according to what you tell me, _delay your happiness_. A long defence
is the only merit left to those who do not resist always; and what I
should find unpardonable in any other than a child like the little
Volanges would be the lack of knowledge how to escape a danger of which
she has been amply forewarned by the confession she has made of her
love. You men have no idea of what virtue is, nor of what it costs
to sacrifice it! But, however incapable a woman may be of reasoning,
she ought to know that, independently of the sin which she commits, a
frailty is the greatest of misfortunes to her; and I cannot conceive
how anyone can ever let herself be caught, if she has time for a
moment’s reflexion on the subject.
Do not proceed to dispute this idea, for it is this which principally
attaches me to you. You will save me from the perils of love; and,
although I have known well enough hitherto to defend myself without
your aid, I consent to be grateful to you for it, and I shall love you
for it the more and better.
Upon this, my dear Chevalier, I pray God to have you in His good and
holy keeping.
At the Château de ..., 22nd October, 17**.
LETTER THE HUNDRED AND TWENTY-SECOND
MADAME DE ROSEMONDE TO THE PRÉSIDENTE DE TOURVEL
I HAD hoped, my amiable daughter, to be able at last to calm your
anxieties; and I see with grief, on the contrary, that I must still
augment them. Be calm, however; my nephew is not in danger: I cannot
even say that he is really ill. But something extraordinary is
assuredly passing within him. I understand naught of it; but I left
his room with a sentiment of sadness, perhaps even of alarm, which I
reproach myself for causing you to share, although I cannot refrain
from discussing it with you. This is the narrative of what passed: you
may rest assured that it is a faithful one; for, if I were to live
another eighty years, I should never forget the impression which this
sad scene made upon me.
I visited my nephew this morning; I found him writing, surrounded by
sundry heaps of papers which seemed to be the object of his labours. He
was so busied that I was already in the middle of his chamber before he
turned his head to discover who had entered. As soon as he recognized
me, I noticed clearly that, on rising, he made an effort to compose his
features, and it was this fact, perhaps, which further attracted my
attention. In truth, he had made no toilette and wore no powder; but
I found him pale and wan, and, above all, of a changed expression. His
glance, which we have known so gay and keen, was sad and downcast; in
short, between ourselves, I should not have cared for you to see him
thus; for he had a very pathetic air, and most fitting, I dare believe,
to inspire that tender pity which is one of the most dangerous snares
of love.
Although impressed by what I had noticed, I none the less commenced
the conversation as though I had perceived nothing. I spoke to him
first of his health; and, though he did not tell me that it was good,
he nevertheless did not say that it was bad. Thereupon, I complained
of his retirement, which had almost the air of a mania, and I tried to
infuse a little gaiety into my mild reproof; but he only answered, in
heartfelt accents, “It is one wrong the more, I confess; but it shall
be retrieved with the rest.” His expression, even more than his words,
somewhat disturbed my playfulness, and I hastened to tell him that he
attached too much importance to a mere friendly reproach.
We then commenced to talk quietly. He told me soon afterwards that
perhaps an affair, _the most important affair of his life_, would
shortly recall him to Paris: but as I was afraid of guessing it,
my dearest fair, and feared lest this prologue should lead up to a
confidence which I did not desire, I put no question to him, and
contented myself with replying that a little more dissipation would
benefit his health. I added that, this once, I would not press him
to remain, as I loved my friends for themselves; at this simple
expression, he grasped my hands, and, speaking with a vehemence which
I cannot describe to you: “Yes, aunt,” he said me, “love, love well a
nephew who respects and cherishes you; and, as you say, love him for
himself. Do not grieve about his happiness, and do not trouble, with
any regret, the eternal peace which he hopes soon to enjoy. Repeat to
me that you love me, that you forgive me. Yes, you will forgive me, I
know your goodness; but how can I hope for the same indulgence from
those whom I have so greatly offended?” He then stooped over me to
conceal, as I think, the signs of grief which, in spite of himself, the
sound of his voice betrayed to me.
