Dangerous Liaisons

by Choderlos De Laclos

  From —, 1 September 17**

  PART TWO

  LETTER 51

  The Marquise de Merteuil to the Vicomte de Valmont

  You really are impossible, Vicomte. You treat me as casually as if I were your mistress. You know very well you will make me angry; just now I am in a terrible mood. What is it you are saying? You have to meet Danceny tomorrow morning; but you know how important it is for me to talk to you before you see him; and you run around like that, keeping me waiting for you the whole day long? You are the reason I arrived indecently late at Madame de Volanges’s and had all the old ladies thinking I was a Merveilleuse.1 I had to be nice to them the whole evening to pacify them: for one must not upset old ladies. They are the ones who make or break the reputation of young ones.

  It is now one in the morning, and instead of going to bed, as I desperately wish, I have to write you a long letter and that will make me twice as sleepy, for I shall be so bored by it. Fortunately for you I do not have the time to scold you further. Don’t imagine just because of that that I forgive you. It is simply that I am in a hurry. So listen to me, and I’ll be quick.

  Tomorrow, if you use your expertise, Danceny should confide in you. The time is ripe for confidences. He is unhappy. Our young friend has been to confession. She has blurted everything out, just like a child. And since then she has been tormented to such a degree by the fear of the devil that now she wants to break it off completely. She confided in me all her little worries, so passionately that it made me realize what a state she is in. She showed me the letter in which she had broken it off; it is full of religious nonsense. She babbled to me for an hour without uttering a word of common sense. But she made it difficult for me all the same. For, as you can see, I could not risk being completely frank with someone of such feeble intelligence.

  None the less I could see in the midst of all this chatter that she is no less in love with her Danceny. I even noticed she is, rather amusingly, the victim of one of those little tricks that love invariably plays. Tormented by the desire to think about her lover, and afraid of damning herself by so doing, she has hit upon the idea of praying to God to make her forget him. And, as she repeats this prayer at each and every moment of the day, she finds the means to think of him constantly.

  With someone more experienced than Danceny this little circumstance would perhaps be more favourable than otherwise. But he is such a Céladon2 that if we do not help him along he will take an age to surmount the easiest of obstacles, and we shall not have enough time to carry out our plans.

  You are quite right. It is a pity and I am as sorry as you are that he should be the hero of this adventure. But there we are. What is done is done. And it is your fault. I asked to see his reply.* It was pitiful. He reasons with her till he is blue in the face to prove to her that an involuntary feeling cannot be a crime. As if it did not stop being involuntary from the moment one ceases to fight it! This is such a simple idea it even occurred to the girl. He complains of his misfortune in quite a touching way, but his suffering is so sweet and seems so strong and sincere that I believe a woman who finds the opportunity to make a man despair to this degree, and with so little danger, would find it impossible not to be tempted to indulge her fancy. He ends up explaining to her that he is not such a monk as she believes. And that is undoubtedly the best part. For if one went so far as to yield to a monk’s embraces, one would most certainly not give the preference to Messieurs the Knights of Malta!3

  Whatever the case, instead of wasting my time in argument with her, which would have compromised me, and perhaps not convinced her, I approved of her plan to break it off. But I told her that in such cases it was more honest to tell the person why to their face instead of writing to them. And that it was also customary to give back the letters and other fripperies one might have received. So, while appearing to see eye to eye with the girl, I persuaded her to accord Danceny a rendez-vous. We immediately joined forces, and I took it upon myself to persuade the mother to go out without her daughter. Tomorrow afternoon is to be the fateful occasion. Danceny has already been informed. But for God’s sake, if you have a chance, use your influence to make this lovesick swain less indolent, and teach him, since you must be quite frank with him, that the real way to overcome other people’s scruples is to ensure that they have nothing to lose.

  As to the rest, I took care to raise a doubt or two in our young friend’s mind about the discretion of the confessors, so that there should be no repetition of this ridiculous episode. And I assure you that she is presently paying for the fright she gave me, since she fears the priest might go and tell her mother everything. I hope that after I have had another chat or two with her she will no longer go and prattle to the first person she sees.*

  Adieu, Vicomte. Take hold of Danceny, and steer him along. It would be shameful if we did not do as we liked with two children. If we find in the process that we have more trouble than we expected, let us not forget – and this will give us strength – that you are dealing with the daughter of Madame de Volanges and I with the wife-to-be of Gercourt. Farewell.

  From —, 2 September 17**

  LETTER 52

  The Vicomte de Valmont to the Présidente de Tourvel

  You forbid me, Madame, to speak of my love. But how can I find the courage to obey you? Occupied solely as I am with a feeling which should be so sweet, and which you are rendering so cruel; languishing in the exile to which you have condemned me; living only on privation and regret, a prey to torment that is all the more painful because it reminds me constantly of your indifference; must I then also lose the one consolation left to me? And how can I have any other but that of laying bare to you from time to time a soul which you fill with trouble and bitterness? Will you turn away your eyes from those tears you caused to flow? Will you refuse even the homage of the sacrifices you have exacted? Would it not be more worthy of you, of your sweet and honourable soul, to take pity on a poor unfortunate who is so only because of you, rather than inflict further sufferings on him by a prohibition which is both unjust and severe?

