random, wild glances, which were none the less clear-sighted and
observant for their distracted air. Her ill-assured attitude, her
heavy breathing, the contraction of all her muscles, the half-raised
position of her trembling arms, all gave sufficient proof to me that
the effect was such as I had wished to produce: but, since, in love,
nothing ever finishes except at close quarters, and we were still at
some distance from one another, it became necessary before all things
to draw together. It was in order to succeed in this, that I passed, as
soon as possible, to an appearance of tranquillity, capable of calming
the effects of so violent a condition, without weakening its impression.
This was my transition: “I am very miserable! It was my wish to live
for your happiness, and I have troubled it. I devote myself for
your peace, and I trouble it too....” Then, with a composed, but
constrained, air: “Forgive me, Madame; little accustomed as I am to
the storms of passion, I know ill how to repress its movements. If I
was wrong to abandon myself to them, at least remember ’tis for the
last time. Ah, be calm, be calm, I conjure you!” And, during this long
speech, I insensibly drew nearer. “If you would have me be calm,”
replied the frightened fair, “pray be more tranquil yourself.” “Ah,
well! yes, I promise you,” said I. I added, in a fainter voice, “If
the effort be great, at least it is not for long. But,” I continued,
with a distraught air, “I came, did I not, to return you your letters?
For mercy’s sake, deign to take them back. This sorrowful sacrifice
remains for me to perform; leave me naught which may tend to diminish
my courage.” And, drawing the precious collection from my pocket:
“Behold,” said I, “the deceitful receptacle of your assurances of
friendship! It bound me to life: take it back from me. Give me thus,
yourself, the signal which must separate me from you for ever....”
Here, my timorous mistress gave way entirely to her tender concern:
“But, M. de Valmont, what is the matter with you, and what is it you
would say? Is not the step which you took yesterday a voluntary one?
Is it not the fruit of your own reflexions? And are they not the
same which led you yourself to approve the inevitable course which
duty has made me adopt?” “Well, then,” I answered, “that course is
responsible for my own.” “And what is that?” “The only one which, while
it separates me from you, can put an end to my pain.” “But answer me,
what is it?” Here I clasped her in my arms, nor did she defend herself
in any way; and, judging from this forgetfulness of the proprieties how
strong and potent was her emotion: “Adorable creature,” said I, risking
a little enthusiasm, “you have no conception of the love which you
inspire in me; you will never know to what an extent you were adored,
and how much dearer this sentiment was to me than existence! May all
your days be calm and fortunate; may they be adorned with all the
happiness which you have ravished from me! Reward this sincere prayer
by a regret, a tear at least; believe that the last sacrifice which I
shall make will not be the most grievous to my heart. Farewell!”
Whilst I spoke thus, I felt her heart throbbing violently; I observed
the changed expression of her face; I saw, above all, that her tears
were choking her and yet were few and painful in their flow. It was
not till then that I resolved to feign departure; when, retaining
me forcibly: “Nay, listen to me,” she said quickly. “Leave me,” I
answered. “You _shall_ listen to me; it is my wish.” “I must flee from
you, I must!” “No,” she cried....
[Illustration: Mlle Gerard del. Bertaux et Dupréel sculp.]
At this last word she flung herself, or rather fell swooning into my
arms. As I was still doubtful of so fortunate a success, I feigned the
utmost alarm; but, alarmed as I was, I led her, or carried her, to
the spot I had originally fixed upon as the field of my triumph; and
in truth she did not return to herself until she was submissive and
already abandoned to her happy conqueror.
Thus far, my lovely friend, you will find, I believe, a purity of
method which will give you pleasure, and you will see that I departed
in nothing from the true principles of that war which, as we have often
remarked, so strongly resembles the real war. Judge me then as though
I had been Frederic or Turenne. I was forced to combat an enemy who
would do nothing but temporize; by scientific manœuvres I obtained the
choice of positions and of the field; I was able to inspire the enemy
with confidence, in order the more easily to catch up with him in his
retreat; I was able to add terror to this feeling before the fight
was engaged; I left nothing to chance, except in my consideration of
a great advantage in case of success, and the certainty of resources
in case of defeat; in short, I did not engage until I had an assured
retreat, by which I could cover and preserve all that I had previously
conquered. That is, I believe, all that one can do: but I am afraid,
at present, lest, like Hannibal, I may be enervated by the delights of
Capua. Now for what has passed since.
