THE VICOMTE DE VALMONT TO THE MARQUISE DE MERTEUIL
YOU will see, my lovely friend, by a perusal of the two enclosed
letters, whether I have well fulfilled your project. Although both are
dated to-day, they were written yesterday at my house, and beneath my
eyes; that to the little girl says all that we wanted. One can but
humble one’s self before the profundity of your views, when one judges
of it by the success of your measures. Danceny is all on fire; and
assuredly, at the first opportunity, you will have no more reproaches
to make him. If his fair _ingénue_ choose to be tractable, all will
be finished a short time after her arrival in the country; I have a
hundred methods all prepared. Thanks to your care, behold me decidedly
_the friend of Danceny_; it only remains for him to become _Prince_.[23]
He is still very young, this Danceny! Would you believe it, I have
never been able to prevail on him to promise the mother to renounce
his love; as if there were much hindrance in a promise, when one is
determined not to keep it! It would be deceit, he kept on repeating to
me: is not this scruple edifying, especially in the would-be seducer
of the daughter? That is so like men! all equally rascally in their
designs, the weakness they display in the execution they christen
probity.
It is your affair to prevent Madame de Volanges from taking alarm at
the little sallies which our young man has permitted himself in his
letter; preserve us from the convent; try also to make her abandon her
request for the child’s letters. To begin with, he will not give them
up, and I am of his opinion; here love and reason are in accord. I have
read them, these letters; I have assimilated the tedium of them. They
may become useful. I will explain.
In spite of the prudence which we shall employ, there may arise a
scandal; this would break off the marriage, would it not? and spoil all
our Gercourt projects. But, as on my side I have to be revenged on the
mother, I reserve for myself in such a case the daughter’s dishonour.
By selecting carefully from this correspondence, and producing only a
part of it, the little Volanges would appear to have made all the first
overtures, and to have absolutely thrown herself at his head. Some of
the letters would even compromise the mother, and would, at any rate,
convict her of unpardonable negligence. I am quite aware that the
scrupulous Danceny would revolt against this at first; but, as he would
be personally attacked, I think he would be open to reason. It is a
thousand chances to one that things will not turn out so; but one must
foresee everything.
Adieu, my lovely friend: it would be very amiable of you to come and
sup to-morrow at the Maréchale de ***’s; I could not refuse.
I presume I have no need to recommend you secrecy, as regards Madame de
Volanges, upon my country project. She would at once decide to stay
in Town: whereas, once arrived there, she will not start off again the
next day; and, if she only gives us a week, I answer for everything.
Paris, 9th September, 17**.
LETTER THE SIXTY-SEVENTH
THE PRÉSIDENTE DE TOURVEL TO THE VICOMTE DE VALMONT
I DID not mean to answer you again, Monsieur, and, perhaps, the
embarrassment I feel at the present moment is itself an effectual proof
that I ought not. However, I would not leave you any cause of complaint
against me; I wish to convince you that I have done for you everything
I could.
I permitted you to write to me, you say? I agree; but when you remind
me of that permission, do you think I forget on what conditions it was
given? If I had been as faithful as you have proved the reverse, would
you have received a single reply from me? This is, however, the third;
and when you do all that in you lies to compel me to break off this
correspondence, it is I who am busy with the means of continuing it.
There is one, but only one; and if you refuse to take it, it will prove
to me, whatever you may say, how little value you set upon it.
Forsake, then, a language to which I may not and will not listen;
renounce a sentiment which offends and alarms me, and to which you
would perhaps be less attached, if you reflected that it is the
obstacle which separates us. Is this sentiment the only one, then,
that you can understand? And must love have this one fault the more in
my eyes, that it excludes friendship? Would you yourself be so wrong as
not to wish for your friend her in whom you have desired more tender
sentiments? I would not believe it: that humiliating idea would revolt
me, would divide me from you without hope of return.
In offering you my friendship, Monsieur, I give you all that is mine
to give, all of which I can dispose. What can you desire more? To give
way to this sentiment, so gentle, so suited to my heart, I only await
your assent and the word which I ask of you, that this friendship will
suffice for your happiness. I will forget all that I may have been
told; I will trust in you to be at the pains of justifying my choice.
