As you may guess, once I had been put back on track I did not deviate from it. It was the right and perhaps the only course. So, when I wished to try for another success at first I encountered some resistance and what had taken place before made me circumspect. But, having summoned to my help that same thought of bringing about my happiness, I soon felt its favourable effects. ‘You are right,’ said the tender-hearted creature, ‘I can no longer bear my existence except inasmuch as it will serve to make you happy. To that I devote myself utterly. From this moment on I give myself to you, and you will have from me neither refusal nor regret.’ It was with such naive or sublime candour that she gave herself and her charms to me, and increased my happiness by sharing in it. The delight was complete and reciprocal; and for the first time my happiness lasted longer than the pleasure. I left her arms only in order to fall at her feet, and swear eternal love. And, to be absolutely truthful, I believed what I was saying. For even after we had parted, the thought of her would not leave me, and only by an effort of the will could I think of anything else.
Oh, why are you not here to balance out the delights of action with those of reward? But I shall lose nothing by waiting, shall I? And I hope to be able to take for granted the happy arrangement I suggested in my last letter. As you see, I am keeping my word and, as promised, my affairs will be advanced enough for me to be able to allow you part of my time. So make haste and get rid of your tedious Belleroche, and leave the mawkish Danceny to his own devices so that you can concentrate on me. What can be occupying you so much in that country house that you don’t even reply to my letters? Do you know I have a mind to scold you? But happiness makes one indulgent. And then I do not forget that by placing myself back in the ranks of your lovers I must submit again to your little whims. However, just remember that this new lover does not wish to lose any of his former rights as a friend.
Farewell, as in the old days. Yes, farewell, my angel! I send you all my love and kisses.
P.S. Did you know that Prévan, at the end of his month in gaol, was obliged to leave the Corps? It is the talk of Paris at the moment. Truly he is punished cruelly for a crime he did not commit, and your success is complete!
Paris, 29 October 17**
LETTER 126
Madame de Rosemonde to the Présidente de Tourvel
I should have replied sooner, my dear child, if the fatigue from writing last time had not brought on my pain, which again deprived me of the use of my arm. I was most anxious to thank you for the good news you gave me of my nephew, and I was just as eager to offer you my sincere congratulations on your own account. One is obliged to acknowledge this as a true stroke of Providence which, by having its effect upon the one, has saved the other. Yes, my dear, God, who wished only to put you to the test, has come to your aid at the moment when your powers were failing. And in spite of your little grievances I believe you have quite a lot to thank Him for. Not that I do not feel very keenly that it would have been more agreeable, from your point of view, for this to have been resolved in the first place by you, and that Valmont’s decision should only have come later. It even seems to me, humanly speaking, that the rights of our sex would have been better safeguarded – and we do not wish to lose any of them! But what are these trifling considerations next to the great Purpose that is being worked out? Does a drowning man complain of a lack of choice as to how he should be saved?
You will soon find, my dear daughter, that the pain you fear will lessen of its own accord. And even if it were to continue indefinitely and at full strength, you would still feel it was easier to bear than remorse for wrongdoing and self-contempt. It would have been useless to discuss this earlier with you with such apparent severity; love is an independent feeling which prudence can help us to avoid, but which it cannot conquer, and, once created, it will only die a natural death or from an absolute lack of hope. It is your lack of hope that gives me the strength and the right to express my opinion freely. It is cruel to frighten a desperately ill person who only benefits from comfort and palliatives. But it is wise to enlighten a convalescent about the risks they have run, in order to inspire in them the necessary wisdom and submission to advice which may still be necessary.
Since you have chosen me to be your doctor, it is in that capacity I am speaking to you, and I tell you that the little indispositions you feel at present, and which perhaps require some remedy, are nothing in comparison with the terrible sickness of which you are now surely cured. Then as your friend, as the friend of a sensible and virtuous woman, I shall allow myself to add that the passion you fell victim to, unfortunate enough in itself, became yet more so by reason of its object. If I am to believe what people say, my nephew, for whom, I admit, I perhaps do have a weakness, and who certainly has many admirable qualities in addition to a great deal of charm, is not without danger, nor free of wrongdoing, where women are concerned, and sets an almost equal value upon seducing them as on ruining them. I do believe you may have converted him. No doubt there is none worthier than you to do so. But so many others have flattered themselves in the same way only to see their hopes dashed that I would very much rather you did not have to resort to this course of action.
Consider at present, my dear, that instead of all those risks you would have had to run, you will have, apart from a clear conscience and your own peace of mind, the satisfaction of being the main cause of Valmont’s return to the fold. As for me, I am positive that this is in large part due to your courageous resistance, and that one moment of weakness from you might perhaps have condemned my nephew to the ways of the unrighteous for ever. I like to think so, and should like you to think so too. You will find your prime comfort in these reflections, and I shall find new reasons to love you more
I expect you here in a very few days, my dear child, as you have told me. Come and rediscover your tranquillity and happiness in the place where you lost them. Especially, come and rejoice with your loving mother that you have by such good fortune kept the promise you gave not to do anything that was unworthy of her or of you!
