Dangerous Liaisons

by Choderlos De Laclos

  Since I am giving an account of myself, I wish to be precise. I can hear you saying that I am at least at the mercy of my chambermaid. It is true that even though she is not party to my innermost feelings, she is to my actions. When you spoke to me about this matter before, my only answer was that I was sure of her. And the proof that this reply was enough for your peace of mind is that since then you have confided some fairly dangerous secrets to her on your own account. But now that you are resentful towards Prévan and getting agitated about all this, I am sure that you will not take my word for it, so I shall explain further.

  First, this girl and I were nursed at the same breast, and this bond, which you and I may not regard as a bond, carries a considerable weight with people of that class. Moreover, I know her guilty secret, and better than that: she was the victim of a disastrous love affair and would have been lost but for me.26 Her parents positively bristled with honour, and all they wanted to do was have her locked up. They approached me. I saw at a glance how useful to me their anger might be. I gave my support, applied for and obtained the order for arrest. Then, suddenly shifting to the side of clemency, and managing to convince her parents of it as well, I turned my credit with the old minister to advantage, and made them all agree to leave this order in my hands, with the power to prevent or demand its execution according to my judgement of the girl’s future conduct. So she knows that I hold her fate in my hands. And if this were not enough to prevent her, is it not evident that, as soon as her behaviour and her just punishment became public knowledge, that would very soon deprive what she says of all credibility?

  To these precautions, which I should call basic, I might add, as necessary, and according to circumstance and opportunity, a thousand more which are suggested to me by reflection or habit. It would be tedious to go into too much detail, but nevertheless they are important, and you must take the trouble to review them in the light of my whole conduct if you wish to arrive at a proper understanding of them all.

  But to expect that, after I have gone to such lengths, I should not reap the rewards, or that, having raised myself so much above other women by my painstaking efforts, I should now consent to creep along as they do, in between recklessness and timidity; or, above all, that I should so fear a man that I saw no safety anywhere except in fleeing him? No, Vicomte, never. One must conquer or die. As for Prévan, I want him, and I shall have him. He wants to be able to say so, and he shall not say so. And there, in brief, is our story. Adieu.

  From —, 20 September 17**

  LETTER 82

  Cécile Volanges to the Chevalier Danceny

  Dear God, how your letter distressed me! And to think how impatient I was to receive it! I hoped to find consolation, but now I am sadder than before. I wept so much when I read it, but that is not what I blame you for. I have wept many times already on your account, without it greatly troubling me. But this time it is not at all the same.

  What do you mean, your love has become a torment to you, you cannot live like this any more, and you cannot put up with this situation any longer? Are you going to stop loving me because it is not so pleasurable as it was before? It seems to me that I am no happier than you, quite the opposite, and yet I love you all the more. If Monsieur de Valmont has not written, it is not my fault. I have not been able to ask him to because I have not been on my own with him, and we have agreed never to speak to each other when everyone is there. And that is for your sake as well, so that he can do what you wish all the sooner. I am not saying that I do not wish it too; you cannot be in any doubt of that. But what do you expect me to do? If you believe it is so easy, why don’t you find a way? Nothing would please me more.

  Do you think it is nice for me being scolded every day by Mamma when at one time she never said anything? Quite the contrary. At the moment it is worse than when I was in the convent. I have been consoling myself, thinking it was for your sake, and there have even been moments when I found I was quite happy about it. But now I see that you are angry as well, without me being in any way to blame, it makes me more unhappy than anything that has ever happened to me before.

  Even receiving your letters is difficult, and, if Monsieur de Valmont were not as agreeable and clever as he is, I should not know what to do. Writing to you is even more difficult. In the mornings I do not dare because Mamma’s room is right next to mine and she comes into my room the whole time. Sometimes I can in the afternoons, on the pretext of singing or playing the harp. But I still have to break off at each line so that I can be heard practising. Luckily my chambermaid sometimes falls asleep in the evenings and I tell her I can make ready for bed on my own, so that she will go away and leave me the light. And then I have to hide behind the curtain so that my light cannot be seen, and listen for the tiniest sound so that I can hide everything under the bedclothes if anybody comes. I wish you were there to see! You would realize that you have to be really in love to do things like that. Anyway, I truly am doing all I can and I wish I could do more.

  Of course I do not refuse to tell you that I love you and always will. I have never meant it more. And yet you are angry! Before I said it, you assured me that that was all you needed to make you happy. You cannot deny it. It is in your letters. Though I do not have them any more, I remember them as if I read them every day. But because we are not together you no longer feel the same way! But presumably this absence will not last for ever! Oh God, how unhappy I am! And you are the reason for it!

  About your letters, I hope you have kept the ones that Mamma took away from me, that she sent back to you; surely there will come a time when things won’t be so difficult as they are at present and you can give them all back to me. How happy I shall be when I can keep them for ever and ever without anybody interfering! At present I shall give mine to Monsieur de Valmont because otherwise it will be too risky. All the same, I never give them back without feeling greatly troubled.

