deigned to accord my conduct that I had to groan, for the first time,
over the misfortune of having displeased you. It was after proving
my perfect submission by depriving myself of the happiness of seeing
you, simply to reassure your delicacy, that you wished to break off
all correspondence with me, to rob me of that feeble compensation for
a sacrifice which you had required, and to take from me even the very
love which alone had given you the right to ask it. It is, in short,
after having spoken to you with a sincerity which even the interest of
that love could not abate that you shun me to-day, like some dangerous
seducer whose perfidy you have found out.
Will you, then, never grow weary of being unjust? At least, tell me
what new wrongs can have urged you to such severity, and do not refuse
to dictate to me the orders which you wish me to obey; when I pledge
myself to fulfil them, is it too great a pretension to ask that I may
know them?
At the Château de ..., 15th September, 17**.
LETTER THE SEVENTY-EIGHTH
THE PRÉSIDENTE DE TOURVEL TO THE VICOMTE DE VALMONT
YOU seem surprised at my behaviour, Monsieur, and within an ace of
asking me to account to you for it, as though you had the right to
blame it. I confess that I should have thought it was rather I who was
authorized to be astonished and to complain; but, since the refusal
contained in your last letter, I have adopted the course of wrapping
myself in an indifference which affords no ground for remarks or
reproaches. However, as you ask me for enlightenment, and I, thanks be
to Heaven, am conscious of naught within me which should prevent my
granting your request, I am quite willing to enter once more into an
explanation with you.
Anyone reading your letters would believe me to be fantastic or
unjust. I think it is not in my deserts that anyone should have this
opinion of me; it seems to me, above all, that you, less than any
other, have cause to form it. Doubtless, you felt that, in requiring
my justification, you forced me to recall all that has passed between
us. Apparently, you thought you had only to gain by this examination:
as I, on my side, believe I have nothing to lose by it, at least in
your eyes, I do not fear to undertake it. Perhaps, it is indeed the
only means of discovering which of us has the right to complain of the
other.
To start, Monsieur, from the day of your arrival in this _château_, you
will admit, I suppose, that your reputation, at least, authorized me
to employ a certain reserve with you; and that I might have confined
myself to the bare expression of the coldest politeness, without
fearing to be taxed with excessive prudery. You yourself would have
treated me with indulgence, and would have thought it natural that
a woman so little formed should not have the necessary merits to
appreciate yours. That, surely, had been the part of prudence; and it
would have cost me the less to follow in that, I will not conceal from
you, when Madame de Rosemonde informed me of your arrival, I had need
to remind myself of my friendship for her, and of her own for you, not
to betray how greatly this news annoyed me.
I admit willingly that you showed yourself at first under a more
favourable aspect than I had imagined; but you will agree, in your
turn, that it lasted but a little while, and you were soon tired
of a constraint for which, apparently, you did not find yourself
sufficiently compensated by the advantageous notion it had given
me of you. It was then that, abusing my good faith, my feeling of
security, you were not afraid to pester me with a sentiment by which
you could not doubt but that I should be offended; and I, whilst you
were occupied in aggravating your errors by repeating them, sought
a reason for forgetting them, by offering you the opportunity of,
at least in part, retrieving them. My request was so just that you
yourself thought you ought not to refuse it; but making a right out
of my indulgence, you profited by it to ask for a permission which,
without a doubt, I ought not to have granted you, and which, however,
you obtained. Conditions were attached to it: you have kept no one of
them; and your correspondence has been of such a kind that each one of
your letters made it my duty not to reply to you. It was at the very
moment when your obstinacy was forcing me to send you away from me
that, by a perhaps culpable condescension, I attempted the only means
which could permit me to be concerned with you: but what value has
virtuous sentiment in your eyes? Friendship you despise; and, in your
mad intoxication, counting shame and misery for naught, you seek only
for pleasures and for victims.
