you: but I must talk to someone; it is stronger than I! This Chevalier
Danceny ... I am so perturbed that I can hardly write: I do not know
where to begin. Ever since I related to you the sweet evening[11] which
I passed at Mamma’s, with him and Madame de Merteuil, I have said no
more about him to you: it is because I did not want to speak of him
to anybody; but I was thinking of him constantly. Since then he has
grown so sad--oh, sad, sad!--that it gave me pain; and when I asked
him why, he answered that it was not so; but I could well see that it
_was_. Finally, yesterday he was even sadder than ordinarily. This did
not prevent him from having the kindness to sing with me as usual;
but every time that he looked at me it gripped my heart. When we had
finished singing, he went to shut up my harp in its case; and returning
the key to me, begged me to play again that evening when I was alone.
I had no suspicion of anything at all; I did not even want to play: but
he begged me so earnestly that I told him yes. He, certainly, had his
motive. In effect, when I had retired to my room and my waiting-maid
had gone, I went to get my harp. In the strings I found a letter,
simply folded, with no seal, and it was from him. Ah, if you knew all
he asks of me! Since I have read his letter, I feel so much delight
that I can think of nothing else. I read it four times straight off,
and then shut it up in my desk. I knew it by heart; and, when I was in
bed, I repeated it so often that I had no thought to sleep. As soon as
I shut my eyes, I saw him there; he told me himself all that I had just
read. I did not get to sleep till quite late; and, as soon as I was
awake (it was still quite early), I went to get his letter and read it
again at my ease. I carried it to bed with me, and then I kissed it as
if.... Perhaps I did wrong to kiss a letter like that, but I could not
check myself.
At present, my dear friend, if I am very happy, I am also much
embarrassed; for, assuredly, I ought not to reply to this letter. I
know that I should not, and yet he asks me to; and, if I do not reply,
I am sure he will be sad again. All the same, it is very unfortunate
for him! What do you advise me to do? But you can no more tell than
I. I have a great desire to speak of it to Madame de Merteuil, who is
so fond of me. I should indeed like to console him; but I should not
like to do anything wrong. We are always recommended to cherish a kind
heart! and then they forbid us to follow its inspiration, directly
there is question of a man! That is not just either. Is not a man our
neighbour as much as a woman, if not more so? For, after all, has not
one one’s father as well as one’s mother, one’s brother as well as
one’s sister? The husband is still something extra. Nevertheless, if I
were to do something which was not right, perhaps M. Danceny himself
would no longer have a good opinion of me! Oh, rather than that, I
would sooner see him sad; and then, besides, I shall always have time
enough. Because he wrote yesterday, I am not obliged to write to-day:
I shall be sure to see Madame de Merteuil this evening, and, if I have
the courage, I will tell her all. If I only do what she tells me, I
shall have nothing to reproach myself with. And then, perhaps, she will
tell me that I may answer him _a little_, so that he need not be so
sad! Oh, I am in great trouble!
Farewell, my dear friend; tell me, all the same, what you think.
Paris, 19th August, 17**.
LETTER THE SEVENTEENTH
THE CHEVALIER DANCENY TO CÉCILE VOLANGES
BEFORE succumbing, Mademoiselle, to the pleasure, or, shall I say, the
necessity of writing to you, I commence by imploring you to hear me. I
feel that, to be bold enough to declare my sentiments, I have need of
indulgence; did I but wish to justify them, it would be useless to me.
What am I about to do, after all, save to show you your handiwork? And
what have I to tell you, that my eyes, my embarrassment, my conduct
and even my silence have not told you already? And why should you
take offence at a sentiment to which you have given birth? Emanating
from you, it is worthy to be offered to you; if it is ardent as my
soul, it is pure as your own. Shall it be a crime to have known how to
appreciate your charming face, your seductive talents, your enchanting
graces, and that touching candour which adds inestimable value to
qualities already so precious? No, without a doubt: but without being
guilty, one may be unhappy; and that is the fate which awaits me if you
refuse to accept my homage. It is the first that my heart has offered.
But for you, I should have been, not happy, but tranquil. I have seen
you, repose has fled far away from me, and my happiness is insecure.