  Goodbye, my dearest. I love you with all my heart. I shall love you all my life. I hope you are not annoyed any more now. If I were certain of that, I should not be anxious any more either. Write to me as soon as you can, for I feel that I shall not be happy until then.

  From the Chateau of —, 21 September 17**

  LETTER 83

  The Vicomte de Valmont to the Présidente de Tourvel

  Let us, I earnestly beg you, Madame, resume the conversation that was so unfortunately interrupted! Then I may finally prove to you how different I am from the odious portrait people have painted of me and, most of all, continue to enjoy that delightful confidence you were beginning to show in me! What charms you bestow upon virtue! How much more lovely and beautiful you render all honest feelings! Indeed, that is your special magic, the most potent; and the only one both powerful and honourable.

  Merely to see you is to desire to please you. Simply hearing your voice in company suffices to increase this desire. But he who has the good fortune to know you better, he who at times is privileged to look into your heart, soon gives in to a more noble passion: he loves and worships you utterly, and adores in you the image of all goodness. I am perhaps more inclined than another to love and seek this out, after being led astray by one or two errors that made me a stranger to these virtues; you are the one who has drawn me back to them, you who have made me feel once again how perfectly delightful they are. Will you call this new love a crime? Will you find fault with your handiwork? Will you even blame yourself for participating in this? What harm can come from such a pure feeling, and what sweet delight would you not find in tasting it?

  My love frightens you; you find it violent, unbridled! Temper it with a gentler love. Do not refuse the power over me that I am offering you, from which I vow never to seek to escape; a power which, I venture to believe, might indeed further the cause of virtue. What sacrifice would I find too painful to make if I were sure that your heart would know what it had cost me? Is there a man so unfortunate that he may not enjoy the privations he imposes on himself? Which man would not prefer on
e word, one gracious look bestowed, to all the pleasures he might take or seize by force! And you believed I was such a man! And you were afraid of me! Ah, why does your happiness not depend upon me! What sweet revenge would there be for me in making you happy! But barren friendship cannot create this gentle power. Only love can.

  This word intimidates you! Why? It means a more tender attachment, a closer intimacy, a meeting of minds, the same happiness, the same unhappiness, and what is so strange to your nature in that? That is what love is! The love that you inspire and I feel! And especially it is unselfishness, the ability to appreciate an action on its merit and not on its value. An inexhaustible treasure-house for sensitive souls, everything becomes precious when done in its name.

  These truths are so easy to grasp, so sweet to practise! What is so frightening about them? What fear can a sensitive man cause you, a man whose love does not allow him any happiness but your own? That is now my only wish. I shall sacrifice everything to fulfil it, apart from the feeling which has inspired it. Consent to share this feeling, and you shall order it as you choose. But no longer let it divide us when it ought to unite us. If the friendship you have offered me is not an empty word; if, as you told me yesterday, it is the sweetest feeling known to your heart, let your heart decide. I shall not question its decision. But if it is to be a judge of love, let it give love a hearing. To refuse would be unjust, and friendship is never unjust.

  A second meeting would have no more disadvantages than our first. Chance will perhaps yet provide the occasion. You may yourself be able to indicate when. I am willing to believe I have done wrong. Would it not be preferable for you to bring me back to the fold rather than struggle against me, and do you doubt that I shall do what you say? If we had not been interrupted by that importunate third party, perhaps I should already have quite come round to your way of thinking. Who knows how far your power may reach?

  Shall I say it? At times I am afraid of this invincible power, to which I yield, not daring to count the cost; afraid of this irresistible fascination, which makes you sovereign over my thoughts as well as my actions. Perhaps, alas, it is I who am in the greater danger from this tête-à-tête I am asking for!

  Afterwards, a prisoner of my vows, I shall find myself reduced to burning with a love which I know will never die, but without even daring to implore your help! Oh Madame, do not, I beg you, abuse the dominion you have over me! But if you should be happier because of it, if because of it I may seem worthier of you, how greatly my pain will be assuaged by that consolation! Yes, I know. To speak to you again would be to provide you with more powerful weapons against me. I should be utterly subject to your will. I find it easier to defend myself against your letters. They are your words still, but you are not there in person to add strength to them. But the pleasure of hearing your voice makes me face these dangers. At least I shall have the happiness of doing everything for you, even to the detriment of myself. And my sacrifices too will become a homage. It will make me so happy to prove to you in a thousand ways, to prove what I feel a thousand times over, that, not even excepting myself, you are and always will be the object dearest to my heart.

