by Mamma, who once never said anything to me? Quite the contrary. Now
it is worse than if I were at the convent. I consoled myself for it,
however, by reflecting that it was for you; there were even moments
when I found I was quite content; but when I see that you are vexed
too, without its being in the least my fault, I have more grief than I
had for all that has hitherto happened to me.
Even merely to receive your letters is embarrassing, so that, if M.
de Valmont were not so obliging and so clever as he is, I should not
know what to do; and, as to writing to you, that is more difficult
still. All the morning I dare not, because Mamma is close by me, and
she may come, at any moment, into my room. Sometimes, I am able to, in
the afternoon, under pretence of singing or playing on the harp; even
then I have to interrupt myself after every line, to let them hear I
am studying. Luckily my waiting-maid sometimes grows sleepy in the
evening, and I tell her that I can quite well get to bed by myself, so
that she may go away and leave me the light. And then, I am obliged
to get behind my curtain, so that no light can be seen; and then, to
listen for the least sound, so that I can hide everything in my bed, if
anyone comes. I wish you were there to see! You would soon see that one
must indeed love anyone to do it. In short, it is quite true that I do
all that I can, and I would it lay within my power to do more.
Certainly, I do not refuse to tell you that I love you, and that I
shall always love you; I never told it you with a fuller heart; and
you are vexed! Yet you had assured me, before I said it, that that was
enough to make you happy. You cannot deny it; it is in your letters.
Although I have them no longer, I remember them as well as when I used
to read them every day. And you, because you are absent now, no longer
think the same! But perhaps this absence will not always last? Ah, God,
how unhappy I am! And it is indeed you who are the cause of it!...
With regard to your letters, I hope that you have kept those which
Mamma took from me, and which she sent back to you; a time must come,
some day, when I shall not be so restrained as at present, and you
will give them all back to me. How happy I shall be when I am able to
see them! Now I return them to M. de Valmont, because there would be
too much danger otherwise; in spite of that, I never give them to him
without feeling a deal of pain.
Adieu, my dear friend. I love you with all my heart. I shall love you
all my life. I hope that now you are no longer vexed, and, were I sure
of it, I should not be so myself. Write to me, as soon as you are able,
for I feel that till then I shall continue sad.
At the Château de ..., 21st September, 17**.
LETTER THE EIGHTY-THIRD
THE VICOMTE DE VALMONT TO THE PRÉSIDENTE DE TOURVEL
FOR mercy’s sake, Madame, let us repeat that interview which was so
unhappily broken! Oh, that I could complete my work of proving to you
how much I differ from the odious portrait which has been made of me;
that, above all, I could again enjoy that amiable confidence which you
began to grant me! How many are the charms with which you know how
to endow virtue! How you beautify, and render dear, every virtuous
sentiment! Ah, therein lies your fascination; it is the strongest; it
is the only one which is at once powerful and worthy of respect.
Doubtless, it is enough to see you to desire to please you; to hear
you in company for that desire to be redoubled. But he who has the
happiness of knowing you better, who can sometimes read in your soul,
soon yields to a more noble enthusiasm, and, penetrated by veneration
as by love, worships in you the image of all the virtues. Better made
than another, perhaps, to love and follow them, although seduced by
certain errors which had separated me from them, it is you who have
brought me back, who have caused me to feel anew all their charm:
will you make a crime of this new love of mine? Will you blame your
handiwork? Would you reproach yourself even with the interest which you
might take in it? What harm is to be feared from so pure a sentiment,
and what sweetness might there not be to taste in it?
My love alarms you, you find it violent, unrestrained! Temper it with a
gentler love; do not disdain the empire which I offer you, from which I
swear never to escape, and which, I dare believe, would not be entirely
lost to virtue. What sacrifice could seem hard to me, once sure that
your heart could keep its price for me? Where is the man, then, who is
so unhappy as not to know how to delight in the privations which he
imposes on himself, as not to prefer a word, a glance, accorded, to all
the pleasures which he could steal or surprise? And you believed that
I was such a man, and you feared me! Ah, why does not your happiness
depend on my own! What vengeance I would take on you, by rendering you
happy! But this gentle empire is no result of a barren friendship; it
is only due to love.
