speak with her alone, I shall ask her to take a short note I am going
to write to Madame de Merteuil; if not, I will put it in your letter,
and will you kindly send it, as if from yourself. It is only from her
that I shall get any consolation. At least, we can speak of him, for I
have no hope to see him again. I am very wretched! Perhaps she will be
kind enough to take charge of a letter for Danceny. I dare not trust
Joséphine for such a purpose, and still less my maid; for it is perhaps
she who told my mother that I had letters in my desk.
I will not write to you at any greater length, because I wish to have
time to write to Madame de Merteuil and also to Danceny, to have my
letter all ready, if she will take charge of it. After that I shall
lie down again, so that they will find me in bed when they come into
my room. I shall say that I am ill, so that I need not have to visit
Mamma. It will not be a great falsehood: for indeed I suffer more than
if I had the fever. My eyes burn from excessive weeping; and I have a
weight on my chest which hinders me from breathing. When I think that I
shall not see Danceny again, I wish that I were dead.
Adieu, my dear Sophie, I can say no more to you; my tears choke me.
Paris, 7th September, 17**.
LETTER THE SIXTY-SECOND[20]
MADAME DE VOLANGES TO THE CHEVALIER DANCENY
AFTER having abused, Monsieur, a mother’s confidence and the innocence
of a child, you will doubtless not be surprised if you are no longer
received in a house where you have responded to the marks of a most
sincere friendship, by a forgetfulness of all that is fitting. I
prefer to beg you not to call upon me again, than to give orders at
the door, which would compromise all alike, by the remarks which the
lackeys would not fail to make. I have a right to hope that you will
not force me to have recourse to such a means. I warn you also that
if you make in future the least attempt to support my daughter in the
folly into which you have beguiled her, an austere and eternal retreat
shall shelter her from your pursuit. It is for you to decide, Monsieur,
whether you will shrink as little from being the cause of her misery,
as you have from attempting her dishonour. As for me, my choice is
made, and I have acquainted her with it.
You will find enclosed the packet containing your letters. I reckon
upon you to send me in return all those of my daughter, and to do your
utmost to leave no trace of an incident the memory of which I could not
retain without indignation, she without shame, and you without remorse.
I have the honour to be, etc.
Paris, 7th September, 17**.
LETTER THE SIXTY-THIRD
THE MARQUISE DE MERTEUIL TO THE VICOMTE DE VALMONT
INDEED, yes, I will explain Danceny’s letter to you. The incident
which caused him to write it is my handiwork, and it is, I think, my
_chef-d’œuvre_. I wasted no time since your last letter, and I said
with the Athenian architect, “What he has said, I will do.”
It is obstacles then that this fine hero of romance needs, and he
slumbers in felicity! Oh, let him look to me, I will give him some
work: and if his slumber is going to be peaceful any longer, I am
mistaken. Indeed, he had to be taught the value of time, and I flatter
myself that by now he is regretting all he has lost. It were well also,
said you, that he had need of more mystery: well, that need won’t be
lacking him now. I have this quality, I--that my mistakes have only
to be pointed out to me; then I take no repose until I have retrieved
them. Let me tell you now what I did.
When I returned home in the morning of the day before yesterday, I
read your letter; I found it luminous. Convinced that you had put your
finger on the cause of the evil, my sole concern now was to find a
means of curing it. I commenced, however, by retiring to bed; for the
indefatigable Chevalier had not let me sleep a moment, and I thought I
was sleepy: but not at all; absorbed in Danceny, my desire to cure him
of his indolence, or to punish him for it, did not let me close an eye,
and it was only after I had thoroughly completed my plan, that I could
take two hours’ rest.
I went that same evening to Madame de Volanges, and, according to
my project, I told her confidentially that I felt sure a dangerous
intimacy existed between her daughter and Danceny. This woman, who
sees so clearly in your case, was so blind that she answered me at
first that I was certainly mistaken, that her daughter was a child,
etc., etc. I could not tell her all I knew; but I quoted certain looks
and remarks _whereat my virtue and my friendship had taken alarm_. In
short, I spoke almost as well as a _dévote_ would have done; and to
strike the decisive blow, I went so far as to say that I thought I had
seen a letter given and received. “That reminds me,” I added, “one
day she opened before me a drawer in her desk in which I saw a number
of papers, which she doubtless preserves. Do you know if she has any
frequent correspondence?” Here Madame de Volanges’ face changed, and
I saw some tears rise to her eyes. “I thank you, my kind friend,” she
said, as she pressed my hand; “I will clear this up.”
