As we had six hours to spend together and I had resolved that all this time should be just as delightful for him, I curbed his passion and moved from tenderness to a pleasant flirtatiousness. I do not believe I ever took so much care to please anyone, nor do I think I was ever so satisfied with myself before. After supper, childish and reasonable by turns, gay and sensitive, sometimes even libertine, I enjoyed thinking of him as a sultan in the middle of his harem, and myself by turns a different favourite. In fact, each time his attentions were paid they were always received by the same woman, yet always by a different mistress.
Finally, at dawn, we were obliged to go our separate ways. And whatever he said, whatever he did, even, to prove the contrary, his need to go was as great as his disinclination to do so. The moment we were leaving, as a last farewell, I took the key of that happy abode and, putting it into his hands, said: ‘I only took it for your sake. It is only right that you should be master of it. It is for the High Priest to do as he likes with the Temple.’14 In this adept fashion I forestalled the thoughts which might have been provoked in him by the ever suspect ownership of a petite maison. I know him well enough to be certain he will use it for me alone; and, in any case, if the fancy took me to go there without him, I have another key. He was very eager to make a date to return, but I still like him too much to wish to exhaust him so quickly. One should permit oneself excess only with people one intends to leave shortly. He does not know that; but happily I know it for both of us.
I see that it is three in the morning, and I have written a book when I planned to write one line. Such are the joys of a trusting friendship, and that is why you are still the one I like the best; but the truth is, the Chevalier is the one I find the more attractive.
From —, 12 August 17**
LETTER 11
The Présidente de Tourvel to Madame de Volanges
The severe tone of your letter would have made me very apprehensive, Madame, if, happily, I had not discovered more cause to feel safe here than you have given me for alarm. The redoubtable Monsieur Valmont, that terror of our sex, seems to have laid down his deadly weapons before coming to the chateau. He has not been in the least scheming, nor has he given any appearance of doing so; and his power to charm, which even his enemies concede he has, is here almost non-existent, for he is just like a child. Apparently it is the country air which has worked this miracle. But I do assure you that, though constantly in my company and even, apparently, enjoying it, he has not uttered one single word of anything resembling love, not one of those phrases that every man allows himself, with far less reason than he has. He never forces that reticence upon me that all respectable women are obliged to adopt nowadays to keep the men around them at a proper distance. He never abuses the gaiety he provokes. Perhaps he is something of a flatterer; but he is so tactful that he would accustom modesty itself to being praised. In brief, if I had a brother, I should wish him to be like Monsieur de Valmont as he has proved himself to be here. Perhaps many women would prefer him to be more overtly gallant; but I admit that I am infinitely grateful to him for being able to judge my character well enough not to count me among their number.
This portrait is no doubt very different from the one you have painted. And yet both of them have perhaps been true at different periods in his life. He himself admits he has often done wrong, and no doubt people accuse him of more besides. But I have come across very few men who speak more respectfully, I might even say enthusiastically, about respectable women. At least on that subject, as you say, he is to be believed. His conduct with Madame de Merteuil is proof of that. He talks to us a great deal about her and always speaks so highly of her, and seems to have such a true attachment for her, that until I received your letter I had the impression that what he called friendship between the two of them was most certainly love. I blame myself for this hasty judgement, and all the more so because he has himself often been careful to justify her character. I admit I thought he was only being chivalrous when it was honest sincerity on his part. I am not sure, but it seems to me that a man who is capable of such loyal friendship with so estimable a woman is not an irredeemable libertine. I do not know either whether we owe his present good conduct to any plans he has hereabouts, as you suppose. Certainly there are some attractive women in the neighbourhood. But he seldom goes out, except in the mornings and then he says he is going hunting. It is true he hardly ever brings back any game, but he insists that he is not skilled at this activity. In any case, what he does with himself when he is out is none of my business, and if I tried to find out it would only be in order to come round to your view or to bring you round to mine.
As to your suggestion that I work towards cutting short Monsieur de Valmont’s intended stay here: it would seem to me very difficult to dare ask his aunt to do without her nephew’s company, especially since she has such a great affection for him. But I do promise I shall take the opportunity of making this request, either to her or to him; but only through deference to you and not because there is any real need to do so. As far as I am concerned, Monsieur de Tourvel knows of my intention to stay here until he returns, and he would be quite understandably surprised were I to change my mind for a trifle.
These explanations are laborious, Madame: but I felt it was only my honest duty to give a good account of Monsieur de Valmont, for in your eyes he would seem to have much need of this. I am no less sensible of the friendly concern which dictates your advice. It is also to this that I owe your charming compliment about the delay in the wedding of Mademoiselle, your daughter. I am so very sincerely obliged to you. But, whatever pleasure I promise myself in spending this time with you, I should willingly sacrifice it to the wish to see Mademoiselle de Volanges settled happily sooner, if indeed it were possible for her to be happier than with a mother so worthy of all her love and respect – two sentiments which I assure you I share with her in my profound affection for your good self.
I have the honour to be, etc.
