do not reach your ears. I could tell you some which would make you
shudder; but your eyes, which are as pure as your soul, would be
defiled by such pictures: secure of being in no danger from Valmont,
you have no need of such arms wherewith to defend yourself. The only
thing which I may tell you is that out of all the women to whom he has
paid attention, with or without success, there is not one who has not
had cause to complain of him. The Marquise de Merteuil is the single
exception to this general rule; she alone knew how to withstand and
disarm his villainy. I must confess that this episode in her life is
that which does her most honour in my eyes: it has also sufficed to
justify her fully, in the eyes of all, for certain inconsistencies with
which one had to reproach her at the commencement of her widowhood.[8]
However this may be, my fair friend, what age, experience, and above
all, friendship, empower me to represent to you is that the absence
of Valmont is beginning to be noticed, in the world; and that, if it
becomes known that he has for some time made a third party to his aunt
and you, your reputation will be in his hands: the greatest misfortune
which can befall a woman. I advise you then to persuade his aunt not
to keep him there longer; and, if he insists upon remaining, I think
you should not hesitate to leave him in possession. But why should he
stay? What is he doing in your part of the country? If you were to
spy upon his proceedings, I am sure you would discover that he only
came there to have a more convenient shelter for some black deed he is
contemplating in the neighbourhood. But, as it is impossible to remedy
the evil, let us be content by ourselves avoiding it.
Farewell, my lovely friend; at present the marriage of my daughter is
a little delayed. The Comte de Gercourt, whom we expected from day to
day, tells me that his regiment is ordered to Corsica; and as military
operations are still afoot, it will be impossible for him to absent
himself before the winter. This vexes me; but it causes me to hope
that we shall have the pleasure of seeing you at the wedding; and I
was sorry that it was to have taken place without you. Adieu; I am,
unreservedly and without compliment, entirely yours.
P.S. Recall me to the recollection of Madame de Rosemonde, whom I
always love as dearly as she deserves.
Paris, 11th August, 17**.
LETTER THE TENTH
THE MARQUISE DE MERTEUIL TO THE VICOMTE DE VALMONT
VICOMTE, are you angry with me? Or are you, indeed, dead? Or, what
would not be unlike that, are you living only for your Présidente?
This woman, who has restored you _the illusions of youth_, will soon
restore you also its ridiculous prejudices. Here you are already timid
and a slave; you might as well be amorous. You renounce _your fortunate
audacities_. Behold you then conducting yourself without principles,
and trusting all to hazard, or rather to caprice. Do you no longer
remember that love, like medicine, is nothing but the _art of assisting
nature_? You see that I beat you with your own arms, but I will not
plume myself on that: it is indeed beating a man when he is down. _She
must give herself_, you tell me. Ah, no doubt, she must; she will give
herself like the others, with this difference, that it will be with a
bad grace.
But if the end is that she should give herself, the true way is to
begin by taking her. This absurd distinction is indeed a true sign
of love’s madness! I say love; for you are in love. To speak to you
otherwise would be to cheat you, it would be to hide from you your ill.
Tell me then, languid lover, the women whom you have had, did you think
you had violated them? Why, however desirous one may be of giving
one’s self, however eager one may be, one still needs a pretext; and is
there any more convenient for us than that which gives us the air of
yielding to force? For me, I confess, one of the things which flatter
me the most is a well-timed and lively assault, where everything
succeeds in order, although with rapidity; which never throws us into
the painful embarrassment of having ourselves to repair a _gaucherie_
from which, on the contrary, we should have profited; which is cunning
to maintain the air of violence even in things which we grant, and to
flatter adroitly our two favourite passions, the glory of resistance
and the pleasure of defeat. I grant that this talent, rarer than one
may think, has always given me pleasure, even when it has not seduced
me, and that sometimes, solely for recompense, it has induced me to
yield. So, in our ancient tourneys, beauty gave the prize of valour and
skill.
But you, who are no longer you, are behaving as if you were afraid of
success. Ah! since when do you travel by short stages and cross-roads?
My friend, when one wishes to arrive, post-horses and the highway! But
let us drop this subject, which is all the more distasteful to me in
that it deprives me of the pleasure of seeing you. At least write to me
more often than you do, and keep me informed of your progress. Do you
know that it is now more than a fortnight since you have been occupied
by this ridiculous adventure, and have neglected all the world?
