Transcriber’s note
Variable spelling and hyphenation have been retained. Minor punctuation
inconsistencies have been silently repaired. A list of the changes made
can be found at the end of the book. Formatting and special characters
are indicated as follows:
_italic_
LES LIAISONS DANGEREUSES VOL. I
_No._ 200 _of 360 Copies_
[Illustration: _C. Monnet del. Langlois Jun. Sculpᵗ._]
LES LIAISONS DANGEREUSES
OR
_LETTERS COLLECTED IN A PRIVATE SOCIETY AND PUBLISHED FOR THE
INSTRUCTION OF OTHERS_
BY CHODERLOS DE LACLOS
TRANSLATED BY ERNEST DOWSON
VOL. I
LONDON PRIVATELY PRINTED 1898
NOTE TO THE PRESENT EDITION
(A.D. 1898)
CHODERLOS DE LACLOS was the Gallic Richardson of the XVIIIth Century;
and he might more justly than Stendhal be called the father of French
realism. With inimitable wit and the finest analysis of character he
depicted the corrupt society of his day. His aim was excellent, but in
his endeavour to point his moral he painted the vice which he wished
to flagellate in colours so glowing that he appears more an advocate
than an opponent of immorality. In his attempt to pourtray the wiles of
the seducer for a warning to the unwary, the author of the “Liaisons
Dangereuses” produced the most complete manual of the art of seduction;
so that during the austere reign of Charles X. this masterpiece was
suppressed as throwing too lurid a reflection on the manners and morals
of the old régime. “Les Liaisons Dangereuses” is now for the first time
literally and completely translated into English by MR. ERNEST DOWSON,
whose rendering of “La Terre,” in the Lutetian Society’s issue of Zola,
gained such a warm meed of praise.
To render this edition of “Les Liaisons Dangereuses” worthy of its
fame as one of the chefs-d’œuvre of Literature, it is illustrated
with fine photogravure reproductions of the whole of the 15 charming
designs by Monnet, Fragonard fils, and Gérard, which appeared in
the much coveted French edition of 1796, and which are full of that
inexpressible grace and beauty inseparable from the work of these
Masters of French Art of the XVIIIth Century.
PUBLISHER’S NOTE TO THE FIRST EDITION (1784)
WE think it our duty to warn the public that, in spite of the title
of this work and of what the Editor says of it in his Preface, we
do not guarantee the authenticity of this narrative, and have even
strong reasons for believing that it is but a romance. It seems to
us, moreover, that the author, who yet seems to have sought after
verisimilitude, has himself destroyed that, and maladroitly, owing to
the period which he has chosen in which to place these adventures.
Certainly, several of the personages whom he brings on his stage have
morals so sorry that it were impossible to believe that they lived in
our century, in this century of philosophy, where the light shed on all
sides has rendered, as everyone knows, all men so honourable, all women
so modest and reserved.
Our opinion is, therefore, that if the adventures related in this work
possess a foundation of truth, they could not have occurred save in
other places and in other times, and we must censure our author, who,
seduced apparently by his hope of being more diverting by treating
rather of his own age and country, has dared to clothe in our customs
and our costumes a state of morals so remote from us.
To preserve the too credulous Reader, at least so far as it lies with
us, from all surprise in this matter, we will support our opinion with
an argument which we proffer to him in all confidence, because it seems
to us victorious and unanswerable; it is that, undoubtedly, like causes
should not fail to produce like effects, and that, nevertheless, we do
not hear to-day of young ladies with incomes of sixty thousand livres
turning nuns, nor of young and pretty dame-presidents dying of grief.
AUTHOR’S PREFACE
THIS work, or rather this compilation, which the public will, perhaps,
still find too voluminous, contains, however, but a very small
portion of the letters which composed the correspondence whence it is
extracted. Charged with the care of setting it in order by the persons
into whose hands it had come, and whom I knew to have the intention
of publishing it, I asked, for reward of my pains, no more than the
permission to prune it of all that appeared to me useless; and I have,
in fact, endeavoured to preserve only the letters which seemed to
me necessary, whether for the right understanding of events or the
development of the characters. If there be added to this light labour
that of arranging in order the letters I have let remain, an order in
which I have almost invariably followed that of the dates, and finally
some brief and rare notes, which, for the most part, have no other
object than that of indicating the source of certain quotations, or of
explaining certain abridgments which I have permitted myself, the share
which I have had in this work will have been told. My mission was of no
wider range.
I had proposed alterations more considerable, and almost all in respect
of diction or style, against which will be found many offences. I
should have wished to be authorized to cut down certain too lengthy
letters, of which several treat separately, and almost without
transition, of matters quite extraneous to one another. This task,
which has not been permitted me, would doubtless not have sufficed to
give merit to the work, but it would, at least, have freed it from a
portion of its defects.
It has been objected to me that it was the letters themselves which
it was desirable to make public, not merely a work made after those
letters; that it would be as great an offence against verisimilitude
as against truth, if all the eight or ten persons who participated
in this correspondence had written with an equal purity. And to my
representations that, far from that, there was not one of them, on the
contrary, who had not committed grave faults, which would not fail to
excite criticism, I was answered that any reasonable reader would be
certainly prepared to meet with faults in a compilation of letters
written by private individuals, since in all those hitherto published
by sundry esteemed authors, and even by certain academicians, none has
proved quite free of this reproach. These reasons have not persuaded
me, and I found them, as I find them still, easier to give than to
accept; but I was not my own master, and I gave way. Only, I reserved
to myself the right of protest, and of declaring that I was not of that
opinion: it is this protest I make here.
