All this trust merited some reward, so I immediately granted the request. Her hand withdrew. But by some extraordinary chance I found myself taking its place. You will suppose I was in a great hurry, very urgent, will you not? Not at all. I have acquired a taste for lenteurs, I tell you. Once you are sure of arriving, why hasten the journey?
Seriously, I was very glad for once to observe the power that opportunity brings, deprived here of any external help. Yet she had to contend with love, a love sustained by embarrassment or shame and, above all, fortified by the angry mood I had provoked, which was considerable. Opportunity was alone. But it was there, still offered, still present, and yet love itself absent.
In order to make certain of my observations, I was mischievous enough to use no more strength than could be easily resisted. It was only when my charming enemy took advantage of my lenience and seemed about to escape that I restrained her with the same threats whose happy effects I had already enjoyed. Well, without further ado, this amoureuse forgot her vows, first yielding, then consenting. Which is not to say that after that first moment there were no more tears and reproaches. I do not know whether they were real or faked. But, as always happens, they ceased just as soon as I busied myself with giving her the opportunity for more. Anyway, between surrender and accusation, and accusation and surrender, we only separated when quite satisfied with one another and both of us in agreement that we should meet again that evening.
I did not go back to my room until dawn, worn out and dying of sleep. Yet I sacrificed both of these to my desire to appear at breakfast this morning. I passionately love the expressions on their faces the morning after! You cannot imagine what hers was like. So self-conscious in her gestures! The awkward way she walked! Eyes permanently cast down, and so large and pale! Her little round face so drawn! Nothing was so amusing. And her mother, alarmed for the first time at this dramatic change, showed quite an affectionate interest in her! And so did the Présidente, who showered attentions on her! Oh, as far as those attentions go, they are but lent awhile! The day will come, and it is not very far off, when she will need them back. Farewell, my friend.
From the Chateau de —, 1 October 17**
LETTER 97
Cécile Volanges to the Marquise de Merteuil
Oh Madame, Heaven knows what a sorry plight I am in! How unhappy I am! Who will console me in my misery? Who will advise me in my predicament? Monsieur de Valmont…And Danceny! No, the very thought of Danceny fills me with despair…How can I tell you? What can I say? I don’t know what to do. But my heart is full…I have to tell someone, and you are the only one in whom I can and dare confide. You are always so good to me! But do not be good to me on this occasion; I am not worthy of it. What am I to say? I do not wish to say anything. Everyone here has offered me sympathy today…They have all made my misery greater. I so much felt I did not deserve it! Scold me instead. Give me a good scolding for I am very guilty. But afterwards, come to my aid. If you do not have the goodness to advise me, I shall die of chagrin.
So let me tell you…My hand is trembling, as you see, I can scarcely write, my face is burning…It must be red with shame. Well, I shall bear it. It will be the first punishment for my sins. Yes, I shall acquaint you with everything.
You will know that Monsieur de Valmont, who has until now been giving me Monsieur de Danceny’s letters, suddenly decided it was too difficult. He wanted the key to my room. I can assure you I did not wish to give him one. But he went so far as to write to Danceny about it and Danceny wanted me to as well. And it made me so unhappy to refuse him anything, especially since my absence, which had made him so unhappy, that in the end I agreed. I could not foresee the ills that would befall me as a result.
Yesterday Monsieur de Valmont used this key to come into my bedroom while I was asleep. I was not expecting it at all, so when I woke I was really scared. But as he spoke to me straight away I recognized who it was and did not cry out. And my first thought was that he was perhaps bringing a letter from Danceny. But it was not that at all. A short time after that he tried to embrace me, and as I was defending myself, as was natural, he succeeded in doing what I would not have done for all the world…But he wanted a kiss first. I had to, what else could I have done? Especially since I had tried to call someone, but apart from the fact that I could not, he also told me that if someone came he would be able to put all the blame on to me, and of course that would have been easy because of the key. And then he did not move an inch. He wanted another kiss. And I don’t exactly know why, but that one troubled me a very great deal. And afterwards, it was worse than before. Oh, it was terrible. Then after that…You will forgive me if I don’t tell you the rest, but I am as unhappy as can be.
What I blame myself for most, and yet this is what I must talk to you about, is that I am afraid I did not look after myself as well as I might have done. I don’t know how it happened. I certainly am not in love with Monsieur de Valmont – quite the opposite. But there were moments when it seemed as though I did love him…As you may imagine, that did not prevent me saying no to him all the time. But I could feel that my actions did not reflect my words. And it was as if I could not help it. And then I was very agitated as well. If it is always so difficult to defend oneself, one must need a lot of practice! It is true that Monsieur de Valmont is so persuasive that it is hard to know how to answer him. Well, anyway, would you believe that when he left I was almost sorry, and I was weak enough to agree to him coming back this evening. And that is what makes me feel the worst of all.
