day being out of the question, we turned our attention to the night:
but my Swiss became an insurmountable obstacle, and I would not permit
any attempt to bribe him. He suggested the wicket-gate of my garden;
but this I had foreseen, and I invented a dog who, although calm and
silent enough by day, became a real demon at night. The ease with which
I entered into all these details was well fitted to embolden him. Thus
he went on to propose the most ridiculous of expedients to me, and it
was this which I accepted.
To begin with, his servant was as trusty as himself: in this he did
not lie to me; the one was quite as little so as the other. I was to
give a great supper at my house; he was to be there, and was to select
a moment when he could leave alone. The cunning confidant would call
his carriage, open the door, whilst he, Prévan, would slip adroitly on
one side. In no way could his coachman perceive this; so that, whilst
everybody believed him to have left, he had really remained with me;
the question remained whether he could reach my apartment. I confess
that, at first, I had some difficulty in finding reasons against this
project weak enough for him to be able to destroy; he answered me with
instances. To hear him, nothing was more ordinary than this method; he
himself had often employed it; it was even that one which he used the
most, as being the least dangerous.
Subjugated by these irrefutable authorities, I admitted with candour
that I had a private staircase which led to the near neighbourhood of
my _boudoir_; that I could leave the key of it, and it was possible for
him to shut himself in there and wait, without undue risk, until my
women had retired; and then, to give more probability to my consent,
the moment after I was unwilling: I only relented on the condition of a
perfect docility, of a propriety--oh, a propriety! In short I was quite
willing to prove my love to him, but not so much to gratify his own.
The exit, of which I was forgetting to tell you, was to be made by the
wicket-gate of my garden; it was only a matter of waiting for daybreak,
when the Cerberus would not utter a sound. Not a soul passes at that
hour, and people are in the soundest slumber. If you are astonished at
this heap of sorry reasons, it is because you forget our reciprocal
situation. What need had we of better ones? He asked nothing better
than for the thing to be known, and as for me, I was quite certain that
it should not be known. The next day but one was the day fixed.
You will notice that there is the affair settled, and that no one has
yet seen Prévan in my society. I meet him at supper at the house of one
of my friends, he offers her his box for a new piece, and I accept a
place in it. I invite this woman to supper, during the piece and before
Prévan; I can hardly avoid inviting him to be of the party. He accepts,
and pays me two days later the visit exacted by custom. ’Tis true, he
comes to see me on the morning of the next day: but besides the fact
that morning visits no longer count, it only rests with me to find this
one too free; and in fact I put him in the category of persons less
intimate with me, by a written invitation to a supper of ceremony. I
can well cry, with Annette: “_Albeit that is all!_”
The fatal day having come, the day on which I was to lose my virtue
and my reputation, I gave my instructions to the faithful Victoire,
and she executed them as you will presently see. In the meantime,
evening arrived. I had already a great company with me, when Prévan was
announced. I received him with a marked politeness, which testified
to the slightness of my acquaintance with him; and I put him by the
side of the Maréchale, as being the person through whom I had made it.
The evening produced nothing but a very short note, which the discreet
lover found a means of giving me, and which, according to my custom, I
burned. It informed me that I could trust him; and this essential word
was surrounded by all the parasitical words, such as love, happiness,
etc., which never fail to appear at such a festival.
By midnight, the rubbers being over, I proposed a short medley.[30] I
had the double design of favouring Prévan’s escape, and at the same
time of causing it to be noticed; that could not fail to happen,
considering his reputation as a gamester. I was not sorry, either, that
it might be remembered, if need were, that I had not been in a hurry
to be left alone. The game lasted longer than I had thought. The devil
tempted me, and I was succumbing to my desire to console the impatient
prisoner. I was thus rushing on to my ruin, when I reflected that, once
having quite surrendered, I should not have sufficient control over him
to keep him in the costume of decency which my plans required. I had
the strength to resist. I retraced my steps, and returned, not without
some ill-humour, to resume my place at the eternal game. It finished,
however, and every one left. As for me, I rang for my women, undressed
very rapidly, and sent them also away.
