I play little, and am no longer indispensable, I chose this time to
go to my own room, with no other intention than to wait there until
the game was likely to be over. I was on my way to rejoin the company,
when I met the charming woman; she was about to enter her apartment,
and, whether from imprudence or weakness, she said to me in her gentle
voice, “Where are you going? There is nobody in the _salon_.” I needed
no more, as you may believe, to try and enter her room; I met with
less resistance than I expected. It is true that I had taken the
precaution to commence the conversation at the door, and to commence it
indifferently; but hardly were we settled, than I brought back the real
subject, and spoke of _my love for my friend_. Her first reply, though
simple, seemed to me sufficiently expressive: “Oh, I pray you,” said
she, “do not let us speak of that here;” and she trembled. Poor woman!
She sees she is lost.
[Illustration: Mle Gerard del. Baquoy sculp.]
However, she was wrong to be afraid. For some time past, assured of
success some day or other, and seeing that she was spending so
much strength in useless struggles, I had resolved to husband my own,
and to wait, without further effort, until she should surrender from
lassitude. You are quite aware that here I require a complete triumph,
and that I wish to owe nothing to opportunity. It was, indeed, owing to
this preconceived plan, and in order to be pressing without engaging
myself too far, that I came back to this word love, so obstinately
declined: sure that my ardour was sufficiently believed in, I tried a
tone more tender. Her refusal no longer put me out, it pained me: did
not my sensitive friend owe me some consolation?
As she consoled me, withal, one hand lingered in my own, the lovely
form leaned upon my arm, and we were drawn extremely near. You have
surely remarked, in such a situation, how, in proportion to the
weakening of the defence, entreaties and refusals pass at closer
quarters; how the head is averted and the gaze cast down; whilst
remarks, always uttered in a weak voice, become rare and intermittent.
These precious symptoms announce, in no equivocal manner, the soul’s
consent: but it has rarely yet extended to the senses; I even hold that
it is always dangerous to attempt just then any too marked assault;
because, this state of self-abandonment being never without a very
sweet pleasure, one knows not how to dispel it, without giving rise to
a humour which is invariably in the favour of the defence.
But, in the present case, prudence was all the more necessary to me
in that I had, above all, to dread the alarm which this forgetfulness
of herself could not fail to induce in my gentle dreamer. Thus, this
avowal which I demanded, I did not even require that it should be
pronounced; a glance would suffice; only one glance, and I was happy.
My lovely friend, her fine eyes were, in fact, raised to mine; her
celestial mouth even uttered, “Well yes, I ...” But on a sudden her
gaze was withdrawn, her voice failed, and this adorable woman fell
into my arms. Hardly had I had time to receive her, when, extricating
herself with convulsive force, her eyes wild, her hands raised to
Heaven ... “God ... O my God, save me!” she cried; and at once, swifter
than lightning, she was on her knees, ten paces from me. I could hear
her ready to suffocate. I advanced to her assistance; but, seizing one
of my hands, which she bedewed with tears, sometimes even embracing my
knees: “Yes, it shall be you,” she said, “it shall be you who will save
me! You do not wish my death, leave me; save me; leave me; in the name
of God, leave me!” And these inconsequent utterances barely escaped
through her redoubled sobs. Meanwhile, she held me with a strength
which did not permit me to withdraw: then, collecting my own, I raised
her in my arms. At the same instant, her tears ceased; she said no
more: all her limbs stiffened, and violent convulsions succeeded to
this storm.
I was, I confess, deeply moved, and I believe I should have consented
to her request, had not circumstances compelled me to do so. The fact
remains that, after rendering her some assistance, I left her as she
prayed me, and I congratulate myself on this. I have already almost
received the reward.
I expected that, as on the day of my first declaration, she would not
appear that evening. But, towards eight o’clock, she came down to the
_salon_, and only informed the company that she had been greatly
indisposed. Her face was dejected, her voice feeble, her attitude
constrained; but her gaze was soft, and was often fixed upon me. Her
refusal to play having even compelled me to take her place, she took up
hers at my side. During supper, she remained alone in the _salon_ when
we returned; methought I saw that she had wept: to make certain, I told
her that I feared she still felt the effects of her indisposition, to
which she answered me obligingly, “The complaint does not go as quickly
as it comes!” Finally, when we retired, I gave her my hand; and, at the
door of her apartment, she pressed mine with vigour. ’Tis true, this
movement seemed to me to have something involuntary; but so much the
better; it is a proof the more of my empire.
