I contrived a walk so that we would need to cross a large ditch. Although she is very nimble, she is yet more timid: you can well understand that a prude would be afraid to take a tumble!* She had to entrust herself to me. I held this modest woman in my arms. Our preparations and the carrying-over of my old aunt had made the merry devotee laugh out loud; but the moment I grasped her, with a deliberate awkwardness, our arms entwined around each other. I pressed her bosom against mine; and in that brief interval I felt her heart beating ever more rapidly. A lovely blush came over her face and her embarrassed modesty told me straight away that her heart had palpitated with love and not with fear. However, my aunt made the same mistake as you and started to say: ‘The child is afraid’; but the child’s charming candour did not allow her to tell a lie, and she naively replied: ‘Oh no, but…’ That one word told me everything. From that moment on, sweet hope replaced cruel anguish. I shall have this woman. I shall take her away from the husband who defiles her. I shall dare to ravish her even from the God she adores. How delicious to be both object and conqueror of her remorse! Far be it from me to destroy the prejudices which beset her! They will only add to my happiness and my triumph. Let her believe in virtue, but let her sacrifice it for my sake; let her be terrified by her sins but unable to prevent herself committing them; and, agitated by a thousand terrors, let her be able to forget and overcome them only in my arms. May she say, with my consent: I adore you. She alone of all women will be worthy to utter those words. I shall indeed be the god she worships before all others.
Let us be frank: in our own relationship, unemotional as it is uncomplicated, what we call happiness is scarcely a pleasure. Shall I tell you plainly? I thought my heart had withered away, and with nothing but sensualities left to me I was bemoaning my premature old age. Madame de Tourvel has given me back the charming illusions of my youth. When I am with her I have no need to pretend to be happy. The only thing which frightens me is the time this affair will take me; for I cannot risk leaving anything to chance. It is no use reminding myself of bold strategies that have succeeded in the past; I cannot make up my mind to use them. If I am to be truly happy she must give herself to me. And it is no small matter.
I am certain you will admire my prudence. The word ‘love’ has not yet been uttered, but we already talk about ‘confidence’ and ‘interest’. So in order to deceive her as little as possible, and especially to forestall what might happen if she were to hear rumours about me, I have myself told her, as though admitting my faults, some of my more famous traits. You would laugh to see how solemnly she preaches at me. She says she wishes to convert me. She does not yet suspect what it will cost her to try. She is a long way from supposing that by pleading for the unfortunate women I have deceived, in her parlance, she is pleading her own cause in advance. This idea struck me yesterday in the middle of one of her sermons, and I could not resist interrupting, to assure her that she spoke like one of the prophets. Farewell, my dearest. As you see, I am not quite a lost cause.
P.S. By the way, has that poor Chevalier killed himself yet in desperation? Truly you are a hundred times worse than I am, and if I had any self-respect you would put me to shame.
From the Chateau de —, 9 August 17**
LETTER 7
Cécile Volanges to Sophie Carnay*
If I have not mentioned my marriage, it is because I know no more than I did at the outset. I have got into the habit of not thinking about it, and I am finding this life rather to my liking. I study singing and the harp a great deal; it seems to me that I like them better since I no longer have a music master, or rather it is because I have a better one. Monsieur le Chevalier Danceny, the gentleman I told you about whom I sang with at Madame de Merteuil’s, is good enough to come here every day and sing with me for hours at a time. He is extremely nice. He sings like an angel and composes very pretty tunes, for which he also writes the words. What a shame he is a Knight of Malta!9 It seems to me that were he to marry, he would make his wife very happy…He is gentle and charming. He never seems to be paying me a compliment and yet everything he says is flattering. He corrects me constantly, in music and in other things; but there is so much enthusiasm and good humour mingled with his criticism that it is impossible not to be grateful. He has only to look at you and you think he is saying something agreeable. On top of all that he is most obliging. For example yesterday he was invited to an important concert but he chose to stay the whole evening at Mamma’s. I was exceedingly pleased; for when he is not there nobody talks to me and I am bored. But when he is there we sing and chat to one another. He always has something to tell me. He and Madame de Merteuil are the only two people I really like. But farewell, my dear friend. I have promised to get by heart a little aria whose accompaniment is very difficult, and I don’t wish to break my word. I shall go back to my work until he arrives.
