This morning he went out on one of those expeditions which might lead to the suspicion that he was plotting something in the neighbourhood, as you surmised; a surmise which I feel guilty of having taken up too eagerly. Fortunately for him and, above all, for us, because we have been spared from committing an injustice, one of my servants was due to be going in the same direction and it’s through him that my curiosity, for which I blame myself, has turned out to be providential. This man reported to us that Monsieur de Valmont, discovering that in the village of—– an unfortunate family was about to be dispossessed for non-payment of taxes, not only immediately settled those poor people’s debts but even gave them quite a considerable sum of money. This most charitable act was witnessed by my servant and he reported in addition that the villagers had revealed, during talks with him and with each other, that a manservant whom they described and who my man thinks is Monsieur de Valmont’s, had been enquiring yesterday which of the local inhabitants might be in need of help. If this is true then this is not just a casual act of pity, resulting from chance, but a deeply charitable concern, a deliberate intention to do good, that most noble quality of noble souls. But whether by chance or by intent, it is still an honourable and praiseworthy act; merely hearing about it moved me to tears. Let me add, since I still wish to be fair, that when I spoke to him about his action, which he’d not once mentioned himself, he at first denied it and when he finally confessed, his modesty was even more admirable as he seemed to view it as something quite trivial.
Now tell me, dear, respected friend, if Monsieur de Valmont actually is a hardened libertine and nothing more, yet behaves in this way, what is there left for decent people to do? Can evil people really share with the good the saintly pleasures of charity? Would God allow a virtuous family to receive help from the hands of a scoundrel and offer up thanks for it to His Divine Providence? Would it please Him to hear innocent lips calling blessings down on the head of a sinful man? Of course He would not!* I prefer to believe that evil actions, however long they continue, do not last for ever and I cannot conceive that a man who does good can be an enemy of virtue. Perhaps Monsieur de Valmont is just a victim of the danger of certain acquaintances. And this is a pleasant thought indeed on which to end this letter. If it can help to justify him in your eyes, it will surely serve to make my lifelong friendship and affection for you even more precious.
Ever most truly, etc.
PS Madame de Rosemonde and I are setting off this very moment to see for ourselves this honest and unfortunate family and belatedly to add something to the help already received from Monsieur de Valmont. We shall take him with us. At least we shall provide these good folk with the pleasure of meeting their benefactor again, even if, as I suspect, he has left us with little more to do.
23
The Vicomte de Valmont to the Marquise de Merteuil From the Château de—–, 21 August 17—, 3 a.m.
We’d reached the point where I’d gone back to the château. I take up my tale from there.
I just had time to change before going down to the drawingroom where my beauty was working at her tapestry while the local parish priest was reading the Gazette* to my old aunt. I went and sat down beside the frame. The looks cast in my direction, even softer than usual, indeed verging on the affectionate, soon led me to guess that the servant had already reported on his mission. And in fact my dear prying lady was unable to keep to herself any longer the secret she had wrested from me and, intrepidly interrupting the venerable cleric whose tone of voice suggested he was delivering a sermon, she announced, ‘I have some news of my own’, and launched into an account of my exploit with an accuracy which does credit to the competence of her informant. You can imagine the great show of modesty which I put on; but what can possibly stop a woman who, all unsuspectingly, is praising the object of her affections? I decided to let her have her head. You would have imagined that she was eulogizing a saint. Meanwhile, I was examining, not without optimism, all the promising signs of love in the sparkle in her eyes, the greater freedom of her gestures and, above all, the marked change in her tone of voice which betrayed the depth of her emotion. As soon as she had come to an end, my aunt exclaimed: ‘Nephew, come here, I must give you a hug!’ I immediately perceived that my charming spreader of the Word could not escape her turn; she tried to evade my grasp but was quickly held in my arms and far from resisting, she barely had the strength to hold herself upright. The longer I observe this woman, the more desirable she becomes. She hurriedly retreated to her frame, ostensibly to start her tapestry work again; I alone could plainly see that her hand was trembling too much for her to do so.
