leave this _château_, where a further stay on your part could not but
expose me more to the judgment of a public which is ever ready to
think ill of others, and which you have but too well accustomed to
fix its gaze upon the women who admit you to their society. Already
warned, long ago, of this danger by my friends, I neglected, I even
disputed their warning, so long as your behaviour towards myself
could make me believe that you would not confound me with the host
of women who all have had reason to complain of you. To-day, when
you treat me like them, as I can no longer but know, I owe it to the
public, to my friends, to myself, to adopt this necessary course. I
might add here that you would gain nothing by denying my request, as
I am determined to leave myself, if you insist on remaining; but I
do not seek to diminish the obligation which you will confer on me
by this complaisance, and I am quite willing that you should know
that, by rendering my departure hence necessary, you would upset my
arrangements. Prove to me then, Monsieur, that, as you have so often
told me, virtuous women shall never have cause to complain of you;
prove, at least, that, when you have done them wrong, you know how to
repair it. If I thought I had need to justify my request to you, it
would suffice to say that you have spent your life in rendering it
necessary; and that, notwithstanding, it has not rested with me that I
should ever make it. But let us not recall events which I would forget,
and which would oblige me to judge you with rigour at a moment when I
offer you an opportunity of earning all my gratitude. Adieu, Monsieur;
your conduct will teach me with what sentiments I must be, for life,
your most humble, etc.
At the Château de ..., 25th August, 17**.
LETTER THE FORTY-SECOND
THE VICOMTE DE VALMONT TO THE PRÉSIDENTE DE TOURVEL
HOWEVER hard, Madame, the conditions that you impose on me, I do not
refuse to fulfil them. I feel that it would be impossible for me to
thwart any of your desires. Once agreed upon this point, I dare flatter
myself in my turn that you will permit me to make certain requests to
you, far easier to grant than your own, which, however, I do not wish
to obtain, save by my complete submission to your will.
The one, which I hope will be solicited by your sense of justice, is to
be so good as to name to me those who have accused me to you; they have
done me, it seems, harm enough to give me the right of knowing them:
the other, which I expect from your indulgence, is kindly to permit me
to repeat to you sometimes the homage of a love which will now, more
than ever, deserve your pity.
Reflect, Madame, that I am hastening to obey you, even when I can but
do it at the expense of my happiness; I will say more, in spite of my
conviction that you only desire my absence in order to spare yourself
the spectacle, always painful, of the object of your injustice.
Admit, Madame, you are less afraid of a public which is too much used
to respecting you to dare form a disrespectful judgment upon you than
you are annoyed by the presence of a man whom you find it easier to
punish than to blame. You drive me away from you as one turns away
one’s eyes from some poor wretch whom one does not wish to succour.
But, whereas absence is about to redouble my torments, to whom other
than you can I address my complaints? From whom else can I expect the
consolations which are about to become so necessary to me? Will you
refuse me them, when you alone cause my pains?
Doubtless, you will not be astonished either that, before I leave, I
have it on my heart to justify to you the sentiments which you have
inspired in me; as also that I do not find the courage to go away until
I receive the order from your mouth. This twofold reason compels me
to ask you for a moment’s interview. In vain would we seek to supply
the place of that by letters: one may write volumes and explain poorly
what a quarter of an hour’s conversation were enough to leave amply
understood. You will easily find the time to accord it me; for, however
eager I may be to obey you, you know that Madame de Rosemonde is aware
of my intention to spend a part of the autumn with her, and I must at
least wait for a letter in order to have the pretext of some business
to call me away.
Adieu, Madame; never has this word cost me so much to write as at this
moment, when it brings me back to the idea of our separation. If you
could imagine what it makes me suffer, I dare believe you would have
some thanks for my docility. At least, receive with more indulgence the
assurance and the homage of the most tender and the most respectful
love.
At the Château de ..., 26th August, 17**.
