Dangerous Liaisons

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by Choderlos De Laclos


  This morning I saw my sensitive prude again. I had never seen her look so beautiful. It was inevitable. A woman’s finest moment and the only one when she can induce that intoxication of the soul, so often talked about but so rarely experienced, is the one when we are certain of her love but not of her favours. And it was exactly that situation I found myself in. Perhaps also the idea that I was going to be deprived of the pleasure of seeing her served to make her more beautiful. Well, when the post arrived, I received your letter of the 27th. And while I was reading it, I was still in two minds about whether to keep my promise. But I caught my beauty’s eye and it would have been impossible for me to refuse her anything.

  So I announced my departure. One moment later Madame de Rosemonde left us alone together. But I was still four feet away from the timid girl when she got up in a fright saying: ‘Leave me, leave me, Monsieur, for pity’s sake, leave me.’ This fervent prayer, which revealed the extent of her emotion, only excited me more. I was already close to her and had caught hold of her hands, which she had placed together with a most touching gesture, and begun my tender expressions of love when some fiend brought Madame de Rosemonde back again. The timid devotee, who does indeed have good reason to be fearful, saw her opportunity and departed.

  But I offered her my hand, which she accepted. And, thinking this unwonted gentleness augured well, I tried to squeeze hers, while at the same time renewing my protestations. At first she tried to pull away. But when I insisted, she gave in with a good enough grace, though without responding either to my gesture or my words. At the door to her room I tried to kiss her hand before leaving. To begin with I met with firm resistance: but my just remember I am leaving, uttered in my most tender voice, made her ill at ease and uncertain. Scarcely had the kiss been bestowed when her hand recovered the strength to escape, and my beauty entered her room where her maid was waiting. This is where my story ends.

  As I presume you will be at the house of the Maréchale de — tomorrow, where I shall certainly not come to find you, and as I am sure as well that at our first meeting we will have more than one affair to discuss, and notably that of the little Volanges, which I have not forgotten, I have decided to send this letter on ahead. And, though it is lengthy, I shall close it only just before sending it to the post. For in my present situation everything can depend on a moment’s opportunity. I am leaving you, in order to go and lie in wait for it.

  P.S. At eight o’clock in the evening.

  Nothing new; not a single moment of liberty; even some care taken to prevent it. However, as much regret as decency permits, at least. Another event which is perhaps not without interest: I am the bearer of an invitation from Madame de Rosemonde to Madame de Volanges to come and stay a while with her in the country.

  Farewell, my dear. Till tomorrow, or the day after at the latest.

  From —, 28 August 17**

  LETTER 45

  The Présidente de Tourvel to Madame de Volanges

  Monsieur de Valmont left today, Madame. I felt that you so much wished for his departure I should inform you of it. Madame de Rosemonde misses her nephew greatly, and it must be said that his company was agreeable. She spent the entire morning talking to me about him, with her usual perceptiveness. She did not stop singing his praises. I thought I should show enough consideration to listen without contradicting her, particularly because she is right, one must admit, on many counts. And I felt that I was to blame for this separation, and am not hopeful of being able to compensate for the pleasure I have deprived her of. As you know my nature is not normally a particularly cheerful one, and the sort of life we lead here is unlikely to alter that.

  Had I not conducted myself according to your advice, I should fear I had acted a little impulsively. For I have been truly troubled by my dear friend’s unhappiness. She touched me so deeply I should gladly have mingled my tears with hers.

  We are living now in hopes that you will accept the invitation that Monsieur de Valmont will give you from Madame de Rosemonde to come and spend some time with her. I need not tell you the pleasure it will give me to see you here. Indeed, it is your duty to make up for our loss. I shall be delighted to have this earlier opportunity to make the acquaintance of Mademoiselle de Volanges and to be in a position to further assure you of my respectful regards, etc.

  From —, 29 August 17**

  LETTER 46

  The Chevalier Danceny to Cécile Volanges

  What has happened to you, my darling Cécile? What has brought about such an abrupt and cruel change in you? What has become of your vow that you would never change? Only yesterday you were so glad to say those words again and again! Who has made you forget them today? However closely I look, I cannot find the reason within myself and it is a terrible thing for me to have to look for it in you. You are not fickle or unfaithful, I am certain of that. And even in this moment of despair I shall not insult you with suspicions which would cause my heart to wither. But what twist of fate has made you no longer what you were? No, cruel girl, you are no longer the same! My sweet Cécile, the Cécile I adore, who made her promise to me, she would not have avoided my eyes, would not have objected to the lucky chance which placed me by her side; or if, for some unfathomable reason, she had been obliged to treat me with such severity, she would at least not have scorned to tell me why.

  Oh, you do not know, you will never know, my Cécile, how you have made me suffer today, and how much I suffer now. Do you believe I can live without your love? Yet when I begged you for a word, one word to allay my fears, instead of answering, you pretended you were afraid of being overheard; and then you immediately created that very obstacle, that had not existed before, by the seat you chose among the company. When I was obliged to leave you and asked what time I might see you again tomorrow, you pretended not to know, and Madame de Volanges had to give me the information. And so that moment which brings me close to you and which I have always so very much looked forward to, will tomorrow cause me nothing but anxiety. The pleasure of seeing you, which until now has been my only joy, will be replaced by the fear of being unwelcome.

