Finally the day arrived when my misfortunes were to begin. And by an unimaginable twist of fate, it was signalled by a virtuous act. Yes, Madame, it was in the midst of those poor unfortunates whom I helped that you succeeded, by manifesting that precious sensibility which enhances beauty itself and makes virtue truly worthy, in leading astray a heart already intoxicated by too much love. You remember perhaps how wholly preoccupied I was as we returned? I was, alas, struggling to fight an inclination that was becoming stronger than I was.
It was after exhausting all my strength in this unequal struggle that a chance, which I could not have foreseen, left us alone together. At that point, I admit, I succumbed. My heart was overflowing, I could not hold back my words or my tears. But is that a crime? And if it is, has it not been punished enough by the dreadful torments to which I am being subjected?
I am consumed by a hopeless love. I implore your pity but receive only your hatred. Having no other happiness than that of seeing you, my eyes seek you out despite myself, while I tremble to meet your gaze. In the cruel state to which you have reduced me I spend my days hiding my pain and my nights in yielding to it. While you, calm and at peace, are ignorant of these torments except inasmuch as you are the cause of them, and commend yourself on them. Yet you are the one complaining about them and I the one begging your forgiveness.
So this then, Madame, is the faithful account of what you call my wrongdoing, and which it would perhaps be more accurate to call my misfortune. Pure and sincere love, unwavering respect, total subjugation to your will: such are the feelings you inspire in me, feelings that I would not have feared to offer in homage to God Himself. Oh, you who are His fairest handiwork, imitate His graciousness! Think of my cruel suffering. Above all, be aware that, in that state between despair and supreme happiness where you have left me, the first word you utter will decide my fate for ever.
From —, 23 August 17**
LETTER 37
The Présidente de Tourvel to Madame de Volanges
I bow, Madame, to the friendly advice you have given me. I am accustomed to deferring to your opinion in all things, and do believe it is always rational and well-founded. I shall even concede that Monsieur de Valmont is indeed infinitely dangerous if he can at one and the same time pretend to be as he appears here, and still be the man you describe. Whatever the case, since you say I must, I shall put a distance between myself and him. At least I shall do my best. For often things which ought to be the simplest become extremely difficult when you try to put them into practice.
It seems to me impracticable to ask this of his aunt. It would be equally disobliging both for her and for him. And I am reluctant to take the decision to go away myself. For apart from the reasons I have already given you concerning Monsieur de Tourvel, if my departure annoyed Monsieur de Valmont, as is quite possible, would he not easily be able to follow me to Paris? And his returning there, for which I shall be, or at least seem to be, responsible, would surely appear stranger than meeting in the country house of someone known to be his relative and my friend.
So no other solution remains except to persuade Monsieur de Valmont himself to be good enough to leave. I know this is a difficult suggestion to make. However, since apparently he is bent on proving to me that he is in fact more honourable than people suppose, I have not given up all hope of succeeding. I shall not even be sorry to attempt this, and to have the opportunity to see whether, as he so frequently asserts, truly virtuous women have never had, and never will have, cause to complain of his behaviour. If he leaves in accordance with my wishes, it will certainly be out of respect for me. For I do not doubt that he plans to spend a good part of the autumn here. If he were to refuse my request and insist on remaining, there would be nothing to prevent me leaving myself, and I promise you that is what I should do.
I think that is all your friendship requires of me, Madame. I hasten to satisfy these demands and prove to you that despite my somewhat heated defence of Monsieur de Valmont I am still disposed not only to listen to but even to follow the advice of my friends.
I have the honour of being, etc.
From —, 25 August 17**
LETTER 38
The Marquise de Merteuil to the Vicomte de Valmont
Your enormous packet has just this minute arrived, my dear Vicomte. If the date is correct I should have received it twenty-four hours ago. However, if I took the time to read it, I should have none left to write my answer, so I had rather simply let you know it has arrived and talk about other matters. Not that I have any news about myself; in autumn there are scarcely any males left in Paris fit to be looked at, so for the last month I have been so well-behaved I could die, and every other man except my Chevalier would be bored to tears by the proofs of my fidelity. With nothing else to engage my attention, I am passing the time with the little Volanges girl. And that is what I wish to talk to you about.
Do you realize that you have lost more than you might think by not taking this girl under your wing? She is truly delightful! No character, no principles either. You can see how easy and agreeable her company will be. I do not think she will ever shine in matters of sentiment, but she certainly looks as if she will be an ardent little creature. She has no intellect, no finesse, and yet she has a certain natural duplicity, if one may call it that, which sometimes surprises even me, and with which she will have all the more success since her face is the very image of candour and artlessness. She is by nature very demonstrative and I am sometimes amused by that. She gets excited incredibly quickly, and when that happens she is all the more amusing since she knows nothing, but nothing, about what she so much desires to know. She has very funny little bouts of impatience. She laughs, she gets cross, she cries and then, in the most beguiling way, she earnestly begs me to tell her things. In truth I am almost jealous of the man for whom such pleasures are reserved.
