Viscount de Valmont _to the_ Marchioness de Merteuil.
Whence arises, my charming friend, this strain of acrimony and ridicule
which runs through your last letter? What crime have I unintentionally
committed which puts you so much out of temper? You reproach me with
presuming on your consent before I had obtained it—I imagined,
however, what might appear like presumption in any one else, would,
between you and me, be only the effect of confidence. I would be glad
to know how long has this sentiment been detrimental to friendship or
love? Uniting hope with desire, I only complied with that natural
impulse, which makes us wish to draw as near as possible to the
happiness we are in pursuit of—and you have mistaken that for vanity,
which is nothing more than ardour. I know very well, in such cases,
custom has introduced a respectful apprehension; but you also know,
it is only a kind of form, a mere precedent; and I imagined myself
authorised to believe those trifling niceties no longer necessary
between us.
I even think this free and open method much preferable to insipid
flattery, which so often love nauseates, when it is grounded on an
old connection. Moreover, perhaps the preference I give this method
proceeds from the happiness it recalls to my memory—this gives me
more uneasiness that you should take it in another light. However,
this is the only thing that I am culpable in—for I cannot believe
you can seriously imagine, that the woman exists who I would prefer to
you; and still less, that I should estimate you so little as you feign
to believe. You say, you have consulted your glass on this occasion,
and you do not find yourself sunk so low—I believe it; and that only
proves your glass to be true—but should you not rather from thence
concluded that certainly that was not my opinion.
In vain I seek the cause of this strange idea—however, I suspect it
is more or less dependent on the praises I lavished on other women—at
least, this I infer, from the affectation of quoting the epithets,
_adorable, celestial, attaching,_ which I used, speaking of Madam de
Tourvel, and the little Volanges: but you are not to be told, those
words, which are oftener the effect of chance than reflection, express
more the situation one happens to be in at the time, than the value
one sets upon the person. If at the time I was affected with the one or
the other, I nevertheless rapturously wished for you—If I gave you an
eminent preference over both, as I would not renew our first connection
without breaking off the two others, I do not think there is such great
reason for reproaches.
I shall not find it more difficult to exculpate myself from the charge
of the _unknown charm_, which, it seems, shocks you not a little; for
being unknown, it does not follow that it is stronger—What can equal
the delights you alone can always embellish with novelty and bliss?
I only wished to convey to you an idea, it was a kind I never before
experienced; but without pretending to give it any rank; and added,
what I again repeat, whatever it be, I will overcome it: and shall
exert myself more zealously if I can in this trifling affair, to have
one homage more to offer to you.
As to the little Cecilia, it is useless to mention her: you have not
forgot it was at your instance I took charge of this child; and only
wait your orders to be rid of her. I may have made some remarks on her
bloom and innocence; and for a moment thought her _engaging_, because
one is always more or less pleased with their work; but she has not, in
any shape, consistency to fix the attention.
Now, my lovely friend, I appeal to your justice, your first attachment
to me, the long and sincere friendship, the unbounded confidence which
have linked us together—have I deserved the severe manner in which you
have treated me? But how easy can you make me amends when you please!
Speak but the word, and you will see whether all the charms, all the
attachments will keep me here, not a day, but even a minute; I will fly
to your feet—into your arms—and will prove a thousand times, and in a
thousand ways, that you are, you ever will be, the only mistress of my
heart.
Adieu, my lovely friend! I wait your answer impatiently.
_Paris, Nov._ 3, 17—.