_À propos_ of negligence, you are like those people who send regularly
to enquire after their sick friends, but who never trouble to get a
reply. You finish your last letter by asking me if the Chevalier be
dead. I do not answer, and you are no longer in the least concerned.
Are you no longer aware that my lover is your born friend? But reassure
yourself, he is not dead; or if he were, it would be for excess of joy.
This poor Chevalier, how tender he is! how excellently is he made for
love! how well he knows how to feel intensely! It makes my head reel.
Seriously, the perfect happiness which he derives from being loved by
me gives me a real attachment for him.
The very same day upon which I wrote to you that I was going to promote
a rupture, how happy I made him! Yet I was mightily occupied, when they
announced him, about the means of putting him in despair. Was it reason
or caprice: he never seemed to me so fine. I nevertheless received him
with temper. He hoped to pass two hours with me, before the time when
my door would be open to everybody. I told him that I was going out:
he asked me whither I was going; I refused to tell him. He insisted:
“Where I shall not have your company,” I answered acidly. Luckily for
himself, he stood as though petrified by this answer; for had he said a
word, a scene would infallibly have ensued which would have led to the
projected rupture. Astonished by his silence, I cast my eyes upon him,
with no other intention, upon my oath, than to see what countenance he
would shew. I discovered on that charming face that sorrow, at once so
tender and so profound, to which, you yourself have admitted, it is so
difficult to resist. Like causes produce like effects: I was vanquished
a second time.
From that moment, I was only busy in finding a means of preventing him
from having a grievance against me. “I am going out on business,” said
I, with a somewhat gentler air; “nay, even on business which concerns
you; but do not question me further. I shall sup at home; return, and
you shall know all.” At this he recovered the power of speech; but I
did not permit him to use it “I am in great haste,” I continued; “leave
me, until this evening.” He kissed my hand and went away.
Immediately, to compensate him, perhaps to compensate myself, I decide
to acquaint him with my _petite maison_, of which he had no suspicion.
I called my faithful Victoire. I have my head-ache; I am gone to bed,
for all my household; and left alone at last with my _Trusty_, whilst
she disguises herself as a lackey, I don the costume of a waiting-maid.
She next calls a hackney-coach to the gate of my garden, and behold us
on our way! Arrived in this temple of love, I chose the most gallant
of _déshabillés_. This one is delicious; it is my own invention: it
lets nothing be seen and yet allows you to divine all. I promise you a
pattern of it for your Présidente, when you have rendered her worthy to
wear it.
After these preliminaries, whilst Victoire busies herself with other
details, I read a chapter of _Le Sopha_,[9] a letter of Héloïse and two
Tales of La Fontaine, in order to rehearse the different tones which
I would assume. Meantime, my Chevalier arrives at my door with his
accustomed zeal. My porter denies him, and informs him that I am ill:
incident the first. At the same time he hands him a note from me, but
not in my hand-writing, after my prudent rule. He opens it and sees
written therein in Victoire’s hand: “At nine o’clock, punctually, on
the Boulevard, in front of the _cafés_.” Thither he betakes himself,
and there a little lackey whom he does not know, whom he believes, at
least, that he does not know, for of course it was Victoire, comes and
informs him that he must dismiss his carriage and follow her. All this
romantic promenade helped all the more to heat his mind, and a hot head
is by no means undesirable. At last, he arrives, and love and amazement
produced in him a veritable enchantment. To give him time to recover,
we strolled out for a while in the little wood; then I took him back
again to the house. He sees, at first, two covers laid; then a bed
prepared. We pass into the boudoir, which was richly adorned. There,
half pensively, half in sentiment, I threw my arms round him, and fell
on my knees.
“O my friend,” said I, “in my desire to reserve the surprise of this
moment for you, I reproach myself with having grieved you with a
pretence of ill-humour; with having been able, for an instant, to veil
my heart to your gaze. Pardon me my wrongs: the strength of my love
shall expiate them.”
You may judge of the effect of this sentimental oration. The happy
Chevalier lifted me up, and my pardon was sealed on that very same
ottoman where you and I once sealed so gallantly, and in like fashion,
our eternal rupture.
