This was at about three o’clock and our dear friend remained relatively calm until five, so that all our hopes started to revive. Unfortunately at that moment a letter arrived for her. When they tried to give it to her, she said that she did not want to receive any letters. They did not insist. But after that, she seemed more agitated. A short while later, she asked where the letter had come from. It wasn’t stamped. Who had brought it? Nobody knew. On whose behalf had it been handed in? The sisters at the gate hadn’t been told. She fell silent for a while and then began to talk again but so incoherently that all it told us was that she had once again become delirious.
However, this was followed by another period of calm until finally she asked to see the letter which had come for her. As soon as she set eyes on it, she cried out: ‘It’s from him! Dear God!’ and then in a loud voice she gasped: ‘Take it away! Take it away!’ She immediately made us close the curtains of her bed and forbade anyone to come near her; but almost at once we were in fact forced to go back to her as her delirium started again more violently than ever, made even worse by truly terrifying convulsions. She continued to be so afflicted for the whole of that evening and the doctor’s report this morning informs me that this frenzied state lasted all night. In fact, her condition is so serious that I am surprised that she has not already succumbed. I cannot conceal my fear that I see very little hope of recovery.
I presume that this unfortunate letter came from Valmont but what can he still have the audacity to say to her? Forgive me, dear friend, I shall forbear to make any comment: but how cruel it is to watch a woman hitherto so happy, so deservedly happy, now doomed to such an unhappy fate.
150
The Chevalier Danceny to the Marquise de Merteuil Paris, 3 December 17—
Waiting with joy in my heart to see you once again, my lovely, lovely lady, I shall indulge in the pleasure of writing to you and by thinking of you, try to beguile my regrets at not yet being with you … It is truly a heartfelt joy to tell you yet again of my feelings for you and to recall those you have for me; and even now, when I am deprived of your company, this joy is still a cornucopia of love’s treasures … However, if I am to believe you, I shall not receive any reply from you and this letter will even be my last. We shall have to refrain from a form of communication which, so you say, is so dangerous and which we do not need. If you insist, I shall of course comply because what can you want that, by the same token, I do not also want? But before you finally make up your mind, won’t you give permission for us first of all to have a tiny chat about it?
On the question of danger, you must be the sole judge: I cannot form any opinion and can only beg you to take care of your own safety since I can never be at ease if you are uneasy. In this matter it is not that we think as one but that you think for both of us.
It is not quite the same thing where the question of need arises; here, we can only think as one and if our opinions differ it can only be because we have failed to understand or explain ourselves properly. So here is what I think I feel.
Naturally, there seems hardly any need for letters when we can meet freely. What would we write that couldn’t be expressed a thousand times better with a word, a glance, or even by silence? That seems to me so true that when you mentioned to me not writing to each other, the thought simply brushed the surface of my soul, worrying it perhaps but not making any real impact, rather as when my lips try to place a kiss on your heart and encounter a ribbon or a piece of muslin, which I merely push to one side and have no impression of having met an obstacle.
But since that time, we have been separated and as soon as you were no longer there, the thought of this letter returned to plague me. I asked myself: why this additional frustration? Have we really nothing further to say to each other merely because we are parted? Supposing for instance we had the good fortune to spend a whole day together: shall we spend any of that time talking rather than in the ecstasy of love? Yes, beloved, an ecstasy because when I am with you, even moments of calm are ecstatic. And ultimately, however much time there is, we have to part and then how lonely one feels! It is then that a letter is so precious! If one doesn’t read it, at least one can look at it … Oh, surely one can look at a letter without reading it, in the same way as it seems to me that even at night I should still take pleasure in touching your portrait …
Did I say your portrait? But a letter is the portrait of the soul. Unlike a cold image, it hasn’t that stagnancy so far removed from love: it lends itself to all our emotions; it can move from excitement to ecstasy and then to calm. Your feelings are so precious to me! Will you deprive me of a means of hoarding them?
