -As for Prévan, I wish to have him, and I shall have him; -he wishes to tell of it, and he shall not tell of it: that, in -two words, is our little romance. Adieu.</p> - -<p class="right"> -Paris, 20th September, 17**. -</p> -<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> - -<div class="chapter"> -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_263">[263]</span></p> - -<h2 class="nobreak" id="LETTER_THE_EIGHTY-SECOND">LETTER THE EIGHTY-SECOND - -<br><small>CÉCILE VOLANGES TO THE CHEVALIER DANCENY</small></h2> -</div> - -<p class="noin"><span class="smcap">Ah</span>, God, what pain your letter gave me! I need well -have felt such impatience to receive it! I hoped to find -in it consolation, and here am I more afflicted than I was -ere I received it. I shed many tears when I read it: it -is not that with which I reproach you; I have already -wept many times because of you, without its being painful -to me. But this time, it is not the same thing.</p> - -<p>What is it that you wish to say, pray? that your love -is grown a torment to you, that you cannot longer live -thus, nor any more support your situation? Do you mean -that you are going to cease to love me, because it is not so -agreeable as it used to be? It seems to me that I am -no happier than you are, quite the contrary; and yet I -only love you the more for that. If M. de Valmont has -not written to you, it is not my fault; I could not beg -him to, because I have not been alone with him, and we -have agreed that we would never speak before people: and -that again is for your sake, so that he can the better do -what you desire. I do not say that I do not desire it -also, and you ought to be assured of this: but what -would you have me do? If you believe it to be so -easy, please find the means, I ask nothing better.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_264">[264]</span></p> - -<p>Do you think it is so very agreeable for me to be scolded -every day by Mamma, who once never said anything -to me? Quite the contrary. Now it is worse than if I -were at the convent. I consoled myself for it, however, -by reflecting that it was for you; there were even moments -when I found I was quite content; but when I see that -you are vexed too, without its being in the least my fault, -I have more grief than I had for all that has hitherto -happened to me.</p> - -<p>Even merely to receive your letters is embarrassing, so -that, if M. de Valmont were not so obliging and so clever -as he is, I should not know what to do; and, as to -writing to you, that is more difficult still. All the morning -I dare not, because Mamma is close by me, and she -may come, at any moment, into my room. Sometimes, -I am able to, in the afternoon, under pretence of -singing or playing on the harp; even then I have to interrupt -myself after every line, to let them hear I am studying. -Luckily my waiting-maid sometimes grows sleepy in the -evening, and I tell her that I can quite well get to bed -by myself, so that she may go away and leave me the -light. And then, I am obliged to get behind my curtain, -so that no light can be seen; and then, to listen for the -least sound, so that I can hide everything in my bed, if -anyone comes. I wish you were there to see! You -would soon see that one must indeed love anyone to do it. -In short, it is quite true that I do all that I can, and -I would it lay within my power to do more.</p> - -<p>Certainly, I do not refuse to tell you that I love you, -and that I shall always love you; I never told it you with a -fuller heart; and you are vexed! Yet you had assured -me, before I said it, that that was enough to make you<span class="pagenum" id="Page_265">[265]</span> -happy. You cannot deny it; it is in your letters. Although -I have them no longer, I remember them as well as when -I used to read them every day. And you, because you -are absent now, no longer think the same! But perhaps -this absence will not always last? Ah, God, how unhappy -I am! And it is indeed you who are the cause of it!...</p> - -<p>With regard to your letters, I hope that you have kept -those which Mamma took from me, and which she sent -back to you; a time must come, some day, when I shall -not be so restrained as at present, and you will give -them all back to me. How happy I shall be when I am -able to see them! Now I return them to M. de Valmont, -because there would be too much danger otherwise; in -spite of that, I never give them to him without feeling a -deal of pain.</p> - -<p>Adieu, my dear friend. I love you with all my heart. -I shall love you all my life. I hope that now you are no -longer vexed, and, were I sure of it, I should not be so -myself. Write to me, as soon as you are able, for I feel -that till then I shall continue sad.</p> - -<p class="right"> -At the Château de ..., 21st September, 17**. -</p> -<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> - -<div class="chapter"> -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_266">[266]</span></p> - -<h2 class="nobreak" id="LETTER_THE_EIGHTY-THIRD">LETTER THE EIGHTY-THIRD - -<br><small>THE VICOMTE DE VALMONT TO THE PRÉSIDENTE DE TOURVEL</small></h2> -</div> - -<p class="noin"><span class="smcap">For</span> mercy’s sake, Madame, let us repeat that interview -which was so unhappily broken! Oh, that I could -complete my work of proving to you how much I differ -from the odious portrait which has been made of me; -that, above all, I could again enjoy that amiable confidence -which you began to grant me! How many are the -charms with which you know how to endow virtue! -How you beautify, and render dear, every virtuous -sentiment! Ah, therein lies your fascination; it is the -strongest; it is the only one which is at once powerful -and worthy of respect.</p> - -<p>Doubtless, it is enough to see you to desire to please -you; to hear you in company for that desire to be -redoubled. But he who has the happiness of knowing -you better, who can sometimes read in your soul, soon -yields to a more noble enthusiasm, and, penetrated by -veneration as by love, worships in you the image of all -the virtues. Better made than another, perhaps, to love and -follow them, although seduced by certain errors which had -separated me from them, it is you who have brought me back, -who have caused me to feel anew all their charm: will -you make a crime of this new love of mine? Will you<span class="pagenum" id="Page_267">[267]</span> -blame your handiwork? Would you reproach yourself -even with the interest which you might take in it? What -harm is to be feared from so pure a sentiment, and what -sweetness might there not be to taste in it?</p> - -<p>My love alarms you, you find it violent, unrestrained! -Temper it with a gentler love; do not disdain the empire -which I offer you, from which I swear never to escape, -and which, I dare believe, would not be entirely lost to -virtue. What sacrifice could seem hard to me, once sure -that your heart could keep its price for me? Where is -the man, then, who is so unhappy as not to know how -to delight in the privations which he imposes on himself, -as not to prefer a word, a glance, accorded, to all the -pleasures which he could steal or surprise? And you -believed that I was such a man, and you feared -me! Ah, why does not your happiness depend on -my own! What vengeance I would take on you, by -rendering you happy! But this gentle empire is no -result of a barren friendship; it is only due to love.</p> - -<p>That word frightens you! And why? A more tender -attachment, a stronger union, a common thought, a like -happiness and a like pain, what is there in that alien to -your soul? Yet love is all that! Such, at least, is the love -which you inspire and I experience. It is that, above all, -which, calculating without interest, knows how to appreciate -actions according to their merit and not their price; it is -the inexhaustible treasure of sensitive souls, and all things -become precious that are done for or by it.