As we had six hours to pass together, and I had resolved to make all
this time equally delicious for him, I moderated his transports, and
brought an amiable coquetry to replace tenderness. I do not think that
I have ever been at so great pains to please, nor that I have ever been
so pleased with myself. After supper, by turns childish and reasonable,
sensible and gay, even libertine at times, it was my pleasure to look
upon him as a sultan in the heart of his seraglio, of which I was by
turn the different favourites. In fact, his repeated acts of homage,
although always received by the same woman, were ever received by a
different mistress.
[Illustration: C. Monnet del. N. le Mire sculp.]
Finally, at the approach of day, we were obliged to separate; and
whatever he might say, or even do, to prove to me the contrary, he had
as much need of separation as he had little desire of it. At the moment
when we left the house, and for a last adieu, I took the key of this
abode of bliss, and giving it into his hands: “I had it but for you,”
said I; “it is right that you should be its master. It is for him who
sacrifices to have the disposition of the temple.” By such a piece of
adroitness, I anticipated him from the reflexions which might have been
suggested to him, by the possession, always suspicious, of a _petite
maison_. I know him well enough to be sure that he will never make use
of it except for me; and if the whim seized me to go there without him,
I have a second key. He would at all costs fix a day for return; but I
love him still too well, to care to exhaust him so soon. One must not
permit one’s self excesses, except with persons whom one wishes soon
to leave. He does not know that himself; but happily for him, I have
knowledge for two.
I perceive that it is three o’clock in the morning, and that I have
written a volume, with the intention but to write a word. Such is the
charm of constant friendship: ’tis on account of that, that you are
always he whom I love the best; but, in truth, the Chevalier pleases me
more.
Paris, 12th August, 17**.
LETTER THE ELEVENTH
THE PRÉSIDENTE DE TOURVEL TO MADAME DE VOLANGES
YOUR severe letter would have alarmed me, Madame, if happily I had
not found here more causes for security than you give me for being
afraid. This redoubtable M. de Valmont, who must be the terror of every
woman, seems to have laid down his murderous arms before coming to
this _château_. Far from forming any projects there, he has not even
advanced any pretensions: and the quality of an amiable man, which even
his enemies accord him, almost disappears here, to be superseded by
that of frank good-nature.
It is apparently the country air which has brought about this miracle.
What I can assure you is that, being constantly with me, even
seeming to take pleasure in my company, he has not let fall one word
which resembles love, not one of those phrases which all men permit
themselves, without having, like him, what is required to justify them.
He never compels one to that reserve which every woman who respects
herself is forced to maintain nowadays, in order to repress the men who
encircle her. He knows how not to abuse the gaiety which he inspires.
He is perhaps somewhat of a flatterer; but it is with so much delicacy,
that he would accustom modesty itself to praise. In short, if I had
a brother, I should desire him to be such as M. de Valmont reveals
himself here. Perhaps, many women would ask a more marked gallantry
from him; and I admit that I owe him infinite thanks for knowing how to
judge me so well as not to confound me with them.
Doubtless, this portrait differs mightily from that which you send
me: and in spite of that, neither need contradict the other, if one
compares the dates. He confesses himself that he has committed many
faults; and some others will have been fathered on him. But I have
met few men who spoke of virtuous women with greater respect, I might
almost say enthusiasm. You teach me that at least in this matter he
is no deceiver. His conduct towards Madame de Merteuil is a proof of
this. He talks much to us of her, and it is always with so much praise,
and with the air of so true an attachment, that I believed, until I
received your letter, that what he called the friendship between the
two was actually love. I reproach myself for this hasty judgment,
wherein I was all the more wrong, in that he himself has often been at
the pains to justify her. I confess that I took for cunning what was
honest sincerity on his part. I do not know, but it seems to me a man
who is capable of so persistent a friendship for a woman so estimable
cannot be a libertine beyond salvation. I am, for the rest, ignorant
as to whether we owe the quiet manner of life which he leads here to
any projects he cherishes in the vicinity, as you assume. There are,
indeed, certain amiable women near us, but he rarely goes abroad,
except in the morning, and then he tells us that it is to shoot. It is
true that he rarely brings back any game; but he assures us that he
is not a skilful sportsman. Moreover, what he may do without causes me
little anxiety; and if I desired to know, it would only be in order to
be convinced of your opinion or to bring you back to mine.