What I must say at the outset is that, if my advice has been, as I
admit, to publish these letters, I am nevertheless far from hoping for
their success: and let not this sincerity on my part be taken for the
feigned modesty of an author; for I declare with equal frankness that,
if this compilation had not seemed to me worthy of being offered to
the public, I would not have meddled with it. Let us try and reconcile
these apparent contradictions.
The deserts of a work are composed of its utility or of its charm, and
even of both these, when it is susceptible of them: but success, which
is not always a proof of merit, often depends more on the choice of
a subject than on its execution, on the sum of the objects which it
presents rather than on the manner in which they are treated. Now this
compilation containing, as its title announces, the letters of a whole
society, it is dominated by a diversity of interest which weakens that
of the reader. Nay more, almost all the sentiments therein expressed
being feigned or dissimulated, they but excite an interest of curiosity
which is ever inferior to that of sentiment, which less inclines the
mind for indulgence, and which permits a perception of the errors
contained in the details that is all the more keen in that these are
continually opposed to the only desire which one would have satisfied.
These blemishes are, perhaps, redeemed, in part, by a quality which
is implied in the very nature of the work: it is the variety of the
styles, a merit which an author attains with difficulty, but which
here occurs of itself, and at least prevents the tedium of uniformity.
Many persons will also be able to count for something a considerable
number of observations, either new or little known, which are scattered
through these letters. That is all, I fear, that one can hope for in
the matter of charm, judging them even with the utmost favour.
The utility of the work, which, perhaps, will be even more contested,
yet seems to me easier to establish. It seems to me, at any rate, that
it is to render a service to morals, to unveil the methods employed by
those whose own are bad in corrupting those whose conduct is good; and
I believe that these letters will effectually attain this end. There
will also be found the proof and example of two important verities
which one might believe unknown, for that they are so rarely practised:
the one, that every woman who consents to admit a man of loose morals
to her society ends by becoming his victim; the other, that a mother
is, to say the least, imprudent who allows any other than herself to
possess the confidence of her daughter. Young people of either sex
might also learn from these pages that the friendship which persons
of evil character appear to grant them so readily is never aught else
but a dangerous snare, as fatal to their happiness as to their virtue.
Abuse, however, always so near a neighbour to what is good, seems to
me here too greatly to be feared; and far from commending this work
for the perusal of youth, it seems to me most important to deter it
from all such reading. The time when it may cease to be perilous and
become useful seems to me to have been defined, for her sex, by a good
mother, who has not only wit but good sense: “I should deem,” she said
to me, after having read the manuscript of this correspondence, “that
I was doing a service to my daughter, if I gave her this book on the
day of her marriage.” If all mothers of families think thus, I shall
congratulate myself on having published it.
But if, again, we put this favourable supposition on one side, I
continue to think that this collection can please very few. Men and
women who are depraved will have an interest in decrying a work
calculated to injure them; and, as they are not lacking in skill,
perhaps they will have sufficient to bring to their side the austere,
who will be alarmed at the picture of bad morals which we have not
feared to exhibit.
The would-be free-thinkers will not be interested in a God-fearing
woman whom for that very reason they will regard as a ninny; while
pious people will be angry at seeing virtue defeated and will complain
that religion is not made to seem more powerful.
On the other hand, persons of delicate taste will be disgusted by the
too simple and too faulty style of many of these letters; while the
mass of readers, led away with the idea that everything they see in
print is the fruit of labour, will think that they are beholding in
certain others the elaborate method of an author concealing himself
behind the person whom he causes to speak.
Lastly, it will perhaps be pretty generally said that everything is
good in its own place; and that, although, as a rule, the too polished
style of the authors detracts from the charm of the letters of society,
the carelessness of the present ones becomes a real fault and makes
them insufferable when sent to the printer’s.
I sincerely admit that all these reproaches may be well founded: I
think also that I should be able to reply to them without exceeding the
length permissible to a preface. But it must be plain that, to make it
necessary to reply to all, the book itself should be unable to reply to
any; and that, had I been of this opinion I would have suppressed at
once the preface and the book.
LIST OF PLATES
Vol. I.
PAGE
FRONTISPIECE to face the title
“PARDON ME MY WRONGS: THE STRENGTH OF MY LOVE SHALL
EXPIATE THEM” 30
“I WILL CONFESS MY WEAKNESS: MY EYES WERE MOISTENED
BY TEARS” 56
“I ALLOWED HER TO CHANGE NEITHER HER POSITION NOR
COSTUME” 127
“I FOUND IT AMUSING TO SEND A LETTER WRITTEN IN
THE BED” 138
“I, A MERE WOMAN, BIT BY BIT, EXCITED HER TO THE POINT” 158
“AT MY FIRST KICK THE DOOR YIELDED” 210
“HE BETOOK HIMSELF TO HIS SWORD” 284
Vol. II.
