Les Liaisons Dangereuses

by Pierre Choderlos De Laclos

  We weren’t asleep but in that relaxed and drowsy state induced by the delights of love when we suddenly heard the door open. I immediately sprang up to get my sword to defend myself—and our joint ward. I went towards the door but saw no one, though the door was open. As we had some light, I went to explore, without finding a soul. Then I recalled that we had omitted our usual precautions and the door, having been merely pushed to or not properly closed, had come open by itself.

  When I returned to reassure my frightened companion, I found her no longer in bed: she’d fallen or slipped down between the bed and the wall and in fact was lying there unconscious and jerking convulsively. You can imagine my embarrassment! However, I managed to lift her back on to the bed and even succeeded in reviving her; but she had hurt herself in her fall and the effects soon became apparent.

  The violent pains in her back and stomach as well as even more obvious indications quickly told me what was amiss but in order to inform her it was necessary first of all to tell her what her previous condition had been, because she had no idea; perhaps never before has any girl preserved such innocence while doing her damnedest to lose it. Ah me, that little girl doesn’t waste much time using her head!

  Meantime she was spending a great deal of time weeping and wailing and I realized the need for decisive action. I arranged with her that I would go off straight away to the family doctor and the family surgeon, give them notice that they were going to be called in, and tell them everything under the seal of secrecy; for her part, as soon as I’d left, she was to ring for her maid, pleasing herself whether or not to let her into the secret, but sending her to fetch help and above all giving instructions that on no account was Madame de Volanges to be woken up: a perfectly natural and considerate action by a daughter anxious to avoid giving her mother cause for concern …

  I completed my two errands and confessions with all possible speed and then came home. I’ve not stirred since, but the surgeon—whom I knew, incidentally—called on me at noon to report on the state of the patient. My assumption was correct; but he hopes, if there are no further complications, that nobody in the house will notice anything wrong. The maid is in on the secret; the doctor has thought up a name for the illness and, like so many others, this business will turn out all right—unless it suits us for people to talk about it at a later date.

  But do we still have any interests in common, you and I? Your continued silence makes me doubtful and I’d even give up believing it altogether if I didn’t want to so much that I’m exploring every possible avenue in order not to lose hope.

  Goodbye, fair lady. I embrace you, hard feelings notwithstanding …

  141

  The Marquise de Merteuil to the Vicomte de Valmont From the Château de—–, 24 November 17—

  My goodness, Vicomte, your pigheadedness is really getting beyond a joke! What can it matter to you if I don’t write? Do you think it’s because I’m short of reasons to defend myself? Ah, if only that were the case! The truth is I find it painful to let you know them.

  Now, out with it: are you fooling yourself or are you trying to fool me? The discrepancy between what you say and what you do leaves me with no choice but between those two alternatives. Which is the right one? So, what do you expect me to say when I don’t know what to think myself?

  You seem to be rather pleased at your last scene with that judge’s wife; but what does it prove as between your system and mine? I certainly never said you loved that woman so much as not to be unfaithful to her and to grasp every opportunity to do so that seemed agreeable or easy. I never had the slightest doubt that for you it was more or less a matter of indifference to satisfy the desires aroused exclusively by her with someone else—the first woman handy; nor am I surprised, in view of your openmindedness, which nobody would ever dare deny, that once in a while you would do out of calculation something that you’ve already done countless times previously out of convenience. Who doesn’t realize that that’s the way things are and the normal conduct of all you males from the villains to the small fry? Nowadays anyone who refrains from doing it is considered a romantic and I’m hardly likely to be accusing you of being that.

  But what I did say and think—and still do—is that nevertheless it is love that you feel for your judge’s wife, not, indeed, very pure nor very devoted love but the sort you’re capable of; the sort, for instance, that leads you to discover qualities or charms in a woman that aren’t there; which sets her in a class of her own and all the others in second place; which binds you to her even when you’re treating her abominably; in a word, the love I can imagine a Sultan feeling for his favourite Sultana, which doesn’t prevent him from frequently preferring a simple concubine from his harem. My comparison seems to me all the more apt because, like him, you are never a woman’s friend or lover but always her tyrant or her slave. And this is why I’m very sure that in order to creep back into the good books of this fair object of your affections you must have eaten very humble pie and in your delight at having succeeded, as soon as you think the time is ripe to be granted your pardon, you take leave of me to set out for this grand occasion.

  Even in your last letter, if you don’t talk exclusively about that woman, it’s only because you don’t want to tell me about your own important affairs, which you seem to find so important that you imagine you’re punishing me by not saying anything about them. And it’s after revealing these countless proofs of your marked preference for another woman that you calmly ask me if you and I still have any common interests Watch out, Vicomte! If I ever once give an answer to that question, I’ll not take it back! And the fact that I’m afraid to give an answer here and now may perhaps be too much like giving it already … So I positively refuse to discuss the matter further.

  What I can do is tell you a story. Maybe you won’t have time to read it or pay careful enough attention to understand it properly. It’s up to you: at the very worst, I’ll only have wasted a story.

