What I am criticizing you for is not for failing to seize the moment. On the one hand, I do not quite see that this moment has arrived. On the other hand, I am very well aware, despite what people say, that a missed opportunity often recurs, whereas one can never retract a hasty action.
But your real mistake is to have allowed yourself to enter into correspondence with her. I defy you now to predict where this will lead. Are you by any chance hoping to prove to this woman by logic that she must give herself to you? It seems to me this can only be a sentimental and not a demonstrable truth, and that, in order to make it acceptable, you have to move her, not argue with her. What good would it do you to move her by writing letters, seeing you will not be there to take advantage of it? Even though your fine words may have an intoxicating effect, do you flatter yourself that that state will last long enough not to allow her time for reflection and so prevent her confessing it? Remember how long it takes to write a letter, and the time it takes before you send it. And tell me whether a woman, especially a principled woman like your devotee, can sustain for all that time a desire she is struggling never to entertain? This procedure may work with the young, who, when they write ‘I love you’, do not realize they are saying ‘I am yours’. But Madame de Tourvel, who is so conscious of her virtue, seems to me to know perfectly well what value attaches to these expressions. So, in spite of the advantage that you gained in conversation with her, she defeats you in her letter. And you know what happens then? The simple fact that one is in dispute means one does not want to give in. By dint of seeking out valid reasons, you find them, you state them; and afterwards you cling to them, not particularly because they are good but because you do not want to climb down from that position.
Moreover, one thing you have failed to notice, much to my astonishment, is that there is nothing so difficult in the matter of love as to write what one does not feel – write convincingly, I mean. You may use the same words, but you do not put them in the same order, or rather, you do arrange them in a certain order and that is sufficient to damn you. Re-read your letter. There is an order in it which exposes you at every sentence. I am sure your Présidente is unsophisticated enough not to notice. But what of that? The effect is none the less a failure. That is the problem with novels. The author works himself up into a passion but it leaves the reader cold. Héloïse is the only one I should make an exception of. And, however talented the author, I still maintain that there is a basis of truth in this observation. It is not the same when one speaks. Simply opening one’s mouth and uttering may excite a certain feeling. Add to that the ease with which one may dissolve into weeping. The expression of desire in the eyes mingles with the look of tenderness. And halting speech facilitates that air of troubled disorder which is the true eloquence of love. Most of all, the presence of the beloved object prevents long periods of reflection and fills us with the desire to be conquered.
Believe me, Vicomte: she has asked you not to write any more. Take advantage of this to correct your error and wait for the opportunity to speak. Do you know, this woman has more strength than I should have thought? Her defence is good. And were it not for the length of her letter, and the pretext she gives you in her sentence about gratitude to talk about the subject, she would not have betrayed herself in the very least.
What ought also to reassure you of a successful outcome, in my opinion, is that she uses too many resources at once; I foresee that she will exhaust them in argument and that she will have none left when it comes to the thing itself.
I am sending you back your two letters, and, if you are wise, those will be the last until after the happy day. If it were not so late, I should tell you about the little Volanges girl, who is making rather rapid progress; I am very pleased with her. I believe my work will be complete before yours. Shame on you! Farewell for now.
From —, 24 August 17**
LETTER 34
The Vicomte de Valmont to the Marquise de Merteuil
You are wonderfully eloquent, my darling. But why do you go to such lengths to prove something that everybody knows? To make rapid progress in the affairs of the heart, it is better to talk than to write. That is the whole substance of your letter, as I see it. But of course! These are elementary lessons in the art of seduction. I shall only remark that you make just one exception to this rule, whereas there are two: young people, who take this line through shyness and yield through ignorance, and intellectual women, who allow themselves to be drawn into it through amour propre, and are led into the trap through vanity. For instance, I am positive that the Comtesse de B—, who did not hesitate to answer my first letter, had not at that time any more love for me than I for her, and that she saw only an opportunity to discuss a subject at which she could shine.
Be that as it may, a lawyer would tell you that the principle is not relevant in this case. You are assuming I have the choice between writing and talking, which is not so. Ever since the incident of the nineteenth, the monster, still on the defensive, has applied such ingenuity in avoiding any encounter that it has thrown my own skills into disarray. We have reached the point where, if it goes on like this, she will oblige me to concern myself seriously with how to regain the upper hand. For I certainly do not wish to be outdone by her in any wise. Even my letters are the subject of a small war between us; not content with leaving them unanswered, she refuses even to receive them. I have to resort to a different trick each time I write, and it is not invariably successful.
You will recall the simple method I used to convey the first one to her. The second was no more difficult. She had asked me to give her back her letter. I gave her mine instead, without her suspecting a thing. But whether through pique at having been caught out, or by caprice, or because she is indeed virtuous – for I shall be forced to believe this in the end – she has obstinately refused my third. But I hope the problems she is likely to face as a consequence of this refusal will teach her a lesson in future.
