drawing-room, where my beauty was working at her tapestry, whilst the
_curé_ of the place was reading the gazette to my old aunt. I went
and took my seat by the frame. Glances sweeter than were customary,
and almost caressing, enabled me soon to divine that the servant had
already given an account of his mission. Indeed, the dear, inquisitive
lady could no longer keep the secret which she had acquired; and
without fear of interrupting a venerable pastor, whose recital indeed
resembled a sermon: “I too have a piece of news to recite,” said she;
and suddenly related my adventure, with an exactitude which did honour
to the intelligence of her historian. You may conceive what play I
made with my modesty: but who can stop a woman, when she praises the
man whom, without knowing it, she loves? I decided therefore to let
her have her head. One would have thought she was making the panegyric
of a saint. All this time I was observing, not without hope, all
the promises of love in her animated gaze; her gesture, which had
become more lively; and, above all, her voice, which, by its already
perceptible alteration, betrayed the emotion of her soul. She had
hardly finished speaking when: “Come, my nephew,” said Madame de
Rosemonde to me, “come and let me embrace you.” I felt at once that the
pretty preacher could not prevent herself from being embraced in her
turn. However, she wished to fly; but she was soon in my arms, and, so
far from having the strength to resist, she had scarcely sufficient to
maintain herself. The more I observe this woman, the more desirable she
appears to me. She hastened to return to her frame, and to everybody
had the appearance of resuming her tapestry. But I saw well that her
trembling hand prevented her from continuing her work.
After dinner, the ladies insisted on going to see the unfortunates
whom I had so piously succoured; I accompanied them. I spare you the
tedium of this second scene of gratitude and praise. My heart, impelled
by a delicious recollection, hurries on the moment for return to the
_château_. On the way, my fair Présidente, more pensive than is her
wont, said never a word. Occupied as I was in seeking the means of
profiting by the effect which the episode of the day had produced, I
maintained the same silence. Madame de Rosemonde was the only one to
speak, and obtained from us but scant and few replies. We must have
bored her; that was my intention, and it succeeded. Thus, on stepping
from the carriage, she passed into her apartment and left my fair one
and myself _tête-à-tête_, in a dimly lighted room--a sweet obscurity
which emboldens timid love.
I had not to be at the pains to lead the conversation into the channel
which I wished. The fervour of the amiable preacheress served me
better than any skill of my own.
“When one is capable of doing good,” said she, letting her sweet gaze
rest on me, “how can one pass one’s life in doing ill?”
“I do not deserve, either that praise or that censure,” said I, “and I
cannot imagine how you, who have so clear a wit, have not yet divined
me. Though my confidence may damage me in your eyes, you are far too
worthy of it that I should be able to refuse it. You will find the key
to my conduct in my character, which is unhappily far too easy-going.
Surrounded by persons of no morality, I have imitated their vices; I
have perhaps made it a point of vanity to surpass them. In the same
way, attracted here by the example of virtue, without ever hoping to
come up to you, I have, at least, endeavoured to imitate you. Ah,
perhaps the action for which you praise me to-day would lose all value
in your eyes if you knew its true motive!” (You see, my fair friend,
how near the truth I touched.) “It is not to myself,” I went on,
“that these unfortunates owe their rescue. Where you think you see a
praiseworthy action, I did but seek a means to please. I was nothing
else, since I must say it, but the weak agent of the divinity whom I
adore.” (Here she would have interrupted me, but I did not give her
time.) “At this very moment even,” I added, “my secret only escapes
from my weakness. I had vowed that I would be silent before you; I made
it my happiness to render to your virtues as much as to your charms a
pure homage of which you should always remain ignorant; but incapable
of deception, when I have before my eyes the example of candour, I
shall not have to reproach myself to you with guilty dissimulation.
Do not believe that I insult you by entertaining any criminal hope. I
shall be miserable, I know; but my sufferings will be dear to me: they
will prove to me the immensity of my love; it is at your feet, it is
on your bosom that I will cast down my woes. There shall I draw the
strength to suffer anew; there shall I find compassionate bounty, and
I shall deem myself consoled because you will have pitied me. Oh, you
whom I adore! hearken to me, pity me, succour me!”