From the Chateau de —, 30 October 17**
LETTER 127
The Marquise de Merteuil to the Vicomte de Valmont
If I did not reply to your letter of the nineteenth, Vicomte, it is not that I have not had time. It is quite simply that I found its lack of common sense irksome. So I thought the best thing would be to forget it. But since you refer to it, seem to insist upon the proposals it contains and take my silence for consent, I must speak my mind plainly.
Sometimes I may have claimed to replace a whole harem of women in my person,3 but I have never agreed to belong to one, as I thought you knew. At least now that you can no longer be unaware of this, you will be able to see how ridiculous your proposition must seem to me. Yes, me! Shall I sacrifice my inclination, and a new one at that, to devote my time to you? And in what manner? Waiting for my turn, like a submissive slave, for the sublime favours of His Highness. When, for example, you wish to distract yourself a moment from this strange fascination that the adorable, heavenly Madame de Tourvel has alone made you feel, or when you are afraid of compromising, with the charming Cécile, the superior idea you are so happy for her to have of you: then, descending to my level, you will come and seek out pleasures which are less exciting, of course, but of less consequence. And your precious favours, though passing rare, will be more than adequate to bring about my happiness!
You are certainly well-endowed with a fine opinion of yourself, but I, apparently, do not possess anything like the same amount of modesty. For, however hard I look at myself, I cannot see that I have sunk that low. Perhaps this is a fault in me. But let me assure you I have many more.
In particular, I have that of believing that the schoolboy, the mawkish Danceny, who is utterly devoted to me and has sacrificed, without taking any credit for it, his first passion to me before it has even been satisfied, and who indeed loves me as only at that age one can love, could, despite his twenty years, serve my happiness and pl
easure more effectively than you. I shall even allow myself to add that if I took it into my head to provide him with an assistant, it would not be you I chose, at least not at present.
And what are my reasons, you will ask? Well, in the first place, it is perfectly possible I have none. For the fancy that might make you the favourite might equally well cast you aside. However, for the sake of politeness, I will tell you what my motives are. It seems to me you would have too many sacrifices to make. And I, instead of being grateful, as you would certainly expect of me, should be capable of believing that you owed me even more! So you see that, being so far removed from each other in our thinking as we are, there is no way we can reach an understanding. And I fear I should need a long time, a very long time, before my feelings changed. When I do see the error of my ways, I promise to let you know. Until then, believe me; make other arrangements and keep all your kisses; you will surely find better places to bestow them!
Farewell, as in the old days, you say? But in the old days it seems to me you valued me more highly; you had not relegated me totally to a minor role. And above all you were willing to wait for me to say yes before you made sure of my consent. So, instead of my bidding you farewell as I did in the old days, you will have to be satisfied with my bidding you farewell as I do now.
Your servant, Monsieur le Vicomte.
From the Chateau de —, 31 October 17**
LETTER 128
The Présidente de Tourvel to Madame de Rosemonde
It was not until yesterday that I received your tardy reply, Madame. It would have been the instant death of me were there any life left that I could call my own. But my life belongs to Another. And that Other is Monsieur de Valmont. As you see, I am hiding nothing from you. If you were to find me no longer worthy of your friendship, I am still less afraid of losing it than betraying it. All I can tell you is that, given the choice between the death of Monsieur de Valmont and his happiness, I decided to take the latter course. I do not boast of it, nor blame myself. I am simply stating a fact.
After that, you will readily understand the effect your letter, and the stern truths contained in it, must have had on me. Do not, however, believe that it caused me any regrets nor that it could ever make me change my feelings or my conduct. It is not that I do not suffer cruelly, but when my heart is at breaking point, and when I fear I shall no longer be able to bear its torments, I say to myself: ‘Valmont is happy.’ And with this thought all of that disappears or rather becomes transformed into pleasure.
So it is to your nephew that I have devoted my life; it is for him that I am ruined. He has become the sole centre of my thoughts, feelings and actions. As long as my life is necessary to his happiness, it will be precious to me, and I shall find it blessed. If one day he should think differently…he will hear neither complaints nor reproaches from me. I have already dared contemplate that fateful moment, and my mind is made up.
You can see now how unaffected I am by your apparent fears that one day Monsieur de Valmont will ruin me. For before he could wish for such a thing he would therefore have ceased to love me; and of what use would vain recriminations that I could not hear be to me then? He alone shall be my judge. As I shall live only for him, it will be in him that my memory resides. And if he is forced to acknowledge that I have loved him, that will be sufficient justification for me.
You have just looked into my heart, Madame. By my honesty I have preferred the misfortune of losing your respect to that of rendering me unworthy of it by stooping to lies. I believe I owe you this complete confidence in return for your former kindness towards me. To say any more might be to make you suspect that I am arrogant enough to count on it still, when on the contrary I judge myself to have forfeited those claims.
I am respectfully, Madame, your most humble and obedient servant.
