She questioned me in the greatest detail on everything that had happened to her since she had been in the convent, to which she did not remember having come. I replied truthfully, only suppressing whatever might frighten her. And when, in my turn, I asked her how she was, she replied that she was not suffering at present, but that she had been dreadfully tormented while she was asleep, and felt tired. I enjoined her to calm herself and not talk so much. After that I partly drew her curtains, leaving them half-open, and sat down next to her bed. At the same time they offered her a bouillon, which she accepted and enjoyed.
She remained like that for about half an hour, during which time she spoke only in order to thank me for looking after her, and this she did with her customary grace and prettiness. Then she was absolutely silent for a while and only broke the silence to say: ‘Ah yes, now I remember how I came here,’ and a moment later cried out in a desolate voice: ‘My friend, my friend, pity me. All my ills have come back again.’ As I leaned towards her then, she caught hold of my hand and, resting her head against it, she continued: ‘Great God, then can I not die?’ Her expression even more than her words brought me to the point of tears; she recognized it in my tone of voice and said: ‘You pity me! Ah, if you did but know!…’ And then, interrupting herself, she said: ‘Let us be alone and I will tell you everything.’
Just as I had said to you, I already had my suspicions about what might be the subject of this confidence; and fearing that our conversation, which I foresaw was going to be a long tale of woe, might perhaps have an adverse effect upon the condition of our unfortunate friend, I at first refused, on the pretext that she needed to rest. But she insisted, and I gave in to her demands. As soon as we were alone she told me everything, which you already know, and for that reason I shall not repeat it.
At length, after she told me about the cruel way in which she had been sacrificed, she added: ‘I was positive I should die of it, and I had the courage to die. But what I cannot endure is to survive my misfortune and my shame.’ I attempted to counter this dejection, or rather despair, with religious arguments, which until then had weighed so heavily with her. But I soon realized I was not equal to these elevated functions and I limited myself to suggesting that I call Father Anselme, whom I know to have her entire confidence. She agreed and even seemed extremely anxious to see him. He was sent for and arrived without delay. He stayed a very long time with the patient and said, as he left, that if the doctors were of the same opinion as himself, he believed the ceremony of the last rites could be postponed. He would return the next day.
It was about three in the afternoon and until five our friend was quite calm; so much so that we all took heart again. Unfortunately then they brought her a letter. When they tried to give it to her she replied at first that she did not wish to receive any, and no one insisted. But from that moment she seemed more agitated. Soon afterwards she asked whence this letter had come. It did not have a stamp. Who had brought it? No one knew. Who had sent it? The portress had not been told. Then she remained silent for some time. After that she began to speak again. But her disconnected sentences informed us only that her delirium had returned.
However, then there was another interval of quiet, until at last she asked to be given the letter that had arrived. As soon as her eyes lighted upon it she cried: ‘It’s from him! Oh God!’ And then, in a loud but broken voice: ‘Take it back, take it back!’ She immediately had the curtains closed around her bed and forbade anyone to come near her. But almost straight away we were obliged to go to her. Her delirium had recurred, more violently than before, and it was accompanied by truly terrible convulsions. These symptoms continued throughout the evening, and the morning’s bulletin reports that her night was no less disturbed. Well, all in all, her condition is such that I am astonished she has not already succumbed. And I don’t mind telling you that I have very little hope left.
I suppose the wretched letter was from Monsieur de Valmont. But what can he possibly dare say to her still? Forgive me, my dear. I shall not allow myself to comment. But it is truly cruel to see a woman who until now has been so happy, and so worthy of that happiness, perish in such misery.
Paris, 2 December 17**
LETTER 150
The Chevalier Danceny to the Marquise de Merteuil
While anticipating the delight it will be to see you, my sweet love, I shall indulge in the pleasure of writing you a letter. It is by occupying myself with you that I beguile away my sadness at being away from you. Telling you my feelings, recalling yours, is a real joy to my heart. And because of it even this time of privation confers a thousand precious blessings on my love. However, if I am to believe you, I shall receive no reply from you. This letter is to be the last. And we shall be deprived of an exchange which, according to you, is dangerous, and which we do not need. Of course I have to believe you, if you insist. For what can you wish for that I, for that very reason, do not wish as well? But before you make up your mind completely, shall we not talk about it?
As far as danger is concerned, you must be the one to decide. I cannot foresee anything and I shall restrict myself to begging you to look to your safety, for I cannot be easy when you are anxious. In this regard it is not we two who are as one, but you who must act for us both.
That is not the same as need. In this we cannot but be of one mind. And if we differ in our opinions, it can only be for lack of explanation or understanding. So these are my feelings.
Undoubtedly a letter does not seem very necessary when we can see each other when we like. What could we say in a letter that one word, one look or even silence could not say a hundred times better? That seemed to me so true at the time you spoke to me about not writing any more that this idea slipped easily into my thoughts. It troubled them perhaps a little, but did not cause distress. It was as if, wishing to bestow a kiss upon your bosom, I encountered a piece of ribbon or gauze: I brushed it aside, and did not regard it as an obstacle.