As frivolous in your proceedings as inconsequent in your reproaches,
you forget your promises, or rather you make a jest of violating them;
and, after consenting to go away from me, you return here without being
recalled; without thought for my prayers or my arguments; without even
having the consideration to inform me, you were not afraid to expose
me to a surprise whose effect, although assuredly very simple, might
have been interpreted to my detriment by the persons who surrounded
us. Far from seeking to distract from or to dissipate the moment of
embarrassment you had occasioned, you seem to have given all your pains
to increase it. At table you choose your seat precisely at the side of
my own; a slight indisposition forces me to leave before the others,
and, instead of respecting my solitude, you contrive that all the
company should come to trouble it. On my return to the drawing-room,
I cannot make a step but I find you at my side; if I say a word, it
is always you who reply to me. The most indifferent remark serves you
for a pretext to bring up a conversation which I refuse to hear, which
might even compromise me; for, in short, Monsieur, whatever the address
you may bring to bear, I think that what I understand may also be
understood by the others.
Forced thus to take refuge in immobility and silence, you none the less
continue to persecute me; I cannot raise my eyes without encountering
yours. I am incessantly compelled to avert my gaze; and by an
incomprehensible inconsequence you draw upon me the eyes of the company
at a moment when I would have even wished it possible to escape from my
own.
And you complain of my behaviour! and you are surprised at my eagerness
to avoid you! Ah, blame rather my indulgence; be surprised that I did
not leave at the moment of your arrival. I ought, perhaps, to have done
so, and you will compel me to this violent, but necessary, course, if
you do not finally cease your offensive pursuit. No, I do not forget, I
never shall forget what I owe to myself, what I owe to the ties I have
formed, which I respect and cherish; and I pray you to believe that, if
ever I found myself reduced to the unhappy choice of sacrificing them,
or of sacrificing myself, I should not hesitate an instant. Adieu,
Monsieur.
At the Château de ..., 16th September, 17**.
LETTER THE SEVENTY-NINTH
THE VICOMTE DE VALMONT TO THE MARQUISE DE MERTEUIL
I INTENDED to go hunting this morning: but the weather was detestable.
All that I have to read is a new romance which would bore even
a school-girl. It will be two hours, at the earliest, before we
breakfast: so that, in spite of my long letter of yesterday, I will
have another talk with you. I am very certain not to weary you, for I
shall tell you of _the handsome Prévan_. How was it you never heard of
his famous adventure, the one which separated the _inseparables_? I
wager that you will recall it at the first word. Here it is, however,
since you desire it.
You will remember that all Paris marvelled that three women, all
three pretty, all three with like qualities and able to make the same
pretensions, should remain intimately allied amongst themselves, ever
since the moment of their entry into the world. At first, one seemed to
find the reason in their extreme shyness: but soon, surrounded, as they
were, by a numerous court whose homages they shared, and enlightened
as to their value by the eagerness and zeal of which they were the
objects, their union only became the firmer; and one would have said
that the triumph of one was always that of the two others. One hoped
at least that the moment of love would lead to a certain rivalry. Our
rakes disputed the honour of being the apple of discord; and I myself
should have entered their ranks, had the great consideration in which
the Comtesse de *** was held at the time permitted me to be unfaithful
to her before I had obtained the favours I demanded.
However, our three beauties, during the same carnival, made their
choice as though in concert; and, far from this exciting the storms
which had been predicted, it only rendered their friendship more
interesting, by the charm of the confidences entailed.
The crowd of unhappy suitors was added, then, to that of jealous women,
and such scandalous constancy was held up to public censure. Some
pretended that, in this society of _inseparables_ (so it was dubbed at
that time), the fundamental law was the community of goods, and that
love itself was included therein; others asserted that, if the three
lovers were exempt from rivals of their own sex, they were not from
those of the other: people went so far as to say that they had but been
admitted for decency’s sake, and had obtained only a title without an
office.
These rumours, true or false, had not the effect which one would have
predicted. The three couples, on the contrary, felt that they were lost
if they separated at such a moment; they decided to set their heads
against the storm. The public, which tires of everything, soon tired
of an ineffectual satire. Borne on the wings of its natural levity, it
busied itself with other objects: then, casting back to that one with
its habitual inconsequence, its criticism was converted into praise.