After this conversation, which was too short to excite suspicion, I
went over to the young person. I left her soon afterwards, to beg her
mother not to compromise me in her daughter’s eyes; she promised me
this the more willingly, when I pointed out to her how fortunate it
would be if the child were to take sufficient confidence in me to open
her heart to me, and thus afford me the occasion of giving her _my wise
counsels_. I feel certain that she will keep her promise, because
she will doubtless seek to vaunt her penetration in her daughter’s
eyes. Thus I am authorized to maintain my friendly tone towards the
child, without seeming false to Madame de Volanges, which I wished to
avoid. I have also gained for the future the right to be as long and
as privately as I like with the young person, without the mother being
able to take umbrage.
I took advantage of this, that very evening; and when my game was over,
I took the child aside in a corner, and set her on the subject of
Danceny, upon which she is inexhaustible. I amused myself by exciting
her with the pleasure she will have when she sees him to-morrow; there
is no kind of folly that I did not make her say. I needs must restore
to her in hope what I had deprived her of in reality; and besides all
that ought to render the blow more forcible, and I am persuaded that,
the more she suffers, the greater will be her haste to compensate
herself for it, on the next occasion. ’Tis wise, moreover, to accustom
to great events anyone whom one destines for great adventures.
After all, may she not pay for the pleasure of having her Danceny with
a few tears? She dotes on him! Well, I promise her that she shall have
him, and even sooner than she would have done, but for this storm. It
is like a bad dream, the awakening from which will be delicious; and,
considering all, I think she owes me gratitude: after all, if I have
put a spice of malice into it, one must amuse oneself:
_“Les sots sont ici-bas pour nos menus-plaisirs.”_[21]
I withdrew at last, thoroughly satisfied with myself. Either, said
I to myself, Danceny’s love, excited by obstacles, will redouble in
intensity, and then I shall serve him with all my power; or, if he is
nothing but a fool, as I am sometimes tempted to believe, he will be
in despair, and will look upon himself as beaten: now, in that case,
I shall at least have been as well avenged on him as he has been on
me; on my way, I shall have increased the mother’s esteem for me, the
daughter’s friendship, and the confidence of both. As for Gercourt, the
first object of my care, I should be very unlucky, or very clumsy, if,
mistress over his bride’s mind, as I am, and as I intend to be even
more, I did not find a thousand ways of making him what I mean him to
be. I went to bed with these pleasant thoughts: I slept well, too, and
awoke very late.
On my awakening I found two letters, one from the mother and one from
the daughter; and I could not refrain from laughing when I encountered,
in both, literally this same phrase: “_It is from you alone that I
expect any consolation._” Is it not amusing to console for and against,
and to be the single agent of two directly contrary interests? Behold
me, like the Divinity, receiving the diverse petitions of blind
mortals, and altering nothing in my immutable decrees. I have deserted
that august part, however, to assume that of the consoling angel;
and have been, as the precept bids us, to visit my friends in their
affliction.
I began with the mother; I found her wrapped in a sadness which already
avenges you in part for the obstacles she has thrown in your way, on
the side of your fair prude. Everything has succeeded marvellously,
and my only anxiety was lest Madame de Volanges should take advantage
of the moment to gain her daughter’s confidence: which would have
been quite easy, had she employed with her the language of kindness
and affection, and given to reasonable counsels the air and tone of
indulgent tenderness. Luckily she had armed herself with severity; in
short, she had behaved so unwisely that I could only applaud. It is
true that she thought of frustrating all our schemes, by the course
which she had resolved on of sending her daughter back to the convent:
but I warded off this blow, and induced her merely to make a threat of
it, in the event of Danceny continuing his pursuit; this in order to
compel both to a circumspection which I believe necessary to success.