  A man I know became, like you, entangled with a woman who did him little credit. True, he did have the good sense to feel, sporadically, that sooner or later this affair would damage his reputation; but despite being ashamed of it, he hadn’t the guts to break it off. He was all the more embarrassed because he’d boasted to his friends that he felt completely free and he knew full well that the more you deny being a fool, the bigger fool you look. So he spent his life doing stupid things and afterwards saying each time: ‘It’s not my fault.’ This man had a woman friend who for a moment was tempted to publicize his besotted state, thereby branding him as a figure of fun for all time; but being rather more kind-hearted than spiteful, she decided to make one last attempt so that whatever happened she’d be able to say, like her friend, ‘it’s not my fault’. So without any comment, she sent him the following letter as being something he might find useful to cure his ills.

  ‘We get bored with everything, my angel, it’s a law of nature: it’s not my fault.

  ‘So now if I’m bored by an affair which has completely absorbed me for four solid months, it’s not my fault.

  ‘If, for instance, the extent of my love has exactly matched the extent of your virtue—and that’s certainly saying a great deal—it’s not surprising that they have both run out at the same time. It’s not my fault.

  ‘The result is that I’ve been deceiving you for some time now; but in fact it was your dogged devotion which somehow forced me to! It’s not my fault.

  ‘And now a woman whom I desperately love is insisting that I give you up. It’s not my fault.

  ‘I’m well aware that this gives you an excellent opportunity to cry foul; but if Nature granted men only constancy while endowing women with stubbornness, it’s not my fault.

  ‘Take my advice, do like me and get yourself another lover. This is good advice, in fact, it’s very good advice: if you don’t like it, it’s not my fault.

  ‘Farewell, my angel. I’ve enjoyed having you and I’ve no regrets at leaving you. I may come b
ack to you. That’s the way of the world. It’s not my fault.’*

  It’s not the time or the place to tell you the effect and the upshot of this last attempt; but I promise to let you know in my next letter, in which you’ll also find my ultimatum for the renewal of the pact which you’re proposing. So for now, it’s just goodbye.

  By the way, thanks for the details on the Volanges girl: it’s a nice little article to be kept in reserve for the Gossips’ Gazette the day after the wedding. Meanwhile, my sincere condolences on the loss of your progeny … Goodnight, Vicomte.

  142

  The Vicomte de Valmont to the Marquise de Merteuil Paris, 27 November 17—

  Well now, dear lady, I don’t know if I misread or misunderstood your letter as well as the story with its little illustrative note. But I can tell you that the latter seemed to me highly original and likely to be effective. So I quite simply copied it out and equally simply sent it off to the divine judge’s wife. I didn’t waste a second: the tender epistle went off yesterday evening. I preferred to do that, first, because I’d promised to send her a letter yesterday anyway and, secondly, because I thought that she would need a whole night to collect her thoughts and ponder over this grand occasion—I realize I risk being told off again for repeating this expression.

  I was hoping to send you my beloved’s reply this morning but it’s nearly twelve and I’ve not yet received anything. I’ll wait until three and if by then I’ve still not heard anything I’ll go and find out for myself because, particularly in such matters of common courtesy, the first step is the hardest.

  And now as you may well imagine, I’m all agog to hear the end of the story of that man whom you know who was so violently suspected of being incapable, when it came to the point, of giving up a woman. Didn’t he mend his ways? And wasn’t his friend generous enough to pardon him? I’m equally keen to hear your ultimatum, as you put it so diplomatically! I’m particularly anxious to know whether, in this last action, you’ll still discern traces of love. Of course there certainly are—lots and lots of them! But love for whom? However, I’m not trying to stake any claims, I’m merely relying on your good nature.

  Goodbye, charming lady. I’ll wait until two before sealing this letter, in the hope of being able to enclose the desired reply.

  2 p.m.

  Still nothing: I’m very pressed for time and can only add a short word. But this time, will you still reject love’s fondest kisses? …

  143

  Madame de Tourvel to Madame de Rosemonde Paris, 27 November 17—

  My fool’s paradise has been shattered and the fateful truth revealed, which leaves me only shame and remorse on a path leading to a quick and certain death. And if my sufferings can cut short my life I shall bless them. I am sending you a letter which I received yesterday; I need add no comment, it speaks for itself; the time for complaining is over, all that remains for me is to suffer! I don’t need pity, I need strength.

  This is my last, my farewell letter to you, Madame de Rosemonde, and I beg you with all my soul to forget me completely, to count me no more in the land of the living. There is an ultimate stage of misfortune when even friends are incapable of healing our pain and can only make it more excruciating. When someone is fatally wounded, it is cruel to offer help. I can feel nothing but despair, I am fit only to bury my head in the bottomless pit of night. If I can still find tears to shed, it will be over my errors; but ever since yesterday I have shed not one single tear: the mainsprings of my heart are dried up.

  Farewell, Madame. Do not reply to this; I have sworn on this cruel letter of Valmont’s never to open another one.

