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. II
LONDON PRIVATELY PRINTED 1898
LIST OF PLATES
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 SECOND
LETTER PAGE
XCI. The Vicomte de Valmont to the Présidente de Tourvel 299
XCII. The Chevalier Danceny to the Vicomte de Valmont 302
XCIII. The Chevalier Danceny to Cécile Volanges 304
XCIV. Cécile Volanges to the Chevalier Danceny 306
XCV. Cécile Volanges to the Vicomte de Valmont 308
XCVI. The Vicomte de Valmont to the Marquise de Merteuil 310
XCVII. Cécile Volanges to Madame de Merteuil 317
XCVIII. Madame de Volanges to the Marquise de Merteuil 321
XCIX. The Vicomte de Valmont to the Marquise de Merteuil 325
C. The Vicomte de Valmont to the Marquise de Merteuil 333
CI. The Vicomte de Valmont to Azolan, his _chasseur_ 338
CII. The Présidente de Tourvel to Madame de Rosemonde 341
CIII. Madame de Rosemonde to the Présidente de Tourvel 345
CIV. The Marquise de Merteuil to Madame de Volanges 348
CV. The Marquise de Merteuil to Cécile Volanges 355
CVI. The Marquise de Merteuil to the Vicomte de Valmont 361
CVII. Azolan to the Vicomte de Valmont 366
CVIII. The Présidente de Tourvel to Madame de Rosemonde 371
CIX. Cécile Volanges to the Marquise de Merteuil 374
CX. The Vicomte de Valmont to the Marquise de Merteuil 377
CXI. The Comte de Gercourt to Madame de Volanges 383
CXII. Madame de Rosemonde to the Présidente de Tourvel 385
CXIII. The Marquise de Merteuil to the Vicomte de Valmont 387
CXIV. The Présidente de Tourvel to Madame de Rosemonde 395
CXV. The Vicomte de Valmont to the Marquise de Merteuil 397
CXVI. The Chevalier Danceny to Cécile Volanges 403
CXVII. Cécile Volanges to the Chevalier Danceny 406
CXVIII. The Chevalier Danceny to the Marquise de Merteuil 408
CXIX. Madame de Rosemonde to the Présidente de Tourvel 411
CXX. The Vicomte de Valmont to the Père Anselme 413
CXXI. The Marquise de Merteuil to the Chevalier Danceny 415
CXXII. Madame de Rosemonde to the Présidente de Tourvel 418
CXXIII. The Père Anselme to the Vicomte de Valmont 421
CXXIV. The Présidente de Tourvel to Madame de Rosemonde 423
CXXV. The Vicomte de Valmont to the Marquise de Merteuil 427
CXXVI. Madame de Rosemonde to the Présidente de Tourvel 439
CXXVII. The Marquise de Merteuil to the Vicomte de Valmont 442
CXXVIII. The Présidente de Tourvel to Madame de Rosemonde 445
CXXIX. The Vicomte de Valmont to the Marquise de Merteuil 447
CXXX. Madame de Rosemonde to the Présidente de Tourvel 450
CXXXI. The Marquise de Merteuil to the Vicomte de Valmont 453
CXXXII. The Présidente de Tourvel to Madame de Rosemonde 456
CXXXIII. The Vicomte de Valmont to the Marquise de Merteuil 458
CXXXIV. The Marquise de Merteuil to the Vicomte de Valmont 463
CXXXV. The Présidente de Tourvel to Madame de Rosemonde 467
CXXXVI. The Présidente de Tourvel to the Vicomte de Valmont 470
CXXXVII. The Vicomte de Valmont to the Présidente de Tourvel 472
CXXXVIII. The Vicomte de Valmont to the Marquise de Merteuil 476
CXXXIX. The Présidente de Tourvel to Madame de Rosemonde 479
CXL. The Vicomte de Valmont to the Marquise de Merteuil 481
CXLI. The Marquise de Merteuil to the Vicomte de Valmont 484
CXLII. The Vicomte de Valmont to the Marquise de Merteuil 488
CXLIII. The Présidente de Tourvel to Madame de Rosemonde 490
CXLIV. The Vicomte de Valmont to the Marquise de Merteuil 491
CXLV. The Marquise de Merteuil to the Vicomte de Valmont 495
CXLVI. The Marquise de Merteuil to the Chevalier Danceny 498
CXLVII. Madame de Volanges to Madame de Rosemonde 500
CXLVIII. The Chevalier Danceny to the Marquise de Merteuil 504
CXLIX. Madame de Volanges to Madame de Rosemonde 506
CL. The Chevalier Danceny to the Marquise de Merteuil 510
CLI. The Vicomte de Valmont to the Marquise de Merteuil 513
CLII. The Marquise de Merteuil to the Vicomte de Valmont 516
CLIII. The Vicomte de Valmont to the Marquise de Merteuil 520
CLIV. Madame de Volanges to Madame de Rosemonde 522
CLV. The Vicomte de Valmont to the Chevalier Danceny 524
CLVI. Cécile Volanges to the Chevalier Danceny 528
CLVII. The Chevalier Danceny to the Vicomte de Valmont 531
CLVIII. The Vicomte de Valmont to the Marquise de Merteuil 533
CLIX. The Marquise de Merteuil to the Vicomte de Valmont 535
CLX. Madame de Volanges to Madame de Rosemonde 536
CLXI. The Présidente de Tourvel to---- 538
CLXII. The Chevalier Danceny to the Vicomte de Valmont 541
CLXIII. M. Bertrand to Madame de Rosemonde 542
CLXIV. Madame de Rosemonde to M. Bertrand 545
CLXV. Madame de Volanges to Madame de Rosemonde 547
CLXVI. M. Bertrand to Madame de Rosemonde 551
CLXVII. Anonymous to M. le Chevalier Danceny 553
CLXVIII. Madame de Volanges to Madame de Rosemonde 555
CLXIX. The Chevalier Danceny to Madame de Rosemonde 559
CLXX. Madame de Volanges to Madame de Rosemonde 563
CLXXI. Madame de Rosemonde to the Chevalier Danceny 567
CLXXII. Madame de Rosemonde to Madame de Volanges 570
CLXXIII. Madame de Volanges to Madame de Rosemonde 572
CLXXIV. The Chevalier Danceny to Madame de Rosemonde 576
CLXXV. Madame de Volanges to Madame de Rosemonde 579
LES LIAISONS DANGEREUSES
LETTER THE NINETY-FIRST
THE VICOMTE DE VALMONT TO THE PRÉSIDENTE DE TOURVEL
IN consternation at your letter, Madame, I am still ignorant as to
how I can reply to it. Doubtless, if I needs must choose between your
unhappiness and my own, it is for me to sacrifice myself, and I do not
hesitate: but such important interests deserve, so it seems to me,
to be, before all, investigated and discussed, and how can that be
contrived, if we are to speak and see each other no more?