I next went to the daughter. You would not believe how grief improves
her! If she does but take to coquetry, I warrant that she will be often
weeping; but this time she wept in all sincerity.... Struck by this
new charm, which I had not known in her, and which I was very pleased
to observe, I gave her at first but clumsy consolations, which rather
increased her sorrow than assuaged it; and by this means I brought her
well nigh to choking-point. She wept no more, and for a moment I was
afraid of convulsions. I advised her to go to bed, to which she agreed;
I served her for waiting-maid: she had made no toilette, and soon her
dishevelled hair was falling over her shoulders and bosom, which were
entirely bare; I embraced her; she abandoned herself in my arms, and
her tears began to flow again without an effort. Lord! how beautiful
she was! Ah, if the Magdalen was like that, she must have been far more
dangerous in her penitence than when she sinned.
When the disconsolate fair one was in bed, I started to console her in
good faith. I first reassured her as to her fear about the convent. I
excited a hope in her of seeing Danceny in secret; and sitting upon the
bed: “If _he_ was here,” said I; then, embroidering on this theme, I
led her from distraction to distraction, until she had quite forgotten
her affliction. We should have separated in a complete satisfaction
with one another, if she had not wished to charge me with a letter to
Danceny; which I consistently refused. Here are my reasons for this,
which you will doubtless approve:
To begin with, it would have been to compromise myself openly with
Danceny; and though this was the only reason I could employ with the
little one, there are plenty of others which hold between you and me.
Would it not have been to risk the fruit of my labours to give our
young people so soon a means so easy of lightening their pains? And
then, I should not be sorry to compel them to introduce some servants
into this adventure; for, if it is to work out well, which is what I
hope for, it must become known immediately after the marriage, and
there are few surer methods of publishing it. Or if, by a miracle, the
servants were not to speak, we would speak ourselves, and it will be
more convenient to lay the indiscretion to their account.
You must give this idea, then, to-day to Danceny; and as I am not sure
of the waiting-maid of the little Volanges, and she seems to distrust
her herself, suggest my own to him, my faithful Victoire. I will take
care that the enterprise is successful. This idea pleases me all the
more, as the confidence will only be useful to us and not to them: for
I am not at the end of my story.
Whilst I was excusing myself from carrying the child’s letter, I was
afraid every moment that she would suggest that I should send it by
the post, which I could hardly have refused to do. Luckily, either in
her confusion or in her ignorance, or again because she was less set
on her letter than on a reply to it, which she could not have obtained
by this means, she did not speak of it to me; but, to prevent this
idea coming to her, or at least her being able to use it, I made up
my mind on the spot; and on returning to her mother, persuaded her to
send her daughter away for some time, to take her to the country....
And where? Does not your heart beat with joy?... To your Aunt, to the
old Rosemonde. She is to apprise her of it to-day; so, behold you
authorized to return to your Puritan, who will no longer be able to
reproach you with the scandal of a _tête-à-tête_; and thanks to my
pains, Madame de Volanges will herself repair the wrong she had done
you.
But listen to me, and do not be so constantly wrapped up in your own
affairs as to lose sight of this one; remember that I am interested in
it. I want you to become the go-between and counsellor of the two young
people. Inform Danceny of this journey and offer him your services.
Find no difficulty, except as to getting your letter of credit into the
fair one’s hands; and demolish this obstacle on the spot by suggesting
to him the services of my waiting-maid. There is no doubt but that
he will accept; and you will have, as reward for your trouble, the
confidence of a young heart, which is always interesting. Poor child,
how she will blush when she hands you her first letter! In truth, this
_rôle_ of confidant, against which a sort of prejudice has grown up,
seems to me a very pretty relaxation, when you are occupied elsewhere;
and that is the case in which you will be.
It is upon your attention that the _dénouement_ of this intrigue
will depend. Judge the moment when the actors must be reunited. The
country offers a thousand ways; and Danceny cannot fail to be ready
at your first signal. A night, a disguise, a window ... what do I
know? But mark me, if the little girl comes back as she went away,
I shall quarrel with you. If you consider that she has need of any
encouragement from me, send word to me. I think I have given her such
a good lesson on the danger of keeping letters, that I may venture to
write to her now; and I still cherish the design of making her my pupil.
I believe I forgot to tell you that her suspicions with regard to the
surprised correspondence fell at first upon her waiting-maid, but that
I turned them towards the confessor. That was a way of killing two
birds with one stone.
