Dangerous Liaisons

by Choderlos De Laclos

  That same evening I went to Madame de Volanges’s house and, as planned, confided in her that I was sure there existed a dangerous liaison between her daughter and Danceny. This woman, so discerning where you are concerned, was so blinded in this case she immediately replied that I must be mistaken. That her daughter was a child, etc., etc. I could not tell her everything I knew. But I provided some instances of how they looked at one another and what they said, and told her how shocking it was to me with my standards and bearing in mind our close friendship. Well, I was almost as eloquent as a devotee! And just to ram the point home I went as far as to say that I thought I had seen a letter being given and received. ‘That reminds me,’ I added, ‘that one day while I was there she opened a drawer in her writing desk, and I could see a great many papers inside, which she was no doubt preserving. Do you know if she is having a frequent correspondence with someone?’ Here Madame de Volanges’s face changed and I saw her eyes moisten. ‘I thank you, my dear friend,’ she said, wringing my hand. ‘I shall take steps to shed light on the situation.’

  After that conversation, which was too short to arouse suspicion, I approached the young lady. Soon afterwards I left her, to ask her mother not to compromise me in the eyes of her daughter; which she agreed to all the more willingly when I made her see how useful it would be if the child trusted me enough to be completely frank with me, for it would put me in a position where I could give her the benefit of my wise counsel. What reassures me she will keep her word is that I am positive she wishes her daughter to think her most perceptive. I thought in that way I would be justified in keeping on friendly terms with the girl without appearing to be false in the eyes of Madame de Volanges, which is what I wished to avoid. The consequence being that my position would be even better since I could stay with the young person for as long and as secretly as I wished without the mother ever taking exception to it.

  I made use of my advantage that very evening. After my game was over I cornered the girl and got her talking about Danceny, a subject on which she never dries up. I amused myself by exciting her with the prospect of seeing him the next day. I made her say no end of silly things. I had to compensate her in hope for what I was depriving her of in reality. And all that will make the blow even harder, for I am persuaded that the more she suffers, the more anxious she will be to make up for it at the first opportunity. In any case it is good to accustom someone to major calamities if they are destined for life’s great adventures.

  After all, is it not worth a few tears for her to have the pleasure of possessing her Danceny? She is besotted with him! Well, I promise she will have him, and even sooner than she would have without this upset. It is a bad dream, from which waking will be delightful. And, when all is said and done, it seems to me she owes me a debt of gratitude. In fact, if I have been rather wicked, well, one has to amuse oneself:

  Fools are on earth to keep us all amused.*

  So I left, much pleased with myself. Either, I reckoned, Danceny will be spurred into action by these obstacles in his path, and will become more amorous than ever, in which case I shall do my utmost to help him; or, if he is nothing but a fool, as I am sometimes inclined to think, he will be in despair and accept defeat. So in that event at least I shall have had my revenge on him, insofar as I can, and, in so doing, I shall have increased the mother’s respect for me, the daughter’s friendship and the confidence of both. As for Gercourt, the principal object of my attentions, it would be extremely unfortunate or inept of me if I did not find plenty of ways to guide his future wife’s thinking in whatever manner I wish, since she is now, and will be even more in future, under my tutelage. I went to bed with these happy thoughts. And so I slept well and woke late.

  On waking I found two notes, one from the mother and one from the daughter. And I could not help chuckling when I found literally the same sentence in both: ‘It is from you alone that I may hope for consolation.’ It is pleasing, would you not say, to offer consolation for and against, and to be the only agent of two directly contrary interests? I am like the Deity, receiving the opposing wishes of blind mortals, and not changing my immutable decrees one whit. And yet I have abandoned this august role to take on that of comforting angel; and have accordingly been to visit my friends in their affliction.

  I started with the mother. I found her in such a pathetic state that this already avenges you partly for what you have had to put up with from her with regard to your beautiful prude. Everything passed off to perfection. My one anxiety was that Madame de Volanges might profit from that moment to gain the confidence of her daughter. It would have been very easy to do so had she spoken to her as a friend, offering her reasonable advice with a look and tone of indulgent tenderness. As luck would have it, she armed herself with severity. In fact, she conducted herself so badly that I could only applaud her. It is true that she thought she could destroy all our plans by the decision she had taken to put Cécile back in the convent. But I fended this off. And I enjoined her simply to leave the threat of it hanging over her daughter, in the event of Danceny continuing his suit and in order to force them both into a circumspection I believe necessary to success.

