_The_ Presidente de Tourvel _to the_ Viscount de Valmont.
You seem surprised, Sir, at my behaviour; and, indeed, your style
falls little short of calling me to account, as if you were authorised
to blame it. I really think I have much more reason for astonishment
and complaint; but since the refusal contained in your last answer,
I have taken my resolution to behave with an indifference that may
not give any occasion for remarks or reproaches; yet as you ask some
eclaircissements which, I thank heaven, I find no difficulty in giving,
I will once more explain myself.
Any person who should read your letters would think me either unjust
or fantastical. I don’t think I deserve that character; but I am of
opinion, you above all the rest of mankind would be the readiest
to catch at it. You must be sensible, that in putting me under the
necessity of a justification, you oblige me to recall every thing that
has passed between us. You imagined you would gain by the scrutiny:
I am inclined to think, I may even stand the test in your opinion;
and perhaps it is the only way to discover which of us has a right to
complain.
To begin, Sir, from the day of your arrival at this castle. You will
acknowledge, I hope, your character authorised me at least to be upon
the reserve, and I might, without apprehending the imputation of an
excess of prudery, have restricted myself to exact politeness. You
yourself would have behaved to me with deference, and only thought
it strange, that a plain woman, so unacquainted with the ways of
the world, had not sufficient penetration to appreciate your merit;
that would have been certainly the most prudent method, and which I
was so much inclined to follow, that I will freely own, when Madame
de Rosemonde came to inform me of your arrival, I had occasion to
recollect my friendship for her, and hers for you, to conceal my
uneasiness at the unwelcome news.
I will freely own, at first you exhibited a behaviour much more
favourable to you than what I had conceived: but you must also
allow, it lasted but a very short time; and that you soon grew tired
of a constraint, for which you did not think yourself sufficiently
indemnified by the advantageous idea I had of you.
Then taking advantage of my candour and tranquillity, you did not
scruple cherishing sentiments which you could not have the least
doubt but would offend me; and whilst you was every day multiplying
and aggravating the wrongs you did me, I endeavoured to forget them,
and even offered you an opportunity, in some measure, of redressing
them. My requisition was so fair, that you even thought you could not
refuse it, but asserting a right from my indulgence, you made use
of it to demand a permission, which doubtless I ought not to have
granted, and which yet you obtained. The conditions annexed to it
you did not observe; your correspondence was such, that each letter
made it a duty to answer you no more. Even at the very time when your
obstinacy obliged me to insist on your going away, that by a blameable
condescension I sought the only means which, consistent with duty,
was allowed me not to break entirely with you. But an humble sentiment
has no value in your eyes. You despise friendship; and in your mad
intoxication, ridiculing misery and shame, you seek nothing but victims
and pleasure.
As fickle in your proceedings, as contrary to your own principles in
your charges, you forget your promises, or you make a jest of violating
them; and after consenting to depart from me, you come back without
being recalled, without paying the least regard to my solicitations
or my reasons, without even the decency of a notice. You ventured to
expose me to a surprise, which, although very simple in itself, might
have been interpreted very unfavourably for me by the persons who
were present, and, far from endeavouring to dissipate this moment of
embarrassment you gave birth to, you carefully sought to augment it.
At table you chose precisely to place yourself beside me. A slight
indisposition obliged me to go out before any of the company; and
instead of paying any respect to my solitude, you bring them all to
disturb me. Being returned again into the saloon, if I move, you
follow me; if I speak, you always reply to me. The most indifferent
word is a pretence for you to bring on a conversation, which I do
not wish to hear, and which often may bring my name in question; for
notwithstanding all your address, Sir, I believe others can see as well
as me.
Thus, then, reduced to a state of inaction and silence, you
nevertheless continue to pursue me. I cannot lift my eyes without
meeting yours. I am incessantly obliged to turn my looks from you; and
by an inconsequence, you fix the eyes of the whole company on me, at a
time when I could even wish to hide myself from my own.
Yet you complain of my behaviour, and are astonished at my anxiety to
fly from you. Blame rather my indulgence, and be astonished I did not
set out the moment you arrived. I ought to have done it; perhaps you
will yet oblige me to this violent, though necessary measure, if you do
not cease your offensive pursuits. No; I never will forget what I owe
to myself, what I owe to the obligations I have taken, which I respect
and cherish. Be assured, if I should ever be reduced to the unhappy
choice of sacrificing myself or them, I would not hesitate a moment.
_Sept._ 16, 17—.