Viscount Valmont _to the_ Presidente de Tourvel.
You must be obeyed, Madam; and I must convince you, that,
notwithstanding all the faults you are pleased to think me guilty
of, I have yet at least so much delicacy as not to suffer a single
reproach to escape my lips, and sufficient resolution to impose on
myself the most painful sacrifice. You command me to be silent, and
to forget you. Well, I shall constrain my love to be silent, and,
if possible, I shall forget the cruel manner in which it has been
received. Undoubtedly my wish to please gave me no right to it; and I
must farther acknowledge, that the necessity I was under of having your
indulgence, was not a sufficient title to obtain it: but you consider
my love as an atrocious affront; you forget that if it is a fault, you
are at once both the cause and the apology for it. You forget also,
that accustomed as I was to lay open my soul to you, even when that
confidence might be detrimental to me, it was no longer possible for
me to hide the sentiments with which I was affected; and what is the
result of sincerity, you look upon as the effect of arrogance; and
in recompence of the most tender, the most respectful, and the most
sincere love, you drive me far from you. You even threaten me with your
hatred. Where is the man who would not complain to be so treated? But I
submit, and suffer all without murmuring. You strike, and I adore! The
inconceivable ascendant you have obtained over me, has rendered you
sole mistress of my sentiments; and if my love alone disobeys, if you
cannot destroy it, it is because it is your own work, not mine.
I ask no return; that I never flattered myself with: I don’t even
implore that pity which the concern you seem to take for me flattered
me with the hope of; but I believe, I own, I have a right to claim your
justice.
You inform me, Madam, that some persons have endeavoured to prejudice
me in your esteem. If you had given credit to the advice of your
friends, you would not have even suffered me to approach you. Those
are your terms; who then are those officious friends? Certainly those
people of such severe morals, and such rigid virtue, will have no
objection to give up their names; they certainly would not take shelter
behind the same screen with the vilest of slanderers; and I shall
then be no longer ignorant of their name and their charge. Consider,
Madam, I have a right to know both one and the other, since you judge
me from their report. A criminal is never condemned without being told
his crime, and naming his accusers. I ask no other favour; and I,
beforehand, engage to make good my justification, and to compel them to
retract.
If I have, perhaps, too much despised the empty clamours of the public,
which I set little value on, it is not so with your esteem; and when
I consecrate my whole life to merit it, it shall not be ravished from
me with impunity. It becomes so much the more precious to me, as I
shall, without doubt, owe to it the request you fear to make me, and
which, you say, would give me a right to your gratitude. Ah! far from
requiring any, I shall think myself highly indebted to you, if you can
assist me with an opportunity of being agreeable to you.
Begin then by doing me more justice, and let me be no longer ignorant
of what you wish me to do; if I could guess at it, I would save you
the trouble of telling it me. To the pleasure of seeing you, add the
happiness of serving you, and I shall extol your indulgence. What then
can prevent you; it is not, I hope, the dread of a refusal? That,
I feel, I should never be able to pardon you. It is not one not to
return you your letter. I wish more than you that it may no longer
be necessary to me; but accustomed as I am to believe you so soft a
disposition, it is in this letter only that I can find you such as
you wish to appear. When I form the vow of endeavouring to make you
sensible to my flame, I feel that you would fly a hundred leagues from
me, rather than consent; when your accomplishments justify and augment
my passion, it still tells me that it insults you; and when in your
presence this passion is my supreme good, I feel that it is my greatest
torment. You may now conceive that my greatest happiness would be to
return you this fatal letter: to ask it again would give me a kind of
authority to believe its contents. After this, I hope you will not
doubt of my readiness to return it.
_Aug._ 21, 17—.