As to your suggestion to me to endeavour to cut short the stay which M.
de Valmont proposes to make here, it seems to me very difficult to dare
to ask his aunt not to have her nephew in her house, the more so in
that she is very fond of him. I promise you, however, but only out of
deference and not for any need, to seize any opportunity of making this
request, either to her or to himself. As for myself, M. de Tourvel is
aware of my project of remaining here until his return, and he would be
astonished, and rightly so, at my frivolity, were I to change my mind.
These, Madame, are my very lengthy explanations: but I thought I owed
it to truth to bear my testimony in M. de Valmont’s favour; it seems to
me he stood in great need of it with you. I am none the less sensible
of the friendship which dictated your counsels. To that also I am
indebted for your obliging remarks to me on the occasion of the delay
as to your daughter’s marriage. I thank you for them most sincerely:
but however great the pleasure which I promise myself in passing those
moments with you, I would sacrifice them with a good will to my desire
to know Mlle. de Volanges more speedily happy, if, indeed, she could
ever be more so than with a mother so deserving of all her affection
and respect. I share with her those two sentiments which attach me to
you, and I pray you kindly to receive my assurance of them.
I have the honour to be, etc.
At the Château de ..., 13th August, 17**.
LETTER THE TWELFTH
CÉCILE VOLANGES TO THE MARQUISE DE MERTEUIL
MAMMA is indisposed, Madame; she cannot leave the house, and I
must keep her company: I shall not, therefore, have the honour of
accompanying you to the Opera. I assure you that I do not regret the
performance nearly so much as not to be with you. I pray that you will
be convinced of this. I love you so much! Would you kindly tell M. le
Chevalier Danceny that I have not the selection of which he spoke to
me, and that if he can bring it to me to-morrow, it will give me great
pleasure? If he comes to-day, he will be told that we are not at home;
but that is because Mamma cannot receive anybody. I hope that she will
be better to-morrow.
I have the honour to be, etc.
Paris, 13th August, 17**.
LETTER THE THIRTEENTH
THE MARQUISE DE MERTEUIL TO CÉCILE VOLANGES
I AM most grieved, my pretty one, both at being deprived of the
pleasure of seeing you, and at the cause of this privation. I hope that
the opportunity will recur. I will acquit myself of your commission
with the Chevalier Danceny, who will certainly be distressed to hear
of your Mamma’s sickness. If she can receive me to-morrow, I will
come and keep her company. She and I will assault the Chevalier de
Belleroche[10] at piquet, and while we win his money, we shall have the
additional pleasure of hearing you sing with your amiable master, to
whom I will suggest it. If this is convenient to your Mamma and to you,
I can answer for myself and my two cavaliers. Adieu, my pretty one; my
compliments to dear Madame de Volanges. I kiss you most tenderly.
Paris, 13th August, 17**.
LETTER THE FOURTEENTH
CÉCILE VOLANGES TO SOPHIE CARNAY
I DID not write to you yesterday, my dear Sophie, but it was not
pleasure which was the cause; of that I can assure you. Mamma was ill,
and I did not leave her all day. In the evening, when I retired, I
had no heart for anything at all, and I went to bed very quickly, to
make sure that the day was done; never have I passed a longer. It is
not that I do not love Mamma dearly; but I do not know what it was. I
was to have gone to the Opera with Madame de Merteuil; the Chevalier
Danceny was to have been there. You know well that they are the two
persons whom I like best. When the hour arrived when I should have been
there, my heart was sore in spite of me. I did not care for anything,
and I cried, cried, without being able to stop myself. Happily Mamma
had gone to bed, and could not see me. I am quite sure that the
Chevalier Danceny will have been sorry too, but he will have been
amused by the spectacle, and by everybody; that’s very different.