</p> - -<p>What, then, have these truths, so easy to grasp, so sweet -to practise, that can alarm? What fear, either, can a man -of sensibility cause you, to whom love permits no other -happiness than your own? This is the solitary vow I<span class="pagenum" id="Page_268">[268]</span> -make to-day: I will sacrifice all to fulfil it, except the -sentiment by which it is inspired; and this sentiment itself, -if you do but consent to share it, you shall order as you -will. But let us suffer it no longer to divide us, when it -should unite us. If the friendship you have offered me is -not an idle word; if, as you told me yesterday, it is the -sweetest sentiment known to your soul, let that be the -bond between us; I will not reject it: but, being arbiter -of love, let it consent to listen to it; a refusal to hear it -would become an injustice, and friendship is not unjust.</p> - -<p>A second interview will present no greater difficulty than -the first: chance can again furnish the occasion; you -could yourself indicate the right moment. I am willing to -believe that I am wrong; would you not be better pleased -to convince me than to combat me, and do you doubt -my docility? If that inopportune third party had not -come to interrupt us, perhaps I had already been brought -round entirely to your opinion: who knows the full extent -of your power?</p> - -<p>Shall I say it to you? This invincible power, to which -I abandon myself without venturing on calculation, this -irresistible charm, which renders you sovereign of my -thoughts as of my actions: it comes to me sometimes to -fear them. Alas, perhaps it is I who should be afraid of -this interview for which I ask! After it, perhaps, bound -by my promises, I shall see myself compelled to consume -away with a love which, I am well aware, can never be -extinguished, without daring to implore your aid! Ah, -Madame, for mercy’s sake, do not abuse your authority! -But what then! if you are to be the happier for it, if I -am thereby to appear worthier of you, what pains are not -alleviated by these consoling ideas! Yes, I feel it; to speak<span class="pagenum" id="Page_269">[269]</span> -again with you is to give you stronger arms against me; -it is to submit myself more entirely to your will. It is -easier to defend myself against your letters; they are -indeed your very utterances, but you are not there to lend -them fresh strength. However, the pleasure of hearing you -leads me to brave the danger: at least I shall have the -pleasure of having dared everything for you, even against -myself; and my sacrifices will become an homage. I am -too happy to prove to you in a thousand manners, as I -feel in a thousand fashions, that you are and ever will be, -without excepting myself, the object dearest to my heart.</p> - -<p class="right"> -At the Château de ..., 23rd September, 17**. -</p> -<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> - -<div class="chapter"> -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_270">[270]</span></p> - -<h2 class="nobreak" id="LETTER_THE_EIGHTY-FOURTH">LETTER THE EIGHTY-FOURTH - -<br><small>THE VICOMTE DE VALMONT TO CÉCILE VOLANGES</small></h2> -</div> - -<p class="noin"><span class="smcap">You</span> saw how greatly the chance was against us yesterday. -All day long I was unable to hand you the letter which -I had for you; I know not whether I shall find it any -easier to-day. I am afraid of compromising you, by -showing more zeal than discretion; and I should never -forgive myself for an imprudence which might prove so -fatal to you, and cause the despair of my friend, by -rendering you eternally miserable. However, I am aware -of the impatience of love; I feel how painful it must be -to you, in your situation, to meet with any delay in the -only consolation you can know at this moment. By dint -of busying myself with the means of removing the obstacles, -I have found one the execution of which, if you take -some pains, will be easy.</p> - -<p>I think I have remarked that the key of the door of -your chamber, which opens into the corridor, is always -on your Mamma’s mantel-shelf. Everything would be -easy with this key, you must be well aware; but in default -of it, I will procure you one like it, which will serve in -its stead. To succeed in this, it will be sufficient to -have the other at my disposition for an hour or two. -You will easily find an opportunity for taking it; and, in<span class="pagenum" id="Page_271">[271]</span> -order that its absence may not be noticed, I enclose, in -this, one of my own which is so far like it that no -difference will be seen, unless they try it; this they are -not likely to do. You must only take care to tie it to a -faded blue ribbon, like that which is on your own.</p> - -<p>It would be well to try and have this key by to-morrow -or the day after, at breakfast-time; because it will be easier -for you to give it me then, and it can be returned to its -place in the evening, a time when your Mamma might -pay more attention to it. I shall be able to return it to -you at dinner-time, if we arrange well.</p> - -<p>You know that, when we move from the <i>salon</i> to the -dining-room, it is always Madame de Rosemonde who -walks last. I shall give her my hand. You will only have -to take some time in putting away your tapestry, or even -to let something drop, so that you may remain behind: -you will see then how to take the key from me, which I -shall be careful to hold behind me. You must not neglect, -as soon as you have taken it, to rejoin my old aunt and -pay her a few attentions. If by chance you should let -the key fall, do not lose your countenance; I will feign -that it was done by me, and I answer for everything.</p> - -<p>The lack of confidence your Mamma shows in you, and -her harsh behaviour towards you, authorize this little -deception. It is, moreover, the only way to continue to -receive the letters of Danceny, and to forward him yours; -all others are really too dangerous and might ruin you -both irretrievably: thus my prudent friendship would reproach -itself, were I to employ them further.</p> - -<p>Once having the key, there remain some precautions -for us to take against the noise of door and lock; but -they are very easy. You will find, beneath the same press<span class="pagenum" id="Page_272">[272]</span> -where I placed your paper, oil and a feather. You -sometimes go to your room at times when you are -alone there: you must profit by it to oil the lock and -hinges. The only attention you need pay is to be careful -of stains which might betray you. You had better wait -also until night arrives, because, if it be done with the intelligence -of which you are capable, there will be no trace -of it on the following morning. If, however, it should be -perceived, then you must say that it is the indoor polisher. -You must in this case specify the time, and even the conversation -which you had with him: as, for instance, that -he takes this precaution against rust with all the locks -which are not in use. For you see that it would be unlikely -that you should have witnessed this proceeding -without asking the reason. It is these little details which -give probability; and probability renders a lie without -consequence, by diminishing people’s desire to verify it.</p> - -<p>After you have read this letter, I beg you to read it -again and even to study it: to begin with, one should -be well acquainted with what one wishes to do well; -next, to assure yourself that I have omitted nothing. Little -accustomed to employ <i>finesse</i> on my own account, I have -no great use for it; indeed it needed nothing less than -my keen friendship for Danceny, and the interest which -you inspire in me, to induce me to employ these means, -however innocent they may be. I hate anything which -has the air of deception; that is my character. But your -misfortunes have touched me to such a degree that I will -attempt everything to alleviate them.</p> - -<p>You can imagine that, with this means of communication -once established between us, it will be far easier for me to -procure for you the interview with Danceny which he desires.<span class="pagenum" id="Page_273">[273]</span> -However, do not yet speak to him of all this: you would -only increase his impatience, and the moment for satisfying -it is not yet quite arrived. You owe it to him, I think, -to calm rather than to excite him. I depend in this matter -on your delicacy. Adieu, my fair pupil, for you are my -pupil. Love your tutor a little, and above all be docile -to him: you will be rewarded. I am occupied with your -happiness; rest assured that I shall find therein my own.