delirium of vanity, did not attain to my heart. Born for love, intrigue
might distract it, but did not suffice to occupy it; surrounded by
seducing but despicable objects, none of them reached as far as my
soul: I was offered pleasures, I sought for virtues; and in short, I
even thought myself inconstant because I was delicate and sensitive.
It was when I saw you that I saw light: soon I understood that the
charm of love sprang from the qualities of the soul; that they alone
could cause its excess, and justify it. I felt, in short, that it was
equally impossible for me not to love you, or to love any other than
you.
There, Madame, is the heart to which you fear to trust yourself, and on
whose fate you have to pronounce: but whatever may be the destiny you
reserve for it, you will change nothing of the sentiments which attach
it to you; they are as inalterable as the virtues which have given them
birth.
Paris, 3rd September, 17**.
LETTER THE FIFTY-THIRD
THE VICOMTE DE VALMONT TO THE MARQUISE DE MERTEUIL
I HAVE seen Danceny, but only obtained his half-confidence; he insists
especially on suppressing the name of the little Volanges, of whom
he only spoke to me as a woman of great virtue, even somewhat a
_dévote_: apart from that, he gave me a fairly veracious account of
his adventure, particularly the last incident. I excited him as best
I could, I bantered him greatly upon his delicacy and scruples; but
it seems that he clings to them, and I cannot answer for him: for the
rest, I shall be able to tell you more after to-morrow. I am taking
him to-morrow to Versailles, and I will occupy myself by studying
him on the road. The interview which is to take place to-day also
gives me some hope: everything may have happened to our satisfaction;
and perhaps there is nothing left for us at present but to obtain a
confession and collect the proofs. This task will be easier for you
than for me: for the little person is more confiding or, what comes to
the same thing, more talkative than her discreet lover. However, I will
do my utmost.
Adieu, my lovely friend; I am in a mighty hurry; I shall not see you
this evening, nor to-morrow: if you, on your side, know anything, write
me a word on my return. I shall certainly come back to sleep in Paris.
At ..., 3rd September, in the evening.
LETTER THE FIFTY-FOURTH
THE MARQUISE DE MERTEUIL TO THE VICOMTE DE VALMONT
OH yes, it is certainly with Danceny that there is something to
discover! If he told you so, he was boasting. I know nobody so stupid
in an affair of love, and I reproach myself more and more with the
kindness we have shown him. Do you know that yesterday I thought I was
compromised through him. And it would have been a pure loss! Oh, I will
have my revenge, I promise you.
When I arrived yesterday to fetch Madame de Volanges, she no longer
wanted to go out; she felt indisposed; I had need of all my eloquence
to persuade her, and I foresaw that Danceny might arrive before our
departure, which would have been all the more awkward, as Madame de
Volanges had told him the day before that she would not be at home. Her
daughter and I were on thorns. At last we went out; and the little one
pressed my hand so affectionately as she bid me adieu that, in spite
of her intended rupture, with which she believed herself, in all good
faith, still to be occupied, I prophesied wonders in the course of the
evening.
I was not at the end of my anxieties. We had hardly been half an hour
at Madame de ***’s, when Madame de Volanges felt really unwell, and
naturally she wanted to return home: as for me, I was the less inclined
for it in that I was afraid, supposing we were to surprise the young
people (as the chances were we should), that my efforts to make the
mother go abroad might seem highly suspicious. I adopted the course of
frightening her upon her health, which luckily is not difficult; and I
kept her for an hour and a half, without consenting to drive her home,
by feigning fear at the consequences of the dangerous motion of the
carriage. We did not return until the hour that had been fixed. From
the shame-faced air which I remarked on our arrival, I confess I hoped
that at least my trouble had not been wasted.
The desire I had for further information made me stay with Madame de
Volanges, who went to bed at once: and after having supped at her
bed-side, we left her at an early hour, under the pretext that she
had need of repose, and passed into her daughter’s apartment. The
latter had done, on her side, all that I had expected of her; vanished
scruples, fresh vows of eternal love, etc., etc.: in a word, she had
performed properly. But the fool, Danceny, had not by one point passed
the line where he had been before. Oh! one can safely quarrel with such
a one: reconciliations are not dangerous.