By this time I was at her feet, and I pressed her hands in mine; but
she suddenly disengaged them and, folding them over her eyes, cried
with an expression of despair, “Oh, wretched me!” then burst into
tears. Luckily I was exalted to such a degree that I also wept; and,
seizing her hands again, I bathed them with my tears. This precaution
was most necessary; for she was so full of her grief that she would
not have perceived my own, had I not taken this means of informing
her. I moreover gained the privilege of considering at my leisure that
charming face, yet more embellished by the potent charm of her tears.
My head grew hot, and so little was I master of myself that I was
tempted to profit by that moment.
What is this weakness of ours? of what avail is the force of
circumstances if, forgetting my own projects, I risked losing, by a
premature triumph, the charms of a long battle and the details of a
painful defeat; if, seduced by the desires of youth, I thought of
exposing the conqueror of Madame de Tourvel to the pain of plucking,
for the fruit of victory, but the insipid consolation of having had
one woman more? Ah, let her surrender, but let her first fight; let
her, without having strength to conquer, have enough to resist; let her
relish at her leisure the sentiment of her weakness and be constrained
to confess her defeat! Let us leave it to the obscure poacher to kill
at a bound the stag he has surprised; your true hunter will give it
a run. Is not this project of mine sublime? Yet perhaps I should be
now regretting that I had not followed it, had not chance come to the
rescue of my prudence.
We heard a noise. Someone was coming to the drawing-room. Madame de
Tourvel, in alarm, rose precipitately, seized one of the candles, and
left the room. I could not but let her go. It was only one of the
servants. As soon as I was assured of this, I followed her. I had
hardly gone a few paces, before, whether that she had recognized me, or
for some vague sentiment of terror, she quickened her steps, and flung
herself into, rather than entered, her chamber, the door of which she
closed behind her. I went after her; but the door was locked inside. I
was careful not to knock; that would have been to give her the chance
of a too easy resistance. I had the good and simple idea of peeping
through the key-hole, and I saw this adorable woman on her knees,
bathed with tears, and fervently praying. What God did she dare invoke?
Is there one potent enough to resist love? In vain, henceforward, will
she invoke extraneous aid! ’Tis I who will order her destiny.
Thinking I had done enough for one day, I too withdrew to my own room,
and started to write to you. I hoped to see her again at supper;
but she had given out that she was indisposed, and had gone to bed.
Madame de Rosemonde wished to go up to her; but the cunning invalid
alleged a headache which prevented her from seeing anybody. You may
guess that after supper the interval was short, and that I too had my
headache. Withdrawing to my room, I wrote a long letter to complain
of this severity, and went to bed with the intention of delivering it
to her this morning. I slept badly, as you can see by the date of this
letter. I rose and re-read my epistle. I discovered that I had not been
sufficiently restrained, had exhibited less love than ardour. It must
be written again, but in a calmer mood.
I see the day break, and I hope the freshness which accompanies it will
bring me sleep. I am going to return to my bed; and, whatever may be
the power of this woman over me, I promise you never to be so occupied
with her as to lack time to think much of you. Adieu, my lovely friend!
At the Château de ..., 21st August, 17**,
at four o’clock in the morning.
LETTER THE TWENTY-FOURTH
THE VICOMTE DE VALMONT TO THE PRÉSIDENTE DE TOURVEL
AH, Madame, deign in pity to calm the trouble of my soul, deign to tell
me what I am to hope or fear. Cast between the extremes of happiness
and misfortune, uncertainty is a cruel torment. Why did I speak to you?
Why did I not know how to resist the imperious charm which betrayed my
thoughts to you? Content to adore you in silence, I had at least the
consolation of my love; and this pure sentiment, untroubled then by
the image of your grief, sufficed for my felicity; but that source of
happiness has become my despair, since I saw your tears flow, since I
heard that cruel _Ah, wretched me!_
Madame, those words will echo long within my heart. By what fatality
can the sweetest of the sentiments inspire nothing but terror? What
then is this fear? Ah, it is not that of reciprocation: your heart,
which I have misunderstood, is not made for love; mine, which you
calumniate unceasingly is the only one which is disturbed: yours is
even pitiless. If it were not so, you would not have refused a word of
consolation to the wretch who told you of his sufferings; you would
not have withdrawn yourself from his sight, when he has no other
pleasure than that of seeing you; you would not have played a cruel
game with his anxiety by letting him be told that you were ill, without
permitting him to go and inform himself of your health; you would have
felt that the same night which did but mean for you twelve hours of
repose would be for him a century of pain.