Can you see me, Vicomte, in my light toilette, walking with timid
and circumspect steps to open the door to my conqueror? He saw
me; lightning is not more prompt. What shall I say to you? I was
vanquished, quite vanquished, before I could say one word to arrest
him or defend myself. He then wanted to take a convenient position and
one more suitable to the circumstances. He cursed his finery which, he
said, kept him aloof from me; he would combat me with equal arms: but
my extreme timidity was opposed to this project, and my soft caresses
did not leave him time. He was occupied with other things.
His rights were redoubled, his pretensions were renewed; but then:
“Listen to me,” I said; “you will have thus far a merry story enough to
tell the two Comtesses de P***, and a thousand others; but I am curious
to know how you will relate the end of the adventure.” Speaking thus,
I rang the bell with all my strength. For the nonce it was my turn,
and my action was quicker than my speech. He had only stammered out
something, when I heard Victoire running up and calling the servants,
whom she had kept near her, as I had ordered. Then, assuming my queenly
tone, raising my voice: “Leave me, Monsieur,” I went on, “and, never
come into my presence again.” Whereupon a crowd of my people entered.
Poor Prévan lost his head, and, fancying an ambush in what was at
bottom no more than a joke, he betook himself to his sword. It did
him no good, for my _valet-de-chambre_, who is brave and active,
caught him round the body and hurled him to the ground. I was in a
mortal fright, I vow. I cried to them to cease, and bade them let his
retreat go unmolested, so long as they made certain that he was
gone. My men obeyed me: but there was great commotion amongst them;
they were indignant that anyone should have dared to fail in respect
towards _their virtuous mistress_. They all accompanied the unfortunate
Chevalier, noisily and with the scandal which I desired. Victoire
only stayed behind, and we occupied ourselves during this interval in
repairing the disorder of my bed.
[Illustration: C. Monnet del. Triere sculp.]
My household returned in the same state of commotion; and I, _still
upset by my emotion_, asked them by what lucky chance they happened to
be not yet gone to bed. Victoire then related to me how she had asked
two women friends to supper, how they had sat up with her, and, in
short, all that we had together agreed upon. I thanked them all, and
let them retire, bidding one of them, however, to go immediately and
summon my physician. It seemed to me that I was justified in fearing
ill effects from _my mortal fright_; and it was a sure means of giving
wind and celebrity to the news. He came in effect, condoled with me
mightily, and prescribed repose. In addition, I bade Victoire go abroad
early in the morning and gossip in the neighbourhood.
Everything succeeded so well that, before noon, and as soon as I was
awake, my pious neighbour was already at my bedside, to know the truth
and the details of this terrible adventure. I was obliged to moan with
her for an hour over the corruption of the age. A moment later, I
received from the Maréchale the note which I enclose. Finally, about
five o’clock, to my great astonishment, Monsieur *** arrived.[31] He
came, he told me, to bring his excuses that an officer of his regiment
should have been so grossly wanting in respect. He had only heard
of it at dinner, at the Maréchale’s, and had immediately sent word
to Prévan to consider himself under arrest. I asked for his pardon,
and he refused it me. I then thought that, as an accomplice, I ought
to dispatch myself on my side, and at least keep myself under strict
guard. I caused my door to be shut, and word to be given that I was
indisposed.
’Tis to my solitude that you owe this long letter! I shall write one
to Madame de Volanges, which she will be sure to read aloud, and from
which you will hear this story as it is to be told. I forgot to tell
you that Belleroche is enraged, and absolutely wants to fight Prévan.
The poor fellow! Luckily I shall have time to calm his head. In the
meantime, I am going to repose my own, which is tired with writing.
Adieu, Vicomte.
Paris, 25th September, 17**.
LETTER THE EIGHTY-SIXTH
THE MARÉCHALE DE *** TO THE MARQUISE DE MERTEUIL
(A note enclosed in the preceding one)
AH, Heavens! what do I hear, my dear Madame? Is it possible that that
little Prévan should commit such abominations? And to you above all!
What is one not exposed to! One is no longer safe in one’s own house!
Truly such events console one for being old. But that for which I shall
never console myself is that I have been partly the cause of your
receiving such a monster at your house. I promise you that, if what I
am told is true, he shall never more set foot within my doors; that is
the course which all nice persons will adopt towards him, if they do
their duty.