CONTINUATION OF LETTER THE FORTIETH
THE VICOMTE DE VALMONT TO THE MARQUISE DE MERTEUIL
AND now let us sum up, my lovely friend. You can feel, like myself,
how the scrupulous, the virtuous Madame de Tourvel cannot grant me
the first of my requests, and betray the confidence of her friends,
by naming to me my accusers; thus, by promising everything on this
condition, I pledge myself to nothing. But you will feel also that the
refusal which she will give me will become a title to obtain everything
else; and that then I gain, by going away, the advantage of entering
into a regular correspondence with her, and by her consent: for I take
small account of the interview which I ask of her, and which has hardly
any other object than that of accustoming her beforehand not to refuse
me others when they become really needful.
The only thing which remains for me to do before my departure is to
find out who are the people who busy themselves with damaging me in her
eyes. I presume it is her pedant of a husband; I would fain have it so:
apart from the fact that a conjugal prohibition is a spur to desire, I
should feel sure that, from the moment my beauty has consented to write
to me, I should have nothing to fear from her husband, since she would
already be under the necessity of deceiving him.
But if she has a friend intimate enough to possess her confidence, and
this friend be against me, it seems to me necessary to embroil them,
and I count on succeeding in that: but before all I must be rightly
informed.
I quite thought that I was going to be yesterday; but this woman does
nothing like another. We were visiting her at the moment when it was
announced that dinner was ready. Her toilette was only just completed;
and while I bestirred myself and made my apologies, I perceived that
she had left the key in her writing-desk; and I knew her custom was not
to remove that of her apartment. I was thinking of this during dinner,
when I heard her waiting-maid come down: I seized my chance at once;
I pretended that my nose was bleeding, and left the room. I flew to
the desk; but I found all the drawers open and not a sheet of writing.
Yet one has no opportunity of burning papers at this season. What does
she do with the letters she receives? And she receives them often. I
neglected nothing; everything was open, and I sought everywhere; but I
gained nothing except a conviction that this precious store-house must
be her pocket.
How to obtain them? Ever since yesterday I have been busying myself
vainly in seeking for a means: yet I cannot overcome the desire. I
regret that I have not the talents of a thief. Should these not, in
fact, enter into the education of a man who is mixed up in intrigues?
Would it not be agreeable to filch the letter or the portrait of a
rival, or to pick from the pockets of a prude the wherewithal to unmask
her? But our parents have no thought for anything; and for me, ’tis all
very well to think of everything, I do but perceive that I am clumsy,
without being able to remedy it.
However that may be, I returned to table much dissatisfied. My beauty,
however, soothed my ill-humour somewhat, with the air of interest which
my pretended indisposition gave her; and I did not fail to assure
her that for some time past I had had violent agitations which had
disturbed my health. Convinced as she is that it is she who causes
them, ought she not, in all conscience, to endeavour to assuage them?
But _dévote_ though she be, she has small stock of charity; she refuses
all amorous alms, and such a refusal, to my view, justifies a theft.
But adieu; for all the time I talk to you, I am thinking of those
cursed letters.
At the Château de ..., 27th August, 17**.
LETTER THE FORTY-THIRD
THE PRÉSIDENTE DE TOURVEL TO THE VICOMTE DE VALMONT
WHY seek, Monsieur, to diminish my gratitude? Why be willing to give me
but a half-obedience, and make, as it were, a bargain of an honourable
action? Is it not sufficient for you then that I feel the cost of it?
You not only ask much, but you ask things which are impossible. If, in
truth, my friends have spoken to me of you, they have only done it in
my interest: even if they have been deceived, their intention was none
the less good; and you propose to me to reward this mark of attachment
on their part by delivering you their secret! I have already done wrong
in speaking to you of it, and you make me very conscious of that at
this moment. What would have been no more than candour with another
becomes a blunder with you, and would lead me to an ignominy did I
yield to you. I appeal to yourself, to your honour; did you think me
capable of such a proceeding? Ought you to have suggested it to me? No,
without a doubt; and I am sure that, on further reflexion, you will not
repeat this request.
That which you make as to writing to me is scarcely easier to grant;
and, if you care to be just, it is not me whom you will blame. I do not
wish to offend you; but, with the reputation which you have acquired,
and which, by your own confession, is at least in part deserved, what
woman could own to be in correspondence with you? and what virtuous
woman may determine to do something which she feels she will be obliged
to conceal?