For what cause, tell me, have I deserved this intolerable severity?
I do not fear to take you for my judge: what have I done, then, but
yield to an involuntary sentiment, inspired by beauty and justified by
virtue, always restrained by respect, the innocent avowal of which was
the effect of trust and not of hope? Will you betray that trust, which
you yourself seemed to permit me, and to which I yielded myself without
reserve? No, I cannot believe that: it would be to imply a fault in
you, and my heart revolts at the bare idea of detecting one. I withdraw
my reproaches; write them I can, but think them never! Ah, let me
believe you perfect; it is the one pleasure which is left me! Prove to
me that you are so by granting me your generous aid. What poor wretch
have you ever helped who was in so much need as I? Do not abandon me
to the frenzy in which you have plunged me: lend me your reason since
you have ravished mine; after having corrected me, give me light to
complete your work.
I would not deceive you; you will never succeed in subduing my
love; but you shall teach me to moderate it: by guiding my conduct,
by dictating my speech, you will save me, at least, from the dire
misfortune of displeasing you. Dispel above all that dreadful fear;
tell me that you forgive me, that you pity me; assure me of your
indulgence. You will never have as much as I should desire in you; but
I invoke that of which I have need: will you refuse it me?
Adieu, Madame; be kind enough to receive the homage of my sentiments;
it hinders not that of my respect.
At the Château de ..., 20th August, 17**.
LETTER THE TWENTY-FIFTH
THE VICOMTE DE VALMONT TO THE MARQUISE DE MERTEUIL
THIS is yesterday’s bulletin. At eleven o’clock I visited Madame de
Rosemonde, and, under her auspices, I was introduced into the presence
of the pretended invalid, who was still in her bed. Her eyes looked
very worn; I hope she slept as badly as I did. I seized a moment when
Madame de Rosemonde had turned away to deliver my letter: it was
refused; but I left it on the bed, and went decorously to the side of
my old aunt’s arm-chair. She wished to be near _her dear child_. It
was necessary to conceal the letter to avoid scandal. The invalid was
artless enough to say that she thought she had a little fever. Madame
de Rosemonde persuaded me to feel her pulse, vaunting mightily my
knowledge of medicine. My beauty then had the double vexation of being
forced to give me her hand, and of feeling that her little falsehood
was to be discovered. I took her hand, which I pressed in one of
mine, whilst, with the other, I ran over her fresh and rounded arm.
The naughty creature made no response, which impelled me to say, as I
withdrew, “There is not even the slightest symptom.” I suspected that
her gaze would be severe, and, to punish her, I refused to meet it: a
moment later she said that she wished to rise, and we left her alone.
She appeared at dinner, which was a sombre one; she gave out that she
would not take a walk, which was as much as to tell me that I should
have no opportunity of conversing with her. I was well aware that, at
this point, I must put in a sigh and a mournful look; no doubt she was
waiting for that, for it was the one moment of the day when I succeeded
in meeting her eyes. Virtuous as she is, she has her little ruses like
another. I found a moment to ask of her “if she had had the kindness to
inform me of my fate,” and I was somewhat astonished when she answered,
“Yes, Monsieur, I have written to you.” I was mighty anxious to have
this letter, but whether it were a ruse again, or for awkwardness,
or shyness, she did not give it to me till the evening, when she was
retiring to her apartment. I send it you, as well as the first draft
of mine; read and judge; see with what signal falsity she says that
she feels no love, when I am sure of the contrary; and then she will
complain if I deceive her afterwards, when she does not fear to deceive
me before! My lovely friend, the cleverest of men can do no more than
keep on a level with the truest woman. I must needs, however, feign to
believe all this nonsense, and weary myself with despair, because it
pleases Madame to play at severity! It is hard not to be revenged on
such baseness! Ah, patience!... But adieu. I have still much to write.
By the way, return me the letter of the fair barbarian; it might happen
later that she would expect one to attach a value to those wretched
sheets, and one must be in order.
I say nothing to you of the little Volanges; we will talk of her at an
early day.
At the Château de ..., 22nd August, 17**.