I was not very surprised that she did not wish to accept this letter, which I gave her directly. That would have been to grant me some concession, and I am expecting a much longer defence. After this attempt, which was only a gamble, I put my letter in an envelope and, at the time when I knew she would be at her toilette, when Madame de Rosemonde and the maid were present, I sent it to her via my manservant, with orders to say that it was the papers she had asked me for. I had rightly calculated that she would be afraid to give the scandalous explanation that a refusal would have necessitated. So indeed, she took the letter. And my ambassador, who had orders to observe her face – and he is quite observant – only perceived a slight reddening and more embarrassment than anger.
I flattered myself then, of course, that either she would keep the letter or, if she wished to return it to me, she would have to be alone with me, which would give me an opportunity to speak to her. About an hour later one of her servants entered my room and gave me, from his mistress, a differently shaped packet from mine, and on its envelope I recognized the longed-for handwriting. I tore it open…It was my own letter, only folded in two with the seal still unbroken. I suspect that her fear that I would not be as scrupulous as she is in the matter of scandal made her resort to that diabolical trick.
You know me; I do not need to describe my fury. But I had to regain my composure and try some other means. This is the only one I have come up with.
Every morning people go out from here to collect the post, which is about a mile or so away. For this purpose a box with a slit in it, a little like an offertory box, is used; the postmaster has one key and Madame de Rosemonde the other. Everyone puts their letters in during the day, as they please. In the evening they are taken to the post, and in the morning the ones that have arrived are collected. All the servants perform this service, whether they are of the household or not. It was not my man’s turn, but he took it upon himself to go, on the pretext that he had business in that quarter.
Meanwhile I wrote my letter. I disguised my writing as t
o the address, and I faked a stamp from Dijon, quite successfully. I chose this town because I decided it would be more droll to write from the same place as the husband did, seeing that I was asking for the same rights; and also because my beloved had talked all day long of how much she wished to receive letters from Dijon. It seemed only fair to procure her this pleasure.
Once I had taken these precautions, it was easy to put this letter in with the others. Another advantage of this expedient was that I could be there to witness how it was received. For it is the custom here to assemble for lunch and wait for the letters to arrive before dispersing. Finally they arrived.
Madame de Rosemonde opened the box. ‘From Dijon,’ she said, handing the letter to Madame de Tourvel. ‘That is not my husband’s writing,’ says she, in an anxious voice, hurriedly breaking open the seal. She realized at first glance what had happened, and such a change came over her face that Madame de Rosemonde noticed and said: ‘Is anything the matter?’ I went over to her as well, saying: ‘Is this letter then so very terrifying?’ The shy devotee did not dare raise her eyes, did not utter a word, and, to save face, pretended to read through my epistle, which she was in no state to do. I was enjoying her discomfiture and, not at all averse to teasing her a little, I added: ‘You are looking a little calmer, so let us hope the letter has caused you more surprise than pain.’ Her anger then afforded her more inspiration than prudence was able to. ‘It contains,’ she replied, ‘things which I find offensive, and I am astonished that anyone would dare to write to me in this manner.’ ‘So who is it from?’ interrupted Madame de Rosemonde. ‘It is not signed,’ said my beautiful Fury, ‘but the letter and its author both fill me with disgust. You will oblige me by not speaking of it any more.’ With these words she tore up my bold missive, put the pieces in her pocket, got up and left the room.
In spite of this anger she nevertheless has my letter. And I trust to her curiosity that she has taken good care to read it in its entirety.
If I go into greater detail I shall run on too long. I include the rough copy of my two letters with this account. Then you will know as much as I do. If you wish to be au courant with my correspondence you must accustom yourself to deciphering my notes. For nothing in the world will make me copy them out again; I should find it exceedingly boring. Adieu, my love.
From —, 25 August 17**
LETTER 35
The Vicomte de Valmont to the Présidente de Tourvel
I must obey you, Madame. I have to prove to you that with all the wrongs you are pleased to impute to me at least I still have enough tact not to permit myself to reproach you, and enough courage to impose the most painful of sacrifices upon myself. You command me to be silent and to forget! Well then, I shall force my love to be silent and I shall forget, if at all possible, the cruel fashion in which you have received it. Certainly my desire to please you did not give me any right to expect that I would. And I admit that my need for your indulgence was no reason why I should obtain it. But you look upon my love as an outrage. You forget that if it were wrong you would be both the cause and the justification. You also forget that, having learned to open my heart to you, even when such confidences might do me harm, I have no longer found it possible to hide the feelings which engulf me. And what I have done in good faith you regard as a mark of boldness. The reward for my most tender, most respectful, truest love is that you cast me away from you. And finally you talk about your hatred…Where is the man who would not complain of being treated thus? I alone submit to it. I suffer in silence. You persecute me and I adore you. The unimaginable power you exercise over me renders you absolute mistress of my feelings. And if my love alone endures, if you cannot destroy it, it is because it is your doing and none of mine.
I am not asking you to return my feelings; I have never flattered myself that you might. I do not even expect pity, though the interest you have sometimes shown in me might have led me to hope for this. But I admit I do believe I have the right to ask for justice from you.