What! whilst the sweetest of sentiments unite us, shall an empty fear
suffice to separate us, perhaps beyond return! In vain shall tender
friendship and ardent love reclaim their rights: their voice shall not
be heard: and why? What then is this pressing danger which besets you?
Ah, believe me, such fears so lightly conceived are already, it seems
to me, potent enough reasons for security.
Permit me to tell you that I find here traces of the unfavourable
impressions that have been given you about me. One does not tremble
before the man one esteems; one does not, above all, drive away him
whom one has judged worthy of a certain friendship: it is the dangerous
man whom one dreads and shuns.
Who, however, was ever more respectful and submissive than myself?
Already, you may observe, I am circumspect in my language; I no longer
permit myself those names so sweet, so dear to my heart, which it never
ceases to give you in secret. It is no longer the faithful and unhappy
lover, receiving the counsels and the consolations of a tender and
sensitive friend; it is the accused before his judge, the slave before
his master. Doubtless these new titles impose new duties; I pledge
myself to fulfil them all. Listen to me, and, if you condemn me, I obey
the verdict and I go. I promise more: do you prefer the tyranny which
judges without a hearing? Do you feel you possess the courage to be
unjust? Command, and I will still obey.
But this judgment, or this command, let me hear it from your own lips.
And why, you will ask me in your turn. Ah, if you put this question,
how little you know of love and of my heart! Is it nothing then to see
you once again? Nay, when you shall have brought despair into my soul,
perhaps one consoling glance will prevent me from succumbing to it.
In short, if I must needs renounce the love, and the friendship, for
which alone I exist, at least you shall see your work, and your pity
will abide with me; even if I do not merit this slight favour, I am
prepared, methinks, to pay dearly for the hope of obtaining it.
What! you are going to drive me from you! You consent, then, to our
becoming strangers to one another! What am I saying? You desire it; and
although you assure me that absence will not alter your sentiments,
you do but urge my departure, in order to work more easily at their
destruction. You speak already of replacing them by gratitude. Thus,
the sentiment which an unknown would obtain from you for the most
trivial service, or even your enemy for ceasing to injure you--this is
what you offer to me! And you wish my heart to be satisfied with this!
Interrogate your own; if your friends came one day to talk to you of
their gratitude, would you not say to them with indignation: Depart
from me, you are ingrates?
I come to a stop, and beseech your indulgence. Pardon the expression
of a grief to which you have given birth; it will not detract from my
complete submission. But I conjure you, in my turn, in the name of
those sweet sentiments which you yourself invoke, do not refuse to hear
me; and in pity, at least, for the mortal distress in which you have
plunged me, do not defer the moment long. Adieu, Madame.
At the Château de ..., 27th September, 17**.
LETTER THE NINETY-SECOND
THE CHEVALIER DANCENY TO THE VICOMTE DE VALMONT
O MY friend! your letter has made my blood run cold for fright.
Cécile.... O God! is it possible? Cécile no longer loves me. Yes, I
see this direful truth, through the veil in which your friendship
covers it. You wished to prepare me for the receipt of this mortal
blow; I thank you for your pains; but can one impose on love? It
is ever in advance of all that interests it: it does not hear of
its fate, it divines it. I have no more doubt of mine: speak to me
without concealment, you may do so, and I beg this of you. Inform me
of everything; what gave rise to your suspicions, what has confirmed
them? The least details are precious. Endeavour above all to recall
her words. One word in place of another can change a whole sentence;
the same word often bears two meanings.... You may have been deceived:
alas, I seek to beguile myself still! What did she say to you? Does she
make me any reproach? At least, does she not defend herself for her
faults? I might have foreseen this change, from the difficulties which
she raises lately about everything. Love is not acquainted with so many
obstacles.
