I assure you that I reproach myself greatly with having followed your
advice, which has brought so much grief to the Chevalier Danceny and to
myself. The proof that I was right is that Madame de Merteuil, who is a
woman who surely knows, thinks as I do. I confessed everything to her.
She talked to me at first as you did: but when I had explained all to
her, she agreed that it was very different; she only asks me to shew
her all my letters and all those of the Chevalier Danceny, in order to
make sure that I say nothing but what I should; thus, at present, I am
tranquil. Heavens, how I love Madame de Merteuil! She is so good! and
she is a woman very much respected. Thus, there is nothing more to be
said.
How I am going to write to M. Danceny, and how pleased he will be! He
will be even more so than he thinks, for hitherto I have only spoken
of my friendship, and he always wanted me to tell him of my love. I
think it was much the same thing; but anyhow, I did not dare, and he
longed for that. I told this to Madame de Merteuil; she told me that I
was right, and that one ought not to confess that one feels love, until
one can no longer restrain one’s self: now I am sure that I could not
restrain myself any longer; after all, it is the same thing, and it
will give him greater pleasure.
Madame de Merteuil told me also that she would lend me books which
spoke of all that, and which would teach me to behave myself properly,
and to write better than I know now: for, you see, she tells me of
all my faults, which is a proof how much she likes me; she has only
recommended me to say nothing to Mamma of these books, because that
would seem to suggest that she has neglected my education, and that
might vex her. Oh, I shall say nothing about it to her!
It is very extraordinary, however, that a woman who is scarcely related
to me should take more care of me than my mother! It is very lucky for
me to have known her!
She has also asked Mamma to bring me the day after to-morrow to the
Opera, in her box; she has told me that we shall be quite alone there,
and we are to talk all the time, without fear of being overheard:
I like that much better than the opera. We shall speak also of my
marriage: for she has told me that it was quite true that I was to be
married; but we have not been able to say more about it. By the way, is
it not astonishing that Mamma has said nothing about it at all?
Adieu, my Sophie, I am going to write to the Chevalier Danceny. Oh! I
am very happy.
Paris, 24th August, 17**.
LETTER THE THIRTIETH
CÉCILE VOLANGES TO THE CHEVALIER DANCENY
AT last, Monsieur, I consent to write to you, to assure you of my
friendship, of my _love_, since without that you would be unhappy. You
say that I have not a good heart; I assure you, indeed, that you are
mistaken, and I hope, at present, you no longer doubt it. If you have
been grieved that I have not written to you, do you suppose that that
did not grieve me as well? But the fact is that, for nothing in the
world, would I like to do anything that was wrong; and I would not even
have told you of my love, if I could have prevented myself: but your
sadness gave me too much pain. I hope that, at present, you will be sad
no longer, and that we shall both be very happy.
I trust to have the pleasure of seeing you this evening, and that you
will come early; it will never be so early as I could wish. Mamma is to
sup at home, and I believe she will ask you to stay: I hope you will
not be engaged as you were the day before yesterday. Was the supper you
went to so very agreeable? For you went to it very early. But come,
let us not talk of that: now that you know I love you, I hope you will
remain with me as much as you can, for I am only happy when I am with
you, and I should like you to feel the same.
I am very sorry that you are still sad at this moment, but it is not my
fault. I will ask if I may play on the harp as soon as you arrive, in
order that you may get my letter at once. I can do no more.
Adieu, Monsieur. I love you well, with my whole heart: the more I tell
you, the better pleased I am; I hope that you will be so too.
Paris, 24th August, 17**.
LETTER THE THIRTY-FIRST
THE CHEVALIER DANCENY TO CÉCILE VOLANGES
YES, without a doubt, we shall be happy. My happiness is well assured,
since I am loved by you; yours will never end, if it is to last as long
as that which you have inspired in me. What! You love me, you no longer
fear to assure me of your _love_! _The more you tell me, the better
pleased you are!_ After reading that charming _I love you_, written
by your hand, I heard your sweet mouth repeat the confession. I saw
fixed upon me those charming eyes, which their expression of tenderness
embellished still more. I received your vow to live ever for me. Ah,
receive mine, to consecrate my whole life to your happiness; receive it
and be sure that I will never betray it!