I fully expected that such a great event would not be accomplished
without the customary tears and despair; and, if I noticed at first
somewhat more confusion and a sort of shrinking, I attributed both to
the character of the prude: thus, without concerning myself with these
slight differences, which I thought purely local, I simply followed
the highroad of consolation, thoroughly persuaded that, as happens
ordinarily, sensations would assist sentiment, and that a single action
would do more than any speech, which last, however, I did not neglect.
But I met with a really alarming resistance, less indeed from its
excessive character than from the form under which it was displayed.
Imagine a woman seated, of an immovable rigour, and an unchanging face;
having the air neither of thinking, hearing nor understanding; whose
fixed eyes give issue to a continuous stream of tears, which fall,
however, without an effort. Such was Madame de Tourvel, whilst I was
speaking; but, if I tried to recall her attention to me by a caress,
by even the most innocent gesture, this apparent apathy was at once
succeeded by terror, gasping for breath, convulsions, sobs and, at
intervals, cries, but with not an articulate word.
These cries were resumed several times, and always more loudly; the
last even was so violent that I was entirely discouraged by it, and
feared for a moment that I had won a useless victory. I fell back upon
the customary commonplaces; and, amongst their number, found this one:
“And you are in despair because you have made my happiness?” At this
word, the adorable woman turned towards me; and her face, although
still rather wild, had, nevertheless, resumed already its celestial
expression. “Your happiness!” she said. You can guess my answer. “You
are happy then?” I redoubled my protestations. “And happy through me!”
I joined praises and tender speeches. Whilst I was speaking, all her
limbs grew supple; she sank down languorously, leaning back in her
armchair; and yielding to me a hand which I had ventured to take: “I
feel,” said she, “that that idea consoles and relieves me.”
You may judge that, thus shown the way, I no longer left it; it was
really the right and, perhaps, the only one. So that, when I would fain
attempt a second success, I met, at first, with a certain resistance,
and what had passed before rendered me circumspect: but, having
summoned this same idea of my happiness to my aid, I soon perceived
its favourable effects: “You are right;” the tender creature said to
me, “I can no longer support my existence, except in so far as it may
serve to render you happy. I devote myself entirely to that: from this
moment, I give myself to you, and you shall meet, on my side, neither
with refusals nor regrets.” It was with this candour, naive or sublime,
that she abandoned to me her person and her charms, and enhanced my
happiness by participating in it. The intoxication was reciprocal and
complete; and for the first time mine survived the pleasure. I only
left her arms to fall at her knees and swear an eternal love to her;
and, to tell the whole truth, I believed what I said. And, even after
we had separated, the idea of her never left me, and I was obliged to
make an effort in order to distract myself.
Ah, why are you not here at least to counterbalance the charm of the
action by that of the reward? But I shall lose nothing by waiting, is
not that so? And I hope I may consider as settled the happy arrangement
which I proposed to you in my last letter. You see that I fulfil my
word, and that, as I promised you, my affairs will be sufficiently
advanced to enable me to give you a portion of my time. Hasten then to
dismiss your heavy Belleroche, and leave the mawkish Danceny where he
is, to occupy yourself only with me. But what are you doing so long in
the country, that you do not even answer me? Do you know that I should
like to scold you? But happiness tends to indulgence. And then I do not
forget that, in entering once more the ranks of your adorers, I submit
anew to your little fantasies. Remember, however, that the new lover
will lose no whit of the former rights of a friend.
Adieu, as of old.... Yes, _adieu my angel! I send thee all the kisses
of love._
P.S. Do you know that Prévan, after his month of prison, has been
obliged to leave his regiment? It is the news of all Paris to-day.
Truly, he is cruelly punished for a sin which he did not commit, and
your success is complete!
Paris, 29th October, 17**.