The child assures me, however, that he wanted more, but that she knew
how to defend herself. I would wager that she brags, or that she
excuses him; indeed I made almost certain of it. The fantasy seized me
to find out how much one might rely on the defence of which she was
capable; and I, a mere woman, bit by bit, excited her to the point....
In short, you may believe me, no one was ever more susceptible to a
surprise of the senses. She is really lovable, this dear child! She
deserves a different lover; she shall have at least a firm friend, for
I am becoming really fond of her. I have promised her that I will form
her, and I think I shall keep my word. I have often felt a need of
having a woman in my confidence, and I should prefer her to another;
but I can do nothing so long as she is not--what she needs to be; and
that is one reason the more for bearing a grudge against Danceny.
[Illustration: C. Monnet del. Lingée sculpᵗ.]
Adieu, Vicomte; do not come to me to-morrow, unless it be in the
forenoon. I have yielded to the entreaties of the Chevalier, for an
evening at the _petite maison_.
Paris, 4th September, 17**.
LETTER THE FIFTY-FIFTH
CÉCILE VOLANGES TO SOPHIE CARNAY
YOU were right, my dear Sophie; your prophesies succeed better than
your advice. Danceny, as you had predicted, has been stronger than my
confessor, than you, than myself; and here we are returned precisely to
our old position. Ah! I do not repent it; and if you scold me, it will
be only because you do not know the pleasure of loving Danceny. It is
very easy to say what one ought to do, nothing prevents you; but if you
had any experience of how we suffer from the pain of somebody we love,
of the way in which his pleasure becomes our own, of how difficult it
is to say no, when what we wish to say is yes, you would be astonished
at nothing: I myself, who have felt it, felt it most keenly, do not yet
understand it. Do you suppose, for instance that I could see Danceny
weep, without weeping myself? I assure you that that would be utterly
impossible to me; and, when he is happy, I am as happy as he. You may
say what you like: what one says does not change things from what they
are, and I am very certain that it is like that.
I should like to see you in my place.... No, it is not that I wish to
say, for certainly I should not like to change places with anyone: but
I wish that you too loved somebody; not only because then you would
understand me better and scold me less; but also because you would be
happier, or, I should rather say, you would only then begin to know
happiness.
Our amusements, our merriment--all that, you see, is only child’s play:
nothing is left, when once it is over. But love, ah, love!... a word, a
look, only to know he is there--that is happiness! When I see Danceny,
I ask for nothing more; when I cannot see him, I ask only for him. I do
not know how this is; but it would seem as though everything which I
like resembles him. When he is not with me, I dream of him; and when I
can dream of him utterly, without distraction, when I am quite alone,
for instance, I am still happy; I close my eyes, and suddenly I think I
see him; I remember his conversation, it causes me to sigh; and then I
feel a fire, an agitation.... I cannot keep in one place. It is like a
torment, and this torment gives me an unutterable pleasure.
I even think that when once one has been in love, the effect of it is
shed even over friendship. That which I bear for you has not changed
however; it is always as it was at the convent: but what I tell you of
I feel for Madame de Merteuil. It seems as though I love her more as
I do Danceny than as yourself; and sometimes I wish that she were he.
This is so, perhaps, because it is not a children’s friendship like
our own, or else because I see them so often together, which makes me
deceive myself. Be that as it may, the truth is that, between the two
of them, they make me very happy; and, after all, I do not think there
is much harm in what I do. I would only ask to stay as I am; and it is
only the idea of marriage which distresses me: for if M. de Gercourt is
such a man as I am told, and I have no doubt of it, I do not know what
will become of me. Adieu, my Sophie; I love you always most tenderly.
Paris, 4th September, 17**.
LETTER THE FIFTY-SIXTH
THE PRÉSIDENTE DE TOURVEL TO THE VICOMTE DE VALMONT
HOW, Monsieur, would the answer which you ask of me serve you? To
believe in your sentiments would not that be one reason the more to
fear them? And without attacking or defending their sincerity, does it
not suffice, ought it not to suffice for yourself, to know that I will
not and may not reply to them?
