that you are none the less in love with your Présidente. Truly not with
a love that is very pure or very tender, but with that of which you are
capable; that kind, for instance, which enables you to find in a woman
attractions or qualities which she does not possess; which places her
in a class apart, and puts all other women in the second rank; which
keeps you attached to her even when you outrage her; such, in short,
as I conceive a sultan may feel for a favourite sultana, which does
not prevent him from preferring to her often a simple odalisque. My
comparison seems to me all the more just because, like him, you are
never either the lover or friend of a woman, but always her tyrant
or her slave. Thus, I am quite sure you humbled and abased yourself
mightily, to regain this lovely creature’s good graces! And only too
happy at having succeeded, as soon as you think the moment has arrived
to obtain your pardon, you leave me _for this grand event_.
In your last letter, again, if you do not speak exclusively of this
woman, it is because you will not tell me anything _of your grand
affairs_; they seem to you so important that the silence which you
maintain on this subject seems to you sufficient punishment for me.
And it is after these thousand proofs of your decided preference for
another that you ask me calmly whether we still have _any interests
in common_! Take care, Vicomte! If I once answer you, my answer will
be irrevocable: and to be afraid to give it at this moment is perhaps
already to have said too much. I am resolved, therefore, to speak no
more of it.
All that I can do is to tell you a story. May be you will not have time
to read it, or to give so much attention to it as to understand it
right? That is your affair. At worst it will only be a story wasted.
A man of my acquaintance was entangled, like you, with a woman who
did him little honour. He had indeed, at intervals, the wit to feel
that, sooner or later, this adventure would do him harm: but although
he blushed for it, he had not the courage to break it off. His
embarrassment was all the greater in that he had boasted to his friends
that he was entirely free; and that he was well aware that, when one
meets with ridicule, it is always increased by self-defence. He passed
his life thus, never ceasing to commit follies, never ceasing to say
afterwards: _It is not my fault_. This man had a friend, and she was
tempted at one moment to give him up to the public in this state of
frenzy, and thus render his ridicule indelible: however, being more
generous than malicious, or, perhaps, for some other motive, she wished
to make one last attempt, so that, whatever happened, she might be in a
position to say, like her friend: _It is not my fault_. She sent him,
therefore, without any other explanation, the following letter, as a
remedy whose application might be useful to his disease:
“One tires of everything, my angel: it is a law of nature; it is not my
fault.
If, then, I am tired to-day of an adventure which has occupied me
exclusively for four mortal months, it is not my fault.
If, for instance, I had just as much love as you had virtue, and that
is saying much, it is not surprising that one should finish at the same
time as the other. It is not my fault.
Hence it follows that for some time past I have deceived you: but then
your pitiless fondness in some measure forced me to it! It is not my
fault.
To-day, a woman whom I love to distraction demands that I sacrifice
you. It is not my fault.
I am very sensible that here is a fine opportunity for calling me
perjured: but, if nature has only gifted men with constancy, whilst it
has given women obstinacy, it is not my fault.
Believe me, take another lover, as I have taken another mistress. This
advice is good, very good; if you think it bad, it is not my fault.
Adieu, my angel; I took you with pleasure, I leave you without regret:
perhaps I shall return. This is the way of the world. It is not my
fault.”
It is not the moment, Vicomte, to tell you the effect of this last
attempt, and what resulted from it: but I promise to let you know in my
next letter. You will find there also my _ultimatum_ as to the renewal
of the treaty you propose. Until then, quite simply, adieu....
By the way, I thank you for your details as to the little Volanges;
it is an article that will keep for the gazette of scandal on the day
after her marriage. In the meantime I send you my condolences on the
loss of your progeny. Good-night, Vicomte.
At the Château de ..., 24th November, 17**.
LETTER THE HUNDRED AND FORTY-SECOND
THE VICOMTE DE VALMONT TO THE MARQUISE DE MERTEUIL
UPON my word, my lovely friend, I know not whether I have misread or
misunderstood your letter, and the story you told me, and the model
little epistle which it contained. All I can tell you is that this last
seemed to me original and calculated to produce an effect: so that I
simply copied it, and, quite simply again, sent it to the celestial
Présidente. I did not lose a moment, for the tender missive was
dispatched yesterday evening. I preferred it thus, because, first, I
had promised to write to her yesterday; and again, because I thought a
whole night would not be too long for her to reflect and meditate _upon
this grand event_, even though you should reproach me a second time
with the expression.
