Dangerous Liaisons

by Choderlos De Laclos

  From —, 21 August 17**

  LETTER 27

  Cécile Volanges to the Marquise de Merteuil

  Heavens, how kind you are to me, Madame! How well you understand that it is easier for me to write than speak to you! For what I have to say is very difficult. But you are my friend, are you not? Oh yes, my very good friend! I am going to try not to be shy. Besides, I need you and your advice so much! I have such troubles. It seems to me that the whole world knows what I am thinking, especially when he is there; I blush as soon as people look at me. Yesterday when you saw me weeping, it was because I wanted to talk to you and then, I don’t know what it was, but something prevented me. And when you asked me what the matter was, my tears started up again in spite of myself. I was unable to say a word. If it had not been for you, Mamma would have noticed, and then what should I have done? Yet that is what my life has been like, especially these last four days!

  That was the day, Madame – yes, I am going to tell you everything – that was the day Monsieur le Chevalier Danceny wrote to me. Oh, I do assure you that when I found his letter I had no idea at all what it was. But I cannot lie to you, I cannot say that it did not give me a great deal of pleasure when I read it. Do you know that I would rather be miserable for the rest of my life than that he had not written it. Yet I knew perfectly well I must not tell him so, and I can even assure you that I gave him to understand I was offended by it. But he says it is stronger than him, and I can well believe it. For I had resolved not to reply, and yet I could not help it. Oh, I only wrote to him once, and partly only to tell him not to write to me again. But in spite of that he still writes. And when I do not reply I can see that it hurts him, and that hurts me even more. So I no longer know what to do, or where to turn, and I am greatly to be pitied.

  Tell me, I beg you, Madame, would it be very bad of me to reply now and again? Just to give him time to take it upon himself to stop writing, and to be as we were before. For, as far as I am concerned, if it carries on much longer, I don’t know what will become of me. When I was reading his last letter, you know, I thought I should never stop weeping, and I am quite sure that if I still do not reply, we shall both be very miserable.

  I’m going to send you his letter too or a copy of it and you shall be the judge. You will see that he is not asking anything wicked of me. However, if you think that I must not write, I promise you I will not do so. But I think you will share my feeling that there is nothing wrong in it.

  While I am on the subject, Madame, may I ask you something else? I have been told that it is wicked to fall in love with someone. But why? What makes me ask is that Monsieur le Chevalier Danceny claims that it is not in the least bit wrong, and that almost everyone is in love with somebody. If that is the case, I do not know why I should be the sole exception. Or is it only wicked if you are a young girl? For I have heard Mamma herself say that Madame D— loved Monsieur M—, and she did not seem to be suggesting that it was so very bad. Yet I am sure she would be cross with me if she had any inkling of my friendship with Monsieur Danceny. She still treats me like a child, does Mamma. And she never tells me anything. When she took me out of the convent, I thought it was to arrange a marriage for me. But at the moment it seems that this is not the case. It is not that I am fretting over it, I assure you, but you, who are such a good friend to her, perhaps you know about it, and if you do, I hope you will tell me.

  This is a very long letter, Madame. But since you have allowed me to write to you I have taken the opportunity to tell you everything, and I count on your friendship.

  I have the honour to be, etc.

  Paris, 23 August 17**

  LETTER 28

  The Chevalier Danceny to Cécile Volanges

  Can it be, Mademoiselle, that you still refuse to answer my letter? You cannot be swayed; and each day bears away with it the hope it brought! So what kind of friendship – for you acknowledge it as such – is it that is not even strong enough to make you aware of my pain; that leaves you cold and unmoved, while I suffer the torments of a passion I cannot quell; that, far from giving you confidence in me, is not even strong enough to excite your pity? Your friend is suffering and you do nothing to help him! How can that be? He asks but one word from you and you refuse it! You expect him to make do with so feeble a sentiment, and yet fear to assure him even of that!

  You would not wish to be ungrateful, you said yesterday. Ah, believe me, Mademoiselle, wishing to pay back love with friendship is not the same as fearing to be ungrateful but only fearing to seem so. However, I no longer dare to talk about feelings which can be only burdensome to you if they are not reciprocated. At the very least I must keep them to myself until I manage to conquer them. I am aware of the great cost to me; I do not hide from myself the fact that I shall need all my strength. I shall try every means; but there is one that will be more painful than the rest, and that is to tell myself over and over that you have no feelings for me. I shall even try to see you less, and I am already busy thinking up a plausible excuse.

  Am I then to give up the sweet habit of seeing you every day? Ah, at least I shall never cease to regret it. Eternal unhappiness will be the price of my most tender love. And that is your will, it will be your doing! I feel I shall never recapture the happiness I am losing today. You alone were made for me. What a joy it would be to swear to live for you alone! But you do not wish to accept my vows. Your silence tells me only too eloquently that your heart feels nothing for me. It is at one and the same time the surest proof of your indifference and the cruellest manner of announcing it. Farewell, Mademoiselle.

  I no longer dare hope for a reply. Love would have written with urgency, friendship with pleasure, even pity with indulgence. But pity, friendship and love are all equal strangers to your heart.