What a happy day we passed yesterday! Ah, why has not Madame de
Merteuil secrets to tell your Mamma every day? Why must it be that
the idea of constraint, which follows us, comes to mingle with
the delicious recollection which possesses me? Why can I not hold
unceasingly that pretty hand, which has written to me _I love you_,
cover it with kisses, and avenge myself so for the refusal you have
given me of a greater favour!
Tell me, my Cécile, when your Mamma had returned; when we were forced
by her presence to have only indifferent looks for one another; when
you could no longer console me, with the assurance of your love, for
the refusal you made to give me any proofs of it: did you have no
sentiment of regret? Did you not say to yourself: a kiss would have
made him happier, and it is I who have kept this joy from him? Promise
me, my charming friend, that on the first opportunity you will be less
severe. With the aid of this promise, I shall find the courage to
support the vexations which circumstances have in store for us; and the
cruel privations will be at least softened by my certainty that you
share my regret.
Adieu, my charming Cécile: the hour is at hand when I must go to your
house. It would be impossible to quit you, were it not to go and see
you again. Adieu, you whom I love so dearly! you whom I shall love ever
more and more!
Paris, 25th August, 17**.
LETTER THE THIRTY-SECOND
MADAME DE VOLANGES TO THE PRÉSIDENTE DE TOURVEL
YOU ask me then, Madame, to believe in the virtue of M. de Valmont? I
confess that I cannot bring myself to it, and that I should find it as
hard a task to believe in his honour, from the one fact that you relate
to me, as to believe in the viciousness of a man of known probity,
for the sake of one error. Humanity is not perfect in any fashion; no
more in the case of evil than in that of good. The criminal has his
virtues, just as the honest man has his weaknesses. This truth appears
to me all the more necessary to believe, in that from it is derived
the necessity of indulgence towards the wicked as well as to the good,
and that it safeguards the latter from pride as it does the former
from discouragement. You will doubtless think that I am practising but
sorrily, at this moment, the indulgence which I preach; but I see in it
only a dangerous weakness, when it leads us to treat the vicious and
the man of integrity alike.
I will not permit myself to criticize the motives of M. de Valmont’s
action; I would fain believe them as laudable as the act itself: but
has he any the less spent his life in involving families in trouble,
scandal and dishonour? Listen, if you will, to the voice of the
wretched man he has succoured; but let not that prevent you from
hearing the cries of the hundred victims whom he has sacrificed. Were
he only, as you say, an instance of the danger of acquaintances, would
that make him any less dangerous as an acquaintance himself? You assume
him to be capable of a happy reformation? Let us go further: suppose
this miracle accomplished; would not public opinion remain against
him, and does not that suffice to regulate your conduct? God alone
can absolve at the moment of repentance; he reads in men’s hearts:
but men can only judge of thoughts by deeds; and none amongst them,
after having lost the esteem of others, has a right to complain of the
necessary distrust which renders this loss so difficult to repair.
Remember above all, my dear young friend, that it sometimes suffices
to lose this respect, merely to have the air of attaching too little
value to it; and do not tax this severity with injustice: for, apart
from our being obliged to believe that no one renounces this precious
possession who has the right to pretend to it, he is, indeed, more
liable to misdoing who is not restrained by this powerful brake. Such,
nevertheless, would be the aspect under which an intimate acquaintance
with M. de Valmont would display you, however innocent it might be.
Alarmed at the warmth with which you defend him, I hasten to anticipate
the objections which I foresee you will make. You will quote Madame de
Merteuil, to whom this acquaintance has been pardoned; you will ask me
why I receive him at my house; you will tell me that, far from being
repulsed by people of honour, he is admitted, sought after, even, in
what is called good society. I believe I can answer everything.
