Marchioness de Merteuil _to the_ Viscount de Valmont.
Upon my word, Viscount, you are exactly like the children, before
whom one cannot speak a word, nor show a thing but they must have it
immediately. Because I just mention an idea that came into my head,
which I even told you I was not fixed on, you abuse my intention, and
want to tie me down, at the time I endeavour to forget it, and force
me in a manner to share your thoughtless desires. Are you not very
ungenerous to make me bear the whole burthen of prudential care? I must
again repeat, and it frequently occurs to me, the method you propose
is impossible. When you would even throw in all the generosity you
mention, do you imagine I am divested of my delicacies, and I would
accept sacrifices prejudicial to your happiness?
My dear Viscount, you certainly deceive yourself in the sentiment that
attaches you to M. de Tourvel. It is love, or such a passion never
had existence. You deny it in a hundred shapes; but you prove it in
a thousand. What means, for example, the subterfuge you use against
yourself, for I believe you sincere with me, that makes you relate
so circumstantially the desire you can neither conceal nor combat, of
keeping this woman? Would not one imagine, you never had made any other
happy, perfectly happy? Ah! if you doubt it, your memory is very bad:
but that is not the case. To speak plainly, your heart imposes on your
understanding, and pays it off with bad arguments: but I, who am so
strongly interested not to be deceived, am not so easily blinded.
Thus, as I remarked, your politeness made you carefully suppress every
word you thought would displease me, I could not help observing,
perhaps, without taking notice of it; nevertheless you preserved the
same ideas. It is no longer the adorable, the celestial Madame de
Tourvel, but _an astonishing woman, a delicate sentimental woman,_ even
to the exclusion of all others; _a wonderful woman_, such _as a second
could not be found._ The same way with your unknown charm, which is not
_the strongest_. Well; be it so: but since you never found it out till
then, it is much to be apprehended you will never meet it again; the
loss would be irreparable. Those, Viscount, are sure symptoms of love,
or we must renounce the hope of ever finding it. You may be assured I
am not out of temper now; and have made a promise, I will not be so any
more: I foresee it might become a dangerous snare. Take my word for
it, we had better remain as we are, in friendship. Be thankful for my
resolution in defending myself; for sometimes one must have it, not to
take a step that may be attended with bad consequences.
It is only to persuade you to be of my opinion, I answer the demand
you make, on the sacrifices I would exact, and you could not make.
I designedly use the word exact, because immediately you will think
me too exacting—so much the better: far from being angry with your
refusal, I shall thank you for it. Observe, I will not dissemble with
you; perhaps I have occasion for it.
First I would exact—take notice of the cruelty! that this same rare,
this astonishing Madame de Tourvel, should be no more to you than
any other woman; that is, a mere woman: for you must not deceive
yourself; this charm, that you believe is found in others, exists in
us, and it is love only embellishes the beloved object so much. What
I now require, although so impossible for you to grant, you would not
hesitate to promise, nay, even to swear; but I own I would not believe
you the more. I could not be convinced, but by the whole tenor of your
conduct.
That is not all; I should be whimsical, perhaps; the sacrifice you
so politely offer me of the little Cecilia, does not give me the
least uneasiness: on the contrary, I should require you to continue
this toilsome duty until farther orders. Whether I should like thus
to abuse my power, or whether more indulgent, or more reasonable, it
would satisfy me to dispose of your sentiments without thwarting your
pleasures. I would, however, be obeyed, and my commands would be very
severe.
Certainly I should think myself obliged to thank you, and, who knows?
perhaps to reward you. As for instance, I might shorten an absence,
which would be insupportable to me. I should at length see you
again, Viscount; and see you again—How?—Remember this is only a
conversation, a plain narrative of an impossible scheme. I must not be
the only one to forget it.
I must tell you my lawsuit begins to make me a little uneasy. I was
determined to know exactly what my pretensions were. My lawyers have
quoted me some laws, and a great many _authorities_, as they call them;
but I can’t perceive so much reason and justice in them. I am almost
afraid I did wrong to refuse the compromise; however, I begin to be
encouraged, when I consider my attorney is skilful, my lawyer eloquent,
and the plaintiff handsome. If those reasons were to be no longer
valid, the course of business must be altered; then what would become
of the respect for old customs? This lawsuit is actually the only thing
keeps me here. That of Belleroche is finished; the indictment quashed,
each party to bear their own costs: he even is regretting not to be at
the ball to-night; the regret of a man out of employment. I shall let
him free at my return to town. In making this grievous sacrifice, I am
consoled by the generosity he finds in it.
Adieu, Viscount! write to me often. The particulars of your amusements
will make me amends partly for the dulness I suffer.
_Castle of_ ——, _Nov._ 11, 17—.