Adieu, Vicomte, I have been writing to you a long time now, and my
dinner is the later for it: but self-love and friendship dictated my
letter, and both are garrulous. For the rest, it will be with you by
three o’clock, and that is all you need.
Pity me now, if you dare; and go and visit the woods of the Comte de
B***, if they tempt you. You say that he keeps them for the pleasure of
his friends! Is the man a friend of all the world then? But adieu, I am
hungry.
Paris, 9th September, 17**.
LETTER THE SIXTY-FOURTH
THE CHEVALIER DANCENY TO MADAME DE VOLANGES
(A draft enclosed in letter the sixty-sixth, from the Vicomte to the
Marquise)
WITHOUT seeking, Madame, to justify my conduct, and without complaining
of yours, I cannot but grieve at an event which brings unhappiness to
three persons, all three worthier of a happier fate. More sensible
to the grief of being the cause of it than even to that of being its
victim, I have tried frequently, since yesterday, to have the honour
to write to you, without being able to find the strength. I have,
however, so many things to say to you that I must make a great effort
over myself; and if this letter has little order and sequence, you
must be sufficiently sensible of my painful situation to grant me some
indulgence.
Permit me, first, to protest against the first sentence of your letter.
I venture to say that I have abused neither your confidence nor the
innocence of Mademoiselle de Volanges; in my actions I respected both.
These alone depended on me; and when you would render me responsible
for an involuntary sentiment, I am not afraid to add that that which
Mademoiselle your daughter has inspired in me is of a kind which may
be displeasing to you but cannot offend you. Upon this subject, which
touches me more than I can say, I wish for no other judge than you, and
my letters for my witnesses.
You forbid me to present myself at your house in future, and doubtless
I shall submit to everything which it shall please you to order on this
subject: but will not this sudden and total absence give as much cause
for the remarks which you would avoid as the order which, for that very
same reason, you did not wish to leave at your door? I insist all the
more on this point, in that it is far more important for Mademoiselle
de Volanges than for me. I beg you then to weigh everything
attentively, and not to permit your severity to lessen your prudence.
Persuaded that the simple interest of Mademoiselle your daughter will
dictate your resolves, I shall await fresh orders from you.
Meanwhile, in case you should permit me to pay you my court sometimes,
I undertake, Madame (and you can count on my promise), not to abuse
the opportunity by attempting to speak privately with Mademoiselle de
Volanges, or to send any letter to her. The fear of compromising her
reputation decides me to this sacrifice; and the happiness of sometimes
seeing her will be my reward.
This paragraph of my letter is also the only reply that I can make
to what you tell me as to the fate you reserve for Mademoiselle de
Volanges, and which you would make dependent on my conduct. I should
deceive you were I to promise you more. A vile seducer can adapt his
plans to circumstances, and calculate upon events; but the love which
animates me permits me only two sentiments, courage and constancy.
What, I! consent to be forgotten by Mademoiselle de Volanges, to
forget her myself! No, no, never! I will be faithful to her, she has
received my vow, and I renew it this day. Forgive me, Madame, I am
losing myself, I must return.
There remains one other matter to discuss with you; that of the letters
which you demand from me. I am truly pained to have to add a refusal to
the wrongs which you already accuse me of: but I beg you, listen to my
reasons, and deign to remember, in order to appreciate them, that the
only consolation of my unhappiness at having lost your friendship is
the hope of retaining your esteem.
The letters of Mademoiselle de Volanges, always so precious to me, have
become doubly so at present. They are the solitary good thing which
remains to me; they alone retrace for me a sentiment which is all the
charm of life to me. However, you may believe me, I should not hesitate
an instant in making the sacrifice, and my regret at being deprived
of them would yield to my desire of proving to you my respectful
deference; but considerations more powerful restrain me, and I assure
you that you yourself cannot blame me for them.
You have, it is true, the secret of Mademoiselle de Volanges; but
permit me to say that I am authorized to believe it is the result of
surprise and not of confidence. I do not pretend to blame a proceeding
which is, perhaps, authorized by maternal solicitude. I respect your
rights, but they do not extend so far as to dispense me from my duties.
