seem to announce to me that all correspondence will cease between
us? Is it to punish me for not having guessed what was against all
probability; or do you suspect me of having guided you wilfully? Nay, I
know your heart too well to believe that it can think thus of mine. The
pain, therefore, which your letter caused me is far less relative to me
than to yourself!
O my youthful friend! I tell it you with sorrow: you are far too worthy
of being loved that ever love should make you happy. Ah! what woman
who was truly delicate and sensitive has not found misfortune in this
very sentiment which promised her so much felicity! Do men know how to
appreciate the woman they possess?
’Tis not that many are not honourable in their actions, and constant
in their affections: but, even amongst these, how few know how to put
themselves in unison with our hearts! Do not suppose, my dear child,
that their love is like our own. Indeed, they experience the same
intoxication, often even they bring more ardour to it; but they do not
know that anxious eagerness, that delicate solicitude, which causes
in us those tender and constant cares of which the beloved object is
ever the single aim. The man’s pleasure lies in the happiness which
he feels, the woman’s in that which she bestows. This difference,
so essential and so little noticed, has, however, a very sensible
influence on the sum of their respective conduct. The pleasure of the
one is ever to gratify his desires; that of the other is, especially,
to arouse them. To please, with him, is but a means to success;
whereas, with her, it is success itself. And coquetry, with which women
are so often reproached, is nothing else than the abuse of this manner
of feeling, and by that very fact proves its reality. In short, that
exclusive taste, which particularly characterizes love, is in the man
naught but a preference, serving at the most to enhance a pleasure
which, perhaps, another object would diminish, but would not destroy;
whilst in women it is a profound sentiment, which not only destroys
every extraneous desire, but which, stronger than nature, and removed
from its dominion, allows them to experience only repugnance and
disgust at the very point where pleasure seems to be born.
And do not deem that more or less numerous exceptions, which one might
quote, can successfully contradict these general truths. They are
guaranteed by the public voice, which has distinguished infidelity
from inconstancy for men alone; a distinction by which they prevail
when they should be humiliated, and which, for our sex, has never been
adopted save by those depraved women who are its shame, and to whom all
means seem good which they hope can save them from the painful feeling
of their baseness.
I had thought, my dearest fair, that it might be of use to you to
have these reflexions to oppose to the chimerical ideas of perfect
happiness with which love never fails to abuse our imagination: the
lying spirit, to which one still clings even when forced to abandon it,
and the loss of which irritates and multiplies the sorrows, already
too real, that are inseparable from a lively passion! This task of
alleviating your pains, or of diminishing their number, is the only one
I would fulfil at this moment. In disorders without remedy it is to the
regimen alone that advice can be applied. The only thing I ask of you
is to remember that to pity a sick person is not to blame him. Who are
we, pray, that any of us should blame another? Let us leave the right
to judge to Him alone who reads in our hearts, and I even dare believe
that, in His paternal sight, a host of virtues may redeem a single
weakness.
But I conjure you, my dear friend, guard yourself above all from those
violent resolutions which are less a proof of strength than of entire
discouragement: do not forget that, in rendering another possessor
of your existence, to employ your own expression, it is not in your
power to deprive your friends of the part of it which they previously
possessed and will never cease to reclaim.
Adieu, my dear daughter; think sometimes of your affectionate mother,
and believe that you will ever be, and above all else, the object of
her dearest thoughts.
At the Château de ..., 4th November, 17**.
LETTER THE HUNDRED AND THIRTY-FIRST
THE MARQUISE DE MERTEUIL TO THE VICOMTE DE VALMONT
’TIS well done, Vicomte, and I am better pleased with you this time
than the last; but now, let us talk in all friendship, and I hope to
convince you that, for you as for myself, the arrangement which you
appear to desire would be a veritable piece of madness.
Have you not yet remarked that pleasure, which is, in effect, the sole
motive of the union of the two sexes, does not, nevertheless, suffice
to form a _liaison_ between them; and that, if it is preceded by the
desire which attracts, it is no less followed by the disgust which
repels? ’Tis a law of nature which love alone can change; and love:
does one have it when one wills? Yet one needs it ever; and it would
be really too embarrassing, if one had not discovered that it happily
suffices if it exists only on one side. The difficulty has thus been
rendered less by one half, even without much being lost thereby; in
fact, the one derives pleasure from the happiness of loving, the other
from that of pleasing, which is a little less keen indeed, but to which
is added the pleasure of deceiving; that sets up an equilibrium, and
everything is arranged.
