Dangerous Liaisons

by Choderlos De Laclos

  Oh, how you’ll laugh at your poor Cécile! I was so embarrassed! But you would have fallen into the same trap. When I went in to Mamma’s room I saw a gentleman in black standing beside her. I curtsied to him as prettily as I could, and stood there, unable to move. You can imagine how I studied him! ‘Madame,’ he said to my mother, and with a bow in my direction, ‘she is a charming young lady, and I am more than ever sensible of the honour you have done me.’ I was overcome by such a fit of the shakes at this boldness, my knees gave way; I found an armchair and sat down, flushed and taken aback. No sooner had I sat down than suddenly the man was kneeling in front of me. At that point your poor friend Cécile lost her head; as Mamma said, I was absolutely panic-stricken. I got up and gave a loud shriek…just like that day when there was the thunderstorm. Mamma burst out laughing, saying: ‘Whatever is the matter with you? Sit down and give Monsieur your foot.’ My dear, the gentleman was actually a shoemaker. I cannot tell you how embarrassed I was! Luckily there was no one there except Mamma. I think when I am married I shall not employ that shoemaker any more.

  We are very worldly-wise now, don’t you think? Goodbye! It’s nearly six and my maid says I have to dress. Goodbye, dear Sophie; I love you just as much as if we were still in the convent.

  P.S. I don’t know by whom to send this letter so I shall wait for Joséphine to arrive.

  Paris, 3 August 17**

  LETTER 2

  The Marquise de Merteuil to the Vicomte de Valmont at the Chateau de —

  Come back, my dear Vicomte, come back! What are you doing, what can you possibly be doing at the house of an old aunt who has already left her whole estate to you? Leave immediately; I need you. I have had a wonderful idea, and I want to entrust you with carrying it out. These few words should be enough; you ought to be more than honoured by my decision and hasten here to receive my orders on your knees. You abuse my kindness, even though you have no further use for it. And when faced with the alternatives of eternal hatred or excessive indulgence, your happiness requires my goodness to prevail. I want to acquaint you closely with my plans: but swear to me as my faithful chevalier you will not engage in any other affair until you have brought this one to a conclusion. It is worthy of a hero: you will serve both love and revenge; and, finally, it will be one more rouerie*4 to put in your Memoirs: yes, in your Memoirs, for I want them to be published one day, and I shall take it upon myself to write them. But let us leave that aside and come back to what I have in mind.

  Madame de Volanges is marrying her daughter. It is still a secret, but she told me yesterday. And whom do you think she has decided upon for a son-in-law? The Comte de Gercourt! Who would ever have thought I should become Gercourt’s cousin?5 I am in such a rage…Well, have you not yet guessed? You slowcoach! Do you mean to say you have forgiven him for his affair with the Intendante? And I, do I not have still more to complain about on his account than you do, you monster?† But I am calming down and my soul is quiet once more, in the expectation of exacting my revenge.

  You have been irritated as many times as I have, by the importance Gercourt attaches to what kind of wife he will have, and the stupid presumption which convinces him that he will escape his inevitable fate. You know his ridiculous predilection for girls educated at convents and his even more ridiculous penchant for blondes. As a matter of fact, I wager that in spite of the sixty thousand livres the little Volanges girl will bring him, he would never have thought of marriage if her hair was dark or if she had not been to the convent. So let us make a fool of him: he certainly will be one day; I have not the slightest doubt about that. But what would be amusing would be that he should be a fool right from the start. What fun we should have next day hearing him brag about it! For brag he will; and then once you have succeeded in educating the girl, we shall be extremely unlucky if Gercourt, like any other man, does not become the laughing-stock of Paris.

  Besides, the heroine of this new romance6 deserves all your attentions: she is really pretty; only fifteen, a rosebud; truly, impossibly gauche, and lacking in style: but you men are not worried about such things; moreover, she has a certain look of languor that I must admit is rather fetching. Added to that, she comes to you on my recommendation; all you have to do is thank me and do as I bid you.

