for me, you would be happy and tranquil. Can you forgive me? Ah, say,
say that you forgive me; tell me also that you love me, that you will
always love me. I need that you repeat it to me. It is not that I doubt
it: but it seems to me that, the more sure I am of it, the sweeter it
is to hear it said. You love me, do you not? Yes, you love me with all
your soul. I do not forget that it is the last word I heard you utter.
How I have treasured it in my heart! How deeply it is graven there! And
with what transports has not mine replied to it!
Alas, in that moment of happiness, I was far from foreseeing the awful
fate which awaited us! Let us occupy ourselves, my Cécile, with the
means of alleviating it. If I am to believe my friend, it will suffice,
to attain this, that you should treat him with the confidence which he
deserves.
I was grieved, I confess, at the unfavourable opinion you appear to
have had of him. I recognized there the prejudices of your Mamma; it
was to submit to them that, for some time past, I had neglected that
truly amiable man, who to-day does everything for me; who, in short,
labours to reunite us, whom your Mamma has separated. I implore you,
my dear friend, look upon him with a more favourable eye. Reflect that
he is my friend, that he wishes to be yours, that he can afford me
the happiness of seeing you. If these reasons do not convince you, my
Cécile, you do not love me as well as I love you, you do not love me
as much as you used to love me. Ah, if ever you were to come to love
me less! But no, the heart of my Cécile is mine, it is mine for life;
and if I have to dread the pain of a love which is unfortunate, her
constancy will save me at least from the torments of a love betrayed.
Adieu, my charming friend; do not forget how I suffer, and that it only
rests with you to make me happy, completely happy. Hear my heart’s vow,
and receive the most tender kisses of love.
Paris, 11th September, 17**.
LETTER THE SEVENTY-THIRD
THE VICOMTE DE VALMONT TO CÉCILE VOLANGES
(Delivered with the preceding)
THE friend who serves you knows that you have no writing materials, and
he has already provided for this want. You will find in the ante-room
of the apartment you occupy, beneath the great press, on the left-hand
side, a supply of pens, ink, and paper, which he will renew when you
require it, and which, so it seems to him, you can leave in the same
place, if you do not find a surer one.
He asks you not to be offended with him, if he seems to pay no
attention to you in public, and only to regard you as a child. This
behaviour seems to him necessary, in order to inspire the sense
of security of which he has need, and to enable him to work more
effectively for his friend’s happiness and your own. He will try to
find occasions for speaking with you, when he has anything to tell you
or give to you; and he hopes to succeed, if you show any zeal to second
him.
He also advises you to return to him, successively, the letters which
you may have received, in order that there may be less risk of your
compromising yourself.
He concludes by assuring you that, if you will give him your
confidence, he will take every care to alleviate the persecution that
a too harsh mother is using against two persons of whom one is already
his best friend, whilst the other seems to him worthy of the most
tender interest.
At the Château de ..., 14th September, 17**.
LETTER THE SEVENTY-FOURTH
THE MARQUISE DE MERTEUIL TO THE VICOMTE DE VALMONT
AH, since when, my friend, do you take alarm so easily? Is this
Prévan so very formidable then? But see how simple and modest am I! I
have often met him, this haughty conqueror; I hardly looked at him!
It required nothing less than your letter to excite that amount of
attention from me. I repaired my injustice yesterday. He was at the
Opera, almost exactly opposite me, and I took stock of him. He is
handsome at any rate, yes, very handsome: fine and delicate features!
He must gain by being seen close at hand. And you tell me he wants to
have me! Assuredly it will be my honour and pleasure. Seriously, I have
a fancy for it, and I now confide to you that I have taken the first
steps. I do not know if they will succeed. Thus the matter stands.
He was not two paces off from me, as we came out from the Opera, and
I, very loudly, made an appointment with the Marquise de *** to sup
on Friday with the Maréchale. It is, I think, the only house where I
can meet him. I have no doubt that he heard me.... If the ungrateful
fellow were not to come! But tell me, do you think he will come? Do
you know that, if he were not to come, I should be in a bad humour
all the evening? You see that he will not find so much difficulty in
_following me_; what will more astonish you is that he will have still
less in _pleasing me_. He would, he said, kill six horses in paying
his court to me! Oh, I will save those horses’ lives! I shall never
have the patience to wait so long a time. You know it is not one of my
principles to leave people languishing, when once I am decided; and I
am for him.
