_The_ Marchioness de Merteuil _to_ Cecilia Volanges.
Well, my dear little creature, you are very much vexed and ashamed; and
this same Valmont is a wicked man, is he not? How is all this? He dared
behave to you as he would to the woman he loved best! He has taught
you what you was going mad to know! Upon my word, such proceedings are
unpardonable. And you, like a good girl, would have kept your chastity
for your lover, who would not attempt it; you cherish the torments of
love only, but not its pleasures. Why this is charming; and you will
make a conspicuous figure in a romance. Love, misfortunes, and virtue
in abundance! Lord! what a deal of fine things! In the midst of this
brilliant train, it is true, one may have nothing to do, but they may
repay themselves.
How the poor little thing is to be pitied! her eyes were sunk the next
morning! What will you say, then, when your lover’s will be so? My
dear angel, you will not be always so; all men are not Valmonts: and
again; not dare lift up your eyes! Oh, there you was very right; every
one would have read your adventure in them. Believe me, however, if it
was so, our women and our young ladies even would assume more modest
countenances.
Notwithstanding the praises you perceive I am obliged to give you, yet
you must agree you failed in your master piece, which was to tell all
to your mama. You had begun so well; you had flung yourself in her
arms; you sobbed and cried. What a pathetic scene! What a pity you
did not complete it! Your tender mama, overjoyed, and to assist your
virtue, would have shut you up in a convent for life; and there you
might have loved Danceny as much as you pleased, without a rival, and
without any sin; you might be afflicted at your leisure; Valmont would
not certainly have come to trouble your affliction with his naughty
amusements.
But seriously, is it possible to be so childish, and turned of fifteen,
as you are! You are much in the right to say, you are scarcely worthy
my care; yet I wish to be your friend: you want one with the mother you
have, and the husband she intends for you; but if you do not improve
more, what can one make of you? What can be hoped, if what gives girls
sense and understanding, deprives you of them.
If you could once bring yourself to reflect for a moment, you would
soon discover, you would rather congratulate yourself than grieve:
but you are ashamed; and that hurts you. Compose yourself; the shame
that follows love is like the pain; you suffer it but once. It may be
feigned afterwards, but is never felt: and yet the pleasure remains,
and you will own that is of consequence. I think I can even pick out
among your nonsense, you lay some stress on it. Come, be honest; that
uneasiness that prevented _you from doing as you said_; that made you
find it _so difficult to struggle_; that made you, as it were, _vexed_,
when Valmont went away; was it shame or pleasure occasioned it? And
_his manner of speaking, to which one did not know how to answer_, did
it not proceed from _his manner of doing_? Ah, little girl! you tell a
lie to your friend; that’s not right: but enough of that.
What above every thing to any one else is nothing more than pleasure,
in your situation is real happiness. Being so circumstanced with a
mother, whose affection is of so much importance, and a lover whom you
wish ever to enjoy, can you not plainly see the only means to unite
successfully those opposite interests is to bring in a third? Drawn off
by this new adventure, whilst you will seem to your mama to sacrifice
submissively to her will, a passion that was not agreeable to her,
you will establish with your lover the honour of having made a fine
resistance. Assuring him constantly of your affections, you must not
grant him the convincing proofs. Those refusals, which are so trifling
in your situation, he will not fail to attribute to virtue; he may,
perhaps, repine, but his love will increase; and to enjoy the double
merit of sacrificing to the one your affection, and to the other only
to resist its force, it will cost nothing more than the enjoyment of
its delights. How many women have lost their reputation, who would have
anxiously preserved it, had they such a field.
Does not this scheme appear the most feasible as well as the most
delightful to you? Do you know what you have got by the one you have
taken? Your mama attributed your immoderate grief to your increase of
love, and was so enraged, that she only waited to be convinced, in
order to punish you. I have just received a letter from her. She will
attempt every method to extract the avowal from yourself. She writes
me, she may, perhaps, even go so far as to propose Danceny to you for
a husband, and this only to make you speak out. If, seduced by this
affectation of tenderness, you should open your heart, she would shut
you up for a long time, perhaps, for ever, to deplore at leisure your
blind credulity.
This scheme she intends to execute against you must be counteracted by
another. Begin, then, to be more cheerful, to make her believe you do
not think so much of Danceny. She will be the more easily prevailed on
to believe it, as it is the usual effect of absence; and she will be
the more pleased with you, as she will applaud herself for her prudence
which suggested the method. If she should still have her doubts, should
persist in sounding you, and should come to mention matrimony, abide,
like a prudent girl, in your absolute submission for you risk nothing;
as to a husband, one is always as good as another; the most troublesome
is not more so than a mother.
When your mama is once better pleased, she will have you married;
then, being more free in your proceedings, you can, if you please,
quit Valmont to have Danceny, or even keep both; for observe, Danceny
is agreeable, it is true, but he is one of those men one can have when
they please, and as often as they please; so you may be easy as to
him.—Not so with Valmont; it is dangerous to quit him, and difficult
to keep him; one must be very skilful, or very tractable: if you could,
however, attach him as a friend, you would be happy indeed. He would
elevate you to the first rank among the modish women; that is the way
to gain consistency in life, and not sit blushing and crying as if your
nuns had made you eat your dinner on your knees.
If you are prudent, you will then endeavour to make it up with Valmont,
who must be very angry with you: as you must learn to repair your
folly, do not be afraid to make him some advances; you will soon learn,
that although the men make the first to us, we are always obliged to
make the second. You will have a pretence for it, for you must not keep
this letter; and I require you will deliver it to Valmont as soon as
you have read it. Do not forget to seal it again, however, before you
give it: for, in the first place, I want to leave the whole merit of
this proceeding to yourself, that it should not carry the appearance of
an advice; moreover, I do not know any one I have so much friendship
for, as to write as I do to you.
Adieu! my charming angel! follow my advice, and let me know how it
succeeds.
P. S. Now I think on’t, I had like to forget—A word more—Take a
little more care in your style of writing; you always write so like a
child; I know from whence it proceeds; you always write as you think,
but do not study what you ought to say: that may do very well between
you and me, who should not have any secrets from one another; but with
every one else, particularly with your lover, it looks so foolish. You
must observe, when you write to any one, it is for them, and not for
yourself: you must endeavour, then, to write to please them, and not
give them your thoughts.
Adieu! my heart! I embrace you, instead of being angry, in hopes you
will be more rational.
_Paris, Oct._ 4, 17—.