From —, 7 August 17**
LETTER 8
The Présidente de Tourvel to Madame de Volanges
I could not be more sensible of the confidence you place in me, Madame, nor could anyone be more anxious than I to establish Mademoiselle de Volanges in society. It is indeed with all my heart that I wish her a happiness which I am sure she deserves, and which I am certain may be safely entrusted to your wisdom. I am not acquainted with Monsieur le Comte de Gercourt; but since you have honoured him by your choice I can only form a most advantageous opinion of him. I shall simply send my best wishes, Madame, for a marriage as happy and successful as my own, which is also your doing, and for which my gratitude increases every day. May the happiness of your daughter be your reward for the happiness you have obtained for me; and may the best of friends be also the most blessed of mothers!
I am truly sorry I may not offer you the expression of my sincere good wishes in person and make the acquaintance of Mademoiselle de Volanges as soon as I would wish. Since your kindness to me has been truly that of a mother, I may surely expect from her the tender affection of a sister. Would you kindly beg her, Madame, to extend those feelings to me, until such time as I am in a position to deserve them.
I intend to stay in the country for the whole period of Monsieur de Tourvel’s absence. I am spending this time enjoying and benefiting from the company of the estimable Madame de Rosemonde. This woman is always charming; her great age takes nothing away from her; she has not lost her memory or her sense of fun. Only in body is she eighty-four years old; in spirit she is but twenty.
Our retirement here is enlivened by her nephew the Vicomte de Valmont, who has consented to give up a few days of his time for us. I only knew him by reputation, and that gave me very little desire to get to know him better; but he seems to me to be worthier than people think. Here, where he is not affected adversely by the social whirl, he shows a surprising capacity for serious conversation, and blames himself for his misdemeanours with unusual candour. He confides in me most freely, and I lecture him very severely. You, who know him, will agree it would be wonderful to make a convert of him. But despite his promises, I am well aware that a week in Paris will make him forget all my sermons. At least his stay here will somewhat restrict the way he normally behaves; and I think that, judging from how he generally conducts his life, the best thing he could do is to do nothing at all. He knows that I am engaged in writing to you, and has asked me to send you his regards. Be so good as to accept mine also and do not doubt that I remain your sincere friend, etc.
From the Chateau de —, 9 August 17**
LETTER 9
Madame de Volanges to the Présidente de Tourvel
I have never been in any doubt, my dear young friend, about your friendship, nor the sincere interest you take in all of my concerns. But it is not to clarify this point, which is, I trust, henceforth understood between us, that I am sending you this reply: I believe it is imperative that I should have a few words with you about the Vicomte de Valmont.