  I already feel inhibited by this fear, and dare not speak of my love. That je vous aime, which I so delighted in saying when I could hear it from your lips too, those gentle words, which were enough to make me a happy man, now, if you have changed, will bring me nothing but the image of eternal despair. However, I cannot believe that this talisman of love has lost all its power, and so I still try what it may do.* Yes, my Cécile, je vous aime. Say after me those words which make me happy. Remember you have accustomed me to hear them, and depriving me of them means condemning me to a torture which, like my love for you, will end only with my life.

  From —, 29 August 17**

  LETTER 47

  The Vicomte de Valmont to the Marquise de Merteuil

  I shall still not be able to see you today, my love, and these are my reasons, which I beg you to accept with indulgence.

  Instead of coming straight back, I stopped off at the home of the Comtesse de —, whose chateau was not far off my route, and invited myself to dinner. It was almost seven when I got to Paris, and I went to the Opera, where I hoped you might be.

  When the opera was over I went to look up my ladies of the green room;23 there I found my old friend Émilie, surrounded by numerous admirers, as many women as men, to whom she was giving supper that evening at P—. I had no sooner joined the company than, by popular assent, I was asked to eat with them. I was also issued with an invitation by a short, fat little man who jabbered in double Dutch and who, I realized, was the real hero of the hour. I accepted.

  On the way I learned that the house we were bound for was the price agreed for Émilie’s favours to this grotesque fellow, and that tonight’s supper was to be a real wedding feast. The little man could not contain his delight in the expectation of the happiness he was going to enjoy; he appeared so self-satisfied he made me want to throw a spanner in the works. And this indeed I did.

 
The one problem I had was to convince Émilie, who had a few qualms because of the burgomaster’s wealth. But she agreed, after protesting a little, to the plan I had of filling up this little beer belly with wine and putting him hors de combat for the night.

  The high expectations we had of Dutch drinkers induced us to employ all possible means. We succeeded so well that at dessert he no longer had strength enough to hold his glass. But the obliging Émilie and I vied with one another to fill it up. Finally he fell under the table in such a drunken stupor it must last at least a week. Then we decided to send him back to Paris; and, as he had not retained his cab, I had him loaded into mine, and I stayed in his stead. Then I received the congratulations of the assembled company, who withdrew shortly afterwards and left me in command of the field. These merry japes and perhaps also my long time away made me find Émilie so desirable that I have promised to stay with her until the Dutchman comes back to life.

  This indulgence on my part is in exchange for her kindness in serving as a desk on which to write to my beautiful devotee. I thought it would be amusing to send from the bed, from the arms almost, of a girl a letter – interrupted, indeed, for a downright infidelity – and in which I give her an exact account of my situation and conduct! Émilie, who has read the letter, laughed and laughed, and I hope you will too.

  As my letter must be postmarked Paris, I am sending it to you. I am leaving it open. Would you please read it, seal it and have it sent to the post? Be particular not to use your own seal, nor any emblem of love. Just a head24 will do. Farewell, my dear.

  P.S. I have opened my letter again. I have persuaded Émilie to go to the Théâtre des Italiens…I will take advantage of that time to come and see you. I shall be with you at six at the latest. And if agreeable to you, we will go to Madame de Volanges together at seven. It will be best if I do not put off giving her the invitation I have for her from Madame de Rosemonde. And besides, I shall be very happy to see the little Volanges girl.

  Farewell, my darling. I intend to welcome you with such passion, the Chevalier will be jealous.

  P —, 30 August 17**

  LETTER 48

  The Vicomte de Valmont to the Présidente de Tourvel

  (Postmarked Paris)

  After a tempestuous night during which I have not once closed my eyes; after the constant agitation of an all-consuming love, the total annihilation of all my faculties, I have come to seek in your company, Madame, a calm which I need but as yet do not expect to enjoy. In fact, as I am writing this to you, the situation I am in makes me more conscious than ever of the irresistible power of love. I have difficulty in keeping enough self-control to order my ideas. And already I foresee that I shall not be able to finish this letter without being obliged to break off. Surely I may hope that you will one day share the passion I feel at present? I hope that if you got to know it better you would not remain completely indifferent to it. Believe me, Madame, cold tranquillity and the torpor of the soul, the very image of death, do not make for happiness. Only the active passions can lead you to it. And in spite of the torments you put me through I think I can assure you, without hesitation, that at this moment I am happier than you. Your treating me with such depressing harshness is to no avail. In no wise does it prevent me giving myself up totally to love and forgetting, in my delirious state, the despair into which you cast me. This is how I shall avenge the exile to which you are condemning me. Never did I have so much pleasure in writing to you. Never did I feel as I do now such sweet but such keen emotion. Everything seems to increase my passion. The very air I breathe is burning with sensuality. The very table on which I am writing, dedicated for the first time to this use, has become for me the sacred altar of love.25 How much more beautiful it will be now in my eyes! I shall have traced upon it my vow to love you for ever! Forgive me, I implore you, the confusion of my senses. Perhaps I should not abandon myself so to these passions which you do not share. I must leave you a moment to assuage a madness which increases every instant, and is stronger than I am.