But tell me, Vicomte, which of us two will undertake to deceive the
other? You know the story of the two sharpers, who recognized each
other while playing: “We shall make nothing,” said they, “let us divide
the cost of the cards;” and they gave up the game. We had best follow,
believe me, their prudent example, and not lose time together which we
can so well employ elsewhere.
To prove to you that in this I am influenced as much by your interests
as my own, and that I am acting neither from ill-humour nor caprice, I
do not refuse you the price agreed upon between us: I feel perfectly
that each of us will suffice to the other for one night; and I do not
even doubt but that we should know too well how to adorn it, not to
see it end with regret. But do not let us forget that this regret is
necessary to happiness; and, however sweet be our illusion, let us not
believe that it can be lasting.
You see that I am meeting you in my turn, and even before you have yet
set yourself right with me: for, after all, I was to have the first
letter of the celestial prude; however, whether because you still cling
to it, or because you have forgotten the conditions of a bargain which
interests you, perhaps, less than you would fain have me believe,
I have received nothing, absolutely nothing. Yet, unless I make a
mistake, the tender Puritan must write frequently; else what would
she do when she is alone? Surely she has not wit enough to distract
herself? I could have, then, did I wish, some slight reproaches to make
you; but I pass them over in silence, in consideration of a little
temper that I showed, perhaps, in my last letter.
Now, Vicomte, it only remains for me to make one request of you, and
this is again as much for your sake as my own; it is to postpone a
moment which I desire, perhaps, as much as you, but the date of which
must, I think, be deferred until my return to town. On the one hand,
we should not find the necessary freedom here; and, on the other, I
should incur some risk: for it needs but a little jealousy to attach
this tedious Belleroche more closely than ever to my side, although he
now only holds by a thread. He is already driven to exert himself in
order to love me; to such a degree at present that I put as much malice
as prudence into the caresses which I lavish on him. But at the same
time you can see that this would not be a sacrifice to make to you! A
reciprocal infidelity will render the charm far more potent.
Do you know I regret sometimes that we are reduced to these resources!
In the days when we loved--for I believe it was love--I was happy; and
you, Vicomte!... But why be longer concerned with a happiness which
cannot return? Nay, say what you will, such a return is impossible.
First, I should require sacrifices which, assuredly, you could not or
would not make, and which, like enough, I do not deserve; and then, how
is it possible to fix you? Oh, no, no. I will not even occupy myself
with the idea; and, in spite of the pleasure which I derive at the
present moment from writing to you, I far prefer to leave you abruptly.
Adieu, Vicomte.
At the Château de ..., 6th November, 17**.
LETTER THE HUNDRED AND THIRTY-SECOND
THE PRÉSIDENTE DE TOURVEL TO MADAME DE ROSEMONDE
DEEPLY touched, Madame, with your kindness to me, I would abandon
myself entirely to it, were I not prevented in some sort from accepting
it by the fear of profaning it. Why must it be that, while I see it to
be so precious, I feel at the same time that I am no longer worthy of
it! Ah! I will at least venture to express to you my gratitude; I will
admire above all that indulgent virtue which only knows our frailties
to compassionate them, and whose potent charm preserves so soft and
strong an empire over hearts, even by the side of the charm of love.
But can I still deserve a friendship which no longer suffices for
my happiness? I say the same of your counsels: I feel their worth,
but I cannot follow them. And how should I not believe in a perfect
happiness, when I experience it at this moment? Yes, if men are such
as you say, we ought to shun them; but then Valmont is so far from
resembling them! If, like them, he has that violence of passion which
you call ardour, how far it is surpassed by his delicacy. O my friend!