</p> - -<p class="right"> -At the Château de ..., 24th September, 17**. -</p> -<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> - -<div class="chapter"> -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_274">[274]</span></p> - -<h2 class="nobreak" id="LETTER_THE_EIGHTY-FIFTH">LETTER THE EIGHTY-FIFTH - -<br><small>THE MARQUISE DE MERTEUIL TO THE VICOMTE DE VALMONT</small></h2> -</div> - -<p class="noin"><span class="smcap">At</span> last you may be tranquil, and, above all, you can render -me justice. Listen, and do not confound me again with -other women. I have brought my adventure with Prévan -to a close. <i>To a close!</i> Do you fully understand what that -implies? Now you shall judge whether it is I, or he, who -can vaunt himself. The story will not be as amusing as the -adventure: neither would it be just that you, who have -done no more than reason ill or well about the affair, -should reap as much pleasure from it as I, who have -given my time and labour.</p> - -<p>In the meantime, if you have some great scheme to -try, if you would attempt some enterprise in which this -dangerous rival should seem to you to be feared, this is -your time. He leaves the field free to you, at least for -some time; perhaps, even, he will never recover from the -blow I have given him.</p> - -<p>How fortunate you are to have me for a friend! I am -a benevolent fairy to you. You languish afar from the -beauty who engrosses you; I say one word, and you find -yourself once more at her side. You wish to revenge -yourself on a woman who injures you; I point out to you<span class="pagenum" id="Page_275">[275]</span> -the place where you have to strike, and abandon her to -your tender mercies. Finally, to drive a formidable competitor -from the lists, it is once more I whom you invoke, and -I give heed to you. Truly, if you do not spend your life -in thanking me, it means that you are an ingrate. I -return to my adventure and take it up from the beginning.</p> - -<p>The <i>rendez-vous</i> made so loudly, on leaving the Opera, -was understood as I had hoped. Prévan repaired to it; and -when the Maréchale said to him politely that she congratulated -herself on seeing him twice in succession at her days, -he was careful to reply that, since Tuesday night, he had -cancelled a thousand engagements, in order that he might -thus dispose of that evening. <i>À bon entendeur, salut!</i> As -I wished, however, to know with more certainty whether -I was, or was not, the veritable object of this flattering -zeal, I resolved to compel the new aspirant to choose between -me and his dominant passion. I declared that I should -not play; and he, on his side, found a thousand pretexts -for not playing, and my first triumph was over lansquenet.</p> - -<p>I secured the Bishop of *** for my gossip; I chose -him because of his intimacy with the hero of the day, -to whom I wished to give every facility to approach me. -I was contented also to have a respectable witness, who -could, at need, depose to my behaviour and my language. -This arrangement was successful.</p> - -<p>After the vague and customary remarks, Prévan, having -soon made himself the leader of the conversation, tried -different tones in turn, in order to discover which was -likely to please me. I refused that of sentiment, as -though I had no faith in it; I stopped, by my seriousness, -his gaiety, which seemed to me too frivolous for a -<i>début</i>; he fell back upon delicate friendship; and it was<span class="pagenum" id="Page_276">[276]</span> -beneath this well-worn flag that we began our reciprocal -attack.</p> - -<p>At supper-time, the Bishop did not descend; Prévan -then gave me his hand, and was naturally placed by my -side at table. One must be just; he maintained with -much skill our private conversation, while seeming only -to be occupied with the general conversation, to which -he had the air of being the largest contributor. At dessert, -they spoke of a new piece which was to be given -on the following Monday at the <i>Français</i>. I expressed -some regret that I had not my box; he offered me his -own, which at first, as is the usage, I refused: to which -he answered humorously enough, that I did not understand -him; that certainly, he would not make the sacrifice -of his box to anyone whom he did not know; but that -he only let me know it was at Madame la Maréchale’s -disposal. She lent herself to this pleasantry, and I -accepted.</p> - -<p>On our return to the <i>salon</i>, he asked, as you may well -believe, for a place in this box; and when the Maréchale, -who treats him with great kindness, promised him it, <i>if -he were good</i>, he made it the occasion of one of those -double-edged conversations, at which you have extolled his -talent to me. Indeed, having fallen on his knees, like -a submissive child, he said, under pretext of begging for -her counsel and tasking her opinion, he uttered many -a flattering and tender thing, the application of which I -could easily take to myself. Several persons having not -returned to play after supper, the conversation was more -general and less interesting: but our eyes spoke much. -I say our eyes: I should have said his; for mine spoke -but one language—that of surprise. He must have thought<span class="pagenum" id="Page_277">[277]</span> -I was astonished, and quite absorbed in the prodigious -effect which he had on me. I think I left him highly -satisfied; I was no less pleased myself.</p> - -<p>On the following Monday I was at the <i>Français</i>, as we had -agreed. In spite of your literary curiosity, I can tell you -nothing of the performance, except that Prévan has a marvellous -talent for cajolery, and that the piece failed: that is all -that I learned. I was sorry to see the evening come to -an end; it had really pleased me mightily; and, in order -to prolong it, I invited the Maréchale to come and sup -with me: this gave me a pretext for proposing it to the -amiable flatterer, who only asked the time to hasten to -the Comtesses de P***,<a id="FNanchor_29" href="#Footnote_29" class="fnanchor">[29]</a> and free himself from an -engagement. This name brought back all my anger; I -saw plainly that he was going to begin his confidences; -I remembered your wise counsels, and promised myself ... to -proceed with the adventure; I was certain that I should -cure him of this dangerous indiscretion.</p> - -<p>Being new to my company, which was not very numerous -that evening, he owed me the customary usages; thus, when -we went to supper, he offered me his hand. I was malicious -enough, when accepting it, to allow mine to tremble slightly, -and to walk with my eyes cast down, and a quick respiration. -I had the air of having a presentiment of my defeat, and -of being afraid of my victor. He noticed it readily; then -the traitor promptly changed his tone and aspect. He had -been gallant, he became tender. It was not that his -language did not remain much the same: circumstances -compelled that; but his gaze had become less keen and -more caressing; the inflexion of his voice softer; his smile<span class="pagenum" id="Page_278">[278]</span> -was no longer the smile of <i>finesse</i>, but of satisfaction. -Finally, in his conversation, suppressing more and more -the fire of his sallies, wit gave place to delicacy. I ask -you, could you have done better yourself?</p> - -<p>On my side, I grew pensive to such a point that the -company was forced to perceive it; and when I was reproached -for it, I was clever enough to defend myself -indifferently, and to cast on Prévan a rapid, yet shy and -embarrassed glance, that was to make him believe that all -my fear was lest he should divine the cause of my trouble.</p> - -<p>After supper, I profited by the moment when the good -Maréchale was telling one of those stories which she is -always telling, to settle myself on my ottoman, in that -languorous condition which is induced by a tender <i>rêverie</i>. -I was not sorry for Prévan to see me thus; in truth, he -honoured me with most particular attention. You may well -imagine that my timid glances did not dare to seek the -eyes of my conqueror: but directed towards him in a more -humble fashion, they soon informed me that I was obtaining -the effect which I sought to produce. I still needed -to persuade him that I shared it; so that, when the Maréchale -announced she was going to retire, I cried out -in a faint and tender voice, “<i>Ah Dieu!</i> I was so comfortable -here!” I rose, however: but, before taking leave -of her, I asked her her plans, in order to have a -pretext for telling her mine, and of letting her know that -I should stay at home the whole of the following day. -Upon this, we all separated.