  You will receive this letter tomorrow morning. I insist that you be here tomorrow evening at seven. I shall receive no one until eight, not even the reigning Chevalier: he does not have the head for so large an undertaking. As you can see I have not been blinded by love. At eight o’clock I shall give you back your freedom, and at ten you shall return and have supper with the beautiful creature; for both mother and daughter will sup with me. Adieu, it is midday gone. Soon my thoughts will no longer be of you.

  Paris, 4 August 17**

  LETTER 3

  Cécile Volanges to Sophie Carnay

  My dear friend, I am still completely in the dark. Yesterday Mamma had a great many people to supper. I was very bored, in spite of it being in my interest to study the men especially. Both the men and the women all looked at me a great deal, and they were whispering; I could tell they were talking about me: it made me blush, I could not help it. I wished I could have prevented it, for I noticed that when the other women were looked at, they did not blush. Or else it is the rouge they wear, which means you cannot see their colour when they are embarrassed. It must be very difficult not to blush when a man stares at you.

  What bothered me most was not knowing their opinion of me. I did think I heard the word pretty two or three times: but I heard the word gauche very plainly; and that must be what they think, for the woman who said it is a relative and a friend of my mother and even appears to have taken an immediate liking to me. She was the only person who spoke a few words to me in the course of the evening. We shall sup tomorrow at her house.

  I also heard a man, who I am certain was talking about me, say to somebody after supper: ‘We must let her ripen; next winter we shall see.’ Perhaps he is the one who is to marry me; but then it would be within the next four months! I should dearly love to know what is going on.

  Here comes Joséphine and she says she is in a hurry. But I want to tell you about yet another of my faux pas. Oh, I do believe that friend of my mother’s is right!

  After supper they started playing cards. I went and sat next to Mamma. I don’t know how it came about but I fell asleep almost immediately. I was woken by a great guffaw of laughter. I could not tell if they were laughing at me but I think they must have been. I was extremely relieved when Mamma gave me permission to go to bed. It was after eleven, can you believe! Goodbye, my dear Sophie; be true to your friend Cécile. The world is not so amusing as we once imagined, I can tell you.

  Paris, 4 August 17**

  LETTER 4

  The Vicomte de Valmont to the Marquise de Merteuil in Paris

  Your orders are charming; and your manner of issuing them even more delightful. You make despotism itself seem something to be cherished. Not for the first time, as you know, do I regret I am no longer your slave. And monster though I may be, I can never recall without a pleasurable feeling the days when you bestowed sweeter names upon me. Indeed, I often long to merit them anew and, with you, hold up to the world an example of perfect constancy. But larger matters beckon. It is our destiny to make conquests; we have to follow it. Perhaps we shall meet again at the end of the course; for I have to say, my most beautiful Marquise, without wishing to anger you, that at the very least you follow hard at my heels. Since we separated for the good of society and we both preach the gospel in our different ways, it seems to me that in this mission of love you have made more converts than I have. I know your zeal, your ardent fervour. And if God were to judge us by our works, you would be the patron of a great city some day, whereas your friend would be at most a village saint. This parlance surprises you, does it not? But for the last week I have understood and spoken none other; and it is in order to improve in this respect that I see I am obliged to disobey you.<
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  Do not be angry. Listen to me. I shall confide to you, keeper of all my heart’s secrets, the most ambitious plan I have ever conceived. What are you proposing? That I seduce a young girl who has seen nothing, knows nothing; who would be delivered up to me defenceless, so to speak; who would be certain to be bowled over at my first compliment and who would be swayed perhaps more rapidly by curiosity than by love. Twenty other men would have as much success as I. Not so with the business which occupies my thoughts. Its successful outcome assures me of glory as much as pleasure. The god of love himself, preparing my crown, cannot decide between the myrtle and the laurel, or rather he will weave them together to honour my triumph.7 You yourself, my love, will be struck with holy awe, and will say with enthusiasm: ‘There goes a man after my own heart.’