What course ought I to adopt? What do you counsel me? If I attempted to
see her! Is that utterly impossible? Absence is so cruel, so dismal
... and she has rejected a means of seeing me! You do not tell me what
it was; if there was in truth too much danger, she knows well that I am
unwilling for her to run too much risk. But I also know your prudence;
so to my misfortune I cannot but believe in it! What am I to do now?
How write to her! If I let her see my suspicions, they will, perhaps,
grieve her; and, if they are unjust, could she pardon me for having
distressed her? To hide them from her is to deceive her, and I know not
how to dissimulate with her.
Oh, if she could only know what I suffer, my pain would move her! I
know her sensibility; she has an excellent heart, and I have a thousand
proofs of her love. Too much timidity, some embarrassment: she is so
young! And her mother treats her with such severity! I will write to
her; I will restrain myself; I will only beg her to leave herself
entirely in your hands. Even if she should still refuse, she can at
least not take offence at my prayer; and perhaps she will consent.
To you, my friend, to you I make a thousand excuses, both for her and
for myself. I assure you that she feels the value of your efforts, that
she is grateful for them. It is timidity, not distrust. Be indulgent;
it is the finest quality in friendship. Yours is very precious to me,
and I know not how to acknowledge all that you do for me. Adieu, I will
write at once.
I feel all my fears return: who would have told me that it should ever
cost me an effort to write to her! Alas, only yesterday it was my
sweetest pleasure! Adieu, my friend, continue your cares for me, and
pity me mightily.
Paris, 27th September, 17**.
LETTER THE NINETY-THIRD
THE CHEVALIER DANCENY TO CÉCILE VOLANGES
(Enclosed in the preceding)
I CANNOT conceal from you how grieved I have been to hear from Valmont
of the scant confidence you continue to place in him. You are not
ignorant that he is my friend, that he is the only person who can
bring us together once more: I had thought that these titles would be
sufficient with you; I see with pain that I have made a mistake. May I
hope that at least you will inform me of your motives? Will you again
find fresh difficulties which will prevent you? I cannot, however,
without your help, penetrate the mystery of this conduct. I dare not
suspect your love; doubtless you too would not venture to betray mine.
Ah! Cécile!...
Is it true then that you have rejected a means of seeing me? A
_simple_, _convenient_ and _sure_ means?[1] And is it thus that you
love me? An absence so short has indeed changed your sentiments. But
why deceive me? Why tell me that you love me always, that you love me
more? Your Mamma, in destroying your love, has she also destroyed your
sincerity? If she has at least left you some pity, you will not learn
without sorrow the fearful tortures which you cause me. Ah! I should
suffer less were I to die.
Tell me then, is your heart closed to me beyond recall? Have you
utterly forgotten me? Thanks to your refusals, I know not either when
you will hear my complaints, nor when you will reply to them. Valmont’s
friendship had assured our correspondence: but you, you have not wished
it; you found it irksome; you preferred it to be infrequent. No, I
shall believe no more in love, in good faith. Nay, whom can I believe,
if my Cécile has deceived me?
Answer me then: is it true that you no longer love me? No, that is not
possible; you are under an illusion; you belie your heart. A passing
fear, a moment of discouragement, which love has soon caused to vanish:
is it not true, my Cécile? Ah, doubtless; and I was wrong to accuse
you. How happy I should be to be proved wrong! How I should love to
make you tender excuses, to repair this moment of injustice with an
eternity of love!
Cécile, Cécile, have pity on me! Consent to see me, employ for that
every means! Look upon the effects of absence! Fears, suspicions,
perhaps even coldness! A single look, a single word, and we shall be
happy. But what! Can I still talk of happiness? Perhaps it is lost to
me, lost for ever. Tortured by fear, cruelly buffeted between unjust
suspicions and the most cruel truth, I cannot stay in any one thought;
I only maintain existence to love you and to suffer. Ah, Cécile,
you alone have the right to make it dear to me; and I expect, from
the first word that you will utter, the return of happiness or the
certainty of an eternal despair.
Paris, 27th September, 17**.
LETTER THE NINETY-FOURTH
CÉCILE VOLANGES TO THE CHEVALIER DANCENY
I CAN gather nothing from your letter, except the pain it causes me.
What has M. de Valmont written to you, then, and what can have led you
to believe that I no longer loved you? That would be, perhaps, far
happier for me, for I should certainly be less tormented; and it is
very hard, when I love you as I do, to find that you always believe
that I am wrong, and that, instead of consoling me, it is from you
always that I receive the hurts which give me most pain. You believe
I am deceiving you, and am telling you what is not the truth; it is a
pretty notion you have of me! But, if I were to be as deceitful as you
reproach me with being, what interest should I have? Assuredly, if I
loved you no longer, I should only have to say so, and everybody would
praise me; but unhappily it is stronger than I; and it must needs be
for some one who feels no obligation to me for it at all!
What have I done, pray, to make you so vexed? I did not dare to take
a key, because I was afraid that Mamma would perceive it, and that
it would cause me more trouble, and you too on my account, and again
because it seems to me a bad action. But it was only M. de Valmont who
had spoken to me of it; I could not know whether you wished it or no,
since you knew nothing about it. Now I know that you desire it, do I
refuse to take this key? I will take it to-morrow; and then we shall
see what more you will have to say.
