_The_ Viscount de Valmont _to the_ Marchioness de Merteuil.
How comes it, my charming friend, I receive no answers from you? I
think, however, my last letter deserved one; these three days have I
been expecting it, and must still wait! I really am vexed, and shall
not relate a syllable of my grand affairs.
Such as the reconciliation had its full effect: that instead of
reproaches and dissidence, it produced fresh proofs of affection; that
I now actually receive the excuse and satisfaction due to my suspected
candour; not a word shall you know—had it not been for the unforeseen
event of last night, I should not have wrote to you at all; but as it
relates to your pupil, who probably cannot give you any information
herself, at least for some time, I have taken upon me to acquaint you
with it.
For reasons you may or may not guess, Madame de Tourvel, has not
engaged my attention for some days: as those reasons could not exist
with the little Volanges, I became more assiduous there. Thanks to the
obliging porter, I had no obstacles to surmount; and your pupil and I
led a comfortable, regular life—Custom brings on negligence; at first
we had not taken proper precautions for our security; we trembled
behind the locks: yesterday an incredible absence of mind occasioned
the accident I am going to relate; as to myself, fear was my only
punishment, but the little girl did not come off so well.
We were not asleep, but reposing in the abandonment consequent to
voluptuousness, when on a sudden, we heard the room door open, I
instantly seized my sword to defend myself and our pupil; I advanced,
and saw no one; but the door was open: as we had a light, I examined
all about the room, and did not find a mortal; then I recollected we
had forgot our usual precautions, and certainly the door being only
pushed or not properly shut, opened of itself.
Returning to my terrified companion to quiet her, I did not find her
in the bed; she fell out, or hid herself by the bedside; at length
I found her there, stretched senseless on the ground, in strong
convulsions—You may judge my embarrassment—However, I brought her to
herself, and got her into bed again, but she had hurt herself in the
fall, and was not long before she felt its effect.
Pains in the loins, violent cholics, and other symptoms less equivocal,
soon informed me her condition—To make her sensible of it, it was
necessary to acquaint her with the one she was in before, of which she
had not the least suspicion: never any one before her, perhaps, went
to work so innocently to get rid of it—she does not lose her time in
reflection.
But she lost a great deal in afflicting herself, and I found it
necessary to come to some resolution: therefore we agreed I should
immediately go to the physician and surgeon of the family, to inform
them they would be sent for; I was to make them a confidence of the
whole business, under a promise of secrecy—That she should ring for
her waiting maid, and should or should not make her a confidence of
her situation, as she thought proper; but at all events, send for
assistance, and should forbid her from disturbing Madame de Volanges.
An attentive delicacy natural to a girl who feared to give her mother
uneasiness.
I made my two visits and confessions as expeditiously as I could, and
then went home, from whence I have not since stirred. The surgeon, who
I knew before, came to me at noon, to give me an account of the state
of his patient—I was not mistaken—He hopes, however, it will not
be attended with any bad consequences. Provided no accident happens,
it will not be discovered in the house; the waiting woman is in the
secret; the physician has given the disorder a name, and this affair
will be settled as a thousand others have been, unless hereafter it
might be useful to us to have it mentioned.
Have you and I mutual interests or no? Your silence makes me dubious
of it; I would not even think at all of it, if my inclinations did
not lead me on to every method of preserving the hope of it. Adieu, my
charming friend! yet in anger.
_Paris, Nov._ 21, 17—.