So the poor dear child is to be pitied, is she! And did she have shadows under her eyes next day! What will you say when your lover has shadows beneath his as well? Come come, darling, you will not always look like that. All men are not Valmonts. And then not daring to raise those little eyes! Oh my goodness, you were quite right not to! Everyone would have seen the whole adventure written in them. But, believe me, if that were the case, then the eyes of all our women and even our young girls would be more downcast.
In spite of the compliments I am obliged to pay you, as you see, you must admit that you have failed to deliver your master stroke; that is, telling your Mamma everything. And it all started so well! You had already thrown yourself into her arms; you were sobbing, she was weeping as well. What a pathetic scene! And what a pity you did not finish it! Your loving mother, in rapturous satisfaction, and by way of assisting your virtue, would have immured you in a cloister for good. And there you could have loved Danceny as much as you wanted without fear of rivalry or sin. You could have despaired as much as you wished, and Valmont for certain would not have been able to disturb your grief with his annoying pleasures.
Seriously, how can you be so childish when you are past fifteen years of age? You are right to say you do not deserve my kindness. Yet I wished to be your friend. And I should say you need that, with the mother you have, and the husband she wishes to give you! But if you do not take steps to improve your education, what do you expect people to do with you? What hope is there if what makes girls come to their senses seems on the contrary to have deprived you of yours?
If you would make up your mind to be sensible for a moment, you would soon realize that you need to congratulate yourself rather than complain. But you are ashamed, and that is a worry to you! Well, calm down. The shame caused by love is like the pain, you only experience it once. You can pretend later, but you do not feel it any more. Yet the pleasure remains, and that is something. Do I understand through all your babbling that you could even set great store by it? Come now, be honest. This trouble which prevented you from doing what you said, which made you find it so difficult to defend yourself, which made you almost sorry when Valmont departed, was it really shame that caused it or was it pleasure? And his way of talking, so that it is hard to know how to answer him, would that not be because of his way of behaving? Ah my girl, you are telling lies and lying to your friend! That is not good enough. But let us say no more about it.
What might be a pleasure and no more than a pleasure for the rest of us has been a real stroke of fortune as far as you are concerned. For caught as you are in between a mother whose love you need and a lover whose love you want for ever, do you not see that the only way of obtaining these contrary outcomes is to occupy yourself with a third party? You will be distracted by this new affair, and while vis-à-vis your Mamma you will appear to be making a sacrifice and submitting to her wishes, you will acquire in the eyes of your lover the honour of putting up a good defence. Assuring him constantly of your love, you will not grant him the final proof of it. And in the circumstances he will be sure to attribute these refusals, which will not cause you any pain at all, to your virtuous character. He might complain about them, but he will love you all the more. And while you appear to be doubly deserving – to the one in the sacrifice of your love, and to the other in your resisting – all it will cost you is the enjoyment of its pleasures. Oh, how many women whose reputations have been ruined would have kept them intact had they seen their way to sustaining them in this manner!
Does the course I am suggesting not seem the most reasonable as well as the most attractive? Do you realize what you have achieved from the decision you have taken? Your Mamma has attributed your excessive grief to an excess of love; she is outraged by this and, to punish you for it, all she is waiting for is to be quite certain. She has just written to me about it. She is going to try every means to make you admit it and, to make you talk, she will even go so far as to suggest you marry Danceny. But if you allow yourself to be taken in by this false display of affection, and reply according to the dictates of your heart, you will soon be locked away for a very long time, perhaps for ever, and will repent your blind credulity at leisure.
You have to counteract the trick she is trying to play on you by playing one on her. So start by not making such a display of your melancholy, so as to make her believe your mind is not continually on Danceny. She will be persuaded of it so much more easily as this is the usual result of absence. And she will be all the more pleased with you, for she will find she has occasion to congratulate herself on her prudence, which has suggested to her this course of action. But if she still has her doubts and, persists in putting you to the test, and comes to discuss marriage with you, like the well-born girl you are, just contain your feelings and give in completely. For what risk do you run? As far as husbands go, one is just as good as another. And even the most unaccommodating is much less of a trial than a mother.
Once she is more content with you, your Mamma will finally arrange your marriage. And then you will have more freedom of action and be able to, if you wish, leave Valmont and take Danceny, or even keep them both. For, mark my words, your Danceny is a nice young man. But he is one of those men you can have whenever you want and as often as you want, so you may feel easy about him. Valmont is quite another matter. He is a difficult man to keep and a dangerous one to leave. You need to exercise a great deal of skill with him, and if you do not have skill, then a great deal of docility. On the other hand, if you were able to form a friendship with him, it would be a real piece of good fortune! He would immediately place you in the first rank of our women of fashion. That is the way one acquires a certain substance in society, not by blushing and weeping as you did in the days when your nuns made you kneel at supper.
So if you are sensible you will try to make it up with Valmont, who must be very angry with you. And as you must learn to repair these foolish mistakes, do not be afraid to make advances to him. You will soon learn that though men are the ones who make the first move, we are almost always obliged to make the second. You have a pretext for this, for you must not keep this letter: I insist that as soon as you have read it you give it to Valmont. But do not forget to seal it again before you do. First, because you must be allowed to take the credit for your actions towards him, and not seem to be acting simply upon advice. And then because I am the only friend that you have in the whole world close enough to speak to you as I do.
