Dangerous Liaisons

by Choderlos De Laclos

  I shall end as I began, by imploring your indulgence. I have asked you to hear me out. I shall go further; I shall beg you to answer me. If you refuse, I shall have to believe you are offended, and my heart is the guarantee that my respect for you is as strong as my love.

  P.S. To reply, you can use the same method I am using to send you this letter. It seems to me to be both safe and convenient.

  From —, 18 August 17**

  LETTER 18

  Cécile Volanges to Sophie Carnay

  Sophie, you blame me for what I am about to do before I have done it! I was already worried enough, but now you have added to my worries. You say it is clear I must not answer the letter. That is all very well for you, but you do not rightly know what the position is. You are not here to see. I’m sure that in my place you would do the same. Obviously as a general rule one should not reply. And as you saw from my letter yesterday, I did not wish to either. But the fact is that I do not believe anyone has ever found themselves in this situation before.

  What is more, I am obliged to come to a decision all by myself! Madame de Merteuil, whom I was counting on seeing last night, did not come. Everything conspires against me. She is the reason I met him. It is almost always with her that I have seen him, that I have spoken with him. It is not that I am angry with her for that; but she has abandoned me in my hour of need. Alas! Poor me!

  Just imagine, he came yesterday as usual. I was in such a state I did not dare look at him. He could not speak to me because Mamma was there. I was sure he would be vexed when he saw I had not written. I was so embarrassed. A moment later he asked me if I wished him to go and fetch my harp. My heart was thumping so much it was all that I could do to answer yes. When he returned it was much worse. I only gave him the briefest of glances. He did not look at me at all. But from his expression you would have thought he had taken ill. It made me feel dreadful. He began to tune the harp and when he had done that, as he was bringing it for me he said: ‘Oh Mademoiselle!…’ Those are the only two words he said; but he said them in such a tone of voice that I was completely overwhelmed. I started to play a few notes on my harp without knowing what I was doing. Mamma asked whether we were going to sing or not. He made his excuses, saying he did not feel very well. But I had to sing because I had no excuse. I could have wished I had never had a voice. On purpose I chose a tune I did not know, for I was very sure I should not be able to sing at all and people would notice something was wrong. Fortunately another visitor arrived. And as soon as I heard a carriage enter, I stopped and asked him to put away my harp. I was really afraid he would take his leave at the same time; but he came back.

  While Mamma and the lady who had arrived were chatting together I thought I would risk another little glance at him. Our eyes met and it was impossible for me to turn away. A moment later I saw his eyes welling with tears, and he was obliged to turn round so as not to be seen. At that moment it was more than I could bear; I knew I was about to weep as well, so I left the room and straight away I wrote with a pencil on a scrap of paper: ‘Do not be so sad, I beg you. I promise to answer you.’ You surely cannot say there is any harm in that? And anyway I could not help myself. I slipped my piece of paper between the strings of my harp, where his letter had been, and went back into the salon. I felt calmer, but I could not wait for the lady to leave. Fortunately she had to make another visit and left soon after. As soon as she had gone I said I wished to play my harp again, and asked him to fetch it. I could tell from his expression that he did not suspect a thing. But when he came back, oh, how happy he was! As he placed my harp in front of me he positioned himself so that Mamma could not see him and took my hand and squeezed it…How he squeezed it! It was just for one moment, yet I cannot tell you how much pleasure it gave me. But I withdrew it and so have nothing to feel guilty about.

  So presently, my dearest friend, as you can see, it is not possible for me not to write to him, since I have promised. And I shall not cause him such sorrow again, for I suffer more than he does. If it were wicked, I certainly would not do it. But what can be wicked about writing a letter, especially when it is to prevent someone from being miserable? What will be difficult will be that I shall not know how to write it very well. But he will understand it is not my fault. And besides, I am sure that as long as it is from me it will always give him pleasure.

  Farewell, my dear friend. If you believe I am doing wrong, tell me. But I do not think so. The nearer it gets to the time I write to him, the faster my heart beats. But do it, I must, because I promised. Farewell.

  From —, 20 August 17**

  LETTER 19

  Cécile Volanges to the Chevalier Danceny

  You were so sad yesterday, Monsieur, and that caused me such pain that I am permitting myself to reply to your letter. None the less today I still feel I should not. But as I have made a promise, I do not wish to break my word, and that must indeed be proof of the friendship I have for you. Now that you know this, I trust you will not ask me to write again. I also hope you will tell nobody I have written. For I should surely be blamed for it and might well get into a great deal of trouble. Above all, I hope that you yourself will not form a bad opinion of me, for this would cause me more pain than anything. I can assure you that I would certainly not have agreed to do it for anyone else. I should like you to be good enough not to be so despondent as you were. For that takes away all the pleasure I have in seeing you. You see, Monsieur, I am speaking very frankly to you. My greatest wish is that our friendship should last for ever, but I beg you will not write to me any more.