Please now confess that there is some pleasure in talking reason to me!
Has not your _important warning_ been a great success? But what would
you have? I have been vegetating for so long! It is more than six weeks
since I permitted myself a diversion. This one presents itself; can I
refuse myself it? Is not the object worth the trouble? Is there any
more agreeable, in whatever sense you take the word?
You yourself are forced to do him justice; you do more than praise him,
you are jealous of him. Ah, well! I will not set up as judge between
the two of you; but, to begin with, one should investigate, and that is
what I want to do. I shall be an impartial judge, and you shall both be
weighed in the same balance. As for you, I already have your papers,
and your affair is thoroughly enquired into. Is it not only just that
I should now occupy myself with your adversary? Come now, yield with
a good grace; and as a commencement, let me hear, I beg you, what is
this triple adventure of which he is the hero. You speak of it to me as
though I knew of nothing else, and I do not know the first word of it.
Apparently, it must have occurred during my expedition to Geneva, and
your jealousy prevented you from writing to me about it. Repair this
fault at the earliest possible; remember that _nothing which interests
him is alien to me_. I certainly think that they were still talking
of it when I returned; but I was otherwise occupied, and I rarely
listen to anything of that sort which is not the affair of to-day or of
yesterday.
Even if what I ask of you should go somewhat against the grain, is it
not the least price you can pay for the pains I have taken for you?
Have these not sent you back to your Présidente, when your blunders
had separated you from her? Was it not I, again, who put into your
hands the wherewithal to revenge yourself for the bitter zeal of Madame
de Volanges? You have complained so often of the time you waste in
searching after your adventures! Now, you have them under your thumb.
Betwixt love and hate, you have but to choose; they both lie under the
same roof; and you can double your existence, caress with one hand
and strike with the other. It is even to me, again, that you owe the
adventure of the Vicomtesse. I am quite satisfied with it; but, as you
say, it must be talked about; for if the situation could induce you,
as I conceive, to prefer for a moment mystery to _éclat_, it must be
admitted, none the less, that the woman did not merit so honourable a
procedure.
I have besides, cause of complaint against her. The Chevalier de
Belleroche finds her prettier than is to my liking; and, for many
reasons, I shall be glad to have a pretext for breaking with her: now
none is more convenient than to be obliged to say: One cannot possibly
know that woman any longer.
Adieu, Vicomte; remember that, situated as you are, time is precious; I
shall employ mine by occupying myself with Prévan’s happiness.
Paris, 15th September, 17**.
LETTER THE SEVENTY-FIFTH
CÉCILE VOLANGES TO SOPHIE CARNAY
[_N.B. In this letter, Cécile Volanges relates with the utmost detail
all that concerns her in the events which the Reader already knows from
the conclusion of the fifty-ninth and following letters. It seemed as
well to suppress this repetition. She finally speaks of the Vicomte de
Valmont, and expresses herself thus:_]
... I ASSURE you that he is a most remarkable man. Mamma speaks mighty
ill of him, but the Chevalier Danceny says much in his favour, and I
think that he is right. I have never seen a man so clever. When he gave
me Danceny’s letter, it was in the midst of all the company, and nobody
saw anything of it: it is true I was terribly frightened, because I
had not expected anything; but now I shall be prepared. I have already
quite understood what he wants me to do when I give him my answer.
It is very easy to understand him, because he has a look which says
anything he wants. I don’t know how he does it: he told me in his note
that he would appear not to take any notice of me before Mamma; indeed,
one would say, all the time, that he never thinks of me, and yet, every
time I seek his eyes, I am sure to meet them at once.
There is a great friend of Mamma’s here, whom I did not know, who also
has the air of not loving M. de Valmont too well, although he is full
of attentions for her. I am afraid that he will bore himself soon with
the life one leads here, and go back to Paris; that would be very
vexing. He must indeed have a good heart to have come on purpose to do
a service to his friend and me. I should much like to show my gratitude
to him, but I do not know how to get speech with him; and when I find
the occasion, I should be so ashamed that, perhaps, I should not know
what to say to him.
