Viscount de Valmont _to the_ Presidente de Tourvel.
Plunged into consternation as I am by your letter, how shall I answer
it, Madam? Doubtless, if the alternative is your unhappiness or mine,
it is my duty to sacrifice myself, and I do not hesitate to do it:
but concerns so interesting, merit, I think, full discussion and
elucidation; and how shall we arrive at that, if we are no longer to
see or speak to one another.
What! whilst the most tender sentiments unite us, shall a vain terror
be able to separate us, perhaps, for ever! Shall tender friendship
and ardent love in vain endeavour to assert their rights, and their
voices remain unattended to! And why? what is this very urgent danger
which threatens you? Ah! believe me, such fears, and fears taken up
so lightly, are in themselves sufficiently powerful motives for your
considering yourself in a state of security.
Permit me to tell you, I can here trace again the unfavourable
impressions which have been made upon you with regard to me. No woman
trembles at the man she esteems. No woman banishes him in a marked
manner, whom she has thought worthy of some degree of friendship. It is
the dangerous man who is feared and fled.
And yet, was there ever a person more respectful and submissive than I?
You must perceive it. Guarded in my language, I no longer permit myself
those appellations so sweet, so dear to my heart, and which that heart
unceasingly applies to you secretly. It is no longer the faithful and
unfortunate lover receiving the advice and consolation of a tender and
feeling female friend. I am in the situation of the accused before his
judge, of the slave before his lord. These new titles certainly impose
on me duties: I bind myself to fulfil them all. Hear me, and if you
condemn me, I subscribe to my sentence and depart. I will go farther.
Do you prefer that despotism which decides without a hearing? Do you
feel boldness enough to commit an act of injustice? Give your orders;
you shall be obeyed.
But let me have this sentence or order from your mouth. But why? You
will tell me in your turn. Ah! if you put such a question, you are a
stranger to love and to my heart. Is it nothing to see you? I repeat
it again. Even when you shall strike despair to my soul, perhaps a
consoling glance will prevent its sinking. In a word; if I must
renounce love and friendship, the only props of my existence, at
least you will behold your works, and I shall engage your compassion.
Though I should not even deserve this small favour, I think I submit
to pay dearly enough for it, to give me hopes of obtaining it. What,
you are about to banish me from you! You can consent, then, that we
should become utter strangers to one another! What do I say? It is the
wish of your heart; and whilst you assure me that my absence shall
not prejudice me in your sentiments, you only hasten my departure, in
order more securely to effect their destruction, which you begin even
now, by talking of substituting gratitude in their place. Thus you
offer me only that sentiment which a stranger would inspire you with
for a slight service; that kind of sentiment which you would feel for
an enemy desisting from premeditated injury; and you expect my heart
to be content with this. Interrogate your own. If a lover, a friend,
should ever come to talk to you of gratitude, would you not say to him
with indignation, Withdraw, you are a worthless man?
I shall here stop, and repeat my requests of your indulgence. Pardon
the expressions of grief of which you are the cause; they shall not
interfere with my perfect submission: but I conjure you in turn, in
the name of those tender sentiments which you yourself resort to with
me, refuse not to hear; and from mere compassion for the aggravated
distress you have plunged me in, defer not the moment in which you will
condescend to hear me. Adieu, Madam!
_From_ ——, _Sept._ 7, 17—, _at night._