I am told that you have been quite ill, and I am anxious about your
health. Give me, I pray you, your precious news, or send by one of
your women, if you cannot come yourself. I only ask a word to reassure
me. I should have hastened to you this morning, had it not been for my
baths, which my doctor will not allow me to interrupt; and I must go to
Versailles this afternoon, always on my nephew’s business.
Adieu, dear Madame; count upon my sincere friendship for life.
Paris, September 25th, 17**.
LETTER THE EIGHTY-SEVENTH
THE MARQUISE DE MERTEUIL TO MADAME DE VOLANGES
I WRITE to you from my bed, my dear, kind friend. The most disagreeable
event, and the most impossible to have foreseen, has made me ill with
fright and annoyance. It is, assuredly, not because I have aught to
reproach myself with; but it is always so painful for a virtuous woman,
who retains the modesty which becomes her sex, to have public attention
drawn upon her that I would give anything in the world to have been
able to avoid this unhappy adventure; and I am still uncertain whether
I may not decide to go to the country and wait until it be forgotten.
This is the affair I allude to.
I met at the Maréchale de ***’s a certain M. de Prévan, whom you are
sure to know by name, and whom I knew in no other way. But, meeting him
at such a house, I was, it seems to me, quite justified in believing
him to be of good society. He is well enough made personally, and
seemed to me not lacking in wit. Chance and the tedium of play left
me the only woman alone with him and the Bishop of ***, the rest of
the company being occupied with lansquenet. The three of us conversed
together till supper-time. At the table, a new piece, of which
there was some talk, gave him the occasion to offer his box to the
Maréchale, who accepted it; and it was arranged that I should have a
place in it. It was for Monday last at the _Français_. As the Maréchale
was coming to sup with me at the close of the performance, I proposed
to this gentleman to accompany her, and he came. Two days later he paid
me a visit, which passed with the customary compliments, and without
the occurrence of anything marked. On the following day, he came to see
me in the morning, and this appeared to me a trifle bold; but I thought
that, instead of making him feel this by my fashion of receiving him,
it were better to remind him, by a politeness, that we were not yet on
so intimate a footing as he seemed to imply. To this end I sent him
that same day a very dry and very ceremonious invitation for a supper
that I was giving the day before yesterday. I did not speak four words
to him all the evening; and he, on his side, retired as soon as his
game was finished. You will admit that thus far nothing has less the
air of leading up to an adventure: after the other games, we played a
medley which lasted till nearly two o’clock, and finally I went to bed.
It must have been a mortal half hour at least after my women had
retired, when I heard a noise in my room. I opened my curtains with
much alarm, and saw a man enter by the door which leads into my
_boudoir_. I uttered a piercing cry; and I recognized, by the light of
my night-light, this M. de Prévan, who, with inconceivable effrontery,
told me not to alarm myself; that he would enlighten me as to the
mystery of his conduct; and that he begged me not to make any noise.
Thus speaking, he lit a candle; I was so confounded that I could not
speak. His tranquil and assured air petrified me, I think, even
more. But he had not said two words, when I saw what this pretended
mystery was; and my only reply, as you will believe, was to clutch my
bell-rope. By an incredible piece of good fortune, all my household
had been sitting up with one of my women, and were not yet in bed. My
chamber-maid, who, on coming to me, heard me speaking with much heat,
was alarmed, and summoned all this company. You can imagine what a
scandal! My people were furious; there was a moment when I thought my
_valet-de-chambre_ would kill Prévan. I confess that, at the moment,
I was quite relieved to find myself in force: on reflexion to-day, I
should have found it preferable if only my chamber-maid had come; she
would have sufficed, and I should, perhaps, have escaped all this noise
which afflicts me.
In place of that, the tumult awoke the neighbours, the household
talked, and it is the gossip of all Paris since yesterday. M. de Prévan
is in prison by order of the commanding-officer of his regiment, who
had the courtesy to call upon me to offer me his excuses, he said.