It is only to Madame de Merteuil that I talk freely, when I speak of
my love. Perhaps, even with you, to whom I tell everything, I should
feel embarrassed if we were talking. With Danceny himself, I have often
felt, as though in spite of myself, a certain alarm which prevented me
from telling him all that I thought. I reproach myself greatly for this
now, and I would give everything in the world to find a moment to tell
him once, only once, how much I love him. M. de Valmont promised him
that, if I would be guided by him, he would contrive an opportunity for
us to see one another again. I will certainly do everything he wants;
but I cannot conceive how it is possible. Adieu, my dear friend; I have
no more room left.[25]
At the Château de ..., 14th September, 17**.
LETTER THE SEVENTY-SIXTH
THE VICOMTE DE VALMONT TO THE MARQUISE DE MERTEUIL
EITHER your letter is a piece of banter which I have not understood, or
you were in a dangerous delirium when you wrote it. If I knew you less
well, my lovely friend, I should truly be most alarmed; and, whatever
you may say, I do not take alarm too easily.
It is in vain that I read and re-read your letter, I am none the more
advanced; for to take it in the natural sense which it presents is
out of the question. What was it then you wished to say? Is it merely
that it was useless to take so much trouble with an enemy who was so
little to be feared? In that case, you might be wrong. Prévan is really
attractive; he is more so than you believe; he has, above all, the most
useful talent of interesting people greatly in his love, by the skill
with which he will bring it up in society, and before the company,
by making use of the first conversation which occurs. There are few
women who do not fall into the trap and reply to him, because, all
having pretensions to subtilty, none wishes to lose an opportunity of
displaying it. Now you are well aware that the woman who consents to
talk of love soon finishes by feeling it, or at least by behaving as if
she did. He gains again at this method, which he has really brought to
perfection, in that he can often call the women themselves in testimony
of their defeat; and this I tell you, as one who has seen it.
I was never in the secret except at second-hand; for I have never been
intimate with Prévan: but, in a word, there were six of us: and the
Comtesse de P***, thinking herself very artful all the time, and having
the air indeed, to any one who was not initiated, of conversing in the
abstract, told us, with the utmost detail, both how she had succumbed
to Prévan, and all that had passed between them. She told this
narrative with such a sense of security that she was not even disturbed
by a smile which came over all our six faces at the same time; and I
shall always remember that one of us, having sought, by way of excuse,
to feign a doubt as to what she said, or rather of what she had the air
of saying, she answered gravely that we were certainly, none of us,
so well informed as she was; and she was not afraid even to address
herself to Prévan, and ask him if she had said a word which was not
true.
I was right then in believing this man dangerous to everybody: but for
you, Marquise, was it not enough that he was _handsome, very handsome_,
as you tell me yourself? Or that he should make _one of those attacks
on you which you sometimes amuse yourself by rewarding, for no other
reason than that you find them well contrived?_ Or that you should have
found it amusing to succumb for any reason whatever? Or--what do I
know? Can I divine the thousand and one caprices which govern a woman’s
head, and in which alone you continue to take after your sex? Now that
you are forewarned of the danger, I have no doubt that you will easily
avoid it: but it was none the less necessary to forewarn you. I return
to my text therefore: what did you mean to say?
If it is only a piece of banter against Prévan, apart from its being
very long, it was of no use, addressed to me; it is in society that he
must suffer some excellent piece of ridicule, and I renew my prayer to
you on this subject.
Ah! I think I hold the key to the enigma! Your letter is a prophecy,
not of what you will do, but of what he will think you ready to do, at
the moment of the fall which you have prepared for him. I quite approve
of this plan: it requires, however, great precautions. You know as
well as I do that, as far as the public is concerned, to have a man
or to receive his attentions is absolutely the same thing, unless the
man be a fool, which Prévan is very far from being. If he can gain the
appearances, he will boast, and all will have been said. Fools will
believe him, the malicious will have the air of believing; where will
your resources be? Remember, I am afraid. It is not that I doubt your
skill: but it is the good swimmers who get drowned.