FRONTISPIECE to face the title
“ARMED WITH MY DARK LANTERN.... I PAID MY FIRST
VISIT TO YOUR PUPIL” 313
“THE LOVELY FORM LEANED UPON MY ARM” 329
“YESTERDAY, HAVING FOUND YOUR PUPIL.... WRITING TO HIM” 401
“YOU SHALL LISTEN TO ME, IT IS MY WISH” 435
“I COMMAND YOU TO TREAT MONSIEUR WITH ALL CONSIDERATION” 543
“I FEEL THAT MY ILLS WILL SOON BE ENDED” 549
CONTENTS OF VOLUME THE FIRST
PAGE
Note to the Present Edition v
Publisher’s Note to the First Edition vii
Preface ix
List of Plates xv
LETTER
I. Cécile Volanges to Sophie Carnay, at the Ursulines
of .... 1
II. The Marquise de Merteuil to the Vicomte de Valmont,
at the Château de .... 4
III. Cécile Volanges to Sophie Carnay 7
IV. The Vicomte de Valmont to the Marquise de Merteuil,
at Paris 9
V. The Marquise de Merteuil to the Vicomte de Valmont 12
VI. The Vicomte de Valmont to the Marquise de Merteuil 15
VII. Cécile Volanges to Sophie Carnay 19
VIII. The Présidente de Tourvel to Madame de Volanges 21
IX. Madame de Volanges to the Présidente de Tourvel 23
X. The Marquise de Merteuil to the Vicomte de Valmont 26
XI. The Présidente de Tourvel to Madame de Volanges 32
XII. Cécile Volanges to the Marquise de Merteuil 35
XIII. The Marquise de Merteuil to Cécile Volanges 36
XIV. Cécile Volanges to Sophie Carnay 37
XV. The Vicomte de Valmont to the Marquise de Merteuil 39
XVI. Cécile Volanges to Sophie Carnay 42
XVII. The Chevalier Danceny to Cécile Volanges 45
XVIII. Cécile Volanges to Sophie Carnay 47
XIX. Cécile Volanges to the Chevalier Danceny 50
XX. The Marquise de Merteuil to the Vicomte de Valmont 51
XXI. The Vicomte de Valmont to the Marquise de Merteuil 54
XXII. The Présidente de Tourvel to Madame de Volanges 58
XXIII. The Vicomte de Valmont to the Marquise de Merteuil 61
XXIV. The Vicomte de Valmont to the Présidente de Tourvel 67
XXV. The Vicomte de Valmont to the Marquise de Merteuil 70
XXVI. The Présidente de Tourvel to the Vicomte de Valmont 72
XXVII. Cécile Volanges to the Marquise de Merteuil 75
XXVIII. The Chevalier Danceny to Cécile Volanges 78
XXIX. Cécile Volanges to Sophie Carnay 80
XXX. Cécile Volanges to the Chevalier Danceny 82
XXXI. The Chevalier Danceny to Cécile Volanges 84
XXXII. Madame de Volanges to the Présidente de Tourvel 86
XXXIII. The Marquise de Merteuil to the Vicomte de Valmont 90
XXXIV. The Vicomte de Valmont to the Marquise de Merteuil 93
XXXV. The Vicomte de Valmont to the Présidente de Tourvel 98
XXXVI. The Vicomte de Valmont to the Présidente de Tourvel 101
XXXVII. The Présidente de Tourvel to Madame de Volanges 105
XXXVIII. The Marquise de Merteuil to the Vicomte de Valmont 107
XXXIX. Cécile Volanges to Sophie Carnay 110
XL. The Vicomte de Valmont to the Marquise de Merteuil 113
XLI. The Présidente de Tourvel to the Vicomte de Valmont 116
XLII. The Vicomte de Valmont to the Présidente de Tourvel 118
XL. _Continued_ The Vicomte de Valmont to the Marquise
de Merteuil 120
XLIII. The Présidente de Tourvel to the Vicomte de Valmont 123
XLIV. The Vicomte de Valmont to the Marquise de Merteuil 125
XLV. The Présidente de Tourvel to Madame de Volanges 133
XLVI. The Chevalier Danceny to Cécile Volanges 135
XLVII. The Vicomte de Valmont to the Marquise de Merteuil 137
XLVIII. The Vicomte de Valmont to the Présidente de Tourvel 140
XLIX. Cécile Volanges to the Chevalier Danceny 143
L. The Présidente de Tourvel to the Vicomte de Valmont 145
LI. The Marquise de Merteuil to the Vicomte de Valmont 148
LII. The Vicomte de Valmont to the Présidente de Tourvel 153
LIII. The Vicomte de Valmont to the Marquise de Merteuil 156
LIV. The Marquise de Merteuil to the Vicomte de Valmont 157
LV. Cécile Volanges to Sophie Carnay 160
LVI. The Présidente de Tourvel to the Vicomte de Valmont 163
LVII. The Vicomte de Valmont to the Marquise de Merteuil 166
LVIII. The Vicomte de Valmont to the Présidente de Tourvel 169
LIX. The Vicomte de Valmont to the Marquise de Merteuil 172
LX. The Chevalier Danceny to the Vicomte de Valmont 174
LXI. Cécile Volanges to Sophie Camay 175
LXII. Madame de Volanges to the Chevalier Danceny 177
LXIII. The Marquise de Merteuil to the Vicomte de Valmont 179
LXIV. The Chevalier Danceny to Madame de Volanges 187
LXV. The Chevalier Danceny to Cécile Volanges 191
LXVI. The Vicomte de Valmont to the Marquise de Merteuil 194
LXVII. The Présidente de Tourvel to the Vicomte de Valmont 197
LXVIII. The Vicomte de Valmont to the Présidente de Tourvel 199
LXIX. Cécile Volanges to the Chevalier Danceny 202
LXX. The Vicomte de Valmont to the Marquise de Merteuil 203
LXXI. The Vicomte de Valmont to the Marquise de Merteuil 207
LXXII. The Chevalier Danceny to Cécile Volanges 213
LXXIII. The Vicomte de Valmont to Cécile Volanges 215
LXXIV. The Marquise de Merteuil to the Vicomte de Valmont 217
LXXV. Cécile Volanges to Sophie Carnay 220
LXXVI. The Vicomte de Valmont to the Marquise de Merteuil 222
LXXVII. The Vicomte de Valmont to the Présidente de Tourvel 230
LXXVIII. The Présidente de Tourvel to the Vicomte de Valmont 233
LXXIX. The Vicomte de Valmont to the Marquise de Merteuil 237
LXXX. The Chevalier Danceny to Cécile Volanges 246
LXXXI. The Marquise de Merteuil to the Vicomte de Valmont 249
LXXXII. Cécile Volanges to the Chevalier Danceny 263
LXXXIII. The Vicomte de Valmont to the Présidente de Tourvel 266
LXXXIV. The Vicomte de Valmont to Cécile Volanges 270
LXXXV. The Marquise de Merteuil to the Vicomte de Valmont 274
LXXXVI. The Maréchale de *** to the Marquise de Merteuil 287
LXXXVII. The Marquise de Merteuil to Madame de Volanges 288
LXXXVIII. Cécile Volanges to the Vicomte de Valmont 292
LXXXIX. The Vicomte de Valmont to the Chevalier Danceny 294
XC. The Présidente de Tourvel to the Vicomte de Valmont 296
LES LIAISONS DANGEREUSES
LETTER THE FIRST
CÉCILE VOLANGES TO SOPHIE CARNAY, AT THE URSULINES OF ....
