But why am I talking like this? As if Madame de Tourvel needed to blindfold her admirers! She’s just adorable as she is! You called her dowdy and it’s quite true her beauty is best unadorned and the more you can see of her, the lovelier she is. In her négligé she looks utterly ravishing. Thanks to the sultry weather we’ve been having, I’ve been privileged to see her lithe round figure in a simple linen gown with only a wisp of muslin over the entrancing curves of her breasts, which I’ve already managed to explore out of the corner of my eye.* Her face lacks expression? And why should it have expression when her heart has nothing to express? No, of course she hasn’t got that comehither look of some women, a look which may sometimes flatter but only to deceive. She doesn’t prettify a vapid remark with a bogus smile and she laughs only when she’s really amused, even though she has the loveliest teeth you ever saw. But you should see her when she’s feeling playful, a picture of innocent, honest fun; or see the light of pure joy and genuine sympathy in her eyes when she’s anxious to help some poor unfortunate person! You should see the touchingly embarrassed look of real modesty on her heavenly face, particularly at the slightest hint of praise or flattery! So you think, just because she’s pious and prudish, that she’s bound to be cold and unresponsive? Well, I think quite differently. How amazingly sensitive must she be to extend her love even to her husband and continue to love someone who’s never here? Would you like more convincing proof? I’ve managed to gather some.
I arranged a walk that forced us to cross a ditch—although she’s very nimble, she’s even more timorous: as you can imagine, a prude is scared of taking the plunge!* This modest young woman had to place herself in my hands; I’ve held her in my arms! Getting ready and then carrying my old aunt across had sent this playful pious young woman into fits of laughter but as soon as I’d picked her up, as clumsily as I could, our arms somehow became entangled … I pressed her breasts hard against my chest and for a few seconds I could feel the throbbing of her heart. She blushed delightfully and her bashful expression told me well enough that her heart was pounding with love and not with fear* However, my aunt made the same mistake as you and began saying: The poor girl was afraid; but the poor girl’s disarming honesty didn’t allow her to lie and she said innocently: O no, it’s not that but… This told me everything I wanted to know. From now on, my misgivings have given way to quiet anticipation: I’m going to get this woman. I shall take her away from her husband who is desecrating her and I shall even snatch her from the bosom of the God she worships. What a delightful thought: to be the cause and the cure of her remorse! Far be it from me to try to break down the prejudices which worry her! They’ll merely help to increase my happiness and my reputation. I want her to have these high principles—and to sacrifice them for my sake! I want her to be horrified by her sins yet unable to resist sinning; to suffer endless terrors which she can overcome and forget only in my arms; then I’ll agree to let her say: ‘I adore you!’ She’ll be the only woman in the world really worthy of uttering those words. I shall truly be the God whom she loves best.
Let’s be frank: in our mutual accommodations which are as cold-blooded as they are casual, our so-called happiness can hardly be described as pleasure. Shall I tell you something? I thought my heart had quite dried up. I had the feeling I could enjoy only physical pleasures and was miserable at the prospect of growing prematurely old. Madame de Tourvel has brought back the charming illusions of my youth. With her I’m happy without my senses being involved. The only thing which frightens me is the length of time this affair will require. My earlier swashbuckling exploits are irrelevant; I can’t bring myself to use those methods. For me to be really happy, she must give herself and that’s no easy matter.
I’m sure you’d admire my circumspection; I still haven’t mentioned the word love but we’re already talking about trust and common interests. Not wishing to be more dishonest than necessary and above all to cover myself against any gossip which might come to her ears, I have myself told her, more or less self-accusingly, about some of my more notorious affairs. You’d laugh to see how innocently she sermonizes me. ‘She wants’, she says, ‘to convert me’; she still doesn’t realize the price she’s going to pay for attempting to do that. She has no idea that, in her words, ‘by pleading the cause of the unfortunate women whom I’ve ruined’, she’s pleading her own cause, in advance. This thought came to me yesterday in the middle of one of her lectures and I couldn’t resist the pleasure of interrupting has to tell her that she was speaking like a prophet.