I would wager that at present she is enchanted to have reached this
stage; the cost is paid; there is nothing left but to enjoy. Perhaps,
whilst I am writing to you, she is already occupied with this soft
thought! And even if she is employed, on the contrary, on a fresh
project of defence, do we not know well what becomes of all such
plans? I ask you then, can it go further than our next interview? I
quite expect, by the way, that there will be some ceremony about the
surrender; very good! But, once the first step taken, do these austere
prudes ever know where to stop? Their love is a veritable explosion;
resistance lends it greater force. My shy Puritan would run after me,
if I ceased to run after her.
In short, my lovely friend, I shall on an early day be with you, to
claim fulfilment of your word. You have not forgotten, doubtless, what
you promised me after success: that infidelity to your Chevalier? Are
you ready? For myself, I desire it as much as if we had never known
each other. For the rest, to know you is perhaps a reason for desiring
it more:
“_Je suis juste, et ne suis point galant._”[2]
Moreover it shall be the first infidelity I will make to my serious
conquest, and I promise you to profit by the first pretext to be
absent for four-and-twenty hours from her. It shall be her punishment
for keeping me so long away from you. Do you know that this adventure
has occupied me for more than two months? Yes, two months and three
days; ’tis true that I include to-morrow, since it will not be truly
consummated till then. That reminds me that Madame de B*** held out
for three whole months. I am most pleased to see that frank coquetry
possesses more power of resistance than austere virtue.
Adieu, my lovely friend; I must leave you, for it is mighty late. This
letter has led me on further than I had intended; but, as I am sending
to Paris to-morrow, I was fain to profit by it to let you participate
one day sooner in the joy of your friend.
At the Château de ..., 2nd October, 17**, in the evening.
LETTER THE HUNDREDTH
THE VICOMTE DE VALMONT TO THE MARQUISE DE MERTEUIL
MY friend, I am tricked, betrayed, lost, I am in despair; Madame de
Tourvel has gone. She has gone, and I did not know it! And I was not
there to oppose departure, to reproach her with her unworthy treachery!
Ah, do not think I would have let her leave; she would have stayed;
yes, she would have stayed, if I had had to employ violence! But think!
in credulous security, I slept tranquilly; I slept, and the thunderbolt
has fallen upon me. No, I do not understand this departure at all; I
must abandon all hope of understanding women.
When I recall the events of yesterday! What do I say? Even of yesterday
night! That glance so sweet, that voice so tender, and that pressure of
the hand! And all the time, she was planning flight from me! O women,
women! After this, complain that you are deceived! Yes, any perfidy
that one employs is a theft from your store.
What pleasure I shall take in avenging myself! I shall find her again,
this perfidious woman; I shall resume my empire over her. If love
sufficed to procure me the means of that, what will it not do when
assisted by vengeance? I shall see her again at my knees, trembling and
bathed in tears; and I--I shall be pitiless.
What does she at present? What does she think? Perhaps she applauds
herself for having deceived me; and, faithful to the tastes of her sex,
this pleasure seems to her the sweetest. What the so greatly vaunted
virtue could not obtain the spirit of ruse has brought about without an
effort. Madman that I was, I dreaded her virtue; it was her ill-faith
that I had to fear.
And to be obliged to swallow my resentment! To dare show no more than a
gentle sorrow, when I have a heart full of rage! To see myself reduced
once more to be suppliant to a rebellious woman who has escaped from
my sway! Ought I to be humiliated to such a degree? And by whom? By a
timid woman, who was never practised in fight. What does it serve me to
have established myself in her heart, to have scorched her with all the
fires of love, to have carried the trouble of her senses to the verge
of delirium, if, calm in her retreat, she can to-day plume herself more
on her escape than I upon my victories? And should I suffer it? My
friend, you do not believe it; you have no such humiliating idea of me!
