me fear lest this cruel affliction may have a cause which is crueller
still. But let us respect the secrets of our friend, and be content to
pity her misfortune.
The whole of yesterday was equally tempestuous, and was divided
between fits of alarming delirium and moments of lethargic depression,
the only ones when she takes or gives any rest. I did not leave her
bedside until nine o’clock in the evening, and I shall return to it
this morning to pass the day there. I will certainly not abandon my
unfortunate friend: but the heart-rending part of it is her obstinacy
in refusing all attention and succour.
I send you the bulletin of last night, which I have just received, and
which, as you will see, is anything but consoling. I will be careful to
forward them all to you punctually.
Adieu, my respected friend, I am going back to the patient. My
daughter, who is fortunately almost recovered, sends you her respects.
Paris, 29th November, 17**.
LETTER THE HUNDRED AND FORTY-EIGHTH
THE CHEVALIER DANCENY TO THE MARQUISE DE MERTEUIL
O YOU whom I love! O thou whom I adore! O you who have commenced my
happiness! O thou who hast crowned it! Compassionate friend, tender
mistress, why must the recollection of thy sorrow come to trouble the
charm which I undergo? Ah, Madame, be calm, ’tis friendship which
implores you. O my friend, be happy, ’tis the prayer of love.
Nay, what reproaches have you to make to yourself? Believe me, you are
misled by your delicacy. The regrets it causes you, the injuries of
which it accuses me, are equally imaginary; and my heart feels that
between us two there has been no other seducer but love. Dread no
longer, then, to yield to the sentiments you inspire, to let yourself
be penetrated by all the fires you yourself have kindled. What! would
our hearts be less pure, if they had been later illuminated? Doubtless,
no. ’Tis seduction, on the contrary, which, acting never except by
plan, can regulate its progress and its methods, and, from a distance,
foresee events. But true love does not thus permit itself to meditate
and reflect: it distracts us from our thoughts by our sentiments; its
sway is never stronger than when it is unknown; and it is in shadow
and silence that it entangles us in bonds which it is alike impossible
to notice or to break.
Thus, as late as yesterday, in spite of the lively emotion which the
idea of your return caused me, in spite of the extreme pleasure I felt
at seeing you, I nevertheless thought myself to be called and guided
still by calm friendship only: or rather, abandoned wholly to the soft
sentiments of my heart, I was very little concerned to unravel their
origin or their cause. Like myself, my tender friend, you experienced,
unconsciously, that imperious charm which handed over our souls to the
sweet impressions of affection; and neither of us recognized Love,
until we had issued from the intoxication in which the god had plunged
us.
But that very fact justifies instead of condemning us. No, you have not
been false to friendship, and I have not abused your confidence. ’Tis
true, we were both ignorant of our feelings; but we only underwent this
illusion, we did not seek to give birth to it. Ah, far from complaining
of it, let us only think of the happiness it has procured us; and,
without troubling it with unjust reproaches, let us only be concerned
to enhance it by the charm of constancy and security! O my friend, how
my heart dotes on this hope! Yes, freed, henceforward, from every fear,
and given over wholly to love, you will participate in my desires, my
transports, the delirium of my senses, the intoxication of my soul; and
every moment of our fortunate days shall be marked by a new enjoyment.
Adieu, thou whom I adore! I shall see thee, this evening, but shall I
find thee alone? I dare not hope it. Nay! you do not desire it as much
I do!
Paris, 1st December, 17**.
LETTER THE HUNDRED AND FORTY-NINTH
MADAME DE VOLANGES TO MADAME DE ROSEMONDE
I HAD hoped yesterday, almost all day, my revered friend, to be able
to give you more favourable news this morning as to the health of our
dear invalid: but this hope has been destroyed since last evening, and
I am only left with the regret that I have lost it. An event, seemingly
of scant importance, but cruel in the results it caused, has rendered
the condition of our invalid at least as grievous as it was before, if,
indeed, it has not made it worse.
I should have understood no whit of this sudden change, had I not
received yesterday the complete confidence of our unhappy friend. As
she did not conceal from me that you were also acquainted with all her
misfortunes, I can speak to you, without reserve, of her sad situation.