Oh, in spite of that, I promise you I shall stop him coming back. He had scarcely left the room when I realized I had been very wrong to make him any promises. So I cried the rest of the night. It was especially the thought of Danceny that upset me so. Every time I thought of him I cried twice as much, so that my tears choked me, and I kept on thinking about him…And still am, and you can see what has happened. My paper is soaked through. No, I shall never get over it, if only because of him. Well, I was exhausted and yet I could not sleep a wink. And this morning, when I got up and looked at myself in the mirror, it frightened me because I looked so different.
Mamma noticed as soon as she saw me, and asked what the matter was. I started weeping straight away. I thought she was about to scold me, and perhaps that would have caused me less pain. But quite the contrary. She spoke to me quite gently! I did not deserve it at all. She told me not to take on so. She did not know why I was so upset that I should make myself ill! There are times when I wish I were dead. I could not bear it. I threw myself into her arms, sobbing: ‘Oh Mamma, your daughter is so unhappy!’ Mamma could not help weeping a little herself; and all that only increased my sorrow. Fortunately she did not enquire why I was so unhappy, for I should not have known what to say to her.
I beg you, Madame, write to me as soon as you can, and tell me what to do. For I have no strength to think about anything, and all I do is make myself feel worse. Please send me your letter via Monsieur de Valmont; but I beg you, if you are writing to him at the same time, do not tell him I have said anything to you.
I have the honour to be, Madame, with the most sincere friendship, your most humble and obedient servant.
I dare not put my name to this letter.
From the Chateau de —, 1 October, 17**
LETTER 98
Madame de Volanges to the Marquise de Merteuil
Only a very few days ago, my dearest friend, you were the one writing to me to ask for consolation and advice. Today it is my turn. And I am making to you the same request you made to me. I am really very distressed, and fear I have not gone about things in the best way to avoid the worries I am experiencing.
It is my daughter who is causing this anxiety. Since leaving, she has been constantly depressed and miserable. But that I was expecting, and I had prepared myself to be as strict with her as I might deem necessary. I was hoping that absence and distractions would soon put an end to a love that I regarded more as a childish crush than a
veritable passion. However, far from gaining anything by our stay here, I perceive the child is falling more and more into a dangerous melancholy. And I am afraid, truly afraid, that her health may be impaired. Particularly in the last few days she is visibly changed. It struck me especially yesterday, and everyone here was really alarmed.
The further proof of how keenly she is affected is that she is evidently prepared to overcome the reserve she has always felt towards me. Yesterday morning, when I asked her straight out if she was unwell, she flung herself into my arms saying she was dreadfully unhappy. And she wept and sobbed. I cannot describe how upset I was. Tears rushed to my eyes. And I just had time to turn away so that she could not see. Fortunately I was prudent enough not to question her at all, and she did not dare confide in me further. But all the same it is evident that it is this unfortunate passion that is tormenting her.
But what is to be done, if this goes on? Shall I be the cause of my daughter’s ills ? Shall I turn her most precious qualities, sensibility and constancy, to her disadvantage? Is it for this that I am her mother? And if I stifle this natural feeling, which makes us wish for our children’s happiness, if I view as weakness what I believe on the contrary to be the first and most sacred of our duties, if I force her choice, shall I not have to answer for the possibly dire consequences? What misuse of my maternal authority it would be to place my own daughter between crime and misery!
I shall not emulate what I have so often criticized. I have undoubtedly tried to make a choice for my daughter. By doing that I was simply giving her the benefit of my experience. It was not a right exercised, but a duty fulfilled. But on the other hand I should be failing in my duty were I to disregard an inclination which I was unable to prevent and of which neither she nor I can know the extent or duration. No, I shall not allow her to marry one man and fall in love with another. I prefer to compromise my authority rather than her virtue.
So I think I shall take the wiser course and withdraw the promise I made to Monsieur de Gercourt. You have just heard my reasons. They seem to me to be stronger than my promises. I will say more. With the state of things at present, to fulfil my engagement would be, in fact, to breach it. For if I owe it to my daughter not to divulge her secret to Monsieur de Gercourt, I at least owe it to him not to abuse the ignorance in which I leave him, and to do on his behalf whatever he would, in my view, do himself if he were apprised of everything. Shall I let him down in this unworthy fashion, when he trusts me and honours me in choosing me as his second mother; am I to deceive him in the choice he wishes to make for the mother for his children? These thoughts, both honourable and inescapable, alarm me more than I can say.
I compare all these fearful and possible ills with the happiness of my daughter, choosing the husband of her heart and knowing her duty only through the delights she finds in its fulfilment; my son-in-law equally satisfied, and congratulating himself every day upon his choice; each only finding their happiness in that of the other; and the happiness of both uniting to increase my own. Must the hopes of such a sweet future be sacrificed to such vain considerations? And what are they, after all? Only financial ones. And what advantage will it be for my daughter to be born rich if she must none the less be a slave to fortune?
I concede that Monsieur de Gercourt is a better party than I might have hoped for my daughter. I even admit that I was extremely flattered that his choice fell upon her. But, after all, Danceny is from as good a family as his. And he has nothing to learn from him as far as personal qualities go. He has the advantage over Monsieur de Gercourt in loving and being loved. He is not, it is true, a man of means. But is my daughter not rich enough for two? Why snatch away from her the sweet satisfaction of enriching the man she loves!
