I only heard about it at second hand. For I have never been intimate with Prévan. But anyway, there were six of us. And the Comtesse de P—, thinking she was being very witty, and seeming, except to those in the know, to be making general conversation, related in the greatest detail how she had surrendered to Prévan, and all that had passed between them. All this was recounted with such composure that she was not in the least disconcerted by all six of us simultaneously screaming with laughter; and I shall always remember that when someone, by way of excuse, pretended not to believe what she was saying, or rather appeared to be saying, she answered with some gravity that for certain none of us knew as much as she did about the matter. And she did not hesitate to appeal to Prévan himself and ask him whether she had told the least little fib.
And so I believe this man is a danger to everybody. But for you, Marquise, is it not enough that he is good-looking, very good-looking, as you say yourself? Or that he may launch one of those attacks that you are sometimes pleased to reward, for no other reason than that you find them executed with style?18 Or that you find it amusing to give yourself to him for whatever reason? Or…what else? How can I guess at the thousands upon thousands of fancies that reign in the minds of women, by virtue of which alone you remain typical of your sex? Now that you are warned of the danger I am sure you will easily escape. But it was my duty to warn you. So I come back to my theme. What was it you meant in your letter?
If it was only a joke about Prévan, apart from it being a rather laborious one, it was wasted on me. It is in public that he needs to be well and truly held up to ridicule, and I renew my plea to you in this regard.
Oh, I believe I have the clue to the mystery! Your letter is a prophecy, not of what you will do, but of what he thinks you will be ready to do at the moment of his downfall. I don’t disapprove of your plan; yet it will be necessary to organize it with great care. You know as well as I that, as far as society is concerned, being a man’s mistress and receiving his attentions amounts to exactly the same thing, unless that man happens to be a fool. And Prévan is by no means a fool. If he can only make it look as if he has won you, he will brag about it, and that will be that. Fools will believe him, and malicious people will pretend to believe him. What will you do then? I do not like to think. It is not that I do not believe in your competence. But it is always the good swimmers who drown.
I like to think I am no more stupid than the next man. I have found hundreds, no thousands of ways of dishonouring a woman. But when I try to think of ways she might save herself, I can never see how it might be done. Even you, my darling, who conduct yourself so masterfully, I have seen you triumph a hundred times, I believe, more through luck than judgement.
But when all’s said and done, I am perhaps looking for a reason where none exists. I wonder at my taking seriously for the past hour something that must be meant as a joke on your part. You will have fun at my expense. Well then, so be it. But hurry up and let us talk of something else. Something else! No, it is always about the same thing: possessing or ruining women, often both of these.
Here, as you have so well observed, I have plenty of opportunity for practising both, though not in equal measure. I foresee that revenge will prosper more quickly than love. The little Volanges girl has given in, I guarantee; she is only waiting for an opportunity, and I shall be responsible for providing that. But it is not the same with Madame de Tourvel. This woman depresses me; I do not understand her at all. I have a hundred proofs of her love, but a thousand of her strength to resist, and the truth is I fear she may yet escape me.
Her initial reaction when I got back raised my hopes. As you may imagine, I wanted to judge for myself. Therefore I had not announced my arrival so that I might better observe her first reaction, and I had timed my journey to arrive when everyone was at supper. In fact, I fell out of the sky like a deus ex machina at the Opera arriving in the last act.
Since I made enough noise upon entering for all eyes to be turned upon me, I was able to observe simultaneously the joy of my old aunt, the vexation of Madame de Volanges and the confusion and pleasure of her daughter. My beauty had her back to the door. She was busy cutting something at that moment and did not even turn her head. But I spoke to Madame de Rosemonde. And at the first word I uttered the sensitive devotee recognized my voice and let out a cry in which I thought I could detect more love than surprise or alarm. I had by then moved forward into the room sufficiently to be able to see her face. The turmoil in her soul, the struggle between ideas and feelings, was manifest there in a score of different ways. I sat down beside her. She did not know what she was doing or saying. She tried to carry on eating, but there was no posssibility of that. Finally, less than a quarter of an hour later, her embarrassment and agitation got the better of her and she had to resort to asking permission to leave the table; whereupon she escaped into the park, on the pretext of needing some fresh air. Madame de Volanges offered to go with her, but the gentle prude would not allow it, only too happy no doubt to have an excuse to be on her own and give herself up wholeheartedly to her sweet emotions!
I cut dinner as short as possible. Dessert had scarcely been served when that infernal Volanges woman, apparently with a pressing need to be malicious towards me, rose from her seat and went to look for our suffering beauty. But I had seen this little trick coming and I countered it. I pretended to think this move on her part was a signal that everyone was leaving and I got up at the same time as she did, her daughter and the local curate also allowing themselves to be influenced by our example. So Madame de Rosemonde found herself alone at table with the old Commandeur de T— and they both also decided to leave. We all went in search of my beauty and found her in the little grove beside the chateau. And as it was solitude and not a walk that she needed it made no difference to her whether she came back with us or had us remain with her.