LETTER THE TWENTY-SIXTH
THE PRÉSIDENTE DE TOURVEL TO THE VICOMTE DE VALMONT
ASSUREDLY, Monsieur, you would never have received any letter from
me, did not my foolish conduct of yesterday evening compel me to-day
to have an explanation with you. Yes, I wept, I confess it: perhaps,
too, the words which you are so careful to quote to me did escape me;
tears and words, you remarked everything; I must then explain to you
everything.
Accustomed to inspire only honourable sentiments, to hear only
conversation to which I can listen without a blush, and consequently to
enjoy a feeling of security which I venture to say I deserve, I know
not how either to dissimulate or to combat the impressions I receive.
The astonishment and embarrassment into which your conduct threw me; a
fear, I know not of what, inspired by a situation which should never
have been thrust upon me; perhaps, even the revolting idea of seeing
myself confounded with the women whom you despise, and treated as
lightly as they are: all these causes in conjunction provoked my tears,
and may have made me say, I think with reason, that I was wretched.
This expression, which you think so strong, would certainly have been
far too weak, if my tears and utterance had another motive; if,
instead of disapproving sentiments which must need offend me, I could
have feared lest I should share them.
No, Monsieur, I have not that fear; if I had, I would fly a hundred
leagues away from you, I would go and weep in a desert at the
misfortune of having known you. Perhaps even, in spite of the certainty
in which I am of not loving you, of never loving you, perhaps I should
have done better to follow the counsels of my friends, and forbid you
to approach me.
I believed, and it is my sole error, I believed that you would respect
a virtuous woman, who asked nothing better than to find you so and
to do you justice; who already was defending you, whilst you were
outraging her with your criminal avowals. You do not know me; no,
Monsieur, you do not know me. Otherwise you would not have thought
to make a right out of your error: because you had made proposals to
me which I ought not to hear, you would not have thought yourself
authorized to write me a letter which I ought not to read: and you ask
me _to guide your conduct, to dictate to you your speech_! Very well,
Monsieur, silence and forgetfulness, those are the counsels which it
becomes me to give you, as it will you to follow them; then you will
indeed have rights to my indulgence: it will only rest with you to
obtain even my gratitude.... But no, I will not address a request to a
man who has not respected me; I will give no mark of confidence to a
man who has abused my security. You force me to fear, perhaps to hate
you: I did not want to; I wished to see in you naught else than the
nephew of my most respected friend; I opposed the voice of friendship
to the public voice which accused you. You have destroyed it all; and
I foresee, you will not want to repair it.
I am anxious, Monsieur, to make it clear to you that your sentiments
offend me; that their avowal is an outrage to me; and, above all,
that, so far from my coming one day to share them, you would force me
to refuse ever again to see you, if you do not impose on yourself, as
to this subject, the silence which it seems to me I have the right
to expect and even to demand from you. I enclose in this letter that
which you have written to me, and I beg that you will similarly return
me this: I should be sincerely grieved if any trace remained of an
incident which ought never to have occurred.
I have the honour to be, etc.
At the Château de ..., 21st August, 17**.
LETTER THE TWENTY-SEVENTH
CÉCILE VOLANGES TO THE MARQUISE DE MERTEUIL
LORD! how good you are, Madame! how well you understood that it would
be easier to me to write to you than to speak! What I have to tell you,
too, is very difficult; but is it not true that you are my friend? Oh
yes, my very dear friend! I am going to try not to be afraid; and then,
I have so much need of you, of your counsels! I am so very grieved, it
seems to me that everybody guesses my thoughts; and, especially when he
is there, I blush as soon as anyone looks at me. Yesterday, when you
saw me crying, it was because I wished to speak to you, and then, I do
not know what prevented me; and, when you asked me what was the matter,
my tears flowed in spite of myself. I could not have said a single
word. But for you, Mamma would have noticed it; and what would have
become of me then? That is how I pass my life, especially since four
days ago!