</p> - -<p>I then started reflecting. I had no doubt but that -Prévan would profit by the sort of <i>rendez-vous</i> I had given -him; that he would come early enough to find me alone, -and that the attack would be a fierce one: but I was<span class="pagenum" id="Page_279">[279]</span> -quite sure also that, owing to my reputation, he would -not treat me with that lightness which is only employed -with women of occasion or with those who have no -experience; and I foresaw a certain success, if he pronounced -the word love, above all, if he had the pretension of -obtaining it from me.</p> - -<p>How convenient it is to have dealings with you <i>people -of principles</i>! Sometimes a clumsy lover disconcerts us -by his bashfulness or embarrasses us with his fiery -transports; it is a fever which, like the other, has its -chills and ardours, and sometimes varies in its symptoms. -But the even tenor of your way is so easily divined!</p> - -<p>The arrival, the aspect, the tone, the language: I knew -it all the day before.</p> - -<p>I will not report our conversation to you, then; you -will easily supply it for yourself. Only remark that, in -my feigned defence, I aided him with all my power: -embarrassment, to give him time to speak; sorry reasons, -that he might combat them; distrust and fear, to revive -his protestations; and that perpetual refrain on his side -of <i>I ask you only for a word</i>; and the silence on mine, -which seemed but to delay him in order to make him -desire the more: during all that, a hand seized a hundred -times, a hand always withdrawn yet never refused. One -might pass a whole day thus; we passed a mortal hour: -we should be there, perhaps, still, if we had not heard a -carriage entering my court-yard. This fortunate occurrence -naturally rendered his entreaties livelier; and I, seeing -the moment arrive when I was out of danger of any -surprise, prepared myself by a long sigh, and granted him -the precious word. The visitor was announced, and soon -afterwards, I was surrounded by a numerous circle.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_280">[280]</span></p> - -<p>Prévan begged to be allowed to come on the following -morning, and I consented: but, careful to defend myself, -I ordered my waiting-maid to remain all through the time -of this visit in my bed-chamber, whence, you know, one -can see all that passes in my dressing-room, and it was -there that I received him. Free in our conversation and -having both the same desire, we were soon in agreement: -but it was necessary to get rid of this inopportune spectator; -it was for that I was waiting.</p> - -<p>Then, painting an imaginative picture of my home life, I -persuaded him without difficulty that we should never -find a moment’s liberty, and that he must consider as a -sort of miracle that which we had enjoyed yesterday, and even -that contained too great a risk for me to expose myself -to, since at any moment someone might enter my -<i>salon</i>. I did not fail to add that all these usages -were established, because, until that day, they had never -interfered with me; and I insisted at the same time upon -the impossibility of changing them without compromising -myself in the eyes of my household. He attempted sadness, -assumed ill-humour, told me that I had little love; -and you can guess how much all that touched me! But, -wishing to strike the decisive blow, I summoned tears to -my aid. It was precisely the <i>Zaïre, you are weeping</i>. -The empire which he thought to have gained over me, -and the hope he had conceived of compassing my ruin -at his will, stood him in good stead for all the love of -Orosmane.</p> - -<p>This dramatic scene accomplished, we returned to our -arrangements. The day being out of the question, we -turned our attention to the night: but my Swiss became -an insurmountable obstacle, and I would not permit any<span class="pagenum" id="Page_281">[281]</span> -attempt to bribe him. He suggested the wicket-gate of -my garden; but this I had foreseen, and I invented a -dog who, although calm and silent enough by day, became -a real demon at night. The ease with which I entered -into all these details was well fitted to embolden him. -Thus he went on to propose the most ridiculous of -expedients to me, and it was this which I accepted.</p> - -<p>To begin with, his servant was as trusty as himself: in -this he did not lie to me; the one was quite as little so as -the other. I was to give a great supper at my house; he -was to be there, and was to select a moment when he -could leave alone. The cunning confidant would call his -carriage, open the door, whilst he, Prévan, would slip adroitly -on one side. In no way could his coachman perceive this; -so that, whilst everybody believed him to have left, he had -really remained with me; the question remained whether -he could reach my apartment. I confess that, at first, I -had some difficulty in finding reasons against this project -weak enough for him to be able to destroy; he answered me -with instances. To hear him, nothing was more ordinary -than this method; he himself had often employed it; it -was even that one which he used the most, as being the -least dangerous.</p> - -<p>Subjugated by these irrefutable authorities, I admitted -with candour that I had a private staircase which led -to the near neighbourhood of my <i>boudoir</i>; that I could -leave the key of it, and it was possible for him to shut -himself in there and wait, without undue risk, until my -women had retired; and then, to give more probability -to my consent, the moment after I was unwilling: I only -relented on the condition of a perfect docility, of a propriety—oh, -a propriety! In short I was quite willing<span class="pagenum" id="Page_282">[282]</span> -to prove my love to him, but not so much to gratify -his own.</p> - -<p>The exit, of which I was forgetting to tell you, was to -be made by the wicket-gate of my garden; it was only a -matter of waiting for daybreak, when the Cerberus would -not utter a sound. Not a soul passes at that hour, -and people are in the soundest slumber. If you are -astonished at this heap of sorry reasons, it is because you -forget our reciprocal situation. What need had we of -better ones? He asked nothing better than for the thing -to be known, and as for me, I was quite certain that it -should not be known. The next day but one was the -day fixed.</p> - -<p>You will notice that there is the affair settled, and that -no one has yet seen Prévan in my society. I meet him -at supper at the house of one of my friends, he offers -her his box for a new piece, and I accept a place in it. -I invite this woman to supper, during the piece and -before Prévan; I can hardly avoid inviting him to be -of the party. He accepts, and pays me two days later -the visit exacted by custom. ’Tis true, he comes to see -me on the morning of the next day: but besides the fact -that morning visits no longer count, it only rests with me -to find this one too free; and in fact I put him in the -category of persons less intimate with me, by a written -invitation to a supper of ceremony. I can well cry, with -Annette: “<i>Albeit that is all!</i>”</p> - -<p>The fatal day having come, the day on which I was to lose -my virtue and my reputation, I gave my instructions to the -faithful Victoire, and she executed them as you will presently -see. In the meantime, evening arrived. I had already -a great company with me, when Prévan was announced.<span class="pagenum" id="Page_283">[283]</span> -I received him with a marked politeness, which testified -to the slightness of my acquaintance with him; and I -put him by the side of the Maréchale, as being the person -through whom I had made it. The evening produced -nothing but a very short note, which the discreet lover -found a means of giving me, and which, according to my -custom, I burned. It informed me that I could trust him; -and this essential word was surrounded by all the parasitical -words, such as love, happiness, etc., which never fail to -appear at such a festival.</p> - -<p>By midnight, the rubbers being over, I proposed a -short medley.