And are you really so sure that you will never be tormented by an urge to write to me? If in your loneliness your heart swells or sinks, if a movement of joy penetrates to your very soul, if it is distressed by a moment of involuntary sadness, won’t you pour out your happiness or your sorrow into the bosom of your friend? Are you then capable of feeling some emotion that he ought not to share? Will you let him wander, a lost and lonely dreamer, far away from his beloved? O my friend … my dear love! But it is for you to say, I’ve merely tried to express a point of view, not to coax you … I’ve only reasoned with you and I am foolhardy enough to hope that my case would have been stronger had I pleaded with you … So if you persist, I shall make an effort not to be too sad, I shall try to tell myself the things that you would have written to me … But that’s the trouble: you would have expressed it better than I can and above all, it would have given me greater pleasure to hear you say it.
Farewell, my charmer, my beloved. The time is fast approaching when I shall at last be meeting you again: I shall break off very quickly now to make it all the sooner …
151
The Vicomte de Valmont to the Marquise de Merteuil Paris, the evening of 3 December 17—
You surely can’t think, Marquise, that I have so little worldly wisdom as to be taken in by the amazing coincidence which resulted in my finding Danceny alone with you in your house tonight! Not that your long training failed to produce an admirable expression of imperturbable composure nor that you betrayed yourself by any of those words which sometimes slip out when people are flustered or guilty. I will even admit that your meek glances produced a prodigious effect and if they had been as convincing as they were understandable, far from feeling or remaining in the least suspicious, I should have had no doubts whatsoever as to the extreme distress occasioned by that tiresome interruption. But to avoid wasting your remarkable histrionic talents and achieve the success you were anticipating—in a word, to produce the illusion you were attempting to create—you really should have subjected your apprentice to a more thorough preparation.
Since you are embarking on an educational career, you really must teach your pupils not to go red in the face and become confused at the slightest teasing, to be less eager to deny in the case of one particular woman the very same things they show far less enthusiasm in repudiating for all the others. Furthermore, do teach them to be able to hear their mistress being praised without feeling obliged to join in too warmly; and if you let them look at you in the presence of other people, they should at least be able to conceal that possessive look which gives the game away so transparently and which they are too clumsy to distinguish from a look of love. Then will be the time to allow them to appear with you in the course of your social commitments without any danger of their behaviour bringing discredit to their teacher’s reputation … And since I’m only too ready to contribute to your prestige, I promise to draw up and publicize on your behalf the curriculum of this new school for lovers.
But until such time, I confess to being amazed that you tried to take me for a schoolboy. Ah, how quickly I should have retaliated against any other woman but you! And how I’d have enjoyed doing it! And how much more enjoyable it would have been than any pleasure she might have imagined she would be depriving me of! Yes indeed, it’s only because it’s you that I feel I’d prefer amends to
revenge; and please don’t imagine that I’m being held back by the slightest doubt, even a shadow of uncertainty. I know everything.
You’ve been in Paris four days and you’ve been seeing Danceny—and only Danceny—every day. Even today, your door was still barred to everyone. Your major-domo failed to prevent me from gaining access to you only because he lacks your effrontery. Yet I was certain, you assured me, to be the first to be informed of your arrival—the exact date of which you couldn’t say, though you were writing to me on the eve of your departure. Are you going to deny these facts or try to explain them away? You cannot possibly do either of those things: yet I’m still restraining myself! See the power you have over me; but take it from me, be satisfied at having put it to the test and don’t abuse it in future. We know all about each other, Marquise; that thought should be enough.
Tomorrow, you tell me, you’ll be out all day? That’s fine—if you actually are going out; and rest assured, I shall find out. But in any case, you’ll be home that evening and since our reconciliation will be a tricky one, we shall certainly need every available minute until next morning. So let me know whether we shall be performing our numerous acts of expiation at your house or at your little place. Above all, no more Danceny. In your wrong-headedness you’ve become obsessed with him and my jealousy doesn’t prevent me from overlooking this temporary imaginative lapse; but please reflect that from now on, something that was just a passing fancy would have turned into a distinct preference. And I don’t think I’m the sort of man to accept such a humiliation … and I’m not expecting to receive it at your hands.