  You pretend to be afraid of love, and are unwilling to see that it is you alone who have caused the ills you blame love for. Oh yes, this feeling is most certainly painful when the person who inspires it does not share it. But where may happiness be found if not in reciprocated love? Tender friendship, mutual trust, the only trust that is unconditional, pain diminished, pleasure increased, sweet hopes, delicious memories, where can they be found but in love? You misrepresent it, you who, in order to enjoy all the good things it has to offer, need only not resist its pleasures. And in defending it I forget my suffering.

  You force me to defend myself as well. For while I devote my life to adoring you, you spend your time in finding fault with me. You already assume I am frivolous and deceitful. And you persist in holding against me certain mistakes which I have freely admitted to you; you are pleased to confuse what I was then with what I am now. Not content with having delivered me to the torture of living far from you, you also tease me mercilessly about pleasures to which you know perfectly well you have rendered me totally impervious. You believe neither my promises nor my oaths. Well, there remains one guarantee I can offer you that at least you will not be suspicious of: yourself. All I ask is that you put the question honestly to yourself. If you do not believe in my love, if you doubt for one moment that you alone have dominion over my soul, if you are not assured of the fact that you have captured this heart, which has been too wayward until now, I agree to bear the consequences of this error. I shall bemoan my lot, but not make an appeal. But if, on the other hand, to be fair to both of us, you are forced to admit to yourself that you do not nor ever will have a rival, I entreat you, do not oblige me any longer to fight with this chimera, but allow me at least the consolation of seeing that you no longer doubt my feelings, which will only end, can only end, with my life. Permit me, Madame, to beg a positive response to this item in my letter.

  But if I cease talking a
bout that period in my life which appears to be harming me so in your eyes, it is not that I am short of arguments in my defence.

  What did I do, after all, but fail to struggle against the whirlwind into which I was thrown? Entering society young and inexperienced; passed around from one to another by a crowd of women who were all in a hurry to anticipate, by the readiness with which they gave themselves, an opinion which they felt would be in any case unfavourable; was it up to me then to set an example by resisting what was being so freely offered? Or was I to punish myself for momentary lapses, which had all too often been provoked, by a constancy which was certainly pointless and which would have been considered quite simply ridiculous? What else, except breaking it off immediately, can excuse a shameful choice!

  But I can tell you that this intoxication of the senses, which I might even call a deranged vanity, never touched my heart. Born for love, I might have been amused by these adventures, but they have never been enough to occupy my life. I have been surrounded by seductive but contemptible creatures and not one has touched my soul. Pleasures were offered to me, but I was seeking virtue. And I often believed myself inconstant, being in fact both delicate and sensitive.

  It was when I set eyes on you that I saw the light. I realized that the charm of love resides in the qualities of the soul. That they alone can cause its excesses and provide the excuse for them. Then I felt it was equally impossible either not to love you, or to love another.

  So here, Madame, is the heart to which you fear to give yourself, and upon whose fate you must pronounce. But whatever destiny you reserve for it, you will change nothing in the feelings by which it is bound to you. They are as unalterable as the virtues which brought them into being.

  From —, 3 September 17**

  LETTER 53

  The Vicomte de Valmont to the Marquise de Merteuil

  I have seen Danceny, but he was not entirely open with me. He particularly insisted on not mentioning the name of the little Volanges girl, only speaking of her as a very good and even rather religious young woman. But he did recount the affair truthfully enough, and especially what happened that last time. I led him on as much as I could, and teased him a great deal about his delicate scruples. But he seems to set great store by them, and I cannot answer for him. For the rest, I shall be able to tell you more the day after tomorrow. I am taking him to Versailles today and shall make it my business to interrogate him on the way.

  The rendez-vous supposed to have taken place today also gives grounds for hope. It is possible that everything may have worked out to our satisfaction. And perhaps all we have to do now is extract a confession and collect the evidence. This task will be easier for you to do than it will for me. For the girl is more confiding than her discreet lover, or more talkative, it comes to the same thing. However, I shall do what I can.

  Farewell, my dearest. I am in a great hurry. I shall not see you tonight, nor tomorrow. If you find out anything on your side write me a note for when I return. I shall certainly be back in Paris for the night.

  From —, 3 September 17** in the evening

  LETTER 54

  The Marquise de Merteuil to the Vicomte de Valmont

  Oh yes! There is so much about Danceny it is worth our while to know! If he told you that, he was flattering himself. I don’t know anyone as stupid as he is in matters of love, and increasingly I regret how good we have been to him. Do you realize I thought I might be compromised on his account! And to think that everything would have been to no avail! Oh, I shall get my revenge, never fear.

  When I arrived yesterday to fetch Madame de Volanges she did not want to go out; she did not feel very well. I had to use all my powers of persuasion, for I saw how it would be if Danceny arrived before we left. It would have been particularly bad planning, since Madame de Volanges had told him the day before she would not be at home. Her daughter and I were on tenterhooks. Finally we left, and our young friend shook my hand with such affection when she bade me farewell that in spite of her plan to break it off, which she honestly believed she was still considering, I predicted wonderful things would happen that evening.