You talk of sharing my troubles; take a part, then, in my happiness; I
owe it to love, and how greatly does the object enhance its value. You
love your nephew, you say, perhaps, foolishly. Ah, if you did but know
him as I do! I love him with idolatry, and, even so, far less than he
deserves. He may, doubtless, have been led astray by certain errors; he
admits it himself; but who ever knew true love as he does? What more
can I say to you? He feels it as he inspires it.
You will think that this is _one of those chimerical ideas with which
love never fails to abuse our imagination_: but, in that case, why
should he have become more tender, more ardent, when he has nothing
further to obtain? I will confess, before, I found in him an air of
reflexion, of reserve, which rarely abandoned him, and which often
reminded me, in spite of myself, of the cruel and false impressions
which had been given me of him. But, since he has been able to abandon
himself without constraint to the movements of his heart, he seems to
guess all the desires of mine. Who knows if we were not born for each
other! If this happiness was not reserved for me, of being necessary
to his! Ah, if it is an illusion, let me die, then, before it comes to
an end. But no; I am fain to live to cherish, to adore him. Why should
he cease to love me? What other woman could he render happier than me?
And I feel, from my own experience, that the happiness one arouses
is the strongest tie, the only one which really attaches. Yes, it is
this delicious sentiment which ennobles love, which purifies it in
some sort, and makes it worthy of a tender and generous soul, such as
Valmont’s.
Adieu, my dear, my venerable, my indulgent friend. It is in vain that I
would write to you at greater length: here is the hour at which he has
promised to come. Forgive me! But you wish me happiness, and, at this
moment, it is so great that I can scarcely support it.
Paris, 7th November, 17**.
LETTER THE HUNDRED AND THIRTY-THIRD
THE VICOMTE DE VALMONT TO THE MARQUISE DE MERTEUIL
WHAT, then, my lovely friend, are those sacrifices which you deem I
would not make for you, the reward of which, however, would be to
please you? Let me only know them, and if I hesitate to offer them
to you, I permit you to refuse the homage. Pray, what opinion have
you conceived of me of late, if even in your indulgence you doubt
my sentiments or my energy? Sacrifices which I would not or could
not make! You think, then, that I am in love and subjugated? And you
suspect me of having attached to the person the price which I set upon
success? Ah, thank Heaven, I am not yet reduced to that, and I offer
to prove it to you. Yes, I will prove it to you, even if it should be
at Madame de Tourvel’s expense. After that, assuredly, you can have no
further doubt.
I have been able, without compromising myself, to devote some time to
a woman who has, at least, the merit of being of a sort that is rarely
met with. Perhaps, moreover, the dead season at which this adventure
befell, caused me to abandon myself more to it; and, even now, when the
great current has scarcely begun to flow, it is not surprising that
it should almost entirely occupy me. But remember, please, that it is
scarce eight days since I culled the fruits of three months’ labour. I
have often dallied longer with what was of much less value and had not
cost me so much!... And never did you draw a conclusion from it to my
prejudice.
Besides, would you like to know the true cause of the zeal I am
bringing to bear upon it? I will tell you. This woman is naturally
timid; at first she doubted incessantly of her happiness, and this
doubt sufficed to trouble it: so much so that I am only just beginning
to see the extent of my power in this direction. Yet it was a thing I
was curious to know; and the occasion is not so readily offered as you
may think.
To begin with, for many women pleasure is always pleasure, and never
aught else; and in the sight of these, whatever the title with which
they adorn us, we are never more than factors, mere commissioners,
whose activity is all our merit, and amongst whom he who does the most
is always he who does best.
In another class, perhaps nowadays the most numerous, the celebrity of
the lover, the pleasure of having carried him off from a rival, the
fear of being robbed of him in turn, absorb the women almost entirely:
we count, indeed, more or less, for something in the kind of enjoyment
they obtain; but it depends more on the circumstances than on the
person: it comes to them through us and not from us.