YOU see, my dear friend, that I keep my word to you, and that bonnets
and frills do not take up all my time; there will always be some left
for you. However, I have seen more adornments in this one single day
than in all the four years we passed together; and I think that the
superb Tanville[1] will have more vexation at my first visit, when I
shall certainly ask to see her, than she has ever fancied that she
afforded us, when she used to come and see us in _fiocchi_. Mamma has
consulted me in everything; she treats me much less as a school-girl
than of old. I have a waiting-maid of my own; I have a room and a
closet at my disposition; and I write this to you at a very pretty
desk, of which I have the key, and where I can lock up all that I wish.
Mamma has told me that I am to see her every day when she rises, that I
need not have my hair dressed before dinner, because we shall always
be alone, and that then she will tell me every day where I am to see
her in the afternoon. The rest of the time is at my disposal, and I
have my harp, my drawing, and books as at the convent, only there is
no Mother Perpétue here to scold me, and it is nothing to anybody but
myself, if I choose to do nothing at all. But as I have not my Sophie
here to sing and laugh with, I would just as soon occupy myself.
It is not yet five o’clock; I have not to go and join Mamma until
seven: there’s time enough, if I had anything to tell you! But as
yet they have not spoken to me of anything, and were it not for the
preparations I see being made, and the number of milliners who all come
for me, I should believe that they had no thought of marrying me, and
that that was the nonsense of the good Joséphine.[2] However, Mamma has
told me so often that a young lady should stay in the convent until she
marries that, since she has taken me out, I suppose Joséphine was right.
A carriage has just stopped at the door, and Mamma tells me to come to
her at once. If it were to be the Gentleman! I am not dressed, my hand
trembles and my heart is beating. I asked my waiting-maid if she knew
who was with my mother. “Certainly,” she said, “it’s Monsieur C***.”
And she laughed. Oh, I believe ’tis he! I will be sure to come back and
relate to you what passes. There is his name, at any rate. I must not
keep him waiting. For a moment, adieu....
How you will laugh at your poor Cécile! Oh, I have really been
disgraceful! But you would have been caught just as I. When I went in
to Mamma, I saw a gentleman in black standing by her. I bowed to him as
well as I could, and stood still without being able to budge an inch.
You can imagine how I scrutinized him.
“Madame,” he said to my mother, as he bowed to me, “what a charming
young lady! I feel more than ever the value of your kindness.” At this
very definite remark, I was seized with a fit of trembling, so much so
that I could hardly stand: I found an arm-chair and sat down in it,
very red and disconcerted. Hardly was I there, when I saw the man at
my feet. Your poor Cécile quite lost her head; as Mamma said, I was
absolutely terrified. I jumped up, uttering a piercing cry, just as I
did that day when it thundered. Mamma burst out laughing, saying to
me, “Well! what is the matter with you? Sit down, and give your foot
to Monsieur.” Indeed, my dear friend, the gentleman was a shoe-maker.
I can’t describe to you how ashamed I was; mercifully there was no
one there but Mamma. I think that, when I am married, I shall give up
employing that shoe-maker.
So much for our wisdom--admit it! Adieu. It is nearly six o’clock, and
my waiting-maid tells me that I must dress. Adieu, my dear Sophie, I
love you, just as well as if I were still at the convent.
P.S. I don’t know by whom to send my letter, so that I shall wait until
Joséphine comes.
Paris, 3rd August, 17**.
LETTER THE SECOND
THE MARQUISE DE MERTEUIL TO THE VICOMTE DE VALMONT, AT THE CHÂTEAU DE
....
COME back, my dear Vicomte, come back; what are you doing, what _can_
you be doing with an old aunt, whose whole property is settled on
you? Set off at once; I have need of you. I have an excellent idea,
and I should like to confide its execution to you. A very few words
should suffice; and only too honoured at my choice, you ought to come,
with enthusiasm, to receive my orders on your knees: but you abuse
my kindness, even since you have ceased to take advantage of it, and
between the alternatives of an eternal hatred and excessive indulgence,
your happiness demands that my indulgence wins the day. I am willing
then to inform you of my projects, but swear to me like a faithful
cavalier that you embark on no other adventure till this one be brought
to an end. It is worthy of a hero: you will serve both love and
vengeance; it will be, in short, one _rouerie_[3] the more to include
in your Memoirs: yes, in your Memoirs, for I wish them to be printed,
and I will charge myself with the task of writing them. But let us
leave that, and come back to what is occupying me.