Supposing that you were to love me really (and it is only to prevent a
return to this subject that I consent to the supposition), would the
obstacles which separate us be less insurmountable? And should I have
aught else to do, but to wish that you might soon conquer this love,
and above all, to help you with all my power by hastening to deprive
you of any hope? You admit yourself that _this sentiment is painful,
when the object which inspires it does not reciprocate_. Now, you are
thoroughly well aware that it is impossible for me to reciprocate;
and even if this misfortune should befall me, I should be the more to
be pitied, without making you any happier. I hope that you respect me
enough, not to doubt of that for a moment. Cease then, I conjure you,
cease from troubling a heart to which tranquillity is so necessary; do
not force me to regret that I have known you.
Loved and esteemed by a husband whom I both love and respect, my duty
and my pleasure are centred in the same object. I am happy, I must
be so. If pleasures more keen exist, I do not desire them; I would
not know them. Can there be any that are sweeter than that of being
at peace with one’s self, of knowing only days that are serene, of
sleeping without trouble and awaking without remorse? What you call
happiness is but a tumult of the senses, a tempest of passions of
which the mere view from the shore is terrible. Ah! why confront these
tempests? How dare embark upon a sea covered with the _débris_ of so
many thousand shipwrecks? And with whom? No, Monsieur, I stay on the
shore; I cherish the bonds which unite me to it. I would not break them
if I could; were I not held by them, I should hasten to procure them.
Why attach yourself to my life? Why this obstinate resolve to follow
me? Your letters, which should be few, succeed each other with
rapidity. They should be sensible, and you speak to me in them of
nothing but your mad love. You besiege me with your idea, more than
you did with your person. Removed in one form, you reproduce yourself
under another. The things which I asked you not to say, you repeat
only in another way. It pleases you to embarrass me with captious
arguments; you shun my own. I do not wish to answer you, I will answer
you no more.... How you treat the women whom you have seduced! With
what contempt you speak of them! I would fain believe that some of them
deserve it: but are they all then so despicable? Ah, doubtless, since
they have violated their duties in order to give themselves up to a
criminal love. From that moment they have lost everything, even the
esteem of him for whom they have sacrificed everything. The punishment
is just, but the mere idea makes one tremble. What matters it, after
all? Why should I occupy myself with them or with you? By what right do
you come to trouble my tranquillity? Leave me, see me no more; do not
write to me again, I beg you; I demand it of you. This letter is the
last which you will receive from me.
At the Château de ..., 5th September, 17**.
LETTER THE FIFTY-SEVENTH
THE VICOMTE DE VALMONT TO THE MARQUISE DE MERTEUIL
I FOUND your letter yesterday on my arrival. Your anger quite
delighted me. You could not have had a more lively sense of Danceny’s
delinquencies, if they had been exercised against yourself. It is no
doubt out of vengeance that you get his mistress into the habit of
showing him slight infidelities; you are a very wicked person! Yes, you
are charming, and I am not surprised that you are more irresistible
than Danceny.
At last I know him by heart, this pretty hero of romance! He has no
more secrets for me. I have told him so often that virtuous love was
the supreme good, that one emotion was worth ten intrigues, that I
was myself, at this moment, amorous and timid; he found in me, in
short, a fashion of thinking so conformable with his own, that, in the
enchantment which he felt at my candour, he told me everything and
vowed me a friendship without reserve. We are no more advanced for that
in our project.
At first, it seemed to me that he went on the theory that a young girl
demands much more consideration than a woman, in that she has more to
lose. He thinks, above all, that nothing can justify a man for putting
a girl into the necessity of marrying him, or living dishonoured, when
the girl is far richer than the man, which is the case in which he
finds himself. The mother’s sense of security, the girl’s candour, all
this intimidates and arrests him. The difficulty would not be simply to
dispute these arguments, however true they may be. With a little skill,
and helped by passion, they would soon be destroyed; all the more, in
that they tend to be ridiculous, and one would have the sanction of
custom on one’s side. But what hinders one from having any hold over
him is that he is happy as he is. Indeed, if a first love appears
generally more virtuous, and, as one says, purer; if, at least, its
course is slower, it is not, as people think, from delicacy or shyness;
it is that the heart, astonished at an unknown emotion, halts, so to
speak, at every step, to relish the charm which it experiences, and
that this charm is so potent over a young heart that it occupies it to
such an extent that it is unmindful of every other pleasure. That is so
true, that a libertine in love--if such may befall a libertine--becomes
from that instant in less haste for pleasure; in fact, between
Danceny’s behaviour towards the little Volanges, and my own towards the
more prudish Madame de Tourvel, there is but a shade of difference.
