Dangerous Liaisons

by Choderlos De Laclos

  I am respectfully, Madame, and with all the sentiments that behove a son, your very humble, etc.

  Comte de Gercourt

  Bastia, 10 October 17**

  LETTER 112

  Madame de Rosemonde to the Présidente de Tourvel

  (Dictated)

  I have only just received, my dear, your letter of the eleventh* and the gentle reproach it contains. You must admit you would have liked to make many more, and that, had you not remembered you were my daughter, you would have really scolded me. That would have been most unjust of you! It was because of my wish and my hope of being able to reply to you myself that I put it off each day. But as you see, even now I am obliged to borrow the writing hand of my maid. My unfortunate rheumatism has taken hold again.17 It has lodged in my right arm this time, rendering it quite useless. That is what it is like to have such an aged friend, when you are so young and fresh! You suffer from her infirmities.

  As soon as my pain lets up a little I promise we will have a long talk. In the meantime, this is to let you know that I have received your two letters, and that they have redoubled, if such a thing is possible, my tender affection for you, and that I shall never cease taking the keenest interest in all your doings.

  My nephew is also a little indisposed, but not in any danger, and there is nothing to worry about. It is a minor ailment which in my opinion is affecting his mood rather than his health. We scarcely see him nowadays.

  His retirement and your departure have made our little circle less gay. The little Volanges girl especially regrets your absence and yawns so much the whole day long she looks as if she might swallow her fists. For the last few days in particular she has been doing us the honour of falling fast asleep every day after dinner.

  Farewell, my dear. I am your very good friend, your Mamma, your sister even, if my great age allowed me to call myself that. Anyway, I am bound to you by all the most tender sentiments.

  Signed: Adélaïde on behalf of Madame de Rosemonde

  From the Chateau de —, 14 October 17**

  LETTER 113

  The Marquise de Merteuil to the Vicomte de Valmont

  I feel I must warn you, Vicomte, that people are beginning to talk about you in Paris. Your absence has been noted and already people are guessing the reason for it. Yesterday I was at a supper where there were a great many guests. It was said there authoritatively that a romantic and unhappy love affair had kept you in the country. Immediately the faces of all those jealous of your success lit up with joy, as did those of all the women you have neglected. If you take my advice, you will not allow these dangerous rumours to gain ground, but will come back directly and put an end to them by your presence.

  Just remember that if you once allow the idea that you are irresistible to lose credence, you will soon see that in fact people will resist you more easily; that your rivals will also lose respect for you and dare to stand up to you. For which of them does not think himself a match for virtue? Above all, remember that from among the multitudes of women you have flaunted in public, all those you have not possessed will be trying to disabuse people, while the others will be doing all they can to deceive them. But, anyway, you must expect that now you will be rated perhaps as much below your worth as up till now you have been rated above it.

  Come back then, Vicomte, and do not sacrifice your reputation to a childish whim. You have made all we wanted of the little Volanges girl. And as to your Présidente, I should imagine it is not by staying ten leagues away from her that you will rid yourself of your fantasies. Do you think she is going to come looking for you? Perhaps she is already no longer thinking about you, or only inasmuch as she is congratulating herself for having humiliated you. At least here you would be able to find some opportunity to reappear with a flourish, which is what you need to do. And if you insist on carrying on with your ridiculous affair, I do not see that your coming back would do any harm…Quite the contrary.

  In fact, if your Présidente adores you as you have so often asserted, but seldom proved, her only consolation, her only pleasure, these days must be to talk about you, and to know what you are doing, what you are saying, what you are thinking, and every last detail about you. These paltry things assume some value because of the privations one endures. They are like crumbs falling from a rich man’s table. He may scorn them, but the poor man eagerly gathers them up and derives nourishment from them. Now at present the poor Présidente is getting all those crumbs. And the more she has, the less anxious she will be to indulge her appetite for the rest.

  Besides, since you know her confidante, you must know that each letter from her contains at least one little sermon and everything she thinks likely to strengthen her goodness and fortify her virtue.*18 Why then, leave the one with resources to defend herself and the other with resources to harm you?

  Not that I agree with you at all about the loss you believe you have sustained in the change of confidante. In the first place Madame de Volanges loathes you, and hatred is always more clear-sighted and ingenious than friendship. And for all your old aunt’s virtues, she will not for a single instant say anything bad about her darling nephew. For virtue also has its failings. Besides, your fears are based on a totally false observation.

  It is not true that the older women get, the harsher and stricter they become. It is between forty and fifty that the despair of seeing their beauty fade, the rage of feeling that they have to abandon the pretensions and pleasures they still cling to, make almost all women sour and prudish. They need this long interval in order to make such an enormous sacrifice. But as soon as it is accomplished they all divide into two types.