It is very well for M. de Valmont to be your friend; I think I love you
at least as well as he can: and yet it is always he who is right, and I
am always wrong. I assure you I am very angry. That is quite the same
to you, because you know that I am quickly appeased: but, now that I
shall have the key, I shall be able to see you when I want to; and I
assure you that I shall not want to, when you act like this. I would
rather have the grief that comes from myself, than that it came from
you: you see what you are ready to cause.
If you liked, how we would love each other! And, at least, we should
only know the troubles that are caused us by others! I assure you that,
if I were mistress, you would never have any complaint to make against
me: but if you do not believe me, we shall always be very unhappy, and
it will not be my fault. I hope we shall soon be able to meet, and that
then we shall have no further occasion to fret as at present.
If I had been able to foresee this, I would have taken the key at once;
but, truly, I thought I was doing right. Do not be angry with me then,
I beg you. Do not be sad any more, and love me always as well as I love
you; then I shall be quite happy. Adieu, my dear love.
At the Château de ..., 28th September, 17**.
LETTER THE NINETY-FIFTH
CÉCILE VOLANGES TO THE VICOMTE DE VALMONT
I BEG you, Monsieur, to be so kind as to return me the key which you
gave me to put in the place of the other; since everybody wishes it, I
must needs consent also.
I do not know why you wrote to M. Danceny that I no longer loved him:
I do not believe I have ever given you reason to think so; and it has
caused him a great deal of pain, and me too. I am quite aware that you
are his friend; but that is not a reason for vexing him, nor me either.
You would give me great pleasure by telling him to the contrary the
next time you write to him, and that you are sure of it; for it is in
you that he has the most confidence; and for me, when I have said a
thing, and am not believed, I do not know what to do.
As for the key, you can be quite easy; I well remember all that you
recommended me in your letter. However, if you still have it, and
would like to give it me at the same time, I promise I will pay great
attention to it. If it could be to-morrow as we go to dinner, I would
give you the other key the day after to-morrow, at breakfast, and you
could give it back to me in the same manner as the first. I should be
very pleased if it does not take long, because there will be less time
for the danger of Mamma’s seeing it.
Again, when once you have that key, you will be very kind to make
use of it to take my letters also; and, in that way, M. Danceny will
more often receive news of me. It is true that it will be much more
convenient than it is at present; but at first it frightened me too
much: I beg you to excuse me, and I hope you will none the less
continue to be as obliging as in the past. I shall always be very
grateful to you.
I have the honour to be, Monsieur, your most humble and obedient
servant.
At the Château de ..., 28th September, 17**.
LETTER THE NINETY-SIXTH
THE VICOMTE DE VALMONT TO THE MARQUISE DE MERTEUIL
I WILL wager that since your adventure, you have been daily expecting
my compliments and praises; I doubt not even that you feel a trifle out
of humour at my long silence: but what do you expect? I have always
thought that, when one has naught but praise to give a woman, one may
be at one’s ease about her, and occupy one’s self with other matters.
However, I thank you on my own account and congratulate you on yours. I
am even ready to make you completely happy by admitting that this time
you have surpassed my expectation. After that, let us see if, on my
side, I have come up to yours, at least in part.
It is not of Madame de Tourvel that I want to talk to you; her too
laggard progress, I know, displeases you. You only love accomplished
facts. Spun-out scenes weary you; for my part I had never tasted such
pleasure as I find in these feigned delays. Yes, I love to see, to
watch this prudent woman, engaged, without her perceiving it, on a
course which admits of no return, whose rapid and dangerous declivity
carries her on in spite of herself and forces her to follow me. Then,
terrified at the danger she runs, she would fain halt, but cannot
hold herself in. Her skill and caution can indeed shorten her steps;
yet they must inevitably succeed one another. Sometimes, not daring to
behold the danger, she shuts her eyes and, letting herself go, abandons
herself to my care. More often, a fresh alarm reanimates her efforts:
in her mortal terror she would attempt once more to turn back; she
wastes her strength in painfully overcoming a short distance; and soon
a magic power replaces her nearer to that danger which she had vainly
sought to fly. Then, having only me for guide and support, with no
more thought to reproach me for an inevitable fall, she implores me to
retard it. Fervent prayers, humble supplications, all that mortals in
their terror offer to the divinity--it is I who receive them from her;
and you would have me, deaf to her entreaties, and myself destroying
the cult which she pays me, employ, to precipitate her, the power which
she invokes for her support! Ah, leave me at least the time to observe
those touching combats between love and virtue.
How then! Do you think that the same spectacle which makes you run
eagerly to the theatre, which you applaud there with fury, is less
engrossing in real life? Those sentiments of a pure and tender soul
which dreads the happiness which it desires, and never ceases to defend
itself even when it ceases to resist, you listen to with enthusiasm;
should they not be priceless to him who has called them forth? That,
however, is the delicious enjoyment which this heavenly woman offers me
daily; and you reproach me for relishing its sweetness! Ah, the time
will come only too soon when, degraded by her fall, she will be to me
no more than an ordinary woman.
But, in talking of her to you, I forget that I did not want to talk
to you of her. I do not know what power constrains me, drags me back
to her ceaselessly, even when I outrage her. Away with her dangerous
idea; let me become myself again to treat a gayer subject. It concerns
your pupil, who is now become my own, and I hope that here you will
recognize me.