You tell me, Madame, that people have tried to lower me in your estimation; that if you had taken the advice of your friends you would not have allowed me anywhere near you. Those were your words. So who, then, are these officious friends? No doubt these people with such strict principles, with such high moral standards, will consent to be named. No doubt they would not wish to be clouded in an obscurity where they might be confused with vile slanderers. So I should not be ignorant either of their names or of what they are saying. Surely, Madame, I have the right to know the one and the other, since you judge me accordingly. One does not condemn a guilty man without telling him what his crime is, without naming his accusers. I do not ask for any other favour, and I undertake in advance to justify myself and oblige them to retract.
If I have perhaps been too dismissive of the vain approbation of a society for which I have scant regard, the same is not true of your good opinion of me. And now that I have devoted my life to deserving that, I shall not allow it to be snatched away with impunity. It has become so much more precious to me, in that I am sure I owe to it this request you are afraid to make, which might have given me, you say, the right to your gratitude. Ah! Far from claiming such rights, I shall think my gratitude due to you if you vouchsafe me a chance to please you. Begin then by acting more justly towards me, and do not leave me in ignorance of what it is you desire from me. If I could guess, I should not put you to the trouble of telling me. Add to my pleasure in seeing you the happiness of obliging you and I shall consider myself a fortunate man. What can stop you? Not, I hope, the fear of a refusal? I feel I should not be able to forgive you for that. If I do not return your letter, that is not a refusal. I wish, even more than you do, that it might not be necessary: but, accustomed to thinking of you as the gentlest of souls, it is only in this letter that I may perceive you as you wish to appear. Whenever I dare hope you may have some feeling for me, I read in your letter that, rather than consent to it, you would put a hundred leagues between us. When I feel that everything about you increases and excuses my love, it is this letter which tells me again that my love offends you. And as, whenever I see you, my love for you seems to me the supreme good, I am compelled to return to your letter to find that it is a terrible torment. You understand, then, at present that my greatest joy would be to be able to give you back this dreadful letter. To ask me for it again would be to authorize me not to believe what it contains any more. I trust you do not doubt my eagerness to put it into your hands.
From —, 21 August 17**
LETTER 36
The Vicomte de Valmont to the Présidente de Tourvel
(With a Dijon postmark)
You grow stricter each day, Madame, and I venture to say that you appear to be less worried about being unjust than of being too kind. After condemning me without a hearing, I suppose you must have felt that it would be easier not to read my reasons than to respond to them. You obstinately refuse my letters; you send them back to me with contempt. You force me to have recourse to trickery, when my sole aim is to convince you of my good faith. But the necessity you have imposed on me of defending myself will no doubt suffice to excuse the means. Moreover, the sincerity of my feelings convinces me that, in order to justify them in your eyes, all I need do is explain them to you, and so I think I may permit myself this little subterfuge. I venture to believe, too, that you will forgive me for it. And that you will not be too surprised to find that love is more ingenious in making itself manifest than indifference is in sweeping it aside.
Allow me then, Madame, to open my heart to you entirely. It is yours and it is only right that you should know what it contains.
I was very far from seeing the fate which awaited me when I first arrived at Madame de Rosemonde’s house. I was unaware that you were there. And I may add, with my accustomed sincerity, that, had I known it, I should not have felt myself to be in any danger. Not that I should have failed to render to your beauty its just deserts; but, being used only to experiencing desire
and of giving in to it only when I received encouragement, I was ignorant of the torments of love.
You were a witness to Madame de Rosemonde’s repeated requests to me to stay longer. I had already spent one day with you. However, I only allowed myself, or believed that I was enjoying, a most natural and legitimate pleasure in paying my respects to a respected relative. The way of life here was very different, no doubt, from the one to which I was accustomed, yet it was no hardship for me to conform to it. And, without seeking the reason for the change which was taking place in me, I put it down entirely to that pliability of character of which I believe I have already spoken.20
By misfortune (but why should we call it a misfortune?), as I became more closely acquainted with you, I soon realized that your bewitching face, which was what had struck me, was the least of your qualities. Your angelic soul astonished and enchanted me. I admired your beauty, I adored your virtue. Without the slightest hope of winning you, I passed my days in trying to be worthy of you. In asking your indulgence for what had happened in the past, my aim was to merit your approval in the future. I sought it in your words, I studied it in your looks – in those looks from which there flowed a poison so much more dangerous in that it was poured forth without intent and received without mistrust.
At last I knew what love was. But how far I was from lamenting my condition! I resolved to bury my feelings in eternal silence, and give myself up fearlessly, unreservedly, to this delicious sensation. Every day it increased. Soon the pleasure I took in seeing you changed into a need. If you were away from me for only one moment, my heart ached. It throbbed with joy when I heard you return. I existed only through you and for you. And yet I call upon your judgement: did there ever once, during the jollity of some foolish game or in the seriousness of our conversations – did there ever escape from me one word which betrayed the secret of my heart?
Dangerous Liaisons Page 10