  The most numerous, those women who have had only beauty and youth to recommend them, fall into feeble-minded apathy, and only emerge from it to play cards and perform a few acts of devotion. They are always boring, often irritable, sometimes a little aggravating but rarely malicious. But one cannot say these women are, or are not, strict. There is not a thought in their heads; they are scarcely alive; they repeat everything other people say indifferently and uncomprehendingly, and remain complete nullities themselves.

  The other type, much rarer but precious, are those women who, having once had some personality and not having neglected to look after their intellect, know how to create a life for themselves when nature lets them down. They decide to put into their brains the attributes they previously used to enhance their beauty. These women usually have very sane judgement and considerable intelligence of a gay and gracious kind. They replace their seductive charms with an appealing kindness and also with a cheerfulness whose attraction only increases with age. In making themselves loved by the young, they manage in some sense to recapture their youth. And then, far from being, as you say, harsh and strict, their habit of tolerance and their long experience of human frailty, and especially the memories of their youth by which they alone remain reconciled to life, incline them, perhaps sometimes rather too much, to indulgence.

  What I can tell you, though, is that, having always sought the society of older women, because I realized at a very early stage that they were very useful to have on my side, I came across several who not only served my interests but whom I also found sympathetic. I shall not labour the point. For since you are getting so easily and so morally inflamed these days, I am afraid you might suddenly fall in love with your old aunt, and bury yourself with her in the tomb where you have been living for such a long time. So to go back to what I was saying.

  However enchanted you apparently are with your little schoolgirl, I cannot believe she is essential to your plans. You found her at your disposal, you took her. Good for you! But it cannot be a real choice. It is not even, if we are honest, an undivided pleasure. All you possess is her body! I won’t even mention her heart, for I am sure you do not care a jot for that. But you are not even in her head. I do not know if you have noticed, but I have the proof of it in the last letter she wrote,* I am sending it so that you can see for yourself. You can see that when she
writes about you it is always Monsieur de Valmont. All her thoughts, even the ones that you have put into her head, end only in Danceny. And she does not call him ‘Monsieur’, but always only Danceny. In this way she distinguishes him from everyone else. And though she gives herself to you, it is with him that she is intimate. If such a conquest strikes you as fascinating, if the pleasure she gives you makes you grow more fond of her, then you are surely undemanding and easy to please! I allow you to keep her. That is even part of my plans. But it seems to me that it is not worth inconveniencing yourself another quarter of an hour more. It seems to me that you should also exercise some power over her, and only allow her to get near to Danceny, for instance, after you have made her forget him a little more.

  Before I stop talking about your affairs and tell you about mine, I wish to advise you that the strategy of illness you tell me you intend to adopt is very well-known and well-tried. Really, Vicomte, you are not very imaginative! I do repeat myself as well sometimes, as you will see. But my saving grace is in the detail, and the outcome especially does justice to me. I am going to try another one, a new adventure. I agree that it will not have the merit of being challenging, but I am bored to tears.

  I do not know why, but ever since the Prévan affair I have found Belleroche unbearable. He has become much more attentive, loving, adoring, and I cannot stand it. At first I found his anger amusing. But then I had to calm him down, for it would have been compromising to allow him to continue. And there was no way I could make him listen to reason. So I decided to be more loving towards him, in order to quieten him down more easily. But he took it seriously. And ever since then he has been getting on my nerves with his everlasting infatuation. I have noticed in particular the insulting confidence he has in me, and his complacency in regarding me as his for ever. I am truly humiliated by this. Does he place such little value upon me that he thinks himself man enough to capture me! Did he not say recently that I could never have loved anyone but him? Oh, at that moment I needed all my prudence not to disabuse him then and there, by enlightening him about the true situation. What an amusing fellow he is, to be sure, thinking he has exclusive rights! I grant you he cuts a fine figure and is quite handsome. But when all is said and done he is in fact only an unskilled worker in the matter of love. Well, anyway, the time has come for us to go our separate ways.

  For the last two weeks I have been trying to do just that. I have been cool, capricious, moody and quarrelsome by turns; but he is clinging and does not let go that easily. So I have to take more drastic measures. Consequently I am taking him to my country house. We leave the day after tomorrow. There will be with us only a few unattached people, who are not very astute, and we shall have almost as much freedom as if we were by ourselves. Then I shall so overwhelm him with love and caresses, and we shall live so entirely for each other that I wager he, even more than I, will long for the end of this trip, which he now thinks will be so delightful. And if he does not come back more bored with me than I with him, you may declare that I know no more than you about such matters.