After dinner, the ladies were anxious to go and see the unfortunate villagers whom I had so piously helped; they took me with them. I’ll spare you the boring details of this second scene of acclaim and thanksgiving: my heart is burning to hurry back to the château, driven on by a delicious memory. As we drove back, my lovely judicial lady was more meditative than usual and uttered not a word. I too remained silent, running over in my mind ways and means of exploiting the impact of the day’s events. Only Madame de Rosemonde had anything to say but found us unresponsive. I intended her to find us boring and I succeeded. As a result, as soon as my aunt got out of the carriage, she went up to her quarters, leaving my beauty and me alone in a dimly lit drawing-room; a subdued half-light, encouraging for a timid lover.
I had no difficulty in leading the conversation round to where I wanted. The zeal of my charming sermonizer came to my aid far better than any wiles of mine could have done. She had a soft look in her eyes. ‘When someone is capable of such good works,’ she began, ‘how can he spend his life doing wrong?’ ‘I’m afraid I don’t deserve either your praise or your blame,’ I replied, ‘and I can’t understand how someone so highly intelligent as yourself hasn’t yet found me out. Even if what I’m going to confess may harm me in your eyes, nobody deserves to be told the truth more than you, so I must tell you. The key to my behaviour lies in my character which unfortunately is extremely weak. Being surrounded by people with no morals, I’ve come to imitate their vices and through vanity and conceit even tried to outshine them. Similarly since I’ve been here I’ve been captivated by virtuous examples and even if I could never hope to match them, I have at least made an effort to follow in your footsteps. And perhaps my action which you find so praiseworthy would lose all its value for you if you knew the real motive behind it.’ (Please note, fair lady, how close I came to telling the truth!) ‘Those unfortunate people I helped,’ I went on, ‘owed me nothing. What you considered an act of charity was merely my way of trying to please you. Since I’m determined to be frank, let me say that I was merely the frail instrument of the Divinity whom I worship’ (and here she tried to cut me short but I didn’t give her the chance). ‘Even now,’ I continued, ‘it’s nothing but my weakness which is making me reveal my secret. I’d promised myself not to say anything, I was happy to worship your goodness and your charms with so pure a devotion that you would have never become aware of it. But seeing your own sincerity, how could I deceive you? At least I shan’t have to feel guilty at living a lie. Please don’t think I have any sort of hopes, that would be an insult and a crime. I know my plight is hopeless, I’m doomed to be unhappy, but I’ll accept my misery gladly because it will prove how deeply I’m in love. I shall kneel at your feet and throw myself on your mercy to comfort me in my sorrow and to find new strength to go on suffering. You will be kind and compassionate and I shall feel consoled because you’ve shown me pity. Oh, how I adore you! Hear me and pity me and help me!’ By now I was down at her feet, clasping her hands but she suddenly pulled them free and held them crossed in front of her eyes with a look of despair. ‘Ah, poor me, poor me!’ she exclaimed and burst into tears. Luckily I’d talked myself into such a state that I was crying too, so I clutched her hands again and bathed them in my tears.* This was a highly necessary precaution because she was so preoccupied with her own troubles that if I hadn’t
brought mine to her attention she wouldn’t have noticed them; it gave me the added advantage of leaving me more time to scrutinize her lovely face, made even lovelier by the potent charm of tears. I was becoming roused and in such poor control of my feelings that I was sorely tempted to exploit the situation.
How feeble can you be? What a poor victim of circumstances I’d have been if I’d forgotten my plans and, by making her surrender too quickly, risked forfeiting the delights of a longdrawn-out struggle and the niceties of an agonizing defeat? If I’d been led astray like some lecherous youngster and, by seducing Madame de Tourvel then and there, had merely gained a dreary reward for all my efforts by chalking up yet one more name on the list? Certainly she must surrender but she must offer resistance; an opponent too weak to win but not too weak to put up a struggle. She must be given time to savour her weakness to the full and be forced to admit defeat. Any piddling poacher can lie in wait for a stag and shoot it unawares; the true sportsman brings it to bay. Don’t you think my plan’s divine? All the same, I might perhaps now be feeling sorry not to have followed it if chance hadn’t intervened to support my caution.
We heard sounds; people were coming towards the drawingroom. Madame de Tourvel sprang to her feet, picked up a candelabra and left the room. It was impossible to stop her. It was only a servant. As soon as I was sure of this, I followed her but hardly had I gone a few steps when, either because she recognized me or because she was afraid, I heard her quickening her stride and go or rather rush into her room, locking the door behind her. I went up to it but the key was inside. I carefully refrained from knocking: that would have provided her with a far too easy way of resisting. I hit on the bright idea of quite simply peeping through the keyhole* and I could see this adorable woman on her knees, her face streaming with tears and praying hard. What God was she daring to pray to? Is there any God strong enough to resist Love? It’s useless for her to seek help from outside; I’m the one who’ll decide her fate now.