As all things go by fashion here, the enthusiasm gained; it was become
a real delirium, when Prévan undertook to verify these prodigies, and
settle the public opinion about them, as well as his own.
He sought out therefore these models of perfection. He was easily
admitted into their society, and drew a favourable omen from this.
He was well aware that happy persons are not so easy of access. He
soon saw, in fact, that this so vaunted happiness was, like that of
kings, rather to be envied than desired. He remarked that, amongst
these pretended inseparables, they were beginning to seek for
pleasures abroad, and even to occupy themselves with distractions;
and he concluded therefrom, that the bonds of love or friendship were
already loosened or broken, and that those of self-conceit and custom
alone retained some strength. The women, however, whose need brought
them together, kept up amongst themselves an appearance of the same
intimacy: but the men, who were freer in their proceedings, discovered
duties to fulfil, or affairs to carry on; they still complained of
these, but no longer neglected them, and the evenings were rarely
complete.
This conduct on their part was profitable to the assiduous Prévan, who,
being naturally placed beside the deserted one of the day, found a
means of offering alternately, and according to circumstances, the same
homage to each of the three friends. He could easily perceive that to
make a choice between them was to lose everything; that false shame at
proving the first to be unfaithful would make the preferred one afraid;
that the wounded vanity of the two others would render them the enemies
of the new lover, and that they would not fail to oppose him with the
severity of their high principles; in short, that jealousy would surely
revive the zeal of a rival who might be still to fear. Everything
would be an obstacle; in his triple project all became easy: each woman
was indulgent because she was interested in it; each man, because he
thought that he was not.
Prévan, who had, at that time, but one woman to sacrifice, was lucky
enough to see her become a celebrity. Her quality of foreigner, and the
homage of a great Prince, adroitly refused, had fixed on her the eyes
of the Court and the Town; her lover participated in the honour, and
profited from it with his new mistresses. The only difficulty was to
conduct his three intrigues at an equal pace; their progress had, of
course, to be regulated by that of the one which lagged the most; in
fact, I heard from one of his confidants, that his greatest difficulty
was to hold in hand one which was ripe for gathering nearly a fortnight
before the rest.
At last the great day arrived. Prévan, who had obtained the three
avowals, was already master of the situation, and arranged it as you
will see. Of the three husbands, one was absent, the other was leaving
the next day at day-break, the third was in town. The inseparable
friends were to sup at the future widow’s; but the new master had
permitted the former gallants to be invited there. On the morning of
that very day, he divided the letters of his fair into three lots;
he enclosed in one the portrait which he had received from her, in
the second an amorous device which she had painted herself, in the
third a tress of her hair; each of the friends received this third of
a sacrifice as the whole, and consented, in return, to send to her
disgraced lover a signal letter of rupture.
This was much; but it was not enough. She whose husband was in Town
could only dispose of the day; it was arranged that a pretended
indisposition should dispense her from going to supper with her friend,
and that the evening should be given entirely to Prévan; the night was
granted by her whose husband was absent; and day-break, the moment of
the departure of the third spouse, was appointed by the last for the
shepherd’s hour.
Prévan, who neglected nothing, next hastened to the fair foreigner,
brought there and aroused the humour which he required, and only left
after having brought about a quarrel which assured him four-and-twenty
hours of liberty. His dispositions thus made, he returned home,
intending to take some hours’ repose. Other business was awaiting him.
The letters of rupture had brought a flash of light to the disgraced
lovers: none of them had any doubt but that he had been sacrificed
to Prévan; and spite at being tricked uniting with the ill-humour
which is almost always engendered by the petty humiliation of being
deserted, all three, without communicating with one another, but as
though in concert, resolved to have satisfaction, and took the course
of demanding it from their fortunate rival.
The latter found the three challenges awaiting him; he accepted them
loyally, but not wishing to sacrifice either his pleasures or the
glamour of this adventure, he fixed the _rendez-vous_ for the following
morning, and gave all three assignations at the same place and the same
hour. It was at one of the gates of the Bois de Boulogne.
