_The_ Viscount de Valmont _to the_ Marchioness de Merteuil.
My inhuman mistress not content with declining an answer to my letters,
and even refusing to receive them, she endeavours to deprive me of the
pleasure of seeing her, and insists I should quit this place. What will
surprise you more is, that I have acquiesced in every thing. You will,
no doubt, blame me. Yet I thought I should not let slip the opportunity
of receiving her commands; being, on the one hand, convinced, that
whosoever commands is responsible, and on the other, that the imaginary
air of authority we give the women, is the most difficult snare for
them to escape: besides, the precautions she has taken not to be with
me alone, put me in a very dangerous situation, which I thought it
prudent to be extricated from at all events: for being incessantly with
her, without being able to direct her attention to the subject of love,
it was the more to be dreaded she would become accustomed to see me
with indifference—a disposition of mind which you very well know is
seldom overcome.
You may judge I did not acquiesce without making conditions. I even
took care to stipulate for one impossible to be performed; not only
that I may be at liberty to keep or break my word, but engage in a
discussion, either verbally or in writing, whenever my fair one might
be more satisfied with me, or feel the necessity of relaxing. I should
have ill managed indeed, if I did not obtain an equivalent for giving
up my pretensions, though they are not of a justifiable nature.
Having laid before you my reasons in this long exordium, I begin the
history of the two last days. I shall annex, as proofs, my fair one’s
letter with my answer. You will agree with me few historians are more
exact than I am.
You may recollect the effect my letter from Dijon had the day before
yesterday. The remainder of that day was rather tempestuous. The pretty
prude did not make her appearance until dinner was on the table, and
informed us she had got a bad head-ach; a pretence for concealing the
most violent ill humour that ever possessed woman. Her countenance was
totally altered; the enchanting softness of her tone was changed to a
moroseness that added new beauty to her. I shall make a good use of
this discovery in future; and convert the tender mistress into the
passionate one.
I foresaw the evening would be dull; to avoid which, I pretended to
have letters to write, and retired to my apartment. I returned about
six to the Saloon; Madame de Rosemonde proposed an airing, which was
agreed to. But the instant the carriage was ready, the pretended sick
lady, by an act of infernal malice, pretended, in her turn, or, perhaps
to be revenged of me for my absence, feigned her head-ach much worse,
and forced me to undergo a tête-à-tête with my old aunt. I don’t know
whether my imprecations against this female demon had their effect; but
she was in bed at our return.
Next morning, at breakfast, she was no more the same woman: her natural
sweetness had returned, and I had reason to think my pardon sealed.
Breakfast being over, the lovely woman arose with an easy air, and
walked towards the park; I soon followed her, as you may imagine.
“Whence arises this inclination for a walk?” said I, accosting her. “I
have wrote a great deal this morning,” she replied, “and my head is
a little fatigued.”—“I am not so happy,” replied I, “as to have to
reproach myself with being the cause of that fatigue.”—“I have wrote
you,” said she, “but I hesitate to deliver my letter:—it contains
a request, and I fear I must not flatter myself with success.”—“I
swear if it be possible.”—“Nothing more easy,” replied she; “and
though perhaps you ought to grant it from a motive of justice, I will
consent even to obtaining it as a favour.” She then delivered me her
letter, which I took, as also her hand, which she drew back, without
anger, and more confusion than vivacity. “The heat is more intense
than I imagined,” said she; “I must return.” In vain did I strive to
persuade her to continue our walk;—she returned to the Castle;—and
were it not for the dread of being seen, I would have used other means
as well as my eloquence. She returned without uttering a syllable; and
I plainly saw this pretended walk had no other object than to deliver
me her letter. She retired to her apartment, and I to mine, to read
her epistle. I beg you will read that, and my answer, before you go
farther.