But what fatality attaches me to this woman? Are there not a hundred
others who desire my attentions? Will they not be eager to respond
to them? Even if none were worth this one, does not the attraction
of variety, the charm of fresh conquests, the pride of numbers offer
pleasure sweet enough? Why run after that which eludes us, and neglect
what is in our path? Ah, why?... I know not, but I feel it extremely.
There is no happiness or peace for me, save in the possession of this
woman whom I hate and love with equal fury. I will only support my
lot from the moment when I shall dispose of hers. Then, tranquil and
satisfied, I shall see her in her turn given over to the storms which
I experience at this moment; I will excite a thousand others more! Hope
and fear, security and distrust, all the ills devised by hate, all the
good that love affords, I want them to fill her heart, to succeed one
another at my will. That time shall come.... But how many labours yet!
How near I was yesterday! And how far away I see myself to-day! How to
approach her again? I dare not take any measure; I feel that, before I
adopt any course, I need greater calmness, and my blood leaps within my
veins.
What enhances my torment is the calm with which everyone here
replies to my questions upon this event, upon its cause, and all the
extraordinary features it presents.... No one knows anything, no one
cares to know anything: they would hardly have spoken of it, had I
allowed them to speak of anything else. Madame de Rosemonde, to whom
I hastened this morning when I learned the news, answered me, with
the indifference of her age, that it was the natural result of the
indisposition which seized Madame de Tourvel yesterday; that she had
been afraid of an illness, and had preferred to be at home: she thinks
it quite simple; she would have done the same, she told me: as if there
could be anything in common between the two! Between her, who has only
death before her, and the other, who is the charm and torment of my
life!
Madame de Volanges, whom I at first suspected of being an accomplice,
seems only to be affected in that she was not consulted as to the step.
I am delighted, I confess, that she has not had the pleasure of harming
me. That proves again that she is not in this woman’s confidence to
the extent I feared: that is always one enemy the less. How pleased
she would be with herself, if she knew that it was I who was the cause
of the flight! How swollen with pride, if it had been through her
counsels! How her importance would have been enhanced! Great God, how
I hate her! Oh, I will renew with her daughter, I will mould her to
my fantasy: I think, therefore, I shall remain here for some time; at
least, the little reflexion I have been able to make leads me to this
course.
Do you not think, in fact, that, after so marked a step, my ingrate
must dread my presence? If then the idea has come to her that I might
follow her, she will not fail to close her door to me; and I wish as
little to accustom her to that means as to endure the humiliation. I
prefer, on the contrary, to announce to her that I shall remain here; I
will even make entreaties for her return; and when she is persuaded of
my absence, I will appear at her house: we shall see how she supports
the interview. But I must postpone it, in order to enhance the effect,
and I know not yet if I have the patience; twenty times to-day I have
opened my mouth to call for my horses. However, I will command myself;
I promise to await your reply here; I only beg you, my lovely friend,
not to keep me waiting for it.
The thing which would thwart me the most would be not to know what is
passing; but my _chasseur_, who is in Paris, has certain rights of
access to the waiting-maid; he will be able to serve me. I am sending
him instructions and money. I beg you to find it good that I join both
to this letter, and also to be at the pains to send them to him by one
of your people, with orders to place them in his own hands. I take this
precaution because the rascal is in the habit of failing to receive
the letters I write to him, when they command him some task which irks
him. And for the moment he does not seem to me so enamoured of his
conquest as I could wish him to be.
Adieu, my lovely friend; if any happy idea comes to you, any means of
accelerating my progress, inform me of it. I have, more than once, had
experience of how useful your friendship can be to me; I experience it
even at this moment: for I feel calmer since I have written to you;
at least I am speaking to some one who understands me, and not to the
automata with whom I vegetate since this morning. In truth, the further
I go the more am I tempted to believe that you and I are the only
people in the world who are of any consequence.
At the Château de ..., 3rd October, 17**.
LETTER THE HUNDRED AND FIRST
THE VICOMTE DE VALMONT TO AZOLAN, HIS _CHASSEUR_
(Enclosed in the preceding)
YOU must be addle-pated, indeed, to start hence this morning without
knowing that Madame de Tourvel was leaving also; or, if you knew, not
to come and warn me. Of what use is it, pray, that you should spend my
money in getting drunk with the valets; that you should pass the time
which you ought to employ in my service in making yourself agreeable
to the maids, if I am no better informed of what is passing? This,
however, is what comes of your negligence! But I warn you, if a single
instance occurs in this matter, it is the last you shall commit in my
service.