To begin with, Madame de Merteuil, a most estimable person indeed,
has perhaps no other fault save that of having too much confidence
in her own strength; she is a skilful guide who delights in taking a
carriage betwixt a mountain and a precipice, and who is only justified
by success: it is right to praise her, it would be imprudent to imitate
her; she herself admits it and reproaches herself for it. In proportion
as she has seen more, have her principles become more severe; and I do
not fear to assure you that she would think as I do.
As to what concerns myself, I will not justify myself more than others.
No doubt I receive M. de Valmont, and he is received everywhere: it
is one inconsistency the more to add to the thousand others which
rule society. You know, as well as I do, how one passes one’s life in
remarking them, bemoaning them, and submitting to them. M. de Valmont,
with a great name, a great fortune, many amiable qualities, early
recognized that, to obtain an empire over society, it was sufficient
to employ, with equal skill, praise and ridicule. None possesses as he
does this double talent: he seduces with the one, and makes himself
feared with the other. People do not esteem him; but they flatter him.
Such is his existence in the midst of a world which, more prudent than
courageous, would rather humour than combat him.
But neither Madame de Merteuil herself, nor any other woman, would
for a moment think of shutting herself up in the country, almost in
solitude, with such a man. It was reserved for the most virtuous, the
most modest of them all to set the example of such an inconsistency:
forgive the word, it escapes from my friendship. My lovely friend,
your very virtue betrays you by the security with which it fills you.
Reflect then that you will have for judges, on the one side, frivolous
folk, who will not believe in a virtue the pattern of which they do
not find in themselves; and on the other, the ill-natured, who will
feign not to believe in it, in order to punish you for its possession.
Consider that you are doing, at this moment, what certain men would
not venture to risk. In fact, amongst our young men, of whom M. de
Valmont has only too much rendered himself the oracle, I remark the
most prudent fear to seem too intimate with him; and you, are you not
afraid? Ah, come back, come back, I conjure you!... If my reasons are
not sufficient to convince you, yield to my friendship; it is that
which makes me renew my entreaties, it is for that to justify them.
You think it severe, and I trust that it may be needless; but I would
rather you had to complain of its anxiety than of its neglect.
Paris, 24th August, 17**.
LETTER THE THIRTY-THIRD
THE MARQUISE DE MERTEUIL TO THE VICOMTE DE VALMONT
THE moment that you are afraid of success, my dear Vicomte, the moment
that your plan is to furnish arms against yourself and that you are
less desirous to conquer than to fight, I have no more to say to you.
Your conduct is a masterpiece of prudence. It would be one of folly in
the contrary supposition; and, to tell the truth, I fear that you are
under an illusion.
What I reproach you with is not that you did not take advantage of the
moment. On the one side, I do not clearly see that it had arrived; on
the other, I am quite aware, although they assert the contrary, that
an occasion once missed returns, whereas one never recovers a too
precipitate action. But the real blunder is that you should have let
yourself start a correspondence. I defy you at present to foretell
whither that may lead you. Do you hope, by any chance, to prove to this
woman that she must surrender? It appears to me that therein can only
lie a truth of sentiment and not of demonstration; and that to make her
admit it is a matter of acting on her feelings, and not of arguing; but
in what will it serve you to move her by letter, since you will not be
at hand to profit by it? If your fine phrases produce the intoxication
of love, do you flatter yourself that it will last so long that there
will be no time left for reflexion to prevent the confession of it?
Reflect only of the time it takes to write a letter, of that which
passes before it can be delivered, and see whether a woman, especially
one with the principles of your _dévote_, can wish so long that which
it is her endeavour to wish never. This method may succeed with
children, who, when they write, “I love you,” do not know that they say
“I yield myself.” But the argumentative virtue of Madame de Tourvel
seems to me to be fully aware of the value of terms. Thus, in spite of
the advantage which you had over her in your conversation, she beats
you in her letter. And then, do you know what happens? Merely for the
sake of argument, one refuses to yield. By dint of searching for good
reasons, one finds, one tells them; and afterwards one clings to them,
not because they are good, so much as in order not to give one’s self
the lie.
