I am reluctant to go into any details of this revolting story but you may be sure that whatever you hear on this subject is still short of the truth. I hope, my dear, that you know me well enough to take my word for it, that you’ll not ask for any corroboration and that it will suffice for me to tell you that there is plenty and I am holding some of this evidence in my hand at this very moment.
And it is not without the deepest regret that I am similarly asking you not to force me to give any reason for the advice which you request concerning Mademoiselle de Volanges: I urge you not to oppose the vocation which she has in mind. There is certainly no reason for anyone to be allowed to follow that vocation who doesn’t feel called to it; but sometimes it is a great boon when someone does feel this call; and you have heard your daughter tell you herself that if you were to know her motives, you would not disapprove. The One who inspires our feelings knows better than we do, with our futile wisdom, what is right for each of us and often what seems harsh turns out to be merciful.
In a word, my advice, which I well understand will distress you and for that very reason must make you realize that it is not given lightly, is for you to leave Mademoiselle de Volanges in the convent, since that is her choice; to encourage rather than oppose the plan on which she seems set; and, in the anticipation that she will carry it through, to have no hesitation in breaking off this marriage which you had arranged.
Now that I have fulfilled these painful duties as your friend and am powerless to offer you any comfort, there remains just one favour that I ask of you: I beg you never to question me further on any matter relating to these sad events. We must allow them to sink into the oblivion where they belong, realize how futile and distressing it would be to attempt to throw more light on them, place ourselves in the hands of Providence, and accept the wisdom of God’s laws, however impenetrable. Goodbye, dear, dear friend.
173
Madame de Volanges to Madame de Rosemonde Paris, 18 December 17—
Ah, dear friend, what a terrifying veil you have drawn over my daughter’s fate! And you seem to be afraid that I might attempt to lift it! What can it be hiding more likely to cause a mother greater distress than the terrible suspicions that you have left me with? The longer I reflect on your friendship and your tolerant nature, the more tormented I feel; since yesterday I have been tempted a score of times to be relieved of my cruel uncertainty and ask you not to spare me, to tell me the unvarnished truth; and each time I shuddered as I remembered that you had begged me not to question you. So in the end I have decided on a course which still leaves me some hope; and as my friend I expect you not to refuse to answer my request, which is for you to tell me whether I more or less correctly understood what you would have to say to me and not to be afraid of informing me of something which a mother can forgive and which it is not impossible to remedy. However, if your information would be adding to my burden even more heavily, then I agree that you should give me no further explanation other than remaining silent. So let me tell you how much I already know and how much more I can bear.
My daughter showed some liking for the Chevalier Danceny and I have been informed that she went so far as to receive letters from him and even to answer them; but I thought I had managed to prevent this childish mistake on her part from having any serious consequences; now that I fear the worst, I imagine it is conceivable that my vigilance has been circumvented and I must have the dreadful thought that my daughter has sunk so low as to be seduced.
Looking back, I can recall a number of incidents that may perhaps strengthen this fear. I informed you that my daughter fainted on learning the misfortune that had overtaken Monsieur de Valmont: may she possibly have been so strongly affected merely by the thought of the danger to which Monsieur Danceny had been exposed in this encounter? Later on, when she cried so bitterly on hearing of all the things that people were saying about Madame de Merteuil what I took to be distress for a friend was perhaps nothing more than a feeling of jealousy or sorrow at her lover’s unfaithfulness. Her most recent action may also, it seems to me, be similarly explained. Women often feel called to God for other reasons than disgust with men. Anyway, assuming these facts are correct and that you are conversant with them, you may no doubt have thought them sufficient to justify your uncompromising advice to me.
All the same, in such a case, whilst still blaming my daughter, I should consider that I owed it to her to save her from the torments and dangers inherent in following an erroneous vocation. If Danceny is not devoid of all sense of decency, he will not refuse to right a wrong which is purely of his making and I think I may say that marrying my daughter is a sufficiently attractive match for him and his family to feel flattered.
So that, dear friend, is my last remaining hope and I beg you not to delay in confirming it, if that is possible. You can well imagine how greatly I need you to let me have a reply and the appalling shock for me if you say nothing.
I was just about to close this letter when a gentleman of my acquaintance called and told me of a humiliating incident involving Madame de Merteuil. As I have not been seeing any people recently I have only now heard of it; according to an eyewitness this is what happened.
On her way back from the country last Thursday, Madame de Merteuil called in at the Comédie-Italienne where she has a box; she was sitting alone and not a single man visited her throughout the whole performance, something which she must have found extraordinary. After the performance, following her usual custom, she went into the little salon which was already full of people; immediately there was a great stir which she did not seem to connect with herself. Noticing a vacant space on one of the seats, she went over and sat down, whereupon all the women sitting on it stood up as if of one mind and left her completely isolated. This pointed indication of the general indignation was applauded by all the men and added even further to the buzz which people are saying even reached the point of hissing.