LETTER THE HUNDRED AND TWENTY-SIXTH
MADAME DE ROSEMONDE TO THE PRÉSIDENTE DE TOURVEL
I SHOULD have replied to you before, my amiable child, if the fatigue
consequent on my last letter had not brought back my pains, which
have once more deprived me during these last days of the use of my
arm. I was most anxious to thank you for the good news which you have
given me of my nephew, and I was no less eager to offer you my sincere
congratulations on your own count. One is forced to recognize in this
a real effect of Providence, which, by touching the heart of one, has
also saved the other. Yes, my dearest fair, God, who only wished to try
you, has succoured you at a moment when your strength was exhausted;
and, in spite of your little murmur, you owe Him, methinks, your
thanksgiving. It is not that I do not feel that it would have been
more agreeable to you, if this resolution had come to you first, and
that Valmont’s had been only the consequence of it; it seems even,
humanly speaking, that the rights of our sex would have been better
preserved, and we would not lose any of them! But what are these
slight considerations in view of the important objects which have been
obtained? Does a man who has been saved from shipwreck complain that he
has not had a choice of means?
You will soon find, my dear daughter, that the sorrow which you dread
will alleviate itself; and, even if it were to subsist for ever and in
its entirety, you would none the less feel that it was still easier
to endure than remorse for crime and contempt of yourself. It would
have been useless for me to speak to you earlier with this apparent
severity: love is an involuntary sentiment which prudence can avoid,
but which it could not vanquish, and which, once born, dies only by its
fine death, or from the absolute lack of hope. It is this last case,
in which you are, which gives me the courage and the right to tell you
frankly my opinion. It is cruel to alarm one hopelessly sick, who is no
longer susceptible to aught save consolations and palliation; but it is
right to enlighten a convalescent as to the dangers he has incurred, in
order to inspire him with that prudence of which he has need, and with
submission to counsels which may still be necessary to him.
Since you choose me for your physician, it is as such that I speak
to you, and that I tell you that the little indisposition which you
experience at present, and which perhaps demands some remedies, is
nothing in comparison with the alarming malady from which your recovery
is assured. Next, as your friend, as the friend of a reasonable and
virtuous woman, I will permit myself to add that this passion, which
has subjugated you, already so unfortunate in itself, became even more
so through its object. If I am to believe what is told me, my nephew,
whom I confess I love, perhaps to weakness, and who, indeed, unites
many laudable qualities to many attractions, is not without danger
for women; there are women whom he has wronged, and he sets almost an
equal price upon their seduction and their ruin. Indeed, I believe
that you may have converted him. Never was there a person more worthy
to do this: but so many others have flattered themselves with the same
thought, and their hopes have been deceived, that I love better far to
think you should not be reduced to this resource.
Consider now, my dearest fair, that instead of the many risks you would
have had to run, you will have, besides the repose of your conscience
and your own peace of mind, the satisfaction of having been the
principal cause of Valmont’s happy reformation. For myself, I do not
doubt but that this is, in large part, the result of your courageous
resistance, and that a moment of weakness on your part might have left
my nephew, perhaps, in eternal error. I love to think so, and desire to
see you think the same; you will find in that your first consolations,
and I, fresh reasons for loving you more.
I expect you here within a few days, my amiable daughter, as you have
announced. Come and recover calm and happiness in the same spot where
you had lost it; come, above all, to rejoice with your fond mother that
you have so happily kept the word you gave her, to do nothing unworthy
of her or of yourself!
At the Château de ..., 30th October, 17**.
LETTER THE HUNDRED AND TWENTY-SEVENTH
THE MARQUISE DE MERTEUIL TO THE VICOMTE DE VALMONT
IF I have not replied to your letter of the 19th, Vicomte, it is not
that I have not had the time; it is quite simply that it put me in a
bad humour, and that I found it lacking in common-sense. I thought,
therefore, that I could not do better than leave it in oblivion: but,
since you come back to it, since you appear to cling to the ideas it
contains, and take my silence for consent, I must tell you plainly what
I think.
I may sometimes have had the pretension to replace in my single person
a whole seraglio; but it has never suited me to make a part of one.
I thought you knew this. Now, at least, when you can no longer be
ignorant of it, you will easily imagine how absurd your proposal must
have appeared to me. I indeed! I am to sacrifice a fancy, and a fresh
fancy moreover, in order to occupy myself with you! And to occupy
myself in what way? By awaiting my turn, like a submissive slave, for
the sublime favours of _Your Highness_! When, forsooth, you want a
moment’s distraction from _that unknown charm_ which _the adorable_,
_the celestial_ Madame de Tourvel has alone made you experience, or
when you are afraid of compromising, in the eyes of _the seductive
Cécile_, the superior idea which it is your good pleasure that she
should preserve of you: then, condescending even to myself, you
will come in search of pleasures, less keen in truth, but without
consequence; and your precious bounties, although somewhat rare, will,
nevertheless, suffice for my happiness!
