Dangerous Liaisons

by Choderlos De Laclos

  Supposing you do truly love me (and it is only so that I need not revert to this matter that I allow this supposition), would the obstacles separating us not be any less insurmountable? Would I have any other option but to wish you might soon conquer that love and, by hastening to banish all hope, help you towards that end with all my might? You yourself acknowledge that this feeling is painful when the person who inspires it does not share it. Now you know perfectly well it is impossible for me to share it. And even were this misfortune to befall me, I should be the more to be pitied, and you none the happier. I hope you respect me enough not to be in any doubt of that for one moment. So stop, I implore you, stop wishing to distress a creature to whom peace and quiet is necessary. Do not make me sorry I ever met you.

  I am respected and cherished by a husband I love and respect, duty and pleasure combining in the same person. I am happy, that is right and proper. If keener pleasures than these exist, I do not desire them. I do not wish to know them. Can there be a sweeter pleasure than to be at peace with oneself, to enjoy days of unbroken calm, to fall asleep without anxiety and to wake without remorse? What you call happiness is but a tumult of the senses, a tempestuous sea of passions, a fearful spectacle even when it is viewed from the shore. So how can I confront these storms? How dare I embark upon a sea covered in the debris of thousands upon thousands of shipwrecks? And with whom? No, Monsieur, I shall stay on land. I cherish the bonds which tie me to it. Even if I could break them, I should not wish to. If I did not have them I should make haste to acquire them.

  Why do you dog my footsteps? Why do you insist upon pursuing me? Your letters were supposed to be occasional, but they follow one another in rapid succession. They were going to be reasonable, but all you talk about is how madly you love me. You besiege me with the idea of your love more than you did with your person. You have distanced yourself in one way, but reproduced yourself in another. Things I ask you not to repeat any more you say again, except with different words. You enjoy confusing me with arguments that are specious; you avoid mine. I do not wish to reply to your letters, I shall not…Look how you treat the women you have seduced! With what contempt you speak of them! I can believe that some deserve it. But are they all therefore contemptible? Oh, no doubt, in that they have all betrayed their duties to give themselves up to unlawful love. From that moment on they lost everything, including the respect of the man to whom they sacrificed everything. Their suffering is justly deserved, though the very idea of it makes me tremble. But what is it to me, after all? Why should I concern myself with them or you? What right have you to come disturbing my peace and quiet? Leave me, do not see me any more, do not write to me any more. I beg you. I demand it of you. This is the last letter you will receive from me.

  From —, 5 September 17**

  LETTER 57

  The Vicomte de Valmont to the Marquise de Merteuil

  I found your letter here yesterday when I got back. Your anger is delightful. You could not be more sensitive to Danceny’s bad behaviour had it been intended for you personally! There is no doubt it is revenge that motivates you to make his mistress acquire the habit of these small infidelities; what a bad girl you are! But you are very attractive and I am not a bit surprised she finds you more irresistible than Danceny.

  Well, finally I know him inside out, our fine romantic hero! He has no more secrets where I am concerned. I told him so often that true love was the supreme good, that one passionate experience was worth ten affairs, that, as I said it, I was myself quite the shy young lover again. Anyway, he found my way of thinking so exactly reflected his own that he was enchanted by my candour and told me everything, swearing everlasting friendship. But for all that we have scarcely advanced at all with our plans.

