Viscount de Valmont _to the_ Marchioness de Merteuil.
Trifling events still, my dear friend; nothing of consequence; no
action; scenes only; therefore arm yourself with patience: you must
take a large dose; for whilst my Presidente goes such a slow pace, your
pupil slides back, which is much worse: but I am of that happy temper,
I can divert myself with all this nonsense. I really begin to be very
comfortable here; and can assure you, I have not experienced a tedious
moment in my old aunt’s melancholy castle. What could I wish for more
than what I have, enjoyments, privations, hope, and incertitude? What
more is to be had on a grand theatre? Why spectators. Ah! a little
patience, they will not be wanting. If they do not see me at work, they
shall at least see my work completed; they will then have nothing to do
but to admire and applaud: for they shall applaud. I can this instant
with certainty foretell the moment of my austere devotee’s fall. I
this night assisted at the last agonies of her virtue; soft weakness
has replaced it. I have fixed its epocha, at farthest, to our next
interview: you will call this pride. He announces his victory before he
has gained it! Softly; be calm! To give you a proof of my modesty, I
will give you the history of my defeat.
Upon my word, your little pupil is a most ridiculous being. She is
really a child, and should be treated as one; it would be of service
to enjoin her a little penance. Would you believe it? after what
passed between us the day before yesterday, after the amicable manner
in which we parted yesterday morning, I found her door locked on the
inside when I came at night, as was agreed. What do you think of that?
Those childish tricks are passable on the eve; but on the morrow is
it not ridiculous? I did not, however, laugh at first; for never
did I feel the ascendancy of my character more hurt. I went to this
rendezvous without any incitement for pleasure, and merely through
decency; my own bed, which I much wanted at that time, was preferable
to any other, and I parted from it with some reluctance; yet when I met
this obstacle I was all on fire to surmount it: I was humbled, to be
sported with by a child. I was obliged to retire in very bad humour,
fully resolved to have nothing more to do with this silly girl, or
her matters. I immediately wrote her a note, which I intended giving
her this day, wherein I appreciated her as she deserved: but night
bringing good counsel, as is said, I reflected this morning, that not
having here a choice of dissipations, it was better to keep this, and
suppressed my note. Since I have reflected on it, I can’t reconcile
it to myself to have had the idea of putting an end to an adventure
before I had it in my power to ruin the heroine. What lengths will not
a first emotion carry us to! Happy are those, my dear friend, who, like
you, never accustom themselves to give way to it. I have deferred my
revenge; and this sacrifice I make to your designs on Gercourt.
Now my wrath is subsided, I only see the ridiculousness of your pupil’s
behaviour. I should be fond to know what she expects to gain by it;
for my part, I am at a loss: if it should be to make a defence, she is
rather late. She must explain this enigma to me one day or other, for
I must be satisfied. It is only, perhaps, that she was fatigued; and
really that may be the case, for certainly she does not yet know that
the shafts of love, like the lance of Achilles, carry with them the
remedy for the wounds they give. But no: I will engage by her little
mien all day, that there is something like repentance; a something like
virtue—virtue, indeed!—she is a pretty creature to pretend to virtue!
Ah! she must leave that to the only woman who was truly born for it,
knows how to embellish it, and make it revered. Your pardon, my dear
friend: but this very evening it was that the scene between Madame de
Tourvel and me happened, of which I am about giving you an account,
and which has still left me in great emotion. It is not without some
violence I endeavour to dissipate the impression it has left on me; it
is even to assist it, I sit down to write to you: you must make some
allowance for this first impulse.
For some days past Madame de Tourvel and I have been agreed about our
sentiments, and we no longer dispute on any thing but words. It was
always, _her friendship_ that answered _my love:_ but this conventional
language made no alteration in the meaning of things. Had we even
still remained so, I should not have gone on, perhaps, with so much
dispatch, but with no less certainty. There was no longer any thought
of putting me from hence, as was at first mentioned; and as to our
daily conversations, if I am solicitous to offer opportunities, she
takes care not to let them slip.
It is usually in our walks our rendezvous occur; the bad weather we had
all day left no room for hope; I was much disappointed at it, and did
not foresee how much it was in my favour. Not being able to walk, after
dinner they sat down to cards; as I seldom play, and was not wanted, I
retired to my room, with no other design than to wait till the party
was over. I was returning to join the company, when the charming
woman, who was going into her apartment, whether through weakness or
imprudence, said in a soft manner, “Where are you going? There is no
one in the saloon.” That was sufficient, you may believe, for me to
endeavour to go in with her. I found less reluctance than expected:
it’s true, I had the precaution to begin the conversation at the door
on indifferent matters; but we were scarcely settled when I began the
true one, and I spoke _of my love to my friend._ “Oh,” says she, “let
us not speak of that here;” and trembled. Poor woman! she sees herself
going.