<a id="FNanchor_30" href="#Footnote_30" class="fnanchor">[30]</a> I had the double design of favouring -Prévan’s escape, and at the same time of causing it -to be noticed; that could not fail to happen, considering -his reputation as a gamester. I was not sorry, either, -that it might be remembered, if need were, that I had -not been in a hurry to be left alone. The game lasted -longer than I had thought. The devil tempted me, and -I was succumbing to my desire to console the impatient -prisoner. I was thus rushing on to my ruin, when I -reflected that, once having quite surrendered, I should not -have sufficient control over him to keep him in the costume -of decency which my plans required. I had the strength -to resist. I retraced my steps, and returned, not without -some ill-humour, to resume my place at the eternal game. -It finished, however, and every one left. As for me, I -rang for my women, undressed very rapidly, and sent them -also away.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_284">[284]</span></p> - -<p>Can you see me, Vicomte, in my light toilette, walking -with timid and circumspect steps to open the door to my -conqueror? He saw me; lightning is not more prompt. -What shall I say to you? I was vanquished, quite -vanquished, before I could say one word to arrest him or -defend myself. He then wanted to take a convenient -position and one more suitable to the circumstances. He -cursed his finery which, he said, kept him aloof from -me; he would combat me with equal arms: but my extreme -timidity was opposed to this project, and my soft caresses -did not leave him time. He was occupied with other -things.</p> - -<p>His rights were redoubled, his pretensions were renewed; -but then: “Listen to me,” I said; “you will have thus -far a merry story enough to tell the two Comtesses de -P***, and a thousand others; but I am curious to -know how you will relate the end of the adventure.” -Speaking thus, I rang the bell with all my strength. For -the nonce it was my turn, and my action was quicker -than my speech. He had only stammered out something, -when I heard Victoire running up and calling the servants, -whom she had kept near her, as I had ordered. Then, -assuming my queenly tone, raising my voice: “Leave me, -Monsieur,” I went on, “and, never come into my presence -again.” Whereupon a crowd of my people entered.</p> - -<p>Poor Prévan lost his head, and, fancying an ambush in -what was at bottom no more than a joke, he betook -himself to his sword. It did him no good, for my -<i>valet-de-chambre</i>, who is brave and active, caught him round -the body and hurled him to the ground. I was in a -mortal fright, I vow. I cried to them to cease, and bade -them let his retreat go unmolested, so long as they made -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_285">[285]</span>certain that he was gone. My men obeyed me: but there -was great commotion amongst them; they were indignant -that anyone should have dared to fail in respect towards -<i>their virtuous mistress</i>. They all accompanied the unfortunate -Chevalier, noisily and with the scandal which I desired. -Victoire only stayed behind, and we occupied ourselves -during this interval in repairing the disorder of my bed.</p> - - <div class="figcenter illowp45" id="319" style="max-width: 30.625em;"> - <img class="w100" src="images/319.jpg" alt=""> - <div class="caption"><i>C. Monnet del.</i> <span class="captionr"><i>Triere sculp.</i></span></div> -</div> -<div class="sync"> </div> -<p>My household returned in the same state of commotion; -and I, <i>still upset by my emotion</i>, asked them by what lucky -chance they happened to be not yet gone to bed. Victoire -then related to me how she had asked two women friends -to supper, how they had sat up with her, and, in short, -all that we had together agreed upon. I thanked them -all, and let them retire, bidding one of them, however, -to go immediately and summon my physician. It seemed -to me that I was justified in fearing ill effects from <i>my -mortal fright</i>; and it was a sure means of giving wind and -celebrity to the news. He came in effect, condoled with -me mightily, and prescribed repose. In addition, I bade -Victoire go abroad early in the morning and gossip in the -neighbourhood.</p> - -<p>Everything succeeded so well that, before noon, and as -soon as I was awake, my pious neighbour was already at -my bedside, to know the truth and the details of this -terrible adventure. I was obliged to moan with her for -an hour over the corruption of the age. A moment later, -I received from the Maréchale the note which I enclose. -Finally, about five o’clock, to my great astonishment, -Monsieur *** arrived.<a id="FNanchor_31" href="#Footnote_31" class="fnanchor">[31]</a> He came, he told me, to bring his -excuses that an officer of his regiment should have been<span class="pagenum" id="Page_286">[286]</span> -so grossly wanting in respect. He had only heard of it -at dinner, at the Maréchale’s, and had immediately sent -word to Prévan to consider himself under arrest. I asked -for his pardon, and he refused it me. I then thought -that, as an accomplice, I ought to dispatch myself on my -side, and at least keep myself under strict guard. I caused -my door to be shut, and word to be given that I was -indisposed.</p> - -<p>’Tis to my solitude that you owe this long letter! I -shall write one to Madame de Volanges, which she will -be sure to read aloud, and from which you will hear this -story as it is to be told. I forgot to tell you that Belleroche -is enraged, and absolutely wants to fight Prévan. The -poor fellow! Luckily I shall have time to calm his head. -In the meantime, I am going to repose my own, which -is tired with writing. Adieu, Vicomte.</p> - -<p class="right"> -Paris, 25th September, 17**. -</p> -<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> - -<div class="chapter"> -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_287">[287]</span></p> - -<h2 class="nobreak" id="LETTER_THE_EIGHTY-SIXTH">LETTER THE EIGHTY-SIXTH - -<br><small>THE MARÉCHALE DE *** TO THE MARQUISE DE MERTEUIL</small></h2> -</div> - -<p class="center">(A note enclosed in the preceding one)</p> - -<p class="noin"><span class="smcap">Ah</span>, Heavens! what do I hear, my dear Madame? Is it -possible that that little Prévan should commit such abominations? -And to you above all! What is one not exposed -to! One is no longer safe in one’s own house! Truly such -events console one for being old. But that for which I -shall never console myself is that I have been partly the -cause of your receiving such a monster at your house. I -promise you that, if what I am told is true, he shall never -more set foot within my doors; that is the course which all -nice persons will adopt towards him, if they do their duty.</p> - -<p>I am told that you have been quite ill, and I am -anxious about your health. Give me, I pray you, your -precious news, or send by one of your women, if you -cannot come yourself. I only ask a word to reassure me. -I should have hastened to you this morning, had it -not been for my baths, which my doctor will not allow -me to interrupt; and I must go to Versailles this afternoon, -always on my nephew’s business.</p> - -<p>Adieu, dear Madame; count upon my sincere friendship -for life.</p> - -<p class="right"> -Paris, September 25th, 17**. -</p> -<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> - -<div class="chapter"> -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_288">[288]</span></p> - -<h2 class="nobreak" id="LETTER_THE_EIGHTY-SEVENTH">LETTER THE EIGHTY-SEVENTH - -<br><small>THE MARQUISE DE MERTEUIL TO MADAME DE VOLANGES</small></h2> -</div> - -<p class="noin">I <span class="smcap">write</span> to you from my bed, my dear, kind friend. The -most disagreeable event, and the most impossible to have -foreseen, has made me ill with fright and annoyance. -It is, assuredly, not because I have aught to reproach -myself with; but it is always so painful for a virtuous -woman, who retains the modesty which becomes her sex, -to have public attention drawn upon her that I would -give anything in the world to have been able to avoid -this unhappy adventure; and I am still uncertain whether -I may not decide to go to the country and wait until it -be forgotten. This is the affair I allude to.