Moved more than I can say, I rose precipitately; and doubtless he
noticed my alarm, for, at once growing more composed: “Pardon me,” he
resumed, “pardon me, Madame; I feel that I am wandering, in spite of my
will. I beg you to forget my remarks, and only to remember my profound
veneration. I shall not fail,” he added, “to come and renew my respects
to you before my departure.” It seemed to me that this last sentence
suggested that I should bring my visit to a conclusion, and I went away.
But the more I reflect upon it, the less can I guess what he wished to
say. What is this affair, _the most important of his life_? On what
ground does he ask my forgiveness? Whence that involuntary emotion when
he spoke to me? I have already asked myself these questions a thousand
times without being able to reply to them. I do not even see anything
therein which relates to you: however, as the eyes of love are more
clear-sighted than those of friendship, I was unwilling to leave you in
ignorance of anything that passed between my nephew and myself.
I have made four attempts to finish this long letter, which would be
longer still, were it not for the fatigue I feel. Adieu, my dearest
fair.
At the Château de ..., 25th October, 17**.
LETTER THE HUNDRED AND TWENTY-THIRD
THE PÈRE ANSELME TO THE VICOMTE DE VALMONT
I HAVE had the honour of receiving your letter, M. le Vicomte; and
yesterday I betook myself, in accordance with your wishes, to the
person in question. I explained to her the object and the motives of
the visit you had asked me to pay her. Determined as she was upon the
prudent course which she had adopted at first, upon my pointing out
to her that by a refusal she, perhaps, incurred a risk of putting an
obstacle in the way of your happy return, and also of opposing, in some
manner, the merciful decrees of Providence, she consented to receive
your visit, always on condition that it shall be the last, and has
charged me to tell you that she will be at home on Thursday next, the
28th. If this day should not be convenient to you, will you be so good
as to inform her, and appoint another. Your letter will be received.
Meanwhile, M. le Vicomte, permit me to invite you not to delay, without
grave reasons, in order that you may be able to abandon yourself the
sooner and more entirely to the laudable dispositions which you display
to me. Remember that he who hesitates to improve the moment of grace
runs the risk of its being withdrawn from him; that, if the mercy
of God is infinite, yet the use of it is regulated by justice; and
that a moment may come when the God of mercy shall turn into a God of
vengeance.
If you continue to honour me with your confidence, I beg you to believe
that all my attention shall be yours, as soon as you desire it:
however greatly I may be busied, my most important business will ever
be to fulfil the duties of my sacred office, to which I am peculiarly
devoted, and the finest moment of my life will be that in which, by the
blessing of the Almighty, I shall see my efforts prosper. Weak sinners
that we are, we can do nothing by ourselves! But the God who recalls
you can do all; and we shall owe alike to His bounty--you, the constant
desire to be reconciled to Him, and I the means of being your guide. It
is by His aid that I hope soon to convince you that Holy Religion alone
can give, even in this world, that solid and durable happiness which in
the blindness of human passions we seek in vain.
I have the honour to be, with respectful consideration, etc.
Paris, 25th October, 17**.
LETTER THE HUNDRED AND TWENTY-FOURTH
THE PRÉSIDENTE DE TOURVEL TO MADAME DE ROSEMONDE
IN the midst of the astonishment, in which the news I received
yesterday has thrown me, Madame, I cannot forget the satisfaction which
it must cause you, and I hasten to acquaint you with it. M. de Valmont
is occupied neither with me nor with his love; he only would retrieve
by a more edifying life the faults, or rather the errors, of his
youth. I have been informed of this great event by the Père Anselme,
to whom he applied for future direction, and also in order to contrive
an interview with me, the principal object of which I judge to be the
return of my letters, which he had hitherto retained, in spite of the
request I had made him to the contrary.
Doubtless, I cannot but applaud this happy termination, and felicitate
myself, if, as he states, I am in any way responsible for it. But why
needed it that I should be the instrument, and why should it have cost
me my life’s repose? Could not M. de Valmont’s happiness have been
secured by any other means than my misery? Oh, my indulgent friend,
forgive me this complaint! I know that it is not mine to question the
decrees of God; but whilst I pray to Him ceaselessly, and always in
vain, for strength to conquer my unhappy love, He lavishes it on one
who has not prayed for it, and leaves me without succour, utterly
abandoned to my weakness.