Yet you are surprised at my sadness; you ask me its cause: sometimes,
I have even thought to see that it affected you. Ah, speak but a word
and my felicity will be your handiwork! But, before you pronounce it,
remember that one word can also fill the cup of my misery. Be then
the arbiter of my destiny. Through you I am to be eternally happy
or wretched. In what dearer hands can I commit an interest of such
importance?
I shall end as I have begun, by imploring your indulgence. I have
begged you to hear me; I will dare more, I will pray you to reply to
me. A refusal would lead me to think that you were offended and my
heart is a witness that my respect is equal to my love.
P.S. You can make use, to send a reply, of the same method which I
employed to bring this letter into your hands; it seems to me as
convenient as it is secure.
Paris, 18th August, 17**.
LETTER THE EIGHTEENTH
CÉCILE VOLANGES TO SOPHIE CARNAY
WHAT, Sophie! You blame me in advance for what I am about to do! I
had already enough anxiety, and here you are increasing it. Clearly,
you say, I ought not to answer. You speak with great confidence; and
besides, you do not know exactly how things are: you are not here to
see. I am sure that, were you in my place, you would act like me.
Assuredly, as a general rule, one ought not to reply; and you can see
from my letter of yesterday that I did not want to either: but the
thing is, I do not think anyone has _ever_ found herself in quite my
case.
And still to be obliged to take my decision all unaided! Madame de
Merteuil, whom I counted on seeing yesterday evening, did not come.
Everything conspires against me: it is through her that I know him! It
is almost always with her that I have seen him, that _I_ have spoken to
him. It is not that I have any grudge against her; but she leaves me
just in the embarrassing moment. Oh, I am greatly to be pitied!
Imagine! He came here yesterday just as he used to. I was so confused
that I dared not look at him. He could not speak to me, because Mamma
was there. I quite expected that he would be grieved, when he should
find that I had not written to him. I did not know what face to wear.
A moment later he asked me if I should like him to bring me my harp.
My heart beat so quick, that it was as much as I could do to answer
yes. When he came back, it was even worse. I only looked at him for
a second. He--he did not look at me, but he had such a look that
one would have thought him ill. It made me very unhappy. He began
to tune my harp, and afterwards, coming close to me, he said, “Ah,
Mademoiselle!”.... He only said these two words; but it was with such
an accent that I was quite overwhelmed. I struck the first chords on my
harp without knowing what I was doing. Mamma asked me if we were not
going to sing. He excused himself, saying that he was not feeling well,
and I, who had no excuse--I had to sing. I could have wished that I had
never had a voice. I chose purposely an air which I did not know; for
I was quite sure that I could not sing anything, and was afraid that
something would be noticed. Luckily, there came a visit, and as soon as
I heard the carriage wheels, I stopped, and begged him to take away my
harp. I was very much afraid lest he should leave at the same time; but
he came back.
Whilst Mamma and the lady who had arrived were talking together, I
wanted to look at him again for one instant. I met his eyes, and it was
impossible for me to turn away my own. A moment later, I saw the tears
rise, and he was obliged to turn away in order not to be observed. For
an instant I could no longer hold myself in; I felt that I too should
weep. I went out, and at once wrote in pencil, on a scrap of paper: “Do
not be so sad, I implore you; I promise to give you a reply.” Surely,
you cannot see any harm in that, and then it was stronger than I. I
put my paper in the strings of my harp, where his letter had been, and
returned to the _salon_. I felt more calm.
It seemed to me very long until the lady went away. Luckily, she had
more visits to pay; she went away shortly afterwards. As soon as she
was gone, I said that I wanted to have my harp again, and begged him to
go and fetch it. I saw from his expression that he suspected nothing.
But, on his return, oh, how pleased he was! As he set down my harp in
front of me, he placed himself in such a position that Mamma could not
see, and he took my hand, which he squeezed ... but, in such a way! ...
it was only for a moment: but I could not tell you the pleasure which
it gave me. However, I withdrew it; so I have nothing for which to
reproach myself.
And now, my dear friend, you must see that I cannot abstain from
writing to him, since I have given my promise; and then I am not going
to give him any more pain; for I suffer more than he does. If it were
a question of doing anything wrong, I should certainly not do it.
But what harm can there be in writing, especially when it is to save
somebody from being unhappy? What embarrasses me is that I do not know
how to write my letter: but he will surely feel that it is not my
fault; and then I am certain that as long as it only comes from me, it
will give him pleasure.