  But my worries were not over. We had scarcely been chez Madame de — half an hour when Madame de Volanges really did take ill, seriously ill, and, quite rightly, wanted to go home. I, of course, was most reluctant, because I was afraid that if we surprised the young folk, as we most certainly should, all would be lost, and my efforts to persuade the mother to go out might look suspicious. I resolved to scare her about her health, something that fortunately is not hard to do. And I kept her there for an hour and a half before I agreed to take her back home, pretending to be afraid that the motion of the carriage might be dangerous. In the end we only returned at the time we had said we would. And the embarrassment I detected when we arrived gave me some hope, I admit, that all the trouble I had gone to would at least not have been in vain.

  My desire to learn more made me stay with Madame de Volanges, who went straight to bed. After taking supper at her bedside, we left her very early on the pretext that she needed to rest, and went into her daughter’s rooms. She had done, for her part, everything I expected of her; scruples quite gone, renewed vows of eternal love, etc., etc. She finally acquitted herself with very good grace. But that idiot Danceny did not advance one inch beyond his previous position. Oh, I shall fall out with that young man. Mere reconciliations will get us nowhere.

  Our little friend assures me that he wanted more, but that she was able to defend herself. I guess she is flattering herself, or that she is making excuses for him. I am even fairly sure of it. In fact, I took it into my head to find out how far I could be satisfied with the defence she was able to put up. And I, a mere woman, by talking worked her up to such a degree that…Well, you may take my word for it, nobody was ever more susceptible to having her senses awakened. She really is a charming girl! She deserves another lover. At least she will have a nice woman friend, for I am sincerely attached to her. I have promised to tutor her and I believe I shall keep my word. I have often felt the need to take a woman into my confidence, and I should prefer this one to another. But I cannot do anything with her as long as she is not…what she must become. And that is yet another reason to bear Danceny a grudge.

  Adieu, Vicomte. Do not come to me tomorrow unless it be in the morning. I have yielded to the demands of the Chevalier for an evening at home.

  From —, 4 September 17**

  LETTER 55

  Cécile Volanges to Sophie Carnay

  You were right, my dear Sophie. Your prophecies were more sound than your advice. Danceny, as you predicted, was stronger than the confessor, stronger than you, stronger than myself. And we are back precisely where we started. Oh, I do not regret it. And if you scold me it will be because you do not know how delightful it is to be in love with Danceny. It is easy for you to say what should be done; there is nothing to stop you. But if you had felt how much pain the sorrow of someone we love causes us, how their joy becomes our own, and how hard it is to say no when you want to say yes, you would not be surprised any more. I myself who have felt this, and felt it so keenly, do not yet understand it. For instance, do you believe that I can see Danceny weep without weeping myself? I assure you it is impossible. And when he is happy I am happy too. Whatever you say will not change anything, I am certain of that.

  I wish you were in my shoes. No, that is not what I mean, for I certainly should not wish to change places with anyone. But I wish you were in love with someone too. Not just because you would understand me more, and scold me less, but because you would also be happier or, rather, only then would you begin to be happy.

  Our fun and laughter, all that, you see, is only child’s play. When it is over, it is over. But love, ah, love!…a word, a look, just knowing he is there – well, that is happiness. When I see Danceny I want nothing more. When I do not see him he is all I want. I don’t know how to explain it, but it is as though everything I like resembles him. When he is not with me
I think about him. And when I am able to think about him properly, without being distracted – when I am on my own, for example – I am still happy. I shut my eyes and immediately it seems to me I can see him. I remember what he has said and I believe I am hearing him speak those words. It makes me sigh. And then I feel a flame within me, an excitement…I can’t keep still. It’s like torture, and that torture gives me a pleasure I cannot express.

  I even think that once you are in love, it spills over into your friendships; though the friendship I have for you has not changed, it’s just the same as it was at the convent. But what I am talking about is the way I feel about Madame de Merteuil. It seems to me that I love her more how I love Danceny than how I love you, and sometimes I wish she were him. Perhaps it is because it is not a childhood love, as ours was, or else it is because I see them so much together, and that makes me confuse the two. But anyway, the truth is that between the pair of them they make me very happy. And, in any case, I do not believe there is any great harm in what I am doing. So all I ask is to stay the way I am. It is only the thought of my marriage which worries me. For if Monsieur de Gercourt is the kind of man they say he is, and I am in no doubt of this, I do not know what will become of me. Farewell, my Sophie. Your affectionate and loving friend.

  From —, 4 September 17**

  LETTER 56

  The Présidente de Tourvel to the Vicomte de Valmont

  What good would it do to send you the reply you ask for, Monsieur? If I believed your feelings, would it not be just one more reason to fear them? And without attacking or defending their sincerity, is it not enough for me, and should it not be enough for you as well, to know that I do not wish, nor have any right, to reciprocate them?