us possesses all that is necessary to ruin the other, we have a like
interest in mutual consideration: there is no question, therefore, of
that. But, between the violent course of destroying one another, and
that, doubtless the better, of remaining united as we have been, of
becoming even more so by resuming our old _liaison_; between these
two courses, I say, there are a thousand others to adopt. It was not
ridiculous, therefore, to tell you, nor is it to repeat, that from this
day forward I will be either your lover or your enemy.
I am admirably conscious that this choice will embarrass you; that it
would suit you better to beat about the bush; and I am quite aware
that you have never loved to be placed thus betwixt a plain yes or no:
but you must also feel that I cannot let you out of this narrow circle
without running the risk of being tricked; and you may have foreseen
that I would not endure that. It is for you now to decide: I am able to
leave you the choice, but not to remain in uncertainty.
I warn you only that you will not impose on me by your arguments, be
they good or bad; that neither will you seduce me by any more of those
cajoleries with which you seek to adorn your refusals; and that, at
last, the time for frankness has arrived. I ask nothing better than to
be able to set you the example; and I declare to you with pleasure,
that I prefer peace and union: but, if both are to be broken, I believe
the right and the means are mine.
I will add, then, that the least obstacle presented by you will be
taken by me as a veritable declaration of war: you will see that the
answer I exact from you requires neither long nor fine phrases. Two
words will suffice.
Paris, 4th December, 17**.
REPLY OF THE MARQUISE DE MERTEUIL
(Written at the foot of the above letter)
Very well! War!
LETTER THE HUNDRED AND FIFTY-FOURTH
MADAME DE VOLANGES TO MADAME DE ROSEMONDE
THE bulletins will inform you better than I can do, my dear friend,
of the grievous state of our patient. Utterly absorbed, as I am, in
my care of her, I only snatch from it the time to write to you, when
there are any incidents to relate, other than those of the malady. Here
is one, for which I was certainly unprepared. It is a letter which I
have received from M. de Valmont, who has been pleased to choose me as
his confidant, or rather as his mediator with Madame de Tourvel, for
whom he has also enclosed a letter in mine. I have sent back the one,
and replied to the other. The latter I forward to you, and I think
you will judge, like myself, that I could not and ought not to have
complied with his request. Even had I been willing, our unfortunate
friend would not have been in a condition to understand me. Her
delirium is continuous. But what do you think of this despair of M. de
Valmont? First, is one to believe in it, or does he but wish to deceive
everybody, to the very end?[15] If, for once, he is sincere, he may
well say that he has been himself the cause of his own misfortune. I
expect he will be hardly pleased with my answer; but I confess that all
I see of this unhappy adventure excites me more and more against its
author.
Adieu, my dear friend; I am going to resume my sad task, which becomes
even more so from the scant hope I feel of seeing it succeed. You know
my sentiments towards you.
Paris, 5th December, 17**.
LETTER THE HUNDRED AND FIFTY-FIFTH
THE VICOMTE DE VALMONT TO THE CHEVALIER DANCENY
I HAVE called upon you twice, my dear Chevalier: but, since you
have abandoned the _rôle_ of lover to take up that of the man
of gallant conquests, you have naturally become invisible. Your
_valet-de-chambre_, however, assured me that you would return this
evening; that he had orders to await you: but I, who am acquainted
with your plans, understood quite well that you would only enter for a
moment, to put on the suitable costume, and would promptly recommence
your victorious progress. ’Tis very well, and I cannot but applaud you
for it; but, perhaps, for this evening, you will be tempted to change
your direction. As yet you do but know one half of your occupations;
I must make you acquainted with the other, and then you shall decide.
Take the time, then, to read my letter. It will not tend to distract
you from your pleasures, since, on the contrary, it has no other object
than to offer you a choice of them.
If I had possessed your whole confidence, if I had heard from
yourself that part of your secrets which you have left me to divine,
I should have been informed in time, and my zeal would have been
less inopportune and would not impede your movements to-day. But let
us start from where we are. Whatever course you were to take, your
rejected would always make another happy.
