_The_ Marchioness de Merteuil _to the_ Viscount de Valmont.
Take care, Viscount; have a little more regard for my extreme
timidity. How do you think I can support the unsufferable idea of your
indignation; but especially that I do not sink under the terror of your
vengeance? particularly as you know, if you defamed me, it would be
impossible for me to return the compliment. In vain should I babble;
your existence would nevertheless be brilliant and peaceful: for what
would you have to dread? Only to be under the necessity of retiring if
you had an opportunity. But could one not live in a foreign country as
well as here? And to sum up all, provided the court of France would
let you be quiet in the one you choose to settle in, it would be only
changing the field of your victories. After endeavouring to bring you
back to your _sang froid_ by these moral considerations, let us resume
our own affairs.
You do not know, Viscount, the reasons I never married again. It was
not, I assure you, for want of several advantageous matches being
offered to me; it was solely that no one should have a right to
control me. It was not even a dread of not being able to pursue my
inclinations, for certainly, at all events, that I should have done:
but it would have pained me if any one should even have a right to
complain. On the whole, it was that I would not wish to deceive but for
my own pleasure, and not through necessity. And behold you write me the
most matrimonial letter it is possible to conceive! You tell me of the
injuries I have committed, and the favours you have granted! I cannot
conceive how it is possible to be indebted to one where nothing is due.
Now for the business. You found Danceny at my house, and you was
displeased; be it so: but what conclusion do you draw from thence? Why,
that it was the effect of chance, as I told you, or of my inclination,
which I did not tell you. In the first instance, your letter is wrong;
in the second, ridiculous. It was well worth the trouble of writing!
But you are jealous, and jealousy never debates. Well, I will argue
for you.
You have a rival, or you have not. If you have a rival, you must
please, to obtain the preference over him; and if you have none,
you must still please, to avoid having one. In all cases the same
invariable conduct must be observed. Why, then, will you torment
yourself?—And why torment me? Have you, then, lost the secret of being
the most amiable? And are you no longer certain of your success? Come,
come, Viscount, you do yourself injustice. But that is not the case,
for I will not, even in your mind, have you give yourself so much
uneasiness. You wish less for my condescension, than an opportunity
of abusing your power. Fie! you are very ungrateful! I think this is
tolerably sentimental; and was I to continue any time, this letter
might become very tender: but you don’t deserve it.
Neither do you deserve I should enter farther in my justification. To
punish you for your suspicions, you shall keep them; so that I shall
make no reply as to the time of my return, or Danceny’s visits. You
have taken great trouble to be informed of them, most certainly: and
pray what progress have you made by it? I hope you received great
pleasure from your enquiries; as to mine, it has not been in the least
detrimental to them.
All I can say, then, to your threatening letter is this—it has neither
the gift of pleasing, nor power to intimidate me; and that at this
present time I am not in the least disposed to grant your request.
And, indeed, to receive you, as you exhibit yourself now, would be a
downright act of infidelity: it would not be a renewal with my former
lover; it would be taking a new one, many degrees inferior to him. I
have not so soon forgot the first, to be deceived. The Valmont I loved
was a charming fellow. I will even own, I never met a more amiable man.
I beg, Viscount, if you find him, to bring him to me, he will be always
well received.
Acquaint him, however, that it cannot by any means be either to-day or
to-morrow. His Menæchmus has done him some harm, and was I in too much
haste, I should dread a deception; or, perhaps, I have given my word to
Danceny for those two days: moreover, your letter informs me you do not
jest; when one breaks their word, therefore, you see you must wait.
That is, however, of very little consequence, as you can always be
revenged on your rival. He will not treat your mistress worse than
you will his; and after all, is not one woman as good as another?
These are your own principles. Even she who should be _tender and
sensible, who existed only for you, who was dying of love and grief,_
would nevertheless be sacrificed to the first whim, or the dread of
being ridiculed for a moment; and yet you would have one constrain
themselves! Ah! that is not reasonable.
Adieu, Viscount! become once more amiable. It is the utmost of my
wishes to find you charming as ever. When I am certain of it, I engage
to prove it to you—indeed, I am too good natured.
_Paris, Dec._ 4, 17—.