  You know the Présidente de Tourvel: her devotion, her love for her husband, her strict principles? She is the object of my attack. She is the enemy worthy of me. She is the goal I am aiming to reach;

  And though I fail to carry off the prize

  Still there is honour in the enterprise.*

  One may quote bad verse when it written by a great poet.8

  You will know that the Président is in Burgundy as a result of an important trial: I hope to make him lose a more important one. His inconsolable better half has to spend the whole of her time during this distressing grass-widowhood here. Mass each day, a few visits to the poor in the canton, prayers morning and evening, solitary walks, pious conversations with my old aunt, and the occasional dreary game of whist. These were to be her only pleasures. I am preparing some more effective ones for her. My guardian angel has led me here for her happiness and for mine. What a fool I was, regretting the twenty-four hours that I was sacrificing out of respect for the conventions. I should be well and truly punished now if I were obliged to return to Paris! Happily four people are needed to play whist; and since there is no one here beside the local curate, my immortal aunt has been very pressing that I should give up a few days to her. I said I would, as you can guess. You cannot imagine how nice she has been to me ever since, and especially how edified she is at seeing me regularly at prayers and Mass. She does not suspect what divinity it is I adore.

  So here am I, for the last four days victim of a powerful passion. You know how keen my desire is, how I thrive on obstacles; but what you do not know is how greatly solitude adds to the ardour of desire. I have now but one thought. I think about it by day; I dream of it by night. I really need to have this woman, to save me from the stupidity of being in love with her. For where does frustrated desire lead a man? O delicious pleasure! Come to me, I implore you, make me a happy man and above all bring me peace. How fortunate we are that women defend themselves so badly, or we should be nothing but their timid slaves. At this moment I have feelings of gratitude towards women of easy virtue, which brings me naturally to your feet. I prostrate myself before them to obtain my pardon, and there conclude this too lengthy epistle.

  Adieu, my darling: no hard feelings.

  From the Chateau de —, 5 August 17**

  LETTER 5

  The Marquise de Merteuil to the Vicomte de Valmont

  Do you know, Vicomte, your letter is uncommonly rude, and I might very well be angered by it. But it is a clear proof to me that you have taken leave of your senses, and that alone has saved you from my indignation. As your generous, sensitive friend, I shall forget the wrong you are doing to me so that I can think about the danger you are in; and however tedious it might be to reason with you, I concede your need of this at present.

  You, have the Présidente de Tourvel! What a stupid fantasy! I recognize here your characteristic perverseness in wanting only what you believe to be unobtainable. What does this woman have to recommend her, then? Regular features, I suppose, but quite without expression; a fairly good figure, but she does not move well. And always dressed up in that silly fashion! With all those kerchiefs tied around her bosom and her bodice buttoned right up to her chin! I am telling you this as a friend: two women like that and you would lose all the reputation you have. Just remember that day when she was collecting alms at Saint-Roch, and you thanked me so profusely for affording you that spectacle? I can see her now, about to sink down at every step, her hand held out to that long-haired beanpole of a man, blushing at every bow and always overwhelming someone with her yards of skirt. Who would have thought then that you would one day desire this woman? Really, Vicomte, you should blush yourself and come to your senses. I shall keep your secret.

  And besides, look what unpleasant things are in store for you! What rival are you up against? A husband! Don’t you feel humiliated by that word? What shame if you fail! And how little glory in success! I would say more. Do not expect to derive any pleasure from this. Does one ever with prudes? I mean the real prudes. They hold back at the very heart of rapture and offer nothing but half-pleasures. That entire abandonment of the self, that delirious ecstasy where pleasure becomes purified by excess, all this wealth of love is unknown to them. I predict this: at very best your Présidente will believe she has given you her all by treating you as she does her husband, and even the tenderest conjugal intimacy is not so very intimate. In this case it is far worse. Your prude is religious, with a simple piety which means she is condemned to being a child for ever. Perhaps you will overcome that obstacle, but do not flatter yourself that you will remove it; you may be able to conquer her love of God but you will not overcome her fear of the Devil; and when you hold your mistress in your arms and feel her heart beating, it will be in fear, not love. Perhaps, had you come to know this woman earlier, you could have made something of her; but she is twenty-two, and she has been married for almost two years. Believe me, Vicomte, when prejudice has become so ingrained in a woman, it is best to leave her to her fate. She will never be anything but a nobody.

