Perhaps I should not have told your secrets without your consent, but my excuse is unhappiness and necessity. It is love which has brought me to this; it is love which demands your indulgence, which asks you to forgive a necessary confidence without which we should perhaps have remained separated for ever.* You know the friend of whom I speak. He is the friend of the woman you love best in the world. It is the Vicomte de Valmont.
My idea in approaching him was first to beg him to engage Madame de Merteuil to take a letter for you. He did not believe this means could succeed. But if not the mistress, he is sure of her maid, since she owes him a good turn. She will be the one who will give you this letter, and you can give her your answer.
This will scarcely help us if, as Monsieur de Valmont believes, you are leaving immediately for the country. But then it will be he himself who will come to our aid. The woman in whose house you are to stay is related to him. He will use this pretext to visit at the same time as you. And he will be the one to pass letters between us. He even assures me that if you do what he says he will procure the means for us to see each other without risk of compromising you in any way.
Meanwhile, my Cécile, if you love me, if you pity my unhappiness, if, as I hope, you share my sorrow, can you refuse to trust a man who will be our guardian angel? Without him I should be reduced to despair, for I should not even be able to alleviate the troubles I have caused you. There will be an end to them, I hope. But, my love, promise me not to give in to them too much, promise me not to be too cast down by them. The idea that you are in pain is unbearable torment for me. I would give my life to make you happy! You know that only too well. May the certain knowledge that you are adored bring some consolation to your heart! My heart needs to know that you forgive love for the suffering it is causing you.
Goodbye, my Cécile; goodbye, my love.
From —, 9 September 17**
LETTER 66
The Vicomte de Valmont to the Marquise de Merteuil
You will see, my love, as you read the two letters enclosed, that I have carried out your plan thoroughly. Although both are dated today they were written yesterday at my house and in front of me. The letter to the girl says everything we wished. One can only feel humble before your insight if we may measure this by the success of your actions. Danceny is ready and willing, and I am certain that as soon as he has the opportunity you will no longer be able to criticize him for anything. If his fair ingénue will do as she is told, everything will be over shortly after her arrival in the country. I have a hundred schemes up my sleeve. Thanks to your care I am definitely Danceny’s friend. And all he has to do is be the Prince.*12
Our Danceny is still so young! Would you believe that I have never been able to obtain his word that he would promise the mother to renounce his love; as though it were very difficult to promise something when you are decided upon not keeping it! ‘It would be lying,’ he kept saying to me. Are not such scruples edifying, considering that he wants to seduce the girl? A typical man! We are all equally wicked in our plans, and whatever weakness we show in carrying them out we call probity.
Your job is to prevent Madame de Volanges from taking fright at the little things he could not help saying in his letter. Preserve us from the convent. Try too to make her forget her request for the girl’s letters. For one thing, he will not give them up; he is determined not to, and I share his opinion. Here love and reason are in agreement for once. I have read these letters; I have consumed their boredom. But they could be useful. Let me explain.
In spite of our prudence there could still be a scandal and that would mean the wedding would not go ahead, would it? Then all our plans for Gercourt would come to nothing. But if this happens, I, who also have to avenge myself on the mother, reserve for myself the right to dishonour the girl. If I choose carefully from this correspondence and only produce part of it, the little Volanges girl will appear to have made all the initial moves and to have absolutely thrown herself at him. Some of the letters might even compromise the mother and at least taint her with unpardonable negligence. I feel that the scrupulous Danceny would resist this at first, but as he would be under attack himself, I believe he could be persuaded. It is a thousand to one against things working out like this, but we have to be prepared for every eventuality.
Goodbye, my lovely. It would be nice of you to come and sup with me tomorrow at the Maréchale de —’s; I was not able to refuse. I suppose I do not need to tell you to keep my plan to go to the country secret from Madame de Volanges? She would immediately decide to stay in town. Once in the country, she will not leave next day. If she gives us a week, I can answer for everything.
From —, 9 September 17**
LETTER 67
The Présidente de Tourvel to the Vicomte de Valmont
I did not intend to answer your letter, Monsieur, and perhaps my present trouble is itself proof that I ought not to be doing so. However I do not wish to leave you with any reason whatsoever to complain of my conduct; I hope to persuade you that I have done everything I could for you.
You say I allowed you to write to me. Well, that is true. But when you remind me of this, do you imagine I forget the conditions of that promise? If I had observed those conditions as faithfully as you have ignored them, would you have had one single reply from me? And yet this is the third. And whereas you do all you can to oblige me to stop our correspondence, it is I who take measures to maintain it. There is a way, only one, to achieve this; if you refuse to take it, you will prove, despite what you say, how low a value you place upon it.
So please stop using these words that I cannot and will not hear. Renounce these feelings which both offend and frighten me, and to which, perhaps, you would attach less importance if you realized they are the thing that is keeping us apart. Are these truly the only feelings you can entertain? Must I think even worse of love than I do already in that it excludes the possibility of friendship? And you, will you be guilty of not wanting as a friend the woman in whom you hoped to find more tender sentiments? I do not wish to believe so. I should find such a shameful idea degrading, and it would estrange me from you for ever.