I confess I never expected to come across that name in your letters. Indeed, what can you two have in com
mon? You do not know this man; where could you have learned about the soul of a libertine? You talk about his unusual candour: ah yes! Valmont’s candour really must be very unusual. He is even more duplicitous and dangerous than he is charming and seductive, and never from his most tender years has he taken one step or spoken one word without having some scheme or other; never has he had a scheme which was not dishonourable or wicked. My dear, you know me; you know that, among the virtues I try to acquire, tolerance is the one I most cherish. So, if Valmont were carried along by the fire of his passion, or if, like a thousand others, he were led astray into errors common to the age, then, while blaming him for his conduct, I should sympathize with him; I should hold my tongue and wait for him to turn over a new leaf and once again earn the esteem of respectable people. But that is not Valmont. His conduct is the result of his principles. He can calculate how far a man may permit himself to do dreadful deeds without compromising himself; and so that he may be wicked and cruel with impunity he has chosen women to be his victims. I shall not stop to count all the women he has seduced; but how many of them has he not ruined? These scandalous stories do not reach your ears in the modest seclusion you live in. I could tell you some which would make you shudder; but your sight, as pure as your soul, would be sullied by such images. You are certain that Valmont will never pose a danger for you, and that you have no need of such weapons to defend yourself. All I will say to you is that, among all the women he has pursued, whether or not he has had any success with them, there is not one who has not had reason to regret it. Madame de Merteuil is the sole exception to this rule. She is the only one to have been able to resist and control his wicked behaviour. I must admit that this aspect of her life is the one which does her most credit to my way of thinking; and it was sufficient to vindicate her completely in the eyes of society, whatever reckless behaviour she may have been blamed for at the beginning of her widowhood.*
In any case, my dear, what age, experience and most of all friendship give me the right to say to you is that people are starting to notice that Valmont is not around; and if they get to know that he has stayed alone with you and his aunt, your reputation will be in his hands. And that is the worst misfortune that can befall any woman. I advise you then to persuade his aunt not to keep him any longer; and if he insists on staying, I think you should not hesitate to leave yourself. Why should he stay? What can he be doing in the country? If you were to have his movements watched, I am certain you would discover that he has only been placing himself in a more convenient position to carry out some blackguardly deed in the neighbourhood. But though we may not remedy the evil, let us make sure it does not happen to us.
Farewell, my dear friend; the marriage of my daughter has been delayed a little. The Comte de Gercourt, whom we were daily expecting, writes to say that his regiment is in Corsica.10 And as there are still war manoeuvres in progress it will be impossible for him to get away before the winter. It is most inconvenient. But it gives me hope that we shall now have the pleasure of seeing you at the wedding; I should have been disappointed if it had taken place without you. Goodbye; I am unreservedly and sincerely yours.
P.S. Remember me to Madame de Rosemonde who, as ever, has my loving regard, as she well deserves.
From —, 11 August 17**
LETTER 10
The Marquise de Merteuil to the Vicomte de Valmont
Are you sulking, Vicomte? Or dead? Or are you living only for your Présidente, which comes to very much the same thing? This woman who has given you back the illusions of your youth will also give you back its silly prejudices before very long. There you are, in a state of timid servitude already. You might as well be in love. You renounce your bold strategies that have succeeded in the past. So you are behaving in an unprincipled fashion, leaving everything to chance, or rather the whim of the moment. Do you not remember that love is, like medicine, only the art of giving Nature a hand? You see I am attacking you with your own weapons. But I shall not take any pride in it, or I should be beating a man who is down. She must give herself, you tell me. Ha! No doubt she must; so she will give herself, as the others have done, except that she will give herself with a bad grace. But so that she may end by giving herself, the proper thing to do is to take her at the outset. What a silly distinction – and typical of the illogicality of love. Yes, love; for you are in love. Were I to call it by any other name, I should be deceiving you; I should be hiding your malady from you. So tell me then, my languorous lover, do you believe you have raped the women you have had? However much a woman wants to give herself, however eager she is to do it, she must still have a pretext; and is there a more convenient one than that which makes it seem she is yielding to force? I confess that, as far as I am concerned, one of the things which flatters me most is a vigorous and skilful attack, where everything happens in an ordered fashion, though rapidly; it never puts us in the painful or embarrassing position of needing to make amends for some gaucherie which we should have profited from instead; it keeps up the semblance of violence even in the granting of our favours, and cleverly flatters our two favourite passions: the glory of defence and the pleasure of defeat. I acknowledge that this talent, rarer than one might think, has always given me pleasure, even when it has not prevailed, and I have on occasion capitulated, solely as a reward. It is just as it was in the jousting matches of old, when Beauty bestowed the prize for skill and valour.
But you, no longer yourself, are behaving as if you were afraid of success. Why? Since when have you travelled in short stages and by the side roads? My friend, when you wish to reach your destination, travel by the post-chaise and the high road! But let us leave this subject, which makes me crosser and crosser the more it deprives me of the pleasure of your company. At least write to me more often than you do, and tell me what progress you are making. Do you realize this silly affair has been taking up almost two weeks of your time, and that you are neglecting everyone?
