Viscount de Valmont _to the_ Marchioness de Merteuil.
I cannot comprehend you; you were either in a whimsical mood, or, when
you wrote, in a very dangerous fit of madness. If I did not know you
very well, my charming friend, I should be really alarmed; and, colour
it as you will, I should have a great deal of reason.
Vainly do I read, and read again, your letter. I can’t conceive
you; for it is impossible to take your letter in the style it is
couched; what did you then mean to say? Did you only mean there was
no occasion to give oneself so much trouble against so despicable an
enemy: if so, you are wrong. Prevan is really amiable; he is more so
than you imagine; and has, in a peculiar manner, that happy talent
of interesting one much about love affairs, which he introduces on
every occasion, and in all companies. Few women can avoid the snare of
replication, because, as they all have pretensions to artifice, none
will lose the opportunity of displaying it. And I need not tell you
that a woman, who consents to talk of love, commonly ends with being
entrapped, or, at least, acts as if she was. He refines on this method,
which he has even brought to a science, by often introducing the women
themselves as witnesses of their own defeat: this I aver, and can prove.
I was let into the secret only at second hand; for I never was intimate
with Prevan. We were six in company: the Countess de P——, thinking
herself amazingly fine, and even possessing the talent of keeping up a
general conversation well, related to us minutely the manner she had
surrendered to Prevan, with all circumstances. She gave the recital
with so much composure, that she was not even disconcerted at a smile
which escaped us all at the same time. I shall never forget, one of
us, to excuse himself, feigned to doubt what she said, or rather what
she related; she gravely answered, that none of us could be so well
informed as she; and she was not even afraid to call upon Prevan, and
ask him whether she had omitted a single circumstance.
This I think sufficient to call him a very dangerous man: but is it not
enough for you, Marchioness, he is _handsome, very handsome,_ as you
say? Or that he should make on you _one of those attacks that you are
sometimes fond of rewarding, for no other motive, but because you think
it well carried on?_ Or that you would think it pleasing to surrender
for any reason whatever? Or—but it is impossible for me to guess the
infinity of whims which rule the minds of women, and by which alone you
resemble your sex. Now you are informed of the danger, I have no doubt;
but you may easily avoid it; and yet it was necessary to put you on
your guard. I return to my text; what do you mean to say?
If it is not a banter on Prevan, besides its being very long, it is
not to me it can be useful; it is in the face of the world you must
make him ridiculous; and I renew my instances to you on that subject.
Ah! I believe I have discovered the enigma. Your letter is a prophecy;
not what you will do, but what he will believe you ready to do, at the
moment of his disgrace. I approve this project well enough; however, it
requires great management. You know, as well as I do, it is absolutely
the same thing to the public, whether you are connected with a man, or
receive his addresses, unless the man is a fool, which Prevan is not
by any means; if he can only save appearances, he will brag, and every
thing will be greedily swallowed. Fools will believe him, others will
seem to believe him; and then what becomes of your resources? I am
really alarmed; not that I have any doubt of your abilities; but the
best swimmers are often drowned.
I think myself no novice in the ways of debauchery. I have discovered
a hundred, nay, a thousand. My mind is often engaged in thinking how a
woman could escape me, and I never could find out the possibility. Even
yourself, my charming friend, whose conduct is a masterpiece; I have
often thought your success was more owing to good fortune than good
management.
After all, I am, perhaps, seeking a reason where there is none; and
I am astonished I have been for this hour past treating seriously a
subject that you certainly mean as a jest. How you will laugh at me!
but be it so; let us talk of something else. I am wrong; it must be the
same subject; always of women to be had or ruined, and often of both.
I have here wherewithal, as you justly remark, to give me employment in
both capacities, but not with equal facility. I foresee revenge will
outstrip love. The little Volanges is ready, I will answer for her;
all now depends upon the opportunity which I take upon me to provide:
but not so with Madame de Tourvel; this woman distracts me. I have no
conception of her. I have a hundred proofs of her love; but I have also
a thousand of her resistance. Upon my word, I am afraid she will escape
me.
The first effect that my return produced gave me more flattering
expectations. You may guess, I was willing to judge for myself; and
to be certain of seeing her first emotions, I took care not to be
announced by any formality, calculating my journey so as to arrive
while they were at dinner, and fell from the clouds like an opera
divinity.