In offering you my friendship, Monsieur, I give you everything which is mine, everything which is mine to give. What more can you desire of me? To surrender to this delightful feeling, to which my heart is open, I await only your consent and your promise, which I insist upon, that friendship with me will be enough to make you happy. I shall forget all that people have said. I shall rely on you to prove my decision justified.
You can see how honest I am being; my frankness must prove my confidence. It will be up to you to strengthen that. But I must warn you that the very first word of love you utter will destroy it for ever, and will revive all my fears. I warn you that for me it will betoken eternal silence as far as you are concerned.
If, as you say, you have mended your ways, would you not rather be the object of a respectable woman’s friendship than the object of a guilty woman’s remorse? Farewell, Monsieur. You will understand that, having spoken thus, I can say nothing further until I have received an answer from you.
From —, 9 September 17**
LETTER 68
The Vicomte de Valmont to the Présidente de Tourvel
How can I reply, Madame, to your last letter? How may I dare to be frank when sincerity might mean the end of everything? No matter, I must. I shall be brave. I tell myself time and again that it is better to be worthy of you than to obtain you. And even though you were to refuse me forever a happiness that I shall always desire, I must none the less prove to you that my heart is worthy.
What a pity I have mended my ways, as you put it! With what transports of delight might I have perused the very letter to which I fear to answer today! You talk to me with frankness, you profess your confidence and finally you offer me your friendship. What treasures, Madame, and what regrets at not being able to take advantage of them! Why am I not the man I was?
And what if I were? Let u
s suppose this was only a vulgar attraction for you, a passing desire born of lust and intrigue, that today none the less goes by the name of love; I should hasten to take advantage of anything I could get. Caring little about the means, as long as it procured me success, I should encourage your frankness by the need to divine your secrets. I should try to gain your trust, with the intention of betraying it. I should accept your friendship in the hope of leading you astray…Well, Madame, does this picture frighten you?…Yet it would be a true likeness of me if I were to tell you I agreed to be no more than your friend…
How could I consent to share with anyone else a feeling that emanated from your soul? If I ever say such a thing, do not believe it. From that moment on I should be seeking to deceive you. I might desire you still, but it is certain I should no longer love you.
It is not that frankness, quiet trust and sympathetic friendship have no value in my eyes…But love! True love of the kind that you inspire, uniting all these sentiments and giving them more intensity, cannot lend itself as they do to that tranquillity, that peace of mind, which permits one to make comparisons and have preferences. No, Madame, I shall not be your friend. I shall love you truly and tenderly, even ardently, though always respectfully. You can make me lose hope, but you can never quench my love.
By what right do you claim to command a heart whose homage you refuse? By what refinement of cruelty do you begrudge me even the happiness of loving you? That belongs to me, independently of you. I shall defend it. If it is the source of my misfortune, it is also the remedy.
No, no, and again, no. Persist in your cruel refusals. But leave me my love. You delight in making me unhappy! Well, so be it. Try to wear down my resolve; I shall force you at least to decide my fate. And perhaps one day you will be more just towards me. It is not that I hope to ever make you feel anything for me. But though you may not be persuaded, you will think otherwise. You will say to yourself: I was unfair to him.
Let us put it another way: it is to yourself that you are being unfair. To know you without loving you, to love you without being constant to you, are both equally impossible. And despite your cloak of modesty it must be easier for you to protest than wonder at the feelings you inspire. As for me, my only merit is that I have learned to love you, and I do not wish to lose it. And far from consenting to your insidious suggestions, I renew my vow, at your feet, to love you for ever.
From —, 10 September 17**
LETTER 69
Cécile Volanges to the Chevalier Danceny
(Note written in pencil and copied out by Danceny)
You ask me what I am doing. I am loving you and weeping. My mother refuses to speak to me any more. She has taken away my paper, pens and ink. I am using a pencil which I still have, luckily, and I am writing to you on a piece of your letter. Of course I approve of all you have been doing. I love you too much not to do everything in my power to have news of you and to send you mine. I did not like Monsieur de Valmont, and did not realize he was such a good friend of yours. I shall try to get to know him and like him because of you. I don’t know who betrayed us. It can only be my maid or my confessor. I am so unhappy. We leave for the country tomorrow. I do not know for how long. Oh God, how shall I bear not seeing you! I have run out of space. I hope you can read this. These pencilled words will one day perhaps fade, but the feelings engraved on my heart, never.
From —, 10 September 17**
LETTER 70
The Vicomte de Valmont to the Marquise de Merteuil
I have something important to tell you, my love. I was having supper yesterday at the Maréchale de —’s. We were discussing you and I was expressing not all the good opinions I have of you, but all I do not have! Everyone seemed to be of my mind and the conversation was running out, as it always does when all you do is praise your neighbour, when someone contradicted me: Prévan.