It would have needed, to warm our young man, more obstacles than he
has encountered; above all, that there should have been need for more
mystery, for mystery begets boldness. I am coming to believe that you
have hurt us by serving him so well; your conduct would have been
excellent with a man of _experience_, who would have only felt desires:
but you might have foreseen that, with a young man who is honourable
and in love, the greatest value of favours is that they should be the
proof of love; and, consequently, that, the surer he were of being
beloved, the less enterprising he would become. What is to be done at
present? I know nothing; but I have no hope that the child will be
caught before marriage, and we shall have wasted our time: I am sorry
for it, but I see no remedy.
Whilst I am thus discoursing, you are doing better with your Chevalier.
That reminds me that you have promised me an infidelity in my favour; I
have your promise in writing, and I do not want it to be a dishonoured
draft. I admit that the date of payment has not yet come; but it would
be generous of you not to wait for that; and on my side, I would take
charge of the interest. What do you say, my lovely friend? Are you not
tired of your constancy? Is this Chevalier then such a miracle? Oh,
give me my way; I will indeed compel you to admit that if you have
found some merit in him, it is because you have forgotten me.
Farewell, my lovely friend; I embrace you with all the ardour of my
desire; I defy all the kisses of the Chevalier to contain as much.
At ..., 5th September, 17**.
LETTER THE FIFTY-EIGHTH
THE VICOMTE DE VALMONT TO THE PRÉSIDENTE DE TOURVEL
PRAY, Madame, how have I deserved the reproaches which you make me,
and the anger which you display? The liveliest attachment and, withal,
the most respectful, the most entire submission to your least wishes:
there, in two words, is the history of my sentiments and my conduct.
Oppressed by the pains of an unhappy love, I had no other consolation
than that of seeing you; you bade me deprive myself of that; I obeyed
you without permitting myself a murmur. As a reward for this sacrifice,
you allowed me to write to you, and to-day you would rob me of that
solitary pleasure. Shall I see it ravished from me without seeking to
defend it? No, without a doubt: ah, how should it not be dear to my
heart? It is the only one which remains to me, and I owe it to you.
My letters, you say, are too frequent! But reflect, I beseech you, that
during the ten days of my exile, I have not passed one moment without
thinking of you, and that yet you have only received two letters
from me. _I only speak to you of my love!_ Ah, what can I say, save
that which I think? All that I could do was to weaken the expression
of that; and you can believe me that I only let you see what it was
impossible for me to hide. Finally, you threaten me that you will no
longer reply to me! Thus, the man who prefers you to everybody, and
who respects even more than he loves you: not content with treating
him with severity, you would add to it your contempt! And why these
threats and this anger? What need have you of them? Are you not sure
of being obeyed, even when your orders are unjust? Is it possible
for me then to dispute even one of your desires, have I not already
proved it? But will you abuse this empire which you have over me?
After having rendered me unhappy, after having become unjust, will you
find it so easy then to enjoy that tranquillity which you assure me is
so necessary to you? Will you never say to yourself: he has made me
mistress of his fate, and I have made him unhappy? He implored my aid,
and I looked at him without pity? Do you know to what point my despair
may carry me? No. To be able to appreciate my sufferings, you would
need to know the extent to which I love you, and you do not know my
heart.
To what do you sacrifice me? To chimerical fears. And who inspires them
in you? A man who adores you; a man over whom you will never cease to
hold an absolute empire. What do you fear, what can you fear, from a
sentiment over which you will ever be mistress, to direct as you will?
But your imagination creates monsters for itself, and you attribute the
fright which they cause you to love. A little confidence, and these
phantoms will disappear.
A wise man said that, to dispel fears, it is almost always sufficient
to penetrate into their causes.[19] It is in love especially that
this truth finds its application. Love, and your fears will vanish.
