Dangerous Liaisons

by Choderlos De Laclos

  Although I am still in a great deal of pain, my dear, I shall try to write to you myself so that I can speak about your concerns. My nephew is still in misanthropic mood. He sends to hear news of me most regularly each day; but he has not come to enquire himself, although I have sent a message begging him to do so. So I do not see any more of him than if he were in Paris. However, I chanced upon him this morning in a place I hardly expected to see him. It was in my chapel, which I visited for the first time since my sad affliction. I learned today that he has been going there regularly for four days to hear Mass. God grant that it lasts!

  When I entered he came up to me and congratulated me most warmly on my improved state of health. As Mass was starting I cut short our conversation, very much hoping to resume it later. But he disappeared before I could speak to him again. I shall not hide from you my impression that he had altered a little. My dear, do not make me sorry I trusted in your good sense by giving way to excessive anxiety. But let me above all assure you that I should prefer to cause you distress rather than tell you untruths.

  If my nephew continues to be so distant with me, as soon as I am better I shall go and see him in his rooms and try to get to the bottom of this extraordinary eccentricity, which I am certain must have something to do with you. I will tell you what I learn. I must leave you, as I am unable to move my fingers any more. If Adélaïde knew I have been writing, she would scold me all evening. Farewell, my dear.

  From the Chateau de —, 20 October 17**

  LETTER 120

  The Vicomte de Valmont to Father Anselme

  (Cistercian monk in the convent of the rue Saint-Honoré)

  I do not have the honour of your acquaintance, Monsieur, but I am aware of the complete trust that Madame la Présidente de Tourvel has in you, and I also know how eminently worthy you are of it. I believe I may therefore address myself to you in all discretion to obtain a most essential service, one that is truly worthy of your holy ministry and in which Madame de Tourvel’s interests are at one with my own.

  I have in my hands important documents concerning her which may be entrusted to no one, but which it is my desire and duty to put into her hands alone. I have no means of telling her, since reasons, of which perhaps she has made you aware – but about which I do not believe I am permitted to inform you – have made her decide to refuse all correspondence with me. That decision I today willingly admit I cannot blame her for, since she could not foresee events which I was myself very far from expecting, and which were only able to be brought about, as I am compelled to acknowledge, through supernatural powers.

  So I beg you, Monsieur, to inform her of my new resolutions and ask her on my behalf for a private interview where I can at least partly make amends for my wrongdoing by offering my apologies, and, by way of a final sacrifice, wipe out the only remaining traces of a mistake or fault of which I have been guilty in relation to her.

  It will be only after this preliminary expiation that I should dare lay at your feet my humiliating confession of many past misdemeanours, and implore your intercession for a much more important and unfortunately more difficult reconciliation. May I hope, Monsieur, that you will not refuse me the care that is so necessary and precious to me, and that you will condescend to sustain me in my weakness and guide my feet into the path I so ardently desire to follow, but admit, to my shame, that I do not yet know?

  I await your response with the impatience of a penitent who wishes to make amends. Please accept my gratitude and reverence in equal measure.

  Your very humble, etc.

  P.S. I authorize you, Monsieur, if you were to think it proper, to communicate this letter in its entirety to Madame de Tourvel, whom I shall make it my duty to respect for the rest of my life, and in whom I shall never cease to honour the person who, by her own inspiring example, has been used by God to bring my soul back to the paths of righteousness.

  From the Chateau de —, 22 October 17**

  LETTER 121

  The Marquise de Merteuil to the Chevalier Danceny

  I have received your letter, my young – my too young – friend. But before I thank you I must scold you and warn you that if you do not mend your ways there will be no more replies from me. So take my advice and leave off this tone of flattery, for, when it is not the expression of love, it becomes nothing but cant. Does friendship speak in that vein? No, my friend. Every sentiment has its own language. And if you use any other you disguise the idea you wish to express. I am very well aware that young women of today do not understand anything one says to them if it is not translated somehow into this common jargon. But I admit that I think I deserve to be treated differently from them. I am truly sorry – perhaps more than I ought to be – that you have so ill judged me.

  You will only find therefore in my letter what is lacking in your own: frankness and forthrightness. I might tell you, for example, that I should take great pleasure in seeing you and that I am annoyed to have around me only people who bore me, instead of people who amuse me. But you would translate this same phrase as ‘Teach me to live where you are not’, so I suppose that when you are with your mistress you would not be able to live unless I too were present. Shame on you! And these women, who fail to be me, will you perhaps find that your Cécile is lacking in that regard too! Yet that is where it leads, this language which, through the way it is abused today, means even less than those inane compliments. It has come to be simply a formula in which one cannot believe, any more than one believes in ‘your very humble servant’.

  My friend, when you write to me, let it be to tell me what you think and feel, and not to send me what I can read, without your help, more or less well expressed in the latest fashionable novel. I hope you will not be cross with me when I say this, even though you might think I am being rather critical. For I do not deny I am. But, to avoid the slightest suspicion of being guilty of the fault I am ascribing to you, I shall not mention that my mood is possibly made rather worse by the fact that I am so far away from you. It seems to me that all in all you are worth more than a court case and two lawyers, and perhaps even more than the attentive Belleroche.