Paris, 1 November 17**
LETTER 129
The Vicomte de Valmont to the Marquise de Merteuil
Tell me then, my love, why this tone of bitterness and mockery that pervades your last letter? So what is this crime I have committed, apparently without realizing, which displeases you so? I seemed, you say, to be counting on your consent without first having obtained it; but I supposed that what might seem presumptuous for anyone else could never be construed as anything but trust between you and me. And since when is this sentiment harmful to friendship or love? In uniting hope with desire I only yielded to the natural impulse which makes us draw as near as possible to the happiness we seek. What you have construed as arrogance was simply the effect of my eagerness. I know very well that it is customary in these situations to display a respectful hesitation. But you also know that it is only a formality, a simple matter of protocol. I was, I think, allowed to believe that these footling preliminaries were no longer necessary between you and me.
It seems to me also that this frank and free intercourse, when based upon a long-standing relationship, is far preferable to the insipid flattery which frequently makes of love such a bland thing. Perhaps the reason I attach importance to this is because of the past happiness it reminds me of. And that is precisely why I should be all the more sorry if you were of a different opinion.
This, however, is my only crime, as far as I know. For I do not imagine that you can seriously believe there exists a woman anywhere in the world whom I could find preferable to you. And still less that I could have such a bad opinion of you as you pretend to think. You have looked at yourself, you say, and you do not find you have sunk so low. Well of course, that simply proves that your looking-glass does not lie. But could you not have more easily and correctly concluded that I had passed no such judgement upon you?
I search in vain for the explanation for this strange idea. Yet it seems to me it has something or other to do with the admiration I have allowed myself to express for other women. At any rate this is what I infer from your deliberate picking out of the epithets adorable, heavenly, charming that I used when speaking of Madame de Tourvel or the little Volanges girl. But do you not realize that those words, plucked out of the air more often than considered in any depth, express not what one thinks of the woman so much as the mood one is in when one speaks of her? And since, at the very same moment when my feelings for either was so strong, I did not desire you any the less; and seeing that I could not in any case renew our liaison except to the detriment of the other two, and gave you preference over both, I do not believe you have real grounds for complaint.
It will not be any more difficult for me either to defend myself against the strange fascination that also seems to have shocked you a little. For, in the first place, just because it is strange it does not follow that it is more powerful. Who could surpass, my dear, the delicious pleasures that you alone render always new and always more intense? I was only trying to say that this one was of a kind that I had not previously experienced, without claiming to assign a value to it; and I did add, and say again now, that whatever it was I shall be able to fight it and conquer it. And I shall put much more effort into that if I discern in this trifling task a way of offering homage to you.
As far as little Cécile is concerned, I think it is superfluous to speak of her to you. You have not forgotten that it is at your request that I took charge of the child, and I await only your leave to get rid of her. I remarked on her freshness and naivety. I might even briefly have thought her charming because one always takes pleasure to some degree in one’s own handiwork. But she certainly does not have enough substance in any respect to retain one’s interest for very long.
Now, my love, I appeal to your sense of justice and your old kindness to me, to our long and perfect friendship, to the absolute trust which has since made our ties even closer. Have I deserved this harsh tone you are adopting with me? How easy it will be for you to make amends whenever you like! Just say the word and you shall see if all the charms and attractions will keep me here one minute, let alone one day. I shall fly to your side and into your arms, and I shall prove to you a thousand
times and in a thousand ways that you are and will evermore be the true queen of my heart.
Farewell, my love. I most anxiously await your response.
Paris, 3 November 17**
LETTER 130
Madame de Rosemonde to the Présidente de Tourvel
And why, my dear girl, should you no longer wish to be my daughter? Why do you seem to be saying that all correspondence between us will cease? Is it to punish me for not having guessed something that was against all the odds? Or do you suspect me of having deliberately hurt you? No, I know your heart too well to believe you think this of me. So the pain your letter caused me I feel much less on my own account than on yours.
Oh my young friend! It grieves me to say it, but you are much too worthy of being loved for love ever to make you happy. For where is the truly refined and sensitive woman who has not been made unhappy by this very sentiment which promises so much happiness! Do men ever appreciate the women they possess?
It is not that many of them are not honourable in their conduct, and constant in their affections. But even among those, how few can really understand us in our hearts! Do not suppose, my darling child, that their love is similar to ours. Certainly they experience the same delight, and they may often invest it with more passion. But they are ignorant of that anxious eagerness, that delicate solicitude, which produces in us the loving and constant care whose sole object is always the man we love. A man enjoys the happiness he feels and a woman the happiness she gives. This difference, which is so essential and so infrequently observed, nevertheless influences the conduct of each in a very remarkable fashion. The pleasure of one is to satisfy his desires and that of the other above all to arouse them. To please is for him only one means to an end, while for her it is an end in itself. And the coquetry that women are so often blamed for is nothing but the abuse of this way of feeling and is itself proof of that feeling. Finally, the exclusive attachment which particularly characterizes love is in men only a preference, serving at most to increase the pleasure which, with another woman, would perhaps be diminished but not destroyed. Whereas in women it is a deep feeling which not only nullifies all other desires but, stronger than nature and outside its domination, may cause them to experience only repugnance and disgust in what should, so it seems, be the very source of pleasure.
Dangerous Liaisons Page 35
