All is going marvellously with the little Volanges girl. Yesterday, when in my agitation I could not stay in one place, I even, in the course of my wanderings, went to visit Madame de Volanges. I found your pupil already in the salon, still in invalid’s attire, but fully convalescent, and all the fresher and more interesting because of that. You women, in that situation, would have stayed a whole month on your chaise longue. Long live young ladies, say I! This one, I must say, made me wish I could find out if the cure was complete!
I have to tell you too that the child’s accident has driven your sentimentalist Danceny almost mad, at first with sorrow and now with joy. His Cécile was ill! You know how one’s head reels under such misfortune. He sent for news of her three times a day, and not one day went by but he went in person to see her. Finally, in a beautiful epistle to Mamma, he asked permission to go and congratulate her on the convalescence of such a very dear person, and Madame de Volanges graciously allowed it. So I found the young man ensconced, as in the past, except for a few little intimacies that he did not as yet dare to allow himself.
It is from him I have these details. For I came away at the same time as he did and got him talking. You cannot imagine the effect this visit had upon him. A joy, a desire, a delight beyond description. I, who love grand emotions, managed to make his head spin by assuring him that in a very few days I would place him in a position where he might see his love at even closer quarters.
In fact, I have decided to give her back to him once my experiment is finished. I wish to devote myself entirely to you. Besides, would it be worth your pupil also being mine merely to deceive her husband? The triumph is in deceiving her lover, and especially her first lover! As for me, I have not been guilty of uttering the word love.
Farewell, my love. Come back, then, as quickly as possible to enjoy your dominion over me, to receive my homage and give me my reward.
Paris, 28 November 17**
LETTER 145
The Marquise de Merteuil to the Vicomte de Valmont
Seriously, Vicomte, have you left the Présidente? Did you send her the letter I composed for you to give her? Really you are a delight! And you have surpassed my expectations! I freely admit that this triumph flatters me more than all I have achieved until now. You are going to think that I put a very high value on this woman I formerly thought so little of. Not a bit of it! It is because it is not over her that I have the advantage, it is over you. That is what pleases me, what really delights me.
Yes, Vicomte, you did love Madame de Tourvel a great deal and as a matter of fact you still do. You are mad about her. But because I amused myself by making you ashamed of it you bravely sacrificed her. You would have sacrificed a thousand more rather than be laughed at. Look where vanity leads us! The Sage is right when he says that it is the enemy of happiness.10
Where would you be now if I had wished merely to play a trick on you? But I am incapable of deceit, as you very well know. And were you obliged to reduce me in my turn to despair and to the convent, I should take that risk and give myself up to my conqueror.
However, if I capitulate, it is in truth pure weakness. For, if I wished, what a deal of wrangling there could still be between us! And perhaps you would deserve it? For example, I admire your cunning – or lack of subtlety – in sweetly suggesting I allow you to take up with the Présidente again. It would be most convenient for you, would it not, to take the credit for breaking it off without forgoing the pleasures of the flesh? And since in that case this apparent sacrifice would no longer be a sacrifice for you, you offer to renew it whenever I wish! By this arrangement your heavenly devotee will still be under the impression that she is your one and only love, whereas I should flatter myself that I am the preferred rival. We should both be deceived, but you would be happy, so what does anything else matter?
It is a shame that with so much talent for making plans you have so little for putting them into practice. And that by one ill-judged action you have yourself placed an insuperable object in the way of what you most desire.
So you were thinking of resuming relations with her, and you sent her my letter? You must have thought me in my turn very unskilled! Take it from me, Vicomte, when a woman strikes into the heart of another she rarely fails to hit her where it hurts, and the wound is incurable. While I was striking this woman, or rather when I was directing your blows, I did not forget that this woman was my rival, that for a moment you found her preferable to me and that, in fact, you had considered me beneath her. If I made a mistake about my revenge, I will take the consequences. So I agree that you should try every means at your disposal. I invite you to do it, even, and promise I shan’t get angry at your success, if you manage it. I am so easy in my mind on this subject that I do not wish to discuss it any more. Let us talk about something else.
About the little Volanges girl’s health, for instance. You will tell me positive news when I get back, won’t you? I shall be very happy to hear it. After that it will be up to you to judge if it suits you better to give the girl back to her lover or to make a second attempt to become the founder of a new branch of Valmont, in the name of Gercourt. That idea did seem rather amusing, and while leaving it up to you I must ask you not to take a firm decision until we have discussed it. I am not asking you to wait very long, for I shall be in Paris very shortly. I cannot tell you with certainty which day. But do not doubt that as soon as I arrive you will be the first to know.
Farewell, Vicomte. In spite of my grudges, mockery and criticism, I still love you a lot and I am preparing to prove it to you. Goodbye, my friend.
From the Chateau de —, 29 November 17**
LETTER 146
The Marquise de Merteuil to the Chevalier Danceny
I am leaving at last, my dear young friend, and tomorrow night shall be back in Paris. Amid all the upheaval that moving entails I shall not be at home to anyone. However, if you have some very pressing thing to tell me, I am happy to make an exception to my general rule. But only for you. So I am asking you to keep my arrival secret. Even Valmont shall not know when it is to be.
