Marchioness de Merteuil _to_ Viscount de Valmont.
Yes, certainly, I can explain Danceny’s letter to you. The incident
that gave birth to it is my work, and I think it a master-piece. I lost
no time since I received your last letter; and, in the words of the
Athenian architect, “What he has said, I will perform.”
There must be obstacles then for our hero of romance; and his happiness
lulls him. Oh! leave that to me, I will cut out work for him; and I
am much mistaken if he sleeps so quietly hereafter. It was necessary
to make him sensible of his folly; and I flatter myself that he now
regrets the opportunity he has let slip. You say also, that is
necessary there should be a little mystery in the business: well,
take my word for it, that shall not be wanting. I have this good
quality, that if I am but told my faults, I am not at rest till I
amend them. Now to inform you what I have done—at my return the day
before yesterday, in the morning I received your letter, which is truly
admirable. Being fully satisfied that you had very well pointed out
the cause of the disorder, I set about finding the method of cure. But
first I lay down; for the indefatigable Chevalier did not suffer me to
take the least repose; and I thought I should sleep: but no; totally
taken up with the thoughts of rousing Danceny from his lethargy, or
punishing him for it, I could not close my eyes; and it was not until
after I had well digested my plan, I got two hours repose.
I went that same evening to see Madame de Volanges; and told her, in
pursuance of my scheme, in a very confidential manner, I was very
certain there subsisted between her daughter and Danceny a dangerous
connection. This woman, so penetrating in your business, was blinded
to such a degree, that at first she replied, I certainly was mistaken;
her daughter was but a child, &c. &c. I could not venture to tell her
all I knew: but quoted looks, words, _which much alarmed my friendship
and virtue_. I spoke almost as well as a devotee: to give the finishing
blow to my intelligence, I told her I thought I saw a letter given
and received. That I also recollected she one day opened a drawer in
her bureau, in which I observed several papers, which she doubtless
carefully preserves. “Do you know any one she corresponds with
frequently?” At that question Madame de Volanges’ countenance changed,
and I observed some tears drop from her. “I thank you, my worthy
friend,” said she, squeezing my hand; “I shall inquire into it.”
After this conversation, which was too short to cause any suspicion,
I joined company with the little thing. I left her soon after, to beg
of the mother not to discover to her daughter what I had told; which
she promised me the more readily, as I observed what a happy thing it
was that this child had placed such a confidence in me as to open her
heart, which gave me an opportunity of assisting her _with my good
advice_. I am the more satisfied that she will keep her promise, as no
doubt she will plume herself on her penetration with her daughter. Thus
I am authorised to keep up the ton of friendship with the little one,
without giving umbrage to Madame de Volanges, which must be avoided. I
shall moreover by this means have opportunities of conversing as long
and as secretly as I please with the daughter, without alarming the
mother.
This I put in practice that same evening; for after my party at cards
was ended, I took the young one into a corner, and began upon the
subject of Danceny, which never fatigues her; and diverted myself in
heating her imagination with the pleasure she would have in seeing him
the next day: there is no sort of extravagance but what she came into;
it was necessary to pay her in hope, what I took from her in reality;
moreover, this will make the blow the more sensible; and am confident
that the more she suffers, the more ready she will be to make herself
amends at the first opportunity. We ought to accustom those we intend
for great adventures, to great events.
After all, she may afford a few tears, for the pleasure of having her
Danceny. She is distracted about him! Well, she shall have him; and
perhaps the sooner for this little storm. It is a troublesome dream
which will be most delicious at waking; and, take every thing together,
I think she ought to be grateful. But to the point: I retired very well
satisfied with myself. Either Danceny, said I, animated by obstacles,
will redouble his affection, and then I will serve him to the utmost;
or, if he is the booby I am sometimes inclined to think him, he will
be desperate, and think himself undone: even then, I shall be revenged
of him as much as in my power; I shall have increased the mother’s
esteem for me, the daughter’s friendship, and the confidence of both.
As to Gercourt, who is the first object of my care, I shall be very
unfortunate, or very awkward indeed, if, having such an ascendant over
his wife’s mind as I already have, and shall still have more, I did not
find means of making him what I wish. I laid down with those pleasing
ideas, slept very well, and did not awake till it was late.
In the morning I found two letters, one from the mother, and the
other from the daughter; and could not help laughing to find in
both literally this phrase,—“_It is from you alone I expect any
consolation_.” And indeed it is pleasant enough to console for and
against, and to be the sole agent of two interests so directly
opposite. Thus I am like the Divinity, receiving the opposite vows of
blind mortals, without altering my immutable decrees. However, I have
quitted this grand roll, to take on me that of the consoling angel;
and I went, according to the precept, to visit my two friends in their
affliction.
I began with the mother, who I found in a very melancholy situation,
which partly revenges you, for the obstacles you have experienced
from your charming prude. Every thing succeeded wonderfully; my only
uneasiness was, lest Madame de Volanges should seize this opportunity
of gaining her daughter’s confidence, which would have been a very
easy matter, if she had used mild and friendly admonitions; and giving
to the advice of reason the tone and air of indulgent tenderness.