Adieu, my dear friend. If you think that I am wrong, tell me; but I do
not think so. The nearer the moment of writing to him comes, the more
does my heart beat: more than you can conceive. I must do it, however,
since I have promised. Adieu.
Paris, 17th August, 17**.
LETTER THE NINETEENTH
CÉCILE VOLANGES TO THE CHEVALIER DANCENY
YOU were so sad yesterday, Monsieur, and that made me so sorry, that I
went so far as to promise to reply to the letter which you wrote me. I
none the less feel to-day that I ought not to do this: however, as I
have promised, I do not wish to break my word, and that must prove how
much friendship I feel for you. Now that you know that, I hope you will
not ask me to write to you again. I hope also that you will tell nobody
that I have written to you, because I should be certainly blamed, and
that might cause me a great deal of pain. I hope, above all, that you
yourself will not form a bad opinion of me, which would grieve me
more than anything. I can give you every assurance that I would not
have done as much to anyone except yourself. I should be very glad if
you would do me a favour in your turn, and be less sad than you were:
it takes away all the pleasure that I feel in seeing you. You see,
Monsieur, I speak to you very sincerely. I ask nothing better than that
I may always keep your friendship; but I beg of you do not write to me
again.
I have the honour to be,
CÉCILE VOLANGES.
Paris, 20th August, 17**.
LETTER THE TWENTIETH
THE MARQUISE DE MERTEUIL TO THE VICOMTE DE VALMONT
AH, wretch, so you flatter me, for fear that I shall make a mock of
you! Come, I pardon you: you write me such a heap of nonsense that
I must even forgive you the virtue in which you are kept by your
Présidente. I do not think my Chevalier would show as much indulgence
as I do; he would not be the man to approve the renewal of our
contract, or to find anything amusing in your mad idea. I have laughed
mightily over it, however, and was really vexed that I had to laugh
over it by myself. If you had been there, I know not whither this
merriment might not have led us; but I have had time for reflexion,
and am armed with severity. I do not say that I refuse for ever; but I
postpone, and I am right to do so. I should bring my vanity with me,
and once wounded at the game, one knows not where one stops. I should
be the woman to enslave you again, to make you forget your Présidente;
and if I--unworthy I--were to disgust you with virtue, consider the
scandal! To avoid these dangers, here are my conditions:
As soon as you have had your lovely bigot, as soon as you can furnish
me with the proof, come to me and I am yours. But you cannot be
ignorant that, in affairs of importance, only written proofs are
admitted. By this arrangement, on one part, I shall become a recompense
instead of being a consolation, and that notion likes me better: on
the other hand, your success will have added piquancy by being itself
a means to an infidelity. Come then, come as soon as possible, and
bring me the gage of your triumph; like those valiant knights of ours,
who came to lay at their ladies’ feet the brilliant fruits of their
victory. Seriously, I am curious to know what a prude can write after
such a moment, and what veil she casts over her language, after having
discarded any from her person. It is for you to say whether I price
myself too high; but I forewarn you that there is no abatement. Till
then, my dear Vicomte, you will find it good that I remain faithful
to my Chevalier and amuse myself by making him happy, in spite of the
slight annoyance this may cause you.
However, if my morals were less severe, I think you would have, at this
moment, a dangerous rival: the little Volanges girl. I am bewitched by
this child: it is a real passion. Unless I be deceived, she will become
one of our most fashionable women. I see her little heart developing,
and it is a ravishing spectacle. She already loves her Danceny with
ardour; but she knows nothing about it yet. He himself, although
greatly in love, has still the timidity of his age, and dares not as
yet tell her too much about it. The two of them are united in adoring
me. The little one especially has a mighty desire to confide her secret
to me. A few days ago, particularly, I saw her really oppressed, and
should have done her a great service by assisting her a little: but I
do not forget that she is a child, and I should not like to compromise
myself. Danceny has spoken to me somewhat more clearly; but with him
my course is resolved; I refuse to hear him. As to the little one, I am
often tempted to make her my pupil; it is a service that I would fain
render Gercourt. He leaves me the time, since he is to stay in Corsica
until the month of October. I have a notion to make use of that time,
and that we will give him a fully formed woman, instead of his innocent
school-girl. In effect, what must be the insolent sense of security
of this man, that he dare sleep in comfort, whilst a woman who has to
complain of him has not yet been avenged? Believe me, if the child were
here at this moment, I do not know what I would not say to her.