  The pretext for this kind of retreat is to think seriously about my important court case, which in fact is finally to be decided at the beginning of winter. I am pleased about that. For it is truly disagreeable to have one’s whole fortune placed in the balance like this. It is not that I am worried about the outcome. In the first place I am in the right. All my lawyers tell me so. And even if I were not, then I should be extremely incompetent if I couldn’t win a case where my adversaries are still only very young minors along with their old tutor! But, as one must not neglect anything in such an important affair, I shall actually have two lawyers with me. Does this trip not seem to you a jolly affair? Yet if it means that I win my case and get rid of Belleroche, I shall not have wasted my time.

  So now, Vicomte, guess who his successor is. I’ll give you a hundred guesses. But then, do I not know that you never guess anything? Well, it’s Danceny. That surprises you, does it not? For surely I am not yet reduced to teaching children! But this one deserves to be made an exception of. He has the grace of youth, but not the frivolity. His considerable reserve among our group of friends means that he is most likely to distance himself from suspicion, and because of that people find him all the more amiable when he does engage in conversation. It is not that I have had a great deal to do with him so far on my own account; I am just his confidante at present. But beneath the veil of friendship I believe I can discern a strong liking for me, and I feel myself taking a strong liking to him. It would be a real shame if so much wit and delicacy should be sacrificed and squandered on that stupid little Volanges girl! I hope he is mistaken in thinking he is in love with her. She is so far from being worthy of him. Not that I am jealous of her. But it would be sheer murder, and I wish to save Danceny from it. So I beg you, Vicomte, take care not to let him get anywhere near his Cécile (as he is still ill-mannered enough to call her). One’s first inclinations are always stronger than one thinks, and I could not be sure of anything were he to see her again at the moment. Especially during my absence. On my return I take responsibility for everything and I shall answer for it.

  I did consider bringing the young man along with me. But I have given up the idea in favour of my customary prudence. I should have been worried that he would notice something between Belleroche and me, and I should be desperate if he had an inkling of what was going on. I wish to offer myself pure and spotless, at least to his imagination. How one should be, in fact, to be truly worthy of him.

  Paris, 15 October 17**

  LETTER 114

  The Présidente de Tourvel to Madame de Rosemonde

  My dear friend,

  I am giving in to my deep anxiety and, although I do not know whether you will be in a position to answer this, I cannot prevent myself questioning you. The health of Monsieur de Valmont, who you say is not in any danger, does not inspire me with as much confidence as you seem to possess. It is not unusual that melancholy and disgust for the world are early signs of some grave illness. The sufferings of the body, like those of the mind, make one long for solitude. And often people are blamed for their ill-humour when they should rather be pitied for their ills.

  It seems to me that he should at least consult someone. Surely you have a doctor nearby since you yourself are not well? Mine, whom I saw this morning, and whom I confess I consulted indirectly, is of the opinion that in naturally active people this sort of sudden apathy should never be neglected. And, as he also said to me, illnesses do not respond to treatment if they are not caught in time. So why make someone so dear to you run this risk?

  What increases my concern is that I have had no news of him for four days. Oh Heavens! You are not telling me falsehoods about his condition, are you? Why would he have stopped writing to me so suddenly? If it were only because of my obstinacy in sending back his letters, I think he would have done it sooner. Well, whatever the case, though I do not believe in presentiments, I have been dreadfully depressed for some days. Oh, perhaps I am on the verge of some calamitous misfortune!

  You would not believe, and I am ashamed to confess it, how troubled I am by not receiving these same letters, which I should none the less refuse to read. But at least then I was sure he still thought of me! And I could see something which came from him. I did not open these letters, but the very sight of them made me weep. My tears afforded me some relief and they alone alleviated just a little the constant oppression I have suffered ever since my return. I beg you, my dear, kind friend, write to me yourself as soon as may be and in the meantime send me news every day of yourself and of him.

  I see I have scarcely mentioned any of your concerns. But you are aware of my feelings, my unreserved affection, my sincere gratitude for your sympathetic friendship. You will forgive me the state I am in, my mortal pain, the frightful torment of having to fear ills of which I am myself perhaps the cause. Oh God, this desperate thought obsesses me and tears me apart. This was a misfortune I had not yet experienced
. But it seems as if I was born to suffer them all.

  Farewell, my dear friend. Love me; pity me. Will there be a letter from you today?

  Paris, 16 October 17**

  LETTER 115

  The Vicomte de Valmont to the Marquise de Merteuil

  It is inconceivable, my love, how quickly we misunderstand one another as soon as we are apart. All the time I was with you we always shared the same feelings and point of view, but since we have not seen each other for nearly three months we are no longer of the same opinion about anything. Which of us is in the wrong? Surely you would be able to give me an answer to that straight away. But, being wiser or more polite, I shall not pronounce upon it. I shall simply answer your letter and continue to give an account of my conduct to you.