  Then I went to see the daughter. You would not credit how beautiful she is in her grief! I guarantee that if she were trying to be charming she would often be in tears. This time it was not a ploy…At first I was very struck by this new allurement which I had not previously encountered and which I was very glad to observe, and I only offered consolation in a clumsy fashion, which made her feel worse rather than better. And thus I brought her to a point where she really did seem to be suffocating. She was no longer weeping, and for a moment I feared she might have convulsions. I advised her to go to bed and she acquiesced. I took on the role of lady’s maid. She had not yet begun to dress and soon her fine hair fell down over her shoulders and bosom, which were entirely uncovered. I kissed her. She let herself go into my arms and her tears once more began to flow effortlessly. My God, how beautiful! Ah, if Magdalene was like that, she must have been much more dangerous as penitent than sinner!8

  When my grief-stricken beauty was in her bed I set myself to consoling her in good faith. I reassured her first of all on the subject of the convent. I instilled in her the hope of seeing Danceny secretly. ‘If only he were here,’ I said, sitting on the bed; then, elaborating on that theme, I led her, by one distraction or another,9 to forget her suffering entirely. We should have parted totally content with one another if she had not wished me to take charge of a letter for Danceny, which I steadfastly refused to do. These are my reasons, which you will surely approve of.

  First, I would be compromising myself with Danceny; and though that was the only reason I could give her, there are many more you and I might have between us. Would it not be risking the fruit of my labours to give our young friends so immediate a means of lessening their suffering? And then, I should not be displeased if I obliged them to implicate servants in this affair. For truly, if this succeeds as I hope, it will have to be made public immediately after the wedding, and there are few means more sure to put it about. Or, if by some miracle the servants did not talk about it, we would have to, you and I, and it would be more convenient for us to have them commit the indiscretions.

  So you will have to communicate this idea to Danceny today. And, as I am not sure about the little Volanges’s chambermaid, whom she herself appears to distrust, I suggest he try my faithful Victoire. I shall take care that the stratagem succeeds. This idea pleases me all the more because the confidence will serve only our purposes, not theirs: for I have not finished telling my tale.

  While I was protesting about taking the girl’s letter, I was afraid from one moment to the next that she was going to ask me to put it in the post,10 and I could not possibly have refused. But as luck would have it, whether it was through worry or ignorance, or perhaps because she was less concerned about the letter than the answer, which she would not have been able to receive by this means, she did not mention
it; but so that it should not enter her head or, at least, before she could allude to it, I acted. And when I went back to her mother, I persuaded her to let her daughter go away for a while, to take her to the country…And where do you think? Does your heart not beat with joy? To your aunt’s, to your old Aunt Rosemonde’s. She is to let her know today. So there you are; you have permission to go back to your devotee and she will not be able to object to the scandal of being there alone with you. And, thanks to my care, Madame de Volanges will herself repair the wrong she has done to you.

  Listen to me and do not be so occupied with your own affairs that you lose sight of this one. Remember my interest in it. I want you to appoint yourself go-between and adviser to these two young people. Tell Danceny about this visit and offer him your services. Let there be no difficulty in the way except that of getting your credentials into the hands of his beauty, and remove that obstacle immediately by indicating that my maid will convey them. There is no doubt whatsoever he will accept. And, as the reward for your pains, you will have the confidence of an innocent heart, something which is always worth having. Poor little thing! How she will blush when she gives you her first letter! Truly the role of confidant, so frowned upon these days, seems to me a pleasant way of amusing oneself when one is busy with other matters – which you will be.

  The dénouement of this intrigue depends on you. You must judge when the moment arrives for the reunion scene; there are always a hundred opportunities in the country, and Danceny, for sure, will be ready to play his part the moment you give the sign. Nightfall, a disguise, a window…what else? But anyway, if the girl comes back still in the state in which she went, I shall blame you for it. If you are of the opinion that she needs some encouragement from me, tell me. I believe I have given her a good enough lesson on the dangers of keeping letters that I may dare write to her at present. And I still intend to keep her as my pupil.

  I think I forgot to tell you that her suspicions on the subject of her betrayed correspondence fell first of all upon her chambermaid, and I diverted them on to the father confessor, thus killing two birds with one stone.

  Adieu, Vicomte. This is a very long letter and because of it I am late for lunch. But my letter was dictated by friendship and self-esteem, and both have made me run on a bit. In any case, it will be with you at three o’clock, and that is all that is necessary.

  Now complain about me if you dare. And go back, if you feel so inclined, to the woods of the Comte de B—.11 You say he keeps them for the entertainment of his friends! So, is the whole world his friend? But farewell, luncheon beckons.

  From —, 9 September 17**

  LETTER 64

  The Chevalier Danceny to Madame de Volanges

  (Document sent with Letter 66 from the Vicomte to the Marquise)

  Without seeking to justify my conduct, Madame, and without complaining of yours, I can only feel very sorry for an occurrence which has caused the unhappiness of three people, all of whom are worthy of a better fate. More painfully conscious of being the agent rather than victim of this disaster, I have tried several times since yesterday to do myself the honour of replying to you, without being able to find the strength to do so. I have so much to say to you, however, that I have to make an effort with myself. And if this letter has little order or coherence, you must be well enough aware of how truly distressing my situation is to grant me some indulgence.

  Permit me first of all to object to the first sentence in your letter. I have not abused, I dare affirm, either your trust or the innocence of Mademoiselle de Volanges. I have respected both in whatever I have done. They were the sole regulators of my conduct. And if you hold me responsible for an involuntary feeling, I do not fear to add that the sentiments which Mademoiselle, your daughter, has inspired in me are such that they might be displeasing to you but could never give offence. In this matter, which touches me more than words can say, I only want you to be the judge and my letters the witness.