  First, his reasoning seems to be that a young girl deserves to be treated with far more consideration than a woman, since she has more to lose. He believes, especially, that when that girl is infinitely richer than the man, as in his case, nothing can justify his placing her in a position where she has to marry him or be dishonoured ever after. The mother’s wealth, the girl’s innocence, he finds it all intimidating and constraining. The difficulty lies not in combating his arguments, however well-founded they may be. With a little skill and passion I could have demolished them soon enough; all the more easily since they invite ridicule and one does have on one’s side the authority of what is normally done. But what prevents me from having any influence over him is that he seems quite content with the situation. First love usually seems more true, and more pure, if you like. It may proceed more slowly, but this is not, as one might expect, through delicacy or timidity. It is that the heart, surprised by an unknown feeling, stops, as it were, at each step to enjoy the delight it is experiencing, and this is such a powerful enchantment for an innocent heart that it takes over completely, and makes one forgetful of every other pleasure. So the truth of the matter is that a libertine in love, if indeed a libertine can be in love, becomes from that moment in less of a hurry to enjoy the pleasures of the flesh. And when all is said and done, between the conduct of Danceny with the little Volanges girl and mine with the prudish Madame de Tourvel, there is only a difference in degree.

  It would have taken many more obstacles than he has encountered so far to excite this young man. He needs more mystery, for mystery leads to daring. I am not far from thinking that you did us a disservice in looking after him so well. Your conduct would have been excellent with an experienced man, who would have had only his desires. But you might have foreseen that for a young, upright man in love, what is most valuable in a woman’s favours is that they are proof of love. And that consequently the more sure he is of being loved, the less enterprising he will be. What shall we do now? I do not know. But I do not expect that he will have our young friend before she is married, and we shall be let down. I am annoyed about it, but I don’t see any solution.

  While I prattle on like this you are doing better with your Chevalier. And that reminds me that you have promised an infidelity in my favour. I have your written promise of it, and I wish to make sure it is honoured. I agree that payment is not yet due. But it would be kind of you not to wait too long. And for my part I shall keep an account of the interest. What have you to say, my love? Are you not weary of your faithfulness? Is this Chevalier so very wonderful? Oh, let me have my way and I shall oblige you to admit that if you have found some merit in him it is because you had forgotten me.

  Adieu, my love. I kiss you and desire you. And I defy all the kisses of the Chevalier to be as ardent as mine.

  From —, 5 September 17**

  LETTER 58

  The Vicomte de Valmont to the Présidente de Tourvel

  What have I done to deserve, Madame, both rebukes and anger from you? A most ardent and yet most respectful attachment, my utter submission to your slightest wish, that is the whole story of my sentiments and conduct. Overwhelmed by the pain of an unhappy love, my one consolation was in seeing you. You commanded me to deprive myself of it. I obeyed without so much as a word of complaint. As a reward for this sacrifice you permitted me to write to you, but today you wish to take this, my only pleasure, away from me. Shall I allow it to be snatched away without trying to defend it? No, of course not! What! How should it not be dear to my heart? It is the only pleasure left to me, and it is you who have granted it.

  You say my letters are too frequent! Remember, I beg you, that for the last ten days of this exile, not one moment has passed without my thinking of you, and yet you have received only two letters from me. All I talk about in them is my love! What can I talk about, except what is on my mind? Yet all I can do is moderate its expression. And you may take it from me I have only allowed you to see what was impossible to hide. You threaten that you will reply to my letters no more. So, not content with cruelty, you now show contempt towards the man who prefers you above all others and who respects you even more than he loves you! And why all these threats, this anger? Why do you need them? Are you not certai
n of being obeyed, even when your commands are unjust? Is it possible for me to deny you any one of your desires; have I not already proved as much? Will you abuse this power you have over me? After making me unhappy, after being unjust to me, will you find it easy to enjoy the peace and quiet that you declare is so necessary to you? Will you not ever say to yourself: ‘He has left me to be mistress of his destiny and I have caused his unhappiness; he implored my help and I looked on him without compassion’? Do you know to what extremes my despair might lead me? No.

  To assess the extent of my suffering you would have to know how much I love you, and you are not privy to my heart.

  To what are you sacrificing me? To chimerical fears. And who inspires these fears? A man who adores you. A man over whom you will never cease to have absolute power. What do you have to fear, what can you possibly fear, from feelings you will always have the power to direct as you will? Your imagination is creating monsters, and the terror they cause you, you attribute to love. With a little trust these ghosts would disappear.

