_The_ Marchioness de Merteuil _to the_ Viscount de Valmont.
Good God, Viscount! How troublesome you are with your obstinacy! What
matters my silence to you? Do you believe it is for want of reasons I
am silent? Ah! would to God! But no, it is only because it would be
painful to tell them to you.
Speak truth, do you deceive yourself, or do you mean to deceive me? The
difference between your discourse and actions, leaves in doubt which I
am to give credit to. What shall I say to you then, when I even do not
know what to think?
You seem to make a great merit of your last scene with the Presidente;
but what does that prove in support of your system, or against mine? I
never certainly told you, your love for this woman was so violent as
not be capable of deceiving her, or prevent you from enjoying every
opportunity that appeared agreeable and easy to you. I never even
doubted but it would be equally the same to you, to satisfy, with any
other, the first that offered, the desires she would raise. I am not at
all surprised, that from a libertinism of mind, which it would be wrong
to contend with you, you have once done designedly, what you have a
thousand times done occasionally—Don’t we well know this is the way of
the world, and the practice of you all? and whoever acts otherwise is
looked on as a simpleton—I think I don’t charge you with this defect.
What I have said, what I have thought, what I still think, is, you
are nevertheless in love with your Presidente: not if you will with a
pure and tender passion, but of that kind of which you are capable;
for example, of that kind which makes you discover in a woman, charms
and qualities she has not: which ranks her in a class by herself, and
still links you to her even while you insult her—Such, in a word, as
a Sultan has for a favourite Sultana; that does not prevent him from
often giving the preference to a plain Odalisk. My comparison appears
to me the more just, as, like him, you never are the lover or friend
of a woman, but always her tyrant or her slave. And I am very certain,
you very much humbled and debased yourself very much, to get into
favour again with this fine object! Happy in your success, as soon as
you think the moment arrived to obtain your pardon, you leave me _for
this grand event_.
Even in your last letter, the reason you give for not entertaining me
solely with this woman is, because you will not tell me any thing of
your _grand affairs_; they are of so much importance, that your silence
on that subject is to be my punishment: and after giving me such strong
proofs of a decided preference for another, you coolly ask me whether
_we have a mutual interest!_ Have a care, Viscount; if I once answer
you, my answer shall be irrevocable: and to be in suspense, is perhaps
saying too much; I will therefore now say no more of that matter.
I have nothing more to say, but to tell you a trifling story; perhaps
you will not have leisure to read it, or to give so much attention
to it as to understand it properly? At worst, it will be only a tale
thrown away.
A man of my acquaintance, like you, was entangled with a woman,
who did him very little credit; he had sense enough, at times, to
perceive, this adventure would hurt him one time or other—Although
he was ashamed of it, yet he had not the resolution to break off—His
embarrassment was greater, as he had frequently boasted to his friends,
he was entirely at liberty; and was not insensible, the more he
apologised, the more the ridicule increased—Thus, he spent his time
incessantly in foolery, and constantly saying, _it is not my fault._
This man had a friend, who was one time very near giving him up in
his frenzy to indelible ridicule: but yet, being more generous than
malicious, or perhaps from some other motive, she resolved, as a last
effort, to try a method to be able, at least, with her friend, to say,
_it is not my fault._ She therefore sent him, without farther ceremony,
the following letter, as a remedy for his disorder.
“One tires of every thing, my angel! It is a law of nature; it is not
my fault.
“If, then, I am tired of a connection that has entirely taken me up
four long months, it is not my fault.
“If, for example, I had just as much love as you had virtue, and that’s
saying a great deal, it is not at all surprising that one should end
with the other; it is not my fault.
“It follows, then, that for some time past, I have deceived you; but
your unmerciful affection in some measure forced me to it! It is not my
fault.
“Now a woman I love to distraction, insists I must sacrifice you: it is
not my fault.
“I am sensible here is a fine field for reproaches; but if nature has
only granted men constancy, whilst it gives obstinacy to women, it is
not my fault.
“Take my advice, choose another lover, as I have another mistress—The
advice is good; if you think otherwise, it is not my fault.
“Farewell, my angel! I took you with pleasure, I part you without
regret; perhaps I shall return to you; it is the way of the world; it
is not my fault.”
This is not the time to tell you, Viscount, the effect of this last
effort, and its consequences; but I promise to give it you in my next
letter; you will then receive also my ultimatum on renewing the treaty
you propose. Until when, adieu.
Now I think on it, receive my thanks for your particular account of the
little Volanges; that article will keep till the day after her wedding,
for the scandalous gazette. I condole with you, however, on the loss of
your progeny. Good night, Viscount.
_Nov._ 24, 17—. _Castle of ——._