Yesterday morning, when I reached the convent, I was informed that the
invalid had been asleep for the last three hours; and her slumber was
so calm and deep that I was afraid for a moment that it was lethargic.
Shortly afterwards, she awoke, and herself drew back the curtains of
her bed. She gazed at us all with an air of surprise; and when I rose
to go to her, she recognized me, spoke my name, and begged me to draw
near. She left me no time to question her, but asked me where she was,
what we were doing there, if she was sick, and why she was not at
home. I thought, at first, that it was a new delirium, only of a more
tranquil kind than the last; but I perceived that she fully understood
my answers. In fact, she had recovered her reason, but not her memory.
She questioned me very minutely as to all that had happened to her
since she had been at the convent, whither she did not remember coming.
I answered her correctly, only suppressing what might have given her
too much alarm; and when I asked her, in my turn, how she felt, she
replied that she was not in pain at that moment, but that she had
suffered greatly in her sleep and felt tired. I persuaded her to be
quiet and to talk little; after which, I partly closed her curtains,
leaving them half open, and sat down by her bed. At the same time some
broth was suggested, which she took and found good.
She remained thus for about half an hour, during which time her only
words were to thank me for the attention I had given her; and she
brought to these thanks that grace and charm which you know. She then
maintained for some time an absolute silence, which she only broke to
say, “Ah yes, I remember coming here.” And a moment later, she cried
pitifully, “My friend, my friend, pity me; my miseries are all coming
back to me.” Then as I advanced towards her, she seized my hand, and
resting her head upon it: “Dear God!” she went on, “can I not die
then?” Her expression, more than these words even, moved me to tears;
she perceived them in my voice, and said to me, “You pity me! Ah,
did you but know....” and then, interrupting herself: “Arrange that
we can be left alone, and I will tell you all.” As I believe I have
informed you, I had my suspicions already as to what was to be the
subject of this confidence; and, fearing that the conversation, which
I foresaw would be long and sorrowful, might, perhaps, be harmful to
the condition of our unhappy friend, I refused at first, under the
pretext that she required rest; but she insisted, and I yielded to her
instances. We were no sooner alone than she told me all that you have
already heard from her, which, for that reason, I will not repeat to
you. Finally, while speaking of the cruel fashion in which she had been
sacrificed, she added, “I felt very certain it would be my death, and I
had the courage for it; but what is impossible to me is to survive my
misfortune and my shame.”
I tried to vanquish this discouragement, or rather this despair,
with the arms of religion, which, hitherto, had such power over her;
but I soon perceived that I had not strength enough for these august
functions, and I confined myself to a proposal to call in the Père
Anselme, whom I know to be entirely in her confidence. She agreed to
this, and even seemed to desire it greatly. He was sent for and came at
once. He stayed for a long time with the patient, and said, on leaving,
that, if the physicians judged as he did, he thought the ceremony of
the sacraments might be deferred; that he would return on the following
day.
It was about three o’clock in the afternoon, and until five our
friend was fairly quiet; so much so that we had all regained hope.
Unfortunately, a letter was brought up to her. When they would have
given it her, she answered first that she would not receive any, and
no one pressed it. But from that moment she shewed greater agitation.
Shortly afterwards, she asked whence this letter came. It had no
post-mark: who had brought it? No one knew. From whom had it been sent?
The portress had not been told. She then kept silence for some time,
after which she began to speak; but her wandering talk only told us
that she was again delirious.
However, there was another quiet interval, until at last she requested
that the letter which had been brought should be given her. As soon as
she had cast her eyes on it, she cried, “From him! Good God!” and then
in a strong but oppressed voice, “Take it back, take it back.” She had
her bed-curtains shut immediately, and forbade anybody to come near
her; but we were almost immediately compelled to return to her side.
The frenzy had returned more violent than ever, and really terrible
convulsions were joined to it. These attacks had not ceased by the
evening, and this morning’s bulletin informs me that the night has not
been less stormy. In short, her state is such that I am astonished she
has not already succumbed, and I will not hide from you that I have
very little hope left.
I suppose this unfortunate letter was from M. de Valmont: but what can
he still dare write to her? Forgive me, my dear friend; I refrain from
all reflexion: but it is cruel, indeed, to see a woman make so wretched
an end, who was hitherto so deservedly happy.