In addition, a point which I wonder you have not yet made: there is
nothing so difficult in love as to write what you do not feel. I mean
to write in a convincing manner: it is not that you do not employ the
same words, but you do not arrange them in the same way; or rather, you
arrange them, and that suffices. Read over your letter: there is an
order presiding over it which betrays you at each turn. I would fain
believe that your Présidente is too little formed to perceive it: but
what matter? it has no less failed of its effect. It is the mistake of
novels; the author whips himself to grow heated, and the reader remains
cold. _Héloïse_ is the only one which forms an exception, and, in spite
of the talent of the author, this observation has ever made me believe
that the substance of it was true. It is not the same in speaking. The
habit of working the instrument gives sensibility to it; the facility
of tears is added; the expression of desire in the eyes is confounded
with that of tenderness; in short, the less coherent speech promotes
more easily that air of trouble and confusion which is the true
eloquence of love; and above all the presence of the beloved object
forbids reflexion, and makes us desire to be won.
Believe me, Vicomte: you are asked to write no more; take advantage of
that to retrieve your mistake, and wait for an opportunity to speak. Do
you know, this woman has more strength than I believed? Her defence is
good; and, but for the length of her letter, and the pretext which she
gives you to return to the question in her phrase about gratitude, she
would not have betrayed herself at all.
What appears to me, again, to ensure your success is the fact that she
uses too much strength at one time; I foresee that she will exhaust it
in the defence of the word, and that no more will be left her for that
of the thing.
I return you your two letters, and, if you are prudent, they will be
the two last, until after the happy moment. If it were not so late,
I would speak to you of the little Volanges who is coming on quickly
enough, and with whom I am greatly pleased. I believe that I shall have
finished before you, and you ought to be very glad thereat. Adieu, for
to-day.
Paris, 24th August, 17**.
LETTER THE THIRTY-FOURTH
THE VICOMTE DE VALMONT TO THE MARQUISE DE MERTEUIL
YOU speak with perfect truth, my fair friend: but why put yourself to
so much fatigue to prove what nobody disputes? To move fast in love,
’tis better to speak than to write; that is, I believe, the whole
of your letter. Why, those are the most simple elements in the art
of seduction! I will only remark that you make but one exception to
this principle, and that there are two. To children, who walk in this
way from shyness and yield themselves from ignorance, must be added
the _femmes beaux-esprits_, who let themselves be enticed therein by
self-conceit and whom vanity leads into the snare. For instance, I am
quite sure that the Comtesse de B***, who answered my first letter
without any difficulty, had, at that time, no more love for me than I
for her, and that she only saw an occasion for treating a subject which
should be worthy of her pen.
However that may be, an advocate will tell you that principles are not
applicable to the question. In fact, you suppose that I have a choice
between writing and speaking, which is not the case. Since the affair
of the 19th, my fair barbarian, who keeps on the defensive, has shown a
skill in avoiding interviews which has disconcerted my own. So much so
that, if this continues, I shall be forced to occupy myself seriously
with the means of regaining this advantage; for assuredly I will not be
routed by her in any way. My letters even are the subject of a little
war; not content with leaving them unanswered, she refuses to receive
them. For each one a fresh artifice is necessary, and it does not
always succeed.
You will remember by what a simple means I gave her the first; the
second presented no further difficulty. She had asked me to return
her letter; I gave her my own instead, without her having the least
suspicion. But whether from vexation at having been caught, or from
caprice or, in short, virtue, for she will force me to believe in
it, she obstinately refused the third. I hope, however, that the
embarrassment into which the consequence of this refusal has happened
to throw her will correct her for the future.
I was not much surprised that she would not receive this letter, which
I offered her quite simply; that would already have been to grant a
certain favour, and I am prepared for a longer defence. After this
essay, which was but an attempt made in passing, I put my letter in
an envelope; and seizing the moment of the toilette, when Madame de
Rosemonde and the chamber-maid were present, I sent it her by my
_chasseur_, with an order to tell her that it was the paper for which
she had asked me. I had rightly guessed that she would dread the
scandalous explanation which a refusal would necessitate: she took
the letter; and my ambassador, who had received orders to observe her
face, and who has good eyes, did but perceive a slight blush, and more
embarrassment than anger.