Adieu, Vicomte; good-night, and success to you: but do, for God’s sake,
make progress. Bethink you that, if you do not have this woman, the
others will blush for having taken you.
Paris, 20th August, 17**.
LETTER THE TWENTY-FIRST
THE VICOMTE DE VALMONT TO THE MARQUISE DE MERTEUIL
AT last, my lovely friend, I have taken a step forward: a really great
step, and one which, if it has not taken me to my goal, has at least
let me know that I am on the right road, and dispelled the fear I was
in, that I was lost. I have at last declared my love; and although the
most obstinate silence had been maintained, I have obtained a reply
that is, perhaps, the least equivocal and the most flattering: but let
us not anticipate events, let us begin further back.
You will remember that a watch was set upon my movements. Well, I
resolved that this scandalous means should turn to public edification;
and this is what I did. I charged my confidant with the task of finding
me some poor wretch in the neighbourhood who was in need of succour.
This commission was not difficult to fulfil. Yesterday afternoon, he
gave me the information that they were going to seize to-day, in the
morning, the goods of a whole family who could not pay their taxes. I
assured myself that there was no girl or woman amongst this household
whose age or face might render my action suspicious; and, when I was
well informed, I declared at supper my intention of going after game
in the morning. Here I must render justice to my Présidente; doubtless
she felt a certain remorse at the orders which she had given; and, not
having the strength to vanquish her curiosity, she had at least enough
to oppose my desire. It was going to be excessively hot; I ran the risk
of making myself ill; I should kill nothing, and tire myself to no
purpose; and during all this dialogue, her eyes, which spoke, perhaps,
better than she wished, let me see quite sufficiently that she desired
me to take these bad reasons for good. I was careful not to surrender,
as you may believe, and I even resisted a little diatribe against
sportsmen and sport and a little cloud of ill-humour which obscured,
during all the evening, that celestial brow. I feared for a moment
that her orders had been revoked, and that her delicacy might hinder
me. I did not calculate on the strength of a woman’s curiosity; and so
was deceived. My _chasseur_ reassured me the same evening, and I went
satisfied to bed.
At daybreak I rose and started off. Barely fifty yards from the
_château_, I perceived the spy who was to follow me. I started after
the game, and walked across country to the village whither I wished
to make, with no other pleasure on the road than to give a run to the
rogue who followed me, and who, not daring to quit the road, often had
to cover, at full speed, a three times greater distance than mine. By
dint of exercising him, I was excessively hot myself, and I sat down
at the foot of a tree. He had the insolence to steal behind a bush,
not twenty paces from me, and to sit down as well! I was tempted for a
moment to fire my gun at him, which, although it only contained small
shot, would have given him a sufficient lesson as to the dangers of
curiosity: luckily for him, I remembered that he was useful and even
necessary to my projects; this reflexion saved him.
However, I reach the village; I see the commotion; I step forward; I
question somebody; the facts are related. I have the collector called
to me; and, yielding to my generous compassion, I pay nobly fifty-six
livres, for lack of which five persons were to be left to straw and
their despair. After this simple action, you cannot imagine what a
crowd of benedictions echoed round me from the witnesses of the scene!
What tears of gratitude poured from the eyes of the aged head of the
family, and embellished his patriarchal face, which, a moment before,
had been rendered really hideous by the savage marks of despair! I was
watching this spectacle, when another peasant, younger, who led a woman
and two children by the hands, advanced to me with hasty steps and said
to them, “Let us all fall at the feet of this image of God;” and at the
same instant I was surrounded by the family, prostrate at my knees. I
will confess my weakness: my eyes were moistened by tears, and I felt
an involuntary but delicious emotion. I am astonished at the pleasure
one experiences in doing good; and I should be tempted to believe that
what we call virtuous people have not so much merit as they lead us to
suppose. However that may be, I found it just to pay these poor people
for the pleasure which they had given me. I had brought ten louis with
me, and I gave them these. The acknowledgments began again, but they
were not pathetic to the same degree: necessity had produced the great,
the true effect; the rest was but a simple expression of gratitude and
astonishment at superfluous gifts.
[Illustration: Fragonard fils del. Bertaux et Dupréel sculpᵗ.]
