_The_ Marchioness de Merteuil, _to the_ Viscount Valmont.
Do you know, Viscount, your letter is wonderfully insolent, and has
almost made me angry? But it plainly proves that you have lost your
reason; and that consideration alone suppresses my indignation. Like a
tender and generous friend, I forget my own injury, and am wholly taken
up with your danger; and irksome as it is to enter into argument, I
yield to the necessity of it at this time.
You possess the Presidente Tourvel! What a ridiculous extravagance! I
here plainly perceive your downright folly, whose nature is to desire
that you cannot obtain. But let’s examine this woman. She has regular
features, it’s true, but a total want of expression; a tolerable
shape, but without the least elegance; dresses most horridly, with a
bundle of ruffs about her neck, and her stays up to her chin. I tell
you as a friend, two such women would be quite sufficient to ruin your
reputation. Do you remember the day she collected for the poor at
St. Roch, when you thank’d me so much for the view of so curious an
exhibition. I think I see her still giving her hand to that great looby
with the long hair, ready to fall at each step with her calash of four
ells over every one’s head, and blushing at every courtesy. Who then
would have dared to tell you, you will sigh for this woman? For shame,
Viscount! Blush yourself, and return to reason. I’ll promise to keep
this matter secret.
Let us now examine the disagreeable consequences that await you.
What rival have you to encounter? A husband. Don’t you feel yourself
humiliated at that name? What a shame if you fail! and if you succeed,
where is the glory?—I go farther: pleasure is out of the question; for
who ever had any with a prude? I mean, with a sincere one: reserv’d
in the very bosom of pleasure, they give you but half enjoyments. The
entirely devoting one’s self, that delirium of voluptuousness, where
pleasure is refined by excess—all those gifts of love are strangers
to them. I’ll prognosticate for you: suppose your summit of happiness,
you’ll find your Presidente will think she has done enough in treating
you as a husband; and, be assured, that in the most tender conjugal
tête-à-tête, the numerical distinction _two_ is always apparent. But
in this case it is much worse; your prude is a devotee, and of that
sort you are in a perpetual state of childhood; perhaps you may get
over this obstacle: but don’t flatter yourself that you’ll annihilate
it. Should you conquer the love of God, you’ll not be able to dispel
the fear of the devil; and though in holding your charmer in your arms,
you may feel her heart palpitate, it will be from fear, not love. You
might, perhaps, had you known this woman sooner, have made something
of her; but she is now two-and-twenty, and has been married almost two
years. Believe me, Viscount, when a woman is so far incrusted, she
must be left to her fate; she will never be any thing more than an
undistinguishable individual of a species.
And for such a curious object you refuse to obey me; you bury yourself
in your aunt’s sepulchre; you abandon a most delicious adventure that
is marked out for the advancement of your reputation. By what fatality
is it, that Gercourt must always have the advantage of you?
I declare I am not out of temper: but at this instant I am inclined to
think you don’t deserve the reputation you possess; and I consider your
conduct with such a degree of indignation, as tempts me to withdraw my
confidence from you. No, I never can bring myself to make Madame de
Tourvel’s lover the confidant of my secret designs.
I will tell you, however, that the little Volanges has made a conquest.
Young Danceny is distracted for her. He has sung with her, and she
really sings better than belongs to a convent boarder. They have yet
many duos to rehearse together, and I am much mistaken if she would not
readily get into unison with him; it is true, Danceny is but a boy
yet, who will waste his time in making love, but never will come to
the point. Little Volanges is wild enough; but at all events, it will
never be so pleasing as you could have made it. I am out of temper with
you, and shall most certainly fall out with the Chevalier when he comes
home. I would advise him to be mild, for at this time I should feel no
difficulty to break with him.
I am certain that if I had sense enough to break off with him now, he
would be a prey to the most violent despair; yet nothing diverts me
more than an enraged lover. He, perhaps, would call me perfidious,
and that word has ever pleased me; it is, after the epithet cruel,
the sweetest to a woman’s ear, and the least painful to deserve. I
will seriously ruminate on this rupture. You are the cause of all
this—I shall leave it on your conscience. Adieu! recommend me to your
Presidente in her prayers.
_Paris, Aug._ 7, 17—.