That word frightens you! And why? A more tender attachment, a stronger
union, a common thought, a like happiness and a like pain, what is
there in that alien to your soul? Yet love is all that! Such, at least,
is the love which you inspire and I experience. It is that, above all,
which, calculating without interest, knows how to appreciate actions
according to their merit and not their price; it is the inexhaustible
treasure of sensitive souls, and all things become precious that are
done for or by it.
What, then, have these truths, so easy to grasp, so sweet to practise,
that can alarm? What fear, either, can a man of sensibility cause you,
to whom love permits no other happiness than your own? This is the
solitary vow I make to-day: I will sacrifice all to fulfil it, except
the sentiment by which it is inspired; and this sentiment itself, if
you do but consent to share it, you shall order as you will. But let
us suffer it no longer to divide us, when it should unite us. If the
friendship you have offered me is not an idle word; if, as you told me
yesterday, it is the sweetest sentiment known to your soul, let that be
the bond between us; I will not reject it: but, being arbiter of love,
let it consent to listen to it; a refusal to hear it would become an
injustice, and friendship is not unjust.
A second interview will present no greater difficulty than the first:
chance can again furnish the occasion; you could yourself indicate the
right moment. I am willing to believe that I am wrong; would you not be
better pleased to convince me than to combat me, and do you doubt my
docility? If that inopportune third party had not come to interrupt us,
perhaps I had already been brought round entirely to your opinion: who
knows the full extent of your power?
Shall I say it to you? This invincible power, to which I abandon
myself without venturing on calculation, this irresistible charm,
which renders you sovereign of my thoughts as of my actions: it comes
to me sometimes to fear them. Alas, perhaps it is I who should be
afraid of this interview for which I ask! After it, perhaps, bound
by my promises, I shall see myself compelled to consume away with a
love which, I am well aware, can never be extinguished, without daring
to implore your aid! Ah, Madame, for mercy’s sake, do not abuse your
authority! But what then! if you are to be the happier for it, if I am
thereby to appear worthier of you, what pains are not alleviated by
these consoling ideas! Yes, I feel it; to speak again with you is to
give you stronger arms against me; it is to submit myself more entirely
to your will. It is easier to defend myself against your letters;
they are indeed your very utterances, but you are not there to lend
them fresh strength. However, the pleasure of hearing you leads me to
brave the danger: at least I shall have the pleasure of having dared
everything for you, even against myself; and my sacrifices will become
an homage. I am too happy to prove to you in a thousand manners, as I
feel in a thousand fashions, that you are and ever will be, without
excepting myself, the object dearest to my heart.
At the Château de ..., 23rd September, 17**.
LETTER THE EIGHTY-FOURTH
THE VICOMTE DE VALMONT TO CÉCILE VOLANGES
YOU saw how greatly the chance was against us yesterday. All day long
I was unable to hand you the letter which I had for you; I know not
whether I shall find it any easier to-day. I am afraid of compromising
you, by showing more zeal than discretion; and I should never forgive
myself for an imprudence which might prove so fatal to you, and cause
the despair of my friend, by rendering you eternally miserable.
However, I am aware of the impatience of love; I feel how painful it
must be to you, in your situation, to meet with any delay in the only
consolation you can know at this moment. By dint of busying myself with
the means of removing the obstacles, I have found one the execution of
which, if you take some pains, will be easy.
I think I have remarked that the key of the door of your chamber,
which opens into the corridor, is always on your Mamma’s mantel-shelf.
Everything would be easy with this key, you must be well aware; but in
default of it, I will procure you one like it, which will serve in its
stead. To succeed in this, it will be sufficient to have the other at
my disposition for an hour or two. You will easily find an opportunity
for taking it; and, in order that its absence may not be noticed,
I enclose, in this, one of my own which is so far like it that no
difference will be seen, unless they try it; this they are not likely
to do. You must only take care to tie it to a faded blue ribbon, like
that which is on your own.