  I come back to you, Madame, and there is no doubt that I return as urgently as before. But the feeling of happiness has fled far from me. It has given way to cruel privation. Of what use is it to me to talk to you of my feelings if I look in vain for the means to convince you? After so many repeated efforts, my confidence and strength are both leaving me. If I recount the pleasures of love again, it is so that I may feel more keenly my sorrow at being deprived of them. The only help I can see is in your indulgence, and I am only too aware at the moment how much will be necessary for me to have any hope of obtaining it. But my love was never more respectful, and never less capable of giving offence. I might say it is such that the strictest virtue would have nothing to fear from it. But I am myself afraid to discourse longer on the pain I am experiencing. Since I am assured that she who has caused it does not share it, I must be sure, at least, not to abuse her goodness. And if I spent any more time painting such a sorry picture to you, I should be doing just that. I shall only take the time to beg you to reply, and never to doubt the truth of my feelings.

  Written from —, dated from Paris, 30 August 17**

  LETTER 49

  Cécile Volanges to the Chevalier Danceny

  I am not fickle or deceitful, Monsieur, but it is enough for me to be shown my conduct in its true light to feel I need to change it. I have promised this sacrifice to God until I can offer Him also the sacrifice of my feelings for you, which the religious order to which you belong renders even more wicked. I am very well aware that it will cause me suffering and I shall not even conceal from you that since the day before yesterday I have wept every time I thought of you. But I hope that God will give me the grace and the necessary strength to forget you, as I pray night and morning that He will. I even hope that your honour and friendship will keep you from upsetting the good resolutions I have been induced to make and which I am trying to keep. As a consequence, I am asking you to be good enough not to write to me any more, especially as I am warning you that I shall not answer, and that if you do I should have to inform Mamma of everything. And that would completely deprive me of the pleasure of seeing you.

  I shall still remain as attached to you as I possibly can be without doing anything wrong. And I wish you, with all my heart and soul, every happiness. I know you are not going to love me now as much and perhaps you will soon love some other girl better than me. But it will be one more penance for the sin I committed in giving you my heart, which I should have given only to God, and to my husband when I have one. I hope divine mercy will have pity on my weakness and not inflict upon me any more suffering than I can bear.

  Farewell, Monsieur. I can assure you that if I were allowed to love anybody, it would never be anyone but you. But that is all I can say, and it is perhaps more than I should have said.

  From —, 31 August 17**

  LETTER 50

  The Présidente de Tourvel to the Vicomte de Valmont

  So is this how you fulfil the conditions on which I agreed to receive your letters from time to time? And how should I not have reason to complain about them when all you talk about are feelings which I should still fear to indulge in, even if I could do so without neglecting all of my duties?

  Besides, if I needed any new argument to give weight to this salutary fear, it seems to me I could find it in your last letter. For at the very time you think you are extolling the delights of love, what are you doing except the exact opposite, by proving how fearful and tempestuous they are? Who could wish for a happiness bought at the expense of reason, one whose passing pleasures have for consequence, at the very least, regret if not remorse?

  You yourself, in whom the effects of this dangerous madness must be rendered less serious through force of habit, do you nevertheless not have to admit that it is often stronger than you are, and are you not the first to complain of the helpless distress it occasions in you? What terrifying ravages would it then cause in a fresh and sensitive heart, so much more at their
mercy by the size of the sacrifice she was obliged to make?

  You think, Monsieur, or so you pretend, that love leads to happiness. And I am so persuaded that it would make me unhappy that I should wish never to hear the subject mentioned. It seems to me that just to speak of it disturbs one’s peace of mind. And it is as much through preference as through duty that I beg you to keep your silence on this subject.

  After all, this request must be very easy for you to grant at present. Being in Paris again, you will find plenty of opportunities to forget a feeling which perhaps only came about in the first place through your habit of occupying yourself with these matters, and owed its strength to the fact that there is so little to do in the country. Are you not in the same place you saw me in before, when you were quite indifferent to me? Can you go anywhere there without coming across instances of your inconstancy? And are you not surrounded there by women, all of whom are more attractive than me and have more claim on your attentions? I have not the vanity that my sex is often blamed for. Even less do I possess that false modesty which is only a refinement of pride. And it is in all good faith that I say to you here and now that I know very few ways of pleasing a man. Were I to possess every one of them I should not think them enough to hold your interest for long. So in asking you not to concern yourself with me I am only asking you to do today what you have already done, and what you would most certainly do before long even if I were to beg you not to.

  This truth, which I do not lose sight of, would be on its own a valid reason for not wishing to listen to you. I have a thousand more. But without entering into a long discussion I will confine myself to begging you, as I have already done, not to speak to me of feelings to which I must not listen, and, even less, respond.

 

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