This arrest will still further augment the noise, but I could not
obtain that it should be otherwise. The Town and the Court have been
to inscribe their names at my door, which I have closed to everyone.
The few persons I have seen tell me that justice is rendered me, and
that public indignation against Prévan is at its height: assuredly,
he well merits it, but that does not detract from the disagreeables
of this adventure. Moreover, the man has certainly some friends; and
his friends are bound to be mischievous; who knows, who can tell what
they will invent to my injury? Ah, Lord! how unfortunate to be a young
woman! She has done nothing yet, when she has put herself out of the
reach of slander; she has need even to give the lie to calumny.
Write me, I beg of you, what you would have done, what you would do
in my place; in short, all your thought. It is always from you that I
receive the sweetest consolation and the most prudent counsel; it is
from you also that I love best to receive it.
Adieu, my dear and kind friend; you know the sentiments which for ever
attach me to you. I embrace your amiable daughter.
Paris, 26th September, 17**.
LETTER THE EIGHTY-EIGHTH
CECILE VOLANGES TO THE VICOMTE DE VALMONT
IN spite of all the pleasure that I take, Monsieur, in the letters of
M. le Chevalier Danceny, and although I am no less desirous than he is
that we might be able to see one another again without hindrance, I
have not, however, dared to do what you suggest to me.
In the first place, it is too dangerous; this key, which you want me
to put in the other’s place, is like enough to it, in truth; but not
so much so, however, that the difference is not to be seen, and Mamma
looks at and takes notice of everything. Again, although it has not yet
been made use of since we have been here, there needs but a mischance;
and, if it was to be perceived, I should be lost for ever. And then, it
seems to me too that it would be very wrong; to make a duplicate key
like that: it is very strong! It is true that it is you who would be
kind enough to undertake it; but in spite of that, if it became known,
I should, none the less, have to bear the blame and the odium, since
it would be for me that you had done it. Lastly, I have twice tried
to take it, and certainly it would be easy enough if it were anything
else: but I do not know why, I always started trembling, and have never
had the courage. I think then we had better stay as we are.
If you continue to have the kindness to be as complaisant as hitherto,
you will easily find a means of giving me a letter. Even with the last,
but for the ill chance which made you suddenly turn round at a certain
moment, we should have been quite secure. I can quite feel that you
cannot, like myself, be thinking only of that; but I would rather have
more patience and not risk so much. I am sure that M. Danceny would
speak as I do: for, every time that he wanted something which caused me
too much pain, he always consented that it should not be.
I will give you back, Monsieur, at the same time as this letter, your
own, that of M. Danceny, and your key. I am none the less grateful for
all your kindnesses, and I beseech you to continue them. It is very
true that I am most unhappy, and without you I should be even more
so; but, after all, she is my mother; I must needs have patience. And
provided that M. Danceny goes on loving me, and you do not abandon me,
perhaps a happier time will come.
I have the honour to be, Monsieur, with much gratitude, your most
humble and obedient servant.
At the Château de ..., 26th September, 17**.
LETTER THE EIGHTY-NINTH
THE VICOMTE DE VALMONT TO THE CHEVALIER DANCENY
IF your affairs do not always advance as quickly as you could wish, my
friend, it is not entirely me whom you must blame. I have more than
one obstacle to overcome here. The vigilance and severity of Madame de
Volanges are not the only ones; your young friend also throws some in
my way. Whether from coldness or timidity, she does not always do as
I advise her; and I think, none the less, that I know better than she
what must be done.
I had found a sure and simple means of giving her your letters, and
even of facilitating, subsequently, the interviews which you desire:
but I could not persuade her to employ it. I am all the more distressed
at this, as I cannot see any other means of bringing you together;
and as, even with your correspondence, I am constantly afraid of
compromising us all three. Now you may imagine that I am no more
anxious to run that risk myself than to expose either of you to it.
I should be truly grieved, however, if your little friend’s lack of
confidence were to prevent me from being useful to you; perhaps, you
would do well to write to her on the subject. Consider what you want to
do, it is for you alone to decide; for it is not enough to serve one’s
friends, one must also serve them in their own manner. This might also
be one means the more to assure yourself of her sentiments towards you;
for the woman who keeps a will of her own does not love as much as she
says.