But since then we have been separated. And as soon as you were no longer there this idea of writing letters has come back to torment me. Why, I asked myself, one more privation? We are apart, but have we then nothing more to say to one another? Let us suppose that, circumstances being favourable, we spent the whole day together. Should we waste time talking, when we might be enjoying each other? Yes, enjoying, my love. For with you even moments of repose still provide such delicious pleasures. Yet, however long we spend together, one always has to leave. And then one is so alone! It is then that a letter is precious! For if one does not read it at least one may look at it…Oh, certainly one may look at a letter without reading it, just as, it seems to me, at night I should take some pleasure still in touching your portrait…
Your portrait, did I say? But a letter is the portrait of the soul. It does not possess, as pictures do, that cold, static quality which is so alien to love. It reflects our every emotion. It is by turns animated, joyous, quiet. Your feelings are all so precious to me! Will you deprive me of the means of gathering them to myself?
Are you sure that you will never be tormented by the need to write to me? Suppose that in solitude your heart swells or is oppressed, a joyful feeling enters your soul, or an unwelcome sadness comes to trouble it momentarily, will it not be to your friend that you pour out your happiness or grief? Will you then have feelings that he does not share? Will you leave him then to wander far from you, brooding and alone? My love…my dear love! But it is up to you to decide. I only wish to discuss, not to sway your feelings. I have reasoned with you. I venture to think I would have been more persuasive had I entreated you. So, if you insist, I shall try not to mind. I shall endeavour to imagine what you would have written. But you would say it better than I can. And I should certainly take more pleasure in hearing it from you.
Farewell, my charming love. The hour is finally approaching when I shall be able to see you. I leave you in haste, so that I can be with you the sooner.
Paris, 3 December 17**
LE
TTER 151
The Vicomte de Valmont to the Marquise de Merteuil
You must take me for a fool, Marquise, if you believe I am under any misapprehension about the tête-à-tête I interrupted this evening, or about the astonishing coincidence that brought Danceny to your house. Not that your practised features did not take on a wonderful expression of calm and serenity, nor that you gave yourself away with any of those phrases which sometimes escape from people who are embarrassed or contrite. I even agree that your meek glances perfectly served your purpose; and that had they been able to be believed as well as they were understood, I should not have thought or entertained the least suspicion, nor for a moment doubted, that this importunate third party was causing you extreme annoyance. But so as not to have exercised such great talents in vain, so as to obtain the success that you hoped for and produce the illusion that you were seeking to create, you should have trained your novice of a lover more carefully in the first place.
Since you have set yourself up as an educator, you should teach your pupils not to blush and become disconcerted at the least little joke; not to deny so vehemently about one woman things they protest so feebly with regard to all the others; teach them as well to be able to hear someone singing their mistress’s praises without feeling they are obliged to pay her compliments. And if you allow them to look at you when in company, first make sure they know at least how to disguise that proprietorial look which is so easy to recognize, and which they stupidly confuse with one of love. Then you will be able to parade them in your public displays without their behaviour doing discredit to their wise teacher. And I, happy to contribute to your celebrity, promise to write you a scheme of work for this new school and have it published.
But as things are I admit I am astonished that it should be me that you have undertaken to treat like a little schoolboy. Oh, with any other woman I should soon take my revenge! I should revel in it! And it would easily surpass the pleasure she thought she was denying me! Yes, it is certainly only for you that I prefer reparation to vengeance. But do not suppose I am held back by the slightest doubt, by the least uncertainty. I know everything.
You have been in Paris for four days, and every day you have seen Danceny and no one else. Even today your door was still closed; and I was only able to reach you because your porter lacked an assurance equal to your own in preventing me. However, you told me that I would definitely be the first to be informed of your arrival – you were unable to tell me which date – while you wrote to me on the day before your departure. Will you deny these facts, or try to excuse them? Both are equally impossible. And yet I restrain myself! You see what power you have over me! But, I beg you, content yourself with having proved that power, and do not treat me like this any longer. We understand one another, Madame. One word of warning must suffice.
You will be out for the whole day tomorrow, did you say? Very well, if indeed you are going out. You may guess that I shall find out if that is true. But in any case you will be coming home in the evening. We shall not have too much time before the next day for our difficult reconciliation. So tell me if it will be in your house or over there,12 that our numerous mutual expiations will take place. Above all, let there be no more Danceny. Your poor head has become full of the thought of him. I can avoid being jealous of your wild imagination, but remember that from this moment what was only a whim on your part might become a marked preference. I am not a man to suffer this humiliation, and I do not expect to receive it at your hands.
I even hope that this sacrifice will not seem a sacrifice to you. But if it were to cost you something, it seems to me that I have set you a rather fine example! A sensitive, beautiful woman who has lived only for me, and who is perhaps at this very moment dying of love and sorrow, must surely be the equal of a little schoolboy who, if you like, is not lacking in looks or wit, but is still inexperienced and unformed.