I hoped to be able to send you my beloved’s reply this morning; but
it is nearly noon, and I have as yet received nothing. I shall wait
until five o’clock; and, if then I have no news of her, I shall go and
enquire myself; for in matters of form, above all, ’tis only the first
step that is difficult.
At present, as you may well believe, I am most anxious to hear the end
of the story of this man of your acquaintance, so vehemently suspected
of not knowing at need how to sacrifice a woman. Did he not amend? And
did not his generous friend give him her pardon?
I am no less anxious to receive your _ultimatum_, as you so politically
say! I am curious, above all, to know if you will find love again in
this last proceeding. Ah, no doubt, there is, and much of it! But for
whom? Still, I make no pretensions, and I expect everything from your
charity.
Adieu, my charming friend; I shall not seal this letter until two
o’clock, in the hope of being able to enclose the expected reply.
_At two o’clock in the afternoon._
Still nothing; I am in a mighty hurry; I have not time to add a word:
but this time, will you still refuse the tenderest kisses of love?
Paris, 25th November, 17**.
LETTER THE HUNDRED AND FORTY-THIRD
THE PRÉSIDENTE DE TOURVEL TO MADAME DE ROSEMONDE
THE veil is rent, Madame, upon which was painted the illusion of my
happiness. Grim truth enlightens me, and shews me naught but a sure and
speedy death, the road to which is traced between shame and remorse.
I will follow it..., I will cherish my torments, if they cut short my
existence. I send you the letter which I received yesterday; I will
add no reflexions on it, it contains them all. The time has passed for
complaint; nothing is left but to suffer. It is not pity I need, but
strength.
Receive, Madame, the one farewell that I shall utter, and grant my
last prayer; it is to leave me to my fate, to forget me utterly, to
consider me no longer upon the earth. There is a stage of misery in
which even friendship augments our sufferings and cannot heal them.
When wounds are mortal, all succour becomes inhuman. All emotion is
foreign to me save that of despair. Nothing can befit me now save the
profound darkness in which I will bury my shame. There I will weep over
my faults, if I can still weep; for since yesterday I have not shed a
tear! My withered heart no longer furnishes any.
Adieu, Madame. Do not answer me. I have made a vow upon that cruel
letter never to receive another.
Paris, 27th November, 17**.
LETTER THE HUNDRED AND FORTY-FOURTH
THE VICOMTE DE VALMONT TO THE MARQUISE DE MERTEUIL
YESTERDAY, at three o’clock in the evening, my lovely friend, being out
of patience at having received no news, I presented myself at the house
of the deserted fair; I was told that she was out. I saw nothing more
in this phrase than a refusal to receive me, at which I was neither
vexed nor surprised; and I retired, in the hope that this step would
induce so polite a woman to honour me with at least a word of reply.
The desire I had to receive it brought me home on purpose about nine
o’clock, but I found nothing there. Astonished at this silence, for
which I was not prepared, I sent my _chasseur_ for information, and to
discover if the sensitive person was dying or dead. At last, when I had
returned, he informed me that Madame de Tourvel had, indeed, gone out
at eleven in the forenoon with her waiting-maid; that she was driven to
the Convent of ...; and that, at seven o’clock in the evening, she sent
back her carriage and servants, saying that they were not to expect her
home. This is certainly acting according to rule. The convent is the
widow’s right asylum; and, if she persists in so laudable a resolution,
I shall add to all the other obligations which I owe her that of the
celebrity which this adventure will assume.
I told you some time ago that, in spite of your uneasiness, I should
only reappear upon the stage of the world brilliant with new _éclat_.
Let them shew themselves, then, these severe critics, who accused me of
a romantic and unhappy passion; let them make quicker or more brilliant
ruptures: nay, let them do better, let them present themselves as
consolers, the way is clear for them. Well, let them only dare to
attempt the course which I have run from end to end; and, if one of
them obtains the least success, I yield him the place of honour. But
they will all discover that, when I am at any pains, the impression I
leave is ineffaceable. This one I am sure will be so; and I should look
upon all my other triumphs as nothing, if in this case I was ever to
have a favoured rival.