‘Far be it from me,’ said he, getting up, ‘to be sceptical of Madame de Merteuil’s virtue! But I believe she may owe it more to her fleet-footedness than to her principles. It is perhaps harder to catch her than to please her. And as one inevitably meets other women when one is chasing a woman; as, when all’s said and done, others may be as good or better than her, some men will be distracted by meeting someone new, others will give up because they are tired, so she is perhaps the one woman in the whole of Paris who has least often been put to the trouble of defending herself. I for my part,’ he added, spurred on by the smirks of a few women, ‘shall only believe in Madame de Merteuil’s virtue after I have run half a dozen horses into the ground in pursuit of her.’
This bad joke had a great success, like all those which rely on slander. And during the laughter that ensued, Prévan sat down again and people began talking about something else. But the two Comtesses de B—, sitting near our sceptic, engaged him in a conversation of their own and fortunately I was within earshot.
A challenge that he should try to win you was accepted, and the promise was given that he would conceal no detail. And of all the promises made in the course of this affair, I am certain none will be more religiously kept than that one. But now you are forewarned, and you know the old saying.
I have to tell you as well that this Prévan – you don’t know him – is a most agreeable fellow, and even more clever than he is agreeable. If you have sometimes heard me say anything else, it is just that I don’t like the man; I take pleasure in placing obstacles in his way, and I am not unaware of how much weight my opinion carries with thirty or so of the most fashionable women around.
In fact, I have prevented him for quite some time by this means from appearing on what we call the world stage,13 and he did extraordinary things without ever acquiring the reputation for doing so. But the glory of his triple affair focused all eyes upon him and gave him the confidence which he did not have until then, and made him into someone truly to be reckoned with. So he is today perhaps the only man whom I should not care to have cross my path; and, setting aside your own interest, you would do me a great service if you had occasion to make him look ridiculous. I leave him in good hands. And I hope when I get back he will have sunk without trace.
I promise you in return to bring your pupil’s affair to a successful conclusion and to take as much care with her as with my beautiful prude.
The latter has just sent me an offer of surrender. Her whole letter cries out her longing to be led astray. And she could not have hit upon a more convenient and well-worn method. She wants me to be her friend. But I like novel and intricate ways of going about things, and it is not my intention to let her off so lightly. Indeed, I have not taken so much trouble with her in order for it all to end with a run-of-the-mill seduction.
Quite the opposite, in fact; my plan is that she should feel most acutely the value and extent of each of the sacrifices she makes to me; not to lead her along so fast that she does not feel guilt; to let her virtue expire in a long-drawn-out agony; to concentrate her mind incessantly upon this desolating spectacle; and not to allow her the happiness of having me in her arms until I have forced her no longer to hide the fact that she wants it. For I am not worth much if I am not worth the asking, that’s for sure. And can I exact a lesser vengeance on a high and mighty woman who seems ashamed to admit she adores me?
I have therefore refused this precious friendship, and have insisted on my claim to be her lover. As I do not deceive myself that this title (which seems at first a mere quibbling with words) is none the less really important to obtain, I took a lot of trouble with my letter, and tried to reproduce the impression of disorder, the only thing that can depict feeling. Anyway, I reasoned as badly as I knew how; for without talking nonsense, one cannot express one’s love. And that is why, in my view, women are better than men at writing love letters.
I ended mine by flattering her, and that too is a consequence of my profound observations. After a woman’s heart has been exercised for some time it needs rest. And I have observed that a little flattery is for all of them the softest p
illow one may offer.
Farewell, my love. I leave tomorrow. If you have any orders to give me for the Comtesse de —, I shall stop at her place, for dinner at least. I am sorry to leave without seeing you. Send me your excellent instructions and give me the benefit of your sage counsel at this critical time.
And especially defend yourself against Prévan; I hope I may one day make it up to you for this sacrifice! Farewell.
From —, 11 September 17**
LETTER 71
The Vicomte de Valmont to the Marquise de Merteuil
My pea-brained valet has gone and left my letter-case in Paris! My beauty’s letters, Danceny’s to the little Volanges girl, everything is still there, and I need it all. He is going to go back and make up for his stupidity. And while he is saddling his horse I’ll tell you what happened last night. For I beg you to believe I am not wasting my time.
The affair in itself was nothing special. Just the reigniting of an old flame with the Vicomtesse de —. But the details were of interest to me.14 I am very pleased in any case to show you that, though I have a talent for ruining women, I have just as fine a talent, when I like, for saving them. I always opt for the most difficult or the most amusing course of action; and I do not regret a good action as long as it is entertaining or challenging.
So I found the Vicomtesse here, and as she added her pressing invitation to the others I received to spend the night in the chateau, I said: ‘All right, I agree, on condition I may spend it with you.’ ‘That is impossible,’ she said, ‘Vressac is here.’ Up to that point my one concern had been to be polite. But as usual that word ‘impossible’ made me defiant. I felt humiliated to be sacrificed to Vressac, and determined I would not put up with it. So I insisted.
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