Paris, 2nd December, 17**.
LETTER THE HUNDRED AND FIFTIETH
THE CHEVALIER DANCENY TO THE MARQUISE DE MERTEUIL
WHILE I wait for the happiness of seeing you, I abandon myself,
my tender friend, to the pleasure of writing to you, and it is by
occupying myself with you that I dispel my regret for your absence. To
retrace my sentiments for you, to recall your own, is a real delight to
my heart; and it is thus that even a time of privation offers me still
a thousand benefits precious to my love. However, if I am to believe
you, I shall obtain no reply from you: this very letter is to be the
last, and we must refrain from a correspondence which, according to
you, is dangerous, _and of which we have no need_. Assuredly, I will
believe you, if you insist: for what can you wish that does not become
my own wish, for that very reason? But, before being wholly resolved,
will you not permit me to discuss the matter with you?
Of the question of danger, you must be the sole judge: I can calculate
nothing, and I confine myself to begging you to watch over your safety;
for I can have no peace while you are uneasy. For this purpose, it is
not we two who are but one, but you who are both of us.
It is not the same with _our wants_: here we can have but one thought;
and if our opinion differs, it is, perhaps, only for lack of
explanation or from misunderstanding. This, then, methinks, is what I
feel.
No doubt a letter seems by no means indispensable, when one can see
each other freely. What could it say that a word, a glance, or even
silence would not say a hundred times better still? This seems to me so
true that, at the moment when you spoke of our ceasing to correspond,
the idea easily crept into my soul; it troubled it perhaps, but did not
wound it. It is even, as it were, when, wishing to press a kiss upon
your bosom, I meet with a riband or a veil; I do but thrust it aside,
and have no feeling of an obstacle.
But, since then, we are separated; and, now that you are no longer
here, this thought of our correspondence has come back to torture me.
Why, say I to myself, this privation the more? Nay, is it a reason,
because one is far away, that one should have no more to say? I will
assume that, favoured by circumstance, we pass a whole day together;
must we waste the time in talking which is meant for pleasure? Yes,
for pleasure, my tender friend; for, by your side, even the moments of
repose are full of a delicious enjoyment. But at last, however long the
time may be, one ends by separation; and then one is all alone! ’Tis
then that a letter is precious! If one reads it not, at least one gazes
at it.... Ah! do not doubt, one may look at a letter without reading
it, as, methinks, I should still find some pleasure in touching your
portrait in the night....
Your portrait, do I say? But a letter is the portrait of the soul. It
has not, like a cold resemblance, that stagnation which is so remote
from love; it lends itself to our every movement: by turns it is
animated, feels enjoyment, is in repose.... All your sentiments are so
precious to me! Will you rob me of a means of cherishing them?
Are you sure, pray, that the need to write to me will never torment
you? In solitude, if your heart expands or is depressed, if a movement
of joy thrills through your soul, if an involuntary sadness, for a
moment, troubles it: where will you depose your gladness or your
sorrow, except upon the bosom of your friend? Will you, then, have a
sentiment which he does not share? Will you allow yourself to be lost
in solitary dreams apart? My love ... my tender love! But it is your
privilege to pronounce sentence. I did but wish to discuss, and not to
beguile you; I do but give you reasons, I dare believe that my prayers
had been of more avail. If you persist, therefore, I will endeavour not
to grieve; I will make an effort to tell myself what you would have
written to me: but, ah, you would say it better than I; and, above all,
I should have more pleasure in hearing it.
Adieu, my charming friend; the hour is drawing nigh when I shall be
able to see you: I take leave of you in all haste, that I may come and
find you the sooner.
Paris, 3rd December, 17**.