To complete her discomfiture, unfortunately for her at that very same moment Monsieur de Prévan, who had not been seen in public since the incident involving him, came into the room. As soon as they noticed him, everybody, men and women, flocked round him to congratulate him and he found himself, as it were, propelled directly in front of Madame de Merteuil by the throng of people surrounding them. It is asserted that Madame de Merteuil continued to look as if she was blind and deaf to all this and that neither did her expression change! But I think that must have been an exaggeration. However that may be, she remained in this truly ignominious situation until her carriage was announced and as she was leaving, once again there was even louder hissing. It is appalling to have that woman as a relative! That very evening Monsieur de Prévan was warmly welcomed by his follow-officers and there is no doubt that he will soon be given back his rank and reinstated in his post.
The same man who gave me these details told me that the following night Madame de Merteuil fell ill with a very high fever which was at first thought to be caused by the savage treatment she had received; but last evening we heard that it was smallpox, of the confluent variety* and extremely virulent. It would in fact, I think, be a blessing for her to die of it. People are saying, too, that this whole escapade may well do her a great deal of harm in her lawsuit which is about to be judged and in which people allege that she badly needed all possible support.
Goodbye, dear, dear friend. In all this I can certainly see the hand of retribution against the wicked but I can see no comfort at all for their unhappy victims.
174
The Chevalier Danceny to Madame de Rosemonde Paris, 26 December 17—
You are right, Madame, and I shall surely not refuse you something that is in my power to do and to which you seem to attach some importance. The bundle which I have the honour of enclosing contains all Mademoiselle de Volanges’s letters. If you read them you will perhaps not fail to wonder that so much ingenuousness can be combined with such duplicity.* At least, that was what struck me most the last time I read them rec
ently.
But in particular can we possibly resist a feeling of outrage towards Madame de Merteuil when we recall the loathsome pleasure she took in her unrelenting effort to exploit such innocence and sincerity?
No, my love is dead. I no longer have the slightest vestige of that feeling which she basely betrayed and it is not love which is my reason for trying to justify Mademoiselle de Volanges. But surely such a simple-hearted girl, with such a sweet and pleasant nature, would have been even more easily attracted towards goodness than the evil into which she allowed herself to be inveigled? Would any young girl who had just left her convent, lacking experience, with hardly any ideas at all and flung into society, as is almost always the case, equally ignorant of good and evil, yes, would any girl at all in similar circumstances have been strong enough to stand up to such diabolical trickery? Ah, to be forgiving we need only reflect how many circumstances beyond our control affect the terrifying choice between decent or dishonourable conduct. So, Madame, you were judging me fairly in saying that the harm Mademoiselle de Volanges has done me and which has certainly caused me much suffering has nevertheless not given me any desire for revenge. It was painful enough for me to have to give up loving her! Having to hate her would have been excruciating.
I never had the slightest hesitation in deciding to make every effort to keep everything concerning her, and which might be likely to hurt her, secret from everybody for all time. If I seemed somewhat tardy in carrying out your wishes in this respect, I think I am allowed not to conceal the reason from you: I wanted to wait in order to be sure that I should not suffer any ill effects from my unfortunate encounter. At a time when I was requesting your indulgence and when I even thought that I had some right to it, I should have felt afraid of seeming in some way to be trying to buy it by complying with your request, and since I was convinced of the purity of my intentions, I confess that I was arrogant enough to want not to leave you with any possibility of doubting them. I hope that you will forgive my scrupulous, perhaps over-scrupulous, behaviour as springing from the veneration which I feel for you and which causes me to attach so great an importance to your good opinion of me.
It is this same feeling which leads me to ask you for one final favour: to have the kindness to tell me if you consider that I have fulfilled all my obligations regarding the unhappy situation in which I was placed. Once I am reassured on that point, my mind is made up: I shall leave for Malta where I shall gladly take and religiously observe vows which will set me apart from a society which has treated me, young as I am, so badly; I shall finally attempt to expunge from my mind every memory of this accumulation of horrors which could only sadden and mortify my heart.
I am, Madame, most respectfully yours, etc.
175
Madame de Volanges to Madame de Rosemonde Paris, 14 January 17—
Dear friend, Madame de Merteuil’s fate seems finally to have been sealed and in such a way that her worst enemies are hesitating between rightful indignation and pity. I was surely correct when I said that it would be a blessing for her to die of smallpox. It is true that she has recovered but she is terribly disfigured; in particular, she has lost one eye. As you may imagine, I haven’t seen her again but I have been told that she is absolutely hideous.
The Marquis de ——, who never misses a chance to say something unkind, when talking of her yesterday said that her illness had turned her inside out and that now her soul was showing in her face. Unfortunately everyone thought that the remark was apt.
There is something else which has just added to her misfortunes and misdeeds: the day before yesterday they pronounced judgement on her lawsuit: a unanimous verdict against her: costs, damages, and the return of all past revenues; the infant plaintiffs were awarded everything, so that any small amount remaining after meeting her legal expenses will be more than swallowed up by the costs.
Although she was still unwell, as soon as she heard the news, she made arrangements to leave that very night, post-haste and alone. Her servants were saying that no one was willing to go and join her. It’s thought that she was making for Holland.*
Her departure has caused more of an outcry than anything else because she has taken her diamonds with her which were extremely valuable and part of her husband’s estate; her silver and jewellery as well, in fact everything she could lay hands on; and has left behind nearly 50,000 francs’ worth of debts. She is completely bankrupt.