The most sacred of all is never to betray the confidence which is
entrusted to you. It would be to fail in this to expose to the eyes of
another the secrets of a heart which did but wish to reveal them to
mine. If Mademoiselle your daughter consents to confide them to you,
let her speak; her letters are of no use to you. If she wishes, on
the contrary, to lock her secret within herself, you doubtless cannot
expect me to be the person to instruct you.
As for the mystery in which you desire this incident to be buried, rest
assured, Madame, that, in all that concerns Mademoiselle de Volanges,
I can rival even a mother’s heart. To complete my work of removing all
cause for anxiety from you, I have foreseen everything. This precious
deposit, which bore hitherto the inscription: _Papers to be burned_,
carries now the words: _Papers belonging to Madame de Volanges_. The
course which I have taken should prove to you also that my refusal does
not refer to any fear that you might find in these letters one single
sentiment with which you could personally find fault.
This, Madame, is indeed a long letter. It will not have been long
enough, if it leaves you the least doubt as to the honesty of my
sentiments, my very sincere regret at having displeased you, and the
profound respect with which I have the honour to be, etc.
Paris, 9th September, 17**.
LETTER THE SIXTY-FIFTH
THE CHEVALIER DANCENY TO CÉCILE VOLANGES
(Sent open to the Marquise de Merteuil in letter the sixty-sixth from
the Vicomte)
O MY Cécile! what is to become of us? What God will save us from the
misfortunes which threaten us? Let love, at least, give us the courage
to support them! How can I paint for you my astonishment, my despair,
at the sight of my letters, at the reading of Madame de Volanges’
missive? Who can have betrayed us? On whom do your suspicions fall?
Could you have committed any imprudence? What are you doing now? What
have they said to you? I would know everything, and I am ignorant of
all. Perhaps, you yourself are no better informed than I.
I send you your Mamma’s note and a copy of my reply. I hope that you
will approve of what I have said. I need also your approval of all
the measures I have taken since this fatal event; they are all with
the object of having news of you, of giving you mine; and, who knows?
perhaps of seeing you again, and more freely than ever.
Imagine, my Cécile, the pleasure of finding ourselves together again,
of being able to seal anew our vows of eternal love, and of seeing in
our eyes, of feeling in our souls, that this vow will not be falsified!
What pain will not so sweet a moment make us forget! Ah, well, I have
hope of seeing it arrive, and I owe it to these same measures which I
beg you to approve. What am I saying? I owe it to the consoling care of
the most tender of friends; and my sole request is that you will permit
this friend to become also your own.
Perhaps, I ought not to have given your confidence away without your
consent; but I had misfortune and necessity for my excuse. It is love
which has guided me; it is that which claims your indulgence, which
begs you to pardon a confidence that was necessary, and without which
we should, perhaps, have been separated for ever.[22] You know the
friend of whom I speak: he is the friend of the woman whom you love
best. It is the Vicomte de Valmont.
My plan in addressing him was, at first, to beg him to induce Madame
de Merteuil to take charge of a letter for you. He did not think this
method could succeed, but, in default of the mistress, he answered for
the maid, who was under obligations to him. It is she who will give you
this letter; and you can give her your reply.
This assistance will hardly be of use to us, if, as M. de Valmont
believes, you leave immediately for the country. But then it will be
he himself who will serve us. The lady to whom you are going is his
kinswoman. He will take advantage of this pretext to repair thither at
the same time that you do; and it will be through him that our mutual
correspondence will pass. He assures me, even, that if you will let
yourself be guided by him, he will procure us the means of meeting,
without your running the risk of being in any way compromised.
Now, my Cécile, if you love me, if you pity my misery, if, as I hope,
you share my regret, will you refuse your confidence to a man who
will become our guardian angel? Without him, I should be reduced to
the despair of being unable even to alleviate the grief I have caused
you. It will finish, I hope: but promise me, my tender friend, not to
abandon yourself overmuch to it, not to let it break you down. The
idea of your grief is insupportable torture to me. I would give my
life to make you happy! You know that well. May the certainty that you
are adored carry some consolation to your soul! Mine has need of your
assurance that you pardon love for the ills it has made you suffer.
Adieu, my Cécile, adieu, my tender love!
Paris, 9th September, 17**.