  Yet it is because of this beauty that you refuse to obey me, that you are burying yourself in your aunt’s mausoleum, and renouncing the most delicious adventure, the one best designed to add to your repute! Are you fated to have Gercourt always retain some advantage over you? I am speaking quite neutrally; but at this moment I am tempted to believe you do not deserve your reputation. I am even tempted to withdraw my trust in you. I should never be able to accustom myself to telling my secrets to the lover of Madame de Tourvel.

  But you should know the little Volanges girl has already turned one head. Young Danceny is mad about her. He has sung with her. And it must be said that she sings better than schoolgirls normally do. They practise a great many duets and I fancy she is very inclined to try singing in harmony with him; but this Danceny is like a child – he will pay court to someone and not get anywhere. The girl, for her part, is quite timid; but in any case it will be much less amusing than if you had anything to do with it. I am cross and shall pick a quarrel with my Chevalier when he arrives; he would be well-advised to treat me with care. At the moment, for two pins, I would break it off. I am sure if I had the good sense to leave him now he would be in despair, and nothing is so amusing as a despairing lover. He would call me false and I’ve always liked the word false. Next to the word cruel, which one has to go to more trouble to deserve, it is the one that sounds sweetest to a woman’s ears. Seriously, I shall think about breaking it off. See what you have done! So I leave it to your conscience. Adieu. Ask your Présidente to remember me in her prayers.

  Paris, 7 August 17**

  LETTER 6

  The Vicomte de Valmont to the Marquise de Merteuil

  So there is not a woman in the whole world who does not abuse the influence she has acquired! Even you, whom I was wont to call my kind friend, you have ceased to be one, and do not shrink from attacking me concerning the object of my affections! How dare you portray Madame de Tourvel like that!…Any man would pay for such outrageous insolence with his life! Any other woman but you would have deserved punishment at the very least! I beg you not to try me so sorely; I cannot answer for my ability to withstand it. In the name of fri
endship, wait until I have possessed the woman if you wish to insult her. Do you not know that only pleasure has the right to untie the blindfold from love’s eyes?

  But what am I saying? Does Madame de Tourvel need to put on an act? No. In order to be adorable, all she has to do is be herself. You say she is plainly dressed; and so she is: all ornament spoils her; everything that hides her detracts from her beauty; in the abandonment of déshabillé she is truly ravishing. Thanks to the exhaustingly hot weather we are having, I can see her supple curves through her simple linen gown. A single muslin kerchief covers her breasts, and my eyes, covert but penetrating, have already taken the measure of their enchanting contours. Her face, you say, is without expression. But what should it express in the moments when nothing speaks to her heart? No, it is quite true that she does not have, unlike our coquettes, that falseness which sometimes seduces, but invariably deceives. She does not know how to disguise an empty phrase with a studied smile. And though she has the most beautiful teeth in the world, she only laughs at what she finds truly amusing. But you should see what a picture of naive and frank gaiety she presents when we play games; her look of pure joy, goodness and compassion when she is near some poor wretch she is anxious to help. You should see how, especially at the slightest word of praise or flattery, her heavenly face takes on a touching embarrassment, which is quite unaffected!…She is chaste and religious, and you therefore judge her to be cold and lifeless? I think the opposite…What astonishing sensitivity must she have to extend those feelings even to her husband, and carry on loving a person who is never there? What stronger proof could you ask for? And yet I have been able to discover more.