The family is holding a meeting tomorrow to see how to come to some agreement with the creditors. Though I’m only distantly related, I offered to take part but I shan’t be able to attend that particular meeting as I have to be present at an even sadder occasion: tomorrow my daughter will be taking the habit of a postulant. I hope you will not forget, dear friend, that the only reason that I feel obliged to make this great sacrifice is your reluctance to break your silence on the question which I put to you.
Danceny left Paris nearly a fortnight ago. He is said to be going to Malta and planning to settle there permanently. Would there perhaps still not be time to keep him here? O dear friend! … Is my daughter really so guilty? … I feel sure that you will forgive a mother for finding it hard to accept the thought that this is truly the case.
What a dreadful fate has overtaken me recently and attacked me through the people I held most dear! My daughter and my friend!*
Who can fail to shudder at the thought of all the disasters which can result from one single dangerous acquaintance! And what trials and tribulations would we not avoid by being more careful! What woman wouldn’t take flight the very first time a seducer approached her! But all these reflections come too late, always after the event; and one of the most important truths, perhaps even the most universally recognized, is stifled and ignored in the frantic turmoil and folly of our morals.
Goodbye, dear friend. At the moment I feel that our reason, inadequate as it is to warn us of impending disasters, is even more inadequate to offer us any comfort for them.
Publisher’s Note*
Special reasons and considerations which we shall always feel it our duty to respect oblige us to stop at this point.
For the moment we cannot inform the reader of Mademoiselle de Volanges’s later adventures* nor of the grim climax to Madame de Merteuil’s misadventures and her final retribution*
We may perhaps one day be permitted to conclude this work but we cannot give any firm assurance on this point; and even were we able to do so, we should consider it our duty first to consult the taste of the general public who have not the same reasons as ourselves to be interested in such matters.
APPENDIX
1. This letter,* originally intended by Laclos as letter 155, was replaced in the published edition by the note to letter 154.
The Vicomte de Valmont to Madame de Volanges Paris, 4 December 17—
I am well aware, Madame, that you do not like me and equally aware that you have always tried to turn Madame de Tourvel against me. Nor have I any doubt that you still harbour the same feelings towards me, indeed more strongly than ever. I even concede that you may consider them well-founded. I am nevertheless approaching you and am not only undeterred from asking you to pass on to Madame de Tourvel the letter which I am enclosing for her but I even request you to persuade her to read it and to encourage her to do so by assuring her of my repentance, my regrets and, above all, my love. I feel that my gesture may seem strange to you; it surprises me myself; but a desperate man does not calculate, he seizes on any means he can; and in any case, such a great, such a precious concern, one shared by us both, makes all other considerations irrelevant. Madame de Tourvel is dying, she is wretched: we must bring her back to life, to health, and to happiness. This must be our aim and any means of ensuring and expediting that end is right; if you reject the one I am offering you, the responsibility for the outcome will rest on your shoulders: her death, your remorse, and my everlasting despair—they will all have been your work. I know that I have abused, abominably abused, a woman who
deserved only to be adored; I know that the only cause of her present sufferings are the appalling wrongs I have committed against her. I am not trying to hide my faults or excuse them but should you, Madame, prevent me from redressing them, then beware of becoming my accomplice. I stabbed her to the heart; but I am the only person who can staunch that wound, only I have the power to cure it. And if I can be of use, what does it matter if I’m guilty? But save your friend, you must save her! It is your help she needs, not your vengeance.
2. An undated, unnumbered, and unpublished rough draft of an unfinished letter from Madame de Tourvel to Valmont. Various positions have been suggested for it: immediately after letters 125, 126, or 128 seem the most likely.
Dear, dear man, why, ever since you left me, am I so upset? I have such a need for a little peace! How is it that my agitation is even turning into pain and making me positively frightened? Would you believe me if I told you that I needed to summon up all my strength and appeal to my reason even to write to you? Yet I tell myself, I keep telling myself, that you are happy; but this thought, so precious to my heart and which you so rightly described as the gently soothing effect of love, has turned instead into a ferment and I feel overwhelmed by an excess of happiness; whereas when I try to tear myself away from this blissful meditation, I immediately relapse into the cruel anguish which I solemnly promised you to avoid and which I must indeed take care to guard against since it spoiled your own happiness. You have not found it hard, dear friend, to teach me how to live apart from you … No, that’s not what I meant to say, it’s really that when I’m away from you, I’d rather not live at all or at least I should like to forget the sort of life I was living. Left all to myself, I can’t stand either my happiness or my pain, I feel that I need rest but there is no way for me to find it. I’ve appealed to sleep but sleep seems so far away; and I can neither occupy myself nor remain idle. I am consumed by a passionate, burning fire and shivering with a deathly chill. I feel too tired to move and yet I can’t stay still! How can I express it? I would suffer less if I was burning with fever and though I realize that my suffering stems purely from my inability to control or direct a whole host of emotions, at the same time I should still be happy to be able to surrender to their charm, heart and soul.
Les Liaisons Dangereuses Page 47