You have a _rendez-vous_ to-night, have you not? With a charming woman,
whom you adore? For, at your age, who is the woman one does not adore,
at least for the first week! The setting of the scene must enhance
your pleasures. A delicious _petite-maison, which has been taken only
for you_, is to adorn voluptuousness with the charms of liberty and
of mystery. All is arranged; you are expected, and you burn to betake
yourself there! We both know that, although you have said no word of it
to me. Now, here is what you do not know, and what I have to tell you.
Since my return to Paris, I have been busy over the means of bringing
you and Mademoiselle de Volanges together; I promised you this; and
on the very last occasion when I spoke of it to you, I had reason to
judge from your replies, I might say from your transports, that in this
I was promoting your happiness. I could not succeed in this difficult
enterprise by myself alone: but, after preparing the means, I left
the rest to the zeal of your young mistress. Her love has discovered
resources which my experience lacked: in short, it is your misfortune
that she has succeeded. Two days since, as she told me this evening,
every obstacle was surmounted, and your happiness only depends on
yourself.
For two days, also, she flattered herself that she would be able to
give you this news herself, and, in spite of her Mamma’s absence, you
would have been received: but you have not even presented yourself!
And, to tell you the truth, whether it be reason or caprice, the little
person seemed to me somewhat vexed at this lack of eagerness on your
part. At last, she found a means of summoning me to her, and made me
promise to forward the enclosed letter to you as soon as possible.
From the emphasis she laid upon it, I would wager it is a question of
a _rendez-vous_ for to-night. Be that as it may, I promised upon my
honour and my friendship that you should have the tender missive in the
course of to-day, and I cannot and will not break my word.
Now, young man, what is your conduct to be? Placed between coquetry and
love, between pleasure and happiness, which will be your choice? If I
were speaking to the Danceny of three months ago, nay, even of a week
ago, I should be as certain of his behaviour as I was of his heart: but
the Danceny of to-day, led away by the women, running after adventures,
and grown, as the usage is, somewhat of a rake, will he prefer a very
shy young girl, who only offers him her beauty, her innocence and her
love, to the attractions of a woman who is certainly very _well-worn_?
For my part, my dear friend, it seems to me that, even with your new
principles, which, I quite admit, are shared also in some degree by
myself, I should decide, under the circumstances, for the younger
flame. To begin with, it is one the more, and then the novelty, and
again the fear of losing the fruit of your labour by neglecting to cull
it; for, on that side, in short, it would be really an opportunity
missed, and it does not always return, especially in the case of a
first frailty: when such are in question, often it needs but one
moment of ill-humour, one jealous suspicion, less even, to prevent the
most handsome triumph. Drowning virtue sometimes clings to a straw;
and, once escaped, it keeps upon its guard and is no longer easily
surprised.
On the other side, on the contrary, what do you risk? Not even a
rupture; a quarrel at the most, whereby you purchase, at the cost
of a few attentions, the pleasure of a reconciliation. What other
course remains for a woman who has already given herself, save that of
indulgence? What would she gain by severity? The loss of her pleasures,
with no profit to her glory.
If, as I assume, you choose the path of love, which seems to me also
that of reason, I should consider it prudent to send no excuses to
the _rendez-vous_; let yourself be expected quite simply: if you risk
giving a reason, there will perhaps be a temptation to verify it. Women
are curious and obstinate; all might be discovered; as you know, I am
myself just now an example of this. But, if you leave a hope, as it
will be sustained by vanity, it will not be lost until long after the
proper hour for seeking information: then, to-morrow, you will be able
to select the insurmountable obstacle which will have detained you; you
will have been ill, dead if necessary, or anything else which will have
caused you equal despair; and all will be right again.
For the rest, whichever course you adopt, I only ask you to inform me
of it; and, as I have no interest in the matter, I shall in any case
think that you have done well. Adieu, my dear friend.
I add one thing more, that I regret Madame de Tourvel; that I am in
despair at being separated from her; that I would pay with half my life
for the privilege of consecrating the other half to her. Ah, believe
me, love is one’s only happiness!
Paris, 5th December, 17**.
LETTER THE HUNDRED AND FIFTY-SIXTH
CÉCILE VOLANGES TO THE CHEVALIER DANCENY
(Enclosed in the preceding)
HOW is it, my dear friend, that I see you no longer, when I never cease
to desire it? Do you no longer care so much about it as I do? Ah,
nowadays I am very sad indeed! Sadder even than when we were entirely
separated. The pain I once had through others comes now from you, and
that hurts far more.
