I am loath to enter into any details in this catalogue of horrors, but whatever people are saying about it still falls far short of the truth. My dear, I hope you know me well enough to trust what I am telling you and that you will not demand any proof from me. Let it simply be said that there is plenty of that, and I have it in my hands at this very moment.
It is not without extreme reluctance that I beg you, similarly, not to make me give you a reason for the advice you have asked for concerning Mademoiselle de Volanges. I am suggesting you do not stand in the way of her vocation. Assuredly no arguments can authorize the forcing of anyone into this state when the person herself does not have a calling to it; but sometimes it is extremely fortunate when it does happen. And, as you see, your daughter has told you herself that you would not disapprove of her if you knew her reasons. He who inspires our feelings knows better than we do, in our vain wisdom, what is good for each of us. And often what seems to be an act of harshness on His part is, on the contrary, one of clemency.
So my opinion, which I know will cause you suffering, and for that very reason will persuade you that I do not give it without a great deal of reflection, is that you should leave Mademoiselle de Volanges in the convent, since that is her choice, and that you should encourage rather than oppose the plans she seems to have made. And while you wait for the outcome you should not hesitate to cancel the marriage you have arranged.
After fulfilling these painful duties of friendship, and since I am powerless to offer any consolation, all I ask, my dear, is that you will spare me further questions about anything pertaining to these sad events. Let them be forgotten, as they ought to be. And, without seeking useless and distressing explanations, let us submit to the decrees of Providence and trust in its wise ways, even when it is not given to us to understand them. Farewell, my dear friend.
From the Chateau de —, 15 December 17**
LETTER 173
Madame de Volanges to Madame de Rosemonde
Oh my dear friend, what a terrifying veil you have drawn over my daughter’s fate! And you seem to be afraid of me trying to lift it! What, then, is it hiding from me that may distress this mother’s heart still more than the dreadful suspicions to which you have exposed me? The more I know of your friendship and kindness, the more my terrors increase. Since yesterday I have wished to leave these cruel doubts behind a score of times and ask you to tell me everything candidly and unequivocally. Each time I have trembled with fear, thinking of your plea to me not to question you, and so I have taken a decision which leaves me still some hope. I trust that out of friendship for me you will not refuse what I am asking. That is, to let me know if I have more or less understood what you might have to tell me, and not to be afraid to reveal anything that a mother’s indulgence may excuse, and for which it is not impossible to make amends. If my misfortunes go beyond this measure, then I agree to allow you in fact not to explain anything except by your silence. So this is what I know already and this is the extent of my fears.
My daughter showed some inclination for the Chevalier Danceny and I was informed that she went so far as to receive letters from him and even to reply to him. But I thought I had managed to prevent this childish mistake from having any dangerous consequences. Now, fearing the worst, I realize that it would be possible for my watchfulness to have been deceived, and I am very much afraid my daughter has been seduced and has committed the ultimate folly.
I recall several circumstances which may add weight to these fears. I told you that my daughter had been taken ill at the news of the misfortune that befell Monsieur de Valmont. It is possible she was so affected, simply because she was thinking about the risks that Monsieur de Danceny ran in fighting this duel. When later she was so upset on learning of all they were saying about Madame de Merteuil, perhaps what I supposed to be the pain of friendship was only the effect of jealousy or the regret at finding her lover unfaithful. Her latest actions may also, it seems to me, be explained in the same way. Often one believes oneself to be called to God simply because one feels revolted by mankind. So, supposing that these facts are true, and that you have full knowledge of them, you will no doubt have found them enough to justify the severe advice you have given me.
However, if that were the case, while blaming my daughter I should yet believe that I owed it to her to try all means of saving her from the torments and dangers of an illusory and passing vocation. If Monsieur Danceny has not lost all sense of how a gentleman should behave, he will not refuse to repair a wrong of which he alone is the creator. Also I do believe that marriage with my daughter is advantageous enough for him to be gratified by it, just as his family would be.