Farewell, my angel. Follow my advice and tell me if you feel better for it.
P.S. By the way, I was forgetting…One word more. Take more care with your style. You still write like a child. I can see why. It is because you say everything you think and never what you do not think. That is all right between you and me, since we have nothing to hide from each other. But with everyone else! And especially with your lover! You will always be thought of as a silly little girl. When you write to someone, you see, you are writing for them, not for yourself. You should attempt to talk less about what you think and more about what the person you are writing to will wish to hear.
Farewell, dear heart. I shall kiss you instead of scolding you, hoping that you will be more reasonable in future.
Paris, 4 October 17**
LETTER 106
The Marquise de Merteuil to the Vicomte de Valmont
Bravo, Vicomte, this time I love you madly! In any case, after the first of your two letters I was expecting the second, so I did not find it very surprising. And while you were already boasting about your future successes and claiming your reward, and asking if I were ready, I could see that I had no need to hurry. Yes, on my honour. As I was reading your touching account of this love scene which deeply moved you; as I observed your restraint, worthy of the best tradition of chivalry, I said to myself a dozen times: ‘He has bungled it!’
But how could it be otherwise? What do you expect a poor woman to do if she gives herself to you and you do not take her? In such cases, for Heaven’s s
ake, one must at least save face. And that is what your Présidente has done. My impression is that this march she has stolen upon you is not without its effect, and I intend to make use of it myself on the first important occasion that arises. But, I promise you, if the person for whom I pay that price does not take advantage of it any better than you have done, he can forget about me for ever, and that’s for sure.
So now you are reduced to absolutely nothing! And by two women, one already the affair of the morning after, and the other longing to be one! My goodness! You will think I am showing off and that it is easy to be wise after the event, but I swear to you I was expecting it. You do not really have a genius for your role in life; you know nothing except what you have learned, and you invent nothing. So, as soon as circumstances no longer lend themselves to your usual formulas and you have to depart from the normal routes, you are brought up short like a schoolboy. On the one hand childish behaviour and on the other a return of prudery are enough to disconcert you totally because you do not come across them every day. And you can neither prevent nor remedy them. Ah Vicomte! Vicomte! You teach me not to judge men by their successes. But soon we shall have to say about you: ‘He was a fine fellow once.’ And when you have committed one foolishness after another you come running back to me! It would seem I have nothing else to do except make good your mistakes. It is true I should have more than enough to keep me busy.
Whatever the rights and wrongs of these two affairs, the one is undertaken against my wishes and I do not want to become involved. As to the other, as you have been to some extent helpful to me, I will concern myself with it. The letter that I append here, which you must read first and then deliver to the little Volanges girl, is more than enough to bring her back. But I beg you to take pains with the child, and let us unite in causing her to be the despair of her mother and of Gercourt. Do not be afraid to increase the dose. It is plain that she will not be the least bit frightened if you do. And once our designs are fulfilled she will have to cope as best she can.
I shall pull out of the whole affair completely. I had a vague notion of making her a subsidiary in the plot and have her play a supporting role, but I see she is not the right material. She has a silly ingenuousness which has not been cured even by your medicine, which scarcely ever fails. And that is in my opinion the most dangerous illness a woman can have. It denotes, above all, a weakness of character which is almost always incurable and resistant to everything. So while we were busy schooling the child for intrigue, all we should make of her would be a woman of easy virtue. Now I know nothing so dull as that faculty for stupidity that gives itself without knowing how or why, but only because it is being attacked and cannot resist. That kind of woman is nothing but a pleasure machine.
You will say that we may as well do that, and that that is enough for our purposes. Well, all right! But let us not forget that everyone soon becomes familiar with the springs and motors of that sort of machine. So in order to make use of this one without danger you have to be quick, and stop in good time, and then destroy it. In truth we shall have plenty of ways of getting rid of her, and Gercourt will have her safely put away as soon as we like. In fact, when he no longer has any doubts about his discomfiture and the whole thing is very public and notorious, what difference does it make if he takes his revenge, as long as he does not console himself? What I say about the husband, you no doubt are thinking about the mother. So it is as good as done.
This decision I have reached seems to me the best and has convinced me we should lead the child along rather rapidly, as you will see from my letter. That makes it also very important not to leave anything in her hands that could compromise us, and I beg you to pay attention to this. Once we have taken this precaution I will look after the moral side and the rest is up to you. If, however, we see that the ingenuousness corrects itself afterwards, we shall still have time to alter the plan. We should in any case one day have had to consider what we are going to do. But our attention to detail will in no circumstances be wasted.
Did you know that mine very nearly was, and that Gercourt’s lucky star almost triumphed over my prudence? That Madame de Volanges had a momentary maternal weakness? That she wanted to give her daughter to Danceny? That was the meaning of the more tender interest manifested the morning after. And again you are the one who would have been the cause of this fine state of affairs! Fortunately her loving mother wrote me a letter about it, and I hope my reply will turn her against that idea. In it I go on such a lot about virtue and flatter her so much, she must be persuaded I am right.