It would be well to try and have this key by to-morrow or the day
after, at breakfast-time; because it will be easier for you to give it
me then, and it can be returned to its place in the evening, a time
when your Mamma might pay more attention to it. I shall be able to
return it to you at dinner-time, if we arrange well.
You know that, when we move from the _salon_ to the dining-room, it is
always Madame de Rosemonde who walks last. I shall give her my hand.
You will only have to take some time in putting away your tapestry, or
even to let something drop, so that you may remain behind: you will
see then how to take the key from me, which I shall be careful to
hold behind me. You must not neglect, as soon as you have taken it,
to rejoin my old aunt and pay her a few attentions. If by chance you
should let the key fall, do not lose your countenance; I will feign
that it was done by me, and I answer for everything.
The lack of confidence your Mamma shows in you, and her harsh behaviour
towards you, authorize this little deception. It is, moreover, the
only way to continue to receive the letters of Danceny, and to forward
him yours; all others are really too dangerous and might ruin you both
irretrievably: thus my prudent friendship would reproach itself, were I
to employ them further.
Once having the key, there remain some precautions for us to take
against the noise of door and lock; but they are very easy. You will
find, beneath the same press where I placed your paper, oil and a
feather. You sometimes go to your room at times when you are alone
there: you must profit by it to oil the lock and hinges. The only
attention you need pay is to be careful of stains which might betray
you. You had better wait also until night arrives, because, if it be
done with the intelligence of which you are capable, there will be
no trace of it on the following morning. If, however, it should be
perceived, then you must say that it is the indoor polisher. You must
in this case specify the time, and even the conversation which you had
with him: as, for instance, that he takes this precaution against rust
with all the locks which are not in use. For you see that it would be
unlikely that you should have witnessed this proceeding without asking
the reason. It is these little details which give probability; and
probability renders a lie without consequence, by diminishing people’s
desire to verify it.
After you have read this letter, I beg you to read it again and even
to study it: to begin with, one should be well acquainted with what
one wishes to do well; next, to assure yourself that I have omitted
nothing. Little accustomed to employ _finesse_ on my own account, I
have no great use for it; indeed it needed nothing less than my keen
friendship for Danceny, and the interest which you inspire in me, to
induce me to employ these means, however innocent they may be. I hate
anything which has the air of deception; that is my character. But
your misfortunes have touched me to such a degree that I will attempt
everything to alleviate them.
You can imagine that, with this means of communication once established
between us, it will be far easier for me to procure for you the
interview with Danceny which he desires. However, do not yet speak to
him of all this: you would only increase his impatience, and the moment
for satisfying it is not yet quite arrived. You owe it to him, I think,
to calm rather than to excite him. I depend in this matter on your
delicacy. Adieu, my fair pupil, for you are my pupil. Love your tutor
a little, and above all be docile to him: you will be rewarded. I am
occupied with your happiness; rest assured that I shall find therein my
own.
At the Château de ..., 24th September, 17**.
LETTER THE EIGHTY-FIFTH
THE MARQUISE DE MERTEUIL TO THE VICOMTE DE VALMONT
AT last you may be tranquil, and, above all, you can render me justice.
Listen, and do not confound me again with other women. I have brought
my adventure with Prévan to a close. _To a close!_ Do you fully
understand what that implies? Now you shall judge whether it is I, or
he, who can vaunt himself. The story will not be as amusing as the
adventure: neither would it be just that you, who have done no more
than reason ill or well about the affair, should reap as much pleasure
from it as I, who have given my time and labour.
In the meantime, if you have some great scheme to try, if you would
attempt some enterprise in which this dangerous rival should seem to
you to be feared, this is your time. He leaves the field free to you,
at least for some time; perhaps, even, he will never recover from the
blow I have given him.
How fortunate you are to have me for a friend! I am a benevolent fairy
to you. You languish afar from the beauty who engrosses you; I say
one word, and you find yourself once more at her side. You wish to
revenge yourself on a woman who injures you; I point out to you the
place where you have to strike, and abandon her to your tender mercies.
Finally, to drive a formidable competitor from the lists, it is once
more I whom you invoke, and I give heed to you. Truly, if you do not
spend your life in thanking me, it means that you are an ingrate. I
return to my adventure and take it up from the beginning.
