Dangerous Liaisons

by Choderlos De Laclos

  I have been told you are very ill, and I am worried about your health. Let me know how you are, my dear. Or let me know through one of your women if you cannot yourself. I only ask one word to set my mind at rest. I should have come straight round to see you this morning had it not been for my baths, which my doctor does not allow me to interrupt;34 and this afternoon I have to go to Versailles, still on my nephew’s business.

  Adieu, my dear. Count on my sincere friendship always.

  Paris, 25 September 17**

  LETTER 87

  The Marquise de Merteuil to Madame de Volanges

  I am writing to you from my bed, my dear friend. The most disagreeable and unexpected event has made me ill with shock and worry. Of course, it is not that I blame myself at all. But it is always so upsetting for a respectable woman who maintains the modesty becoming to her sex to focus public attention upon herself, when I would have given anything to have avoided this unfortunate affair. And I do not know yet whether I might not decide to go to the country and wait for it all to blow over. This is what it is all about.

  At the Maréchale de —’s I met a certain Monsieur de Prévan – you very likely know him by name – with whom I was not acquainted before. But since I met him at her house, I thought I could legitimately think him fit company. He is quite presentable, and seemed not to be lacking in intelligence. Since I was tired of playing cards, I remained the only woman, as it happened, with him and the Bishop of — while everyone else was busy playing lansquenet. We all chatted until suppertime. At table a new play that was being discussed provided him with the opportunity to offer his box to the Maréchale, who accepted. And it was agreed that I should have one of the seats. It was for last Monday at the Comédie Française. As the Maréchale was coming to have supper with me after the performance, I suggested to this gentleman that he should accompany her – which he did. Two days later he paid me a visit, which passed in polite conversation, and without there being anything especially remarkable about it. The following day he came to see me in the morning, which did seem a little unusual, but instead of making him aware of this by the manner in which I received him, I thought it would be best to warn him politely that we were not yet so intimate as he seemed to believe. And so I sent him a very cool, formal invitation to a supper party I was giving the day before yesterday. I spoke to him no more than three or four times in the course of the evening. And he, for his part, withdrew as soon as his game was over. You will agree that up to this point nothing looked less likely to lead to an affair. After the games we had a macédoine, which did not finish until almost two o’clock. And finally I went to bed.

  At least half an hour had elapsed after my women had retired when I heard a noise in my room. I opened my curtains in a fright and saw a man come in by the door that leads to my boudoir. I uttered a piercing scream. And with my nightlight I recognized this Monsieur de Prévan, who with inconceivable effrontery told me not to be alarmed, that he would explain his mysterious behaviour, and begged me not to make any noise. As he spoke, he lit a candle. I was so paralysed I was unable to speak. I think it was his easy, unruffled appearance that petrified me still more. But he had not said two words when I saw what this so-called mystery was. And my only reply, as you may guess, was to pull hard on my bell.

  By an incredible stroke of luck all the servants on duty had stayed up late in one of my women’s rooms and had not yet retired to bed. My chambermaid, who, on entering my room, heard me talking very angrily, was alarmed and summoned everyone. You may imagine the scandal! My servants were furious. For one moment I thought my valet might have killed Prévan. I admit that at the time I was very happy to see them all rally round me. Thinking it over now, I should have preferred only my chambermaid to have come. She would have been enough, and I would have perhaps avoided this public scandal which is causing me such distress.

  Instead of that the tumult woke the neighbours, my servants talked, and ever since yesterday it has been all over Paris. Monsieur de Prévan is in prison by order of the commandant of his corps, who was civil enough to call and present his apologies, as he said. This imprisonment is going to make tongues wag even more. But I did not succeed in persuading him of any other course. The Town and Court have been leaving their names at my door, which I have closed to everyone. The few people I have seen since then have told me that justice has been done, and that public indignation against Monsieur de Prévan is at its height. Of course he deserves it, but that does not make the whole affair any less disagreeable.