When evening came, he ran his triple course with equal success; at
least, he boasted subsequently that each one of his new mistresses had
received three times the wage and declaration of his love. In this, as
you may imagine, proofs are lacking to history; all that the impartial
historian can do is to point out to the incredulous reader that vanity
and exalted imagination can beget prodigies; nay more, that the
morning which was to follow so brilliant a night seemed to promise a
dispensation from all concern for the future. Be that as it may, the
facts which follow are more authentic.
Prévan repaired punctually to the _rendez-vous_ which he had selected;
he found there his three rivals, somewhat surprised at meeting, and
each of them, perhaps, a trifle consoled at the sight of his companions
in misfortune. He accosted them with a blunt but affable air, and used
this language to them--it has been faithfully reported to me:
“Gentlemen,” said he, “as I find you all here together, you have
doubtless divined that you have all three the same cause of complaint
against me. I am ready to give you satisfaction. Let chance decide
between you which of the three shall first attempt a vengeance to which
you have all an equal right. I have brought with me neither second
nor witnesses. I did not include any in my offence; I seek none in my
reparation.” Then, agreeable to his character as a gamester, he added,
“I know one rarely holds in three hands running; but, whatever fortune
may befall me, one has always lived long enough when one has had time
to win the love of women and the esteem of men.”
Whilst his astonished adversaries looked at one another in silence, and
their delicacy, perhaps, reflected that this triple contest rendered
the game hardly fair, Prévan resumed:
“I do not hide from you that the night which I have just passed has
cruelly fatigued me. It would be generous of you to permit me to
recruit my strength. I have given orders for a breakfast to be served
on the ground; do me the honour to partake of it. Let us breakfast
together, and, above all, let us breakfast gaily. One can fight for
such trifles; but they ought not, I think, to spoil our good humour.”
The breakfast was accepted. Never, it is said, was Prévan more amiable.
He was skilled enough to avoid humiliating any one of his rivals, to
persuade them that they would have easily had a like success, and,
above all, to make them admit that, no more than he, would they have
let the occasion slip. These facts once admitted, everything arranged
itself. The breakfast was not finished before they had repeated a dozen
times that such women did not deserve that men of honour should fight
for them. This idea promoted cordiality; it was so well fortified by
wine that, a few moments later, it was not enough merely to bear no
more ill-will: they swore an unreserved friendship.
Prévan, who doubtless liked this _dénouement_ as well as the other,
would not for that, however, lose any of his celebrity. In consequence,
adroitly adapting his plans to circumstances: “In truth,” he said to
the three victims, “it is not on me but on your faithless mistresses
that you should take revenge. I offer you the opportunity. I begin to
feel already, like yourselves, an injury which would soon be my share:
for if none of you could succeed in retaining a single one, how can I
hope to retain all three? Your quarrel becomes my own. Accept a supper
this evening at my _petite maison_, and I hope your vengeance may not
be long postponed.” They wished to make him explain: but, with that
tone of superiority which the circumstances authorized him to adopt,
he answered, “Gentlemen, I think I have proved to you that my conduct
is founded on a certain wit; trust in me.” All consented; and, after
having embraced their new friend, they separated till the evening to
await the issue of his promises.
Prévan returns to Paris without wasting time, and goes, according to
the usage, to visit his new conquests. He obtained a promise from each
to come the same evening and sup _tête-à-tête_ at his pleasure-house.
Two of them raised a few objections; but what can one refuse on the
day after? He fixed the _rendez-vous_ for a late hour, time being
necessary for his plans. After these preparations he retired, sent word
to the other three conspirators, and all four went gaily to await their
victims.
The first is heard arriving. Prévan comes forward alone, receives her
with an air of alacrity, conducts her into the sanctuary of which she
believed herself to be the divinity; then, disappearing under some
slight pretext, he allows himself to be forthwith replaced by the
outraged lover.