I don’t know whether I told you, but for the last four or five days I have had the honour of being her confidante. As you can guess, at first I pretended to be very strict. But as soon as I saw she thought she had won me over by her dubious arguments I pretended to think they were valid. And she is firmly persuaded she owes this success to her own eloquence. I had to take this precaution in order not to compromise myself. I have allowed her to say and to write ‘I love’; and the same day, without her suspecting anything, I engineered a meeting for her with Danceny. But just imagine! He is such a fool, he did not even kiss her. And yet the lad writes such pretty verses! Lord, how stupid these clever people can be! He is so stupid that I find him embarrassing. After all, I cannot be expected to be his guide!
It is just at present that you could be extremely useful to me. You are friendly enough with Danceny to win his confidence, and if he were once to confide in you, we should make great headway. Hurry your Présidente along a little, for I do not want Gercourt to escape. Anyway, I talked about him yesterday to our young friend, and I painted such a picture of him that if she had been his wife of ten years she could not have hated him more. Yet I have preached to her a good deal about marital fidelity; nothing equals my firmness on this subject. And so on the one hand I have re-established in here yes my virtuous reputation, which too much complaisance might have destroyed; and on the other I am increasing the hatred which I wish her to bestow upon her husband. And finally I hope that by my convincing her it is only permissible to fall in love during the short time she has left before her marriage, she will decide more quickly not to waste a moment of it.
Farewell, Vicomte. I am about to begin my toilette, and shall read your epistle the while.
From —, 27 August 17**
LETTER 39
Cécile Volanges to Sophie Carnay
I am sad and anxious, my dear Sophie. I cried almost the whole night long. Not that I am not essentially very happy at present. But I foresee that it cannot last.
I was at the Opera yesterday with Madame de Merteuil. We talked a great deal about my wedding, and I have not learned any good news. I
t is Monsieur le Comte de Gercourt I am to marry, and it is to be in the month of October. He is rich, he is aristocratic, colonel of the regiment of —. So far so good. But he is old: just imagine, he is at least thirty-six years old! And then Madame de Merteuil says that he is stern and gloomy, and that she fears I shall not be happy with him. I could even tell that she was quite certain of that, but did not wish to say so in case it distressed me. All she talked about almost the whole evening was the duties of wives to their husbands. She admits that Monsieur de Gercourt is not at all amiable, and yet she says I shall have to love him. She has also told me that once I am married I should not love the Chevalier Danceny. As though there were the remotest chance of that! Oh, I assure you I shall love him for ever. I would prefer not to marry at all. This Monsieur de Gercourt can look after himself; I did not go looking for him. He is in Corsica at the moment, a long way away. I wish he would stay there for ten years. If I were not afraid to be sent back to the convent I should be sure to say to Mamma that I do not wish to be married to him. But that would make matters even worse. Oh, it’s so difficult. I feel I have never loved Monsieur Danceny so much as I do at the moment. And when I think that I have only one month of freedom left, I start crying straight away. My one consolation is the company of Madame de Merteuil. She is so kind! She shares all my problems as though they were her own. And she is so amiable that when I am with her I hardly think about them any more. She is, moreover, very useful to me, for what little I know, she has taught me, and she is so good that I tell her all my thoughts without being the least bit embarrassed. When she thinks I am in the wrong, she sometimes scolds me. But she does it very gently, and then I put my arms around her and kiss her until she is not cross any more. At least I may love her as much as I want without it being wicked, and I enjoy that very much. But we have agreed that when we are in company I should not make it apparent how much I love her, and especially not in front of Mamma, so that she does not suspect anything where the Chevalier Danceny is concerned. I assure you that if I could always live as I do at present, I think I should be very happy. If only it were not for this wretched Monsieur de Gercourt! But I do not wish to speak of him further, for I shall become depressed once more. Instead, I am going to write to Danceny. I shall speak to him only of my love, not of my anxieties, because I do not wish to upset him.
Farewell, dear friend. You see that you were wrong to complain, and that though I am so busy, as you call it – I still have time to think about you and write to you.*
From —, 27 August 17**
LETTER 40
The Vicomte de Valmont to the Marquise de Merteuil
The monster does not content herself with leaving my letters unanswered, or refusing to receive them. She wants to deprive me of the very sight of her, insisting that I remove myself from her presence. And what you will find even more surprising is that I put up with all this harsh conduct. You will disapprove. But I thought I had better not throw away this chance of receiving her orders. I am convinced, on the one hand, that whosoever commands, assumes responsibility. And, on the other, that the illusory authority which we apparently allow women to exercise over us is one of the pitfalls they only avoid with the greatest difficulty. Moreover, the skill which she is exercising in not being left alone with me has placed me in a dangerous situation from which I must escape at all costs. In her company the whole time and yet unable to pursue my affair, I have reason to fear she might become accustomed to seeing me without being troubled; and that state, as you well know, is very difficult to reverse.
As to the rest, you may guess I have not submitted to her without imposing my conditions. I have even taken care to stipulate one that is impossible to grant; as much to remain at liberty to keep my promise or not as to engage in a verbal or written discussion at a time when my beauty is better pleased with me, and needs me to be better pleased with her. And, for another thing, I should be behaving very ineptly if I did not find a way of receiving some compensation for renouncing my claim, however untenable it may be.