Goodbye, dear lady. You will notice that my plight isn’t entirely parlous …
PS By the way, did this forlorn knight actually do away with himself in despair? You know, you’re a far better bad lot than I am and if I were conceited, I’d feel humiliated.
7
Cécile Volanges to Sophie Carnay* 7 August 17—
I haven’t said anything about my marriage because I’m as much in the dark as ever. I’m getting used to not thinking about it now and quite enjoying the sort of life I’m leading. I spend a lot of time practising my singing and my harp and I think I’m enjoying them more now I haven’t got a teacher or rather because I’ve got a better one. Monsieur Danceny, the gentleman I mentioned who I sang with at Madame de Merteuil’s, has been kind enough to come every day and spend absolutely hours singing with me. He’s such a nice man. He’s got a heavenly voice and can compose very pretty tunes and write the words to them as well! What a dreadful pity he’s a Knight of Malta! It seems to me that if he got married, his wife would be very happy!* He never seems to be paying compliments yet everything he says seems flattering. He keeps ticking me off all the time, for my music as well as other things, but he seems so interested and cheerful while he’s doing it that it’s impossible not to feel grateful to him. Even when he’s just looking at you he seems to be saying something nice. He’s very obliging, too. Yesterday for instance he’d been invited to some grand concert and he preferred to spend the whole evening at Mummy’s. That was very nice for me because when he’s not there nobody talks to me at all and I get bored, but when he’s there we sing together and have a chat. He’s always got something to tell me. I think he and Madame de Merteuil are the only two nice people I know. But I must sign off now, Sophie dear, I’ve promised that by today I shall learn a little aria which has a very tricky accompaniment and I don’t want to let him down. I’ll go back to my practising till he comes.
8
Madame de Tourvel to Madame de Volanges From the Château de—–, 9 August 17—
I’m so touched by your confiding in me, dear Madame. No one could be more interested in your daughter’s future than I am and I wish her with heart and soul all the happiness which she surely deserves and which I’m sure your wisdom will guarantee. I do not know Monsieur de Gercourt personally but I can only have the highest opinion of him now that you have singled him out to be your son-in-law. I need only express the hope that her marriage is as happy and successful as my own, for which you were also responsible and for which I’m more grateful to you than ever. I hope that your daughter’s happiness is the fitting reward for the happiness you have provided for me and that my best of friends becomes the happiest of mothers.
I’m truly sad that I shan’t be able to come and offer my heartfelt good wishes to the bride in person and make her acquaintance as soon as I should have liked. Having enjoyed your truly motherly affection, I feel justified in hoping to find true sisterly love and friendship with your daughter. Please ask her, dear Madame, to share with me that feeling until such time as I am in a position to show that I’m worthy of it.
I’m expecting to stay on in the country for as long as my husband is away. I’m spending this time enjoying and benefiting from the company of Madame de Rosemonde, such a highly respected and ever charming lady who shows no signs of her advanced age; she has kept all her memory and all her sprightliness; her body may be eighty-four years old, her mind is still twenty.
Our c
loistered existence is being enlivened by her nephew, the Vicomte de Valmont, who has kindly sacrificed a few days of his time to spend them in our company. I knew the Vicomte only by reputation, which gave me no desire to get to know him any better. But I think his reputation does him some injustice. Down here, where he is freed from the whirligig of society, he talks surprisingly sound good sense and admits the error of his ways with an unusual frankness. He talks very openly to me and I preach him very stern sermons. You know him and you will agree that converting him would be a feather in anyone’s cap;* but in spite of his promises, I’ve no illusions—a fortnight in Paris will drive all my preaching out of his head. His stay here will at least have provided a break from his normal activities and my belief is that, with his way of life, the best thing for him to do is to do nothing at all. He knows I’m writing to you and has asked me to send you his kindest and most respectful regards. I send you mine as well, to the safe keeping of your unfailing kindness. With sincerest good wishes, yours, etc.
