You know, you did love Madame de Tourvel a great deal, Vicomte; you’re still in love with her, even; in fact, you’re madly in love with her but because I thought it amusing to make you ashamed of your love you heroically gave her up. You would have given up a thousand women like her rather than be teased. Ah, to what lengths does vanity lead us! It was a wise man who described it as the enemy of happiness.
Where would you be now if I’d just been trying to play a trick on you? But as you well know, I’m incapable of deception; and even if you were to reduce me in my turn to despair—and to a convent—I’ll take the risk and submit to my conqueror.
Yet if I do capitulate, it’s really sheer weakness on my part because what mischief I could still think up if I wanted! And perhaps you’d deserve it? For instance, I’m amazed at your subtlety—or clumsiness—when you calmly suggest that I let you take up with your judge’s wife again. That would suit you down to the ground, wouldn’t it, to claim the credit for discarding her without having to forfeit the enjoyment she provided? And since in that case this sacrifice wouldn’t be any sacrifice at all, you offer to repeat the performance whenever I like! Under this convenient arrangement, this divine and pious lady would still be able to think that she was the sole queen of your heart whereas I could feel proud of being the favoured rival; we’d both be wrong but you’d be happy and what else matters?
What a pity that with such a gift for planning, you carry out your plans so inefficiently that, with one single rash act, you have, of your own accord, placed an insurmountable obstacle between yourself and what you most desire.
So when you wrote that letter, you still imagined that there was some possibility of a reconciliation! You must have thought that this time it was I who was being terribly clumsy! But when one woman stabs another to the heart, Vicomte, she rarely misses the vital spot and the wound can never be healed. When I was stabbing that woman, or rather, guiding your hand, I didn’t forget that she was my rival and for a time you’d preferred her to me, in fact, had ranked me below her. If I’ve bungled my revenge, I’m willing to pay the penalty: so, Vicomte, I’m happy for you to try your hardest, I even challenge you to try, and I promise not to be annoyed when you succeed—if you do succeed. My mind is so completely at rest on this score that I’ve no desire to go on talking about it. Let’s change the subject.
For example, let’s talk about the Volanges girl’s health. You’ll be letting me have definite news on my return, won’t you? I’ll be very glad to hear it. After that, it’ll be up to you to decide whether it suits you better to hand the little one back to her lover or to have a second shot at founding a new branch of the Valmonts under the name of Gercourt. That idea seemed quite fun to me and although I shall leave the choice to you, I’d still ask you not to take a final decision without having discussed it with me. It won’t mean too great a delay since I shall be in Paris almost immediately. I can’t say for certain the exact day but you can be sure that as soon as I’m back, you’ll be the first to be told.
Goodbye, Vicomte; in spite of my quibbles and teasing and telling you off, I’m still very, very fond of you and I’m getting ready to prove it. Till we meet, dear man.
146
The Marquise de Merteuil to the Chevalier Danceny From the Château de—–, 29 November 17—
I’m on my way at last, dear boy, and I’ll be back in Paris tomorrow evening. With all the fuss of moving, I shan’t be at home to anyone but if you have some special secret to confide in me urgently, I’ve no objection to making an exception for you. But as you’ll be the only exception, I ask you not to let anyone else know that I’m returning. Even Valmont won’t be told.
If anybody had said to me a little while ago that I would have such unique trust in you, I should never have believed it. But your trust has inspired mine; I’m inclined to think that you’ve been rather artful and perhaps even been trying to lead me astray… That would be very naughty of you, to say the least! Anyway, at the moment there’s no danger; you’ve really got so much else to do! When the heroine’s on centre stage, the confidante doesn’t get much of a look-in …
And you haven’t even found the time to tell me about your latest exploits. All the time your Cécile wasn’t there, you spent all day and every day bemoaning your fate; if I hadn’t been there to listen to your lamentations, you’d have been left talking to the echoes … And later on, when she was ill, you still honoured me with your tale of woes, you needed a sympathetic ear. But now she’s recovered and back in Paris and particularly now you can see her occasionally, she fills your whole life and you’ve no longer any time for your friends. Don’t think I’m blaming you; your only trouble is that you’re twenty years old. Don’t we know that, from Alcibiades onwards—and including you—young men are only interested in friendship when they’re miserable? When they’re happy, they may sometimes become indiscreet but never confiding. I can well say like Socrates: I like my friends to turn to me when they’re unhappy;* but he was a philosopher and could perfectly well do without them when they didn’t come. However, I’m not quite so wise as he and being the weak woman that I am, I’ve felt your silence deeply.
But you mustn’t think I’m a demanding woman: far from it? The same feeling which makes me realize that I’m being left out enables me to bear it undaunted when it’s the result or proof of the happiness of my friends. So I shan’t count on seeing you tomorrow evening unless your love leaves you free and unoccupied, and I positively forbid you to make the slightest sacrifice for my sake.
Goodbye, Chevalier. I’m looking forward to seeing you again so much. Will you be coming?