The course she has taken flatters my self-love, I admit; but I am
annoyed that she should have found sufficient strength to separate
herself so much from me. There will be no obstacles between us, then,
save those of my own formation! What! If I wished to renew with her,
she might be unwilling? What am I saying? She would not desire it,
deem it no more her supreme happiness? Is it thus that one loves? And
do you think, my lovely friend, that I ought to suffer it? Could I
not, for instance, and would it not be better, endeavour to bring this
woman to the point of seeing the possibility of a reconciliation, which
one always desires, as long as one has hope? I could try this course
without attaching any importance to it, and consequently without your
taking umbrage. On the contrary, it would be a simple experiment which
we would perform in concert; and, even if I should succeed, it would
but be one means the more of repeating, when you wished it, a sacrifice
which seems to have been agreeable to you. Now, my fair one, I am
waiting to receive the reward, and all my prayers are for your return.
Come quickly then to recover your lover, your pleasures, your friends
and the current of adventure.
That of the little Volanges has turned out amazing well. Yesterday, my
uneasiness not allowing me to remain in one place, I called, amongst
my various excursions, upon Madame de Volanges. I found your pupil
already in the _salon_, still in the costume of an invalid, but in full
convalescence, looking only fresher and more interesting. You women, in
a like situation, would have lain a month on your long-chair: my faith,
long live our _demoiselles_! This one, in truth, gave me a desire to
see if the recovery was a complete one!
I have still to tell you that the little girl’s accident had like to
have turned your _sentimental_ Danceny’s head. At first it was grief;
to-day it is joy. _His Cécile_ was ill! You can imagine how the brain
reels at such a calamity. Three times a day he sent to enquire after
her, and on no occasion omitted to present himself; finally, in a noble
epistle, he asked mamma’s permission to go and congratulate her on the
convalescence of so dear an object, and Madame de Volanges consented:
so much so that I found the young man established as in the old days,
save for a certain familiarity which as yet he dares not permit himself.
It is from himself that I have learned these details, for I left at the
same time with him, and made him chatter. You can have no notion of the
effect this visit has had on him. Joy, desires, transports impossible
to describe. I, with my fondness for grand emotions, completed the
work of turning his head, by assuring him that, in a very few days, I
would put him in the way of seeing his fair one at closer quarters.
Indeed, I am determined to hand her over to him as soon as I have made
my experiment. I wish to consecrate myself to you wholly; and then,
would it be worth while that your pupil should also be my scholar,
if she were to deceive nobody but her husband? The masterpiece is to
deceive her lover, and above all her first lover! As for myself, I have
not to reproach myself with having uttered the word love.
Adieu, my lovely friend; return soon, then, to enjoy your empire over
me, to receive its homage, and to pay me its reward.
Paris, 28th November, 17**.
LETTER THE HUNDRED AND FORTY-FIFTH
THE MARQUISE DE MERTEUIL TO THE VICOMTE DE VALMONT
SERIOUSLY, Vicomte, have you left the Présidente? Have you sent her
the letter which I wrote you for her? Really, you are charming; and
you have surpassed my expectations! In all good faith, I confess that
this triumph gratifies me more than all those I have hitherto obtained.
You will think, perhaps, that I set a very high value on this woman,
whom recently I so disparaged; not at all: but it is not over her that
I have gained the advantage; it is over you: that is the amusing and
really delicious part of it.
Yes, Vicomte, you loved Madame de Tourvel much, and you love her
still; you are madly in love with her: but, because I amused myself by
making you ashamed of it, you bravely sacrificed her. You would have
sacrificed a thousand of her, rather than submit to raillery. To what
lengths will not vanity carry us! The wise man was right, indeed, when
he said that it was the enemy of happiness.
Where would you be now, if I had only wished to play you a trick? But I
am incapable of deceit, as you well know; and, should you even reduce
me in my turn to the convent and despair, I will run the risk, and
surrender to my victor.
If I capitulate, however, it is really mere frailty: for, if I liked,
what quibbles I might set up! And perhaps you would deserve them! I
admire, for instance, the skill, or the awkwardness, with which you
sweetly propose to me that you should be allowed to renew with the
Présidente. It would suit you mightily, would it not? To take all
the merit of this rupture, without losing thereby the pleasures of
enjoyment? And then, as this apparent sacrifice would be no longer one
for you, you offer to repeat it when I wish it! By this arrangement,
the celestial prude would always believe herself to be the single
choice of your heart, whilst I should plume myself on being the
preferred rival; we should both of us be deceived, but you would be
happy; and what does the rest matter?