You see my frankness; it should prove to you my confidence; it will
rest with you only, if it is to be further augmented: but I warn you
that the first word of love destroys it for ever, and restores to me
all my fears; above all, that it will become the signal for my eternal
silence with regard to you.
If, as you say, you have turned away from your errors, will you not
rather be the object of a virtuous woman’s friendship than of a guilty
woman’s remorse? Adieu, Monsieur; you feel that, after having spoken
thus, I can say nothing more until you have replied to me.
At the Château de ..., 9th September, 17**.
LETTER THE SIXTY-EIGHTH
THE VICOMTE DE VALMONT TO THE PRÉSIDENTE DE TOURVEL
HOW, Madame, am I to answer your last letter? How dare be true, when
my sincerity may ruin my cause with you? No matter, I must; I will
have the courage. I tell myself, I repeat to myself, that it is better
to deserve you than to obtain you: and, must you deny me for ever a
happiness that I shall never cease to desire, I must at least prove to
you that my heart is worthy of it.
What a pity, that, as you say, I have _turned away from my errors!_
With what transports of joy I should have read that same letter,
to which I tremble to-day to reply. You speak to me therein with
_frankness_, you display me _confidence_, and you offer me your
_friendship_: what good things, Madame, and how I regret that I can not
profit by them! Why am I no longer what I was?
If I were, indeed, if I felt for you only an ordinary fancy, that light
fancy which is the child of seduction and pleasure, which to-day,
however, is christened love, I should hasten to extract advantage from
all that I could obtain. With scant delicacy as to means, provided
that they procured me success, I should encourage your frankness from
my need of finding you out; I should desire your confidence with the
design of betraying it; I should accept your friendship with the hope
of beguiling it.... What, Madame! does this picture alarm you?... Ah,
well, it would be a true picture of me, were I to tell you that I
consented to be no more than your friend.
What, I! I consent to share with any one a sentiment which has emanated
from your soul! If I ever tell you so, do not believe me. From that
moment I should seek to deceive you; I might desire you still, but I
should assuredly love you no longer.
It is not that amiable frankness, sweet confidence, sensible friendship
are without value in my eyes.... But love! True love, and such as you
inspire, by uniting all these sentiments, by giving them more energy,
would not know how to lend itself, like them, to that tranquillity, to
that coldness of soul, which permits comparisons, which even suffers
preferences. No, Madame, I will not be your friend; I will love you
with the most tender, even the most ardent love, although the most
respectful. You can drive it to despair, but you cannot annihilate it.
By what right do you pretend to dispose of a heart whose homage you
refuse? By what refinement of cruelty do you rob me of even the
happiness of loving you? That happiness is mine; it is independent of
you; I shall know how to defend it. If it is the source of my ills, it
is also their remedy.
No, once more, no. Persist in your cruel refusals, but leave me my
love. You take pleasure in making me unhappy! ah, well! be it so,
endeavour to wear out my courage, I shall know how to force you at
least to decide my fate; and perhaps some day you will render me more
justice. It is not that I hope ever to make you susceptible: but,
without being persuaded, you will be convinced; you will say to
yourself: I judged him ill.
To put it rightly, it is to yourself that you are unjust. To know
you without loving you, to love you without being constant, are two
things which are equally impossible; and, in spite of the modesty which
adorns you, it must be easier for you to feel pity than surprise at
the sentiments which you arouse. For me, whose only merit is that I
have known how to appreciate you, I will not lose that; and far from
accepting your insidious offers, I renew at your feet my vow to love
you always.
Paris, 10th September, 17**.
LETTER THE SIXTY-NINTH
CÉCILE VOLANGES TO THE CHEVALIER DANCENY
(A note written in pencil, and copied out by Danceny)
YOU ask me what I am doing; I love you and I weep. My mother no longer
speaks to me; she has taken pens, ink, and paper away from me; I am
making use of a pencil which has happily been left to me, and I am
writing on a fragment of your letter. I needs must approve all you have
done; I love you too well not to take every means of having news of you
and of giving you my own. I did not like M. de Valmont, and I did not
know he was so great a friend of yours; I will try to get used to him,
and I will love him for your sake. I do not know who it is that has
betrayed us; it can only be my waiting-maid or my confessor. I am very
miserable: we are going to the country to-morrow; I do not know for
how long. My God! to see you no more! I have no more room: adieu, try
to read me. These words traced in pencil will perhaps be effaced, but
never the sentiments engraved on my heart.