Having made a sufficient noise coming in to draw their attention to
me, I could observe with the same glance my old aunt’s joy, Madame
de Volanges’ vexation, and the confused pleasure of her daughter. My
fair one sat with her back to the door. Being employed at that instant
cutting up something, she did not even turn her head. I addressed
myself to Madame de Rosemonde; and at the first word, the tender
devotee hearing my voice, gave a scream, in which I thought there was
more of love than surprise or terror. I was then got so far into the
room as to be able to observe her countenance; the tumult of her soul,
the struggle of ideas and sentiments, were strongly depicted in twenty
different forms on it. I seated myself at table close by her; she did
not know what she said or did. She endeavoured to keep on eating; but
it was in vain. At length, in less than a quarter of an hour, her
pleasure and her embarrassment overpowering her, she thought it best to
beg leave to retire from table, under a pretence of wanting a little
air. Madame de Volanges wanted to accompany her; the tender prude would
not permit it: too happy, doubtless, to find a pretence to be alone,
and give herself up without restraint to the soft emotions of her heart.
I dispatched my dinner as soon as possible. The dessert was scarcely
served, when the infernal Volanges, probably with a design to prejudice
me, got up to follow the charming woman. I foresaw this project, but
disappointed her. I feigned to take this particular motion for a
general one; and rising at the same time, the little Volanges and the
curate of the place followed our example, so that Madame de Rosemonde
was left at table with the old Commander de T—, who both also took
the resolution to follow us. We all went then to join my fair one, whom
we found in the arbour near the castle; and as she wanted solitude more
than a walk, she chose rather to return with us, than to oblige us to
stay with her. As soon as I was certain that Madame de Volanges would
not have an opportunity of speaking to her alone, I began to think of
executing your orders, and exert myself for the interest of your pupil.
When coffee was over, I went up to my apartment, entered the other’s
to reconnoitre the ground, and formed my dispositions to ensure the
correspondence of the little one. After this first step, I wrote a
few words to inform her of it; and to demand her confidence, I tacked
my note to Danceny’s letter; returned to the saloon, where I found my
fair one stretched upon a sofa at full length, in a most delicious
abandonment.
This sight rousing my desires, animated my looks. I knew they should be
tender, yet urgent; and placed myself in such a manner, as to be able
to employ them successfully. Their first essay obliged my celestial
prude to cast down her beautiful modest eyes. I viewed for some time
this angelic figure; then running over her whole frame, amused myself
with considering the outlines and forms of her person through the light
dress she wore. After gazing on her from head to foot, my eyes went
back from the feet to the head—my charming friend, the soft look was
fixed on me, but she instantly cast her eyes down again; being desirous
of bringing them back, I turned my eyes from her. Then was established
between us that silent convention, the first treaty of timid lovers,
who to satisfy the mutual want of seeing each other, permit soft looks
to succeed until they mingle together.
Fully satisfied that my charmer was entirely taken up with this new
delight, I took upon me to watch for our mutual safety: but when I
was assured that a pretty lively conversation took off the attention
of the company, I endeavoured to make the eyes freely speak their own
language. At first I darted some glances, but with so much reserve,
that modesty itself could not be alarmed at it; and to make the lovely
timid woman easier, I appeared as much embarrassed as she; by little
and little, our eyes accustomed to meet, fixed themselves a little
longer, and at length did not quit each other; I perceived in hers that
soft languishing air, happy presage to love and desire: but it was only
for a moment; and she soon recovered herself; she changed her looks
and position with some confusion.
As I determined she should have no doubt of my remarking her different
emotions, I started suddenly, asking her, with a frightened look, if
she was indisposed. Immediately the company assembled round her. I let
them all pass before me; and as the little Volanges, who was working
tapestry near a window, took some time in quitting her frame, I seized
the opportunity to give her Danceny’s letter.
I was a little distance from her, and threw the letter in her lap.
She really did not know what to do. You would have laughed to see
her surprise and embarrassment; yet I did not laugh, lest so much
awkwardness should betray us: but a glance and a frown, made her
comprehend that she was to put it in her pocket.
The remainder of the day had nothing interesting. What has happened
since, will, perhaps, bring on events that will please you, at least,
as to what regards your pupil; but it is better to employ one’s time in
executing than in relating them: moreover, this is the eighth page I
have written, and I am a good deal fatigued; so adieu.
It will be unnecessary to tell you, that the little thing has answered
Danceny.[1] I have also had a letter from my fair one, to whom I wrote
the day after my arrival. I send you both letters. You will read them,
or let it alone; for those perpetual tiresome repetitions, of which I
begin to be disgusted, must be very insipid for a person unconcerned.
Once more, adieu! I still love you much: but I beg, if you speak again
of Prevan, that it may be in intelligible language.
_From the Castle of ——, Sept._ 17, 17—.
[1] This letter was not found.