I am annoyed I did not have time to take a copy of my letter, so that I could edify you about the strictness of my morality. You would see how I pour scorn on women depraved enough to take lovers! It is so easy to be moralistic when one is writing! It never hurts anyone but other people, and troubles oneself not at all…And I am very well aware that the good lady had, like everyone, her own little faiblesses in her younger days, so I was pleased to humiliate her, if only to prick her conscience. It would console me a little for the praise I lavished on her against my own conscience. And so it was that in the same letter the idea of hurting Gercourt gave me the strength to speak well of him.
Farewell, Vicomte. I am greatly in favour of your decision to remain for a time in your present situation. I can think of no way to hasten your progress, but I invite you to relieve your boredom with the pupil we have in common. As for me, in spite of your polite quotation you must see that we still have to wait a while. And you will no doubt agree that it is not my fault.
Paris, 4 October 17**
LETTER 107
Azolan to the Vicomte de Valmont
Monsieur,
In accordance with your instructions I went to Monsieur Bertrand’s house as soon as I received your letter and he gave me twenty-five louis, as you had told him to. I asked him for two more for Philippe, whom I had told to leave straight away as Monsieur ordered, and who had no money. But your agent refused, saying he had not received any such order from you. So I was obliged to give him them myself, and perhaps Monsieur will be so good as to bear that in mind.
Philippe left last night. I instructed him carefully to stay in the inn so that we could be sure of getting hold of him if necessary.
I went to Madame la Présidente’s house immediately afterwards to see Mademoiselle Julie. But she had gone out and I was only able to speak to La Fleur, who could tell me nothing, because since her arrival he has only been in the house at meal-times. It was his assistant on duty and, as Monsieur knows, I am not acquainted with him. But I made a start on my work today.
I went back to Mademoiselle Julie’s this morning and she seemed most happy to see me. I questioned her as to the reason for her mistress’s return, but she told me she did not know and I believe she was telling the truth. I scolded her for not warning me of her departure and she assured me she did not know about it until the same evening when she went to help Madame to bed. The poor girl spent the whole night packing and did not have more than a couple of hours’ sleep. She did not emerge from her mistress’s bedroom until past one o’clock in the morning, leaving her on her own and about to write a letter.
In the morning, as she was leaving, Madame de Tourvel gave a letter to the housekeeper in the chateau. Mademoiselle Julie does not know who it was for. She said it was perhaps for Monsieur. But Monsieur has not said anything about it.
During the whole journey Madame had a large hood covering her face, and therefore could not be seen, but Mademoiselle Julie is sure she wept frequently. She did not say a word on the way, and she did not wish to stop at —,* as she had done on the way down. That was not very pleasant for Julie, who had not breakfasted. But, as I told her, a mistress is a mistress.
On arrival Madame retired to bed, but she only remained there for two hours. When she rose she summoned her porter and gave him orders not to allow anyone in. She did not wash or dress. She went down to dinner, but she only ate a little soup and then left immediately. T
hey took her coffee up to her and Mademoiselle Julie went in at the same time. She found her mistress tidying papers in her desk and saw they were letters. I’ll wager they were letters from Monsieur. And of the three that arrived for her in the afternoon there was one she still had in front of her in the evening! I am sure it was another one from Monsieur. But why did she run away like that? I am most astonished! Anyway, Monsieur must know why, and it is none of my business.
Madame la Présidente went into the library in the afternoon and took two books which she carried off to her boudoir. Mademoiselle Julie assures me she did not read them for more than a quarter of an hour the whole day, and all she did was read that letter, dream and hold her head in her hands. As I expect Monsieur would dearly like to know what those books were, and Mademoiselle Julie had no idea, I got someone to take me to the library today on the pretext of visiting it. There was only an empty space for two books: one was for the second volume of Christian Thoughts and the other the first volume of a book entitled Clarissa.7 I am writing it down exactly as it is. Monsieur will perhaps know the book.
Yesterday evening Madame did not have supper. She only drank tea.
She rang early this morning. She called for her horses immediately and she was at the Feuillants8 before nine o’clock, where she observed Mass. She wished to go to confession, but her confessor was away and will not be back for eight or ten days. I thought it was best to inform Monsieur of that.
She came back afterwards and started to write, and was writing for nearly an hour. I took an early opportunity to do what Monsieur most wished me to do. I was the one to take the letters to the post. There were none for Madame de Volanges, but I am sending one to Monsieur which was for the Président. I thought that one would be the most interesting. There was one for Madame de Rosemonde too, but I thought Monsieur would be able to see that whenever he wished and I let it go. Moreover, Monsieur will soon know everything because Madame la Présidente has written to him as well. From now on I shall have all the ones he wants. For it is almost always Mademoiselle Julie who gives them to the servants, and she has assured me that out of friendship for me and also for Monsieur she is happy to do what I want.
Dangerous Liaisons Page 29
