_The_ Presidente de Tourvel _to the_ Viscount de Valmont.
What purpose would it answer, Sir, to give a reply to your request? For
to agree with your opinions would be a stronger motive to beware of
them; and without either attacking or defending their sincerity, it is
enough for me, and ought to be so for you also, to know, that I neither
ought or will answer them.
Let us suppose for a moment, that you may have a sincere affection
for me, (and it is only that we may have done with this subject, that
I admit this supposition), would the obstacles that separate us be
the less insurmountable; and ought not my wishes to be still the
same, that you should overcome this passion, and every effort of mine
employed to assist you, by hastening to deprive you of all manner
of hope? You agree that this _idea must hurt, when the object that
inspires it does not share it_. You are sufficiently convinced that
it is impossible for me to share it; and if even I experienced such a
misfortune, I should be the more to be pitied, without adding in the
least to your happiness. I hope I have such a share in your esteem,
that you will not call what I now say in question. Cease, then, I
conjure you, cease to disturb a heart to which tranquillity is so
necessary; do not oblige me to regret my acquaintance with you.
Beloved and esteemed by a husband, who I love and respect, my duty and
pleasure are united in the same object; I am happy; I ought to be so.
If there are more lively pleasures existing, I wish them not; I will
not be acquainted with them. Can any be so pleasing as to be at peace
with oneself, to enjoy days of serenity, to sleep without disturbance,
and to awake without remorse? What you call happiness, is the tumult
of the senses, the storm of passions, the aspect of which is dreadful,
even viewing it from the shore; and who then would encounter such
storms? Who would dare embark upon a sea spread with thousands and
thousands of wrecks, and with whom? No, Sir, I will remain upon land; I
cherish the links with which I am attached; I would not break them if I
could; and if even I was not bound, I would speedily wear them.
Why do you pursue my steps? Why do you obstinately follow me? Your
letters, which were to be but seldom, succeed each other with
rapidity; they were to be discreet, and you entertain me with nothing
but your mad passion. You surround me with your ideas, more than you
did with your person; put away under one form, you again appear under
another. The things I desire you to be silent upon, you say over again
in another manner. You take a pleasure in perplexing me, by captious
reasons, and you evade mine. I will not reply to you any more:—how
you treat the women you have seduced! how contemptibly do you speak
of them! I will readily believe some of them deserve it; but are they
all then so contemptible? Ah, doubtless they are, since they have
relinquished virtue, to give themselves up to a criminal passion;
in that moment they lost all, even the esteem of him to whom they
sacrificed every thing! This punishment is just; but the idea alone is
enough to make one shudder; but what is all this to me? Why should I
trouble myself about you or them; what right have you to disturb my
peace? Leave me. See me no more; write me no more, I beseech you; I
even require it. This letter shall be the last you will ever receive
from me.
_Sept._ 5, 17—.