Madame de Volanges is marrying her daughter: it is still a secret, but
she imparted it to me yesterday. And whom do you think she has chosen
for her son-in-law? The Comte de Gercourt. Who would have thought
that I should ever become Gercourt’s cousin? I was furious.... Well!
do you not divine me now? Oh, dull brains! Have you forgiven him then
the adventure of the Intendante! And I, have I not still more cause to
complain of him, monster that you are?[4] But I will calm myself, and
the hope of vengeance soothes my soul.
You have been bored a hundred times, like myself, by the importance
which Gercourt sets upon the wife who shall be his, and by his fatuous
presumption, which leads him to believe he will escape the inevitable
fate. You know his ridiculous precautions as to conventual education
and his even more ridiculous prejudice in favour of the discretion
of _blondes_. In fact, I would wager, that for all that the little
Volanges has an income of sixty thousand livres, he would never have
made this marriage if she had been dark or had not been bred at the
convent. Let us prove to him then that he is but a fool: no doubt he
will be made so one of these days; it isn’t that of which I am afraid;
but ’twould be pleasant indeed if he were to make his _début_ as one!
How we should amuse ourselves on the day after, when we heard him
boasting, for he will boast; and then, if you once form this little
girl, it would be a rare mishap if Gercourt did not become, like
another man, the joke of all Paris.
For the rest, the heroine of this new romance merits all your
attentions: she is really pretty; it is only fifteen, ’tis a rose-bud,
_gauche_ in truth, incredibly so, and quite without affectation. But
you men are not afraid of that; moreover, a certain languishing glance,
which really promises great things. Add to this that I exhort you to
it: you can only thank me and obey.
You will receive this letter to-morrow morning. I request that
to-morrow, at seven o’clock in the evening, you may be with me. I shall
receive nobody until eight, not even the reigning Chevalier: he has not
head enough for such a mighty piece of work. You see that love does not
blind me. At eight o’clock I will grant you your liberty, and you shall
come back at ten to sup with the fair object; for mother and daughter
will sup with me. Adieu, it is past noon: soon I shall have put you out
of my thoughts.
Paris, 4th August, 17**.
LETTER THE THIRD
CÉCILE VOLANGES TO SOPHIE CARNAY
I KNOW nothing as yet, my dear friend. Mamma had a great number
of people to supper yesterday. In spite of the interest I took in
regarding them, the men especially, I was far from being diverted. Men
and women, everybody looked at me mightily, and then would whisper to
one another, and I saw they were speaking of me. That made me blush; I
could not prevent myself. I wish I could have, for I noticed that, when
the other women were looked at, they did not blush: or perhaps ’tis the
rouge they employ which prevents one seeing the red that is caused by
embarrassment; for it must be very difficult not to blush when a man
stares at you.
What made me most uneasy was that I did not know what they thought in
my regard. I believe, however, that I heard two or three times the word
_pretty_; but I heard very distinctly the word _gauche_; and I think
that must be true, for the woman who said it is a kinswoman and friend
of my mother; she seemed even to have suddenly taken a liking to me.
She was the only person who spoke to me a little during the evening. We
are to sup with her to-morrow.
I also heard, after supper, a man who, I am certain, was speaking of
me, and who said to another, “We must let it ripen; this winter we
shall see.” It is, perhaps, he who is to marry me, but then it will not
be for four months! I should so much like to know how it stands.
Here is Joséphine, and she tells me she is in a hurry. Yet I must tell
you one more of my _gaucheries_. Oh, I am afraid that lady was right!
After supper they started to play. I placed myself at Mamma’s side;
I do not know how it happened, but I fell asleep almost at once. I
was awakened by a great burst of laughter. I do not know if they were
laughing at me, but I believe so. Mamma gave me permission to retire,
and I was greatly pleased. Imagine, it was past eleven o’clock. Adieu,
my dear Sophie; always love your Cécile. I assure you that the world is
not so amusing as we imagined.
Paris, 4th August, 17**.
LETTER THE FOURTH
THE VICOMTE DE VALMONT TO THE MARQUISE DE MERTEUIL, AT PARIS
YOUR commands are charming; your fashion of conveying them is more
gracious still; you would make us in love with despotism. It is not
the first time, as you know, that I have regretted that I am no longer
your slave: and _monster_ though I be, according to you, I never recall
without pleasure the time when you honoured me with sweeter titles.
Indeed, I often desire to merit them again, and to end by setting, with
you, an example of constancy to the world. But greater interests call
us; to conquer is our destiny, we must follow it; perhaps at the end of
the course we shall meet again; for, may I say it without vexing you,
my fairest Marquise? you follow it at least as fast as I: and since
the day when, separating for the good of the world, we began to preach
the faith on our different sides, it seems to me that, in this mission
of love, you have made more proselytes than I. I know your zeal, your
ardent fervour; and if that god of ours judged us by our works, you
would one day be the patroness of some great city, whilst your friend
would be at most but a village saint. This language astounds you, does
it not? But for the last week I hear and speak no other, and it is to
perfect myself in it that I am forced to disobey you.
Listen to me and do not be vexed. Depositary of all the secrets of my
heart, I will confide to you the most important project I have ever
formed. What is it you suggest to me? To seduce a young girl, who has
seen nothing, knows nothing, who would be, so to speak, delivered
defenceless into my hands, whom a first compliment would not fail to
intoxicate, and whom curiosity will perhaps more readily entice than
love. Twenty others can succeed and these as well as I. That is not
the case in the adventure which engrosses me; its success insures me
as much glory as pleasure. Love, who prepares my crown, hesitates,
himself, betwixt the myrtle and the laurel; or rather he will unite
them to honour my triumph. You yourself, my fair friend, will be seized
with a holy veneration and will say with enthusiasm, “Behold a man
after my own heart!”