But let me stifle this guilty plaint. Do I not know that the prodigal
son on his return obtained more favour from his father than the son who
had never been absent? What account have we to ask from Him who owes
us nothing. And even were it possible that we had any rights before
Him, what had been my own? Could I boast of a virtue that already I do
but owe to Valmont? He has saved me, and how should I dare complain
if I suffer for his sake! No, my sufferings will be dear to me, if
his happiness is the price. Doubtless, it was needful for him to
return to the common Father. The God who made him must have cherished
His handiwork. He did not create this charming being only to be a
reprobate. ’Tis for me to pay the penalty of my audacious imprudence;
ought I not to have felt that, since it was forbidden me to love him, I
ought never to have allowed myself to see him?
’Tis my fault or my misfortune that I held out too long against this
truth. You are my witness, my dear and venerable friend, that I
submitted to this sacrifice as soon as I recognized its necessity: but
it just failed in being complete, in that M. de Valmont did not share
it. Shall I confess to you that it is this idea which, at present,
torments me most? Insufferable pride, which sweetens the ills we bear
by the thought of those we inflict! Ah, I will conquer this rebellious
heart, I will accustom myself to humiliations!
It is above all to obtain this result that I have at last consented to
receive, on Thursday next, the painful visit of M. de Valmont. Then
I shall hear him tell me himself that I am nothing to him; that the
weak and fugitive impression I had made upon him is entirely effaced!
I shall see his gaze directed towards me without emotion, whilst the
fear of betraying my own will make me lower my eyes. Those same letters
which he refused so long to my repeated requests I shall receive from
his indifference; he will give them up to me as useless things, which
have no further interest for him; and my trembling hands, receiving
this deposit of shame, will feel that it is given to them by a hand
which is firm and tranquil! And then I shall see him depart from me ...
depart for ever; and my eyes, which will follow him, will not see his
own look back to me!
And I have been reserved for so much humiliation! Ah, let me, at least,
make use of it by allowing it to impregnate me with the sentiment of
my weakness.... Yes, these letters, which he no longer cares to keep,
I will religiously preserve. I will impose on myself the shame of
reading them daily until the last traces of them are effaced by my
tears; and his own I will burn as infected by the dangerous poison
which has corrupted my soul. Oh, what is this love then, if it makes us
regret even the risks to which it has exposed us; if one can be afraid
of feeling it still, even when one no longer inspires it? Let us shun
this dire passion, which leaves no choice betwixt misery or shame, nay,
often unites them both: let prudence at least replace virtue.
How far away is Thursday still! Why can I not this instant consummate
the grievous sacrifice, and forget at once its object and its cause!
This visit troubles me; I repent of my promise of it. Alas! What need
has he to see me again? What are we to one another now? If he has
offended me, I forgive him. I congratulate him even on his wish to
repair his faults; I praise him for it. I will do more, I will imitate
him; and I, who have been beguiled by like errors, shall be brought
back by his example. But, since his intention is to flee from me, why
does he begin by seeking me out? What is most urgent for either of us,
is it not that each should forget the other? Doubtless that is so; and
that, henceforth, shall be my sole care.
If you will permit me, my amiable friend, I will come to you in order
to occupy myself with this arduous task. If I have need of succour,
perhaps even of consolation, I will not receive it from any other than
you. You alone know how to understand me and to speak to my heart. Your
precious friendship shall fill my whole existence. Nothing shall seem
too difficult for me to second the care that you must take of yourself.
I shall owe you my tranquillity, my happiness, my virtue, and the fruit
of your kindness to me will be that, at last, I shall become worthy of
it.
I have written very wildly, I think, in this letter; I gather so,
at least, from the trouble which has unceasingly harassed me whilst
writing. If any sentiments occur in it at which I ought to blush, cover
them with the indulgence of your friendship; I rely upon it entirely.
It is not from you that I would hide any of the movements of my heart.
Adieu, my venerable friend. I hope, in a few days, to announce the day
of my arrival.
Paris, 25th October, 17**.