  Moreover, this man must have friends, and ones who are capable of making mischief. Who knows, who can know, what they will think up to harm me? Heavens, how unfortunate a young woman is! She achieves nothing simply by avoiding conduct that might excite gossip; she must defend herself against calumny as well.

  Tell me please what you would have done, what you would do in my position; tell me what you think. It is always from you that I have received the sweetest consolation and the wisest advice. It is from you as well that I prefer to receive this.

  Goodbye, my dear, good friend. You know what feelings unite us for ever. My love to your dear daughter.

  Paris, 26 September 17**

  PART THREE

  LETTER 88

  Cécile Volanges to the Vicomte de Valmont

  Despite the real pleasure it gives me, Monsieur, to receive Monsieur le Chevalier Danceny’s letters, and though I desire no less than he does that we might be able to see each other again without hindrance, I have still not dared do what you suggest. In the first place, it is too dangerous. This key which you want me to put in the other one’s place indeed does look quite a lot like it. Yet there is still some difference, and Mamma looks at everything, and notices everything. Moreover, although it has not been used since our arrival here, it would only take one stroke of ill luck. And if it were noticed I should be ruined for ever. It does seem to me that it is definitely not a good idea, and is going rather far, to make a duplicate key like that! It is true that it is you who would be the one responsible; but, in spite of that, if people were to find out about it, the fault and blame would still be mine, since it would be for me that you would be doing it. I have tried to remove the key twice, and I am sure it would be quite easy if it were for anything else. But, I don’t know why, I keep starting to tremble, and I have not been able to summon up the courage to do it. So I think it would be best if we leave things as they are.

  If you would kindly continue to be as helpful as you have been until now, I am sure you will always be able to find a way to pass a letter to me. Even the last one, without the unfortunate circumstance that meant you had to turn round suddenly at a certain moment, would have been quite easy. I realize of course that, unlike me, you have other things to do apart from thinking about all this. But I prefer to contain my impatience and not risk so much. I am sure that Monsieur Danceny would be of my opinion. For each time he wanted something which was going to cause me too much distress he always agreed not to do it.

  I will return Monsieur Danceny’s letter at the same time as this letter, your own and your key. I am none the less most grateful for your kindness and I beg you to continue in it. It is true that I am very unhappy, and were it not for you I should be more so. But it is my mother, when all is said and done. One has to be patient. And as long as Monsieur Danceny still loves me, and you do not abandon me, perhaps there will be happier times.

  I have the honour to be, Monsieur, with deepest gratitude, your humble and very obedient servant.

  From —, 26 September 17**

  LETTER 89

  The Vicomte de Valmont to the Chevalier Danceny

  If your affair is not proceeding as quickly as you would wish, my dear fellow, I am not entirely to blame. I have here more than one obstacle to overcome. The vigilance and severity of Madame de Volanges are not the only ones. Your young friend is also putting a few obstacles in my way. Either through indifference or timidity she does not always follow my advice. And yet I believe
I know better than she does what has to be done.

  I had found a simple means that was convenient and safe for giving her your letters, and so facilitate the meetings you desire. But I have not been able to persuade her to make use of it. I am all the more sorry since I see no other way of bringing you together and since, even with regard to your correspondence, I am in constant fear that we shall all three be compromised. Now obviously I do not wish to run that risk, nor expose the pair of you.

  I should be sorry, however, if the lack of trust displayed by your little friend should prevent me from being useful to you. Perhaps it would be a good idea if you were to write to her about it. See what you wish to do; it is entirely up to you. For it is not enough to help one’s friends, one has to help them after their own fashion. This could also be a further opportunity to make certain of her feelings for you. For the woman who has a will of her own is not as much in love as she professes.

  It is not that I suspect your mistress of inconstancy. But she is very young. She is terrified of her Mamma who, as you are well aware, is only out to harm you. And perhaps it would be dangerous if you let too much time go by without her dwelling on you. Do not, however, imagine you need to worry overly about what I am telling you. At bottom there is no reason for misgiving. It is just the concern of a friend.