Paris, 10th September, 17**.
LETTER THE SEVENTIETH
THE VICOMTE DE VALMONT TO THE MARQUISE DE MERTEUIL
I HAVE an important warning to give you, my dear friend. As you know,
I supped yesterday with the Maréchale de ***: you were spoken of, and
I said, not all the good which I think, but all that which I do not
think. Everyone appeared to be of my opinion, and the conversation
languished, as ever happens when one says only good of one’s neighbour,
when a voice was raised in contradiction: it was Prévan’s.
“Heaven forbid,” he said, rising, “that I should doubt the virtue of
Madame de Merteuil! But I would dare believe that she owes it more
to her lightness of character than to her principles. It is perhaps
more difficult to follow her than to please her; and, as one rarely
fails, when one runs after a woman, to meet others on the way; as,
after all, these others may be as good as she is, or better; some are
distracted by a fresh fancy, others stop short from lassitude; and she
is, perhaps, the woman in all Paris who has had least cause to defend
herself. As for me,” he added, encouraged by the smile of some of the
women, “I shall not believe in Madame de Merteuil’s virtue, until I
have killed six horses in paying my court to her.”
This ill-natured joke succeeded, as do all those which savour of
scandal; and, during the laugh which it excited, Prévan resumed his
place, and the general conversation changed. But the two Comtesses de
B***, by the side of whom our sceptic sat, had a private conversation
with him, which luckily I was in a position to overhear.
The challenge to render you susceptible was accepted; word was pledged
that everything was to be told: and of all the pledges that might
be given in this adventure, this one should assuredly be the most
religiously kept. But there you are, forewarned, and you know the
proverb.
It remains for me to tell you that this Prévan, whom you do not know,
is infinitely amiable, and even more adroit. If you have sometimes
heard me declare the contrary, it is only that I do not like him, that
it is my pleasure to thwart his success, and that I am not ignorant of
the weight of my suffrage with thirty or so of our most fashionable
women. In fact, I prevented him for long, by this means, from appearing
on what we call the great scene; and he did prodigies, without for that
winning any more reputation. But the fame of his triple adventure, by
turning people’s eyes on him, gave him that confidence which hitherto
he had lacked, and which has rendered him really formidable. He is, in
short, to-day perhaps the only man whom I should fear to meet in my
path; and, apart from your own interest, you will be rendering me a
real service by making him appear ridiculous by the way. I leave him
in good hands, and I cherish the hope that, on my return, he will be a
ruined man.
I promise, in revenge, to carry through the adventure of your pupil,
and to concern myself as much with her as with my fair prude.
The latter has just sent me a letter of capitulation. The whole letter
announces her desire to be deceived. It is impossible to suggest a
method more time-worn or more easy. She wishes me to become _her
friend_. But I, who love new and difficult methods, do not mean to cry
quits with her so cheaply; and I most certainly should not have been at
such pains with her, to conclude with an ordinary seduction.
What I propose, on the contrary, is that she should feel, and feel
thoroughly, the value of each one of the sacrifices she shall make
me; not to lead her too swiftly for remorse to follow her; to let her
virtue expire in a slow agony; to concentrate her, unceasingly, upon
the heartbreaking spectacle; and only to grant her the happiness of
having me in her arms, after compelling her no longer to dissimulate
her desire. In truth, I am of little worth indeed, if I am not worth
the trouble of asking for. And can I take a less revenge for the
haughtiness of a woman who seems to blush to confess that she adores?
I have, therefore, refused the precious friendship, and have held to
my title of lover. As I do not deny that this title, which seems at
first no more than a verbal quibble, is, however, of real importance
to obtain, I have taken a great deal of pains with my letter, and
endeavoured to be lavish of that disorder which alone can depict
sentiment. I have, in short, been as irrational as it was possible for
me to be: for, without one be irrational, there is no tenderness; and
it is for this reason, I believe, that women are so much our superiors
in love-letters.
I concluded mine with a piece of cajolery; and that is another
result of my profound observation. After a woman’s heart has been for
some time exercised, it has need of repose; and I have remarked that
cajolery was, to all, the softest pillow that could be offered.