When I was certain Madame de Volanges would not have an opportunity to speak to her on her own, I turned my attention to carrying out your commands and busied myself furthering the interests of your pupil. Immediately coffee was over I went upstairs to my rooms and through the other rooms as well to see how the land lay. I made sure that all was in order for the little Volanges girl to write her letters. And after that preliminary good deed I wrote her a note to tell her, and ask her to trust me. I put my letter in with Danceny’s. I went down to the salon again. And there I found my beauty reclining on a chaise longue in an attitude of delightful abandon.
My face lit up at this sight and my desire was aroused. I sensed that my face must have assumed an expression of tender longing, and placed myself in a position where I could take advantage of that. The immediate effect of this was that the heavenly prude lowered her big, modest eyes. I considered this angelic face for some time; then, my eyes travelling over her whole body, I amused myself imagining her curves and shapes underneath her flimsy, yet all too inhibiting garment. After descending from her head to her feet my gaze lifted once more from feet to head…My love, her sweet eyes were upon me; in a trice they were lowered again: but I averted my own, with the intention of making her look at me again. And so this tacit convention established itself between us, the first treaty ratified by shy lovers, which, in order to satisfy the need to look at each other, allows glances only in succession, until they can meet.
Persuaded that my beauty was entirely occupied with this new pleasure, I took it upon myself to check on our safety. But, after assuring myself that the conversation was animated enough to prevent us being noticed by the company, I tried to make her eyes express her feelings more plainly. To this end I first surprised a few glances, but with so much reserve that her modesty could not be alarmed. And to put the shy woman more at ease I myself pretended to be as embarrassed as she was. Gradually our eyes got accustomed to meeting and fixed each other at greater and greater length. Finally they no longer looked away, and I perceived in hers that sweet languor, the happy sign of love and desire. But it was short-lived. Soon she regain
ed her composure and, with some embarrassment, her attitude and expression altered.
Not wishing to leave her in any doubt that I had observed her various emotions, I got up quickly and asked, with a look of alarm, whether she was unwell. Immediately everyone clustered round. I allowed them all to pass in front of me. And as the little Volanges girl, who was at her tapestry by a window, needed a moment to set aside her work I seized the moment to slip her Danceny’s letter.
I was a little way off. I threw the epistle on to her lap. She really did not know what to do. You would have laughed heartily at her air of surprise and embarrassment. I, however, was not laughing, for I was afraid that we should be betrayed by so much clumsiness. But a wink and an emphatic nod finally made her understand she was to put the letter in her pocket.
The rest of the day passed uneventfully. Subsequent events will perhaps develop to your satisfaction, at least as far as your pupil is concerned. But it is better to use one’s time in executing these projects than in relating them. Anyway, I am on to my eighth page and weary of writing. So farewell.
I don’t need to tell you, of course, that the girl has replied to Danceny.* I have also had a reply to the letter I wrote my beauty the day after my arrival. I am sending you both letters. Read them or not as you wish. For going over and over the same old thing is already becoming rather less than amusing, and must be exceedingly dull for anyone not personally involved.
Again, farewell. I love you still very much. But if you speak of Prévan again, then please do it so that I may understand what you are saying.
From the Chateau of —, 17 September 17**
LETTER 77
The Vicomte de Valmont to the Présidente de Tourvel
Madame, how can you be so cruel as to keep running away from me like this? How can it be that the most loving attentions on my part are answered on yours by conduct that a man who had given you most cause for complaint would scarcely merit? How can this be? Love brings me to your side; and although by good fortune I am placed next to you, you feign illness and cause your friends alarm rather than consent to remain beside me! How many times yesterday did you turn your eyes away and deny me the favour of a glance? And though for one brief moment I thought I could detect in you a little less severity, it was so short-lived that I believe you were not so concerned that I should enjoy it as that you might make me aware of what I was losing when you deprived me of it.
Might I suggest that this is not the sort of treatment love deserves nor friendship should tolerate? Yet, as you are well aware, it is one of these two sentiments that I live by, and I had been led to believe that you would not refuse the other. What have I done since, then, to forfeit this precious friendship, of which you certainly once thought me worthy, because you were willing to offer it? Am I to suffer because of my trusting nature? Will you punish me for being frank with you? Are you not afraid, at least, of abusing one or the other? Is it not indeed in the bosom of my friend that I have laid the secrets of my heart? It is surely for her sake, and hers alone, that I felt obliged to refuse conditions which, had I accepted, would have been easy not to adhere to, and which I could have turned to my own advantage. Finally, would you have me believe, by reason of this unmerited severity, that all I would have had to do in order to obtain greater indulgence from you is deceive you?
I do not regret my conduct, which I owed to you as well as to myself. But what is this fate which decrees that every praiseworthy deed must become a source of fresh unhappiness for me?