Again, if I were assured that your letters would be of a kind of which
I need never have to complain, so that I could always justify myself
in my own eyes for having received them! Perhaps then the desire of
proving to you that it is reason and not hate which sways me would
induce me to waive those powerful considerations, and to do much more
than I ought, in allowing you sometimes to write to me. If indeed you
desire to do so as much as you say, you will voluntarily submit to
the one condition which could make me consent; and if you have any
gratitude for what I am now doing for you, you will not defer your
departure.
Permit me to remark to you on this subject that you received a letter
this morning, and that you have not taken advantage of it to announce
your going to Madame de Rosemonde, as you had promised me. I hope that
at present nothing need prevent you keeping your word. I count, above
all, on your not waiting for the interview which you ask of me, and to
which I absolutely decline to lend myself; and I hope that, instead
of the order which you pretend is necessary to you, you will content
yourself with the prayer which I renew to you. Adieu, Monsieur.
At the Château de ..., 27th August, 17**.
LETTER THE FORTY-FOURTH
THE VICOMTE DE VALMONT TO THE MARQUISE DE MERTEUIL
JOIN in my joy, my lovely friend; I am beloved, I have triumphed over
that rebellious heart. ’Tis in vain that it still dissimulates; my
fortunate skill has surprised its secret. Thanks to my energetic pains,
I know all that is of interest to me: since the night, the fortunate
night of yesterday, I am once more in my element; I have resumed my
existence; I have unveiled a double mystery of love and iniquity:
I will delight in the one, I will avenge myself for the other; I
will fly from pleasure to pleasure. The mere idea that I form of it
transports me to such a degree that I have some difficulty in recalling
my prudence; and shall have some, perhaps, in putting order into this
narrative which I make for you. Let us try, however.
Yesterday, after I had written my letter to you, I received one from
the celestial _dévote_. I send it you; you will see in it that she
gives me, with as little clumsiness as is possible, permission to write
to her: but she urges on my departure; and I quite felt that I could
not defer it too long without injuring myself.
Tormented, however, by the desire to know who could have written
against me, I was still uncertain as to what course I should take. I
tried to win over the chamber-maid and would fain persuade her to give
up to me her mistress’s pockets, which she could have easily laid hold
of in the evening, and which she could have replaced in the morning,
without exciting the least suspicion. I offered ten louis for this
slight service: but I only found a baggage, scrupulous or afraid, whom
neither my eloquence nor my money could vanquish. I was still preaching
to her when the supper-bell rang. I was forced to leave her; only too
glad that she was willing to promise me secrecy, on which you may judge
I scarcely counted.
I had never been in a worse humour. I felt myself compromised, and I
reproached myself all the evening for my foolish attempt.
When I had retired, not without anxiety, I sent for my _chasseur_, who,
in his quality of happy lover, ought to have some credit. I wanted him
either to persuade this girl to do what I had asked of her, or at least
to make sure of her discretion; but he, who ordinarily is afraid of
nothing, seemed doubtful of the success of the negociation, and made a
reflexion on the subject the profundity of which amazed me.
“Monsieur surely knows better than I,” said he, “that to lie with a
girl is only to make her do what she likes to do: from that to making
her do what we like is often a long way.”
_Le bon sens du maraud quelquefois m’épouvante._[15]
“I can the less answer for her,” he added, “because I have reason
to believe she has a lover, and that I only owe her to the idleness
of country life. So that, were it not for my zeal in Monsieur’s
service, I should not have had her but once.” (He is a real treasure
this fellow!) “As for secrecy,” he went on, “what will be the good of
making her promise it, since she will run no risk in deceiving us? To
speak again to her about it would only be to let her know that it was
important, and thus make her all the more eager to use it for making up
to her mistress.”
[Illustration: C. Monnet del. Godéfroy sculp.]
The more just these reflexions seemed to me, the more was my
embarrassment heightened. Luckily the knave was started off to gossip;
and as I had need of him, I let him run on. While he was relating to me
his adventures with this wench, I learned that, as the chamber which
she occupied was only separated from that of her mistress by a bare
partition, through which any suspicious noise could be heard, it was
in his own that they met every night. At once, I formed my plan; I
communicated it to him and we carried it out with success.