</p> - -<p>I met at the Maréchale de ***’s a certain M. de -Prévan, whom you are sure to know by name, and -whom I knew in no other way. But, meeting him at -such a house, I was, it seems to me, quite justified in -believing him to be of good society. He is well enough -made personally, and seemed to me not lacking in wit. -Chance and the tedium of play left me the only -woman alone with him and the Bishop of ***, the rest -of the company being occupied with lansquenet. The -three of us conversed together till supper-time. At the -table, a new piece, of which there was some talk, gave<span class="pagenum" id="Page_289">[289]</span> -him the occasion to offer his box to the Maréchale, who -accepted it; and it was arranged that I should have a -place in it. It was for Monday last at the <i>Français</i>. As -the Maréchale was coming to sup with me at the close -of the performance, I proposed to this gentleman to accompany -her, and he came. Two days later he paid me a visit, -which passed with the customary compliments, and without -the occurrence of anything marked. On the following day, he -came to see me in the morning, and this appeared to me a -trifle bold; but I thought that, instead of making him feel -this by my fashion of receiving him, it were better to remind -him, by a politeness, that we were not yet on so intimate -a footing as he seemed to imply. To this end I sent him -that same day a very dry and very ceremonious invitation -for a supper that I was giving the day before yesterday. -I did not speak four words to him all the evening; and -he, on his side, retired as soon as his game was finished. -You will admit that thus far nothing has less the air of -leading up to an adventure: after the other games, we -played a medley which lasted till nearly two o’clock, and -finally I went to bed.</p> - -<p>It must have been a mortal half hour at least after my -women had retired, when I heard a noise in my room. -I opened my curtains with much alarm, and saw a man -enter by the door which leads into my <i>boudoir</i>. I uttered -a piercing cry; and I recognized, by the light of my night-light, -this M. de Prévan, who, with inconceivable effrontery, -told me not to alarm myself; that he would enlighten me -as to the mystery of his conduct; and that he begged -me not to make any noise. Thus speaking, he lit a -candle; I was so confounded that I could not speak. -His tranquil and assured air petrified me, I think, even<span class="pagenum" id="Page_290">[290]</span> -more. But he had not said two words, when I saw what -this pretended mystery was; and my only reply, as you -will believe, was to clutch my bell-rope. By an incredible -piece of good fortune, all my household had been sitting -up with one of my women, and were not yet in bed. -My chamber-maid, who, on coming to me, heard me -speaking with much heat, was alarmed, and summoned all -this company. You can imagine what a scandal! My -people were furious; there was a moment when I thought -my <i>valet-de-chambre</i> would kill Prévan. I confess that, at -the moment, I was quite relieved to find myself in force: -on reflexion to-day, I should have found it preferable if -only my chamber-maid had come; she would have sufficed, -and I should, perhaps, have escaped all this noise which -afflicts me.</p> - -<p>In place of that, the tumult awoke the neighbours, the -household talked, and it is the gossip of all Paris since -yesterday. M. de Prévan is in prison by order of the -commanding-officer of his regiment, who had the courtesy to -call upon me to offer me his excuses, he said. This arrest -will still further augment the noise, but I could not obtain -that it should be otherwise. The Town and the Court -have been to inscribe their names at my door, which I -have closed to everyone. The few persons I have seen -tell me that justice is rendered me, and that public indignation -against Prévan is at its height: assuredly, he -well merits it, but that does not detract from the disagreeables -of this adventure. Moreover, the man has -certainly some friends; and his friends are bound to be -mischievous; who knows, who can tell what they will invent -to my injury? Ah, Lord! how unfortunate to be a -young woman! She has done nothing yet, when she has<span class="pagenum" id="Page_291">[291]</span> -put herself out of the reach of slander; she has need -even to give the lie to calumny.</p> - -<p>Write me, I beg of you, what you would have done, -what you would do in my place; in short, all your thought. -It is always from you that I receive the sweetest consolation -and the most prudent counsel; it is from you also -that I love best to receive it.</p> - -<p>Adieu, my dear and kind friend; you know the sentiments -which for ever attach me to you. I embrace your -amiable daughter.</p> - -<p class="right"> -Paris, 26th September, 17**. -</p> -<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> - -<div class="chapter"> -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_292">[292]</span></p> - -<h2 class="nobreak" id="LETTER_THE_EIGHTY-EIGHTH">LETTER THE EIGHTY-EIGHTH - -<br><small>CECILE VOLANGES TO THE VICOMTE DE VALMONT</small></h2> -</div> - -<p class="noin"><span class="smcap">In</span> spite of all the pleasure that I take, Monsieur, in the -letters of M. le Chevalier Danceny, and although I am -no less desirous than he is that we might be able to see -one another again without hindrance, I have not, however, -dared to do what you suggest to me.</p> - -<p>In the first place, it is too dangerous; this key, which -you want me to put in the other’s place, is like enough -to it, in truth; but not so much so, however, that the -difference is not to be seen, and Mamma looks at and -takes notice of everything. Again, although it has not yet -been made use of since we have been here, there needs -but a mischance; and, if it was to be perceived, I should -be lost for ever. And then, it seems to me too that it would -be very wrong; to make a duplicate key like that: it is -very strong! It is true that it is you who would be kind -enough to undertake it; but in spite of that, if it became -known, I should, none the less, have to bear the blame and -the odium, since it would be for me that you had done it. -Lastly, I have twice tried to take it, and certainly it would -be easy enough if it were anything else: but I do not know -why, I always started trembling, and have never had the -courage. I think then we had better stay as we are.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_293">[293]</span></p> - -<p>If you continue to have the kindness to be as complaisant -as hitherto, you will easily find a means of giving me a -letter. Even with the last, but for the ill chance which -made you suddenly turn round at a certain moment, we -should have been quite secure. I can quite feel that you -cannot, like myself, be thinking only of that; but I would -rather have more patience and not risk so much. I am -sure that M. Danceny would speak as I do: for, every time -that he wanted something which caused me too much pain, -he always consented that it should not be.</p> - -<p>I will give you back, Monsieur, at the same time as -this letter, your own, that of M. Danceny, and your key. -I am none the less grateful for all your kindnesses, and -I beseech you to continue them. It is very true that I -am most unhappy, and without you I should be even -more so; but, after all, she is my mother; I must needs -have patience. And provided that M. Danceny goes on -loving me, and you do not abandon me, perhaps a happier -time will come.</p> - -<p>I have the honour to be, Monsieur, with much gratitude, -your most humble and obedient servant.</p> - -<p class="right"> -At the Château de ..., 26th September, 17**. -</p> -<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> - -<div class="chapter"> -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_294">[294]</span></p> - -<h2 class="nobreak" id="LETTER_THE_EIGHTY-NINTH">LETTER THE EIGHTY-NINTH - -<br><small>THE VICOMTE DE VALMONT TO THE CHEVALIER DANCENY</small></h2> -</div> - -<p class="noin"><span class="smcap">If</span> your affairs do not always advance as quickly as you -could wish, my friend, it is not entirely me whom you must -blame. I have more than one obstacle to overcome here. -The vigilance and severity of Madame de Volanges are not -the only ones; your young friend also throws some in my -way. Whether from coldness or timidity, she does not -always do as I advise her; and I think, none the less, that -I know better than she what must be done.