That, my dear friend, is the only hope I have left. Please confirm it quickly if possible. You can judge how much I wish for a speedy response, and what a dreadful blow your silence would deal me.*
I was about to close my letter when a gentleman of my acquaintance came to see me and told me about the cruel humiliation inflicted on Madame de Merteuil the day before yesterday. As I have seen no one in recent days I knew nothing about this affair. Here is the story just as I heard it from an eye-witness.
Madame de Merteuil, on arriving back from the country the day before yesterday, Thursday, was set down at the Comédie Italienne where she has her box. She was alone and, what must have seemed extraordinary to her, not a single man presented himself to her throughout the whole performance. When she left she went into the small salon, as she usually does, and it was already full. Straight away there was a buzz of conversation, but apparently she did not realize she was the object of it. She saw that there was an empty space on one of the benches and went to sit down. But immediately all the women already there rose with one accord and left her absolutely on her own. This marked display of public indignation was applauded by all the men and caused the murmurs to increase, and they say some were even jeering.
So that nothing should be lacking in her humiliation, unfortunately for her, Monsieur de Prévan, who had not been seen anywhere since his affair, entered the small salon at that very moment. As soon as he was noticed, everyone, men and women alike, crowded round and congratulated him. And he found himself carried, so to speak, towards Madame de Merteuil by the company who made a circle around them. People affirm that she maintained an expression of total indifference and that her expression did not change! But I believe they are exaggerating. Whatever the case, this situation, which was really ignominious for her, lasted until the moment when her carriage was announced. And as she was leaving, the scandalous jeering increased. It is frightful to be related to this woman. The same evening Monsieur de Prévan was welcomed most warmly by all the officers of his corps who were there, and it seems a certainty that he will soon be given back his position and his rank.
The same person who gave me these details informed me that Madame de Merteuil caught a very bad fever the following night, and at first they thought it must be the effect of the terrible situation she had been in. But since last night she has the smallpox, and it is a very virulent kind. Truly I do believe it would be a blessing if she were to die. They are also saying that this whole affair will perhaps harm her court case a great deal; they are about to reach a decision, and people claim she needed all the favour she could get.
Farewell, my dear, worthy friend. I see in all this that the wicked are punished. But I do not find any consolation for their unfortunate victims.
Paris, 18 December 17**
LETTER 174
The Chevalier Danceny to Madame de Rosemonde
You are right, Madame, and I shall surely refuse you nothing that is in my power to do, and to which you appear to attach some importance. The packet I have the honour to send you contains all Mademoiselle de Volanges’s letters. If you read them, you will perhaps be surprised to see that so much ingenuousness can be combined with so much perfidy. That at least is what struck me most just now when I read them for the last time.
But, above all, can one help feeling the st
rongest indignation with Madame de Merteuil, when one calls to mind what fearful pleasure she must have taken in devoting all her energies to perverting so much innocence and candour?
No, I am no longer in love. I retain nothing of feelings so shamefully betrayed. And it is not that that makes me seek to justify Mademoiselle de Volanges. For this simple girl, such a gentle and uncomplicated person, would she not have been inclined towards the good more easily than she allowed herself to be borne towards evil? What young person just out of the convent, inexperienced as she was and almost devoid of ideas, and, as happens frequently in society, almost equally ignorant of what is good or evil – what young girl would have been capable of stronger resistance to such wicked schemings? Ah, to be indulgent, all one has to do is reflect upon how much circumstances independent of ourselves hold the terrifying balance between the sensitivity or the depravity of our feelings. So you were doing me justice, Madame, when you supposed that the wrongdoings of Mademoiselle de Volanges, which I have felt so keenly, do not inspire me with any thought of revenge. It is quite enough to be obliged to give up loving her! It would cost me too much to hate her.