LETTER THE HUNDRED AND FIFTY-FIRST
THE VICOMTE DE VALMONT TO THE MARQUISE DE MERTEUIL
I DO not suppose, Marquise, that you deem me so inexperienced as to
have failed to set its due value upon the _tête-à-tête_ in which I
found you this evening, nor upon the _remarkable chance_ which brought
Danceny to your house! It is not that your practised countenance did
not know marvellously well how to assume an expression of calm and
serenity, nor that you betrayed yourself by any of those phrases which
the lips of confusion or repentance sometimes let fall. I admit, also,
that your docile gaze served you to perfection; and, if it had but
known how to make itself believed as well as understood, far from
feeling or retaining the least suspicion, I should not have suspected
for a moment the extreme vexation caused you by that _importunate third
party_. But, if you would not lavish such great talents in vain, if you
would obtain the success you promised yourself, and produce, in short,
the illusion you sought, you must begin by forming your novice of a
lover with greater care.
Since you are beginning to undertake educations, teach your pupils not
to blush and be put out of countenance at the slightest pleasantry;
not to deny so earnestly, in the case of one woman only, the things
against which they defend themselves so feebly in the case of all
the others. Teach them, again, how to listen to the praises of their
mistress, without deeming themselves bound to do the honours for her;
and, if you permit them to gaze at you in company, let them, at least,
know beforehand how to disguise that look of possession, so easy to
recognize, which they confound so clumsily with that of love. You will
then be able to exhibit them in your public appearances, without their
conduct putting their sage instructress to the blush; and I myself,
only too happy to have a hand in your celebrity, promise to compose and
publish the programmes of this new college.
But, until then, I am, I confess, astonished that it should be I whom
you have chosen to treat like a school-boy. Oh, on any other woman how
speedily I would be avenged! What a pleasure I should make of it! And
how far it would surpass that of which she believed she had robbed me!
Yes, it is, indeed, in your case alone that I can prefer reparation to
revenge; and do not think that I am held back by the least doubt, the
least uncertainty; I know all.
You have been in Paris for the last four days; and every day you have
seen Danceny, and you have seen him only. Even to-day, your door was
still closed; and your porter only failed to prevent my reaching you,
for want of an assurance equal to your own. None the less, I was not to
doubt, you wrote to me, that I should be the first to be informed of
your arrival; of that arrival of which you could not yet tell me the
date, although you wrote to me on the eve of your departure. Will you
deny these facts, or will you attempt to excuse them? Either course is
alike impossible; and yet I still contain myself! There you behold the
force of your dominion: but believe me, rest satisfied with having
tried it, abuse it no more. We both know one another, Marquise: that
word ought to suffice.
To-morrow, you told me, you will be out all day? Well and good, if
you are really going out; and you may imagine that I shall know. But
at any rate you will return in the evening; and, for our difficult
reconciliation, the time betwixt then and the next morning will not
be too long. Let me know then, if it is to be at your house, or in
_the other place_, that our numerous and reciprocal expiations are to
be made. Above all, no more of Danceny. Your naughty head was full of
his idea, and I cannot be jealous of that frenzy of your imagination:
but reflect that, from this moment, what was but a fantasy would
become a marked preference. I do not think that I was made for such
humiliations, and I do not expect to receive them from you.
I even hope that this sacrifice will not seem one to you. But, even if
it should cost you anything, it seems to me that I have set you a fine
enough example, and that a woman of sensibility and beauty, who lived
for me alone, who, perhaps, at this very moment, is dying of love and
regret, is worth at least as much as a young school-boy, who lacks, if
you will, neither good-looks nor intelligence, but who, as yet, has
neither constancy nor knowledge of the world!
Adieu, Marquise; I say nothing of my sentiments towards you. All that
I can do, at this moment, is not to search my heart. I wait for your
reply. Reflect, when you make it, reflect carefully that the easier it
is for you to make me forget the offence you have given me, the more
indelibly would a refusal on your part, a simple postponement even,
engrave it upon my heart.
Paris, 3rd December, 17**.
LETTER THE HUNDRED AND FIFTY-SECOND
THE MARQUISE DE MERTEUIL TO THE VICOMTE DE VALMONT
PRAY, have a care, Vicomte, and shew more respect to my extreme
timidity! How do you suppose that I can endure the overwhelming thought
of incurring your wrath, and, above all, how can I fail to succumb to
the fear of your vengeance? The more so in that, as you know, if you
were to blacken me, it would be impossible for me to retaliate. I might
speak, indeed, but your existence would be none the less brilliant and
calm. In fact, what would you have to fear? To be sure, you would be
obliged to leave, if the time were left you for it. But can one not
live abroad as well as here? And all considered, provided that the
Court of France left you in peace at whatever one you had chosen for
your abode, it would merely be a case of shifting the scene of your
triumphs. Having attempted to restore your coolness by these moral
considerations, let us return to business.