</p> - -<p>I had found a sure and simple means of giving her -your letters, and even of facilitating, subsequently, the -interviews which you desire: but I could not persuade -her to employ it. I am all the more distressed at this, -as I cannot see any other means of bringing you together; -and as, even with your correspondence, I am constantly -afraid of compromising us all three. Now you may -imagine that I am no more anxious to run that risk -myself than to expose either of you to it.</p> - -<p>I should be truly grieved, however, if your little friend’s -lack of confidence were to prevent me from being useful -to you; perhaps, you would do well to write to her on the -subject. Consider what you want to do, it is for you -alone to decide; for it is not enough to serve one’s friends,<span class="pagenum" id="Page_295">[295]</span> -one must also serve them in their own manner. This -might also be one means the more to assure yourself of -her sentiments towards you; for the woman who keeps a -will of her own does not love as much as she says.</p> - -<p>’Tis not that I suspect your mistress of inconstancy: but -she is very young; she has a great fear of her Mamma, -who, as you know, only seeks to injure you; and perhaps -it would be dangerous to stay too long without occupying -her with you. Do not, however, render yourself unduly -anxious by what I tell you. I have at bottom no reason -for distrust; it is entirely the solicitude of friendship.</p> - -<p>I do not write to you at greater length, because I too -have certain affairs of my own. I am not as far advanced -as you, but I am as fond; that is a consoling thought; and, -even if I should not succeed for myself, if I succeed in -being useful to you, I shall consider that my time has -been well employed. Adieu, my friend.</p> - -<p class="right"> -At the Château de ..., 26th September, 17**. -</p> -<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> - -<div class="chapter"> -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_296">[296]</span></p> - -<h2 class="nobreak" id="LETTER_THE_NINETIETH">LETTER THE NINETIETH - -<br><small>THE PRÉSIDENTE DE TOURVEL TO THE VICOMTE DE VALMONT</small></h2> -</div> - -<p class="noin">I <span class="smcap">am</span> greatly desirous, Monsieur, that this letter should not -cause you any distress; or that, if it must do so, it may -be at least softened by that which I experience in writing -to you. You must know me well enough by this time to -be well assured that it is not my wish to grieve you; but -neither would you wish, doubtless, to plunge me into eternal -despair. I conjure you then, in the name of the tender -friendship which I have promised you, in the name, even, -of the sentiments, perhaps more vivid, but assuredly not -more sincere, which you have for me: let us cease to -see one another; depart; and, in the meantime, let us shun -all those private and too perilous interviews in which, forced -by some inconceivable power, though I never succeed in -saying what I wish to say to you, I pass my time in -listening to what I never ought to hear.</p> - -<p>Only yesterday, when you came to join me in the park, -my sole intention was to tell you that which I am writing -to you to-day; and yet, what did I do, but occupy myself -with your love—your love—to which I am bound never to -respond! Ah, for pity’s sake remove yourself from me!</p> - -<p>Do not think that absence will ever alter my sentiments -for you: how shall I ever succeed in overcoming them,<span class="pagenum" id="Page_297">[297]</span> -when I have no longer the courage to combat them? You -see, I tell you all; I fear less to confess my weakness -than to succumb to it: but that control which I have lost -over my feelings I shall retain over my actions; yes, I -shall retain it, I am resolved, be it at the cost of my life.</p> - -<p>Alas! the time is not far distant when I believed myself -very sure of never having such struggles to undergo. I -congratulated myself, I vaunted myself for this, perhaps -overmuch. Heaven has punished, cruelly punished this -pride: but, full of mercy, at the very moment when it -strikes us it forewarns me again before a fall; and I -should be doubly guilty if I continued to fail in prudence, -warned as I am already that I have no more strength.</p> - -<p>You have told me a hundred times that you would -have none of a happiness purchased by my tears. Ah! -let us speak no more of happiness, but leave me to regain -some calm.</p> - -<p>In acceding to my request, what fresh rights do you not -acquire over my heart? And from those rights, founded -upon virtue, I shall have need to defend myself. What -pleasure I shall take in my gratitude! I shall owe you -the sweetness of tasting without remorse a delicious sentiment. -At present, on the contrary, terrified by my -sentiments, by my thoughts, I am equally afraid of occupying -myself with either you or myself; the very idea of you -alarms me: when I cannot escape from it, I combat it; -I do not drive it from me, but I repel it.</p> - -<p>Is it not better for both of us to put a stop to this -state of trouble and anxiety? Oh, you, whose ever sensitive -soul, even in the midst of its errors, has continued the friend -of virtue, you will respect my painful situation, you will -not reject my prayer! A sweeter, but not less tender<span class="pagenum" id="Page_298">[298]</span> -interest will <span class="err">succeed</span> to these violent agitations: then, breathing -again through your benevolence, I shall cherish -existence, and shall say, in the joy of my heart: This -calm, I owe it to my friend.</p> - -<p>In causing you to undergo a few deprivations, which -I do not impose upon you, but which I beg of you, will -you think you are buying the end of my torments at too -dear a price? Ah! if, to make you happy, I had but to -consent to unhappiness, you may believe me, I would not -hesitate for a moment.... But to become guilty!... -No, my friend, no; rather would I die a thousand deaths. -Already, assailed by shame, on the eve of remorse, I -dread both others and myself; I blush in the midst of -company, and tremble in solitude; I lead only a life of -pain; I shall have no peace unless you consent. My most -praiseworthy resolutions do not suffice to reassure me; I -formed this one yesterday, and yet I have passed the -night in tears.</p> - -<p>Behold your friend, she whom you love, suppliant and -confused, begging you for innocence and repose. Ah, -God! But for you, would she ever have been reduced -to so humiliating a request? I reproach you with nothing; -I feel too strongly, myself, how difficult it is to resist an -imperious sentiment. A complaint is not a reproach. -Do, out of generosity, what I do from duty; and to all -the sentiments which you have inspired in me, I will add -that of eternal gratitude. Adieu, Monsieur, adieu.</p> - -<p class="right"> -At the Château de ..., 27th September, 17**. -</p> - -<p class="center"><span class="allsmcap">END OF VOLUME THE FIRST</span></p> - -<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> - -<div class="chapter"> -<h2 class="nobreak" id="FOOTNOTES">FOOTNOTES:</h2> -</div> - -<div class="footnote"> - -<p><a id="Footnote_1" href="#FNanchor_1" class="label">[1]</a> A pupil at the same convent.</p> - -</div> - -<div class="footnote"> - -<p><a id="Footnote_2" href="#FNanchor_2" class="label">[2]</a> The portress of the convent.</p> - -</div> - -<div class="footnote"> - -<p><a id="Footnote_3" href="#FNanchor_3" class="label">[3]</a> The words <i>roué</i> and <i>rouerie</i>, which are now happily falling into disuse -in good society, were much in vogue at the time when these Letters -were written.</p> - -</div> - -<div class="footnote"> - -<p><a id="Footnote_4" href="#FNanchor_4" class="label">[4]</a> To understand this passage, it must be mentioned that the Comte -de Gercourt had deserted the Marquise de Merteuil for the Intendante -de ***, who had sacrificed for him the Vicomte de Valmont, and it was -then that the Marquise and the Vicomte formed an attachment. As this -adventure is long anterior to the events which are in question in these -Letters, it seemed right to suppress all that correspondence.</p> - -</div> - -<div class="footnote"> - -<p><a id="Footnote_5" href="#FNanchor_5" class="label">[5]</a> La Fontaine.</p> - -</div> - -<div class="footnote"> - -<p><a id="Footnote_6" href="#FNanchor_6" class="label">[6]</a> One sees here the deplorable taste for puns, which was becoming -the fashion, and which has since made so much progress.