You know quite well that it is some days since Mamma has been away from
home, and I hoped you would try and profit by this time of freedom: but
you do not even think of me; I am very unhappy! You told me so often
that my love was less than yours! I knew the contrary, and here is the
proof. If you had come to see me, you would have seen me indeed: for I
am not like you; I only think of what will reunite us. If you had your
deserts, I would not say anything of all I have done for that, and of
the trouble it has given me: but I love you too well, and I wish so
much to see you that I cannot refrain from telling you. And then, I
shall soon see afterwards if you really love me!
I have managed so well, that the porter is in our interests, and has
promised me that, whenever you came, he would let you in, as though he
did not see you; and we can depend upon him, for he is a very obliging
man. It is only a question, then, of keeping out of sight in the house;
and that is very easy, if you come at night, when there is nothing at
all to fear. For instance, since Mamma has been going out every day,
she goes to bed every night at eleven o’clock; so that we should have
plenty of time.
The porter told me that, if you should come like that, instead of
knocking on the gate, you would only have to knock at his window, and
he would open at once to you; and then, you will easily find the back
staircase; and, as you will not be able to have a light, I will leave
the door of my room ajar, which will always give you a little light.
You must take great care not to make any noise, especially in passing
Mamma’s back door. As for my maid’s, that is no matter, as she has
promised me not to awake; she is a very good girl, too! And to leave,
it will be just the same. Now we shall see if you will come.
Ah God, why does my heart beat so fast while I write to you? Is some
misfortune going to come to me, or is it the hope of seeing you which
troubles me like this? What I feel most is that I have never loved you
so much, and have never longed so much to tell you so. Come then, my
friend, my dear friend, that I may be able to repeat to you a hundred
times that I love you, that I adore you, that I shall never love anyone
but you.
I have found the means of informing M. de Valmont that I had something
to say to him; and, as he is a very good friend, he is sure to come
to-morrow, and I will beg him to give you this letter immediately. So
that I shall expect you to-morrow night, and you will come without
fail, if you would not make your Cécile very unhappy.
Adieu, my dear friend; I embrace you with all my heart.
Paris, 4th December, 17**, in the evening.
LETTER THE HUNDRED FIFTY-SEVENTH
THE CHEVALIER DANCENY TO THE VICOMTE DE VALMONT
Do not doubt, my dear Vicomte, either of my heart or of my proceedings!
How could I resist a desire of my dear Cécile’s? Ah, it is indeed she,
she alone whom I love, whom I shall always love! Her ingenuousness, her
tenderness have a charm for me from which I may have been weak enough
to allow myself to be distracted, but which nothing will ever efface.
Embarked upon another adventure without, so to speak, having perceived
it, often has the memory of Cécile come to trouble me, in the midst of
my sweetest pleasures; and, perhaps, my heart has never rendered her
truer homage than at the very moment I was unfaithful to her. However,
my friend, let us spare her delicacy and hide my wrong-doings from her;
not to surprise her, but so as not to give her pain. Cécile’s happiness
is the most ardent vow that I frame; I would never forgive myself a
fault which had cost her a tear.
I feel I have deserved your jesting remarks upon what you call my
new principles: but you can believe me when I say that it is not by
them I am guided at this moment; and from to-morrow I am determined
to prove it. I will go and accuse myself to the very woman who has
been the cause of my error, who has participated in it; I will say
to her, “Read my heart; it has the most tender friendship for you;
friendship united to desire so greatly resembles love!... Both of us
have been deceived; but, though susceptible to error, I am not capable
of a breach of faith.” I know my friend; she is as noble as she is
indulgent; she will do more than pardon me, she will approve. She
herself often reproached herself with betraying friendship; often her
delicacy took alarm at her love. Wiser than I, she will strengthen in
my soul those useful fears which I rashly sought to stifle in hers. I
shall owe it to her that I am better, as to you that I am happier. O my
friends, divide my gratitude. The idea that I owe my happiness to you
enhances its value.