Adieu, my lovely friend; I leave to-morrow. If you have any commands
to give me for the Comtesse de ***, I will halt at her house, at any
rate for dinner. I am vexed to leave without seeing you. Send me your
sublime instructions, and aid me with your wise counsels, in this
critical moment.
Above all, defend yourself against Prévan; and grant that I may make
amends to you one day for the sacrifice! Adieu.
Paris, 11th September, 17**.
LETTER THE SEVENTY-FIRST
THE VICOMTE DE VALMONT TO THE MARQUISE DE MERTEUIL
MY idiot of a _chasseur_ has left my desk in Paris! My fair one’s
letters, those of Danceny to the little Volanges: all have remained
behind, and I have need of all. He is going off to repair his
stupidity; and whilst he is saddling his horse, I will tell you my
night’s story: for I beg you to believe I do not waste my time.
The adventure in itself is but a small thing; a _réchauffé_ with
the Vicomtesse de M***. But it interested me in its details. I am
delighted, moreover, to let you see that, if I have a talent for
ruining women, I have none the less, when I wish it, that of saving
them. The most difficult course or the merriest is the one I choose;
and I never reproach myself for a good action, provided that it has
kept me in practice or amused me.
I found the Vicomtesse here, and as she joined her entreaties to the
persecutions with which they would make me pass the night at the
_château_: “Well, I consent,” I said to her, “on condition that I pass
it with you.” “That is impossible,” she answered: “Vressac is here.”
So far, I had but meant to say the polite thing to her; but the word
impossible revolted me as usual. I felt humiliated at being sacrificed
to Vressac, and I resolved not to suffer it; I insisted therefore.
Circumstances were not favourable to me. This Vressac had been awkward
enough to give offence to the Vicomte; so much so that the Vicomtesse
can no longer receive him at home, and this visit to the good Comtesse
had been arranged between them, in order to try and snatch a few
nights. The Vicomte had at first even shown signs of ill-humour at
meeting Vressac there; but, as his love of sport is even stronger than
his jealousy, he stayed none the less: and the Comtesse, always the
same as you know her, after lodging the wife in the great corridor, put
the husband on one side and the lover on the other, and left them to
arrange things amongst themselves. The evil destiny of both willed that
I should be housed opposite them.
That very day, that is to say, yesterday, Vressac, who, as you will
well believe, cajoles the Vicomte, went out shooting with him in spite
of his distaste for sport, and quite counted on consoling himself at
night in the wife’s arms for the _ennui_ which the husband caused him
all day: but I judged that he would have need of repose, and busied
myself with the means of persuading his mistress to give him the time
to take it.
I succeeded, and persuaded her to pick a quarrel with him concerning
that very same shooting party to which, very obviously, he had only
consented for her sake. She could not have chosen a more sorry pretext;
but no woman is better endowed than the Vicomtesse with that talent,
common to all women, of putting ill-humour in the place of reason, and
of being never so difficult to appease as when she is in the wrong.
Neither was the moment convenient for explanations; and, as I only
wished her for one night, I consented to their reconciliation on the
morrow.
Vressac was greeted sullenly on his return. He sought to demand the
cause; he was abused. He tried to justify himself; the husband, who was
present, served for a pretext to break off the conversation; finally,
he attempted to take advantage of a moment when the husband was absent,
to ask that she would be kind enough to listen to him that night: it
was then that the Vicomtesse became sublime. She declaimed against the
audacity of men who, because they have experienced a woman’s favours,
suppose that they have the right to abuse her, even when she has cause
of complaint against him; and, having thus skilfully changed the issue,
she talked sentiment and delicacy so well that Vressac grew dumb and
confused, and I myself was tempted to believe that she was right: for
you must know that, as a friend of both of them, I made a third at this
conversation.
In the end, she declared positively that she would not add the fatigues
of love to those of the chase, and that she would reproach herself
were she to disturb such sweet pleasures. The husband returned. The
disconsolate Vressac, who was no longer at liberty to reply, addressed
himself to me; and, having, at great length, expounded his reasons,
which I knew as well as he, he begged me to speak to the Vicomtesse,
and I promised him to do so. I spoke to her, in effect; but it was
in order to thank her, and to arrange the hour and manner of our
_rendez-vous_.
