Viscount de Valmont _to the_ Presidente de Tourvel.
How is it possible, Madam, to answer your last letter; how shall I dare
speak truth, when my sincerity may ruin me with you? Yet I must; I
often tell myself, I would rather deserve than obtain you; and were you
for ever to refuse me a happiness I incessantly wish for, I will at
least make you acknowledge, that my heart is worthy of it.
What a pity it is, as you say, _that I have abandoned my errors_, with
what transport should I not have read that letter which I tremble
to answer to-day? You deal _frankly_ with me; you testify your
_confidence_. You even offer me your friendship: how bountiful are you,
Madam, and how much I regret I cannot benefit by them. Why am I no
longer the same!
For if I really was, if I had but a common passion for you, that slight
desire, the child of seduction and pleasure, which is yet now called
love, I would speedily take advantage of every thing I could obtain,
without being much concerned about the delicacy of the measures,
provided they ensured success. I would flatter your frankness, in order
to dive into you; I would endeavour to gain your confidence, with an
intention to betray it; I would accept your friendship in the hope of
leading you astray.—This picture, no doubt, alarms you, Madam;—but
it would be the true portrait of myself, if I was to tell you that I
consented to be your friend only.
What! Should I consent to share with another a sentiment proceeding
from your soul? If I should ever tell you so, do not believe me. From
that moment I would seek to deceive you; I might still have desires,
but I certainly would love you no longer.
Not but your amiable frankness, your charming confidence, and your
pleasing friendship, are immensely valuable to me;—but love,
sincere love, such as you have inspired me with, reuniting all those
sentiments, by giving them more energy, cannot, as they do, be
satisfied with that tranquillity, that ease of mind, which will allow
of comparisons, and even sometimes of preferences. No, Madam, I will
not be your friend, I will love you with the most ardent and tender
affection, and yet the most respectful. You may deprive it of hope, but
you cannot annihilate it.
What right have you to pretend to dispose of a heart, whose homage you
refuse? By what refinement of cruelty do you envy me the happiness
of my love? It belongs to me; and is independent of you; and I know
how to preserve it. If it is the source, it is also the remedy of my
misfortunes. Once more no, persist in your cruel resolutions; but leave
me love. You enjoy the pleasure of my misery; be it so, endeavour to
tire out my perseverance, I shall at least know how to oblige you to
decide my fate; and you may, perhaps, one day do me justice. Not
that I ever hope to make you sensible of my pain, but you shall be
convinced, though not persuaded; and you shall say I have judged him
too severely.
But you are unjust to yourself: to see you without loving you, to
love you without being constant, are both equally impossible; and,
notwithstanding the modesty that adorns you, it must be easier for you
to lament, than be astonished at the sentiments you gave birth to. But
as for me, whose only merit is to have discovered their value, I will
not lose it; and far from agreeing to your insidious offers, I again
renew, at your feet, the oaths I have made to love you eternally.
_Sept._ 10, 17—.