However, in the midst of the loquacious benedictions of this family,
I was by no means unlike the hero of a drama, in the scene of the
_dénouement_. Above all, you will remark the faithful spy was also
in this crowd. My purpose was fulfilled: I disengaged myself from
them all, and regained the _château_. On further consideration, I
congratulated myself on my inventive genius. This woman is, doubtless,
well worth all the pains I take; they will one day be my titles with
her; and having, in some sort, as it were, paid in advance, I shall
have the right to dispose of her, according to my fantasy, without
having any cause to reproach myself.
I forgot to tell you that, to turn everything to profit, I asked these
good people to pray for the success of my projects. You shall see
whether their prayers have not been already in part hearkened to....
But they come to tell me that supper is ready, and it would be too late
to dispatch this letter, if I waited to end it after rising from table.
“To be continued,” therefore, “in our next.” I am sorry, for the sequel
is the finest part. Adieu, my lovely friend. You steal from me a moment
of the pleasure of seeing her.
At the Château de ..., 20th August, 17**.
LETTER THE TWENTY-SECOND
THE PRÉSIDENTE DE TOURVEL TO MADAME DE VOLANGES
YOU will, doubtless, be well pleased, Madame, to hear of a trait in M.
de Valmont which is in great contrast to all those under which you have
represented him to me. It is so painful to have to think unfavourably
of anybody, so grievous to find only vices in people who should possess
all the qualities necessary to make virtue lovable! Moreover, you love
so well to be indulgent that, were it only to oblige you, I must give
you a reason for reconsidering your too harsh judgment. M. de Valmont
seems to me entitled to hope for this favour, I might almost say this
justice; and this is on what I base my opinion.
This morning he made one of those excursions which might lead one to
believe in some project on his part, in the vicinity, just as the idea
came to you of one; an idea which I accuse myself of having entertained
with too much precipitation. Luckily for him, and above all luckily for
us, since we are thus saved from being unjust, one of my men happened
to be going in the same direction[12] and it is from this source that
my reprehensible but fortunate curiosity was satisfied. He related
to us that M. de Valmont, having found an unfortunate family in the
village of ---- whose goods were being sold because they were unable
to pay their taxes, not only hastened to pay the debt of these poor
people, but even added to this gift a considerable sum of money. My
servant was a witness of this virtuous action; and he related to me in
addition that the peasants, talking amongst themselves and with him,
had said that a servant, whom they described, and who is believed by
mine to be that of M. de Valmont, had sought information yesterday as
to any of the inhabitants of the village who might be in need of help.
If that be so, it was not merely a passing feeling of compassion,
suggested by the opportunity: it was the deliberate project of doing
good; it was a search for the chance of being benevolent; it was the
fairest virtue of the most noble souls: but be it chance or design, it
is none the less a laudable and generous action, the mere recital of
which moved me to tears. I will add more, and still from a sense of
justice, that when I spoke to him of this action, which he had never
mentioned, he began by excusing himself, and had the air of attaching
so little importance to it, that the merit of it was enhanced by his
modesty.
After that, tell me, my esteemed friend, if M. de Valmont is indeed an
irreclaimable libertine? If he can be no more than that and yet behave
so, what is left for honest folk? What! are the wicked to share with
the good the sacred joy of charity? Would God permit that a virtuous
family should receive from the hands of a villain succour for which
they render thanks to Divine Providence, and could it please Him to
hear pure lips bestow their blessings upon a reprobate? No! I prefer
to hold that errors, long as they may have lasted, do not endure for
ever; and I cannot think that he who does good can be the enemy of
virtue. M. de Valmont is perhaps only one more instance of the danger
of associations. I remain of this opinion which pleases me. If, on one
side, it may serve to justify him in your opinion, on the other, it
renders more and more precious to me the tender friendship which unites
me to you for life.
I have the honour to be, etc.
P.S. Madame de Rosemonde and I are going this moment to see for
ourselves this worthy and unfortunate family, and to unite our tardy
aid to that of M. de Valmont. We shall take him with us. We shall at
least give these good people the pleasure of seeing their benefactor:
that is, I believe, all he has left for us to do.
At the Château de ..., 20th August, 17**.
LETTER THE TWENTY-THIRD
THE VICOMTE DE VALMONT TO THE MARQUISE DE MERTEUIL
I LEFT off at my return to the _château_: I resume my tale.