Having set out my reasons to you in this lengthy preamble, I shall begin telling you about these last two days. I shall include as evidence the letter from my beauty and my reply. You must admit that few historians are so exact as I am.
You will recall the effect my letter from Dijon had the morning of the day before yesterday. The remainder of the day was very stormy. Our pretty prude arrived only when lunch was about to be served, saying she had a bad migraine, a pretext which she wanted to use to cover up one of the blackest moods any woman could ever have. Her face was much altered. That sweet expression you are familiar with had changed into a look of defiance which bestowed a new kind of beauty upon her. I promise myself I shall make use of this discovery henceforth, and occasionally exchange my loving mistress for a rebellious one.
I could see that after lunch it was going to be rather gloomy. And so, to avoid the boredom, I pretended I had letters to write and withdrew to my rooms. I returned to the drawing room at six. Madame de Rosemonde proposed a drive, and the suggestion was taken up. But at the very moment of getting into the carriage the so-called invalid, with a devilish piece of trickery, pleaded in turn, and perhaps to take revenge on me for my having absented myself, that her pain was much worse, and I was mercilessly condemned to a tête-à-tête with my elderly aunt. I do not know if the curses I brought down on this female devil were granted but when we returned we found her lying down.
The next day at breakfast she was a changed woman. Her gentle nature was again in evidence and I had reason to suppose I had been forgiven. We had just finished when the sweet girl got up with an indolent air and went out into the grounds. I followed her, as you may guess. Addressing her, I enquired: ‘Why this urge to go walking?’
‘I have been writing a great deal this morning,’ she replied, ‘and my head is rather tired.’
‘Could I perhaps be the fortunate man responsible for this fatigue?’ I continued.
‘I have indeed written to you,’ she rejoined, ‘but I hesitate to give you my letter. It contains a request, and you have given me no reason to hope it will be granted.’
‘Ah! I swear that if there is anything I can do…’
‘Nothing could be easier,’ she interrupted, ‘and though you ought perhaps to grant it out of fairness to me I should not mind obtaining it as a favour.’ So saying, she presented me with her letter. As I took it I also took her hand, which she withdrew, but without anger and more with embarrassment than temper.
‘It is warmer than I supposed,’ she said. ‘I must go inside.’ And she set off back to the chateau. I made vain efforts to persuade her to continue her walk. But I had to remember that we were able to be seen, so I could only use my eloquence to persuade her. She went in without saying a word and I could see quite clearly that this pretence of a walk had no other motive than to give me her letter. She went up to her room as soon as she got back and I retired to mine to read her epistle. Which you too would do well to read, as you should my response, before proceeding further…
LETTER 41
The Présidente de Tourvel to the Vicomte de Valmont
It seems to me, Monsieur, from your conduct towards me, that you are only seeking each day to add to my reasons to complain about you. You persist in trying to engage me in discussion about sentiments which I would not, must not, hear. The way in which you do not hesitate to insult my honesty and modesty by sending me your letters; and especially the manner, the indelicate manner, I might say, which you used to convey the last one to me, not caring that my reaction to a surprise like that might compromise me; all of this would constitute a good reason for a sharp and well-deserved reproach on my part. But instead of reiterating these complaints I will make do with asking something of you which is as simple as it is just. And if you grant it, then I consent that all shall be forgotten.
You yourself have told me, Monsieur, that I need not fear a refusal from you. And although, with characteristic inconsistency, this sentence
was followed by the only refusal you could give me,* I should like to think that today you will still honour your promise of but a few days ago.
My wish then is that you be good enough to go away from me. Leave this chateau, where a longer stay on your part could only expose me more to the criticism of a society always ready to think the worst of others and, because of your conduct, only too used to fixing its attention on any women who have anything to do with you.
I have been warned of this danger by my friends for some time now and have neglected their advice. I have even argued with them, since I was so convinced by your behaviour towards me that you wished to set me apart from the multitude of women who have had cause to complain about you. Now that you treat me the same as you do them, I can no longer be in any doubt of the danger, and I owe it to society, to my friends as well as myself, to take this necessary course of action. I might add that you will gain nothing by refusing my request, since I am resolved to leave of my own accord should you insist on remaining. But I do not wish to lessen the obligation I should feel to you were you to do as I ask, and I want you to know that were you to make my departure necessary, you would greatly inconvenience my arrangements. So prove to me, Monsieur, that, as you have professed so many times, respectable women will never have cause to complain of you. Or at least prove to me that when you do them wrong you are able to make amends.
If I thought I needed to justify my request to you, I should only have to tell you that you have spent your life in rendering it necessary, and yet it is one that I should never have needed to make. But let us not bring to mind events which I prefer to forget and which would oblige me to judge you harshly at a moment when I am offering you the opportunity to earn my wholehearted gratitude. Adieu, Monsieur; the manner in which you conduct yourself will tell me with what feelings I shall be, for ever, your very humble, etc.
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