  Paris, 23 Aug 17**

  LETTER 29

  Cécile Volanges to Sophie Carnay

  I told you, Sophie, there are after all times when it is quite acceptable to write. And I assure you I am extremely sorry I heeded your advice, which has caused the Chevalier Danceny and myself so much pain. What proves I was right is that Madame de Merteuil, who certainly knows about these matters, has finally come round to my way of thinking. I have confessed all to her. She said the same as you at first; but after I explained everything, she agreed that this was quite different. All she asks is that I show her all my letters and all of Danceny’s, in order to be sure that I only say what is right and proper; so for the moment I have peace of mind. I am so very fond of Madame de Merteuil! She is so good to me! And such a respectable woman! So everything will be fine.

  I shall write such letters to Monsieur Danceny and they are going to make him so happy! He will be happier than he expects to be, for until now I only spoke about my friendship for him and he always wanted me to call it love. In my opinion it is really the same thing; but anyway I hesitated and he insisted upon it. I told Madame de Merteuil, and she told me I was right, and that you should only admit you love someone when you cannot help it. Now I know I shall not be able to help it for very much longer. After all, it comes to much the same thing, and this will please him more.

  Madame de Merteuil has also told me that she will lend me books about all this which will teach me how to conduct myself, and also how to write better than I do at present: for, you know, she tells me all the things I do wrong, which proves how much she cares about me. Only she has suggested to me that I say nothing to Mamma about those books, because that would seem as if we thought she had neglected my education, and she might be annoyed. Oh, I shan’t breathe a word!

  But how unusual it is that a woman who is scarcely related to me should care more about me than my own mother! I am so lucky to know her!

  She has also asked Mamma if she may take me to the Opera the day after tomorrow, to her box; she has told me we shall be alone there, and we can have a long talk without fear of anyone overhearing. I much prefer that to the Opera. We shall also talk of my wedding, for she has told me that it is indeed tr
ue that I am going to be married, though we were not able to discuss this further. But is it not rather amazing that Mamma has still not said anything to me about it?

  Adieu, my Sophie, I am going to write to the Chevalier Danceny. Oh, I am so happy!

  From —, 24 August 17**

  LETTER 30

  Cécile Volanges to the Chevalier Danceny

  I have finally made up my mind to write to you, Monsieur, to assure you of my friendship, of my love, since, without it, you will be so unhappy. You say I am unkind. I do earnestly assure you that you are wrong and I hope you no longer believe that. My not writing to you may have caused you some distress, but do you suppose it did not also make me suffer? It is because I should not want, for all the world, to do anything wicked; and I should not have confessed my love for you even, had I been able to prevent myself. Yet your sadness caused me too much pain. I hope now you will no longer be despondent and that we shall both be very happy.

  I also hope I shall have the pleasure of seeing you this evening, and that you will come early. It will never be too early for me. Mamma is having supper at home, and I think she is going to ask you to stay. I hope you will not be engaged as you were the day before yesterday. You must have had a very pleasant supper party. You left here very early. But let us not talk of that. Now you know I love you, I hope you will stay with me as long as you can. For I am only happy when I am with you and I should like it to be the same for you.

  I am very sorry that you are still in low spirits at present, but I am not to blame. I shall ask to play the harp as soon as you arrive, so that you shall have my letter straight away. I cannot do more.

  Adieu, Monsieur. I love you with all my heart. The more I say it, the happier I am. I hope you will be happy too.

  From —, 24 August 17**

  LETTER 31

  The Chevalier Danceny to Cécile Volanges

  Yes, we shall be happy, of that there can be no doubt. My happiness is assured, since I am loved by you; yours, if it lasts as long as the love you have inspired in me, will never end. So you love me, you no longer fear to confess your love for me! The more you say it the happier you are! After reading that charming I love you, written in your own hand, I could hear your beautiful lips say those words again. I could see those lovely eyes gazing into mine, their look of tenderness making them even more beautiful. I have received your vow that you will live always for me. Ah! Let me give you mine, that my whole life shall be devoted to your happiness. Pray, accept it and be assured that I shall not break that vow.

  What a happy day we spent yesterday! Oh, why does Madame de Merteuil not have secrets to confide to your Mamma every day? Why is it that those delightful memories must be accompanied by the thought of the constraints we are under? Why may I not forever hold that pretty little hand that wrote I love you; cover it with kisses and thus avenge myself for the refusal to grant me a greater favour!

  Tell me, my Cécile, when your Mamma returned and we were obliged, by her presence, to look at each other with indifference and you could no longer console me by assuring me of your love for your refusal to give me a proof of it, did you not have any regrets? Did you not say to yourself: a kiss would have made him happier, and I am the one who has taken away that happiness from him? Promise me, my darling, that at the first opportunity you will not be so strict with me. With the help of that promise I shall find the strength to bear the adversities that circumstances have in store for us. And our cruel privations will at least be made more bearable by the knowledge that you are sharing my sorrow.

  Adieu, my charming Cécile. It is time for me to come and see you. It would be impossible to say goodbye were it not that I am coming to see you again. Adieu, I love you so much! I shall love you more and more each day!