’Tis a pity that, with such a genius for conceiving projects, you
should have so little for their execution; and that, by a single
ill-considered step, you should have yourself put an invincible
obstacle to what you most desire.
What! You had an idea of renewing, and you could write my letter! You
must have thought me clumsy indeed! Ah, believe me, Vicomte, when one
woman strikes at another’s heart, she rarely fails to find the vital
spot, and the wound is incurable. When I was striking this one, or
rather guiding your blows, I had not forgotten that the woman was
my rival, that you had, for one moment, preferred her to me, and,
in short, that you had rated me below her. If my vengeance has been
deceived, I consent to bear the blame. Thus I am satisfied that you
should try every means: I even invite you to do so, and promise you not
to be vexed at your success, if you should attain it. I am so easy on
the subject that I will trouble no further about it. Let us speak of
something else.
For instance, of the health of the little Volanges. You will give me
definite news of it on my return, will you not? I shall be very glad
to have some. After that, it will be for you to judge whether it will
suit you best to restore her to her lover or to endeavour to become
once more the founder of a new branch of the Valmonts, under the name
of Gercourt. This idea strikes me as rather diverting; and, in leaving
you your choice, I ask you not to take any definite step until we have
talked of it together. This does not delay you very long, for I shall
be in Paris immediately. I cannot tell you the precise day; but you may
be sure that you will be the first informed of my arrival.
Adieu, Vicomte; in spite of my peevishness, my malice, and my
reproaches, I have still much love for you, and I am preparing to prove
it to you. _Au revoir_, my friend.
At the Château de ..., 29th November, 17**.
LETTER THE HUNDRED AND FORTY-SIXTH
THE MARQUISE DE MERTEUIL TO THE CHEVALIER DANCENY
AT last I am leaving, my young friend; and to-morrow evening I shall be
back again in Paris. In the midst of all the confusion which a change
of residence involves, I shall receive no one. However, if you have
some very pressing confidence to make me, I am quite willing to except
you from the general rule: I beg you, therefore, to keep the secret of
my arrival. Valmont even will not be informed of it.
Had anyone told me, a short time ago, that soon you would have my
exclusive confidence, I should not have believed it. But yours has
attracted mine. I am tempted to believe that you have brought some
skill to this end, perhaps even some seduction. That would be very
wrong, to say the least! For the rest, it would not be dangerous now;
you have really other and better occupations! When the heroine is on
the scene, there is little notice taken of the confidant.
Indeed, you have not even found time to acquaint me of your new
successes. When your Cécile was absent, the days were not long enough
to hear your tender complaints. You would have made them to the echoes,
if I had not been there to hear them. Since then, when she was ill,
you honoured me again with the recital of your anxieties; you wanted
someone to whom to tell them. But now that she whom you love is in
Paris, that she is recovered, and, above all, that you sometimes see
her, she is all-sufficing, and your friends see no more of you.
I do not blame you; it is the fault of your twenty years. From
Alcibiades down to yourself, do we not know that young people are
unacquainted with friendship, save in their sorrows? Happiness
sometimes makes them indiscreet, but never confiding. I am ready to
say with Socrates: _I love my friends to come to me when they are
unhappy_.[14] But, in his quality of a philosopher, he could dispense
with them when they did not come. In that I shew less wisdom than he,
and I felt your silence with all a woman’s weakness.
Do not, however, think me exacting: I am far from being that! The
same sentiment which makes me notice these privations enables me to
support them with courage, when they are the proof, or the cause, of
my friends’ happiness. I do not count on you, therefore, for to-morrow
evening, save in so far as love may leave you free and disengaged, and
I forbid you to make the least sacrifice for me.
Adieu, Chevalier; it will be a real festival to see you again: will you
come?
At the Château de ..., 29th November, 17**.
LETTER THE HUNDRED AND FORTY-SEVENTH
MADAME DE VOLANGES TO MADAME DE ROSEMONDE
I AM sure you will be as grieved as I am, my worthy friend, to learn of
the condition in which Madame de Tourvel lies; she has been ill since
yesterday: her disorder appeared so suddenly, and exhibits such grave
symptoms, that I am really alarmed.