It was after receiving the only compliment for my conduct you have so far condescended to utter that I had reason for the first time to bemoan my misfortune in having displeased you. It was after I had proved my total subservience to you and deprived myself of the happiness of seeing you, solely out of regard for your finer feelings, that you desired to break off all correspondence with me and deny me this paltry compensation for the sacrifice you demanded, taking everything from me, even the love which could alone give you that right. And now it is after speaking to you with a sincerity that even my love’s self-interest could not diminish that you flee from me today, as though I were a dangerous seducer whose perfidy you have recognized.
Will you never tire of such injustice? Tell me at least what new wrongs have provoked you to such unkindness; do not refuse to dictate the orders you wish me to obey. As I undertake to carry them out, is it too much to ask that you tell me what they are?
From —, 15 September 17**
LETTER 78
The Présidente de Tourvel to the Vicomte de Valmont
You seem, Monsieur, surprised by my conduct and almost to be asking me to justify it, as if you had a right to blame me. I confess I should have thought I had more grounds for surprise and grievance than you. But ever since the refusal contained in your last reply I have taken the decision to envelop myself in an indifference which no longer leaves room for any criticism or reproach. However, since you ask for explanations and, thanks be to God, I feel nothing within me that should prevent me giving them, I will once more try to explain my reasoning to you.
Anyone reading your letters would think I was unjust or very strange. I do not think I deserve anyone to have this opinion of me. I had thought that you were less likely than others to entertain it. I am sure you felt that in obliging me to justify myself you were forcing me to remember everything that has passed between us. Apparently you thought only to gain from this scrutiny. Since for my part I do not believe I have anything to lose, at least in your eyes, I do not fear to expose myself to it. Perhaps this is, in fact, the only way of ascertaining which of us has the right to complain of the other.
You will, I believe, acknowledge that from your first day in this chateau, Monsieur, your reputation gave me, at the very least, the right to treat you with some reserve. And I might, without being accused of excessive prudery, have confined myself simply to expressions of the coolest politeness. You yourself would have treated me with indulgence, and would have found it quite natural that a woman of so little experience had not the necessary qualities to appreciate yours. That would certainly have been the more prudent course. And had I pursued it, it would have cost me much less; for I shall not hide from you the fact that when Madame de Rosemonde came to tell me about your arrival I had to remind myself of my friendship for her and hers for you, so that she might not perceive how displeased I was by this news.
I am willing to agree that at first you appeared in a more favourable light than I imagined. But you will in your turn concede that it did not last long, and that all too soon you tired of a constraint for which you believed you were not sufficiently compensated by the positive impression it made upon me.
It was then that you abused my innocence and compromised my safety by daring to speak to me of feelings you must surely have realized I should find offensive. And while you yourself were only making matters worse by increasing your misdemeanours, I was attempting to find a way of forgetting them by offering you the opportunity to make amends, at least in part. My demands were so fair that even you did not feel able to refuse them. But you asked my indulgence as of right and took advantage of it to ask a favour, which I certainly ought not to have granted, and yet which you obtained from me. You observed none of the conditions that were attached to it. And your letters have been such that each of them imposed upon me a duty not to reply to them. It was at the very moment when your obstinacy obliged me to put a distance between us that I tried – and perhaps I should not have gone to those lengths – the only means that might allow me to effect a reconciliation between us. But what currency does an honourable feeling have in your eyes? You hold friendship in contempt and, in your blind folly, set at nought both shame and unhappiness, seeking nothing but your own pleasure and victims to sacrifice to it.
As frivolous in your actions as you are inconsequential in your rebukes, you forget about your promises, or rather you make a game of breaking them. Having consented to stay away from me, you come back here without being asked
, without any regard for my pleading or for my reasoning, and without even taking the trouble to let me know in advance. You did not fear to expose me to a shock, the effect of which was quite natural, yet which could have been interpreted unfavourably by people around us. And, far from seeking to distract attention or dispel this embarrassing moment which you had caused, you seemed to be doing everything you could to make it worse. At table you deliberately chose your place next to mine. A slight indisposition forced me to leave before the others, and instead of respecting my wish to be alone you engaged everyone to come and disturb me. Back in the drawing room, if I move an inch I find you there next to me. If I utter one word you are always the one who answers. The most casual remark serves as a pretext to revert to a conversation that I do not wish to hear, and which might well compromise me. For, Monsieur, however clever you are, what I can understand I believe others can understand too.
So, though I am forced by you into immobility and silence, you still continue to pursue me. I cannot raise my eyes without encountering yours. I am constantly obliged to avert my gaze. And with an incomprehensible disregard for the consequences you make all eyes focus upon me at the moment when I should have wished to hide away even from my own.
And you complain about my behaviour! You are surprised at my haste to flee from you! Oh, blame me rather for being too kind, and be surprised that I did not leave the instant you arrived. Perhaps I should have done, and you will force me into this rather desperate but necessary course of action if you do not cease your offensive pursuit of me. No, I do not forget, I shall never forget, what I owe myself, or what I owe to the bonds I have formed, which I respect and cherish. And I beg you to believe that if I ever found myself reduced to the unhappy choice of having to sacrifice them or myself, I should not hesitate. Farewell, Monsieur.
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