</p> - -</div> - -<div class="footnote"> - -<p><a id="Footnote_7" href="#FNanchor_7" class="label">[7]</a> Not to abuse the Reader’s patience, many of the letters in this -correspondence, from day to day, have been suppressed; only those have -been given which have been found necessary for the elucidation of -events. For the same reason all the replies of Sophie Carnay and -many letters of the other actors in these adventures have been omitted.</p> - -</div> - -<div class="footnote"> - -<p><a id="Footnote_8" href="#FNanchor_8" class="label">[8]</a> The error, into which Madame de Volanges falls, shows us that, like -other criminals, Valmont did not betray his accomplices.</p> - -</div> - -<div class="footnote"> - -<p><a id="Footnote_9" href="#FNanchor_9" class="label">[9]</a> An ingenious but very gallant romance by Monsieur de Crébillon -<i>fils</i>. <i>Translator’s Note.</i></p> - -</div> - -<div class="footnote"> - -<p><a id="Footnote_10" href="#FNanchor_10" class="label">[10]</a> This is the same gentleman who is mentioned in the letters of -Madame de Merteuil.</p> - -</div> - -<div class="footnote"> - -<p><a id="Footnote_11" href="#FNanchor_11" class="label">[11]</a> The letter in which this <i>soirée</i> is spoken of has not been found. -There seems reason to believe it is that suggested in the note of -Madame de Merteuil, which is also mentioned in the preceding letter -of Cécile Volanges.</p> - -</div> - -<div class="footnote"> - -<p><a id="Footnote_12" href="#FNanchor_12" class="label">[12]</a> Madame de Tourvel then does not dare to say that it was by her -order!</p> - -</div> - -<div class="footnote"> - -<p><a id="Footnote_13" href="#FNanchor_13" class="label">[13]</a> We continue to omit the letters of Cécile Volanges and of the -Chevalier Danceny, these being of little interest and containing no -incidents.</p> - -</div> - -<div class="footnote"> - -<p><a id="Footnote_14" href="#FNanchor_14" class="label">[14]</a> See Letter the <a href="#LETTER_THE_THIRTY-FIFTH">Thirty-Fifth</a>.</p> - -</div> - -<div class="footnote"> - -<p><a id="Footnote_15" href="#FNanchor_15" class="label">[15]</a> Piron, <i>Métromanie</i>.</p> - -</div> - -<div class="footnote"> - -<p><a id="Footnote_16" href="#FNanchor_16" class="label">[16]</a> Those who have not had occasion sometimes to feel the value -of a word, an expression, consecrated by love will find no meaning in -this sentence.</p> - -</div> - -<div class="footnote"> - -<p><a id="Footnote_17" href="#FNanchor_17" class="label">[17]</a> This letter has not been recovered.</p> - -</div> - -<div class="footnote"> - -<p><a id="Footnote_18" href="#FNanchor_18" class="label">[18]</a> The reader must have guessed already, by the conduct of Madame de -Merteuil, how little respect she had for religion. This passage would -have been suppressed, only it was thought that, whilst showing results, one -ought not to neglect to make the causes known.</p> - -</div> - -<div class="footnote"> - -<p><a id="Footnote_19" href="#FNanchor_19" class="label">[19]</a> We believe it was Rousseau in <i>Émile</i>: but the quotation is not -exact, and the application which Valmont makes of it entirely false; and -then, had Madame de Tourvel read <i>Émile</i>?</p> - -</div> - -<div class="footnote"> - -<p><a id="Footnote_20" href="#FNanchor_20" class="label">[20]</a> We have suppressed the letter of Cécile Volanges to the Marquise, -as it contained merely the same facts as the preceding letter, but -with less detail. That to the Chevalier Danceny has not been recovered: -the reason of this will appear in letter the<a href="#LETTER_THE_SIXTY-THIRD"> sixty-third</a>, from Madame -de Merteuil to the Vicomte.</p> - -</div> - -<div class="footnote"> - -<p><a id="Footnote_21" href="#FNanchor_21" class="label">[21]</a> Gresset: <i>Le Méchant.</i></p> - -</div> - -<div class="footnote"> - -<p><a id="Footnote_22" href="#FNanchor_22" class="label">[22]</a> M. Danceny does not confess the truth. He had already given his -confidence to M. de Valmont before this event. See letter the <a href="#LETTER_THE_FIFTY-SEVENTH">fifty-seventh</a>.</p> - -</div> - -<div class="footnote"> - -<p><a id="Footnote_23" href="#FNanchor_23" class="label">[23]</a> This expression refers to a passage in a poem by M. de Voltaire.</p> - -</div> - -<div class="footnote"> - -<p><a id="Footnote_24" href="#FNanchor_24" class="label">[24]</a> Racine: <i>Britannicus</i>.</p> - -<div class="poetry-container"> -<div class="poetry"> - <div class="stanza"> - <div class="verse indent21">“In just such plain array,</div> - <div class="verse indent0">As beauty wears when fresh from slumber’s sway.”</div> - </div> -</div> -</div> - -</div> - -<div class="footnote"> - -<p><a id="Footnote_25" href="#FNanchor_25" class="label">[25]</a> Mademoiselle de Volanges having shortly afterwards changed her -confidant, as will appear in the subsequent letters, this collection will -include no more of those which she continued to write to her friend at -the convent: they would teach the Reader nothing that he did not -know.</p> - -</div> - -<div class="footnote"> - -<p><a id="Footnote_26" href="#FNanchor_26" class="label">[26]</a> This letter has not been recovered.</p> - -</div> - -<div class="footnote"> - -<p><a id="Footnote_27" href="#FNanchor_27" class="label">[27]</a> We are unaware whether this line, “<i>These tyrants dragged from off -their thrones and made my slaves</i>,” as well as that which occurs above, -“<i>Her arms are open still; her heart is shut</i>,” are quotations from little-known -works, or part of the prose of Madame de Merteuil. What -would lead us to believe the latter is the number of faults of this nature which -are found in all the letters of this correspondence. Those of the Chevalier -Danceny form the only exception: perhaps, as he sometimes occupied -himself with poetry, his more practised ear rendered it easier for him -to avoid this fault.</p> - -</div> - -<div class="footnote"> - -<p><a id="Footnote_28" href="#FNanchor_28" class="label">[28]</a> It will appear, in letter the hundred and fifty-second, not what -M. de Valmont’s secret was, but more or less of what nature it was; -and the Reader will see that we have not been able to enlighten him -further on the subject.</p> - -</div> - -<div class="footnote"> - -<p><a id="Footnote_29" href="#FNanchor_29" class="label">[29]</a> See letter the <a href="#LETTER_THE_SEVENTIETH">seventieth</a>.</p> - -</div> - -<div class="footnote"> - -<p><a id="Footnote_30" href="#FNanchor_30" class="label">[30]</a> Some persons may not, perhaps, be aware that a medley (<i>macédoine</i>) -is a succession of sundry different games of chance, amongst which each -player has a right to choose when it is his turn to deal. It is one of -the inventions of the century.</p> - -</div> - -<div class="footnote"> - -<p><a id="Footnote_31" href="#FNanchor_31" class="label">[31]</a> The commanding-officer of the regiment to which Prévan belonged.</p> - -</div> - -<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> - -<div class="transnote"><div class="chapter"> -<h3 class="nobreak" id="Corrections">Corrections</h3> -</div> - -<p>The first line indicates the original, the second the correction.</p> - -<p>p. <a href="#Page_71">71</a></p> -<ul><li>At the Château of ..., 22nd August, 17**.</li> - -<li>At the Château <span class="u">de</span> ..., 22nd August, 17**.</li> -</ul> - -<p>p. <a href="#Page_298">298</a></p> - -<ul><li>interest will suceed to these violent agitations:</li> - -<li>interest will <span class="u">succeed</span> to these violent agitations:</li></ul></div> - -<div style='display:block; margin-top:4em'>*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK LES LIAISONS DANGEREUSES, VOLUME 1 (OF 2) ***</div> -<div style='text-align:left'> - -<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> -Updated editions will replace the previous one—the old editions will -be renamed. -</div> - -<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> -Creating the works from print editions not protected by U.S. copyright -law means that no one owns a United States copyright in these works, -so the Foundation (and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United -States without permission and without paying copyright -royalties. 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