9
Madame de Volanges to Madame de Tourvel 11 August 17—
My dear young friend, I’ve never doubted the genuineness of your friendship or of your concern with everything regarding my affairs and this answer to your reply* is not to elaborate on this point, which I trust can never be in any doubt for either of us. But I do feel that I cannot refrain from raising with you the question of the Vicomte de Valmont.
I must confess that I never expected to read that name in any letter of yours. What indeed can you and he have in common? You don’t know the man; where could you have gained some insight into the mind of a rake? You mention his unusual frankness; yes indeed, any frankness from Valmont must be very unusual. He’s even more deceitful and dangerous than he is pleasant and attractive. From his earliest youth he has never made the slightest move or uttered a single word without having some evil or criminal intent. Dear friend, you know me and you’re well aware that, of all the qualities I strive after, tolerance is the one which I consider most precious. So if Valmont was a man dominated by the violence of his passions or, like thousands of others, powerless to resist the temptations of his age, though I would deplore his conduct, I should feel sorry for him and quietly wait for him to reform his ways and win back the respect of decent people. Valmont’s not like that: his despicable behaviour is a matter of principle. He calculates precisely how far he can pursue his abominable conduct without compromising himself; and to gratify his cruel and wicked nature without any risk, he’s chosen to prey on women. I’m not thinking of those he may have seduced but of who knows how many he has ruined. You live a chaste and sheltered life and such scandalous adventures never reach your ears; yet I could tell you some that would make you shudder with horror; but your eyes are as pure as your soul and would be defiled by such insights. You feel confident that Valmont can never be a danger to you, so that you’ve no need of any such warning to defend yourself. I’d like to tell you just one thing: of all the women to whom he has paid his attentions, whether successfully or not, not one has failed to regret it. The Marquise de Merteuil is the sole exception; she is the only woman who has managed to resist him and frustrate his evil designs; indeed, her exemplary conduct in this compensated in everyone’s eyes for certain regrettable indiscretions of hers which occurred shortly after her husband’s death.*
However that may be, dear, dear friend, my age and experience and above all my friendship for you entitle me to draw your attention to the fact that people are beginning to take notice of Valmont’s absence and if it becomes known that he may have formed part of a threesome with you and his aunt, your reputation will be in his hands, which is the ultimate misfortune for any woman. I advise you to urge his aunt to cut short her invitation to him and if he persists in wanting to stay, I think you should not hesitate to leave yourself.
But why should he want to stay? What is he doing tucked away in the country any way? If you got someone to keep an eye on his comings and goings, I feel sure you’d find that he’s chosen his aunt’s place merely as a convenient cover for carrying out some nefarious scheme in the neighbourhood.* And since there’s no remedy for evil, we must do what we can to protect ourselves from it as far as possible.
Goodbye, my dear young friend. My daughter’s marriage will now have to be postponed for a while: we were expecting the Comte de Gercourt to be arriving any day but he has now sent word that his regiment has been ordered to Corsica* and as there is still talk of war, he can’t possibly be free before winter. This is tiresome but it gives me hope that we shall have the pleasure of seeing you at the wedding. I was annoyed that it might have taken place without you. So, goodbye once more from your ever faithful and ever sincere friend, yours, etc.
PS My kindest regards to Madame de Rosemonde, with all the affection which I feel, as ever, she richly deserves.