I hold myself to be no duller than another: as for means of
dishonouring a woman, I have found a hundred, I have found a thousand;
but when I have busied myself to seek how the woman could escape, I
have never seen the possibility. You yourself, my fair friend, whose
conduct is a masterpiece, I have a hundred times found you to have had
more good-luck than you have shown skill.
But, after all, I am, perhaps, seeking for a reason where none exists.
I am amazed, however, to think that, for the last hour, I should have
been treating seriously what is surely a mere jest on your part. You
intend to make fun of me! Ah well! so be it; but make haste, and let
us speak of something else. Something else! I am mistaken, it is always
the same; always women to have or to ruin, and often both.
I have here, as you remark, the wherewithal to exercise myself in
both kinds, but not with equal ease. I foresee that vengeance will go
quicker than love. The little Volanges has succumbed, I answer for
that; she only awaits an opportunity, and I undertake to bring it
about. But it is not the same with Madame de Tourvel: this woman is
disheartening, I did not conceive it of her; I have a hundred proofs of
her love, but I have a thousand of her resistance; and, in truth, I am
afraid lest she escape me.
The first effect which my return produced gave me more hope. You
will guess that I wished to judge for myself; and, to make sure of
seeing the first emotions, I sent no one ahead to announce me, and I
calculated my stages so as to arrive when they should be at table. In
fact, I dropped from the clouds, like a divinity at the opera, who
comes to effect a _dénouement_.
Having made enough noise at my entry to attract all eyes to me, I could
see, in one glance, the joy of my old aunt, the annoyance of Madame de
Volanges and the confused pleasure of her daughter. My fair one, owing
to the seat she occupied, had her back turned to the door. Busy at the
moment in carving something, she did not even turn her head: but I said
a word to Madame de Rosemonde; and at the first sound, the sensitive
Puritan, recognizing my voice, uttered a cry in which I thought I
distinguished more love than terror or surprise. I was then in a
position to see her face; the tumult of her soul, the struggle between
her ideas and sentiments, were depicted on it in a score of different
fashions. I sat down to table by her side; she did not know precisely
anything of what she did or said. She endeavoured to go on eating; it
was out of the question: finally, not a quarter of an hour later, her
pleasure and confusion becoming too strong for her, she could devise
nothing better than to ask permission to leave the table, and she
escaped into the park, on the pretext that she needed to take the air.
Madame de Volanges wanted to accompany her; the tender prude would not
permit it, too happy, no doubt, to have a pretext for being alone, and
to give way without constraint to the soft emotion of her heart!
I made the dinner as short as it was possible to do. Dessert was hardly
served, when the infernal Volanges woman, pressed apparently by her
need to injure me, rose from her seat to go and find the charming
invalid: but I had foreseen this project and I thwarted it. I feigned
therefore to take this particular movement for the general signal; and,
having risen at the same time, the little Volanges and the _curé_ of
the place followed the double example; so that Madame de Rosemonde was
left alone at the table with the old Commandant de T***; and they also
both decided to leave. We all went then to rejoin my fair one, whom we
found in the grove near the _château_: as it was solitude she wanted
and not a walk, she was just as pleased to return with us as to make us
stay with her.
As soon as I was certain that Madame de Volanges would have no
opportunity to speak apart with her, I thought of fulfilling your
orders, and busied myself about the interests of your pupil.
Immediately after coffee, I went up to my room, and went into the
others also, to explore the territory; I took measures to ensure the
little girl’s correspondence; after this first piece of benevolence, I
wrote a word of instruction to her and to beg for her confidence; and I
added my note to the letter from Danceny. I returned to the _salon_. I
found my beauty reclining on a long chair, in an attitude of delicious
unconstraint.
This spectacle, whilst exciting my desires, illumined my gaze; I felt
that this must be tender and beseeching, and I placed myself in such
a position that I could bring it into play. Its first effect was to
cause the big, modest eyes of the heavenly prude to be cast down. For
some time I considered that angelic face; then, glancing over all her
person, I amused myself by divining forms and contours through the
light clothing, which I could have wished away. After having descended
from head to feet, I returned from feet to head.... My fair friend, her
soft gaze was fixed upon me; it was immediately lowered; but wishing to
promote its return, I averted my eyes. Then was established between us
that tacit convention, a first treaty of bashful love, which, in order
to satisfy the reciprocal need of seeing, allows the looks to succeed
one another, until the moment comes when they are mingled.