You may guess how the confusion of a woman who had not yet the habit
of adventures rendered triumph easy: any reproach not made was counted
for a grace; and the truant slave, once more handed over to her former
master, was only too happy to be able to hope for pardon by resuming
her former chain. The treaty of peace was ratified in a more solitary
place, and the empty stage was successively filled by the other actors
in almost the same fashion, and always with the same result. Each of
the women, however, still thought herself alone to be in question.
Their astonishment and embarrassment increased when, at supper-time,
the three couples were united; but confusion reached its height when
Prévan, reappearing in their midst, had the cruelty to make his excuses
to the three faithless ones, which, by revealing their secret, told
them completely to what a point they had been fooled.
However, they went to table, and soon afterwards countenances cleared;
the men gave themselves up, the women submitted. All had hatred in
their hearts; but the conversation was none the less tender: gaiety
aroused desire, which, in its turn, lent to gaiety fresh charm. This
astounding orgy lasted until morning; and, when they separated, the
women had thought to be pardoned: but the men, who had retained their
resentment, made on the following morning a rupture which was never
healed; and, not content with leaving their fickle mistresses, they
sealed their vengeance by making their adventure public. Since that
time one has gone into a convent, and the two other languish in exile
on their estates.
That is the story of Prévan; it is for you to say whether you wish to
add to his glory, and tie yourself to his car of triumph. Your letter
has really given me some anxiety, and I await impatiently a more
prudent and clearer reply to the last I wrote you.
Adieu, my fair friend; distrust those queer or amusing ideas which
too easily seduce you. Remember that, in the career which you are
leading, wit alone does not suffice; one single imprudence becomes an
irremediable ill. In short, allow a prudent friendship to be sometimes
the guide of your pleasures.
Adieu. I love you nevertheless, just as much as though you were
reasonable.
At the Château de ..., 18th September, 17**.
LETTER THE EIGHTIETH
THE CHEVALIER DANCENY TO CÉCILE VOLANGES
CÉCILE, my dear Cécile, when will the time come for us to meet again?
How shall I learn to live afar from you? Who will give me the courage
and the strength? Never, never shall I be able to support this fatal
absence. Each day adds to my unhappiness: and there is no term to look
forward to!
Valmont, who had promised me help and consolation, Valmont neglects
and, perhaps, forgets me! He is near the object of his love; he forgets
what one feels when one is parted from it. When forwarding your last
letter to me, he did not write to me. It is he, however, who should
tell me when, and by what means, I shall be able to see you. Has he
nothing then to tell me? You yourself do not speak of it to me; could
it be that you do not participate in my desire? Ah, Cécile, Cécile, I
am very unhappy! I love you more than ever: but this love which makes
the charm of my life becomes its torture.
No, I can no longer live thus; I must see you, I must, were it only for
a moment. When I rise, I say to myself: I shall not see her. I lie down
saying: I have not seen her.... The long, long days contain no moment
of happiness. All is privation, regret, despair; and all these ills
come to me from the source whence I expected every pleasure! Add to
these mortal pains my anxiety about yours, and you will have an idea of
my situation. I think of you uninterruptedly, and never without dismay.
If I see you afflicted, unhappy, I suffer for all your sorrows; if I
see you calm and consoled, my own are redoubled. Everywhere I find
unhappiness.
Ah, how different it was from this, when you dwelt in the same
places as I did! All was pleasure then. The certainty of seeing you
embellished even the moments of absence; the time which had to be
passed away from you glided away as it brought you nearer to me. The
use I made of it was never unknown to you. If I fulfilled my duties,
they rendered me more worthy of you; if I cultivated any talent,
I hoped the more to please you. Even when the distractions of the
world carried me far away from you, I was not parted from you. At the
play-house I sought to divine what would have pleased you; a concert
reminded me of your talents and our sweet occupations. In company, on
my walks, I seized upon the slightest resemblance. I compared you with
all; everywhere you had the advantage. Every moment of the day was
marked by fresh homage, and every evening I brought the tribute of it
to your feet.