I had no need of reflection to wish that everything that concerns her and might harm her should for ever remain a secret. If I appeared to put off fulfilling your request in this respect for some time, I think I may disclose the reason for it. I wished beforehand to be sure I should not be made anxious by the consequences of this unfortunate affair. At a time when I asked your indulgence, and when I even dared suppose I possessed some rights in this respect, I feared I might seem to be in some sense buying it by doing you a favour. And, sure of the purity of my motives, I was proud enough, I admit, to wish you not to be left in any doubt about this. I hope you will forgive this delicacy, perhaps over-fastidious, in the light of the respect in which I hold you, and the importance I attach to your esteem.
The same feelings make me ask you as a last favour to let me know if you think I have fulfilled all the obligations that may have been imposed upon me by the unfortunate circumstances in which I find myself. Once reassured on this point I have decided what to do. I am going to Malta. There I shall gladly make and religiously keep vows which will separate me from a world from which, though still so young, I have already had so much to bear. So I shall go and try to forget under foreign skies so many accumulated horrors, the memory of which would only sadden and deaden my soul.
With respect, Madame, I am your very humble, etc.
Paris, 26 December 17**
LETTER 175
Madame de Volanges to Madame de Rosemonde
The fate of Madame de Merteuil appears to be sealed, my dear and worthy friend. It is such that her worst enemies are divided between the anger she deserves and the pity she arouses. I was right to say that it would be a blessing if she died of the smallpox. She has recovered from it, it is true, but she is horribly disfigured. And in particular she has lost the sight of one eye. You will understand that I have not seen her again. But they say she is truly hideous.
The Marquis de —, who does not let slip any opportunity to say something spiteful, when he spoke about her yesterday said that ‘her illness had turned her inside out and that presently her soul was in her face’. Unfortunately everyone thought the expression exact.
Another event has added to her disgrace and wrongdoing. Her court case was decided the day before yesterday, and she lost it unanimously. Costs, damages, restitution of profits, everything has been awarded to the minors. So the small amount of her fortune which was not taken up by the proceedings has been absorbed, and more than absorbed, by the costs.
As soon as she learned the news, although she was still ill, she made her arrangements and left by post-chaise alone in the night. Her domestics are saying today that not one of them wanted to follow her. They think she has taken the road to Holland.
More than anything else this departure has caused an outcry because she has taken with her diamonds which are of considerable value and which ought to have formed part of her husband’s estate; her silver and jewels; in short, anything she could. And they say she has left behind nearly 50,000 livres of debt. It is complete bankruptcy.
The family has to meet tomorrow to see if they can make some arrangement with the creditors. Although I am a very distant relative, I had offered to go along and help. But I shall not be at this gathering, since I have to attend an even more melancholy ceremony. My daughter is becoming a postulant tomorrow. I hope you will not forget, my dear friend, that my only reason for believing I am obliged to make this great sacrifice is the silence you have maintained towards me.
Monsieur Danceny left Paris nearly two weeks ago. They say he is going to Malta and intends to settle there. Would there still be time to prevent him? My dear! Is my daughter then so very guilty? You will no doubt forgive a mother that she can only with difficulty accept such a dreadful truth.
What disasters have struck me recently, through my nearest and dearest! My daughter and my friend!
Who would not tremble to think of the ills that may be caused by one dangerous liaison! And what troubles one could spare oneself by more careful reflection! Which woman would not flee at the seducer’s first approach? What mother could without trembling see anyone but herself talking to her daughter? But we are only ever wise after the event, when it is too late. And one of the most important truths, which is also perhaps one of the most universally acknowledged, remains suppressed and forgotten in the inconsequential bustle of our everyday lives.
Farewell, my dear and worthy friend. I am now discovering that our reason, already so incapable of preventing our misfortunes, is even less able to afford us consolation.*
Paris, 14 January 17**
We cannot at the moment give our readers the subsequent adventures of Mademoiselle de Volanges, nor can we give any account of the sinister events that crowned the misfortunes and completed the punishment of Madame de Merteuil.18
Perhaps some day we shall be permitted to finish this work, but we cannot commit ourselves on this subject. And if it were possible, we should still think ourselves obliged in the first place to consult the public taste, since the public does not have the same reasons that we do for being interested in this book.