A burning fever, a violent and almost constant delirium, an
unquenchable thirst: that is all that can be remarked. The doctors say
they can make no diagnosis as yet; and the treatment will be all the
more difficult, because the patient refuses every kind of remedy with
such obstinacy that it was necessary to hold her down by force to bleed
her; and the same course had to be followed on two other occasions to
tie up her bandage, which in her delirium she persists in tearing off.
You, who have seen her, as I have, so fragile, timid and quiet, cannot
conceive that four persons are barely enough to hold her; and at the
slightest expostulation she flies into indescribable fury! For my part,
I am afraid it is something worse than delirium, and that she is really
gone out of her mind.
What increases my fear on this subject is a thing which occurred the
day before yesterday. Upon that day, she arrived about eleven o’clock
in the forenoon, with her waiting-maid, at the Convent of.... As she
was educated in that house, and had continued the habit of sometimes
visiting it, she was received as usual, and seemed to everyone calm and
in good health. About two hours later, she enquired if the room she had
occupied as a school-girl was vacant, and, on being answered in the
affirmative, she asked to go and see it: the Prioress accompanied her
with some other nuns. It was then that she declared that she had come
back to take her abode in that room, which, said she, she ought never
to have left, and which, she added, she would never leave _until her
death_: those were her words.
At first they knew not what to say: but when their first astonishment
was over, it was represented to her that her position as a married
woman prevented them from receiving her without a special permission.
Neither this, nor a thousand other reasons, made any impression;
and from that moment she obstinately refused, not only to leave the
convent, but even her room. At last, weary of the discussion, they
consented, at seven o’clock in the evening, that she should pass the
night there. Her carriage and servants were dismissed; and they awaited
the next day to come to some decision.
I am assured that, all through the evening, her air and bearing, far
from being wild, were composed and deliberate; only that she fell four
or five times into a reverie so deep that they could not rouse her
from it by speaking to her; and, that, each time before she issued
from it, she carried her two hands to her brow, which she seemed to
clasp vigorously: upon which, one of the nuns who were with her having
asked her if her head pained her, she gazed at her a long time before
replying, and said at last, “The hurt is not there!” A moment later,
she asked to be left alone, and begged that no further question should
be put to her.
Everyone retired except her waiting-maid: who was fortunately obliged
to sleep in the same chamber, for lack of other room. According to this
girl’s account, her mistress was pretty quiet until eleven o’clock.
She then expressed a wish to go to bed: but, before she was quite
undressed, she began to walk up and down her chamber, with much action
and frequent gestures. Julie, who had been a witness of what had passed
during the day, dared say naught to her, and waited in silence for
nearly an hour. At length, Madame de Tourvel called to her twice in
quick succession; she had but the time to run up, when her mistress
fell into her arms, saying, “I am exhausted.” She let herself be led to
bed, and would not take anything, nor allow any help to be sent for.
She merely had some water placed near her and ordered Julie to lie down.
The girl declares that she remained awake until two in the morning, and
that, during that time, she heard neither a movement nor a complaint.
But she says that she was awakened at five o’clock by the talk of
her mistress, who was speaking in a loud and high voice; and that,
having enquired if she needed anything, and obtaining no reply, she
took the light and went to the bed of Madame de Tourvel, who did not
recognize her, but suddenly interrupting her incoherent remarks, cried
out excitedly, “Leave me alone, leave me in the darkness; it is the
darkness that becomes me.” I remarked yesterday myself that she often
repeats this phrase.
At length, Julie profited by this kind of order to go out and seek
other assistance: but Madame de Tourvel refused it, with the fury and
delirium which she has displayed so often since.
The confusion into which this threw the whole convent induced the
Prioress to send for me at seven o’clock yesterday morning.... It was
not yet daylight. I hastened there at once. When my name was announced
to Madame de Tourvel, she appeared to recover her consciousness, and
replied, “Ah, yes, let her come in.” But, when I reached her bed, she
looked fixedly at me, took my hand excitedly, gripped it, and said in
a loud but gloomy voice, “I am dying because I did not believe you.”
Immediately afterwards, hiding her eyes, she returned to her most
frequent remark: “Leave me alone,” etc., and lost all consciousness.