Do you know, Vicomte, why I have never married again? It is not,
assuredly, for lack of advantageous offers; it is solely in order that
nobody should have the right to dictate my actions. It is not even
that I was afraid of no longer being able to carry out my wishes, for
I should always have ended by doing that; but that it would have
been a burden to me, that anyone should have had the right merely to
complain of them; it is, in short, because I wished only to deceive for
my pleasure, and not from necessity. And here you are, writing me the
most marital letter that it is possible to receive! You speak to me of
nothing but the injuries on my side, the favours on yours! But how,
pray, can one be lacking to one to whom one owes no whit? I am unable
to conceive it.
Let us consider: what is all this ado about? You found Danceny with
me, and it displeased you? Well and good: but what conclusion can you
have drawn from it? Either it was the result of chance, as I told you,
or of my will, as I did not tell you. In the first case, your letter
is unjust; in the second, it is ridiculous: it was indeed worth the
trouble of writing! But you are jealous, and jealousy does not reason.
Very well, let me reason for you.
Either you have a rival or you have not. If you have one, you must
please, in order to be preferred to him; if you have not, you must
still please, in order to avoid having one. In both cases the same
conduct is to be observed: why, therefore, torment yourself? Above
all, why torment me? Do you no longer know how to be the most amiable?
And are you no longer sure of your successes? Come now, Vicomte, you
do yourself an injustice. But it is not that; it is that, in your
eyes, I am not worth your putting yourself to so much trouble. You
are less desirous of my favours than you are of abusing your empire.
There, you are an ingrate. That is enough sentiment, methinks, and if I
were to continue a very little longer, this letter might well turn to
tenderness: but that you do not deserve!
You deserve just as little that I should justify myself. To punish you
for your suspicions, you shall retain them: of the time of my return,
therefore, just as of the visits of Danceny, I shall tell you nothing.
You have taken mighty pains to inform yourself, have you not? Very
well! Are you any more advanced? I hope it has given you a great deal
of pleasure; I can tell you, it has not interfered with mine.
All I can say, then, in reply to your threatening letter, is that it
has had neither the fortune to please me, nor the power to intimidate
me; and that, for the moment, I could not be less disposed than I am to
grant your request.
In truth, to accept you such as you shew yourself to-day would be to
commit a real infidelity to you. It would not be a renewal with my old
lover; it would be to take a fresh one, and one by no means worth the
old. I have not so far forgotten the first that I should so deceive
myself. The Valmont whom I loved was charming. I will even admit that I
have never encountered a man more amiable. Ah, let me beg you, Vicomte,
if you find him again, to bring him to see me; he will be always well
received!
Warn him, however, that in no case will it be for to-day or to-morrow.
His Menæchmus has somewhat injured him; and, if I were in too much
haste, I should be afraid of making a mistake; or, perhaps, if you
like, I have pledged my word to Danceny for those two days! And your
letter has taught me that it is no joking matter with you, when one
breaks one’s word. You see, then, that you must wait.
But what does it matter to you? You can always avenge yourself on your
rival. He will do no worse to your mistress than you will do to his;
and, after all, is not one woman as good as another? She even who
should be _tender and sensitive, who should live for you alone, who,
in short, should die from love and regret_, would be, none the less,
sacrificed to the first fantasy, to the dread of a moment’s ridicule;
and you would have one put one’s self about? Ah, that is not fair!
Adieu, Vicomte; pray, become amiable once more. You see, I ask nothing
better than to find you charming; and as soon as I am sure of it, I
undertake to give you the proof. Truly, I am too kind.
Paris, 4th December, 17**.
LETTER THE HUNDRED AND FIFTY-THIRD
THE VICOMTE DE VALMONT TO THE MARQUISE DE MERTEUIL
I ANSWER your letter at once, and I will try to be clear; a thing which
is not easy with you, when once you have made up your mind not to
understand.