Some days ago, being better treated by my gentle Puritan, and in
consequence less engrossed by her, I remarked that the little Volanges
was, in fact, extremely pretty, and, that if there was folly in being
in love with her, like Danceny, there was, perhaps, no less on my
part in not seeking from her a distraction rendered necessary by my
solitude. It seemed to me just, moreover, to repay myself for the
care I was giving her: I reminded myself as well that you had offered
her to me, before Danceny had any pretensions; and I considered
myself justified in claiming certain rights on a property which he
only possessed because I had refused and relinquished it. The little
person’s pretty face, her fresh mouth, her infantile air, her very
_gaucherie_, fortified these sage resolutions; I consequently resolved
on action, and my enterprise has been crowned by success.
You must be already wondering by what means I have so soon supplanted
the favoured lover; what form of seduction befits such youth and such
inexperience. Spare yourself the trouble; I employed none at all.
Whereas you, wielding skilfully the weapons of your sex, triumph by
subtilty, I, rendering his imprescriptible rights to man, subjugated by
authority. Sure of my prey if I could get within reach of it, I only
required a ruse to approach her; and even that which I employed barely
merits the name.
[Illustration: Mle Gerard del. Masquelier sculp.]
I profited by the first letter which I received from Danceny for his
fair; and, after having let her know of it by the concerted signal,
instead of employing my skill to get it into her hands, I used it to
find a lack of means to do so: the impatience to which this gave rise I
feigned to share; and, after having caused the ill, I pointed out the
remedy.
The young person occupies a chamber one door of which opens into the
corridor; but, naturally, the mother had taken away the key. It was
merely a question of obtaining possession of this. Nothing more easy of
execution; I only asked to have it at my disposal for two hours, and I
answered for the procural of one similar to it. Then, correspondence,
interviews, nocturnal _rendez-vous_--everything became easy and safe:
however, would you believe it? The timid child took alarm and refused.
Another man would have been in despair; for my part, I only saw there
the occasion for a more piquant pleasure. I wrote to Danceny to
complain of this refusal, and I did it so well that our blockhead had
no peace until he had obtained from his timorous mistress, and even
urged her, that she should grant my request and so surrender herself
utterly to my discretion.
I was mighty pleased, I confess, at having thus changed the _rôles_,
and induced the young man to do for me what he calculated I should do
for him. This notion doubled, in my eyes, the value of the adventure:
thus, as soon as I had the precious key, I hastened to make use of it;
this was last night.
After assuring myself that all was quiet in the _château_, armed with
my dark lantern, and in the costume, befitting the hour, which the
circumstance demanded, I paid my first visit to your pupil. I had
caused all preparations to be made (and that by herself) to permit of a
noiseless entrance. She was in her first sleep, the sleep of her age;
so that I reached her bedside before she had awakened. At first I was
tempted to go even further, and try to pass for a dream; but, fearing
the effects of surprise and the noise which it entails, I preferred to
awake the lovely sleeper with precautions, and did in fact succeed in
preventing the cry which I feared.
After calming her first fears, as I had not come there for
conversation, I risked a few liberties. Doubtless she has not been
well taught at her convent to how many varied perils timid innocence
is exposed, and all that it has to guard if it would not be surprised;
for, devoting all her attention, all her strength, to defending herself
from a kiss, which was only a feigned attack, she left all the rest
without defence; who could fail to draw profit from it! I changed my
tactics accordingly, and promptly took the position. Here we both alike
had thought ourselves to be lost: the little girl, in a mighty scare,
tried to cry out in good earnest; luckily her voice was drowned by
tears. She had thrown herself upon the bell-rope; but my adroitness
restrained her arm in time.
“What would you do,” I asked her then; “ruin yourself utterly? Let
anyone come: what does it matter to me? Whom will you persuade that I
am not here with your consent? Who else but you can have furnished me
with the means of entering? And this key, which I have obtained from
you, which I could only obtain from you--will you undertake to explain
its use?”
This short harangue calmed neither her grief nor her anger; but it
brought about her submission. I know not if I had the accents of
eloquence; it is true, at any rate, that I had not its gestures. With
one hand employed in force, the other in love, what orator could
pretend to grace in such a situation? If you rightly imagine it, you
will admit that at least it was favourable to the attack: but, as for
me, I have no head at all; and, as you say, the most simple woman, a
school-girl, can lead me like a child.
This one, whilst still in high dudgeon, felt that she must adopt some
course, and enter into a compromise. As prayers found me inexorable,
she had to resort to bargaining. You think I sold the important
post dearly: no, I promised everything for a kiss. It is true that,
the kiss once obtained, I did not keep my promise: but I had good
reasons. Had we agreed whether it was to be taken or given? By dint of
bargaining, we fell into an agreement over the second; and this one,
it was said, was to be received. Then, guiding her timid arms round my
body, and pressing her more amorously with one of mine, the soft kiss
was effectually received; nay excellently, nay perfectly received:
so much so, indeed, that love itself could have done no better. Such
good-faith deserved a reward; thus I at once granted her request. My
hand was withdrawn; but I know not by what chance I found myself in
its place. You will suppose me then mighty eager, energetic, will you
not? By no means. I have acquired a taste for delay, I have told you.