  Yours sincerely,

  Cécile Volanges

  From —, 20 August 17**

  LETTER 20

  The Marquise de Merteuil to the Vicomte de Valmont

  You are flattering me, you old rogue, because you are afraid I shall make fun of you! All right, I shall have mercy on you: you write such absurd things that I have to forgive you for the good behaviour imposed on you by your Présidente. I do not believe my Chevalier would be as indulgent as I am. He would be just the sort not to sanction the renewal of our little contract and would not find your mad schemes in the least amusing. I laughed heartily about it, and I was really put out that I had to laugh alone. Had you been there, who knows what this merriment might have led to! However, I have had time to consider the matter and to grow more strict with you. It is not that I refuse for ever, but I am deferring it, and I am right to do so. My vanity would perhaps be too much involved, and once I had got a taste for it, there is no knowing to what lengths I might go. I would be woman enough to shackle you to me again, make you forget your Présidente, and if I, all unworthy, made you feel disgust for virtuous behaviour, what a scandal it would be! To avert this danger, here are my conditions.

  As soon as you have had your fair devotee, and can send me proof of that, come to me and I shall be yours. For you do realize that in important matters like this one can only accept written proof. By this arrangement I shall become, on the one hand, your reward instead of your consolation; and I prefer it that way. On the other hand, your success will be all the more exciting because it will itself become the path to infidelity. Come then, come as soon as you can, bringing me the evidence of your triumph, like the worthy knights of old who used to deposit the brilliant spoils of their victory at their ladies’ feet! Seriously I am curious to know what a prude will find to write after such a moment and what veil she could put over her words when she has none left to cover her person. It is for you to judge whether I am placing too high a price on myself. But I warn you that no reduction will be made. Until that time, my dear Vicomte, you will quite understand that I shall remain faithful to my Chevalier, and that I shall amuse myself by keeping him happy, in spite of the slight annoyance this may cause you.

  However, if I were less concerned about morals, I believe he would have a dangerous rival at this time: the little Volanges girl! I dote on her; it’s a veritable passion.16 I may be mistaken, but I think she will turn out to be one
of our most celebrated women. I see her little heart opening out and it is a captivating spectacle. She already adores Danceny; but she does not realize it yet. He himself, though very much in love, is shy, in the way young men often are, and does not dare to admit it to her. Both of them worship me. Cécile is longing to tell me her secret; in the last few days I see she is particularly oppressed by it and I would have done her a great service by helping her out a little. However, I do not forget she is just a child and I do not wish to compromise myself. Danceny has spoken rather more plainly to me. But as far as he is concerned my mind is made up and I turn a deaf ear. As for the girl, I am often tempted to make her my pupil; it is a service I wish to do for Gercourt. He leaves me plenty of time, since he is in Corsica until October. I have a mind to use that time to present him with a woman of the world instead of his innocent convent girl. And anyway, how can this man have the insolence to sleep soundly in his bed while a woman who has every reason to complain of him has not yet taken her revenge on him? If the girl was here right now, there is no knowing what I might not say to her.

  Farewell, Vicomte; goodnight and good luck: but for Heaven’s sake, make a move. Remember that if you do not possess this woman, there are others who will blush to have been possessed by you.

  From —, 20 August 17**

  LETTER 21

  The Vicomte de Valmont to the Marquise de Merteuil

  My love, I have finally made some progress, nay, considerable progress, which, though it has not yet brought me to my destination, has at least made me aware that I am on the right track and has dispelled my fears that I had lost my way. At long last I have declared my love. And though I have been met with the most obdurate silence, I have perhaps obtained the least equivocal and most flattering of responses: but I must not leap ahead! Let us go back to where I left off.

  You will remember that my comings and goings were to be spied upon? Well, I wanted to make use of this scandalous behaviour for the edification of all, so this is what I did. I charged my valet to seek out in the neighbourhood some unfortunate fellow who was in need of help. This task was not difficult to accomplish. Yesterday afternoon he reported to me that in the course of this morning the furniture belonging to an entire family unable to pay their taxes was to be seized. I first ascertained that there was no young girl or woman in the house who might render my actions suspect. And when in possession of all necessary information, at supper, I declared my intention to go hunting the following day. Here I have to give my Présidente her due. No doubt she was a little sorry for the orders she had given, and though unable to conquer her curiosity, she at least attempted to dissuade me from my plans: it was going to be extremely hot; I ran the risk of becoming ill; I should not kill anything, but should fatigue myself to no purpose. And during our exchanges her eyes, which expressed rather more perhaps than she intended, gave me to understand that she wanted me to take these bad arguments for good ones. I took care not to give in to her, as you may imagine, and I also stood firm against her little diatribe on hunting and hunters, as well as a small cloud of annoyance which darkened that heavenly face all evening. For one minute I was afraid her orders were going to be revoked and that her better feelings might harm my plans. I did not allow for the curiosity of a woman; so I was wrong. My manservant reassured me on the point that very same evening, and I went to bed satisfied.

