Dangerous Liaisons
Page 8
I have the honour to be, etc.
P.S. Madame de Rosemonde and I, though rather late in the day, are just about to visit this honest, unfortunate family and join with Monsieur de Valmont in offering help. He shall accompany us. Thus we shall at least give these good people the pleasure of seeing their benefactor again. I believe that is all he has left us to do.
From —, 20 August 17**
LETTER 23
The Vicomte de Valmont to the Marquise de Merteuil
I left off last time with my return to the chateau. I shall continue my story.
I had time only for a brief toilette before going to the drawing room where my beauty was occupied with her tapestry, while the local curate read the gazette18 aloud to my elderly aunt. I went to sit beside the work in progress. Glances that were even sweeter than usual, almost caressing, soon led me to guess that the servant had already reported on his mission. And in the event, my inquisitive lady could no longer keep silent about the secret she had uncovered. And, without fearing to interrupt the venerable priest, whose manner of reading in any case resembled that of a preacher giving a sermon, she said: ‘I, too, have some news for you.’ And immediately she gave an account of my adventure, in such precise detail as to do great credit to the intelligence of her researcher. You may imagine with what modesty I countered all this. But who can stop a woman who is praising the man she loves (although she does not realize it)? I therefore decided to let her continue. You would have said she was delivering the eulogy of a saint. Meanwhile I was observing, not unhopefully, what part of love there was in her animated look, her gestures, which had become less constrained, and especially in her tone of voice, which had already altered noticeably and betrayed the turmoil in her heart. Scarcely had she ceased speaking when Madame de Rosemonde said: ‘Come, nephew, come here and let me embrace you.’ I knew immediately that our pretty preacher would be unable to avoid being embraced in her turn. She made as if to escape, but was soon in my arms; and, far from having the strength to resist, she scarcely had enough to sustain herself upright. The more I know of this woman, the more desirable she seems. She made haste to return to her work and looked for all the world as if she was beginning to do her tapestry again. But I could see that her trembling hand did not permit her to go on with it.
After luncheon the ladies wished to go and see the poor unfortunate creatures whom I had so dutifully helped; I accompanied them. I shall spare you the boredom of this second scene of gratitude and flattery. The delicious memory makes me impatient to return to the moment we reached the chateau again. On the way back my beautiful Présidente, more pensive than usual, said not a word. I, preoccupied with thinking up ways of taking advantage of the effect brought about by the day’s events, kept silence as well. Madame de Rosemonde was the only one to speak, and she obtained from us nothing but few and brief replies. She must have found us irksome. That was what I intended, and my plan succeeded. When she got out of her carriage she went to her rooms and left me alone with my beauty in the dimly lit drawing room. Sweet darkness makes the timid lover bolder!
I was spared the trouble of steering the conversation in the direction I wished it to take. The fervour of my beautiful preacher served me better than any of my skill could have done. ‘When a man is so worthy of doing good,’ said she, allowing her sweet gaze to dwell upon me, ‘how can he spend his time behaving badly?’ ‘I do not merit either this praise or blame,’ I answered, ‘and I fail to comprehend that a woman of your intelligence has not yet understood me. Even though by taking you into my confidence you may think the worse of me, you are too worthy of it for me to refuse. You will find my conduct is explained by a character which is unfortunately too easy-going. Surrounded by immoral people, I copied their vices; perhaps in my pride I have even tried to outdo them. In the same way, here, won over by the example of your virtue, though without any hope of achieving it, I have at least attempted to emulate it. So perhaps the action which you praise me for today would lose all value in your eyes, were you to learn the true motive!’ (See, my dearest, how close to the truth I was!) ‘It is not to me,’ I continued, ‘that these poor people owe the help I gave them. What you see as a praiseworthy action was for me simply a means of pleasing you. I was only, I have to confess, the humble agent of the goddess I adore.’ (Here she tried to interrupt me, but I did not give her time.) ‘At this very moment,’ I added, ‘my secret is out only because I am so weak. I had promised myself not to reveal it to you; I was happy to render to your virtue, as to your charms, an innocent homage of which you would be for ever ignorant. But as I am incapable of deceit when I have before my eyes the very paragon of honesty, I shall not have to feel ashamed of guilty dissimulation. Do not imagine I am insulting you with improper aspirations on my part. I know I shall be unhappy, but I shall cherish my sufferings. They will prove the strength of my love. It is at your feet, in your bosom, that I shall lay my burden down. I shall find there the strength to suffer anew. I shall find there compassion and goodness and think myself consoled, since you have pitied me. O you whom I adore, listen to me, pity me, succour me!’ By this time I was on my knees and clasping her hands in mine. But, suddenly pulling them free, and covering her eyes with an expression of despair, she exclaimed: ‘Oh, woe is me!’ and burst into tears. Luckily I was also so carried away that I was weeping too and, taking her hands once more in mine, I bathed them in tears. This was a most necessary precaution, for she was so occupied with her own grief she would not have noticed mine if I had not hit upon this way of making her aware of it. I had a further advantage in that I could contemplate at my leisure that charming face, made still more attractive by the power of tears. My head was spinning and I was so little in control of my emotions that I was tempted to take advantage of the moment.
So how could I be so weak? How powerful the force of circumstance if, forgetting all my designs in a premature triumph, I had risked losing the delights of a prolonged struggle and the fascination of a painful defeat? If, seduced by my youthful ardour, I had thought to lay the conqueror of Madame de Tourvel open to taking as the fruit of his labours nothing but the tame distinction of having had one more woman! Oh yes, let her give herself to me, but let her struggle with herself; may she, without having the strength to conquer, have the strength to resist; may she savour at leisure the feeling of her weakness and be obliged to admit her defeat. We shall allow the humble poacher to kill the stag he has surprised in its hiding-place; the true hunter will rather prolong the chase. This project is sublime, is it not? But perhaps I should now be regretting that I had pursued this course if chance had not come to the aid of my prudence.
We heard a noise. Someone was coming into the drawing room. Madame de Tourvel, alarmed, got up in great haste, seized one of the candlesticks and left the room. I had to let her escape, but it was only a servant. As soon as I was reassured of this, I went after her. Scarcely had I gone a few steps when either she realized it was me or she had a vague sense of apprehension, but I heard her step quicken and she flung herself, rather than walked, into her room, and locked the door behind her. I tried it; but the key was inside. I did not want to knock; that would have provided her with too easy an opportunity to resist. I had the fortunate and simple idea of trying to spy at her through the keyhole, and in fact I saw this adorable woman, in floods of tears, on her knees and praying fervently. What god was she daring to call upon? Is there a god strong enough against the power of love? She is now searching in vain for help from others, but I am the one who will decide her fate.
In the belief that I had done enough for one day I retired to my rooms and started a letter to you. I was hoping to see her at supper. But she sent word that she was indisposed and had retired to bed. Madame de Rosemonde wanted to go up to her, but the crafty invalid claimed to have a headache which allowed her to see no one. As you may imagine, after supper I did not stay up long but had a headache too. In my room I wrote a long letter to complain about this harsh treatment and went to bed, intending
to have it delivered to her in the morning. I slept badly, as you can see from the date of this letter. I got up and read my epistle again. I realized that I had not been cautious enough, that I had displayed more desire than love, and appeared more irritated than dejected. I shall have to write it again. But I must be more calm.
I see daylight breaking and hope that the coolness which it brings will allow me to sleep. I shall go back to bed. And whatever power this woman has over me, I promise you I shall not be so preoccupied with her that I do not have time to think of you a great deal. Farewell, my love.