These arranged marriages, which are not real matches but what are called mariages de convenance, where everything is mutually agreeable apart from the tastes and character of the parties involved, are they not the most fertile ground for these scandals which are becoming more and more common every day? I prefer to delay the whole thing. At least I shall have time to get to know my daughter, who is a stranger to me. I feel I have the strength to cause her some passing disappointment if she can receive a more solid happiness as a result. But to risk delivering her up to eternal despair, I cannot find in my heart.
These are the ideas tormenting me, my dear friend, and for which I ask your advice. These serious matters contrast greatly with your liveliness and gaiety, and are scarcely suitable for someone of your tender years. But your judgement is so far ahead of your years! Your friendship, moreover, will come to the aid of your wisdom. I am not afraid that you will on either count disregard my maternal solicitude in requesting your help.
Goodbye, my charming friend. Never doubt the sincerity of my feelings for you.
From the Chateau de —, 2 October 17**
LETTER 99
The Vicomte de Valmont to the Marquise de Merteuil
More news, my darling, but it is all dialogue and no action, so contain your soul in patience. You will need a great deal of it. For whereas my Présidente moves forward very gingerly, your pupil is withdrawing, and that is even worse. Oh well, my nature is such that I rather enjoy these little contretemps. I am actually accustoming myself very well to my time here. And I must say that in the gloomy chateau of my aged aunt I have not been bored for one second. In fact, do I not have here pleasures, privation, hope and uncertainty? What more does one have in a larger theatre? Spectators? Ha! Just wait, I shall have plenty of them. Though they may not see me at work, I shall show them the finished product. All that will remain for them to do is admire and applaud. Yes, they will applaud. For I can finally predict with certainty the instant of my austere devotee’s downfall. I have been present this evening at the death-throes of virtue. A sweet helplessness will reign in its place. I fix the time no later than at our next rendez-vous. But already I hear you cry: ‘The arrogant man, proclaiming victory, boasting about it before it has happened!’ Oh, calm yourself, my dear! To prove to you how modest I am, I shall begin by telling you the story of my defeat.
Your little pupil is indeed a ridiculous young person! She really is nothing but a child who should be treated as such, and it would be doing her a favour to punish her. Would you believe that after what took place the night before last between her and me, after the friendly way we left each other yesterday morning, when I tried to return in the evening as agreed, I found her door locked from the inside? Now what do you think of that? Sometimes one encounters such childish things the day before – but the day after! Is that not ridiculous?
At first, however, I did not think it so very funny. I had never before felt the force of my own character so keenly. It is certain that I attended this rendez-vous only as a matter of course, and without taking any pleasure in it. My own bed, which I certainly felt the need of, seemed to me at that moment far preferable to any other, and it was only with some regret that I left it. However, no sooner had I encountered an obstacle than I passionately desired to remove it. And it was especially humiliating that a mere child had played a trick on me. So I retired in a very bad mood. And, thinking I would no longer have anything to do with the silly girl and her affairs, I immediately penned a note that I hoped to give her today, in which I told her just how little she was worth. But, as they say, it is best to sleep on it. This morning I bethought myself that since I do not have much choice of entertainment here I should do better to stick to what I do have. So I destroyed the stern note. After reflecting upon it I cannot get over the fact that I had in mind to bring the affair to a conclusion before I had obtained a means of ruining its heroine. But see what happens when one gives in to impulse! Happy are those who, like you, my dear, have acquired the habit of never giving in to it! I have, then, put off my revenge awhile. I have made this sacrifice in view of your designs on Gercourt.
Now I am no longer angry, I can only perceive how ridiculous your pupil’s conduct is. I must say I should love to know what she can hope to
gain from it! It’s a mystery to me. If it is only to protect herself, you have to agree it is a little late in the day. She will have to give me a clue to the conundrum one day! I am dying to know the answer. Perhaps it was just that she was tired? Frankly that is possible. For undoubtedly she is still unaware that the arrows of love, like Achilles’ sword, carry with them the remedy for the wounds they cause.3 But no, to judge from the little expression on her face all day long I wager that repentance comes into it somewhere…something of the sort…something to do with virtue…Virtue! She’s a fine one to be feeling virtuous! Oh, let her leave such things to the woman who is truly born for virtue, the only one who knows how to enhance it, who would make virtue worthy of love!…I am sorry, my dear, but it was this very evening that there took place between Madame de Tourvel and myself the scene I have to describe to you – and I am still in an emotional state about it. I need to shake off the effect it had on me. It is actually for that reason that I began a letter to you. You must forgive me that first impulse.
Madame de Tourvel and myself have for some days been in agreement about our feelings for each other. We only disagree about what to call it. It has always been her friendship and my love. But these conventions of language did not change anything fundamental. And had things remained thus, my progress might possibly have been slower, yet it would have been no less certain. For already, in fact, it was no longer a matter of me keeping my distance as she wished at first. And as for our daily conversations, if I took care to offer her the opportunity, she took care to seize it.
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