I waited until two o’clock in the morning; and then betook myself, as
we had agreed, to the scene of the _rendez-vous_, carrying a light with
me, and pretending that I had rung several times to no purpose. My
confidant, who plays his parts to a marvel, went through a little scene
of surprise, despair, and excuses, which I terminated by sending him
to heat me some water, of which I feigned to have a need; whilst the
scrupulous chamber-maid was all the more shamefaced, in that my rascal,
wishing to improve on my projects, had induced her to make a toilette
which the season suggested but did not excuse.
As I felt that the more this wench was humiliated, the more easily I
should dispose of her, I allowed her to change neither her position nor
her costume; and after ordering my valet to await me in my room, I sat
down beside her on the bed, which was in great disorder, and commenced
my conversation. I had need to maintain the control which the situation
gave me over her; thus I preserved a coolness which would have done
honour to the continence of Scipio; and without taking the slightest
liberty with her--which, however, her freshness and the opportunity
seemed to give her the right to expect--I spoke of business to her as
calmly as I should have done with a lawyer.
My conditions were that I would faithfully keep her secret, provided
that, on the morrow, at about the same hour, she would hand me the
pockets of her mistress. “Beside that,” I added, “I offered you ten
louis yesterday; I promise you them again to-day. I do not want to take
advantage of your situation.” Everything was granted, as you may well
believe; I then withdrew, and allowed the happy couple to make up for
lost time.
I spent mine in sleep; and, on my awakening, desiring to have a pretext
for not replying to my fair one’s letter before I had investigated her
papers, which I could not do until the ensuing night, I resolved to go
out shooting, which I did for the greater part of the day.
On my return, I was received coldly enough. I had a mind to believe
that we were a little offended at the small zeal I had shown in not
profiting by the time that was left, especially after the much kinder
letter which she had written me. I judge so from the fact that Madame
de Rosemonde, having addressed me some reproaches for this long
absence, my beauty remarked with a tone of acrimony, “Ah! do not let us
reproach M. de Valmont for giving himself up to the one pleasure which
he can find here.” I murmured at this injustice, and took advantage
of it to vow that I took so much pleasure in the ladies’ society that
I was sacrificing for them a most interesting letter which I had to
write. I added that, being unable to sleep for some nights past, I
had wished to try if fatigue would restore it me; and my eyes were
sufficiently explicit, both as to the subject of my letter and the
cause of my insomnia. I was at the pains to wear all that evening a
manner of melancholy sweetness, which seemed to sit on me well enough,
and which masked the impatience I was in to see the hour arrive which
was to deliver me the secret so obstinately withheld from me. At last
we separated, and, some time afterwards, the faithful chamber-maid came
to bring me the price agreed upon for my discretion.
Once master of this treasure, I proceeded to the inventory with that
prudence which you know I possess: for it was important to put back
everything in its place. I fell at first upon two letters from the
husband--an undigested mixture of details of law-suits and effusions
of conjugal love, which I had the patience to read in their entirety,
and where I found no word that had any relation to myself. I replaced
them with temper: but this was soothed when my hand lighted upon the
pieces of my famous Dijon letter, carefully put together. Luckily the
whim seized me to run through it. Judge of my joy when I perceived very
distinct traces of my adorable _dévote’s_ tears. I confess, I gave
way to an impulse of youth, and kissed this letter with a transport
of which I had not believed myself any longer capable. I continued my
happy examination; I found all my letters in sequence and order of
date; and what gave me a still more agreeable surprise was to find
the first of all, the one which I thought the graceless creature had
returned to me, faithfully copied by her hand, and in an altered and
tremulous hand, ample witness to the soft perturbation of her heart
during that employment.
Thus far I was entirely given over to love; soon it gave place to fury.
Who do you think it is, that wishes to ruin me in the eyes of the woman
whom I adore? What Fury do you suppose is vile enough to plot such a
black scheme? You know her: it is your friend, your kinswoman; it is
Madame de Volanges. You cannot imagine what a tissue of horrors this
infernal Megæra has written concerning me. It is she, she alone, who
has troubled the security of this angelic woman; it is through her
counsels, through her pernicious advice, that I see myself forced to
leave; it is she, in short, who has sacrificed me. Ah! without a doubt
her daughter must be seduced: but that is not enough, she must be
ruined; and, since this cursed woman’s age puts her beyond the reach of
my assaults, she must be hit in the object of her affections.