147
Madame de Volanges to the Marquise de Rosemonde Paris, 29 November 17—
You will surely be as distressed as I am, dear friend, to learn of Madame de Tourvel’s condition: she fell ill yesterday with such suddenness and displaying such disquieting symptoms that I am really alarmed.
The only outward signs are a high temperature, violent and almost continuous delirium, and an unquenchable thirst. The doctors say that they cannot as yet offer any prognosis and that any cure will be made all the more difficult as the patient stubbornly refuses treatment, so that force had to be used to bleed her; and it was even required twice more, to replace her bandage which she keeps continually trying to tear off in her delirium.
We both know how very gentle and timid she was, and not very strong; can you imagine, it took four people, with some difficulty, to restrain her and when anyone tries to explain something to her, she falls into a raging fury impossible to describe. For my part, I fear that she is not just delirious but actually mentally unhinged.
My fears on this score have been strengthened by something which happened the day before yesterday.
This was the day she arrived at the Convent of —— about eleven o’clock in the morning. As she had been brought up there and since that time had been in the habit of staying there sometimes, she was welcomed as usual and everyone thought she looked calm and well. About two hours later she enquired if the room which she used to occupy as a girl was free and when told that it was, asked to go and have a look at it. The Prioress took her there, with a few other nuns. It was then that she announced her intention of coming back and staying there, adding that she should never have left it and that she would depart only when she died; that was the expression she used.
At first they hardly knew what to say but once they had recovered from their amazement, it was pointed out to her that as a married woman she could not be accommodated there without a special dispensation. But neither this nor countless other reasons had any effect; from that moment onwards she stubbornly refused to leave, not just the convent but her room. Finally, tired of arguing, at seven o’clock they agreed to let her stay the night. Her carriage and servants were sent home and any decision was left until the following day.
Everybody then went away except her maid who fortunately was going to have to sleep in the same room since no other accommodation
was available.
According to this girl’s account, until eleven o’clock her mistress was relatively calm; but before undressing completely, she started pacing excitedly up and down in her room, waving her arms. Julie had been present at the day’s events and did not dare to make any comment, merely waiting in silence for nearly an hour. In the end, Madame de Tourvel called out to her twice in quick succession and she barely had time to rush to her aid before her mistress collapsed into her arms saying: ‘I can’t go on!’ She allowed herself to be put to bed but refused to take anything or to let any help be fetched. She merely asked for some water to be placed by her bedside and told Julie to go to bed herself.
The girl states that she remained awake until two o’clock in the morning and that during that time heard no movement or moaning. But she says that at five o’clock she was woken by hearing her mistress speaking in a loud, strident voice and that after asking her if she needed anything and receiving no reply, she picked up a light and went over to her bed. Madame de Tourvel failed to recognize her but suddenly interrupted her incoherent ravings and cried out: ‘I want to be left alone, alone in the darkness, that’s where I belong.’ I myself noticed yesterday that she often uses that phrase.
In the end Julie, taking advantage of what seemed a sort of order, left the room and fetched help; but Madame de Tourvel flew into a fury of rage and refused any assistance; and she has continued to fall into similar states of delirium frequently ever since.
In view of the highly embarrassing situation created in the whole convent, at seven o’clock yesterday morning the Prioress decided to send for me. It was not yet daylight. I hurried round at once. When they told Madame de Tourvel that I was there, she seemed to come to herself and replied: ‘Yes, let her come in.’ But when I reached her bedside, she stared at me, took my hand, squeezed it, and said in a strong but sombre voice: ‘I am dying because I failed to believe you.’ Immediately after that, she covered her eyes and went back to her usual phrases: ‘I want to be alone, etc. etc.’ and her mind started wandering again completely.
Her remark and a few others which she blurted out in her delirium make me fear that this cruel illness may have an even crueller cause. But we must respect our friend’s secrets and be content to pity her misfortune.
During the whole of yesterday she remained in a similar state of wild confusion with appalling fits of delirium alternating with moments of sheer prostration—the only time when she takes any rest and allows others to relax. I stayed by her bedside until nine o’clock that night and I shall go back to spend the whole day with her. I certainly do not intend to desert my unfortunate friend but her obstinate refusal to accept any help or treatment is most distressing.
I’m sending you last night’s report on her which I’ve just received: as you see, it’s anything but reassuring. I’ll make sure that you receive all of them from now on.
Goodbye, dear, kind friend, I’m going back to the invalid. My daughter, who is fortunately almost completely recovered, sends you her kindest regards.
148
The Chevalier Danceny to the Marquise de Merteuil Paris, 1 December 17—
Oh, how I do so love you! No, I do so positively adore you! You have taught me the meaning of true happiness! My cup of bliss is overflowing! You are so sensitive, so loving! A friend and a lover in one! Yet why does the memory of your distress have to cast a cloud over the charm I feel? Ah, Madame, set your mind at rest, I beg you as your friend! Dear friend, be happy! Your lover entreats you!