From —, 13 August 17**
LETTER 12
Cécile Volanges to the Marquise de Merteuil
Mamma is unwell, Madame; she cannot go out and I must keep her company. So I shall not have the honour of accompanying you to the Opera. I assure you I am more sorry not to be with you than I am to miss the performance. I beg you to believe me. I do like you so very much! Would you be kind enough to inform the Chevalier Danceny that I do not have the songbook he mentioned, and that if he can bring it tomorrow I shall be truly delighted? If he comes today he will be told we are not at home; but that is because Mamma does not wish to receive anybody. I hope she will be better tomorrow.
I have the honour to be, etc.
From —, 13 August 17**
LETTER 13
The Marquise de Merteuil to Cécile Volanges
I am very sorry to hear, my dear, that I am to be deprived of the pleasure of your company as well as to hear the reason for it. I hope the occasion will present itself again. I will fulfil your charge with respect to the Chevalier Danceny, who will no doubt be extremely sorry to hear of your Mamma’s indisposition. If she wishes to receive me tomorrow, I shall go and keep her company. We shall together challenge the Chevalier de Belleroche* to piquet;15 and, while we are winning money from him, we shall have the even greater pleasure of hearing you sing with your charming teacher, to whom I shall propose it. If this is agreeable to your Mamma and to yourself, I can answer for myself and my two chevaliers. Farewell, my dear: my compliments to dear Madame de Volanges. With all my love,
From —, 13 Aug 17**
LETTER 14
Cécile Volanges to Sophie Carnay
My dear Sophie, I did not write yesterday, but not because I was out enjoying myself, I can tell you. Mamma was indisposed, and I did not leave her side all day. When I went up to my room in the evening I had no energy for anything; I went to bed straight away, to convince myself the day was really over. I had never known such a long one. It is not that I am not fond of Mamma; I don
’t know what it is. I was supposed to go to the Opera with Madame de Merteuil; the Chevalier Danceny was to be there and as you know they are the two people I like best in the world. When the time came that I should have been there, I could not help feeling a terrible pang. I took no pleasure in anything and I wept and wept, and could not stop. Fortunately Mamma was in bed and could not see me. I am certain the Chevalier Danceny will have been vexed as well. But he will have been distracted by the performance and the company; so it was not at all the same.
Fortunately Mamma is better today, and Madame de Merteuil will arrive with the Chevalier Danceny and someone else; but she always arrives very late, Madame de Merteuil; and it is extremely tiresome to be on one’s own for such a long time. It is only eleven o’clock. It is true that I have to practise my harp; and it will take me some time to get ready, for I wish my hair to be dressed nicely today. I believe that Mother Perpétue is right and that one becomes very conscious of one’s appearance when one is in society. I have never desired to be pretty so much as in these last few days, and I have discovered that I am not so pretty as I once thought. One does not look well next to women who wear rouge. Madame de Merteuil, for instance: it is plain to see that all the men consider her to be prettier than me. It does not vex me greatly, for she is very fond of me, and besides she assures me that the Chevalier Danceny thinks I am prettier than her. It is really nice of her to tell me that! She even seems to be very happy about it. Now I cannot understand why. Because she likes me so much? And as for him…Oh, I was so pleased! It seems to me that just looking at him makes me more beautiful. I could go on looking at him for ever if I were not afraid of meeting his gaze. For every time it happens I am obliged to lower my eyes and it is almost painful to me. But it is of no consequence.
Farewell, my dear friend. I shall begin my toilette. My love to you, as ever.
Paris, 14 August 17**
LETTER 15
The Vicomte de Valmont to the Marquise de Merteuil
It is very good of you not to abandon me to my unhappy fate. The life I am leading here is truly wearing, because of the surfeit of leisure and its tedious lack of variety. Reading your letter with all the details of your delightful day, I was tempted twenty times to pretend I had business to attend to, rush to your side and beg you for an infidelity to your Chevalier, who, when all is said and done, does not deserve his good fortune. Do you know, you have made me jealous of him? And what do you mean by our eternal rupture? I renounce those vows, uttered in a moment of madness. If they were intended to be kept, we cannot have been worthy of making them. Oh, that I might one day take my revenge in your arms on the unintentional offence to me occasioned by the Chevalier’s good fortune! I am indignant, I admit, when I think that this man, without thinking it through or putting himself out in the slightest, but simply obeying his instincts, should achieve a felicity which I cannot possibly attain. Oh, I shall blight his happiness…Promise me I shall! Are you not yourself humiliated by it? You put yourself to the trouble of deceiving him and yet he is happier than you are. You think you have him in thrall! But you are in thrall to him. He sleeps soundly whilst you stay awake for his pleasure. Would his slave do more?
Listen, my love, as long as you share yourself out among several, I am not in the least jealous: I simply see in your lovers the successors of Alexander; they are incapable, the whole lot of them put together, of holding on to an empire where I reigned alone. But that you should give yourself entirely to just one! That there should be another man as happy as I! I shall not tolerate it; do not expect me to. Either take me back or at least take a second lover; and do not betray, for the sake of a single whim, the inviolable friendship we swore to one another.