The _rendez-vous_ made so loudly, on leaving the Opera, was understood
as I had hoped. Prévan repaired to it; and when the Maréchale said to
him politely that she congratulated herself on seeing him twice in
succession at her days, he was careful to reply that, since Tuesday
night, he had cancelled a thousand engagements, in order that he might
thus dispose of that evening. _À bon entendeur, salut!_ As I wished,
however, to know with more certainty whether I was, or was not, the
veritable object of this flattering zeal, I resolved to compel the new
aspirant to choose between me and his dominant passion. I declared that
I should not play; and he, on his side, found a thousand pretexts for
not playing, and my first triumph was over lansquenet.
I secured the Bishop of *** for my gossip; I chose him because of his
intimacy with the hero of the day, to whom I wished to give every
facility to approach me. I was contented also to have a respectable
witness, who could, at need, depose to my behaviour and my language.
This arrangement was successful.
After the vague and customary remarks, Prévan, having soon made himself
the leader of the conversation, tried different tones in turn, in order
to discover which was likely to please me. I refused that of sentiment,
as though I had no faith in it; I stopped, by my seriousness, his
gaiety, which seemed to me too frivolous for a _début_; he fell back
upon delicate friendship; and it was beneath this well-worn flag that
we began our reciprocal attack.
At supper-time, the Bishop did not descend; Prévan then gave me his
hand, and was naturally placed by my side at table. One must be just;
he maintained with much skill our private conversation, while seeming
only to be occupied with the general conversation, to which he had the
air of being the largest contributor. At dessert, they spoke of a new
piece which was to be given on the following Monday at the _Français_.
I expressed some regret that I had not my box; he offered me his own,
which at first, as is the usage, I refused: to which he answered
humorously enough, that I did not understand him; that certainly, he
would not make the sacrifice of his box to anyone whom he did not know;
but that he only let me know it was at Madame la Maréchale’s disposal.
She lent herself to this pleasantry, and I accepted.
On our return to the _salon_, he asked, as you may well believe, for
a place in this box; and when the Maréchale, who treats him with
great kindness, promised him it, _if he were good_, he made it the
occasion of one of those double-edged conversations, at which you have
extolled his talent to me. Indeed, having fallen on his knees, like a
submissive child, he said, under pretext of begging for her counsel
and tasking her opinion, he uttered many a flattering and tender
thing, the application of which I could easily take to myself. Several
persons having not returned to play after supper, the conversation was
more general and less interesting: but our eyes spoke much. I say our
eyes: I should have said his; for mine spoke but one language--that of
surprise. He must have thought I was astonished, and quite absorbed
in the prodigious effect which he had on me. I think I left him highly
satisfied; I was no less pleased myself.
On the following Monday I was at the _Français_, as we had agreed.
In spite of your literary curiosity, I can tell you nothing of the
performance, except that Prévan has a marvellous talent for cajolery,
and that the piece failed: that is all that I learned. I was sorry to
see the evening come to an end; it had really pleased me mightily; and,
in order to prolong it, I invited the Maréchale to come and sup with
me: this gave me a pretext for proposing it to the amiable flatterer,
who only asked the time to hasten to the Comtesses de P***,[29]
and free himself from an engagement. This name brought back all my
anger; I saw plainly that he was going to begin his confidences; I
remembered your wise counsels, and promised myself ... to proceed with
the adventure; I was certain that I should cure him of this dangerous
indiscretion.
Being new to my company, which was not very numerous that evening, he
owed me the customary usages; thus, when we went to supper, he offered
me his hand. I was malicious enough, when accepting it, to allow mine
to tremble slightly, and to walk with my eyes cast down, and a quick
respiration. I had the air of having a presentiment of my defeat, and
of being afraid of my victor. He noticed it readily; then the traitor
promptly changed his tone and aspect. He had been gallant, he became
tender. It was not that his language did not remain much the same:
circumstances compelled that; but his gaze had become less keen and
more caressing; the inflexion of his voice softer; his smile was no
longer the smile of _finesse_, but of satisfaction. Finally, in his
conversation, suppressing more and more the fire of his sallies, wit
gave place to delicacy. I ask you, could you have done better yourself?