Luckily, Mamma is better to-day, and Madame de Merteuil is coming with
somebody else and the Chevalier Danceny; but she always comes very
late, Madame de Merteuil; and when one is so long all by one’s self,
it is very tiresome. It is not yet eleven o’clock. It is true that
I must play on my harp; and then my toilette will take me some time,
for I want my hair to be done nicely to-day. I think Mother Perpétue
is right and that one becomes a coquette as soon as one enters the
world. I have never had such a desire to look pretty as during the last
few days, and I find I am not as much so as I thought; and then, by
the side of women who use rouge, one loses much. Madame de Merteuil,
for instance; I can see that all the men think her prettier than me:
that does not vex me much, because she is so fond of me; and then she
assures me that the Chevalier Danceny thinks I am prettier than she. It
is very nice of her to have told me that! She even seemed to be pleased
at it. Well, that’s a thing I can’t understand! It’s because she likes
me so much! And he!... Oh, that gives me so much pleasure! I think too
that only to look at him is enough to make one prettier. I should look
at him always, if I did not fear to meet his eyes: for every time that
that happens to me, it puts me out of countenance, and seems as though
it hurt me; but no matter!
Adieu, my dear friend: I am going to make my toilette. I love you as
dearly as ever.
Paris, 14th August, 17**.
LETTER THE FIFTEENTH
THE VICOMTE DE VALMONT TO THE MARQUISE DE MERTEUIL
IT is very nice of you not to abandon me to my sad fate. The life I
lead here is really fatiguing, from the excess of its repose and its
insipid monotony. Reading your letter and the details of your charming
day, I was tempted a score of times to invent some business, to fly
to your feet, and beg of you an infidelity, in my favour, to your
Chevalier, who, after all, does not merit his happiness. Do you know
that you have made me jealous of him? Why talk to me of an eternal
rupture? I abjure that vow, uttered in a moment of frenzy: we should
not have been worthy to make it, had we meant to keep it. Ah, that I
might one day avenge myself, in your arms, for the involuntary vexation
which the happiness of your Chevalier has caused me! I am indignant, I
confess, when I think that this man, without reasoning, without giving
himself the least trouble, but quite stupidly following the instinct
of his heart, should find a felicity to which I cannot attain. Oh, I
will trouble it!... Promise me that I shall trouble it. You yourself,
are you not humiliated? You take the trouble to deceive him, and he is
happier than you. You believe he is in your chains! It is, indeed,
you, who are in his. He sleeps tranquilly, whilst you watch over his
pleasures. What more would his slave do?
Listen, my lovely friend: so long as you divide yourself among many,
I have not the least jealousy; I see then in your lovers only the
successors of Alexander, incapable of preserving amongst them all that
empire over which I reigned alone. But that you should give yourself
entirely to one of them! That another man should exist as fortunate
as myself! I will not suffer it; do not hope that I shall suffer it.
Either take me back, or, at least, take someone else; and do not
betray, by an exclusive caprice, the inviolate bond of friendship which
we have sworn.
It is quite enough, no doubt, that I should have to complain of love.
You see, I lend myself to your ideas, and confess my errors. In fact,
if to be in love is to be unable to live without possessing the object
of one’s desire, to sacrifice to it one’s time, one’s pleasures, one’s
life, I am very really in love. I am no more advanced for that. I
should not even have anything at all to tell you of in this matter, but
for an incident which gives me much food for reflexion, and as to which
I know not yet whether I must hope or fear.
You know my _chasseur_, a treasure of intrigue, and a real valet of
comedy: you can imagine that his instructions bade him to fall in love
with the waiting-maid, and make the household drunk. The knave is more
fortunate than I: he has already succeeded. He has just discovered
that Madame de Tourvel has charged one of her people to inform himself
as to my behaviour, and even to follow me in my morning expeditions,
as far as he could without being observed. What is this woman’s
pretension? Thus then the most modest of them all yet dares do things
which we should hardly venture to permit ourselves. I swear...! But
before I think of avenging myself for this feminine ruse, let us occupy
ourselves over methods of turning it to our advantage. Hitherto, these
excursions which are suspected have had no object; needs must I give
them one. This deserves all my attention, and I take leave of you to
ponder upon it. Farewell, my lovely friend.
Still at the Château de ..., 15th August, 17**.
LETTER THE SIXTEENTH
CÉCILE VOLANGES TO SOPHIE CARNAY