In the place of objects which affright you, you will find a delicious
emotion, a lover tender and submissive, and all your days, marked by
happiness, will leave you no other regret than that of having lost any
by indifference. I myself, since I repented of my errors and exist only
for love, regret a time which I thought I had passed in pleasure; and I
feel that it lies with you alone to make me happy. But, I beseech you,
let not the pleasure which I take in writing to you be disturbed by
the fear of displeasing you. I would not disobey you; but I am at your
knees; it is there I claim the happiness of which you would rob me,
the only one which you have left me; I cry to you, heed my prayers and
behold my tears; ah, Madame, will you refuse me?
At ..., 7th September, 17**.
LETTER THE FIFTY-NINTH
THE VICOMTE DE VALMONT TO THE MARQUISE DE MERTEUIL
TELL me, if you know, what is the meaning of this effusion of Danceny?
What has happened to him, and what has he lost? Has his fair one,
perchance, grown vexed with his eternal respect? One must be just;
we should be vexed for less. What am I to say to him this evening at
the _rendez-vous_ which he asks of me, and which I have given him at
all costs? Assuredly, I will not waste my time in listening to his
complaints, if that is to lead us nowhither. Amorous complaints are not
good to hear, save in a _recitato obbligato_ or _arietta_. Let me know
then what it is, and what I have to do, or really I shall desert, to
avoid the tedium which I foresee. Shall I be able to have a talk with
you this morning? If you are _engaged_, at least send me a word, and
give me the cues to my part.
Where were you yesterday, pray? I never succeed in seeing you now.
Truly, it was not worth the trouble of keeping me in Paris in the month
of September. Make up your mind, however, as I have just received a
very pressing invitation from the Comtesse de B*** to go and see her
in the country; and, as she tells me, humorously enough, “her husband
has the finest woods in the world, which he carefully preserves for
the pleasure of his friends.” Now you know I have certainly some rights
over the woods in question; and I shall go and revisit them if I am
of no use to you. Adieu; remember Danceny will be with me about four
o’clock.
Paris, 8th September, 17**.
LETTER THE SIXTIETH
THE CHEVALIER DANCENY TO THE VICOMTE DE VALMONT
(Enclosed in the preceding letter)
AH, Monsieur, I am in despair, I have lost all! I dare not confide to
writing the secret of my woes: but I feel a need to unburden them in
the ear of a sure and trusty friend. At what hour could I see you, and
ask you for advice and consolation? I was so happy on the day when I
opened my soul to you! Now, what a difference! All is changed with me.
What I suffer on my own account is but the least part of my torments;
my anxiety on behalf of a far dearer object, that is what I cannot
support. Happier than I, you will be able to see her, and I count on
your friendship not to refuse me this favour: but I must see you and
instruct you. You will pity me, you will help me; I have no hope save
in you. You are a man of sensibility, you know what love is, and you
are the only one in whom I can confide; do not refuse me your aid.
Adieu, Monsieur; the only alleviation of my pain is the reflexion that
such a friend as yourself is left to me. Let me know, I beg you, at
what hour I can find you. If it is not this morning, I should like it
to be early in the afternoon.
Paris, 8th September, 17**.
LETTER THE SIXTY-FIRST
CÉCILE VOLANGES TO SOPHIE CARNAY
MY dear Sophie, pity your Cécile, your poor Cécile; she is very
unhappy! Mamma knows all. I cannot conceive how she has come to suspect
anything; and yet, she has discovered everything. Yesterday evening,
Mamma seemed indeed to be in a bad humour, but I did not pay much
attention to it. I even, whilst waiting till her rubber was finished,
talked quite gaily to Madame de Merteuil, who had supped here, and
we spoke much of Danceny. I do not believe, however, that we were
overheard. She went away and I retired to my room.
I was undressing when Mamma entered, and I sent away my maid; she asked
me for the key of my desk. The tone in which she made this request
caused me to tremble so that I could hardly stand. I made a pretence
of being unable to find it; but at last I had to obey her. The first
drawer which she opened was precisely that which contained the letters
of the Chevalier Danceny. I was so confused that, when she asked me
what it was, I did not know what to reply to her, except that it was
nothing; but when I saw her begin to read the first which presented
itself, I had barely time to sink into an arm-chair when I felt so ill
that I swooned away. As soon as I came to myself again, my mother,
who had called my maid, withdrew, telling me to go to bed. She carried
off all Danceny’s letters. I tremble every time I reflect that I must
appear before her again. I did naught but weep all the night through.