On my side, I grew pensive to such a point that the company was forced
to perceive it; and when I was reproached for it, I was clever enough
to defend myself indifferently, and to cast on Prévan a rapid, yet shy
and embarrassed glance, that was to make him believe that all my fear
was lest he should divine the cause of my trouble.
After supper, I profited by the moment when the good Maréchale was
telling one of those stories which she is always telling, to settle
myself on my ottoman, in that languorous condition which is induced
by a tender _rêverie_. I was not sorry for Prévan to see me thus; in
truth, he honoured me with most particular attention. You may well
imagine that my timid glances did not dare to seek the eyes of my
conqueror: but directed towards him in a more humble fashion, they soon
informed me that I was obtaining the effect which I sought to produce.
I still needed to persuade him that I shared it; so that, when the
Maréchale announced she was going to retire, I cried out in a faint and
tender voice, “_Ah Dieu!_ I was so comfortable here!” I rose, however:
but, before taking leave of her, I asked her her plans, in order to
have a pretext for telling her mine, and of letting her know that I
should stay at home the whole of the following day. Upon this, we all
separated.
I then started reflecting. I had no doubt but that Prévan would profit
by the sort of _rendez-vous_ I had given him; that he would come early
enough to find me alone, and that the attack would be a fierce one: but
I was quite sure also that, owing to my reputation, he would not treat
me with that lightness which is only employed with women of occasion
or with those who have no experience; and I foresaw a certain success,
if he pronounced the word love, above all, if he had the pretension of
obtaining it from me.
How convenient it is to have dealings with you _people of principles_!
Sometimes a clumsy lover disconcerts us by his bashfulness or
embarrasses us with his fiery transports; it is a fever which, like
the other, has its chills and ardours, and sometimes varies in its
symptoms. But the even tenor of your way is so easily divined!
The arrival, the aspect, the tone, the language: I knew it all the day
before.
I will not report our conversation to you, then; you will easily supply
it for yourself. Only remark that, in my feigned defence, I aided him
with all my power: embarrassment, to give him time to speak; sorry
reasons, that he might combat them; distrust and fear, to revive his
protestations; and that perpetual refrain on his side of _I ask you
only for a word_; and the silence on mine, which seemed but to delay
him in order to make him desire the more: during all that, a hand
seized a hundred times, a hand always withdrawn yet never refused.
One might pass a whole day thus; we passed a mortal hour: we should
be there, perhaps, still, if we had not heard a carriage entering my
court-yard. This fortunate occurrence naturally rendered his entreaties
livelier; and I, seeing the moment arrive when I was out of danger
of any surprise, prepared myself by a long sigh, and granted him the
precious word. The visitor was announced, and soon afterwards, I was
surrounded by a numerous circle.
Prévan begged to be allowed to come on the following morning, and I
consented: but, careful to defend myself, I ordered my waiting-maid to
remain all through the time of this visit in my bed-chamber, whence,
you know, one can see all that passes in my dressing-room, and it was
there that I received him. Free in our conversation and having both the
same desire, we were soon in agreement: but it was necessary to get rid
of this inopportune spectator; it was for that I was waiting.
Then, painting an imaginative picture of my home life, I persuaded him
without difficulty that we should never find a moment’s liberty, and
that he must consider as a sort of miracle that which we had enjoyed
yesterday, and even that contained too great a risk for me to expose
myself to, since at any moment someone might enter my _salon_. I did
not fail to add that all these usages were established, because, until
that day, they had never interfered with me; and I insisted at the
same time upon the impossibility of changing them without compromising
myself in the eyes of my household. He attempted sadness, assumed
ill-humour, told me that I had little love; and you can guess how
much all that touched me! But, wishing to strike the decisive blow,
I summoned tears to my aid. It was precisely the _Zaïre, you are
weeping_. The empire which he thought to have gained over me, and the
hope he had conceived of compassing my ruin at his will, stood him in
good stead for all the love of Orosmane.