So she wishes me to come back to Paris! she forces me to it! be it
so, I will go back; but she shall bewail my return. I am annoyed that
Danceny is the hero of that adventure; he possesses a fundamental
honesty which will embarrass us: however, he is in love, and I see him
often; perhaps one may make use of him. I am losing sight of myself in
my anger, and forgetting that I owe you an account of what has passed
to-day. To resume.
This morning I saw my sensitive prude again. Never had I found her so
lovely. It must ever be so: a woman’s loveliest moment, the only one
when she can produce that intoxication of the soul of which we speak
so constantly and which we so rarely meet, is that one when, assured
of her love, we are not yet of her favours; and that is precisely the
case in which I find myself now. Perhaps too, the idea that I was going
to be deprived of the pleasure of seeing her served to beautify her.
Finally, with the arrival of the postman, I was handed your letter of
the 27th; and whilst I read it, I was still hesitating as to whether I
should keep my word: but I met my beauty’s eyes, and it would have been
impossible to me to refuse her aught.
I then announced my departure. A moment later, Madame de Rosemonde left
us alone: but I was still four paces away from the coy creature when,
rising with an affrighted air: “Leave me, leave me, Monsieur,” she
said; “in God’s name, leave me.”
This fervent prayer, which betrayed her emotion, could not but animate
me the more. I was already at her side, and I held her hands which she
had joined together with a quite touching expression; I was beginning
some tender complaints, when some hostile demon brought back Madame de
Rosemonde. The timid _dévote_, who had, in truth, some cause for fear,
took advantage of this to withdraw.
I offered her my hand, however, which she accepted; and auguring well
from this mildness, which she had not shown for a long time, I sought
to press hers, whilst again commencing my complaints. At first she
would fain withdraw it; but at my more lively insistence, she abandoned
it with a good grace, although without replying either to the gesture
or to my remarks. Arrived before the door of her apartment, I wished
to kiss this hand, before I dropped it. The defence began by being
hearty: but a “remember that I am going away,” uttered most tenderly,
rendered it awkward and inefficient. Hardly had the kiss been given,
when the hand found strength enough to escape, and the fair one entered
her apartment, where her chamber-maid was in attendance. Here finishes
my history.
As I presume that to-morrow you will be at the Maréchale’s, where I
certainly shall not go to look for you; as I think it very likely too
that, at our first interview, we shall have more than one affair to
discuss, and notably that of the little Volanges, whom I do not lose
sight of, I have decided to have myself preceded by this letter, and,
long as it is, I shall not close it, until the moment comes for sending
it to the post: for, at the point which I have reached, everything may
depend on an opportunity, and I leave you now to see if there be one.
P.S. _Eight o’clock in the evening._
Nothing fresh; not the least little moment of liberty: care taken even
to avoid it. However, at least as much sorrow shown as decency permits.
Another incident which cannot be without consequences is that I am
charged by Madame de Rosemonde with an invitation to Madame de Volanges
to come and spend some time with her in the country.
Adieu, my lovely friend; until to-morrow, or the day after, at the
latest
At the Château de ..., 28th August, 17**.
LETTER THE FORTY-FIFTH
THE PRÉSIDENTE DE TOURVEL TO MADAME DE VOLANGES
M. DE VALMONT left this morning, Madame; you seemed to me so anxious
for his departure, that I thought I ought to inform you of it. Madame
de Rosemonde much regrets her nephew, whose society, one must admit,
is agreeable: she passed the whole morning in talking of him, with
that sensibility which you know her to possess; she did not stint his
praises. I thought it was incumbent on me to listen to her without
contradiction, more especially as I must confess that on many points
she was right. In addition, I felt that I had to reproach myself with
being the cause of this separation, and I cannot hope to be able to
compensate her for the pleasure of which I have deprived her. You know
that I have by nature small store of gaiety, and the kind of life we
are going to lead here is not formed to increase it.
If I had not acted according to your advice, I should fear that I had
behaved somewhat lightly; for I was really distressed at my venerable
friend’s grief; she touched me to such a degree that I could have
willingly mingled my tears with her own.