10
The Marquise de Merteuil to the Vicomte de Valmont 12 August 17—
Are you sulking? Or dead, possibly? Or are you living only for your judge’s wife—much the same thing, by the way? This woman, who’s given you back your youthful illusions, will soon be giving you back its absurd prejudices as well. You’re already timid and submissive; you might just as well be in love. So you’re saying goodbye to your swashbuckling exploits? In other words, you’re behaving in a completely unprincipled manner and relying purely on chance or rather, on the whim of the moment. Have you forgotten that, like medicine, love is nothing but the art of giving Nature a helping hand? As you see, I’m fighting you with your own weapons but I’m not going to crow over it because I’m fighting someone who’s already bitten the dust. She must give herself, say you. Of course she must and she’ll give herself like all the others, except that it’ll not be willingly. But for her ultimately to give herself, the best way is to start off by having her. Such a laughable distinction really is an aberration of love! And I use the word love because you are in love and if I told you otherwise I’d be misleading you and preventing you from seeing what your trouble is. So tell me, my faint-hearted swain, do you really think that all those women you’ve had were raped? Nevertheless, however keen we are to give ourselves and however quickly we’d like it to happen, we still need some pretext. And can you tell me a more convenient one than seeming to submit to force? Let me be honest: for me one of the most gratifying things is a sharp, well-conducted assault in which everything takes place in the proper order but smartly, so that we’re never placed in the tiresome and awkward predicament of having to overlook certain technical weaknesses which we ought really to have taken advantage of; which retains a semblance of violence even when we’ve given up the fight, and is skilful enough to satisfy our two favourite passions, a glorious resistance followed by a pleasurable defeat. I agree that such a gift, rarer than most people think, has always afforded me gratification, even when it hasn’t made me lose my head, so that at times I’ve given in purely in recognition of a good performance. Rather like the tournaments of olden days when Beauty awarded the prize for skill and valour.
But you’re not the man you were, you’re behaving as if you don’t really want to succeed. Since when have you enjoyed travelling in short stages and on byroads? My dear man, when people are keen to get somewhere, they travel post-haste and on main roads! But let’s drop the subject, which is all the more boring because it’s depriving me of the pleasure of your company. At least write more often to keep me up to date with your progress. Do you realize that you’ve been engaged on this absurd amorous enterprise for more than a fortnight and that you’re neglecting us all?
And speaking of neglect, you’re like those people who regularly ask for news of their friends and never bother about getting an answer. You ended your last letter by enquiring if my knight was dead. I didn’t answer your question and you’ve shown no further interest. Have you forgotten that my lover is your born friend. But don’t fret, he’s not dead or if he were it would be through an excess of bliss … Poor fellow, how tender-hearted he is! Just made for l
ove! So sensitive! I’m quite losing my head! But seriously, being loved by me is making him so blissfully happy that I’m becoming really quite fond of him.
On that very same day when I was looking for an opportunity to drop him, I made him such a happy man! Yet when he was shown in I really was thinking how I could drive him to despair. Then, for some reason, good or bad—just a whim, perhaps?—I thought he’d never looked so handsome, though I still treated him badly. He’d been hoping for a couple of hours with me alone before anyone else called. I said I had to go out. He asked me where. I refused to tell him. He persisted. Somewhere without you, I snapped. Luckily for him, this reply petrified him, because if he’d uttered a word, a row would have inevitably ensued and that would have led to the break I’d been planning. When he didn’t reply, I looked at him in surprise, with no other idea in mind, I promise you, than to see his reaction. And his charming face had that crestfallen look, tender and heartfelt, which you yourself admit is well-nigh impossible to resist. The same cause produced the same effect; I was hooked again and from that moment onwards my only concern was to avoid giving him any reason not to like me. ‘I’m going out on a matter of business,’ I said, looking rather less fierce, ‘and in fact, it’s something that concerns you but you mustn’t ask me anything more now. I’ll be back for supper, so come here and I’ll tell you all about it.’ At this he recovered the use of his tongue but I didn’t give him a chance to speak. ‘I’m in a great rush,’ I went on. ‘I’ll see you this evening but now you must go.’ He kissed my hand and left.
Les Liaisons Dangereuses Page 7