Speaking of neglect, you are like those people who regularly send for news of their friends who are ill, but who never wait for an answer. You ended your last letter by asking me if the Chevalier was dead. I did not reply, and you did not trouble to ask again. Have you forgotten that my lover is your bosom friend? But rest assured, he is not dead; or if he were it would be because he had expired from joy. How tender-hearted he is, this poor Chevalier! Just made for loving! How acutely he feels things! My head is whirling. Seriously, the perfect happiness he finds in being loved by me has made me form a real attachment to him.
How happy I made him on the very day I wrote to you that I had in mind to break it off! Just as I was occupied in finding a way to make him despair, he was announced. Whether it was fancy or reason on my part, never had he seemed more handsome. However, I received him coldly. He was hoping to spend a couple of hours with me before it was time for my doors to be opened to everyone. I told him I was about to go out. He asked me where I was going; I refused to tell him. He insisted. Away from you, I answered sharply. Fortunately for him he was struck dumb by my rejoinder. For had he said anything a scene would most certainly have ensued, which would have brought about the rift I had intended. Surprised by his silence, I looked at him with no other intention, I swear, than to see his expression. On his charming face I discovered a sadness, at once profound and touching, which you yourself have acknowledged is very difficult to resist. The same cause produced the same effect. For a second time I was overcome. From that moment on, my only concern was to find ways of preventing him finding fault with me. ‘I am going out on business,’ I said, rather more gently, ‘and it has something to do with you; but do not ask questions. I shall sup at home; come back and you shall know the truth.’ So he started to speak again, but I did not permit him to go on. ‘I am in a great hurry,’ I continued. ‘Leave me. Until tonight.’ He kissed my hand and left.
To make it up to him, and perhaps to myself as well, I decided to introduce him to my petite maison11 whose existence he did not suspect. I called my faithfu
l Victoire: ‘I have a migraine. I am in bed if anyone calls.’ And alone with my trusty confidante, while she dressed up as a lackey, I put on the clothes of a chambermaid. Then she called a cab to come to the garden gate and off we went. Once arrived in the temple of love, I chose the most elegant négligé. This one was delightful, and of my own invention: it reveals nothing and leaves everything to the imagination. I promise you a pattern for your Présidente, when you have rendered her fit to wear it.
After these preparations, while Victoire busied herself with other details, I read a chapter of Le Sopha, a letter of Héloïse and two tales of La Fontaine,12 to establish in my mind the various tones I wished to adopt. Meanwhile, keen as ever, my Chevalier arrives at my door. My footman refuses him entry, telling him I am ill. That was the first thing. At the same time he gives him a note from me, not in my handwriting, as is my prudent custom. My Chevalier opens it and finds, in Victoire’s handwriting: ‘At nine o’clock sharp, on the boulevard,13 outside the cafés.’ He goes there, and a little lackey he doesn’t know, or at least thinks he does not, for it is in fact Victoire, comes to tell him to send his cab away and follow him. These romantic procedures excite him inordinately, but excitement does nobody any harm. He finally arrives, and is spellbound with amazement and love. To give him time to collect himself we walk a while in the shrubbery. Then I bring him back to the house. The first thing he sees is two places laid at a table; the next, a bed all prepared. Then we go into the boudoir, which is very beautifully decorated. There, half deliberately and half on impulse, I put my arms around him and allow myself to fall down at his knees. ‘Oh, my friend,’ I say, ‘I am sorry that in order to spring this little surprise on you I distressed you by seeming annoyed, and by hiding my true feelings for a moment from your eyes. Forgive me my wrongdoing. I wish to expiate it with my love.’ You may judge the effect of these sentimental words. The happy Chevalier raised me to my feet, and my forgiveness was sealed upon the same ottoman where you and I so gaily, and in the same manner, sealed our eternal rupture.
Dangerous Liaisons Page 5