If someone had told me a short while ago that soon you would be the only one in my confidence, I should not have believed them, but yours has attracted mine. I am tempted to believe that you have used your arts and even your techniques of seduction upon me. That, to say the least, would be very wicked! But in any case I am in no danger at the moment. You have other things on your mind! When the heroine is on stage, one does not concern oneself with the confidante!
So you have not even found time to tell me about your recent successes? When your Cécile was absent the days were not long enough to listen to all your tender complaints. You would have shouted them aloud to the echoes themselves if I had not been there to hear them. When she was unwell you even honoured me again by telling me of your worries; you needed someone to confide in. But now that the one you love is in Paris, that she is well, and especially that you can see her from time to time, she is all you need and your friends are nothing to you any more.
I am not blaming you. It’s the fault of your twenty years. Haven’t we all known since the time of Alcibiades that young men never know what friendship is except when they are in trouble? Happiness sometimes provokes them to indiscretions but never to confidences. I shall soon say, with Socrates: ‘I like my friends to come to me when they are unhappy,*11 but being a philosopher he made do very well without them when they did not come. In that respect I am not quite so wise as he, and I have felt your silence with all the weakness of a woman.
But do not think I am importunate. I am very far from that! The same feeling that causes me to notice these privations helps me bear them with courage when they are the proof or the cause of my friends’ happiness. So I am not counting on you for tomorrow evening unless love leaves you free and unoccupied, and I forbid you to make the least sacrifice on my account.
Adieu, Chevalier; I am so looking forward to seeing you. Shall you come?
From the C
hateau de —, 29 November 17**
LETTER 147
Madame de Volanges to Madame de Rosemonde
You will surely be as distressed as I am, my dear friend, when you hear what a state Madame de Tourvel is in. She has been ill since yesterday; her malady has come on so rapidly and manifests such grave symptoms that I am really alarmed.
Burning fever, violent and almost constant delirium, a thirst that cannot be assuaged, that is what one may observe. The doctors say there is as yet no prognosis. And the treatment will be all the more difficult since the patient obstinately refuses every kind of remedy. It is so bad they had to hold her down by force to bleed her. And since then they have had to do the same twice more to put her bandages back on, which in her delirium she constantly tries to tear off.
You, who have seen her, as I have, so timid and gentle, can you imagine that four people can scarcely hold her down, and if anyone tries to reason with her she flies into an unspeakable rage? For my part, I fear it may be more than delirium, and that she is perhaps truly deranged.
What increases my anxiety is what happened the day before yesterday.
On that day, towards eleven in the morning, she went into the convent of — with her maid. As she was raised in this convent and was in the habit of going there sometimes, she was received as usual, and seemed to everyone to be quite happy and well. About two hours later she asked if the room she had occupied as a convent girl was vacant, and when she was told that it was she asked if she could see it again. The prioress and some other nuns accompanied her. It was then that she declared she was returning to live in this room, which, she said, she should never have left. And she added she would stay there till she died. That was how she put it.
At first they did not know what to say, but once they had recovered from their initial astonishment they told her that, because of her marital status, she could not be accepted without special permission. However, this argument and a thousand more were to no avail. From that moment on she insisted not only that she would not leave the convent, but that she would not leave her room either. Finally, at seven in the evening, they gave up the struggle and consented to let her stay the night there. They sent away her carriage and servants, and put off the decision until the next day.
They insist that during the whole evening her looks and bearing were far from distraught, but she was, on the contrary, composed and reflective, except that four or five times she fell into such deep abstraction that they did not manage to rouse her by speaking to her. And each time, before she came out of it, she raised both hands to her forehead, which she seemed to clasp with some force. Upon which one of the nuns who was present asked her if she had a headache. She gazed at her for a long time before replying, then said finally: ‘That is not where my pain is!’ A moment later she asked to be left alone and begged them not to question her further.
Everyone retired except her maid, who fortunately had to sleep in the same room, there being no space elsewhere.
According to this girl’s report, her mistress was quite calm until eleven at night. Then she said she wished to go to bed. But before she was entirely undressed she began to walk rapidly up and down the room, gesticulating frequently. Julie, who had witnessed what had taken place during the day, dared not say anything, but waited quietly for nearly an hour. Finally Madame de Tourvel called to her twice, in quick succession. She just had time to run to her when her mistress fell into her arms, saying: ‘I am exhausted.’ She allowed herself to be taken to her bed, but would not take anything to eat or drink, nor let anyone go to seek help. She simply had some water put beside her and ordered Julie to bed.
Julie is positive that she stayed awake until two in the morning and that she heard neither sound nor movement during this time. But she says she was woken at five o’clock by her mistress talking in a loud, shrill voice. And then, when she had asked her if she needed anything and did not receive any reply, she took a lamp and went over to her bed. Madame de Tourvel did not recognize her, but, suddenly breaking off from the incoherent things she was saying, shouted wildly: ‘Leave me alone, leave me in the dark; the darkness is where I belong.’ Yesterday I noticed myself how often she uses that expression.