I even have the hope that in this particular case you won’t feel that you’re making any sacrifice. And even if it is something of a wrench, it seems to me that I’ve set you rather a fine example: a woman as beautiful as she is sensitive, who lived only for me and perhaps even at this very moment is dying from love and regret, is surely as good as a young schoolboy who, I grant you, may be witty and not bad-looking but who still lacks sophistication and substance.
Goodbye, Marquise. I shan’t say anything about my feelings towards you. The only thing I can do at the moment is to avoid peering too closely into my heart. I shall look forward to your reply. When making it, consider carefully, and above all don’t forget that the easier it is for you still to make me overlook the offence you’ve given me, the more deeply any refusal on your part, a mere hesitation, would engrave it indelibly in my heart.
152
The Marquise de Merteuil to the Vicomte de Valmont Paris, 4 December 17—
Do be careful, Vicomte. An extremely timorous woman must not be handled too roughly! How can I possibly bear the dreadful thought of incurring your wrath, and in particular not blanch with fear at your threat of vengeance—the more so since, as you know, were you to play some nasty trick on me, I would have no possible redress? However much I should reveal, your brilliant career would pursue its course unperturbed. What indeed is there for you to fear? Being forced to leave the country, assuming you had the time? But can’t you live abroad in exactly the same style as you do here? And all in all, provided the French court left you in peace at the court where you decided to settle, it would only mean that you’d have a new stage for your triumphs. So having made this attempt to restore your peace of mind, I suggest we come back to business.
Do you know why I never remarried, Vicomte? Certainly not for lack of attractive offers; it was purely so that no one should have the right to criticize my actions. It wasn’t even because I was afraid of not being able to continue behaving as I liked, because ultimately I should certainly have managed to do that; but it would have irked me for anybody even to have the right to complain of my behaviour; and finally because if I was going to deceive anyone, I preferred to do it for my own good pleasure and not because I had to. And yet there you are, writing me the most husband-like letter possible! You keep talking all the time of my wrongdoing and your forgiveness! But I can’t see at all how anybody can fail in their duty to someone to whom they have no obligation …
Let’s examine the matter: why all this fuss? You found Danceny at my place and you didn’t like it? Fine! But what conclusions could you draw from that? Either that, as I said, it was coincidence or else it was deliberate, as I didn’t say. In the first case, your letter is unfair; in the second case, it’s ridiculous. What was the point of writing? But you’re jealous and jealous people are incapable of reasoning properly. Very well: I’ll do the reasoning for you.
Either you’ve got a rival or you haven’t. If you do have one, you need to make yourself agreeable; if you haven’t got one, you still need to be agreeable, to avoid acquiring one. So in either case, you’ve got to behave in the same way; then why plague yourself? And in particular, why plague me? Have you lost the art of being the most amiable of men? Have you lost confidence in your all-conquering ways? Come now, Vicomte, you’re being less than fair to yourself! But it’s not that: the truth is that in your eyes I’m not worth all that trouble on your part. You’re less interested in gaining my favours than in exercising your power. You’re an ungrateful man … But that remark comes, I think, from the heart and if I continue much longer, this letter might become very loving and you don’t deserve that.
Nor do you deserve to expect me to justify myself. To punish you for your suspicions, I shall leave you to live with them: I shan’t tell you anything at all either about the date of my return or about Danceny’s visits. You took an immense amount of trouble to find out everything about them, didn’t you? Well, where did it get you? I hope it gave you great pleasure; it didn’t spoil mine in the least.
All that I can say in reply to your threatening letter is that it succeeded neither in pleasing nor in intimidating me and at the moment I couldn’t feel less inclined to grant your request.