  I shall not write any more, because I also have a few things of my own to attend to. I have not made as much progress as you. But I am as much in love, and that is some consolation. And even if I do not succeed on my own account, if I can be of any use to you I shall think I have used my time wisely. Adieu, my friend.

  From the Chateau de —, 26 September 17**

  LETTER 90

  The Présidente de Tourvel to the Vicomte de Valmont

  I very much hope, Monsieur, that this letter will not cause you pain. Or if it does, then at least let it be assuaged by the pain I feel in writing to you. You must know me well enough by now to be assured it is not my intention to distress you. But I am sure you, for your part, do not wish to plunge me into everlasting despair. I beg you therefore, in the name of the loving friendship which I have promised you, and indeed in the name of the feelings you have for me, which may be more keen, but are in no wise more sincere, let us see each other no more. Go. And, until then, let us above all avoid these intimate, dangerous conversations in which some inconceivable force compels me to spend my time listening to things I should not be hearing, while I am never able to speak of what I wish.

  Only yesterday, when you came to join me in the park my one intention was to tell you what I am putting in this letter today. But instead, what did I do? Only concern myself with your love…With your love, which I must never reciprocate! Leave me, leave me, I entreat you.

  Do not fear that absence could ever change my feelings for you. How could I manage to conquer them, when I no longer have the strength even to fight them? As you can see, I tell you everything, but I am less fearful of admitting my weakness than of succumbing to it. Yet the control that I have lost over my feelings I shall maintain over my actions. Yes, I am resolved to maintain this, though it cost me my life.

  Alas, it was not so very long ago that I thought I should be certain never to have such battles to fight. I was congratulating myself that I was safe from such things. Perhaps I was too triumphant. God has punished me, cruelly punished me, for my pride. But at the very moment He strikes, He still, in His compassion, gives me warning before my fall. And I should be more than ever to blame if I continued to be anything less than prudent, given that my strength is failing.

  You have told me a hundred times that you would not wish for a happiness bought by my tears. Oh, let us no longer talk of happiness, but allow me some peace and quiet again.

  In granting my request, what new rights will you not acquire over my heart? And I shall not have to struggle against them since they are founded in virtue. How I shall enjoy my gratitude to you! To you I shall owe the pleasures of delightful feelings, free from remorse, whereas now I am frightened by my feelings and thoughts, and am afraid to think about either you or me. The very idea of you fills me with terror. When I cannot escape from it, I fight it. I cannot banish it, but I push it away from me.

  Would it not be better for both of us to put a stop to this distressing and troubled situation? With your sensitive nature, which has inclined you to love virtue even in the midst of your wrongdoing, you will respect my anguished state, you will not reject my prayer! A gentler but no less tender relationship will take the place of these violent emotions. And then, because of your generosity, I shall be able to breathe freely again, to hold life dear and say with joy in my heart: ‘This peace that I feel, I owe to my friend.’

  If I subject you to some small privations, which I am not imposing upon you but which I ask of you, do you think that will be too high a price to pay for the end of my torments? Ah, if all I had to do to obtain your happiness was to consent to be unhappy, you can believe me, I should not for a moment hesitate…But to become a sinner!…No, my friend, I had rather die a thousand deaths.

  Already beset by shame, and near to remorse, I am afraid of other people, and of myself. I blush when in company and tremble when alone. My life is nothing but pain. I shall have peace only if you consent. My most admirable resolutions are not sufficient to reassure me. I only made this one yesterday and yet I spent last night in tears.

  So you see before you your friend, the one you love, mortified, pleading, asking you for peace and innocence. Oh God! Without you, would she ever have been reduced to this humiliating demand? I do not blame you for anything. I feel only too keenly how difficult it is to resist an overpowering feeling. An appeal is not a complaint. Do out of generosity what I am doing out of duty. And to all the feelings you have inspired in me I shall add that of eternal gratitude.

  Adieu, adieu, Monsieur.