She told me that, situated as she was between her husband and her
lover, she had thought it more prudent to go to Vressac than to receive
him in her apartment; and that, since I was placed opposite her, she
thought it was safer also to come to me; that she would repair to my
room as soon as her waiting-maid had left her alone; that I had only to
leave my door ajar and await her.
Everything was carried out as we had arranged; and she came to my room
about one o’clock in the morning,
_“Dans le simple appareil
D’une beauté qu’on vient d’arracher au sommeil.”_[24]
As I am quite without vanity, I will not go into the details of the
night; but you know me, and I was satisfied with myself.
At day-break, we had to separate. It is here that the interest begins.
The imprudent woman had thought to have left her door ajar; we found it
shut, and the key was left inside. You have no idea of the expression
of despair, with which the Vicomtesse said to me at once: “Ah, I am
lost!” You must admit it would have been amusing to have left her in
this situation: but could I suffer a woman to be ruined for me who
had not been ruined by me? And should I, like the commonalty of men,
let myself be overcome by circumstances? A method had to be found
therefore. What would you have done, my fair friend? Hear what was my
conduct; it was successful.
I soon realized that the door in question could be burst in, on
condition that one made a mighty amount of noise. I persuaded the
Vicomtesse, therefore, not without difficulty, to utter some piercing
cries of terror, such as _thieves, murder_, etc., etc. And we arranged
that, at the first cry, I should break in the door, and she should rush
to her bed. You would not believe how much time it needed to decide
her, even after she had consented. However, it had to be done that way,
and at my first kick the door yielded. The Vicomtesse did well not
to lose time; for, at the same instant, the Vicomte and Vressac were in
the corridor, and the waiting-maid had also run up to her mistress’s
chamber. I alone kept my coolness, and I profited by it to go and
extinguish a night-light which still burned, for you can imagine how
ridiculous it would have been to feign this panic terror with a light
in one’s room. I then took husband and lover to task for their sluggish
sleep, assuring them that the cries, at which I had run up, and my
efforts to burst open the door, had lasted at least five minutes.
[Illustration: C. Monnet inv.del N. Le Mire Sculp.]
The Vicomtesse, who had regained her courage in bed, seconded me
well enough, and swore by all her gods that there had been a thief
in her chamber; she protested with all the more sincerity in that
she had never had such a fright in her life. We searched everywhere
and found nothing, when I pointed to the overturned night-light, and
concluded that, without a doubt, a rat had caused the damage and the
alarm; my opinion was accepted unanimously; and, after some well-worn
pleasantries on the subject of rats, the Vicomte was the first to
regain his chamber and his bed, praying his wife for the future to keep
her rats quieter.
Vressac, who was left alone with us, approached the Vicomtesse to tell
her tenderly that it was a vengeance of Love; to which she answered,
glancing at me, “He was indeed angry then, for he has taken ample
vengeance; but,” she added, “I am exhausted with fatigue and I want to
sleep.”
I was in a good-humoured moment; consequently, before we separated, I
pleaded Vressac’s cause and effected a reconciliation. The two lovers
embraced, and I, in my turn, was embraced by both. I had no more
relish for the kisses of the Vicomtesse; but I confess that Vressac’s
pleased me. We went out together; and after I had accepted his lengthy
thanks, we both betook ourselves to bed.
If you find this history amusing, I do not ask you to keep it secret.
Now that I have had my amusement out of it, it is but just that the
public should have its turn. For the moment, I am only speaking of the
story; perhaps, we shall soon say as much of the heroine.
Adieu! My _chasseur_ has been waiting for an hour; I take only the time
to embrace you, and to recommend you, above all, to beware of Prévan.
At the Château de ..., 15th September, 17**.
LETTER THE SEVENTY-SECOND
THE CHEVALIER DANCENY TO CÉCILE VOLANGES
(Not delivered until the 14th)
O MY Cécile! how I envy Valmont’s lot! To-morrow he will see you: it
is he who will give you this letter, and I, languishing afar from you,
must drag on my painful existence betwixt unhappiness and regret. My
friend, my tender friend, pity my misfortunes; above all, pity me for
your own: it is in the face of them that my courage deserts me.