You, certainly, are rich in your good opinion of yourself: but,
apparently, I am not equally so in modesty; for however I may look at
myself, I cannot find myself reduced to such a point. Perhaps this is a
fault of mine; but I warn you I have many others also.
I have, in especial, that of believing that the _school-boy_, _the
mawkish_ Danceny, who is solely occupied with me, and sacrifices to
me, without making a merit of it, a first passion, even before it has
been satisfied, who, in a word, loves me as one loves at his age, may
work more effectively than you, for all his twenty years, to secure my
happiness and my pleasure. I will even permit myself to add that, if it
were my whim to give him an assistant, it would not be you, at any rate
not at this moment.
And for what reasons, do you ask me? But, to begin with, there might
very well be none: for the caprice which might make me prefer you
could equally cause your exclusion. However, I am quite willing, out
of politeness, to give you the reason of my opinion. It seems to me
that you would have too many sacrifices to make me; and I, instead of
being grateful for them, as you would not fail to expect, should be
capable of believing that you were still my debtor! You quite see that,
far as we are from each other in our fashion of thinking, we cannot
come together again in any manner: and I am afraid that it might need
time, a long time, before I should change my sentiments. When I am
converted, I promise I will inform you. Until then, believe me, make
other arrangements, and keep your kisses; you have so many better
occasions to dispose of them!...
_Adieu, as of old_, say you? But of old, it seems to me, you took a
little more account of me; you had not relegated me entirely to minor
parts; and, above all, you were quite willing to wait until I had said
yes, before making sure of my consent. Be satisfied then, if instead of
bidding you also adieu as of old, I bid you adieu as at present.
Your servant, M. le Vicomte.
At the Château de ..., 31st October, 17**.
LETTER THE HUNDRED AND TWENTY-EIGHTH
THE PRÉSIDENTE DE TOURVEL TO MADAME DE ROSEMONDE
I ONLY received yesterday, Madame, your tardy reply. It would have
killed me on the instant, if my existence had still been in my own
hands; but another is its possessor, and that other is M. de Valmont.
You see that I hide nothing from you. If you must consider me no longer
worthy of your friendship, I fear even less to lose it than to retain
it by guile. All that I can tell you is that, placed by M. de Valmont
between his death or his happiness, I resolved in favour of the latter.
I neither vaunt myself on this, nor accuse myself; I simply state the
fact.
You will easily understand, after this, what impression your letter
must have made upon me, with the severe truths which it contains. Do
not believe, however, that it was able to give birth to a regret in me,
nor that it can ever cause me to change in sentiment or in conduct. It
is not that I do not have cruel moments: but when I fear that I can no
longer endure my torments, I say to myself: Valmont is happy; and all
vanishes before this idea, or rather it converts all into pleasures.
It is to your nephew then that I have devoted myself; it is for him
that I have ruined myself. He has become the one centre of my thoughts,
my sentiments, my actions. As long as my life is necessary to his
happiness, it will be precious to me, and I shall deem it fortunate.
If some day he thinks differently ... he shall hear from me neither
complaint nor reproach. I have already dared to cast my eyes upon that
fatal moment; and I have resolved on my course.
You see, now, how little I need be affected by the fear you seem to
have, lest one day M. de Valmont should ruin me: for, ere he can wish
for that, he will have ceased to love me; and what will then be vain
reproaches to me which I shall not hear? He alone shall be my judge.
As I shall have lived but for him, it will be in him that my memory
shall repose; and if he is forced to admit that I loved him, I shall be
sufficiently justified.
You have now read, Madame, in my heart. I preferred the misfortune of
losing your esteem by my frankness to that of rendering myself unworthy
of it by the degradation of a lie. I thought I owed this complete
confidence to the kindness you have shewn me. To add one word more
would be to lead you to suspect that I have the vanity to count upon it
still, when, on the contrary, I do myself justice in ceasing to pretend
to it.
I am with respect, Madame, your most humble and obedient servant.