I congratulated myself then, for sure, either that she would keep
this letter, or that, if she wished to return it to me, it would be
necessary for her to find herself alone with me, which would give me
a good occasion to speak. About an hour afterwards, one of her people
entered my room, and handed me, on behalf of his mistress, a packet
of another shape than mine, on the envelope of which I recognized the
writing so greatly longed for. I opened it in haste.... It was my
letter itself, the seal unbroken, merely folded in two. I suspect that
her fear that I might be less scrupulous than herself on the subject of
scandal had made her employ this devil’s ruse.
You know me: I need be at no pains to depict to you my fury. It was
necessary, however, to regain one’s _sang-froid_, and seek for fresh
methods. This is the only one that I found:
They send from here every morning to fetch the letters from the post,
which is about three quarters of a league away: they employ for
this purpose a box with a lid almost like an alms-box, of which the
post-master has one key and Madame de Rosemonde the other. Everyone
puts his letters in it during the day, when it seems good to him:
in the evening they are carried to the post, and in the morning
those which have arrived are sent for. All the servants, strange or
otherwise, perform this service. It was not the turn of my servant;
but he undertook to go, under the pretext that he had business in that
direction.
Meantime I wrote my letter. I disguised my handwriting in the address,
and I counterfeited with some skill upon the envelope the stamp of
Dijon. I chose this town, because I found it merrier, since I was
asking for the same rights as the husband, to write also from the same
place, and also because my fair had spoken all day of the desire
she had to receive letters from Dijon. It seemed to me only right to
procure her this pleasure.
These precautions once taken, it was easy enough to add this letter to
the others. I moreover succeeded by this expedient in being a witness
of the reception; for the custom is to assemble for breakfast, and to
wait for the arrival of the letters before separating.
Madame de Rosemonde opened the box. “From Dijon,” she said, giving the
letter to Madame de Tourvel.
“It is not my husband’s writing,” she answered in a troubled voice,
hastily breaking the seal.
The first glances instructed her; and her face underwent such an
alteration that Madame de Rosemonde perceived it, and asked, “What is
the matter with you?”
I also drew near, saying, “Is this letter then so very dreadful?”
The shy _dévote_ dared not raise her eyes; she said not a word; and,
to hide her embarrassment, pretended to run over the epistle, which
she was scarcely in a state to read. I enjoyed her confusion, and not
being sorry to gird her a little, I added, “Your more tranquil air bids
me hope that this letter has caused you more astonishment than pain.”
Anger then inspired her better than prudence could have done.
“It contains,” she answered, “things which offend me, and that I am
astounded anyone has dared to write to me.”
“Who has sent it?” interrupted Madame de Rosemonde.
“It is not signed,” answered the angry fair one; “but the letter and
its author inspire me with equal contempt. You will oblige me by
speaking no more of it.”
With that she tore up the audacious missive, put the pieces into her
pocket, rose, and left the room.
In spite of this anger she has none the less had my letter; and I rely
upon her curiosity to have taken care that she read it through.
The detailed relation of the day would take me too far. I add to
this account the first draft of my two letters; you will thus be as
fully informed as myself. If you want to be _au courant_ with this
correspondence, you must accustom yourself to deciphering my minutes;
for nothing in the world could I support the tedium of copying them.
Adieu, my lovely friend!
At the Château de ..., 25th August, 17**.
LETTER THE THIRTY-FIFTH
THE VICOMTE DE VALMONT TO THE PRÉSIDENTE DE TOURVEL
I MUST needs obey you, Madame; I must prove to you that, in the midst
of the faults which you are pleased to ascribe to me, there is left me
at least enough delicacy not to permit myself a reproach, and enough
courage to impose on myself the most grievous sacrifices. You order me
to be silent and to forget! Well! I will force my love to be silent;
and I will forget, if that be possible, the cruel manner in which you
have met it. Doubtless my desire to please you did not bear with it the
right; and more, I confess that the need I had of your indulgence was
not a title to obtain it: but you look upon my love as an outrage; you
forget that if it could be a wrong, you would be at once its cause and
its excuse.