I require you to keep me informed of all that happens with Madame de
Tourvel: of her health; if she sleeps; if she is dull or gay; if she
often goes abroad, and whom she frequents; if she receives company, and
of whom it consists; how she passes her time; if she shows ill-humour
with her women, particularly with the one she brought here with
her; what she does when she is alone; if, when she reads, she reads
uninterruptedly, or often puts her reading aside to dream; and alike,
when she is writing. Remember also to become the friend of him who
carries her letters to the post. Offer often to do this commission for
him in his stead; and if he accepts, only dispatch those which seem
to you indifferent, and send me the others, above all those, if you
come across any, addressed to Madame de Volanges. Make arrangements to
be, for some time longer, the happy lover of your Julie. If she has
another, as you believed, make her consent to a participation, and do
not plume yourself on any ridiculous delicacy; you will be in the same
case with many others who are worth more than you. If, however, your
substitute should become too importunate; should you perceive, for
instance, that he occupied Julie too much during the day, and that she
was less often with her mistress, get rid of him by some means, or seek
a quarrel with him: have no fear of the results, I will support you.
Above all, do not quit that house. It is by assiduity that one sees
all, and sees clear.
If chance even should cause one of the men to be dismissed, present
yourself to seek his place, as being no longer attached to me. Say in
that case that you left me to seek a quieter and more regular house.
Endeavour, in short, to get yourself accepted. I shall none the less
keep you in my service during this time: it will be as it was with the
Duchesse de ***; and in the end Madame de Tourvel will recompense you
as well.
If you had skill and zeal enough, these instructions ought to suffice;
but to make up for both, I send you money. The enclosed note authorizes
you, as you will see, to receive twenty-five louis from my man of
business; for I have no doubt that you are without a sou. You will
employ what is necessary of this sum to induce Julie to establish a
correspondence with me. The rest will serve to make the household
drink. Have a care that this takes place as often as possible in
the lodge of the porter of the house, so that he may be glad to see
you come. But do not forget that it is your services, and not your
pleasures, that I wish to pay for.
Accustom Julie to observe and report everything, even what might appear
to her trivial. It were better that she should write ten useless
sentences than that she should omit one which was of interest; and
often what appears indifferent is not so. As it is necessary that I
should be informed at once, if anything were to happen which should
seem to you to deserve attention, immediately on receipt of this letter
you will send Philippe on the message-horse to establish himself
at...;[3] he will remain there until further orders; it will make a
relay in case of need. For the current correspondence, the post will
suffice.
Be careful not to lose this letter. Read it over every day, to assure
yourself that you have forgotten nothing, as well as to make sure that
you still have it. In short, do all that needs to be done, when one is
honoured with my confidence. You know that, if I am satisfied with you,
you will be so with me.
At the Château de ..., 3rd October, 17**.
LETTER THE HUNDRED AND SECOND
THE PRÉSIDENTE DE TOURVEL TO MADAME DE ROSEMONDE
YOU will be greatly astonished, Madame, to learn that I am leaving
you so precipitately. This proceeding will appear to you very
extraordinary: but your surprise will be redoubled, when you learn my
reasons for it! Perhaps, you will find that, in confiding them to you,
I do not sufficiently respect the tranquillity necessary to your age;
that I even infringe the sentiments of veneration which are your due by
so many titles? Ah! Madame, forgive me: but my heart is oppressed; it
feels a need to pour out its griefs upon the bosom of a friend who is
as kind as she is prudent: whom else, save you, could it choose? Look
upon me as your child. Show me the kindness of a mother; I implore it.
Perhaps my sentiments toward yourself give me some right to expect it.