  From —, 27 September 17**

  LETTER 91

  The Vicomte de Valmont to the Présidente de Tourvel

  I am dismayed by your letter, Madame, and do not, as yet, know how to respond. Undoubtedly, if it is a question of choosing between your unhappiness and mine, I must be the one to sacrifice myself, and I should not hesitate. But I believe these important matters deserve to be first discussed and clarified. And how can we achieve that if we are not to see or speak to each other?

  What! When the sweetest of feelings unites us, is a senseless fear all that it takes to separate us, perhaps for ever? In vain shall loving friendship and ardent love demand their rights! Their voices will not be heard; but why? What is this imminent danger hanging over you? Ah, believe me, such fears, so lightly conceived, are already, I should say, powerful enough reasons to guarantee your safety.

  Allow me to suggest that I see in all this evidence of the unfavourable impressions that you have received about me. A woman does not fear a man she respects. And especially she does not seek to banish from her side the man she has judged to be worthy of her friendship. It is the dangerous man she fears and flies from.

  Yet who was ever more respectful and submissive than I am? Already, as you perceive, I am studying my language. I no longer allow myself to use those sweet names so dear to my heart, which I still call you in secret. No longer am I the faithful, unhappy lover receiving counsel and consolation from a loving and sympathetic friend. I am the accused before the judge, the slave in front of his master. These new roles no doubt impose new duties. I declare I shall fulfil them all. Listen to me, and if you condemn me I shall subscribe to it and leave. I promise you even more. Do you prefer to act like a despot and arrive at a judgement without a hearing? Do you have the courage to be unjust? Command and I shall yet obey.

  But this judgement, this command, let me hear it from your own lips. Why, you will ask in your turn. Ah, if you put this question to me, how little you know of love and my heart! Is it then nothing for me to see you just one more time? If you bring despair to my soul, perhaps one consoling glance will save me from giving in to it. And if in t
he end I have to renounce love and friendship, for which alone I exist, at least you will see what you have done, and your compassion will remain with me. Though I might not deserve this poor recompense, I am, I believe, paying a high price in the hope of obtaining it.

  What! Are you going to send me away? Is it your will that we should become strangers to each other? What am I saying? It is your will. And while you assure me that my absence will not change how you feel about me, you are only hastening my departure in order to destroy those feelings the sooner.

  Already you speak of substituting gratitude for love. So, what any stranger could, for the slightest service, expect from you, and what even your enemy, in ceasing to harm you, might obtain, that is what you are offering me! And you think I should be content with that! Ask yourself this question: If your lover, your friend, came to talk to you one day of his gratitude, would you not say to him in indignation: ‘Begone, ungrateful wretch’?

  I shall stop and beg your indulgence. Pardon me for giving vent to a grief that you have brought into being. It will make no difference to my total submissiveness. But I beseech you in my turn, in the name of these sweet feelings which you yourself have so often mentioned, do not refuse to hear me. And, out of pity for the mortal agony into which you have plunged me, do not put off the hour. Adieu, Madame.

  From —, 27 September, 17**, in the evening

  LETTER 92

  The Chevalier Danceny to the Vicomte de Valmont

  Oh my dear friend! Your letter terrifies me, and has turned my heart to ice. Cécile – oh God, is it possible? – Cécile does not love me any more. Yes, I perceive this terrible truth through the veil your friendship has thrown over it. You wished to prepare me for this mortal blow. I thank you for your care, but can love ever be deceived? It runs ahead of its interests. It does not learn its fate, but divines it. I am no longer in any doubt about my own. Speak to me frankly. You can, and I beg you to. Let me know everything. What has given rise to your suspicions, what has confirmed them. The tiniest detail is precious. Especially try to remember what she said. One word instead of another can change the whole sense of a sentence. The same word sometimes has two meanings. Perhaps you have misunderstood? Alas, I am trying to make myself feel better. What did she say? Does she blame me in some way? Does she not, at least, make excuses for herself? I should have foreseen this alteration, given the difficulties she has been finding for so long in everything. Love would not place all these obstacles in its way.