You know the Présidente de Tourvel, her piety, her conjugal love, her
austere principles. She it is whom I am attacking; there is the foe
meet for me; there the goal at which I dare to aim:
Et si de l’obtenir, je n’emporte le prix,
J’aurai du moins l’honneur de l’avoir entrepris.[5]
One may quote bad verses when a good poet has written them. You must
know then that the President is in Burgundy, in consequence of some
great law-suit: I hope to make him lose one of greater import! His
disconsolate better-half has to pass here the whole term of this
distressing widowhood. Mass every day; some visits to the poor of the
district; morning and evening prayers, solitary walks, pious interviews
with my old aunt, and sometimes a dismal game of whist, must be her
sole distractions. I am preparing some for her which shall be more
efficacious. My guardian angel has brought me here, for her happiness
and my own. Madman that I was, I regretted twenty-four hours which I
was sacrificing to my respect for the conventions. How I should be
punished if I were made to return to Paris! Luckily, four are needed to
play whist; and as there is no one here but the _curé_ of the place, my
eternal aunt has pressed me greatly to sacrifice a few days to her. You
can guess that I have agreed. You cannot imagine how she has cajoled me
since then, above all how edified she is at my regularity at prayers
and mass. She has no suspicion what divinity I adore.
Here am I then for the last four days, in the throes of a doughty
passion. You know how keen are my desires, how I brush aside obstacles
to them: but what you do not know is how solitude adds ardour to
desire. I have but one idea; I think of it all day and dream of it all
night. It is very necessary that I should have this woman, if I would
save myself from the ridicule of being in love with her: for whither
may not thwarted desire lead one? O delicious pleasure! I implore thee
for my happiness, and above all for my repose. How lucky it is for us
that women defend themselves so badly! Else we should be to them no
more than timid slaves. At present I have a feeling of gratitude for
yielding women which brings me naturally to your feet. I prostrate
myself to implore your pardon, and so conclude this too long epistle.
Adieu, my fairest friend, and bear me no malice.
At the Château de ..., 5th August, 17**.
LETTER THE FIFTH
THE MARQUISE DE MERTEUIL TO THE VICOMTE DE VALMONT
Do you know, Vicomte, that your letter is of an amazing insolence,
and that I have every excuse to be angry with you? But it has proved
clearly to me that you have lost your head, and that alone has saved
you from my indignation. Like a generous and sympathetic friend, I
forget my wrongs in order to concern myself with your peril; and
tiresome though argument be, I give way before the need you have of it,
at such a time.
You, to have the Présidente de Tourvel! The ridiculous caprice! I
recognize there your froward imagination, which knows not how to desire
aught but what it believes to be unattainable. What is the woman then?
Regular features, if you like, but no expression; passably made, but
lacking grace; and always dressed in a fashion to set you laughing,
with her clusters of fichus on her bosom and her body running into her
chin! I warn you as a friend, you need but to have two such women,
and all your consideration will be lost. Remember the day when she
collected at Saint-Roch, and when you thanked me so for having procured
you such a spectacle. I think I see her still, giving her hand to that
great gawk with the long hair, stumbling at every step, with her four
yards of collecting-bag always over somebody’s head, and blushing at
every reverence. Who would have said then that you would ever desire
this woman? Come, Vicomte, blush too, and be yourself again! I promise
to keep your secret.
And then, look at the disagreeables which await you! What rival have
you to encounter? A husband! Are you not humiliated at the very
word? What a disgrace if you fail! and how little glory even if you
succeed! I say more; expect no pleasure from it. Is there ever any
with your prudes? I mean those in good faith. Reserved in the very
midst of pleasure, they give you but a half-enjoyment. That utter
self-abandonment, that delirium of joy, where pleasure is purified by
its excess, those good things of love are not known to them. I warn
you: in the happiest supposition, your Présidente will think she has
done everything for you, if she treats you as her husband; and in the
most tender of conjugal _tête-à-têtes_ you are always two. Here it is
even worse; your prude is a _dévote_, with that devotion of worthy
women which condemns them to eternal infancy. Perhaps you will overcome
that obstacle; but do not flatter yourself that you will destroy it:
victorious over the love of God, you will not be so over the fear of
the Devil; and when, holding your mistress in your arms, you feel her
heart palpitate, it will be from fear and not from love. Perhaps, if
you had known this woman earlier, you would have been able to make
something of her; but it is two-and-twenty, and has been married nearly
two years. Believe me, Vicomte, when a woman is so _incrusted_ with
prejudice, it is best to abandon her to her fate; she will never be
anything but a _puppet_.
Yet it is for this delightful creature that you refuse to obey me,
bury yourself in the tomb of your aunt, and renounce the most enticing
of adventures, and withal one so admirably suited to do you honour. By
what fatality then must Gercourt always hold some advantage over you?
Well, I am writing to you without temper: but, for the nonce, I am
tempted to believe that you don’t merit your reputation; I am tempted,
above all, to withdraw my confidence from you. I shall never get used
to telling my secrets to the lover of Madame de Tourvel.