LETTER THE HUNDRED AND TWENTY-FIFTH
THE VICOMTE DE VALMONT TO THE MARQUISE DE MERTEUIL
BEHOLD her vanquished then, this proud woman who dared to think she
could resist me! Yes, my friend, she is mine, mine entirely; since
yesterday there is nothing left for her to grant me.
I am still too full of my happiness to be able to appreciate it: but
I am amazed at the unknown charm I have experienced. Can it be true,
then, that virtue enhances the value of a woman even at the very
moment of her fall? Nay, let us relegate this puerile notion with
other old wives’ tales. Does one not almost always encounter a more
or less well-feigned resistance at a first triumph? And have I found
elsewhere the charm of which I speak? Yet it is not that of love;
for, after all, if I have sometimes had, with some astounding woman,
moments of weakness which resembled that pusillanimous passion, I
have always known how to overcome them and return to my principles.
Even if the scene of yesterday had carried me, as I believe it did,
somewhat further than I counted on; even if, for a moment, I shared the
trouble and intoxication which I caused, that passing illusion would be
dissipated by now: and nevertheless the same charm subsists. I should
even find, I confess, a sweet enough pleasure in abandoning myself to
it, if it did not cause me some anxiety. Shall I be dominated at my
age, like a school-boy, by an unknown and involuntary sentiment? Nay: I
must before all combat it and understand it.
Perhaps, as far as that goes, I have already caught a glimpse of the
cause! I am pleased with this idea, at any rate, and I would fain have
it true.
In the crowd of women with whom I have hitherto played the part and
performed the functions of lover, I had never yet met one who had not
at least as much desire to give herself as I had to persuade her to it;
I was even in the habit of calling those women prudes who did no more
than meet me half-way, in contrast to so many others whose provocative
defence did but imperfectly conceal the first advances they had made.
Here, on the contrary, I met with a preconceived unfavourable
prejudice, which was subsequently strengthened by the advice and
stories of a spiteful but clear-sighted woman; a natural and extreme
timidity, fortified by an enlightened modesty; an attachment to virtue
directed by religion, with already two years of victory to its account;
finally, a vigorous course of conduct inspired by these different
motives, which all had for their aim escape from my pursuit.
It is not then, as in my other adventures, a mere capitulation, more
or less advantageous, whereof it is easier to take advantage than to
be proud; it is a complete victory, purchased at the cost of a hard
campaign, and determined by cunning manœuvres. ’Tis not surprising,
then, that this success, due to myself alone, should seem all the
more precious to me; and the excess of pleasure which I experienced
when I triumphed, and which I feel still, is no more than the sweet
impression of the sentiment of glory. I cherish this point of view,
which saves me from the humiliation of thinking that I can be in any
manner dependent upon the slave whom I have subjected; that I do not
possess in myself alone the plenitude of my happiness; and that the
power of giving me the whole energy of pleasure should be reserved to
such or such a woman, excluding all the others.
These deliberate reflexions shall regulate my conduct on this important
occasion; and you may rest assured that I will not let myself be
enchained to such a degree that I cannot always play with these new
bonds and break them at my will. But I am talking to you already of my
rupture, while you do not yet know the means by which I have acquired
my rights: read then, and learn to what virtue is exposed when it seeks
to succour folly. I studied so attentively my conversation and the
replies I obtained that I hope to be able to repeat them to you with a
precision that will delight you.
You will see from the copies of the two letters enclosed[11] what
mediator I chose to reconcile me with my fair, and what zeal the holy
personage employed to reunite us. One thing more I must tell you, which
I learned from a letter intercepted in the usual way: the fear and the
petty humiliation of being quitted had somewhat disturbed the austere
Puritan’s prudence, and had filled her head with sentiments which were
none the less interesting because they were not common-sense. It was
after these preliminaries, necessary for you to know, that yesterday,
Thursday the twenty-eighth, the day settled and appointed by the
ingrate, I presented myself before her in the quality of a timid and
repentant slave, to leave her crowned with victory.