  A wise man once said that to rid oneself of fears it suffices in almost every case to go to the root of the problem.*4 This truth applies especially to love. Love, and your fears will vanish. In place of the things that frighten you, you will discover feelings of delight and a lover who is tender and ready to do your will. And all your days, devoted to happiness, will leave you with no other regret than that of having wasted so many through indifference. I myself, since I have mended my ways, live only for love, regretting the days I believed I was spending in pleasure. And I feel that it is you alone who can make me happy. But, I beseech you, may the pleasure I have in writing to you be no longer troubled by the fear of displeasing you. I have no wish to disobey you: I am prostrate before you, claiming the happiness you wish to snatch from me, the only one I have left. I cry out to you: listen to my prayers, observe my tears. Oh, Madame, will you tell me no?

  From —, 7 September 17**

  LETTER 59

  The Vicomte de Valmont to the Marquise de Merteuil

  Tell me, if you can, what this Danceny nonsense means. What has happened, and what has he lost? Is his little beauty perhaps irritated by his everlasting respect? It is true one would, at the very least, be put out. What shall I tell him tonight at the meeting he has requested and which I casually agreed to? I shall most certainly not waste my time listening to his grievances if it does not advance our cause. Lovers’ complaints are only worth listening to when there is a recitative or a grand aria. So instruct me in the matter and tell me what I should do, or I shall abandon him and avoid the boredom I can see coming. Will I be able to talk to you this morning? If you are occupied, at least send me word and give me my cue.

  By the way, where were you yesterday? I never manage to see you. It really was not worth keeping me in Paris the whole of September. But make up your mind, for I have just received a most pressing invitation from the Comtesse de — to visit her in the country and, as she rather pleasingly puts it, ‘her husband has the finest woods in the world, and preserves them carefully for the entertainment of his guests’. Now you know I have a good few rights in those woods, and shall go and visit them if I cannot be of use to you. Goodbye. Remember that Danceny will be with me on the stroke of four.

  From —, 8 September 17**

  LETTER 60

  The Chevalier Danceny to the Vicomte de Valmont

  (Enclosed in the previous letter)

  Oh Monsieur, I am in despair! All is lost!5 I dare not entrust the secret of my unhappiness to paper, but I need to unburden myself to a loyal and trusted friend. At what time may I see you and seek consolation and advice? I was so happy the day I opened my heart to you! What a difference now! Everything has changed. Yet my own suffering is the least of my trials. My anxiety about a person who is much dearer than myself is much more unbearable. You are more fortunate than I: you can go and see her, and I hope you will do me this favour in the light of our friendship. But I must speak to you, and tell you everything. You will take pity on me, you will come to my rescue. You are my only hope. You are a man of feeling, you know what love is, and you are the only one in whom I can confide. Do not refuse me your help.

  Adieu, Monsieur; the only comfort I have in my misery is to remember that I still have a friend like you. Let me know, I beg you, at what time I may meet you. If not this morning, I should like it to be early this afternoon.

  From —, 8 September 17**

  LETTER 61

  Cécile Volanges to Sophie Carnay

  My dear Sophie, pity your Cécile, your poor Cécile, for she is so unhappy! Mamma knows everything. I cannot imagine how she could have had the least suspicion, but she has found out everything. Last night I was fairly sure there was something wrong, but I did not pay much attention to it. And, even while I was waiting for her to finish her game, I was chatting very merrily with Madame de Merteuil, who had supped with us, and we spoke a great deal about Danceny. But I do not think we were overheard. She left and I retired to my rooms.