Yet she was in the wrong to have had any terrors. For some time past
being certain of success one day or other, and seeing her employ so
much exertion in useless struggles, I resolved to reserve mine, and
wait without effort her surrender from lassitude. You already know
I must have a complete triumph, and that I will not be indebted to
opportunity. It was even after the formation of this plan, and in order
to be pressing without engaging too far, I reverted to the word love,
so obstinately resisted. Being assured my ardour was not questioned,
I assumed a milder strain. This refusal no longer vexed me, it only
afflicted me; my tender friend should give me some consolations. As
she consoled me, one hand remained in mine, the lovely body rested on
my arm, and we were exceeding close together. You must have certainly
remarked, how much in such a situation, as the defence abates, the
demands and refusals draw nearer; how the head turns aside, the looks
cast down, whilst the conversation, always pronounced in a weak tone,
becomes scarce and interrupted. Those precious symptoms announce, in an
unequivocal manner, the consent of the mind, but rarely has it reached
the senses. I even think it always dangerous to attempt any enterprise
of consequence; because this state of abandonment being always
accompanied with the softest pleasure, cannot be disturbed without
ruffling the temper, which infallibly decides in favour of the defence.
But in the present case, prudence was so much more necessary, as I
had every thing to dread from the forgetfulness of the danger this
abandonment would occasion to my tender pensive devotee; and the avowal
I solicited I did not even require to be pronounced; a look would
suffice; a single glance would crown my happiness.
My charming friend, those lovely eyes then were raised on me, that
celestial mouth even pronounced—“Well; yes, I—” in an instant the
look was extinct, the voice failed, and this adorable woman dropped in
my arms. I had scarcely time to receive her, when disengaging herself
with a convulsive force and wild look, her hands raised to heaven,
she exclaimed, “God—Oh, my God, save me!” and instantly, as quick as
lightning, was on her knees ten paces from me. I could hear her almost
suffocating. I came forward to assist her: but seizing my hands, which
she bathed with her tears, sometimes embracing my knees, “Yes it is
you,” said she, “it is you will save me; you do not wish my death;
leave me; save me; leave me; for God’s sake! leave me:” and those
incoherent expressions were brought out with most affecting sobs;
yet still she held me so strong I could not get from her; however,
making an effort, I rais’d her in my arms: instantly her tears ceas’d;
she could not speak, her joints stiffened, and violent convulsions
succeeded this storm.
I must own, I was exceedingly moved, and believe I should have complied
with her request, if the circumstances had not even obliged me to it.
But this much is certain; after having given her some assistance, I
left her, as she desired; and I am well pleased with myself for it. I
have already received almost my reward.
I expected, as on the first day of my declaration, I should not see
her any more for the evening; but she came down to the saloon about
eight, and only told the company she had been much indisposed: her
countenance was dejected, her voice weak, her deportment composed,
but her look mild, and often fixed on me.—As she declined playing, I
was obliged to take her seat, and she placed herself beside me. During
supper she remained alone in the saloon. At our return, I thought
I perceived she had been crying: to be satisfied, I told her I was
afraid she still felt some uneasiness from her disorder, to which she
obligingly answered, “Her disorder would not go so quickly as it came.”
At last, when we retired, I gave her my hand, and at the door of her
apartment, she very forcibly squeez’d mine: it is true, this motion
seemed to me to be involuntary; so much the better; it is a stronger
proof of my power.
I am confident she is now happy to have gone such a length; all
expences are paid; nothing now remains but enjoyment. Perhaps now,
whilst I am writing to you, she is possessed with the soft idea; but,
if she should even be engaged in a new scheme of defence, you and I
know how such projects end. Now let me ask you, can things be put off
longer than our next interview? I expect there will be some forms to
be settled; but, the first difficulties surmounted, do those austere
prudes know where to stop? Their affections are real explosions;
resistance gives them strength; my untractable devotee would run after
me, if I ceas’d running after her.
At length, my lovely friend, I shall soon call on you for the
performance of your promise; you undoubtedly remember our agreement
after my success; this trifling infidelity to your Chevalier.—Are
you ready? I wish for it as passionately as if I had never known you.
However, knowing you is, perhaps, a stronger motive for wishing for it.