  From the Chateau de —, 23 September 17**

  LETTER 84

  The Vicomte de Valmont to Cécile Volanges

  You saw how everything was against us yesterday. All day long I was unable to pass on the letter I had for you. I do not know if I shall find it any easier today. I’m afraid of compromising you by being more zealous than adroit. Such carelessness would be fatal to you, and I should never forgive myself. It would make my friend despair and cause you to be unhappy for the rest of your life. But I know how impatient love is; I feel how painful it must be to experience a delay in what must, in your present circumstances, be your only consolation. By dint of continually mulling over how to remove these obstacles in our path, I have come up with one plan which would be easy to put into operation if you were careful.

  I believe I have noticed that the key to the door of your room, which gives on to the corridor, is always on your mother’s mantelpiece. Everything would be easy if we had this key, you must see that. But if you cannot get hold of it, I will obtain a similar one instead. All I should need is to have the other one at my disposal for an hour or two. You will easily find an opportunity to take it. And, so that they don’t notice it is missing, I am sending you one of mine which looks quite similar, so that no one will know the difference unless they try it. Which they will not. All you have to do is be careful to tie a ribbon on it, a faded blue ribbon like the one on yours.

  You should attempt to get this key for tomorrow or the day after, at breakfast-time. It will be easier for you to give it to me then and it can be put back in its place by evening, when your Mamma might notice it more. I can give it back to you at dinner, if we can agree how to do this.

  You know that when you go from the salon to the dining room it is always Madame de Rosemonde who brings up the rear. I shall give her my arm. All you must do is put your tapestry away slowly or else drop something on the floor so that you lag behind. Then you will easily be able to take the key that I shall be sure to hold behind my back. As soon as you have taken it, you must make sure you go over to my old aunt again and be attentive to her. If by any chance you were to drop the key, do not allow yourself to look embarrassed. I shall pretend that it was I who did so, and you can totally rely on me.

  The fact that your mother trusts you so little and treats you so harshly justifies this small deceit. But, chiefly, this is the only way you can carry on receiving Danceny’s letters and pass yours to him. Every other means is really too dangerous and could leave you both with nothing, so as a cautious friend I would feel I were to blame if I were to choose another method.

  Once masters of the key we shall have to take a few precautions against the noise of the door and the lock. But that is not a problem. Under the same cupboard where I put your paper you will find some oil and a quill. Sometimes you go to your room and are alone. You must make the most of that time to oil the lock and the hinges. The one thing you must avoid is making any spots which would incriminate you. And it would be best to do it after dark because if you are clever enough to do it properly, it will not show the next day.

  If anyone notices, do not hesitate to say that it was the chateau’s frotteur27 who did it. In that case you will have to specify the time, and even say what he said to you. As, for instance, that to prevent them rusting he was seeing to all the locks that were not in general use. For you realize it would not have been likely that you witnessed this disturbance without asking the reason for it. It is these little details which make it more realistic, and thus render lies unimportant, because they take away any wish people might have to query them.

  After you have read this letter, please read it again and think it over. First, because to do a thing properly you must have a good idea of what it is you are aiming at. But also to make sure I have not forgotten anything. I am so unaccustomed to employing such strategies on my own account that I am not practised in them, and nothing but my close friendship for Danceny and my liking for you would induce me to make use of these means, innocent as they are. I hate everything which seems deceitful. That is the sort of man I am. But your unhappiness has touched me so deeply that I shall do everything possible to alleviate it.

  As you can imagine, once we have established this communication between ourselves it will be much easier to secure the meeting Danceny wishes. However, do not speak to him yet about all this. You would only make him more impatient, and the time for satisfaction has not yet quite arrived. You owe it to him, in my view, to calm him down rather than increase his anxiety. I rely on your tact. Goodbye, my dear pupil; for you are indeed my pupil. Try to like your tutor a little, and, most of all, be guided by him. You will reap the benefit. Your happiness is my concern, and you may be sure I shall, in that, find my own.

  From —, 24 September 17**

  LETTER 85

  The Marquise de Mert
euil to the Vicomte de Valmont

  Now set your mind at rest and, above all, admit I was right. Listen to me, and do not confuse me with other women. I have put a stop to my affair with Prévan. A stop! Do you realize exactly what that means? You may now decide which of us may boast about it, him or me. The telling will not be as amusing as the doing; but in any case it would go against the grain, when all you have done is reason and pontificate about the whole affair, that you should get as much pleasure as I, who have put so much time and trouble into it.

  However, if you are planning some coup, or wish to attempt some enterprise in which he is to figure as the dangerous rival, then now is the moment. He has left the field to you, at least for the time being. And it is possible he will never get over what I have done to him.

  How lucky you are to have me for a friend! I am a fairy godmother to you!28 You languish far away from the beautiful woman who obsesses you; one word from me and you find yourself at her side again. You wish to take revenge upon a woman who is harming you; I indicate the place you need to strike and leave her to your tender mercies. Finally, in order to remove a redoubtable rival from the lists, yet again you summon me, and I grant you your wish. And may I say that if you do not spend your life thanking me, you are an ungrateful wretch. So, let us go right back to the beginning of my affair.