I needed, then, for the purposes of my observation, to find a delicate
and sensitive woman, who made love her sole affair, and who in love
itself saw only her lover; whose emotions, far from following the
common road, ever started from the heart to reach the senses; whom I
have seen, for instance (and I do not speak of the first day), rise
from the moment of enjoyment in despair, and a moment later recover
pleasure in a word which was responsive to her soul. Last, she must
unite to all this that natural candour, grown insurmountable by force
of habit, which would not permit her to dissimulate the least sentiment
of her heart. Now you will admit, such women are rare; and I dare
believe that, failing this one, I should never, perhaps, have met
another. It should not be surprising therefore, that she should hold
me longer than another; and if the trouble that I take with her makes
her happy, perfectly happy, why should I refuse it, especially as it
pleases me instead of being disagreeable to me? But, because the mind
is engaged, does it follow that the heart is caught? Certainly not. Nor
will the value which I admit I set upon this adventure prevent me from
embarking on others, or even from sacrificing it to some more agreeable
one.
I am free to such an extent that I have not even neglected the little
Volanges, whom, nevertheless, I hold so cheap. Her mother brings her
back to town in three days; and yesterday I assured my communications;
a little money to the porter, a few compliments to his wife, did the
business. Can you conceive that Danceny never thought of this simple
method? And then they tell us that love creates ingenuity! On the
contrary, it stupefies those whom it enslaves. Shall not I, then, know
how to defend myself from it? Ah, you may be easy. Already, in a few
days, I am about to weaken the impression, too lively perhaps, which I
have experienced, by dividing it; and, if a simple division will not
do, I will multiply them.
I shall be none the less ready to restore the little school-girl to
her discreet lover as soon as you think proper. It seems to me that
you have no longer any motive for preventing it; and I consent to do
poor Danceny this signal service. ’Tis in truth, the least I can do in
return for those he has done me. He is, at present, in the greatest
anxiety to discover whether he will be received at Madame de Volanges’;
I calm him, to the utmost of my power, by assuring him that I will
contrive his happiness on an early occasion; and, in the meantime, I
continue to charge myself with the correspondence which he means to
resume on the arrival of _his Cécile_. I have already six letters from
him, and I shall, certainly, have one or two more before the happy day.
The lad must have mighty little to do!
But let us leave this childish couple and return to ourselves, so that
I may occupy myself exclusively with the sweet hope your letter gave
me. Yes, without a doubt you will hold me, and I would not pardon
you for doubting it. Pray, have I ever ceased to be constant to you?
Our bonds have been relaxed, but never broken; our pretended rupture
was only an error of our imagination. Our sentiments, our interests
remained none the less united. Like the traveller who returns in
disillusion, I will confess that I deserted happiness to run after
hope; and will say with d’Harcourt:
“The more strange lands I saw, I loved my country more.”[12]
Please, then, oppose no longer the idea, or rather the sentiment, which
restores you to me; and, after having tasted all the pleasures, in our
different courses, let us enjoy the happiness of feeling that none of
them is comparable with that which we had of old, and which we shall
find more delicious still.
Adieu, my charming friend. I consent to await your return; but hasten
it, I pray you, and do not forget how greatly I desire it.
Paris, 8th November, 17**.
LETTER THE HUNDRED AND THIRTY-FOURTH
THE MARQUISE DE MERTEUIL TO THE VICOMTE DE VALMONT
TRULY, Vicomte, you are like the children, before whom one cannot say
a word, and to whom one can show nothing because they would at once
lay hold of it! A bare idea which comes to me, upon which I warned
you even that I was not settled--because I speak of it to you, you
take advantage of it to recall my attention to it when I am seeking
to forget it, and to make me, in a measure, participate, in spite of
myself, in your headstrong desires! Is it generous, pray, to leave me
to support the whole burden of prudence alone? I tell you again, and
repeat it more often to myself, the arrangement which you suggest is
really impossible. Even if you were to include all the generosity you
display at this moment, do you suppose that I have not my delicacy
also, or that I should be ready to accept sacrifices which would be
harmful to your happiness?
Now is it not true, Vicomte, that you are under an illusion as to the
sentiment which attaches you to Madame de Tourvel? It is love, or love
has never existed: you deny it in a hundred fashions, but you prove
it in a thousand. What, for instance, of that subterfuge you employ
towards yourself (for I believe you to be sincere with me), which makes
you ascribe to curiosity the desire which you can neither conceal nor
overcome of retaining this woman? Would not one say that you had never
made any other woman happy, perfectly happy? Ah, if you doubt that, you
have but a poor memory! Nay, it is not that. Quite simply, your heart
imposes on your intelligence, and is rewarded with bad arguments: but
I, who have great interest in not being deceived by them, am not so
easily satisfied.