I must let you know, however, that the little Volanges has already
turned one head. Young Danceny is wild about her. He sings duets with
her; and really, she sings better than a school-girl should. They
must rehearse a good many duets, and I think that she takes nicely to
the _unison_; but this Danceny is a child, who will waste his time in
making love and will never finish. The little person, on her side, is
shy enough; and in any event it will be much less amusing than you
could have made it: wherefore I am in a bad humour and shall certainly
quarrel with the Chevalier at his next appearance. I advise him to
be gentle; for, at this moment, it would cost me nothing to break
with him. I am sure that, if I had the sense to leave him at present,
he would be in despair; and nothing amuses me so much as a lover’s
despair. He would call me perfidious, and that word “perfidious” has
always pleased me; it is, after the word “cruel,” the sweetest to a
woman’s ear, and less difficult to deserve.... Seriously, I shall have
to set about this rupture. There’s what you are the cause of; so I put
it on your conscience! Adieu. Recommend me to the prayers of your lady
President.
Paris, 7th August, 17**.
LETTER THE SIXTH
THE VICOMTE DE VALMONT TO THE MARQUISE DE MERTEUIL
THERE is never a woman then but abuses the empire she has known how
to seize! And yourself, you whom I have so often dubbed my indulgent
friend, you have discarded the title and are not afraid to attack me
in the object of my affections! With what traits you venture to depict
Madame de Tourvel!... What man but would have paid with his life for
such insolent boldness? What woman other than yourself would have
escaped without receiving at least an ungracious retort? In mercy,
put me not to such tests; I will not answer for my power to sustain
them. In the name of friendship, wait until I have had this woman, if
you wish to revile her. Do you not know that pleasure alone has the
right to remove the bandage from Love’s eyes? But what am I saying?
Has Madame de Tourvel any need of illusion? No; for to be adorable,
she has only need to be herself. You reproach her with dressing badly;
I quite agree: all adornment is hurtful to her, nothing that conceals
her adorns. It is in the freedom of her _négligé_ that she is really
ravishing. Thanks to the distressing heat which we are experiencing,
a _déshabillé_ of simple stuff permits me to see her round and supple
figure. Only a piece of muslin covers her breast; and my furtive but
penetrating gaze has already seized its enchanting form. Her face,
say you, has no expression. And, what should it express, in moments
when nothing speaks to her heart? No, doubtless, she has not, like our
coquettes, that false glance, which is sometimes seductive and always
deceives. She knows not how to gloss over the emptiness of a phrase
by a studied smile, and although she has the loveliest teeth in the
world, she never laughs, except when she is amused. But you should see,
in some frolicsome game, of what a frank and innocent gaiety she will
present the image! Near some poor wretch whom she is eager to succour,
what a pure joy and compassionate kindness her gaze denotes! You should
see, above all, how, at the least word of praise or flattery, her
heavenly face is tinged with the touching embarrassment of a modesty
that is not feigned!... She is a prude and devout, and so you judge
her to be cold and inanimate? I think very differently. What amazing
sensibility she must have, that it can reach even her husband, and that
she can always love a person who is always absent? What stronger proof
would you desire? Yet I have been able to procure another.
I directed her walk in such a manner that a ditch had to be crossed;
and, although she is very agile, she is even more timid. You can
well believe how much a prude fears to _cross the ditch_![6] She
was obliged to trust herself to me. I held this modest woman in my
arms. Our preparations and the passage of my old aunt had caused the
playful _dévote_ to peal with laughter; but when I had once taken hold
of her, by a happy awkwardness our arms were interlaced. I pressed
her breast against my own; and in this short interval, I felt her
heart beat faster. An amiable flush suffused her face; and her modest
embarrassment taught me well enough _that her heart had throbbed with
love and not with fear_. My aunt, however, was deceived, as you are,
and said, “The child was frightened,” but the charming candour of _the
child_ did not permit her to lie, and she answered naively, “Oh no,
but....” That alone was an illumination. From that moment the sweetness
of hope has succeeded to my cruel uncertainty. I shall possess this
woman; I shall steal her from the husband who profanes her: I will
even dare ravish her from the God whom she adores. What delight, to
be in turns the object and the victor of her remorse! Far be it from
me to destroy the prejudices which sway her mind! They will add to my
happiness and my triumph. Let her believe in virtue, and sacrifice it
to me; let the idea of falling terrify her, without preventing her
fall; and may she, shaken by a thousand terrors, forget them, vanquish
them only in my arms. Then, I agree, let her say to me, “I adore thee;”
she, alone among women, is worthy to pronounce these words. I shall be
truly the God whom she has preferred.
Let us be candid: in our arrangements, as cold as they are facile,
what we call happiness is hardly even a pleasure. Shall I tell you? I
thought my heart was withered; and finding nothing left but my senses,
I lamented my premature old age. Madame de Tourvel has restored to me
the charming illusions of youth. With her I have no need of pleasure
to be happy. The only thing which frightens me is the time which this
adventure is going to take; for I dare leave nothing to chance. ’Tis in
vain I recall my fortunate audacities; I cannot bring myself to put
them in practice here. To become truly happy, I require her to give
herself; and that is no slight affair.
I am sure that you admire my prudence. I have not yet pronounced the
word “love;” but we have already come to those of confidence and
interest. To deceive her as little as possible, and above all to
counteract the effect of stories which might come to her ears, I have
myself told her, as though in self-accusation, of some of my most
notorious traits. You would laugh to see the candour with which she
lectures me. She wishes, she says, to convert me. She has no suspicion
as yet of what it will cost her to try. She is far from thinking, that
_in pleading_, to use her own words, _for the unfortunates I have
ruined_, she speaks in anticipation in her own cause. This idea struck
me yesterday in the midst of one of her dissertations, and I could not
resist the pleasure of interrupting her to tell her that she spoke like
a prophet. Adieu, my fairest of friends. You see that I am not lost
beyond all hope of return.