  You forbid me to present myself at your house in future, and of course I shall agree to everything you may be pleased to command. But will my sudden and total absence not give rise to as many remarks, which you are anxious to avoid, as would the order that, for the same reason, you did not wish to issue to your servants at the door? I shall all the more insist on this point since it is of much greater concern for Mademoiselle de Volanges than for myself. I beg you therefore to weigh these matters with all due attention and not allow your strict principles to affect your prudence. Persuaded that the sole interest of Mademoiselle your daughter will dictate your decision, I shall await new orders from you.

  Nevertheless, in the event that you would allow me to come visiting sometimes, I engage, Madame, and you may rely upon my word, not to take advantage of those occasions to try and speak privately to Mademoiselle de Volanges or to pass any letter to her. The fear of anything compromising her reputation causes me to make this sacrifice. And the happiness I shall have in seeing her from time to time will compensate me for it.

  This part of my letter is also the only response that I can make to what you have said to me concerning the fate you reserve for Mademoiselle de Volanges, and that you wish to make dependent upon my conduct. If I pretended otherwise, I should be deceiving you. A vile seducer can bend his projects to circumstance, and calculate his actions according to events; but the love inspiring me permits of only two feelings: courage and constancy.

  Could I ever possibly consent to be forgotten by Mademoiselle de Volanges, or to forget her myself? No, no, never! I shall be faithful to her; she has received my vow and I renew it again today. Forgive me, Madame, I am forgetting myself. I return to the matter.

  There remains one more thing I have to discuss with you. The letters you have asked me for. It truly pains me to add my refusal to the other wrongs that in your opinion I have already been guilty of. But I beg you, listen to my reasons and deign to remember, in order to appreciate them, that my only consolation for the misfortune of having lost your friendship is the hope of preserving your respect.

  Mademoiselle de Volanges’s letters, always so precious to me, have become even more so at present. They are the only treasures left to me. The only things I have left to recall a feeling which has been the one delight of my life. However, you may depend upon it, I should not hesitate for one instant to make this sacrifice to you, and my regret at being deprived of them would yield to my wish to prove my respectful deference to you. But powerful considerations hold me back, and I am certain that you yourself would not find them unjust.

  It is true that you know Mademoiselle de Volanges’s secret, but, if you will allow me to say so, I believe it is because you discovered it rather than that she has confided in you. I would not seek to blame what you have done – your maternal anxiety no doubt authorizes this. I respect your rights, but they will not go as far so to dispense me of my duties, the most sacred of which is never to betray the trust accorded to us. I should be failing in this were I to expose to another’s eyes the secrets of a heart which wished only to reveal itself to mine. If Mademoiselle, your daughter, consents to entrust them to you, let her say so. Her letters are of no use to you. If she wishes, on the other hand, to lock up her secrets in her heart, you would not, I suppose, expect me to be the one to tell you what is in them.

  As for the obscurity in which you desire this event to remain buried, have no fear, Madame; on everything which is in the interest of Mademoiselle de Volanges, I can challenge even a mother’s heart. To set your mind entirely at rest, I have thought of everything. This precious deposit, which until now was labelled ‘Papers to be burned’, bears at present the label ‘Papers belonging to Madame de Volanges’. This position I am taking must be proof to you that my refusal does not bear at all on the fear that you would find in them one single sentiment of which you could find reason to complain.

  So, Madame, this is a very long letter. But it would not be long enough if it allowed you to remain in the slightest doubt that my sentiments are h
onourable, or that I most sincerely regret having displeased you. It is with profound respect that I have the honour to be, etc.

  From —, 9 September 17**

  LETTER 65

  The Chevalier Danceny to Cécile Volanges

  (Sent unsealed to the Marquise de Merteuil in letter 66 from the Vicomte)

  Oh my dear Cécile, what is to become of us? What god will save us from the ills which threaten us? May love at least grant us the courage to bear them! How can I describe to you my shock and despair at the sight of my letters, and on reading Madame de Volanges’s note? Who can have betrayed us? Whom do you suspect? Could you have done something indiscreet? What are you doing at this moment? What have they said? I want to know everything but know nothing. Perhaps you yourself are no wiser than I.

  I am sending you your Mamma’s letter and the copy of my reply. I hope you will approve of what I have said. I really need your approval too for the actions I have taken since this fateful event; they have all been to one end, that of receiving news of you and sending you mine. And who knows? Perhaps I shall be able to see you again and more freely than before.

  Imagine, Cécile darling, what a pleasure it will be to see each other, to be able to swear anew our eternal love, and to see in our eyes, feel in our hearts, that this vow will be for ever. Surely a moment as sweet as that will make us forget all our sorrows. Well, I have hopes that it may come about, hopes I owe to the same actions for which I am begging your approval. What am I saying? I owe them to the consolation of a most loving friend. And my only request is that you allow this friend to become your friend as well.