Tell me, what reason can there be to blame yourself? Believe me, your scruples are mistaken; they are causing you misgivings and accusing me of wrongs which are all equally imaginary. I feel in my heart that it was love alone which seduced us both. So forget your fear of surrendering to the feelings you inspire, surrender to the burning passion which you have aroused. Are our hearts really any less pure because they took so long to be stirred? Certainly not! On the contrary, it is the seducer who plots everything in advance and works out his campaign, looking ahead to anticipate events.* But true love doesn’t accept that sort of calculation and premeditation; feelings of love are too powerful to give us time to think and its power is never greater than when it works underground, in silence, unrecognized, binding us in shackles which are as impossible to foresee as they are to break.
So even yesterday, excited though I was by the thought of your return and in spite of the prodigious pleasure I felt at the prospect of seeing you, I still thought that I was being moved and spurred on by a peaceful feeling of friendship; or, to put it differently, being entirely involved in the gentle feelings of my heart, I was paying little attention to analysing their cause or origin. So like me, dear, loving friend, you did not realize the power of that soft, tender charm which was carrying our hearts away; we only recognized it as love once we had recovered from the blissful ecstasy into which this divine passion had plunged us.
But that doesn’t condemn us, in fact it vindicates us. No, you haven’t been any more untrue to friendship than I have been guilty of abusing your trust. It’s true we were both unaware of our real feelings but it was merely a delusion and one which we were not deliberately trying to create. Ah, far from complaining, let us remember only the happiness that those feelings have brought us; and instead of spoiling them by unfairly blaming ourselves, let us strive to make them even more charming by our trust and faith in our love. O dearest friend, how my heart treasures that hope! From now on, having finally banished all fear and with only love in our hearts, you will share my raptures, my desires, the wild intoxication of my senses, the elation of my soul, and every blissful moment of our days will be marked by new delights.
Farewell, my adorable beloved! I shall see you this evening! But will you be alone? I hardly dare to hope … Ah, you do not long for it as keenly as I do!
149
Madame de Volanges to Madame de Rosemonde Paris, 2 December 17—
For most of yesterday, dear friend, I had hopes of being in a position to let you have better news of the health of our dear invalid; however, yesterday evening those hopes were dashed and I am left only with the regret that they have vanished. An apparently trivial event but with the direst consequences has caused her to relapse into a state at least as bad as before and perhaps even worse.
I should have been completely at a loss to understand this sudden deterioration if our unhappy friend had not opened her heart completely to me yesterday. As she also gave me to understand that you were equally aware of her misfortunes, I need conceal nothing as to her sad situation.
When I arrived at the convent yesterday morning, they told me that the invalid had been asleep for more than three hours and indeed sleeping so deeply and peacefully that for a moment I was afraid that she was in a coma. A short while later she woke up and opened her bed-curtains herself. She gave us all a surprised look and as I stood up to go towards her, she greeted me by name and invited me to come nearer. She gave me no time to ask any questions but enquired where she was, what we were doing there, if she were ill, and why she was not in her own home. At first I thought her mind was wandering again, even if rather less wildly; but I saw that she understood my reply perfectly well. In fact, she had recovered her senses but not her memory.
She questioned me closely as to everything that had happened to her since her arrival at the convent. I replied frankly, leaving out only anything likely to disturb her; and when in my turn I asked her how she felt, she replied that she was not in any pain at that moment but that she had been suffering a great deal during her sleep and that she felt tired. I urged her to rest and not to talk too much. Then I drew her curtains, leaving them half-open, and sat down beside her bed. The nuns offered her a bowl of broth which she accepted and enjoyed.
She remained like this for half an hour during which time her only words were to thank me for my concern and care, expressing her thanks in her usual friendly and gracious manner with which you are familiar. Then for a while she remained quite sile
nt and then said: ‘Ah, yes, now I remember coming here’; and a moment later she exclaimed in an agonized voice: ‘O dear friend, dear, dear friend, pity me! I can feel all my sorrow returning …’ And as I went towards her, she grasped my hand and resting her head against it, she cried out: ‘O dear God, can I not be allowed to die?’ Even more than her words, the look on her face moved me to tears. My voice betrayed my emotion and she said to me: ‘You’re pitying me … Ah, if you only knew …’ Then she broke off and said: ‘Send the others away and I shall tell you everything.’
I think I have already hinted that I had some suspicion of the secrets she was about to confide, and fearing that our conversation, which I foresaw would be long and painful, might perhaps be detrimental to her health, I at first refused, on the pretext that she needed rest. But she insisted and I yielded to her pleading. As soon as we were alone, our unhappy friend told me everything which you have already heard from her and which I therefore do not need to repeat.
Finally, as she was telling me of the cruel way in which she had been deserted, she added: ‘I was so certain that I would die and I felt that I had the courage to do so; it will be impossible for me to survive my shame and my misfortune.’ I tried to help her combat her dejection or rather her despair by recourse to the comforts of religion, which till now had had such power over her but I quickly realized that I lacked competence for such an exalted mission and confined myself to the suggestion of calling in Father Anselme in whom I knew she had every confidence. She concurred and seemed even to be eager for this to happen. They sent for him and he came at once. He stayed with the invalid a long time and as he was leaving he said that, if the doctors were of his opinion, he thought he could delay administering the sacraments. He will call again tomorrow.
Les Liaisons Dangereuses Page 42