P.S. By the way, that poor Chevalier--has he killed himself from
despair? Truly, you are a hundredfold naughtier person than myself, and
you would humiliate me, if I had any vanity.
At the Château de ..., 9th August, 17**.
LETTER THE SEVENTH
CÉCILE VOLANGES TO SOPHIE CARNAY[7]
IF I have told you nothing about my marriage, it is because I know no
more about it than I did the first day. I am accustoming myself to
think no more of it, and I am quite satisfied with my manner of life.
I study much at my singing and my harp; it seems to me that I like
them better since I have no longer a master, or perhaps it is because
I have a better one. M. le Chevalier Danceny, the gentleman of whom I
told you, and with whom I sang at Madame de Merteuil’s, is kind enough
to come here every day, and to sing with me for whole hours. He is
extremely amiable. He sings like an angel, and composes very pretty
airs, to which he also does the words. It is a great pity that he
is a Knight of Malta! It seems to me that, if he were to marry, his
wife would be very happy.... He has a charming gentleness. He never
has the air of paying you a compliment, and yet everything he says
flatters you. He takes me up constantly, now about my music, now about
something else; but he mingles his criticisms with so much gaiety and
interest, that it is impossible not to be grateful for them. If he only
looks at you, it seems as though he were saying something gracious.
Added to all that, he is very obliging. For instance, yesterday he was
invited to a great concert; he preferred to spend the whole evening at
Mamma’s. That pleased me very much; for, when he is not here, nobody
talks to me, and I bore myself: whereas, when he is here, we sing and
talk together. He and Madame de Merteuil are the only two persons I
find amiable. But adieu, my dearest friend; I have promised to learn
for to-day a little air with a very difficult accompaniment, and I
would not break my word. I am going to practise it until he comes.
Paris, 7th August, 17**.
LETTER THE EIGHTH
THE PRÉSIDENTE DE TOURVEL TO MADAME DE VOLANGES
No one, Madame, can be more sensible than I to the confidence you show
in me, nor take a keener interest in the establishment of Mademoiselle
de Volanges. It is, indeed, from my whole heart that I wish her a
happiness of which I make no doubt she is worthy, and which your
prudence will secure. I do not know M. le Comte de Gercourt; but being
honoured by your choice, I cannot but form a favourable opinion of him.
I confine myself, Madame, to wishing for this marriage a success as
assured as my own, which is equally your handiwork, and for which each
fresh day adds to my gratitude. May the happiness of your daughter be
the reward of that which you have procured for me; and may the best of
friends be also the happiest of mothers!
I am really grieved that I cannot offer you by word of mouth the
homage of this sincere wish, nor make the acquaintance of Mademoiselle
de Volanges so soon as I should wish. After having known your truly
maternal kindness, I have a right to hope from her the tender
friendship of a sister. I beg you, Madame, to be so good as to ask this
from her in my behalf, while I wait until I have the opportunity of
deserving it.
I expect to remain in the country all the time of M. de Tourvel’s
absence. I have taken advantage of this leisure to enjoy and profit by
the society of the venerable Madame de Rosemonde. This lady is always
charming; her great age has deprived her of nothing; she retains all
her memory and sprightliness. Her body alone is eighty-four years old;
her mind is only twenty.
Our seclusion is enlivened by her nephew, the Vicomte de Valmont,
who has cared to devote a few days to us. I knew him only by his
reputation, which gave me small desire to make his acquaintance; but
he seems to me to be better than that. Here, where he is not spoilt by
the hubbub of the world, he talks rationally with extraordinary ease,
and excuses himself for his errors with rare candour. He speaks to me
with much confidence, and I preach to him with great severity. You, who
know him, will admit that it would be a fine conversion to make: but I
suspect, in spite of his promises, that a week of Paris will make him
forget all my sermons. His sojourn here will be at least so much saved
from his ordinary course of conduct; and I think, from his fashion of
life, that what he can best do is to do nothing at all. He knows that
I am engaged in writing to you and has charged me to present you with
his respectful homage. Pray accept my own also, with the goodness that
I know in you; and never doubt the sincere sentiments with which I have
the honour to be, etc.
At the Château de ..., 9th August, 17**.
LETTER THE NINTH
MADAME DE VOLANGES TO THE PRÉSIDENTE DE TOURVEL
I HAVE never doubted, my fair and youthful friend, either of the
kindness which you have for me, or of the sincere interest which you
take in all that concerns me. It is not to elucidate that point,
which I hope is settled between us, that I reply to your _reply_; but
I cannot refrain from having a talk with you on the subject of the
Vicomte de Valmont.
I did not expect, I confess, ever to come across that name in your
letters. Indeed, what can there be in common between you and him?
You do not know this man; where should you have obtained any idea of
the soul of a libertine? You speak to me of his _rare candour_: yes,
indeed, the candour of Valmont must be most rare. Even more false and
dangerous than he is amiable and seductive, never since his extreme
youth has he taken a step or uttered a word without having some end in
view which was either dishonourable or criminal. My dear, you know me;
you know whether, of all the virtues which I try to acquire, charity be
not the one which I cherish the most. So that, if Valmont were led away
by the vehemence of his passions; if, like a thousand others, he were
seduced by the errors of his age: while I should blame his conduct,
I should pity him personally, and wait in silence for the time when
a happy reformation should restore him the esteem of honest folk.
But Valmont is not like that: his conduct is the consequence of his
principles. He can calculate to a nicety how many atrocities a man may
allow himself to commit, without compromising himself; and, in order to
be cruel and mischievous with impunity, he has selected women to be his
victims. I will not stop to count all those whom he has seduced: but
how many has he not ruined utterly?