Once sure of arriving, why take the journey with such haste? Seriously,
I was mighty pleased to observe once more the power of opportunity,
and I found it here devoid of all extraneous aid. It had love to fight
against, however, and love sustained by modesty and shame, and above
all, fortified by the temper which I had excited, and which had much
effect. It was opportunity alone; but it was there, always offered,
always present, and love was absent.
To verify my observations, I was cunning enough to employ no more
force than could be resisted. Only, if my charming enemy, abusing my
good-nature, seemed inclined to escape me, I constrained her by that
same fear whose happy effects I had just experienced. Well, well!
without any other further trouble, the languishing fair, forgetful of
her vows, began by yielding and ended by consenting: not that, after
this first moment, there was not a return of mingled reproaches and
tears; I am uncertain whether they were real or feigned: but, as ever
happens, they ceased as soon as I busied myself in giving cause for
them anew. Finally, from frailty to reproach, and reproach to frailty,
we separated, well satisfied with one another, and equally agreed on
the _rendez-vous_ to-night.
I did not retire to my own room until the break of day, and I was
exhausted with fatigue and sleepiness: however, I sacrificed both to
my desire to be present at breakfast this morning; I have a passion
for watching faces on the day after. You can have no idea of this one.
There was an embarrassment in the attitude! a difficulty in the gait!
eyes always lowered, and so big, and so heavy! The face so round was
elongated! Nothing could have been more amusing. And, for the first
time, her mother, alarmed at this extreme alteration, displayed a most
tender interest in her! And the Présidente too, who was very busy about
her! Ah, those attentions of hers are only lent; a day will come when
she will need them herself, and that day is not far distant. Adieu, my
lovely friend.
At the Château de ..., 1st October, 17**.
LETTER THE NINETY-SEVENTH
CÉCILE VOLANGES TO MADAME DE MERTEUIL
OH, my God, Madame, I am in such distress! I am so unhappy! Who will
console me in my trouble? Who will advise me in the embarrassment in
which I am? That M. de Valmont ... and Danceny! No, the idea of Danceny
fills me with despair.... How can I tell you? How can I relate it? I
do not know what to do. However, my heart is full.... I must speak to
some one, and you are the only one whom I can, whom I dare confide in.
You have shown me so much kindness! But do not have any for me now,
I am not worthy of it: what shall I say? I do not wish it. Everybody
here has shown an interest in me to-day ... they have all increased my
grief. I felt so much that I did not deserve it! Oh, scold me on the
contrary; scold me well, for I am very guilty: but afterwards save me;
if you have not the goodness to advise me, I shall die of grief.
Listen then ... my hand trembles, as you see, I can hardly write, I can
feel my face is all on fire.... Oh, it is indeed the blush of shame. Ah
well, I will endure it; it will be the first punishment for my fault.
Yes, I will tell you all.
You must know then, that M. de Valmont, who has hitherto always handed
me M. Danceny’s letters, suddenly found it was too difficult; he
wanted to have a key to my chamber. I can truly assure you that I did
not want this: but he went so far as to write to Danceny, and Danceny
also wished it; and as for me, it gives me so much pain to refuse him
anything, especially since my absence, which makes him so unhappy, that
I ended by consenting. I never foresaw the misfortune which it would
lead to.
Yesterday, M. de Valmont made use of this key to come into my room when
I was asleep; I was so little prepared for this, that he frightened me
very much when he awoke me: but as he spoke to me at once, I recognized
his voice, and did not cry out; and then the idea came to me at first
that he had come, perhaps, to bring me a letter from Danceny. It was
very far from that. A moment afterwards, he tried to embrace me; and
whilst I defended myself, as was natural, he contrived to do what I
would not have suffered for the whole world ... but he would have a
kiss first. It had to be done, for what was there to do? All the more,
as I had tried to call out; but, in addition to my not being able, he
was careful to tell me that, if anyone came, he would know how to put
all the blame on me; and, indeed, it was very easy, because of the key.
Then he still refused to retire. He wanted a second one; and this one,
I do not know how it was, but it quite confused me; and afterwards,
it was even worse than before. Oh! indeed this is dreadful. In short,
after ... you will surely excuse me from telling the rest: but I am as
unhappy as anyone can be.
What I reproach myself with the most, and of which I must nevertheless
speak to you, is that I am afraid I did not resist as much as I might
have. I do not know how it happened. I certainly do not love M. de
Valmont, quite the contrary; and there were moments when it was just
as though I loved him.... You can imagine that did not prevent me
from always saying no to him: but I felt sure that I did not act as I
spoke, and that was in spite of myself; and then again, I was mightily
confused! If it is always as difficult as that to resist, one ought
to be well accustomed to it! It is true that M. de Valmont has a way
of saying things to which one does not know how to answer. At last,
would you believe it, when he went away, it was as though I was sorry;
and I was weak enough to consent to his returning this evening: that
distresses me more even than all the rest.
Oh! in spite of it, I promise you truly that I will prevent him from
coming. He had hardly gone away, before I felt how very wrong I had
been in promising him. I wept too all the rest of the time. It is about
Danceny, especially, that I am so grieved! Every time I thought of him,
my tears flowed so fast that I was suffocated, and I did nothing but
think of him ... and now again, you see the result; here is my paper
all soaked. No, I shall never be consoled, were it only because of
him.... At last I was worn out, and yet I was not able to sleep one
minute. And this morning, on rising, when I looked at myself in the
mirror, I was frightened, so much had I changed.