From —, 21 August 17**, 4 o’clock in the morning
LETTER 24
The Vicomte de Valmont to the Présidente de Tourvel
Oh Madame, take pity on me and quieten, I beg you, the torments of my soul. Tell me what I may have cause to hope – or dread! Suspended between the excess of happiness and the excess of misery as I am, uncertainty is a cruel torment for me. Why did I tell you anything? Why did I not resist the imperious charm which made me express my feelings to you? Content as I was to worship you in silence, at least I could take pleasure in my loving. And this pure feeling, untroubled by the image of your pain, was enough to make me perfectly happy. But since I have seen your tears flow, my fount of happiness has become one of despair. Once having heard that cruel ‘Oh, woe is me’, Madame, those words echo and re-echo in my heart. Why must it be that the sweetest of feelings only give you cause for alarm? What is the nature of your fear? Ah! It cannot be that you fear to share my feeling: your heart, which has been so little known to me, is not made for loving. Mine, which you never cease to vilify, is the one which is touched, whereas yours lacks even compassion. If this were not so, you would not have refused a word of consolation to the poor wretch who recounted his suffering to you. You would not have removed yourself from his gaze, when his only pleasure was in seeing you. You would not have played so cruelly upon his anxiety by sending to say you were indisposed, without allowing him to go and acquaint himself with your state. You would have realized that this very night, which for you was twelve hours in which to rest, would be for him a century of pain.
Tell me, why do I deserve this harsh treatment? I am not afraid to take you as my judge: so what have I done? Except yield unwillingly to a feeling inspired by beauty and justified by virtue; always held in check by respect, my innocent avowal was prompted by trust and not by hope. Will you betray it, this trust that you yourself have seemed to allow me to place in you, and to which I have delivered myself up without reserve? No, I cannot believe it. It would be to suppose you capable of wrongdoing, and my heart cries out at the very idea. I retract my reproach; I can set it down on paper but I cannot think it. Ah, let me believe in your perfection, that is the only pleasure I have left. Prove to me that you are perfect by granting me your generous attention. What poor unfortunate have you helped who had as much need of it as me? Do not abandon me in the turmoil into which you have plunged me. Lend me your reason, since you have taken away mine; and after you have set me on the right path, enlighten me and complete your work.
I do not wish to mislead you – you will not succeed in vanquishing my love. But you will teach me to manage it. By guiding me in what I do, by telling me what I should say, you will at least save me from the terrible misfortune of displeasing you. Above all, banish my desperate fear. Tell me you forgive me, that you are sorry for me; assure me of your indulgence. You could never grant all the indulgence I crave from you; I lay claim to what I need. Will you refuse?
Farewell, Madame; I beg you will receive this homage of my feelings which in no way lessens the homage of my respect.
From —, 20 August 17**
LETTER 25
The Vicomte de Valmont to the Marquise de Merteuil
Here is yesterday’s bulletin.
At eleven I went to Madame de Rosemonde’s, and under her auspices was introduced into the rooms of my so-called invalid, who was still in bed. Her eyes were very heavy. I hope she slept as badly as I did. I seized the chance when Madame de Rosemonde withdrew a little to pass my letter to her. She refused to accept it, but I left it on the bed, and very properly made to pull up an armchair for my elderly aunt who wished to be near her dear child: she had to quickly conceal the letter to avoid any scandal. The invalid said guilelessly that she thought she had a slight fever. Madame de Rosemonde bade me feel her pulse, all the while boasting of my knowledge of medical matters. So my beauty was doubly put out in that she was obliged to give me her arm and knew that her little lie would be found out. In fact, I took her hand and held it in mine while I ran my other hand up and down her soft, dimpled arm. The crafty young woman would not respond in any way, which made me say as I left her: ‘There is no sign of any agitation at all.’ I guessed that she would be looking daggers at me, and so in order to punish her I did not meet her eyes. A moment later she announced that she wished to get up and we left her alone. She appeared at dinner, which was a dismal affair. She announced she would not go for a walk, which was a way of telling me that I should not have any occasion to speak with her. I felt that it would be just the moment to give her a sigh and a pained look. Undoubtedly she was expecting this, for it was the only occasion in the day that our eyes met. She may be a good girl, but like every other woman she has her little tricks. I found a moment to ask her if she had had the kindness to let me know my fate and was somewhat surprised to hear her say: ‘Yes, Monsieur, I have written you a letter.’ I was in a great hurry to have this letter; but whether it was another trick, or lack of skill, or shyness, she did not give it to me until evening at the moment when she retired to her room. I am sending it to you with the rough copy of my own. Read it and judge for yourself. See with what supreme hypocrisy she declares that she is not in love with me, when I am sure the opposite is the case. And then she will complain if I lie to her later when she does not hesitate to lie to me now! My dear, even the cleverest of men cannot hope to keep up with the truest of women. But I shall have to pretend to believe all this nonsense, and wear myself out with despair, because it pleases Madame to play at being cruel! How can one not take revenge on such villainy? Ah! Patience…But adieu. I still have much to write.