Where has the time gone when, absorbed entirely in those laudable
sentiments, I was ignorant of those which, afflicting my soul with the
mortal sorrow I feel, deprive me of the strength to combat them at the
same time that they impose upon me the duty? Ah, this fatal visit has
been my ruin!... What shall I say to you, in fine? I love, yes, I love
to distraction. Alas! that word which I write for the first time, that
word so often entreated without being ever obtained, I would pay with
my life the sweet privilege of letting him who has inspired it hear
it but a single time; and yet I must unceasingly withhold it. He will
continue to doubt my feelings towards him; he will think he has cause
to complain of them. I am indeed unhappy! Why is it not as easy for him
to read in my heart as to reign there? Yes, I should suffer less, if he
knew all that I suffer; but you yourself, to whom I say it, will still
have but a feeble idea of it.
In a few moments, I am about to fly from him and cause him grief.
Whilst he will still believe he is near me, I shall already be far
away; at the hour when I was accustomed to see him daily, I shall be
where he has never been, where I must not permit him to come. Already,
all my preparations are complete, all is there beneath my eyes; I can
let them rest on nothing which does not speak of this cruel separation.
Everything is ready except myself...!
And the more my heart resists, the more does it prove to me the
necessity of submission to it. Doubtless, I shall submit to it; it is
better to die than to lead a life of guilt. I feel it already, I know
it but too well; I have only saved my prudence, my virtue is gone. Must
I confess it to you. What yet remains to me I owe to his generosity.
Intoxicated with the pleasure of seeing him, of hearing him; with the
sweetness of feeling him near me; with the still greater happiness
of being able to make his own, I was powerless and without strength;
hardly enough was left me to struggle: I had no longer enough to
resist. Well! he saw my trouble and had pity on me. Could I do aught
else than cherish him? I owe him far more than life.
Ah, if, by remaining near him, I had but to tremble for that, do not
suppose I had ever consented to go away! What is life to me without
him? Should I not be too happy to lose it? Condemned to be the cause
of his eternal misery and my own; to dare neither to pity myself nor
console him; to defend myself daily against him, and against myself; to
devote my cares to causing him pain, when I would consecrate them all
to his happiness; to live thus, is it not to die a thousand times? Yet
that is what my fate must be. I will endure it, however; I will have
the courage. O you, whom I chose for my mother, receive this vow.
Receive also that which I make, to hide from you none of my actions:
receive it, I beseech you; I beg it of you as a succour of which I
have need: thus, pledged to tell you all, I shall acquire the habit of
believing myself always in your presence. Your virtue shall replace my
own. Never, doubtless, shall I consent to come before you with a blush;
and, restrained by this powerful check, whilst I shall cherish in you
the indulgent friend, the confidant of my weakness, I shall also honour
in you the guardian angel who will save me from shame.
Shame enough must I feel, in having to make you this request. Fatal
effect of presumptuous confidence! Why did I not dread sooner this
inclination which I felt springing up? Why did I flatter myself that I
could master it or overcome it at my will? Insensate! How little I knew
what love was! Ah, if I had fought against it with more care, perhaps
it would have acquired less dominion; perhaps then this separation
would not have been necessary; or, even if I had submitted to that
sorrowful step, I need not have broken off entirely a relation which
it would have been sufficient to render less frequent! But to lose all
at one stroke, and for ever! O my friend!... But what is this? Even
in writing to you, shall I be led away to vent criminal wishes? Ah!
away, away! and at least let these involuntary errors be expiated by my
sacrifices.
Adieu, my venerable friend; love me as your daughter, adopt me for
such; and be sure that, in spite of my weakness, I would rather die
than render myself unworthy of your choice.
At the Château de ..., 3rd October, 17**,
at one o’clock in the morning.
LETTER THE HUNDRED AND THIRD
MADAME DE ROSEMONDE TO THE PRÉSIDENTE DE TOURVEL
I WAS more grieved at your departure, my fairest dear, than surprised
at its cause; a long experience and the interest which you inspire in
me had sufficed to enlighten me as to the state of your heart; and,
if all must be told, there was nothing, or almost nothing, that your
letter taught me. If it had been my only source of information, I
should be still in ignorance of whom it was you loved; for, in speaking
to me of _him_ all the time, you did not even once write his name.
I had no need of that; I am well aware who it is. But I remark it,
because I remind myself that that is ever the style of love. I see that
it is still the same as in past times.