  From —, 25 August 17**

  LETTER 32

  Madame de Volanges to the Présidente de Tourvel

  So would you have me believe, then, that Monsieur de Valmont is an honest gentleman? I confess I cannot bring myself to do that; I should have as much difficulty in believing him to be honest on the strength of that one single action as I should in thinking a man of acknowledged virtue to be evil, if I heard that he had done one thing wrong. Human beings are not perfect in any way, no more perfectly evil than perfectly good. The wicked man has his virtues, the good man his weaknesses. It seems to me to be all the more important to accept this truth since it implies the need for tolerance for the wicked, as well as for the good; it preserves the latter from pride and saves the others from discouragement. You will no doubt think I am not practising the indulgence which I am preaching very conscientiously at this moment. But I see tolerance as only a dangerous weakness, when it leads us to treat the wicked man and the good in a like fashion.

  I shall not permit myself to scrutinize Monsieur de Valmont’s motives for his action. I would prefer to believe they are as praiseworthy as the action itself. But has he none the less not spent his life bringing trouble, dishonour and scandal to many households? Listen, if you will, to the words of the poor fellow he has helped. But do not let it make you deaf to the cries of the hundred victims he has sacrificed. If he is only, as you say, an example of the danger of liaisons, would he be any the less himself a dangerous liaison? You suppose him to be capable of a change of heart? Let us go even further; let us suppose this miracle has occurred. Would public opinion not still be against him, and is that not enough to decide your actions? God alone can absolve, at the moment of repentance; He alone can look into our hearts. But men can only judge thoughts by actions, and no one who has lost the respect of others has the right to complain of the inevitable mistrust which renders his loss so difficult to regain. Above all, my dear young friend, remember that sometimes the respect of others may be lost if we appear to be placing too little value upon it. And let us not call this severe judgement unjust. For aside from there being every reason to believe we should never renounce such a precious thing as the good opinion of others (assuming we had any right to expect it), a person not held back by this powerful constraint is the one most likely to do wrong. An intimate relationship with Monsieur de Valmont would be sure to cast you in this light, however innocent it might be.

  I am shocked at how swiftly you spring to his defence and I hasten to forestall the objections I can see coming. You will cite Madame de Merteuil, who has been forgiven for her liaison with him. You will ask me why I receive him at my house; you will tell me that, far from being rejected by respectable people, he is admitted, even sought after, in what is called polite society. I think I can answer all these points.

  Firstly, Madame de Merteuil, who is indeed very respectable, has perhaps no other fault than that she has too much confidence in her own abilities. She is like a skilful driver who delights in steering her carriage between mountainside and precipice, and justifies her conduct solely by its success. We are right to admire her, but it would be imprudent to follow her. She herself acknowledges this, and blames herself for it. The more she sees of the world, the stricter her principles become. And I do not hesitate to say to you that in this matter she would agree with me.

  As far as I am concerned, I shall not try to find excuses for myself any more than for anyone else. It is true that I receive Monsieur de Valmont, and that he is received everywhere. It is just one more inconsequentiality to add to the thousand others which govern society. You know as well as I do that one spends one’s life observing them, complaining about them and then indulging in them. Monsieur de Valmont, with his name, large fortune and his many delightful attributes, realized a long time ago that to have any influence in society it was enough to become equally adept at approbation and ridicule. Nobody possesses that twofold talent to the same degree. He charms people with the one and intimidates them with the other. They do not respect him, but they flatter him. That is how he survives in a world which, being more prudent than courageous, prefers to humour rather than confront him.

  But it is certain that not Madame de Merteuil herself, nor
any other woman, would dare to go and shut herself up in the country, almost alone, with such a man. It was reserved to the wisest, the most modest among us to provide an example of such inconsequential behaviour! Forgive me for using that word. It slipped out because of my friendship for you. Your very integrity lets you down, my dear, because of the sense of security it gives you. So remember you will have sitting in judgement upon you, on the one hand, frivolous people who do not believe in a virtue they see no examples of in their society; and on the other, wicked people who pretend they do not believe in it, to punish you for having been virtuous. Consider that at this moment you are doing what some men would not dare risk doing. In fact, I have seen among many young men, who have only too often treated Monsieur de Valmont as an oracle, that the most prudent fear too close an association with him. And yet you do not fear this! Ah, come back, come back, I implore you…If these arguments are not enough to persuade you, yield to my friendship. That is what makes me renew my pleas, that is the justification for them. You think me a demanding friend and I would that all this were unnecessary. But I had rather you should have reason to complain of my solicitude than of my negligence.

  From —, 24 August 17**

  LETTER 33

  The Marquise de Merteuil to the Vicomte de Valmont

  As long as you are afraid of succeeding, my dear Vicomte, or if your plan is to provide weapons against yourself, or you are less eager to win a victory than to be engaged in a struggle, I have nothing more to say. Your conduct is a masterpiece of prudence. It would be utterly foolish to suppose the opposite. And, to tell you the truth, I fear you may be deluding yourself.