  Up I got at dawn and off I went. Hardly was I twenty yards away from the castle when I caught sight of my spy tailing me. I began my hunting, crossing the fields to the village I wished to reach with the sole purpose of giving the fellow following me a run for his money. He often had to cover, at full tilt, a distance three times that of my own, because he did not dare leave the paths! As a result of this exercise I became extremely hot myself and sat down underneath a tree. And do you know he had the insolence to slip behind a bush not twenty feet away and sit down too? For a moment I was tempted to fire at him, which, though it would only have been small shot, would have been enough to teach him a lesson about the dangers of curiosity. Luckily for him I remembered once more that he was useful and even necessary to my plans. This thought saved him.

  Anyway, I arrive at the village. I see there is something up. I go into the village. I ask some questions. I am told what is going on. I summon the tax-collector. And, giving in to my generous compassion, I nobly part with fifty-six livres, for which paltry sum five human beings were being reduced to straw and poverty. After this simple little action you may imagine what a chorus of blessings echoed all around me. What tears of gratitude flowed from the eyes of the aged head of the family and embellished the face of the patriarch, who only a moment before had been rendered hideous by fear and despair. I was just studying this spectacle when another peasant, a younger one, leading a woman and two children by the hand, and advancing towards me at great speed, said to them: ‘Let us all fall down before this image of God’; and at the same instant I was surrounded by this family, prostrated before me. I shall admit to a momentary weakness. My eyes filled with tears and I felt within me an involuntary but delightful emotion. I am astonished at the pleasure one feels at doing good. And I should be tempted to believe that those whom we call virtuous do not have so much merit as we are led to believe. Whatever the case, I thought it only fair to repay these poor folk for the pleasure they had just given me. I had ten louis17 on me which I gave to them. At that point the thanks began again, but they did not have the same degree of power to move. Necessity had produced the important, the true effect. The rest was a simple expression of gratitude and surprise for gifts, over and above what was necessary.

  However, in the midst of the garrulous blessings from this family, I looked not unlike a hero in the final act of a drama. You will not forget that my faithful spy was there in the crowd. My aim was accomplished. I extricated myself and returned to the chateau. All in all, I am very pleased with my idea. I have no doubt this woman is worth making a great effort for. One day this will count for something in her eyes. And having, so to speak, paid for her in advance, I shall have the right to use her as I please with a clear conscience.

  I was forgetting to tell you that to capitalize on all this I asked these good people to ask God to bless my plans with success. You will see that already their prayers have been to some extent granted…But they tell me supper is ready, and it will be too late to send this letter if I do not finish it before I retire to my room. So the rest in my next. I am cross, for the rest is the best. Farewell, my love. You are already stealing from me a moment of the pleasure of her company.

  From —, 20 August 17**

  LETTER 22

  The Présidente de Tourvel to Madame de Volanges

  No doubt you will be most happy to learn, Madame, of one of Monsieur de Valmont’s qualities which to my mind contrasts most markedly with all those which you have heard attributed to him. It is so distressing that one should think ill of any living soul, so unpleasant to see only viciousness in those who may possess all the qualities necessary to cause a person to love virtue! But as you are so inclined to indulgence, I shall oblige you by giving you reasons to reverse the harsh judgement you had reached. Monsieur de Valmont seems to me to have grounds for deserving this favour, or, dare I say, justice. And here is why I believe this to be so.

  This morning he went out on business which might have made you think he had some important project in the neighbourhood, as you had supposed he might; an idea that I am sorry to say I perhaps seized upon too eagerly. Fortunately for him, and most fortunately for us, since it has saved us from doing him an injustice, one of my household was obliged to take the same road;* and that is how my reprehensible but fortunate curiosity has been satisfied. He came back and told us that Monsieur de Valmont, having found in the village of — a poor family whose furniture was being sold because they lacked the means to pay their taxes, not only hastened to pay these poor people’s debt, but gave them in addition a quite considerable sum of money. My servant witnessed this good deed; and told me
moreover that the village people, in the course of conversation, said that a servant, whom they named, and who my own servant thinks is one of Monsieur de Valmont’s, had been sent yesterday to ascertain who, from among those living in the village, might be needy. If this is indeed the case, it is not even just a passing feeling of compassion brought about by circumstance. It is the intent to do good; it is the anxiety to perform an act of kindness. It is the rarest of virtues in the loveliest of souls. But whether it be by chance or design it is still an honest and praiseworthy deed, and merely recounting it has moved me to tears. I should add, moreover, in all fairness, that when I spoke to him about what he had done, about which he had not breathed a word, he protested and seemed to place so little store upon it after admitting to it that his modesty rendered it twice as worthy in my eyes.

  So tell me, my worthy friend, if you still think Monsieur de Valmont an out and out libertine? If that is all he is and yet he conducts himself in this fashion, what is left for us respectable citizens? Are the wicked to share the sacred pleasure of kindness with the good? Would God allow a virtuous family to receive from the hands of a rogue the help for which they will thank divine Providence? And would He take pleasure in hearing pure mouths bless the name of a reprobate? No. I prefer to think rather that errors, even if they are of long standing, do not last for ever. And I cannot believe that a man who does good can be the enemy of virtue. Monsieur de Valmont is perhaps only one more example of the danger of liaisons. I leave you with this pleasing thought. If on the one hand it serves to justify him in your mind, on the other it renders ever more precious to me that tender friendship by which I shall be bound to you for as long as I live.