  I was getting undressed when Mamma came in and told my maid to leave. She asked for the key to my secrétaire. Her tone of voice made me tremble so much I could scarcely stand. I pretended I had lost the key, but in the end I had to do as she bade me. The first drawer she opened was the very one which contained the Chevalier Danceny’s letters. I was so distressed that when she asked me what it was, all I could answer was that it was nothing. But when I saw her begin to read the one on top I only just had time to reach my chair before I felt so ill I fainted. As soon as I regained consciousness my mother, who had recalled my maid, went away, telling me to go to bed. She took all Danceny’s letters with her. I shudder every time I think I shall have to face her again. I have done nothing but cry all night long.

  I am writing this at dawn in the hope that Joséphine will come. If I am able to speak to her on her own, I shall ask her to deliver a message that I am going to write to Madame de Merteuil. Or else I shall put it in with your letter and ask you to send it as though it were from you. She is the only one who will be able to comfort me. At least we should be able to talk of him, for I do not expect to see him again. I am so unhappy! Perhaps she will be so kind as to take charge of a letter to Danceny for me. I dare not trust Joséphine with it, and still less my chambermaid. For she is perhaps the one who told my mother I had letters in my writing desk.

  I shall not write any more, because I want to have time to write to Madame de Merteuil* and to Danceny as well, so that my letter will be all ready in case she can deliver it for me. After that I shall go back to bed, so that if anyone comes in to my room they will find me there. I shall say I am ill in order not to have to go and see Mamma. I shall not be telling such a big lie. It is certain that I am suffering more than if I had a fever. My eyes are stinging with crying so, and there is a weight on my stomach which is stopping me breathing. When I think I shall never see Danceny again, I wish I were dead. Adieu my dear Sophie. I cannot go on. Tears are choking me.

  From —, 7 September 17**

  LETTER 62

  Madame de Volanges to the Chevalier Danceny

  After your abuse of a mother’s trust and a child’s innocence, I am sure it will come as no surprise to you, Monsieur, that you will no longer be received in a house where you have repaid the proof of a most sincere friendship with a complete disregard for correct behaviour. I prefer to ask you not to come to my house any longer rather than give orders at my door, for we should all be compromised alike by the remarks that the footmen would be certain to make. I have a right to expect that you will not oblige me to have recourse to such measures. I must also warn you that if in the future you make the least attempt to carry on leading my daughter astray in this manner, she will be removed from your sight and placed in strict seclusion for good. It is for you, Monsieur, to decide if you care as little about bringing misfortune as you do dishonour upon her. As for me, I have made up my mind, and informed her of my decision.

  I enclose a packet of yo
ur letters. I trust you will send me all those of my daughter in exchange, and that you will take steps not to leave any trace of an event which cannot but be remembered with indignation on my part, shame on hers and remorse on yours. I have the honour to be, etc.

  From —, 7 September 17**

  LETTER 63

  The Marquise de Merteuil to the Vicomte de Valmont

  Indeed I will explain Danceny’s note. The occasion of it is my own doing, and I like to think it is my chef d’oeuvre. I have not wasted any time since your last letter, and, like the Athenian architect, I have said: ‘What he has said, I shall do.’6

  So our romantic hero is slumbering in felicity and needs a few obstacles placed in his way! Then let him come to me with his problem; I shall give him plenty to do. And if I am not mistaken his sleep will no longer be so peaceful. He needed to be shown that time flies, and I flatter myself that at present he is regretting the time he has wasted. You say too that he needed more mystery. Well, that need will be met from now on. It can be said to my credit that all you have to do is to show me where I have gone wrong and I do not rest until I have made proper amends. Let me tell you, then, what I have been doing.

  On returning home the day before yesterday, in the morning, I read your letter. I thought it most enlightening. I was convinced that you indicated very clearly the cause of the problem and my one concern was to find a way of dealing with it. However, the first thing I did was go to bed. For the indefatigable Chevalier had not allowed me a moment’s rest and I thought I must be sleepy. But it was not at all the case. Danceny was on my mind the whole time; I was unable to sleep a wink for thinking how much I wished to drag him out of his inertia or punish him for it, and it was only after I had finalized my plan that I was able to get a couple of hours’ rest.