Adieu, my dear Vicomte. The excess of my joy does not prevent me from
thinking of your sorrows, and from sharing them. Why can I not be of
use to you! Does Madame de Tourvel remain inexorable then? I am told
also that she is very ill. God, how I pity you! May she regain at
the same time her health and her indulgence, and for ever make your
happiness! These are the prayers of friendship; I dare hope that they
will be heard by Love.
I should like to talk longer with you; but the hour approaches, and
perhaps Cécile already awaits me.
Paris, 5th December, 17**.
LETTER THE HUNDRED AND FIFTY-EIGHTH
THE VICOMTE DE VALMONT TO THE MARQUISE DE MERTEUIL
(Upon awaking)
WELL, well, Marquise, how are you after the pleasures of last night?
Are you not somewhat fatigued by them? Admit now, that Danceny is
charming! He performs prodigies, this youth! You did not expect it
of him, am I not right? Indeed, I will do myself justice; I richly
deserved to be sacrificed to such a rival. Seriously, he is full
of good qualities! But, above all, what love, what constancy, what
delicacy! Ah, if you were ever to be loved by him as his Cécile is,
you would have no rivals to fear: he proved that to you last night.
Perhaps, by dint of coquetry, another woman may rob you of him for a
moment; a young man can hardly refuse enticing provocations: but a
single word from the beloved object suffices, as you see, to dispel
this illusion; thus you have only to be that object in order to become
perfectly happy.
You will surely make no mistake there; you have too sure a tact that
you need ever fear that. However, the friendship which unites us,
as sincere on my part as it is recognized on yours, made me desire
for you the experience of last night. It is the work of my zeal; it
has succeeded: but I pray you, no thanks; it is not worth the pains:
nothing could have been easier.
In fact, what did it cost me? A slight sacrifice, and a little skill. I
consented to share the favours of his mistress with the young man: but,
after all, he has as much right to them as I; and I took such scant
account of them! The letter which the young person wrote to him was, of
course, dictated by me; but it was only to gain time, because we had a
better use for it. The one I added to it, oh, that was nothing, next
to nothing; a few friendly reflexions to guide the new lover’s choice:
but, upon my honour, they were not required; the truth must be told, he
did not hesitate for an instant.
Moreover, in his candour, he is to go to you to-day, to tell you
everything; and assuredly the story will please you mightily! He will
say to you: “_Read my heart_;” this he has told me: and you quite see
that that repairs everything. I hope that, while reading what he would
have, you will also perhaps read that such young lovers have their
dangers; and again, that it is better to have me for a friend than an
enemy.
Adieu, Marquise; until the next occasion.
Paris, 6th December, 17**.
LETTER THE HUNDRED AND FIFTY-NINTH
THE MARQUISE DE MERTEUIL TO THE VICOMTE DE VALMONT
I DO not like people to follow up sorry conduct with sorry jests; it is
neither in my manner nor to my taste. When I have ground of complaint
against people, I do not quiz them; I do better, I avenge myself.
However satisfied with yourself you may be at the present moment, do
not forget that it would not be the first time if you were to find that
you were premature, and quite alone, in applauding yourself in the hope
of a triumph which had escaped you at the very moment when you were
congratulating yourself upon it. Adieu.
Paris, 6th December, 17**.
LETTER THE HUNDRED AND SIXTIETH
MADAME DE VOLANGES TO MADAME DE ROSEMONDE
I WRITE to you from the chamber of your unhappy friend, whose state has
remained almost always the same. There is to be a consultation of four
physicians this afternoon. That is, unhappily, as you know, more often
a proof of danger than a means of relief.
It seems, however, that her mind was somewhat restored last night. The
waiting-maid informed me this morning that just before midnight her
mistress called her; that she wished to be alone with her; and that
she dictated to her a fairly long letter. Julie added that, whilst she
was busy in making the envelope for it, Madame de Tourvel’s delirium
returned: so that the girl did not know to whom she was to address
it. I was astonished, at first, that the letter itself had not been
sufficient to inform her; upon which she answered me that she feared to
make a mistake; that her mistress, however, had greatly charged her to
have it dispatched immediately. I took upon myself to open the packet.
I found there the communication which I send you, which, in fact, is
addressed to everybody and to nobody. I think, however, that it was to
M. de Valmont that our unhappy friend meant at first to write; but that
she gave way, without perceiving it, to the disorder of her ideas.