  So you see that instead of being saddened by my absence you should congratulate yourself. For I never before paid you such a fine compliment. I think I must be following your example and wishing in my turn to write flattering things to you. But I prefer to stand by my honesty, and so it is that alone which assures you of my loving friendship and the interest it inspires. It is very sweet to have a young friend whose heart is engaged elsewhere. Not every woman would think like this. But I do. It seems to me that one can more fully enjoy sentiment when one has nothing to fear. So I have taken on the role of your confidante, perhaps rather early in the day. But you choose to have such young mistresses that you have made me perceive, for the first time, that I am growing old! You do well to prepare yourself in this way for a long life of constancy; I hope with all my heart it is reciprocal.

  You are right to give way before the kind and honourable motives which, according to what you tell me, are putting off the fulfilment of your happiness. A long defence is the only merit remaining to those who do not always resist. And what I should find unpardonable in anyone but a child like the little Volanges girl would be not being able to flee a danger of which her own confession of love had given her ample warning. You men have no idea what virtue is, and what it costs to sacrifice it! If a woman reasons at all, she must realize that, independently of the wrong she is doing, weakness is for her the worst of misfortunes, though I cannot understand how anyone could succumb to it if she took a moment to reflect.

  Do not dispute this idea, for it is chiefly because of it that I am attached to you. You will save me from the dangers of love. And though I have been able to defend myself from them quite well until now without you, I am grateful and shall love you more and better for it.

  On which note, my dear Chevalier, I pray God to keep you under His holy and worthy protection.

  From the Cha
teau de —, 22 October 17**

  LETTER 122

  Madame de Rosemonde to the Présidente de Tourvel

  I had hoped, my dear girl, to allay your anxieties at last, and I see with dismay that it is quite the reverse and I shall only increase them. But do not be distressed. My nephew is not in danger. It cannot be said that he is really ill. Nevertheless, there is certainly something extraordinary going on in him. I do not understand it at all. I came out of his room feeling unhappy – you might even say alarmed – and I am loath to share this with you, and yet I cannot refrain from discussing it. Here is an account of what happened. You may rely upon its accuracy. If I were to live another eighty years, I should not forget the impression this sorry scene made upon me.

  Well, I went to my nephew’s room this morning. I found him writing, surrounded by various piles of paper, which seemed to be the object of his labours. He was so busy that I was already in the middle of the room before he turned his head to see who it was. As soon as he saw me he rose, and I could tell quite plainly that he was trying to compose his face, and perhaps that was what made me examine him more closely. He was indeed not fully dressed and his wig was unpowdered.22 I found him pale and in disarray, and in particular his face had changed. His normally gay and lively air was gloomy and disconsolate. Anyway, between you and me, I should not have wanted you to see him like that, for he had a most touching air, and one very likely, in my opinion, to inspire the tender sympathy which is one of the most dangerous snares of love.

  Although greatly struck by my observations, I yet began the conversation as though I had not noticed anything. First, I spoke to him about his health and, though he did not say it was good, he in no way implied that it was bad. Then I complained that his keeping out of everyone’s way seemed more than a little eccentric, and I tried to introduce a touch of lightness into my little reprimand. But all he said in reply and with his voice full of meaning was: ‘That is another of my crimes, I admit. But it shall be paid for, along with the rest.’ It was his manner more than what he actually said that dampened my jocular tone, and I hastened to tell him that he was treating what was simply the rebuke of a friend with too great a seriousness.

  We then calmly resumed our conversation. A short while afterwards he told me that business, perhaps the most important business of his life, would soon recall him to Paris. But as I was afraid to guess what that might be, my dear, and as this beginning might lead to a disclosure I did not wish to hear, I did not question him about it, but contented myself with answering that a little more amusement would benefit his health. I added that this time I would not persuade him to stay, since I loved my friends for their own sake. It was at this simple remark that, seizing hold of my hands, and speaking with a vehemence I cannot describe, he said: ‘Yes, Aunt, love me; love your nephew who respects and esteems you a very great deal. As you say, love him for his own sake. Do not distress yourself about his happiness and do not trouble with any regrets the eternal peace he very soon hopes to enjoy. Tell me again that you love me, that you forgive me. Yes, you will forgive me; I know you are kind. But how can I expect the same indulgence from those to whom I have given such offence?’ Then he leaned over me in order to hide, I think, the signs of grief that, despite himself, the sound of his voice revealed to me.

  More moved than I can say, I got up abruptly. And he must have noticed my alarm for immediately he recovered his composure and went on: ‘Forgive me, forgive me, Madame. I was beside myself. I beg you to forget what I said and only remember my profound regard for you. I shall not neglect,’ he added, ‘to come and renew my respects to you before I go.’ It seemed to me that this last sentence obliged me to terminate my visit and so I left.