’Tis not that I suspect your mistress of inconstancy: but she is very
young; she has a great fear of her Mamma, who, as you know, only seeks
to injure you; and perhaps it would be dangerous to stay too long
without occupying her with you. Do not, however, render yourself unduly
anxious by what I tell you. I have at bottom no reason for distrust; it
is entirely the solicitude of friendship.
I do not write to you at greater length, because I too have certain
affairs of my own. I am not as far advanced as you, but I am as fond;
that is a consoling thought; and, even if I should not succeed for
myself, if I succeed in being useful to you, I shall consider that my
time has been well employed. Adieu, my friend.
At the Château de ..., 26th September, 17**.
LETTER THE NINETIETH
THE PRÉSIDENTE DE TOURVEL TO THE VICOMTE DE VALMONT
I AM greatly desirous, Monsieur, that this letter should not cause you
any distress; or that, if it must do so, it may be at least softened
by that which I experience in writing to you. You must know me well
enough by this time to be well assured that it is not my wish to grieve
you; but neither would you wish, doubtless, to plunge me into eternal
despair. I conjure you then, in the name of the tender friendship which
I have promised you, in the name, even, of the sentiments, perhaps more
vivid, but assuredly not more sincere, which you have for me: let us
cease to see one another; depart; and, in the meantime, let us shun
all those private and too perilous interviews in which, forced by some
inconceivable power, though I never succeed in saying what I wish to
say to you, I pass my time in listening to what I never ought to hear.
Only yesterday, when you came to join me in the park, my sole intention
was to tell you that which I am writing to you to-day; and yet, what
did I do, but occupy myself with your love--your love--to which I am
bound never to respond! Ah, for pity’s sake remove yourself from me!
Do not think that absence will ever alter my sentiments for you: how
shall I ever succeed in overcoming them, when I have no longer the
courage to combat them? You see, I tell you all; I fear less to confess
my weakness than to succumb to it: but that control which I have lost
over my feelings I shall retain over my actions; yes, I shall retain
it, I am resolved, be it at the cost of my life.
Alas! the time is not far distant when I believed myself very sure
of never having such struggles to undergo. I congratulated myself, I
vaunted myself for this, perhaps overmuch. Heaven has punished, cruelly
punished this pride: but, full of mercy, at the very moment when it
strikes us it forewarns me again before a fall; and I should be doubly
guilty if I continued to fail in prudence, warned as I am already that
I have no more strength.
You have told me a hundred times that you would have none of a
happiness purchased by my tears. Ah! let us speak no more of happiness,
but leave me to regain some calm.
In acceding to my request, what fresh rights do you not acquire over my
heart? And from those rights, founded upon virtue, I shall have need to
defend myself. What pleasure I shall take in my gratitude! I shall owe
you the sweetness of tasting without remorse a delicious sentiment. At
present, on the contrary, terrified by my sentiments, by my thoughts,
I am equally afraid of occupying myself with either you or myself; the
very idea of you alarms me: when I cannot escape from it, I combat it;
I do not drive it from me, but I repel it.
Is it not better for both of us to put a stop to this state of trouble
and anxiety? Oh, you, whose ever sensitive soul, even in the midst of
its errors, has continued the friend of virtue, you will respect my
painful situation, you will not reject my prayer! A sweeter, but not
less tender interest will succeed to these violent agitations: then,
breathing again through your benevolence, I shall cherish existence,
and shall say, in the joy of my heart: This calm, I owe it to my friend.
In causing you to undergo a few deprivations, which I do not impose
upon you, but which I beg of you, will you think you are buying the end
of my torments at too dear a price? Ah! if, to make you happy, I had
but to consent to unhappiness, you may believe me, I would not hesitate
for a moment.... But to become guilty!... No, my friend, no; rather
would I die a thousand deaths. Already, assailed by shame, on the eve
of remorse, I dread both others and myself; I blush in the midst of
company, and tremble in solitude; I lead only a life of pain; I shall
have no peace unless you consent. My most praiseworthy resolutions do
not suffice to reassure me; I formed this one yesterday, and yet I have
passed the night in tears.