_The_ Viscount de Valmont _to the_ Marchioness de Merteuil.
My dear friend! I am betrayed, bubbled, ruined; I am enraged beyond
expression: Madame de Tourvel is gone off. She is gone, and I knew
nothing of it! I was not in the way to oppose her, to reproach her with
her base treachery! Do not imagine I should have let her go quietly;
she should have staid, had I been even obliged to have used force. Fool
as I was! I slept peaceably, wrapped in a credulous security! I slept
whilst the thunder struck me! I cannot conceive the meaning of this
abrupt departure; I will for ever renounce the knowledge of women.
When I recall the transactions of yesterday!—or rather the
evening—the melting look, the tender voice, the squeezing the
hand—all the while planning her flight.—Oh! woman, woman! complain,
then, if you are deceived! Yes, every kind of treachery that is
employed against you is a robbery committed on you.
With what rapture shall I be revenged! I shall again meet this
perfidious woman; I will resume my power over her. If love has been
sufficient to furnish the means, what is it not capable of when
assisted with revenge? I shall again see her at my knees, trembling,
and bath’d in tears! calling on me for pity with her deceitful voice;
and I will have none for her.
What is she now doing? What can she think of? Perhaps applauding
herself for having deceived me; and, true to the genius of her sex,
enjoys that pleasure in the highest degree. What her boasted virtue
could not effect, deceit has accomplished without a struggle; it was
her disingenuity I should have dreaded.—Then, to be obliged to stifle
my resentment; to be obliged to affect a tender sorrow, when my heart
is possessed with rage. Reduced to supplicate a rebellious woman,
who has withdrawn herself from my obedience! Ought I then be so much
humbled? And by whom? By a weak woman, who was never accustomed to
resist! What avails my having possession of her heart, having inflamed
it with the whole fire of love, having raised her feelings even to
intoxication; if, calm in her retreat, she can now be prouder of her
flight than I of my victories? And must I bear this? My dear friend,
you will not believe it; you will not, surely, have such a humiliating
opinion of me!
What fatality attaches me to this woman? Are there not a hundred others
who wish I would pay attention to them, and eagerly accept it? If
even none were so enchanting, the charms of variety, the allurements
of new conquests, the splendour of the number; do not they afford a
plentiful harvest of soft pleasures? Why, then, do I run madding after
this one that flies me, and neglect those that offer? I am at a loss
to account for it, but so it is.—There is no happiness, no repose
for me, until I possess this woman, whom I love and hate with equal
rage. I shall not be able to support my fate until I have disposed of
hers: then, tranquil and satiated, I shall behold her a prey to the
ravages I now experience, and will raise a thousand others; hope and
fear, diffidence and security, all evils the offspring of hatred, all
the gifts that love can bestow, shall alternately engross her heart
at my will. The time will come——But what labours have I not yet to
encounter?—How near was I yesterday, and how distant to-day! How am I
to regain the ground I have lost? I dare not undertake any one step:
to come to some resolution I should be calm, and my blood boils in my
veins.
The calm serenity with which every one replies to my demands on this
extraordinary, on this uncommon event, and its cause, adds to my
torments.—No one knows the reason: none seem to give themselves the
least uneasiness about it; it scarcely would have been mentioned, could
I have started any other subject. I flew to Madame de Rosemonde the
moment I heard the news, who replied, with the natural indifference
of old age, it was the consequence of the indisposition Madame de
Tourvel had suffered yesterday: she dreaded a fit of illness, and
wished to be at home; a resolution she did not think proper to oppose,
as she would have done on a similar occasion; as if the contrast was
applicable,—between her who should think of nothing but futurity, and
the other, who is the delight and torment of my life.
Madame de Volanges, who I had suspected at first of being an
accomplice, seems dissatisfied for not having been consulted on this
occasion. I must own I am very well pleased she has been disappointed
of the pleasure of prejudicing me; which is still a stronger proof she
has not the confidence of this woman so much as I dreaded: that is an
enemy the less. How would she have exulted, did she know she fled from
me! How intolerable her pride, had it been the consequence of her
advice! To what an immensity would her importance have been raised!
Good God! how I detest her!—Yes, I will renew my connection with the
daughter, and initiate her in her business: I believe I shall stay here
some time; I am at present inclined to this measure, in the tumult of
reflections that crowd on me.
Don’t you, really now, think, after so extraordinary a proceeding, my
ungrateful fair one should dread me? If she imagines I shall pursue
her, she will not fail to prevent my admission; and, I can assure you,
I am as little inclined to permit her such a custom, as to bear such
an insult. I had much rather she should be told I remain here; I will
even strenuously press her to return again: then, when she is fully
convinced I am far from her, I will suddenly come to her house, and
abide the effect of my scheme.—That it may have its full force, it
must not be hurried; still I will not answer for my impatience; twenty
times this day was I tempted to call for my horses. I will contain
myself, however, and wait your answer here; I only request, my lovely
friend, you will not let me wait long for it.
What hurts me most is to be ignorant of what happens: my fellow, who
is at Paris, has a claim on her waiting maid; he may be serviceable; I
send him money, and his instructions. Permit me to include both in this
letter, and request to have them delivered into his hand by some of
your servants: this precaution is the more necessary, as the scoundrel
has a trick of never receiving any letters I write him on business he
finds troublesome; and, at this period, he does not seem to be quite so
enraptured with his girl as I could wish him.
Adieu, my lovely friend! If a happy thought should strike you, or any
means of bringing me speedily to action, lose not a moment. I have
often experienced your friendship; I forcibly experience it now, for I
am more serene since I sat down to write. I speak, at least, to one who
comprehends me, not to the inanimate beings with whom I vegetate since
this morning. On my word, the more I proceed, the more I am inclined to
think we are the only couple worth any thing in this life.
_Oct._ 3, 17—.