Mamma perceived it as soon as she saw me, and asked me what was the
matter. As for me, I started crying at once. I thought she was about
to scold me, and, perhaps, that would have hurt me less: but on the
contrary she spoke gently to me! Little did I deserve it. She told
me not to grieve like that! She did not know the cause of my grief.
I should make myself ill! There are moments when I should like to
be dead. I could not contain myself. I threw myself sobbing into her
arms, and said to her, “Oh, Mamma, your daughter is very miserable!”
Mamma could not keep herself from crying a little; and all this only
increased my grief. Luckily she did not ask me why I was so unhappy,
for I should not have known what to tell her.
I implore you, Madame, write to me as soon as you can, and tell me what
I ought to do: for I have not the courage to think of anything, and I
can only grieve. Will you be so kind as to send your letter through M.
de Valmont; but, if you write to him at the same time, do not, I beg
you, tell him that I have said anything.
I have the honour to be, Madame, always with great affection, your most
humble and obedient servant....
I dare not sign this letter.
At the Château de ..., 1st October, 17**.
LETTER THE NINETY-EIGHTH
MADAME DE VOLANGES TO THE MARQUISE DE MERTEUIL
IT is but a few days ago, my charming friend, that you were asking me
for consolation and advice: to-day, it is my turn; and I make you the
same request which you made to me. I am indeed in real distress, and I
fear that I have not taken the best means to remove the vexations from
which I suffer.
It is my daughter who is the cause of my anxiety. Since my departure
I had seen she was always sad and melancholy; but I was prepared for
that, and had armed my heart with the severity I judged necessary. I
hoped that absence, distraction, would soon destroy a love which I
looked upon rather as a childish error than as a real passion. However,
far from having recovered since our sojourn here, I notice that the
child abandons herself more and more to a dangerous melancholy; and I
am actually afraid that her health is suffering. Particularly during
the last few days, it has visibly altered. Yesterday, above all, it
struck me, and everybody here was genuinely alarmed.
What proves to me, besides, how keenly she is affected is that I see
her prepared to overcome the shyness she has always shown with me.
Yesterday morning, at the mere question I put to her, as to whether
she were ill, she threw herself into my arms, telling me that she was
very miserable; and she cried till she sobbed. I cannot describe to
you the pain it caused me; tears came to my eyes at once; and I had
only the time to turn away, to prevent her from seeing them. Luckily
I had sufficient prudence to put no questions to her, and she did not
dare to tell me any more; but it is none the less clear that it is this
unfortunate passion which is tormenting her.
What course am I to take, however, if it lasts? Am I to be the cause
of my daughter’s unhappiness? Shall I blame her for the most precious
qualities of the soul, sensibility and constancy? Am I her mother only
for that? And if I should stifle that so natural sentiment, which
makes us desire the happiness of our children; if I should regard as
a weakness what I hold, on the contrary, to be the most sacred of all
duties; if I force her choice, shall I not have to answer for the
disastrous consequences which may ensue? What a use to make of maternal
authority, to give my daughter a choice between unhappiness and sin!
My friend, I shall not imitate what I have so often blamed. Doubtless,
I have tried to make a choice for my daughter; I did, in that, but aid
her with my experience; it was not a right which I exercised, but a
duty which I fulfilled. I should betray one, on the contrary, were I to
dispose of her to the neglect of an inclination, the birth of which I
have not been able to prevent, and of which neither she nor I can judge
the duration or the extent. No, I will never endure that she should
marry one man that she may love another; and I would rather compromise
my authority than her virtue.
I think, therefore, that I shall be taking the more prudent course in
retracting the promise I have given to M. de Gercourt. You have just
heard my reasons for this; it seems to me they ought to outweigh my
promises. I say more: in the state in which things are, to fulfil my
engagement would really be to violate it. For, after all, if I owe it
to my daughter not to betray her secret to M. de Gercourt, I owe it
to him at least not to abuse the ignorance in which I keep him, and
to do for him all that I believe he would do for himself, if he were
informed. Shall I, on the contrary, betray him ignobly, when he relies
on my faith, and, whilst he honours me by choosing me for his second
mother, deceive him in the choice he wishes to make of the mother of
his children? These reflexions, so true, and to me irrefutable, alarm
me more than I can say.
With the misfortunes which they make me dread I compare my daughter
happy with the bridegroom her heart has chosen, knowing her duties only
from the sweetness which she finds in fulfilling them; my son-in-law
equally contented and congratulating himself each day upon his choice;
neither of them finding happiness save in the happiness of the other,
and in that of co-operating to augment my own. Ought the hope of so
sweet a future to be sacrificed to vain considerations? And what are
those which restrain me? Only interested views. Pray, what advantage
will my daughter gain from being born rich, if she is, none the less,
to be the slave of fortune?
I agree that M. de Gercourt is a better match, perhaps, than I ought to
hope for my daughter; I confess, indeed, that I was extremely flattered
at the choice he made of her. But, after all, Danceny is of as good a
family as his; he yields no whit to him in personal qualities; he has
over M. de Gercourt the advantage of loving and of being beloved: in
truth, he is not rich; but has not my daughter enough for two? Ah, why
ravish from her the sweet satisfaction of enriching him whom she loves!
