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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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