Farewell, Marquise. I shall say nothing of my feelings for you. All I can do at the moment is refrain from searching my heart. I await your reply. When you write, remember that the easier it is for you to make me forget the offence you have caused me, the more a refusal from you, or a simple delay, will engrave it indelibly upon my heart.
Paris, 3 December, 17**, in the evening
LETTER 152
The Marquise de Merteuil to the Vicomte de Valmont
Take care, Vicomte, take more account of my extreme timidity! How do you expect me to bear the overwhelming prospect of incurring your wrath and, above all, of not succumbing to the fear of your revenge? Especially since, as you know, if you did me an ill turn, it would be impossible for me to pay you back. Despite my talking about you, your life would continue, brilliant and unperturbed. In fact, what would you need to be afraid of? Of having to flee the country, if time allowed. But does one not live as well abroad as here? All in all, provided that the Court of France left you in peace at whatever foreign court you settled on, it would only be a case of changing the locus of your triumphs.13 Now that I have tried to bring you back to your senses by these moral considerations, let us return to business.
Do you know, Vicomte, why I never remarried? It was certainly not for lack of any advantageous matches. It was purely so that no one should have the right to criticize my actions. It was not even for fear of not being able to do what I wish, for I should always have ended up doing that; but it was because it would have annoyed me that anyone had the right to complain about it. It was that in the end I wished to deceive only for my own pleasure, and not through necessity. And there you are writing me the most marital letter I could possibly receive! You speak only of the wrongs on my side, and the favours on yours! But how can one fall short with regard to a person to whom one owes nothing? I cannot conceive of it!
Come now. What is all the fuss about? You found Danceny with me and it displeased you? Fine! But what conclusions were you able to draw from that? Either that it was coincidence, as I said; or that I wished it, which I did not say. In the first instance your letter would be unjust; in the second, ridiculous. You need not have bothered writing! But you are jealous, and jealousy will not listen to reason. So very well, I shall reason on your behalf.
Either you have a rival or you do not. If you do, you have to make yourself attractive to me in order to be preferred. If not, you still have to make yourself attractive in order to avoid having a rival. Whatever the case, you have to behave in the same way. So why torment yourself? And, above all, why torment me? Have you forgotten how to be the most pleasing of lovers? Are you not sure of your success? Come now, Vicomte, you do yourself an injustice. But it is not that. The fact is that in your eyes I am not worth you giving yourself so much trouble. You desire my favours less than you wish to abuse your power over me. You are an ungrateful man! See how I do have feelings! If I continued in this vein, my letter might become most tender. But you do not deserve it.
Nor do you deserve that I should justify myself. To punish you for your suspicions, you can keep them. So about the time of my return and Danceny’s visits, I shall say nothing. You have taken great pains to find out about it, have you not? Well, how far have you advanced? I hope you took pleasure in doing so. As for me, it made no difference to my pleasure.
So all I can say in answer to your threatening letter is that it had neither the gift of pleasing nor the power to intimidate. And for the moment I am not in the least disposed to grant what you ask.
In truth, if I were to accept you in your present state, it would be to be truly unfaithful to you. I should not be renewing my relationship with my former lover. I should be taking a new one, and one who was nowhere near as good as the former. I have not so forgotten the first as to deceive myself about this. The Valmont I loved was charming. I gladly even admit that I never met a more charming man. Oh, I beg you, Vicomte, if you find him, bring him to me. That man will always be most welcome.
Do warn him, however, that in any case it will not be today or tomorrow. His double has betrayed him somewhat. And if I were
in too much of a hurry, I should be afraid of making a mistake. Or is it that I have promised those two days to Danceny? In your letter you said you were not joking about breaking promises. So, as you see, you must wait.
But what of that? You will still take revenge on your rival. He will not be treating your mistress any worse than you his. And, after all, is not one woman as good as the next? Those are your principles. Even the one who was loving and sensitive and lived only for you, and died in the end for love or grief would still be sacrificed to the first caprice, to the momentary fear that you are being made fun of. And you expect us to put ourselves out for your benefit? Ah, that is not fair.
Farewell, Vicomte; be nice to me again. Come, I ask no more than to find you charming. And, as soon as I am sure that I do, I promise to prove it. Truly, I am too kind.
Paris, 4 December 17**
LETTER 153
The Vicomte de Valmont to the Marquise de Merteuil
I am answering your letter immediately and I shall try to be clear. That is not easy with you once you have made up your mind that you are not going to understand.
It is not necessary to make lengthy speeches to establish that each of us possesses what we need to ruin the other, and that we must mutually consider each other’s interests. So that is not the question. But between the dramatic option of ruining ourselves and – undoubtedly the better course – that of staying together as we always have, and becoming even closer by renewing our first liaison; between these two options, as I say, there are a thousand others. It was therefore not ridiculous of me to tell you, and it is not ridiculous to repeat, that from this very day I shall be either your lover or your enemy.
Dangerous Liaisons Page 40