  144

  The Vicomte de Valmont to the Marquise de Merteuil Paris, 28 November 17—

  Well, fair lady, I lost patience at not hearing anything from the forsaken beauty so yesterday, at five, I appeared at her door only to be told that she was out. I interpreted this as meaning that she was refusing to see me, which neither surprised nor annoyed me. I took myself off hoping that such an action on my part would perforce lead such a courteous woman to honour me with at least a brief note of reply. Hoping to receive it I went back expressly to my house at nine o’clock but there was nothing. Surprised at this unexpected silence, I sent my man round to make enquiries and to ascertain if the sensitive lady was dead or dying. When I eventually returned home he told me that Madame de Tourvel had indeed left her house with her maid at eleven o’clock that morning; that she had driven to the Convent of —— and that at seven she had sent her carriage and her servants away, stating that she was not to be expected home. She’s obviously putting her affairs in order: a convent is the proper haven for a widow and if she persists in such a praiseworthy resolve I shall be able to add to my already considerable indebtedness to her the fame which will accrue from this particular adventure.

  As I was indeed telling you quite recently, despite your concern I shall not make any reappearance on the social scene unless I am crowned with fresh laurels. So I’d like to meet those carping critics who were accusing me of feeling a hopeless romantic love and see if they can manage to put an end to an affair more suddenly and brilliantly. No, they’ll have to do more than that: they must volunteer to take on the role of comforter, there’s nothing standing in their way. So just let them set out on the course which I’ve succeeded in pursuing all the way to the winning post and if any one of them achieves the slightest success I’ll willingly concede them first place. But they will all discover that when I’m prepared to take the trouble, the mark I leave is indelible. Ah, there’s no doubt at all that this one will be the same and I would consider all my other triumphs dust and ashes if I were ever to see that woman prefer one of my rivals.

  The step she’s taken flatters my self-esteem, I admit; but I’m vexed to see that she’s had the strength to part from me so decisively. Can there actually be any other obstacles holding us apart than those I’ve chosen to set up myself? If I wanted to become reconciled with her, would she really not agree? Or rather: not long for it? Not still consider it the supreme happiness? Is that really the way to love? And do you think, fair lady, that I have to put up with that sort of treatment? For instance, why shouldn’t I—indeed, wouldn’t it be better if I did—try to lead this woman back to the point of foreseeing the possibility of a reconciliation, something people always want as long as hope still remains? And I could set about this without attaching any importance to it and thus without offending you; on the contrary, it would be a joint venture and even if I succeeded, it would only be a way of re-enacting, at your good pleasure, a sacrifice which you seemed to enjoy. And so, dear lady, all that remains is for me to receive my reward and all that I now long for is your return. So do come back soon and rediscover your lover, your pleasures, your friends, and the latest goings-on …

  That business with the Volanges girl has turned out quite splendidly. Yesterday I was fidgety and uneasy and in the course of my wanderings I even called on Madame de Volanges. I found your ward already down in the drawing-room, still dressed as an invalid but fully convalescent and looking all the fresher and more interesting. In similar cases you women would have spent a month stretched out on your chaises-longues: thank God for little girls! This particular one really did make me keen to find out if she’s completely cured!

  In addition I have to inform you that the little girl’s mishap nearly drove your soppy young Danceny out of his mind. First, it was with grief; now it’s with joy. His Cécile was ill! You can imagine how the head reels at such a calamity! He was making enquiries three times a day and insisted on calling in person at least once. In the end, he despatched a splendid missive to Mummy to ask leave to call and congratulate her on the recovery of the object of such deep affection; Madame de Volanges gave permission, so I found the young man enjoying the same status as previously, minus a few liberties which he didn’t yet dare to take.

  I learned all these details from the young fellow himself as we left together and I got him chatting. You’ve
no idea of the effect that visit had had on him: a joy, a fervour, an ecstasy impossible to describe. With my weakness for violent emotions, I succeeded in whipping him up into a frenzy by promising him that in a very few days’ time I’d put him in even more intimate contact with his beloved.

  I have in fact decided to hand her back to him as soon as I’ve concluded my research. I intend to devote myself entirely to you; after all, would it have been worth all the trouble for your ward to have been my pupil as well if she was going to deceive no one but her husband? The masterstroke is deceiving your lover and in particular, your first lover, for as far as I’m concerned, my conscience is clear: I never once mentioned to her the word love.

  Farewell, dear lady: do come back very soon to enjoy your absolute power over me, to receive my most sincere respects and to let me have my reward.

  145

  The Marquise de Merteuil to the Vicomte de Valmont From the Château de—–, 29 November 17—

  Seriously, Vicomte, have you really left the judge’s wife? You sent the letter I wrote for you to send? You really are charming and you’ve exceeded all my expectations. I frankly admit that I find this victory of mine more flattering than any of my previous ones. You must be thinking that I may be rating that woman, whom I used to have rather a poor opinion of, far too highly? That’s not the case; the point is that it’s not her that I’ve got the better of, it’s you: that’s what makes it such tremendous fun. Delicious!