Well, Julie took advantage of this quasi-command to go and find someone to come and help. But Madame de Tourvel refused help from anyone, with the transports and the passion that have recurred so many times since.
The difficulties this was causing in the convent made the prioress decide to send for me yesterday at seven in the morning…It was not yet daylight. I hurried there immediately. When I was announced Madame de Tourvel seemed to recover her senses and replied: ‘Oh yes, tell her to come in.’ But when I was next to her bed she stared at me, took hold of my hand and pressed it, saying in a loud, sorrowful voice: ‘I am dying…because I did not believe you.’ Immediately, hiding her eyes, she reverted to her old cry of ‘Leave me alone,’ etc., before she lost consciousness again.
What she said to me, and a few other things that escaped from her in her delirium, make me fear that this cruel malady springs from a still more cruel cause. But let us respect our friend’s secrets and content ourselves with sympathizing with her misfortunes.
The whole of yesterday was just as stormy, and divided between terrifying bouts of delirium and periods of depression and lethargy, the only times she takes or gives any respite. I did not leave her bedside until nine in the evening, and I am returning this morning to spend the whole day with her. I shall surely not abandon my unfortunate friend. But what is distressing is her obstinacy in refusing all help and attention.
I am sending you tonight’s bulletin, which I have just received and is, as you will see, anything but comforting. I shall take care to pass on the bulletins faithfully.
Farewell, my dear friend. I shall go back to the invalid. My daughter, happily now almost recovered, sends you her good wishes.
Paris, 29 November 17**
LETTER 148
The Chevalier Danceny to the Marquise de Merteuil
Beloved friend, adorable mistress, my happiness began with you, is crowned by you! Dear friend, sweet love, why should the thought of your pain come to trouble my delight? Oh Madame, calm yourself in the name of friendship! Oh my darling, be happy, I implore you in the name of love.
Why reproach yourself? Believe me, your sensibilities deceive you. The regrets you feel, the wrongs you blame me for, are equally illusory. And I know in my heart that there was no other seducer but love between us. Do not then fear to deliver yourself up to the feelings you inspire, to allow yourself to burn with all the passions you kindle. Surely our hearts are no less pure for having only lately seen the light of love? No, no. It is only the seducer who never acts unless he plans in advance, co-ordinating his resources and his moves, and foreseeing events far ahead. True love does not permit meditation and reflection in this fashion. It uses our feelings to distract us from our thoughts. Its power is never stronger than when we are unaware of it. And it is in darkness and silence that it tangles us in a web equally impossible to perceive or to break.
So it was that only yesterday, in spite of the excitement which the idea of your return caused me, in spite of the pleasure I felt when I saw you, I still believed it was the serenity of friendship that beckoned, that led me on. Or rather, entirely surrendering to the sweet sentiments of my heart, I was very little concerned to unravel the origin or cause. Like me, my darling, you experienced, unknown to yourself, this powerful charm, which delivered our souls up to sweet feelings of love. And neither of us knew love until we emerged from the intoxication into which this god has plunged us.
But that in itself justifies rather than condemns us. No, you have not betrayed friendship, nor have I abused your confidence. We were both, it is true, unaware of our feelings. But, quite simply, we felt this illusion without trying to create it. Oh, far from lamenting our fate, let us think only of the happiness it has brought us. And, without spoiling it with unjust reproaches, let us try only
to increase it with the delights of trust and confidence. Oh my love! How dear to my heart is this feeling! Yes, you, henceforth delivered from all fear, and entirely given over to love, will share my desires, my delirium, the wildness of my senses, the intoxication of my soul. And every instant of our blessed days will be marked by a new pleasure.
Farewell, my adored one! I shall see you tonight, but shall I find you alone? I dare not hope so. Oh, you cannot desire it as much as I do!
Paris, 1 December 17**
LETTER 149
Madame de Volanges to Madame de Rosemonde
Yesterday I hoped almost all day, my good friend, to be able to give you more encouraging news about our dear friend’s condition. But last night that hope was destroyed, and all that is left is the regret that it is lost. An apparently unimportant event, but most cruel in its consequences, has made the patient’s condition as grave as it was before, if not worse.
I should not have understood this reversal at all if our unfortunate friend had not yesterday taken me entirely into her confidence. As she did not leave me in any doubt that you too were apprised of all her misfortunes, I can speak to you unreservedly about her sorry situation.
Yesterday morning, when I arrived at the convent, they told me the patient had been asleep for more than three hours. And her sleep was so deep and calm that for a moment I was afraid she might be in a coma. A little while later she woke up and herself opened the curtains around her bed. She looked at us all with an air of surprise and, as I rose to go to her, she recognized me, spoke my name and asked me to draw nearer. She did not allow me time to question her, but asked where she was, what we were doing there, if she were ill, and why she was not at home. At first I thought she must be delirious again, though she was calmer than the time before. But I observed that she could understand my replies very well. She had in fact recovered her senses, but not her memory…
Dangerous Liaisons Page 39