Be that as it may, I judged that the letter should not be given to
anybody. I send it you, because you will learn from it, better than you
can from me, what are the thoughts which fill our patient’s head. As
long as she remains so keenly affected, I shall have no hope. The body
recovers with difficulty, when the mind is so ill at ease.
Adieu, my dear and revered friend. I congratulate you upon being at a
distance from the sad spectacle which is continually before my eyes.
Paris, 6th December, 17**.
LETTER THE HUNDRED AND SIXTY-FIRST
THE PRÉSIDENTE DE TOURVEL TO----
(Dictated by her and written by her waiting-maid)
CRUEL and wicked being, will you never cease to persecute me? Does it
not suffice you to have tortured, degraded, vilified me? Would you
ravish from me even the peace of the grave? What! In this abode of
shadow, where ignominy has forced me to bury myself, are my sorrows
to be without cessation, is hope to be unknown? I do not implore for
mercy, which I do not deserve: to suffer without complaining, I shall
be content if my sufferings do not exceed my strength. But do not
render my torments unbearable. In leaving me my sorrow, take away from
me the cruel memory of the good I have lost. When you have ravished
it from me, trace no more before my eyes its desolating image. I
was innocent and at peace: because I saw you, I lost my repose; by
listening to you I became criminal. Author of my faults, what right
have you to punish them?
Where are the friends who cherished me, where are they? My misfortune
has terrified them. None dares come near me. I am borne down, and they
leave me without succour! I am dying, and no one weeps over me. All
consolation is refused me. Pity stops short on the brink of the abyss
into which the guilty one has plunged. She is torn by remorse and her
cries are not heeded!
And you, whom I have outraged; you, whose esteem adds to my punishment;
you, who alone would have the right to avenge yourself on me, what are
you doing far away from me? Come and punish an unfaithful wife. Let me
suffer, at last, the torments I have deserved. I should have already
submitted to your vengeance: but the courage failed me to tell you of
your shame. It was not dissimulation, it was respect. Let this letter,
at least, tell you of my repentance. Heaven has taken your part; it
avenges you for a wrong you do not know. ’Tis Heaven which has tied my
tongue and retained my words; it feared lest you should remit a fault
which it wished to punish. It has withdrawn me from your indulgence,
which would have infringed its justice.
Pitiless in its vengeance, it has abandoned me to the very one who
ruined me. It is at once for him and through him that I suffer. I
seek to flee him in vain; he follows me; he is there; he assails me
unceasingly. But how different he is from himself! His eyes express
naught but hatred and contempt. His lips proffer only insults and
reproach. His arms are only thrown round me to destroy me. Who will
save me from his barbarous fury?
But what! It is he.... I am not mistaken; it is he whom I see once
more. O my beloved, take me in your arms; hide me in your bosom: yes,
it is you, it is indeed you! What dread illusion made me misunderstand
you? How I have suffered in your absence! Let us part no more, let us
never part again. Let me breathe. Feel my heart, how it throbs! Ah, it
is with fear no longer, it is the soft emotion of love! Why do you
turn away from my tender caresses? Cast your sweet glance upon me! What
are those bonds you are trying to break? Why are you getting ready
those preparations for death? What can change your features thus? What
are you doing? Leave me: I shudder! God! It is that monster again! My
friends, do not desert me. You, who urged me to fly from him, help me
to struggle against him; and you, more indulgent, who promised me a
diminution of my pains, come to my side. Where have you both gone? If I
am not allowed to see you again, at least, answer this letter: let me
know that you still love me.
Leave me then, cruel one! What fresh fury seizes you? Do you fear
lest any gentle sentiment should penetrate my soul? You redouble
my torments; you force me to hate you. Oh, what a grievous thing
is hatred! How it corrodes the heart which distils it! Why do you
persecute me? What more can you have to say to me? Have you not made it
as impossible for me to listen to you as to answer you? Expect nothing
more of me. Monsieur, farewell.
Paris, 5th December, 17**.
LETTER THE HUNDRED AND SIXTY-SECOND
THE CHEVALIER DANCENY TO THE VICOMTE DE VALMONT