(Publisher’s note)
Appendix 1
Additional Letters
These two letters appear in the manuscript of the novel, but were not included in the editions published during Laclos’s lifetime.
1. The following supplementary letter was placed at the end of the manuscript as a lost letter just recovered. The publishers replaced it and substituted the footnote which now ends the book.
The Présidente de Tourvel to the Vicomte de Valmont
Oh my dear, what torments I have suffered since the moment you left me! And I have so much need of calm. How can it be that I have given in to such agitation that it is paining me and causing me real alarm? Can you believe this? I feel that even to write to you I need to summon all my strength and recall my reason. I keep telling myself that you are happy; but this thought, in which my heart delights, and which you have so aptly called love’s sweet solace, on the contrary has thrown me in a ferment and overwhelmed me with too violent a happiness. Yet if I try to tear myself from this delightful reverie I straight away plunge into that cruel anguish that I have so many times promised you I will avoid, which I must certainly do since it would lessen your own happiness. My friend, it has been easy for you to teach me to live only for you; now teach me to live far from you. No, that is not what I meant to say; it is rather that I should not wish to live far from you, or I should wish to forget that I lived. Left to myself I cannot bear my happiness or my pain. I feel the need for rest, but all rest is impossible. In vain have I implored sleep to come; sleep has fled far from me. I cannot occupy myself with anything, nor can I remain idle. First a burning fire devours me, then a deathly chill numbs me. Every movement tires me, and I cannot remain in one place. So, what can I say? I should suffer less in t
he access of the most violent fever, and though I cannot explain or understand it, I know that this state of suffering comes only from my inability to contain or direct a host of feelings, to any one of which I would happily deliver up my entire soul. The very moment you left I was less tormented. A certain agitation was mixed with my regrets, but I attributed it to the presence of my maidservants who came in at that moment, and whose service, always too lengthy for my wishes, seemed to me to be a thousand times longer than usual. Above all I wished to be alone. I did not suspect then that, surrounded by such sweet memories, I was not to find in solitude the only happiness your absence could afford me. How could I have foreseen that, strong as I was in your presence to bear the shock of so many conflicting feelings, experienced in such quick succession, I should not be able to bear even the memory of them when I was alone. I was very soon and very cruelly disabused…Here, my dear friend, I hesitate to tell you everything…However, am I not yours, all yours, and must I hide a single one of my thoughts from you? Oh, it would be impossible for me. Only I claim your indulgence for my unwitting faults which my heart has no part in. I had, as usual, sent away my women before going to bed…
2. The following letter, intended to be Letter 155, was crossed out by Laclos and replaced by the footnote to Letter 154.
The Vicomte de Valmont to Madame de Volanges
I know, Madame, that you do not like me; I am equally aware that you have always spoken ill of me to Madame de Tourvel, and I am just as certain now that you feel confirmed in your opinions. I even concede you may have some basis for them. None the less, it is to you I write, and I do not hesitate to ask you not only to give Madame de Tourvel the letter enclosed here, but also to make her promise to read it, by assuring her of my repentance, my apologies and, especially, my love. I realize this request may strike you as odd. I am even surprised at it myself. But despair seizes its chance and does not stop to consider. Moreover in a matter which is so important, and of interest to both of us, we must set aside all other considerations. Madame de Tourvel is dying; Madame de Tourvel is unhappy. We must give her back her life, health, happiness. That must be our goal. All means are good if they assure or hasten this outcome. If you spurn what I am offering, you will remain responsible for what happens. Her death, your sorrow, my eternal despair, all will be your doing. I know I have ignobly insulted a woman worthy of my complete adoration. I know that it is my terrible wrongdoings alone that have caused all her ills. I do not try to hide my faults nor excuse them. But, Madame, do not become my accomplice by preventing me from putting them right. I have driven a sword into your friend’s heart, but I alone can draw the blade out of the wound. I alone have the means to cure her. What does it matter if I am guilty, if I can be of use! Save your friend; save her! She needs your help, not your vengeance!
Dangerous Liaisons Page 44