By the way, send me back the monster’s letter. It is possible that in time she might want to put a price on these wretched things, and I must ensure that all is in order.
I have not written to you about the little Volanges girl; we will talk soon about her.
Chateau de —, 22 August 17**
LETTER 26
The Présidente de Tourvel to the Vicomte de Valmont
You would certainly, Monsieur, receive no letter from me did not my stupid behaviour of yesterday evening oblige me to give you some explanation today. Yes, I admit I wept; perhaps also the three words which you are at pains to quote did escape me: tears and words, you notice everything; therefore I must account for everything.
Accustomed as I am to inspire nothing but honourable feelings, to hear only words which I can listen to without blushing, and consequently to enjoy a security which I venture to say I deserve, I am unable to hide or combat what I am presently going through. The surprise and embarrassment your actions have thrown me into; an indefinable fear inspired by a situation which ought never to have come about; perhaps the revulsion of seeing myself taken for one of those women you despise, and being treated as lightly: all of these things contrived to provoke my tears, and caused me to say, with reason, I believe, that I was wretched. This expression, which you find so violent, would surely be no means violent enough if, like my tears, it had been prompted by something else; if, instead of disapproving of those sentiments which cause me offence, I feared that I might share them.
No, Monsieur, I do not have that fear. If I had, I should run a hundred miles from you. I should go to some solitary place and lament my misfortune in having met you. Even perhaps in spite of the certainty I have that I do not, and never shall, love you, perhaps I should have done better to follow the counsels of my f
riends and not allow you near me.
I believed, and that was my one mistake, that you would respect an honest woman whose only wish was to find you honest too and to see that justice was done to you; who was already coming to your defence, when you were violating her with your wicked intentions. You do not know me. No, Monsieur, you do not know me, or you would not have believed you could make your wrongdoing seem righteous, or spoken words to me that I should not hear, or believed you were authorized to write a letter I ought not to have read. And you ask me to guide you in what you do, tell you what you should say! Well then, Monsieur, say nothing, forget everything: this is the advice it is fitting for me to give you; this is the advice it is fitting for you to follow. And then you will indeed have a right to my indulgence. It will be up to you whether, beyond that, you win the right to my gratitude…But no, I shall ask nothing from a person who has shown me no respect; I shall not bestow a mark of trust upon someone who has abused my confidence. You force me to fear you, perhaps to hate you. I did not wish it. I only wanted to see in you the nephew of my most honoured friend. I set the voice of friendship against the accusatory voice of public opinion. You have ruined everything. And I foresee you will not wish to make amends.
I confine myself to saying, Monsieur, that your sentiments offend me, that your admitting them affronts me and, above all, that, far from coming one day to share in them, you will oblige me never to set eyes upon you again, unless you impose upon this matter a silence it seems to me I have the right to expect and even demand from you. I am enclosing with this letter the one you wrote and I hope you will have the goodness to send this one back as well. I should be truly troubled if there remained the least trace of an incident that never should have occurred.19 I have the honour to be, etc.