  But the more I think about it, the less I can puzzle out what he meant. What is this business, the most important business of his life? What is he asking me to forgive him for? Where did that involuntary emotion as he spoke come from? I have already asked myself these questions a thousand times without finding the answer. I do not even see anything in all of this which relates to you. But as the eyes of a lover see more clearly than those of a friend, I did not wish to leave you in any ignorance of what passed between my nephew and myself.

  I have tried four times to write this long letter, and it would be still longer but for the tiredness I feel. Farewell, dear girl.

  From the Chateau de —, 25 October 17**

  LETTER 123

  Father Anselme to the Vicomte de Valmont

  I have received, Monsieur le Vicomte, your honoured letter, and yesterday I called on the person in question directly, in accordance with your wishes. I explained to her the object and motives of the meeting you propose. Although I found her determined to abide by the prudent decision she had first made, upon my indicating that a refusal perhaps risked putting an obstacle in the way of your blessed return to the fold, and thus in some way opposing the merciful designs of Providence, she consented to receive your visit on condition that it should at any event be the last, and charged me to tell you that she would be at home next Thursday, the 28th. If that day is not convenient, would you kindly inform her and suggest another. Your letter will be received.

  However, Monsieur le Vicomte, allow me to request you not to postpone this without a very good reason, so that you may yield more swiftly and thoroughly to the praiseworthy dispositions of which you have given me some indication. Remember that he who delays seizing the moment of grace is exposed to the possibility of its being taken away from him altogether. Though divine goodness is infinite, its dispensation is still regulated by justice. And there may come a moment when the God of mercy is transformed into the God of vengeance.

  If you continue to honour me with your trust, I beg you to believe that I shall give you my whole attention, whenever you desire. However busy I am, my most urgent business will always be to fulfil the duties of the holy ministry to which I have so particularly devoted myself. And the happiest moments of my life are when I see my efforts prosper by the blessing of the Almighty. Feeble sinners that we are, we can do nothing of our own volition! But the God who is calling you is all-powerful. And it is to His goodness that we owe, in your case, the constant desire you have to reach out to Him and in mine the means to lead you to Him. It is with His help that I hope soon to persuade you that it is the holiness of religion alone that can give you in this world the solid and lasting happiness that one seeks vainly in the blindness of human passions.

  I have the honour to be with respectful regard, etc.

  Paris, this 25 October 17**

  LETTER 124

  The Présidente de Tourvel to Madame de Rosemonde

  In the midst of the astonishment occasioned me by the news I learned yesterday, Madame, I am not unmindful of the satisfaction it will cause you, and I hasten to tell you about it. Monsieur de Valmont is no longer concerned with me or with his love, and only wishes to make amends, by leading a more edifying life, for the wrongdoing or rather the errors of his youth. I have been informed of this wonderful news by Father Anselme, to whom he has turned for guidance in the future and also to arrange an interview with me, the principal object of which I assume must be to give me back the letters he has kept till now, in spite of my request to the contrary.

  Naturally I can only applaud this happy change of heart and congratulate myself if, as he claims, I have played some part in it. But why was I chosen to be the instrument, so that it cost me all my peace of mind? Could Monsieur de Valmont’s happiness never come about except through my misfortune? Oh, my dear, understanding friend, forgive my complaining like this. I know that it is not up to me to question the judgement of God. But whereas I am always asking Him – and always in vain – for the strength to conquer my unhappy love, He lavishes it on someone who was not asking for it, and leaves me helpless and entirely prey to my weakness.

  But let us suppress these guilty murmurings. Do I not know that the Prodigal Son on his return obtained from his father more grace than the son who had never been
away from home? What account may we ask of One who owes us nothing? And if it were possible that we had some rights where He is concerned, what could mine be? Could I boast of a virtue I already owe to Valmont alone? He has saved me; should I dare complain of suffering for his sake? No, I shall cherish my suffering if his happiness is the price. Undoubtedly it had to be that he should return to the Father of us all. The God who made him must treasure what He has made. He did not create this charming being only to make a reprobate of him. It is for me to bear the pain of my foolhardiness. Should I not have known that because I was forbidden to love him I ought not to have allowed myself to see him?

  My mistake or my misfortune is to have refused for too long to acknowledge this truth. You are witness, my dear and worthy friend, that I subjected myself to this sacrifice as soon as I recognized the need for it. But what was lacking to make it complete was that Monsieur de Valmont did not share in it. Shall I admit that now it is that thought that torments me most? Insufferable pride that softens the pain we bear with the pain we cause to others! Oh, I shall subdue this rebellious heart; I shall accustom it to humility.

  It is with this especially in my heart that I have consented to receive the painful visit of Monsieur de Valmont on Thursday next. Then I shall hear from his own lips that I mean nothing to him any more and that the feeble and ephemeral impression I made upon him has been completely effaced! I shall see his dispassionate eyes upon me while the fear of revealing my emotion will make me lower mine. He will return with indifference to me these same letters that he refused for so long to give me at my repeated request. He will put them into my hands like so many useless objects which are no longer of interest to him. And my hands, trembling as they receive this shameful bundle, will feel them placed there by hands that are steady and calm! Then finally I shall see him go…go for ever, and my eyes will follow him, but will not see him look back!