Fortunately she armed herself with severity; and behaved so badly, that
nothing was left for me but to applaud. It is true she had like to have
overthrown my plan entirely, by the resolution she had taken to shut up
her daughter in the convent; but I warded the blow, and prevailed on
her only to threaten it, in case Danceny should continue his pursuit,
in order to oblige them both to a circumspection which I think so
necessary for my success.
From thence I went to the daughter: you cannot conceive how much grief
embellished her: if I can only infuse a little coquetry into her, I
will engage she will cry often: but now she wept sincerely.—Struck
with this new charm, which I knew not before, and which I was very
glad to observe, at first I gave her a few awkward consolations, which
rather augment than relieve distress; and by this means led her to
almost a state of suffocation. She cried no longer, and I really began
to fear she would fall into convulsions. I advised her to go to bed,
which she agreed to, and was her waiting maid: she had not dressed her
head, her hair all loose upon her shoulders; her neck quite bare; I
embraced her, she fell back in my arms, and her tears flowed again. Ye
gods, how lovely she was! If the Magdalen was thus, she was much more
dangerous as a penitent, than as a sinner.
When the lovely girl was in bed, I began really to comfort her in good
earnest. I dispelled her fears of the convent, and raised her hopes of
seeing Danceny privately; and sitting by the bedside, “If he was here
now!” said I.—Enlarging on the subject, I led her from thought to
fancy, so that she soon forgot her affliction. We should have parted
perfectly satisfied with each other, had she not wanted to prevail on
me to deliver a letter to Danceny, which I absolutely refused. I dare
say my reasons will meet your approbation.
First, it would be running a risk with Danceny; but had that been the
only reason I could have alleged with the girl, there are a great
many others I must impart to you. Would it not be risking the fruits
of all my labours, to give our young people so easy a method, and so
speedily of putting a period to their distress? Moreover, I should not
be sorry to oblige them employ a domestic in this adventure; for if it
has a happy issue, as I hope it will, she must feel her consequence
immediately after marriage; and I know no means so certain of spreading
her fame; or if they did not speak, which would be miraculous
indeed, we could speak for them, and it would be more convenient the
indiscretion should lay with them.
You must then infuse this idea into Danceny to-day; as I cannot depend
on the little Volanges’ waiting maid, whom she seems diffident of,
you may point out my faithful Victoire. I shall take care to ensure
success: this idea pleases me much, as the secret will be useful to
us, and not to them; for I am not yet at the end of my story.
Whilst I excused myself from taking her letter, I every moment dreaded
she would have mentioned the penny-post, which I scarcely could have
refused. Fortunately, through ignorance or distress, or that she was
more anxious for the answer than the letter, which she could not have
had by the same means, she never mentioned it; but to be guarded
against this idea, if it should happen, or at least she should not have
an idea of making use of it, I returned to her mother, and induced her
to take her daughter to the country for a short time;—and where do
you think? Does not your heart leap for joy? Why, to your old aunt’s,
Madame de Rosemonde. She is to acquaint her of it this day: thus you
are authorised to go to your beloved devotee, who can no longer object
to the scandal of a tête-à-tête; and thanks to my industry, Madame de
Volanges shall herself repair all the mischief she has done you.
But hark ye, I must insist you are not to be so taken up with your own
affairs as to neglect this; remember how much I am interested in it.
I wish you to be not only the correspondent, but the confidant, of
the two young ones; acquaint Danceny, then, of this journey, and make
him a tender of your services. Remove every difficulty, but that of
delivering your credentials to his fair one; and remove that obstacle,
instantly, in pointing out the medium of my chamber-maid. Doubtless
he will embrace it, and for your reward you will be the confidant of
a young heart, which is ever of consequence. The poor little thing,
how she will blush when she gives you her first letter! I cannot help
thinking the character of a confidant, against which so many prejudices
are formed, appears to be a tolerable relaxation, when one has other
employment upon their hands, which is your case.
The denouement of this intrigue depends entirely upon you. You must
watch the moment when you are to reunite your actors. The country
offers a thousand opportunities, and Danceny will be ready to fly at
your first signal; a night, a disguise, a window;—but if the little
thing comes back as she goes, it is your fault; if you think she should
want any assistance from me, let me know. I think I have given her a
tolerable lesson on the danger of keeping letters, so I may now venture
to write to her; and I am still determined to make her my pupil.
I believe I forgot to tell you her suspicions, in regard to her
correspondent, at first fell upon the waiting maid; but I turned them
off to the confessor; that is killing two birds with one stone.
Adieu, Viscount! This letter has taken me a long time, and my dinner
has been put back; but friendship and self-love dictated it.
You will receive it at three, that will be time enough.
Complain of me now if you dare; and go, if you are inclined, to the
Comte de B——’s wood: you say he keeps it for the amusement of his
friends; that man is the friend of the world; but adieu! I am hungry.
_Sept._ 9, 17—.