It is quite enough that I am tormented by love. You see I am inclined to your view and I admit my mistake. In fact, if not being able to live without possessing what one desires is to be in love, to sacrifice one’s time, one’s pleasures, one’s life, then I truly am in love. And I have made scarcely any progress at all. I might even have nothing to report, were it not for one event which gives me much food for thought, and I do not yet know if I have grounds for hope or fear.
You know my manservant: a master of intrigue and the very model of a valet in a comedy. As you may imagine, he has been instructed to fall in love with the chambermaid and ply all the servants with drink. The rogue is happier than I am; he has already had some success. He has just discovered that Madame de Tourvel has charged one of her servants to find out about my movements, and even to follow me about on my morning excursions, inasmuch as he can without being seen. What is the woman trying to do? The most modest of them all, yet daring to risk things we should scarcely permit ourselves! I swear to you…But before I plan to avenge this feminine ruse, let us think up a way of turning it to our advantage. Until now these suspicious excursions had no motive; I must give them one. That deserves my whole attention, and I am leaving you in order to give it my consideration. Farewell, my love.
Still from the Chateau de —, 15 August 17**
LETTER 16
Cécile Volanges to Sophie Carnay
Sophie dear, I have some news for you! Perhaps I ought not to tell you: but I have to tell somebody; I cannot help it. Chevalier Danceny…I am in such a state, I can’t describe it: I do not know where to begin. After I had told you all about the lovely evening* here at Mamma’s with him and Madame de Merteuil, I did not speak about it to you any more, because I did not wish to tell a soul; but it was still on my mind. After that, he became very dejected, so dejected that it troubled me greatly. When I asked him why, he denied it, but I could see that he was. Well, yesterday he was even sadder than usual. It did not prevent him being kind enough to sing with me as normal; but each time he looked at me I felt a dreadful pang. After we had finished our singing he went to close up my harp in its case and when he brought the key back he particularly asked me to practise again in the evening as soon as I was on my own. I did not suspect a thing. I did not really want to, but he entreated me so much that I agreed. He had his reasons. So then, when I had gone to my room and my maid had left, I took out my harp. Among the strings I found a letter, just folded, not sealed – and it was from him! Oh, if you only knew the things he asked! Ever since I read the letter I feel so happy I cannot think of anything else. I read it four times over straight off, and then I locked it away in my desk. I knew it by heart, and when I was in bed, I recited it so often I could not get to sleep. As soon as I closed my eyes I could see him there saying all those things I had just read. It was very late when I went to sleep; and as soon as I woke (it was still really early) I took out his letter again and read it through again slowly. I took it into bed with me and kissed it as if…Perhaps it is wicked to kiss a letter in that way, but I could not stop myself.
My dear friend, I am now very happy but very troubled as well, for it is certain I must not answer his letter. I know I must not, yet he asks me to. And if I do not, I know he will be so sad. But how dreadful for him! What do you advise? Well, of course you do not know any more than I do. I should like to talk to Madame de Merteuil, who is so fond of me. I should love to console him, but I should not want to do anything wicked. People are always telling us to be kind-hearted! But when it involves a man they forbid us to follow our instincts! That is not fair either. Is a man not our neighbour just as a woman is, and even more so? For do we not have a father as well as a mother, a brother as well as a sister? And then there are husbands too. However, if I were going to do something which was not right, perhaps Monsieur Danceny himself would not think well of me! Oh, if that were the case I should prefer him to remain sad. Anyway, I still have plenty of time. Simply because he wrote yesterday does not mean I have to reply today. So I will see Madame de Merteuil tonight and if I am brave enough I shall tell her everything. If I do exactly what she says, I shall have nothing to be ashamed of. And she might say I can send him a little reply to console him! Oh! What a state I am in.
Farewell, my dear friend. Tell me
anyway what you think.
From —, 19 August 17**
LETTER 17
The Chevalier Danceny to Cécile Volanges
Before giving in to the pleasure or the necessity of writing to you, Mademoiselle, first, I beg you will hear me out. I feel that I must have your kind indulgence if I am to declare my feelings to you. If I only wished to justify them, I should not need that indulgence. For after all, what am I about to do, but make plain what you yourself have brought about? And what can I say, except what my looks, discomfiture, actions and even my silence have already told you? Ah! Why should you be vexed by a feeling which you yourself have inspired? Coming from you, it must be worthy of being given back to you. If it burns, like my soul, then it is pure, like yours. Is it a crime to admire your charming face, your enchanting talent, your captivating grace, and that touching candour that renders such qualities precious beyond price? Indeed it is not; but though one may not be guilty, one may still be unhappy. And that is the fate which awaits me if you refuse to accept my homage, the first my heart has offered. Had we never met I should still be, not happy, but calm. But I have met you. Peace has fled far from me and my happiness hangs in the balance. Yet you are surprised at my despondency and you ask me the reason for it. Sometimes I have even felt you found it distressing. Oh, say the word and my happiness will be your doing. But before you speak, remember that one word could also throw me into the depths of despair. So be the mistress of my fate. It is through you that I shall be eternally happy or in everlasting misery. Could I place a more serious matter into more beloved hands?
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