Convinced that this new pleasure occupied my fair one completely,
I charged myself with the task of watching over our common safety;
but, having assured myself that conversation was brisk enough to save
us from the notice of the company, I sought to obtain from her eyes
that they should frankly speak their language. For this, I began by
surprising certain glances, but with so much reserve that modesty could
not take alarm; and to put the bashful creature more at her ease, I
appeared to be as embarrassed as herself.
Little by little our eyes, grown accustomed to encounter, were fixed
for a longer interval; until at last they quitted each other no more,
and I saw in hers that sweet languor which is the happy signal of love
and desire: but it was only for a moment; soon recovering herself, she
changed, not without a certain shame, her attitude and her look.
Being unwilling that she should suspect I had observed her different
movements, I rose with vivacity, asking her, with an air of alarm, if
she were unwell. At once, everybody rushed round her. I let them all
pass in front of me; and as the little Volanges, who was working at her
tapestry near a window, needed some time before she could leave her
task, I seized the moment to deliver Danceny’s letter.
I was at a little distance from her; I threw the letter into her lap.
In truth she did not know what to do. You would have laughed over much
at her air of surprise and embarrassment; however, I did not laugh, for
I feared lest so much clumsiness might betray us. But a quick glance
and gesture, strongly accentuated, gave her to understand at last that
she was to put the packet in her pocket.
The rest of the day contained nothing of interest. What has passed
since will, perhaps, bring about events with which you will be pleased,
at any rate in so far as your pupil is concerned: but it is better to
employ one’s time in carrying out one’s projects than in describing
them. This is, moreover, the eighth sheet I have written, and I am
wearied; and so, adieu.
You will rightly suppose, without my telling it you, that the child has
replied to Danceny.[26] I have also had a reply from my fair, to whom
I wrote on the morrow of my arrival. I send you the two letters. You
will or you will not read them: for this incessant, tedious repetition,
which already is none too amusing to me, must be insipid indeed to any
person not concerned.
Once more, adieu. I am ever mightily fond of you; but I beg you, if you
write to me of Prévan, do so in such a manner that I may understand you.
At the Château de ..., 17th September, 17**.
LETTER THE SEVENTY-SEVENTH
THE VICOMTE DE VALMONT TO THE PRÉSIDENTE DE TOURVEL
WHENCE, Madame, can arise the cruel pains which you are at to shun me?
How can it be that the most tender zeal on my part meets on yours only
with the treatment which one would barely permit one’s self with the
man against whom one had the greatest cause to complain? What! Love
calls me back to your feet; and when a happy chance places me at your
side, you prefer to feign indisposition, to alarm your friends, rather
than consent to remain near me! How many times, yesterday, did you not
turn away your eyes to deprive me of the favour of a glance! And if for
one single moment I was able to see less severity there, that moment
was so short that it seemed as though you wished less to have me enjoy
it than to make me feel what I should lose by being deprived of it.
That is not, I venture to say, either the treatment which love
deserves, or that which friendship may be allowed; and yet, of these
two sentiments, you know whether the one does not animate me; and the
other I was, it seems to me, authorized to believe that you did not
withhold. This precious friendship, of which you doubtless thought
me worthy, since you were kind enough to offer it me--what have I
done that I should lose it since? Could I have damaged myself by my
confidence, and will you punish me for my frankness? At least, have
you no fear lest you abuse the one and the other? In effect, was it
not to the bosom of my friend that I entrusted the secret of my heart?
Was it not face to face with her alone that I thought myself obliged
to refuse conditions which I had only to accept in order to obtain the
facility for leaving them unfulfilled, and perhaps of abusing them to
my advantage? Would you, in short, by a rigour so undeserved, force
me to believe that I had needed but to deceive you in order to obtain
greater indulgence?
I do not repent of a conduct which I owed you, as I owed it to myself;
but by what fatality does each praiseworthy action of mine become the
signal for a fresh misfortune?