It was on that day, Madame, yes, I am going to tell you, it was on that
day that M. le Chevalier Danceny wrote to me: oh, I assure you that
when I found his letter, I did not know at all what it was: but, not to
tell a falsehood, I cannot tell you that I did not take a great deal
of pleasure in reading it; you see, I would sooner have sorrow all my
life than that he should not have written it. But I knew well that I
ought not to tell him that, and I can even assure you that I told him I
was vexed at it: but he said that it was stronger than himself, and I
quite believe it; for I had resolved not to answer him, and yet I could
not help myself. Oh, I have only written to him once, and even that was
partly to tell him not to write to me again: but, in spite of that, he
goes on writing to me; and, as I do not answer him, I see quite well
that he is sad, and that pains me more still: so much that I no longer
know what to do, nor what will happen, and I am much to be pitied.
Tell me, I beg you, Madame, would it be very wrong to reply to him from
time to time? Only until he has been able to resolve not to write to
me any more himself, and to stay as we were before: for, as for me, if
this continues, I do not know what will happen to me. See, in reading
his last letter, I cried as though I should never have done; and I am
very sure that if I do not answer him again, it will cause us a great
deal of pain.
I am going to send you his letter as well, or rather a copy, and you
will decide; you will quite see there is no harm in what he asks.
However, if you think that it must not be, I promise you to restrain
myself; but I believe that you will think like me, and that there is no
harm there.
Whilst I am about it, Madame, permit me to ask you one more question.
They have always told me that it was wrong to love anyone; but why is
that? What makes me ask you is that M. le Chevalier Danceny maintains
that it is not wrong at all, and that almost everybody loves; if that
is so, I do not see why I should be the only one to refrain from it;
or is it then that it is only wrong for young ladies? For I have heard
Mamma herself say that Madame D*** was in love with Monsieur M***, and
she did not speak of it as a thing which was so very wrong; and yet
I am sure she would be angry with me, if she were only to suspect my
liking for M. Danceny. She treats me always like a child, does Mamma;
and she tells me nothing at all. I believed, when she took me from the
convent, that it was to marry me; but at present it seems no: it is
not that I care about it, I assure you; but you who are so friendly
with her know, perhaps, how it stands; and, if you know, I hope you
will tell me. This is a very long letter, Madame; but, since you have
allowed me to write to you, I have profited by it to tell you all, and
I count on your friendship.
I have the honour to be, etc.
Paris, 23rd August, 17**.
LETTER THE TWENTY-EIGHTH
THE CHEVALIER DANCENY TO CÉCILE VOLANGES.
WHAT, Mademoiselle! you still refuse to answer me! Nothing can bend
you, and each day bears away with it the hope which it had brought!
What then is this friendship which you agree subsists between us, if
it be not even powerful enough to render you sensible to my pain; if
it leaves you cold and tranquil, whilst I experience the torments
of a fire that I cannot extinguish; if, far from inspiring you with
confidence, it does not even suffice to induce your pity? What! your
friend suffers and you do nothing to help him! He does but ask you for
a word, and you refuse him that! And you wish him to content himself
with a sentiment so feeble, of which you even fear to reiterate the
assurance!
You would not be ungrateful, you said yesterday: ah, believe me,
Mademoiselle, to be ready to repay love with friendship is not to fear
ingratitude, it is to dread only the having the appearance of it.
However, I dare not discuss with you a sentiment which can only be a
burden to you, if it does not interest you; I must at least confine
it within myself until I learn how to conquer it. I feel how painful
this task will be; I do not hide from myself that I shall have need of
all my strength; I will attempt every means; there is one which will
cost my heart most dearly, it is that of repeating to myself often that
your own is insensible. I will even try to see you less often, and I am
already busy in seeking a plausible excuse.
What! I should lose the sweet habit of seeing you every day! Ah, at
least I shall never cease to regret it! An eternal sorrow will be the
price of the most tender love; and you will have wished it, and it will
be your work! Never, I feel it, shall I recover the happiness I lose
to-day; you alone were made for my heart; with what delight I would
take a vow to live only for you! But this vow you will not accept; your
silence teaches me well enough that your heart says nothing to you in
my behalf: it is at once the surest proof of your indifference and the
most cruel fashion of announcing it to me. Adieu, Mademoiselle.
I dare not flatter myself with the hope of a reply: love would have
written to me with impatience, friendship with pleasure, even pity with
complacence; but pity, friendship and love are equally strangers to
your heart.
Paris, 13th August, 17**.
LETTER THE TWENTY-NINTH
CÉCILE VOLANGES TO SOPHIE CARNAY