Thus, while remarking your politeness, which has made you rigorously
suppress all the words which you imagined had displeased me, I saw,
nevertheless, that, perhaps without taking notice of it, you none the
less retained the same ideas. ’Tis true, it is no longer the adorable,
the celestial Madame de Tourvel; but it is _an astounding woman_, _a
delicate and sensitive woman_, even to the exclusion of all others; in
short _a rare woman_ and such that _you would never have met another_.
It is the same with that unknown charm, which is not _the strongest_.
Well, so be it: but, since you had never found it before, it is easy
to believe that you would be no more likely to find it in the future,
and the loss you would incur would be none the less irreparable. Either
these are certain symptoms of love, Vicomte, or we must renounce all
hope of ever finding any.
Rest assured that this time I am speaking to you without temper. I have
promised I will no more indulge in it; I recognized too clearly that
it might become a dangerous snare. Believe me, let us be no more than
friends, and let us be content with that. Only do justice to my courage
in defending myself: yes, my courage; for one has sometimes need of it,
if it be only to refrain from taking a course which one feels to be a
bad one.
It is only, then, in order to bring you to my opinion by persuasion
that I am going to answer the question you put as to the sacrifices
which I should exact, and which you could not make. I employ the word
_exact_ expressly, for I am very sure that, in a moment, you will,
indeed, find me over exacting: so much the better! Far from being
annoyed at your refusal, I shall thank you for it. Come, it is not with
you that I care to dissimulate, although, perhaps, I had need do so.
I would exact then--observe my cruelty!--that this rare, this
astounding Madame de Tourvel should become no more to you than an
ordinary woman, merely a woman such as she is: for you must not deceive
yourself; the charm which you think to find in others exists in us,
and it is love alone which so embellishes the beloved object. What I
now require, impossible as it may be, you would, perhaps, make a grand
effort to promise me, to swear it even; but I confess, I should put no
faith in empty words. I could only be convinced by the whole tenor of
your conduct.
Nor is that even all: I should be capricious. The sacrifice of the
little Cécile, which you offer me with so good a grace, I should not
care about at all. I should ask you, on the contrary, to continue this
troublesome service until fresh orders on my part, whether because I
should like thus to abuse my empire, or that, more indulgent or more
just, it would suffice me to dispose of your feelings, without wishing
to thwart your pleasures. Be that as it may, I would fain be obeyed;
and my orders would be very rigorous!
’Tis true that then I should think myself obliged to thank you; and who
knows? Perhaps even to reward you. For instance, I should assuredly
shorten an absence which would become insupportable to me. In short, I
should see you again, Vicomte, and I should see you ... how?... But you
must remember this is no more than a conversation, a plain narrative of
an impossible project, and I would not be the only one to forget it....
Do you know that my law-suit makes me a little uneasy? I wanted, at
last, to know exactly what my prospects were; my advocates, indeed,
quote me sundry laws, and above all many _authorities_, as they call
them: but I cannot see so much reason and justice in them. I am almost
inclined to regret that I declined the compromise. However, I am
reassured when I reflect that the attorney is skilful, the advocate
eloquent, and the plaintiff pretty. If these three arguments were to
be of no more worth, it would be necessary to change the whole course
of affairs; and what, then, would become of the respect for ancient
customs?
This law-suit is now the only thing which retains me here. That of
Belleroche is finished: non-suited, costs divided. He is regretting
this evening’s ball; it is indeed the regret of the unemployed! I will
restore him his complete liberty on my return to town. I make this
grievous sacrifice for him, but am consoled by the generosity he finds
in it.
Adieu, Vicomte; write to me often. The particulars of your pleasures
will recompense me, at least in part, for the tedium I undergo.
At the Château de ..., 11th November, 17**.
LETTER THE HUNDRED AND THIRTY-FIFTH
THE PRÉSIDENTE DE TOURVEL TO MADAME DE ROSEMONDE