Paris, 1st November, 17**.
LETTER THE HUNDRED AND TWENTY-NINTH
THE VICOMTE DE VALMONT TO THE MARQUISE DE MERTEUIL
TELL me then, my lovely friend, whence comes the tone of bitterness
and banter which prevails in your last letter? Pray, what crime have
I committed, apparently without suspecting it, which put you in such
ill-humour? You reproach me with having the air of counting on your
consent before I had obtained it: but I believed that what might seem
presumption in the case of everybody could never be taken, between you
and me, for ought save confidence: and since when has that sentiment
done detriment to friendship or to love? In uniting hope to desire,
I did but yield to the natural impulse which makes us ever place the
happiness we seek as near to us as possible; and you took for the
effect of pride what was no more than the result of my eagerness. I
know mighty well that custom has introduced in such a case a respectful
doubt: but you also know that it is but a form, a mere protocol;
and I was authorized, it seems to me, to believe that these minute
precautions were no longer necessary between us.
Methinks, even, that this free and frank method, when it is founded on
an old _liaison_, is far preferable to the insipid flattery which so
often takes the relish out of love. Perhaps, moreover, the value which
I find in this manner does but come from that which I attach to the
happiness which it recalls to me: but, for that very cause, it would be
more painful still for me to see you judge of it otherwise.
That, however, is the only error which I am conscious of; for I do not
imagine that you could have thought seriously that there existed any
woman in the world whom I could prefer to you, and, even less, that I
could appreciate you so ill as you feign to believe. You have looked
at yourself, you tell me, in this connection, and you have not found
yourself reduced to such a point. I well believe it, and it proves
that you have a faithful mirror. But could you not have drawn the
conclusion, with more ease and justice, that I was very certain not to
have judged you so?
I seek in vain for a cause for this strange idea. It seems, however,
that it is due, more or less, to the praises I have permitted myself
to make of other women. At least I infer it, from your affectation of
picking out the epithets _adorable_, _celestial_, _seductive_, which I
made use of in speaking to you of Madame de Tourvel or of the little
Volanges. But are you not aware that these words, more often used by
chance than from reflexion, are less expressive of the account one
takes of the person than of the situation in which one finds one’s self
at the time of speaking? And if, at the very moment when I was keenly
affected either by one or the other, I was none the less desirous of
you; if I showed you a marked preference over both of them; since, in
short, I could not renew our former _liaison_, except to the prejudice
of the two others, I do not find in that so great a matter for reproach.
It will be no more difficult for me to justify myself as to _the
unknown charm_ with which you seem to be also somewhat shocked: for,
to begin with, it does not result that it is stronger from the fact
that it is unknown. Ah, who could give it the palm over the delicious
pleasures which you alone know how to render always fresh, as they are
always keen? I did but wish to tell you, therefore, that it was of
a kind which I had not experienced before, but I did not pretend to
assign a class to it; and I added what I repeat to-day, that, whatever
it may be, I shall know how to combat and to conquer it. I shall bring
even more zeal to this, if I can see in this trivial task a homage to
be offered to you.
As for the little Cécile, I think it hardly necessary to speak of her
to you. You have not forgotten that it was at your request that I
charged myself with the child, and I only await your permission to be
rid of her. I may have remarked upon her ingenuousness and freshness;
I may even, for a moment, have thought her _seductive_, because, in a
more or less degree, one always take pleasure in one’s own handiwork;
but, assuredly, she is not in any way of sufficient consequence to fix
one’s attention upon her.
And now, my lovely friend, I appeal to your justice, to your first
kindness for me, to the long and perfect friendship, the entire
confidence which has since welded the bonds between us: have I deserved
the severe tone which you adopt with me? But how easy it will be for
you to compensate me for it when you like! Say but one word, and you
will see whether all the charms and all the seductions will detain me
here, not for a day, but for a minute. I will fly to your feet and into
your arms, and I will prove to you a thousand times, and in a thousand
manners, that you are, that you will ever be the true sovereign of my
heart.
Adieu, my lovely friend; I await your reply with much eagerness.
Paris, 3rd November, 17**.
LETTER THE HUNDRED AND THIRTIETH
MADAME DE ROSEMONDE TO THE PRÉSIDENTE DE TOURVEL