Those marriages which one calculates instead of assorting, which one
calls marriages of convenience, and which are in fact convenient in all
save taste and character--are they not the most fertile source of those
scandalous outbreaks which become every day more frequent? I prefer to
delay; at least I shall have time to study my daughter, whom I do not
know. I have, indeed, the courage to cause her a passing sorrow, if she
is to gain, thereby, a more substantial happiness: but I have not the
heart to risk abandoning her to eternal despair.
Those, my dear friend, are the ideas which torment me, and as to which
I ask your advice. These serious topics contrast mightily with your
amiable gaiety, and seem hardly fitting to your youth: but your reason
has so far outgrown that! Your friendship, moreover, will assist your
prudence; and I have no fear that either will refuse the maternal
solicitude which invokes them.
Adieu, my charming friend; never doubt the sincerity of my sentiments.
At the Château de ..., 2nd October, 17**.
LETTER THE NINETY-NINTH
THE VICOMTE DE VALMONT TO THE MARQUISE DE MERTEUIL
A FEW more small incidents, my lovely friend; but scenes merely, no
more actions. Arm yourself, therefore, with patience, assume a stock of
it even: for while my Présidente advances so imperceptibly, your pupil
retreats, which is worse still! Well, well! I have wit enough to amuse
myself with these vexations. Truly, I am acclimatizing myself mighty
well to my sojourn here; and I may say that I have not experienced a
single moment of _ennui_ in my old aunt’s dreary _château_. In fact, do
I not find here enjoyment, privation, uncertainty, and hope? What more
has one upon a greater stage? Spectators? Ah, let me be, they will not
be lacking! If they do not see me at work, I will show them my labour
accomplished; they will only have to admire and applaud. Yes, they will
applaud; for at last I can predict with certainty the moment of my
austere Puritan’s fall. I assisted this evening at the death struggle
of virtue. Sweet frailty will now rule in its stead. I fix the time at
a date no later than our next interview: but already I hear you crying
out against vain-glory. To announce one’s victory, to boast in advance!
Prithee, calm yourself! To prove my modesty, I will begin with the
story of my defeat.
In very truth, your pupil is a most ridiculous little person! She is,
indeed, a child, whom one should treat as such, and whom one would
favour by doing no more than putting her under penance! Would you
believe that, after what passed between us, the day before yesterday,
after the amicable manner in which we separated yesterday morning,
when I sought to return in the evening, as she had agreed, I found her
door bolted on the inside? What say you to that? Such childishness one
sometimes meets with on the eve: but on the morrow! Is it not amusing?
I did not, however, laugh at it at first; I had never felt so strongly
the imperiousness of my character. Assuredly, I was going to this
_rendez-vous_ without pleasure, and solely out of politeness. My
own bed, of which I had great need, seemed to me, for the moment,
preferable to anyone else’s, and I had dragged myself from it with
regret. No sooner, however, had I met with an obstacle than I burned
to overcome it; I was humiliated, above all, that a child should have
tricked me. I withdrew, then, in considerable ill-humour; and, with the
intention of concerning myself no further with this silly child and her
affairs, I had written her a note, on the spur of the moment, which I
intended to give her to-day, and in which I accounted her at her just
value. But night brings counsel, as they say; methought this morning
that, having no choice of distractions here, I had better keep this
one: I suppressed, therefore, the severe letter. Since reflecting upon
it, I wonder that I can ever have entertained the idea of concluding
an adventure before holding in my hands the wherewithal to ruin the
heroine. Observe, however, whither a first impulse impels us! Happy,
my fair friend, is he who has trained himself, as you have, never to
give way to one! In fine, I have postponed my vengeance; I have made
this sacrifice to your intentions towards Gercourt.
Now that I am no longer angry, I see your pupil’s conduct only in a
ridiculous light. In fact, I should be glad to know what she hopes to
gain thereby! As for myself, I am at a loss: if it be only to defend
herself, you must admit that she is somewhat late in starting. Some
day she will have to tell me herself the key to this enigma. I have
a great desire to know it. It may be, perhaps, only that she found
herself fatigued? Frankly, that might well be possible: for, without
a doubt, she is still ignorant that the darts of love, like the lance
of Achilles, bear their own remedy for the ills they cause. But nay,
by the little wry face she pulled all day, I would wager that there
enters into it ... repentance ... there ... something ... like virtue
... Virtue! It becomes her indeed to show it! Ah, let her leave it
to the woman veritably born to it, to the only one who knows how to
embellish it, who could make it lovable!... Pardon, my fair friend: but
it is this very evening that there occurred between Madame de Tourvel
and myself the scene of which I am about to send you an account, and I
still feel some emotion at it. I have need to do myself violence, in
order to distract me from the impression which it made upon me; ’tis
even to aid me in this that I have sat down to write to you. Something
must be pardoned to this first moment.
It is some days, already, since we are agreed, Madame de Tourvel and
I, upon our sentiments; we only dispute about words. It was always,
in truth, her _friendship_ which responded to my _love_; but this
conventional language did not change things in substance; and, had we
remained thus, I should have gone, perhaps, less quickly, but not less
surely. Already even there was no more question of driving me away, as
she had wished at first; and as for the interviews which we have daily,
if I devote my cares to offering her the occasions, she devotes hers to
seizing them.
As it is ordinarily when walking that our little _rendez-vous_ occur,
the shocking weather, which set in to-day, left me no hope; I was even
really vexed by it; I did not foresee how much I was to gain from this
_contretemps_.