In fact, to take you back in your present frame of mind would really be tantamount to being unfaithful to you. It wouldn’t mean taking up again with my old lover, it would be like taking a new one and one who’s by no means as good as the earlier one. And I haven’t forgotten the old one yet enough to make that mistake. The Valmont I loved was charming; I’m even ready to admit that I’ve never met a more agreeable man. Oh, Vicomte, if you can find that Valmont again, do bring him along to me: he’ll always be most welcome.
But you must warn him that in no circumstances would it be for today or tomorrow. His Menaechmus* has rather spoilt his chances and if I were to make too hasty a decision I’d be afraid of mistaking one for the other. Or maybe I’ve promised to spend the next two days with Danceny? And your letter taught me that for you, breaking one’s word is no joking matter. So you’ll have to wait.
But what does waiting matter for you? You’ll certainly still be getting your own back on your rival. And he won’t treat your mistress any worse than you’ll treat his! And after all, isn’t one woman just as good as any other? Those are your principles. Even one who was loving and sensitive, who would finally die of love and regret, would still be sacrificed to any passing fancy, to the fear of being teased a little. And then you expect us to put ourselves out for you? Tut, tut, that’s not fair.
Goodbye, Vicomte. Do try and recover your amiability … Look, I ask nothing better than to find you charming and as soon as I’m convinced, I promise to prove it. I really am so kindhearted.
153
The Vicomte de Valmont to the Marquise de Merteuil Paris, 4 December 17—
I’m answering your letter straight away and I’ll endeavour to make myself clear, which in your case isn’t easy once you’ve taken it into your head not to listen.
It was hardly necessary to indulge in long explanations to establish that since we both have the means to ruin each other, we have an equal interest in not provoking each other; consequently, that is beside the point. But between the drastic option of ruining each other and the doubtless better option of remaining united as we used to be and becoming even more closely united by resuming our earlier relationship, between these t
wo options, I am saying that there are countless others. So it was in no way ridiculous for me to tell you nor is it ridiculous to repeat that, as of today, I shall be your lover or your enemy.
I realize perfectly well how embarrassed you are at having to make this choice, that you’d prefer to dilly-dally, and I’m aware that you’ve never enjoyed being faced by the necessity of saying yes or no. But you must realize, too, that I cannot allow you to escape from this dilemma without running the risk of being fooled; and you must already have understood that that’s something I wouldn’t tolerate. It’s for you to decide; I’m prepared to leave the choice to you but I’m not prepared to be left in any uncertainty.
I merely warn you that you won’t sidetrack me with your arguments, be they good or bad; nor will you fob me off with any endearments you might employ to dress up your refusal. In a word, we’ve reached the moment of truth. And I’m more than happy to set the example: I am pleased to inform you that I prefer peace and alliance; but if they are both to be shattered, I think that I have the means and the right to do so.
Let me just add that the slightest prevarication on your part will be regarded by me as an outright declaration of war. So you see I want a straight answer; it doesn’t need to be long nor elaborately phrased; a couple of words will do.
The Marquise de Merteuil’s reply written at the foot of this letter:
Very well: it’s war!*
154
Madame de Volanges to Madame de Rosemonde Paris, 5 December 17—
These medical reports will give you a better idea of our invalid’s deplorable state of health than I can. Being constantly in attendance on her, I can only afford to break off to write when there are other events to relate than her illness. Here is one which I certainly never expected. It is a letter to me from Valmont who has chosen to make me his confidante and even to ask me to act as his go-between with Madame de Tourvel, for whom he also enclosed a letter. I have sent this letter back, together with my answer to him. I’m passing this letter on to you and I imagine that you will share my view that I neither could nor should have done anything he asked me to do. Even had I been prepared to do so, our unhappy friend would have been in no state to listen to me. She is permanently delirious. But what do you think of this ‘despair’ of Valmont’s? And first of all, is he to be believed or is he merely trying to mislead everyone to the bitter end?* If for once he is being sincere, he can certainly say that he brought his misfortune down on his own head. I suspect he’ll not take kindly to my reply but I confess that the more I learn of the details of this unhappy affair, the greater my indignation against the man responsible.
Les Liaisons Dangereuses Page 43