Viscount Valmont _to the_ Marchioness de Merteuil.
You write enchantingly, my charming friend; but why take so much
trouble to prove a position which all the world knows, that to make
a quick progress in love matters, it is better to speak than write?
This, I believe, is the full contents of your letter; and is it not the
first elements of the art of seduction? I will only remark, that you
make but one exception to this principle, and that there are two: with
children, who take this step through timidity, and give themselves up
through ignorance, you must add the women of genius, who are dupes to
self-love and vanity, which leads them into the snare. For example;
I am very certain that the Countess de B——, who answered, without
hesitating, my first letter, had then no more affection for me, than I
had for her; and that in this connection she had no other view, than
being engaged with a person whom she imagined would do her honour.
However, a lawyer will tell you, that the maxim is not applicable to
the question; for you suppose that it is at my option to write or
speak, which is not the case. Since the affair of the 20th, my cruel
charmer, who keeps on the defensive, has studiously avoided meeting
me, a piece of address which totally disconcerts me: so that if it
should continue, she will oblige me to think seriously on the means
of regaining this advantage; as I most assuredly will not be baffled
by her in this manner; even my letters are the occasion of a little
warfare: not satisfied with giving no reply, she even refuses receiving
them, and I am under the necessity of a new stratagem for each, which
does not always succeed.
You may recollect in what a simple manner I delivered the first;
the second was not more difficult. She required I should return her
letter; I gave her mine instead of it, without her having the least
suspicion. But whether from vexation to have been duped, whether
through capriciousness or virtue, for she will oblige me to believe she
is virtuous, she has obstinately refused the third. I expect, however,
from the embarrassment that this refusal had like to put her in, she
will in future be more cautious.
However, I was not much astonished that she would not receive that
letter, which I offered her in a very plain manner—that would have
been granting something—and I expect a longer defence. After this
effort, which was only an essay by way of trial, I put a cover over my
letter, and taking the opportunity when she was at her toilette, when
Madame de Rosemonde and her waiting-maid were present, I sent it her by
my huntsman, ordering him to tell her that it was the paper she asked
me for. I rightly judged that she would dread a scandalous explanation,
which a refusal would necessarily have brought on; and indeed she took
the letter. My ambassador, who had orders to observe her countenance
diligently, and who is a shrewd fellow, perceived only a slight blush,
with more embarrassment than anger.
I applauded myself, being very certain that she would either keep this
letter, or, if she meant to return it, she must take an opportunity
when we were alone, and then could not avoid a conference. About an
hour after, one of her people came into my room, from his mistress,
and delivered me a packet, folded in another form than my own, on the
cover of which I immediately perceived the long-wished-for characters.
I broke the seal with rapture—Behold! it was my own letter, unsealed,
and doubled down.—I suspect she dreaded I was not so scrupulous as
she, on the score of scandal, which made her invent this diabolical
stratagem. You know me well—I have no occasion to describe the rage
this put me into. However, I was obliged to be calm, and to think of
other means—and this is the only one I could think of:—
Every morning there is a man sent for the letters from this to the post
office, which is about three quarters of a league; for this purpose a
small box, in the shape of a trunk, is made use of; the master of the
post office keeps one key, and Madame de Rosemonde the other. Every one
puts in their letters when they think proper, and they are carried at
night to the post office: in the morning the messenger goes back for
those that arrive. All the servants, strangers and others, take it in
turn. It was not my servant’s turn; but he offered to go, on pretence
that he had business there.
I wrote my letter. I disguised the superscription in a feigned hand,
and counterfeited tolerably, on the cover, the post mark of _Dijon_. I
chose this town in a gay humour, as I wished for the same rites as the
husband; I also wrote from the same place; and likewise because my fair
one had been all day expressing her wish to receive letters from Dijon,
I thought it but right to give her that satisfaction.
Those precautions taken, it was a matter of no difficulty to mix this
letter with the others; and I still had it in view to be witness to
its reception; for the custom is to assemble together at breakfast,
and wait the arrival of the letters before we separate. At length they
arrived.
Madame de Rosemonde opened the box. “From Dijon,” said she, giving the
letter to Madame de Tourvel. “It is not my husband’s writing,” replied
the other, in some confusion, breaking open the seal immediately. The
first glance informed her who it came from, and made such a change in
her countenance, that Madame de Rosemonde took notice of it, and said,
“What ails you?” I immediately drew near, saying, “This letter must be
very dreadful indeed!” The timorous devotee did not lift up her eyes,
nor speak a syllable; and to conceal her embarrassment, feigned to run
over the letter, which she was scarce able to read. I enjoyed her
uneasiness; and wishing to push it a little farther.—“Your easy air,”
replied I, “makes me hope that this letter has been the occasion of
more astonishment than grief.” Her anger then overpowered her prudence.
“It contains,” replied she, “things that offend me much; and that I am
astonished any one would dare write to me.” And “who then can it be?”
replied Madame de Rosemonde. “It is not signed,” replied the angry
fair; “but the letter and its author I equally despise: and I shall
take it as a favour to say no more about it.” So saying, she tore the
audacious epistle, put the scraps in her pocket, rose, and went out.
Notwithstanding all this anger, she nevertheless has my letter; and I
depend upon her curiosity that she will read it.
The circumstances of this day would lead me too far. I enclose you
the rough draft of my two letters, which will acquaint you with every
thing. If you wish to know the course of this correspondence, you must
accustom yourself to decypher my minutes; for I would not for the world
take the trouble of copying them. Adieu, my lovely friend!
_Aug._ 25, 17—.