It was six o’clock in the evening when I came to the fair recluse; for
since her return her door has been shut to everyone. She attempted to
rise when I was announced; but her trembling knees did not allow her to
remain in this position: she immediately resumed her seat. She showed
signs of impatience, because the servant who had introduced me had some
task to perform in the apartment. We filled up the interval with the
customary compliments. But, in order to waste no time, when moments
were so precious, I carefully examined the locality; and at once my
eye fixed upon the scene of my victory. I could have wished for one
more suitable, although there was an ottoman in that very room. But I
noticed that, facing it, was a portrait of the husband; and I confess
that, with such a singular woman, I was afraid lest one haphazard
glance in that direction should destroy the result of all my labours.
At last, we were left alone and I broached the question.
After having explained, in a few words, that the Père Anselme must have
informed her of the motives of my visit, I complained of the severe
treatment I had been subject to, and dwelt particularly on the _scorn_
which had been displayed me. She defended herself, as I expected; and,
as you would expect yourself, I founded my proofs on the distrust and
fear which I had inspired, on the scandalous flight which had ensued,
her refusal to answer my letters, even to receive them, etc., etc. As
she was commencing a justification which would have been very easy, I
felt bound to interrupt her; and, to obtain pardon for this brusque
proceeding, I covered it at once with a flattery. “If so many charms,”
I went on, “have made so profound an impression on my heart, the effect
of so many virtues has been no less upon my soul. Led away, no doubt,
by my desire to approach them, I dared to deem myself worthy. I do not
reproach you for having judged otherwise; but I am punished for my
mistake.” As she maintained an embarrassed silence, I continued:
“It was my wish, Madame, either to justify myself in your eyes, or to
obtain from you pardon for the wrongs you suppose me to have committed;
so that I can at least end, with a certain tranquillity, days to which
I attach no more value since you have refused to embellish them.”
Here, however, she endeavoured to reply:
“My duty did not permit me....” And the difficulty of completing the
lie, which duty required, did not permit her to finish her phrase. I
resumed, therefore, in a more tender tone: “Is it true that it is from
me you have fled?” “My departure was necessary.” “And that you drive
me away from you?” “It must be so.” “And for ever?” “I must.” I have
no need to tell you that, during this short dialogue, the voice of the
gentle prude was oppressed, and that her eyes were not raised to mine.
I judged it my duty to give this languid scene a touch of animation;
thus, rising with an air of vexation: “Your firmness,” I then said,
“restores to me all my own. Well, yes, Madame, we shall be separated
even more than you think. And you may congratulate yourself at your
leisure over the success of your handiwork.” Somewhat surprised at
this tone of reproach, she sought to reply: “The resolution you have
taken....” said she. “It is but the result of my despair,” I resumed
with passion. “You wished me to be unhappy; I will prove that you
have succeeded even beyond your hopes.” “I desire your happiness,”
she answered. And the sound of her voice began to announce a strong
emotion. Casting myself, therefore, on my knees before her, and in that
dramatic tone which you know is mine: “Ah, cruel one!” I cried. “Can
any happiness exist for me in which you have no share? Where can I find
it away from you? Ah, never, never!” I confess that, in abandoning
myself to this extent, I had counted much on the support of tears;
but, either from ill-disposition, or perhaps owing to the constant and
painful attention I was giving to everything, it was impossible for me
to weep.
Luckily I remembered that, in order to subjugate a woman, all means
are equally good, and that it would be sufficient to astound her
by some great change of manner in order to produce an impression
at once favourable and profound. Thus, for the sensibility which
proved lacking, I substituted terror; and for that, merely changing
the inflexion of my voice, and keeping in the same posture, “Yes,”
I continued, “I make this vow at your feet, to possess you or die.”
As I uttered these last words, our eyes met. I know not what the
timid creature saw, or thought she saw, in mine; but she rose with a
terrified air, and escaped from the arm with which I had encircled
her. It is true, I did nothing to retain her: for I had often remarked
that scenes of despair rendered in too lively a key became ridiculous,
if they were unduly prolonged, or left one only such really tragic
resources as I was very far from wishing to take. However, whilst she
withdrew from me, I added in a low and ominous whisper, but loud enough
for her to hear me: “Well then, death!”