Thinking I’d done enough for one day, I went straight back to my room and started to write this letter. I’d been hoping to see her at supper but she sent a message that she wasn’t feeling well and had gone to bed. Madame de Rosemonde wanted to go up and see her but the sly little invalid alleged she had a headache which prevented her from seeing anyone. You can imagine that I didn’t linger after supper and quickly developed a headache of my own. As soon as I got to my room I wrote a long letter protesting against her harshness towards me and went to bed, intending to hand it to her this morning. As you can see from the date of this letter, I slept badly. On getting up, I reread my missive to her again and realized that I hadn’t been sufficiently circumspect and that it was passionate rather than loving and petulant rather than disconsolate. I’ll have to rewrite it but I’ve got to be calmer.
The sun’s just coming up: I hope the cool of dawn will enable me to get some sleep. I shall go back to bed and I promise that however strong that woman’s power over me may be, it’ll not be too strong to prevent me from finding time to think of you a very great deal. Goodbye, dear, lovely lady.
24*
The Vicomte de Valmont to Madame de Tourvel 20 August 17—
For pity’s sake, Madame, relent and relieve my troubled spirit; relent and tell me what I may hope or fear.* I’m tortured by uncertainty: do I face happiness beyond my dreams or calamity? Why did I speak out? Why was I overwhelmed by your charm and forced to open my heart to you? As long as I was content to worship you in silence I could at least indulge my feeling of love; my happiness was untroubled by the sight of your distress and this chaste feeling was joy enough. But ever since I saw you crying, this joy has turned to despair; ever since I heard you utter those cruel words: ‘Ah, poor me!’, which will long re-echo in my heart. Why does Fate seem to have ordained that love, that gentlest of feelings, fills you only with fear? But I misread your heart: you’re not made for love; I am the only one with a loving heart, even though you constantly misrepresent it. Indeed, your heart is pitiless; how else would you be able to refuse someone a word of comfort when he’d revealed the extent of his misery; you wouldn’t have hidden yourself away from him when his only pleasure is to see you; you wouldn’t have had the cruelty to play on his anxiety by announcing that you were unwell and then refusing to let him visit you to enquire after your health; you would have sensed that last night, which for you meant merely twelve hours’ rest, would become for him an eternity of anguish.
Tell me the crime I’ve committed to deserve such a crushing sentence. I’m not afraid to ask you to judge me, just tell me what I have done, apart from giving way, against my will, to feelings inspired by your beauty and sanctioned by your spotless reputation, feelings never exceeding the bounds of respect, feelings which I confessed, innocently and in all good faith, without hoping for any gain. Are you now prepared to betray that trust which you seemed to place in me and to which I responded so open-heartedly? No, Madame, that I cannot believe; were I to believe it, it would suggest that you are capable of behaving badly and the mere hint of such a thought makes me sick at heart; I take back any reproaches I may have made against you, I may have written them but I never believed them. Please, please don’t destroy my belief that you are perfect! That is now the only pleasure remaining. And you must prove it is true by being generous and helping me! Have you ever known an unfortunate with a greater need for help than mine? Don’t desert me, don’t leave me in the state of madness into which you’ve thrown me! Since you’ve taken my good sense away from me, help me with your own! Discipline me and then complete your charitable work by telling me what I am to do.
I cannot deceive you: you’ll never succeed in driving out my love but you will teach me to keep it under control, you’ll guide my steps, you’ll dictate what I may say and at least save me from the horror of incurring your displeasure. That particular fear you must relieve me of, by telling me I’m forgiven and that you feel pity for me. Promise to be forbearing; you will never have all the forbearance I should like but I beg you at least to let me have all I need. Will you refuse me that?
Goodbye, Madame de Tourvel. Be kind and accept the wishes I offer you, knowing that they can never weaken the deep respect in which I hold you.
25
The Vicomte de Valmont to the Marquise de Merteuil 22 August 17—
Here’s yesterday’s situation report:
II a.m.: I went to see Madame de Rosemonde and under her watchful eye was admitted into the bedroom of the bogus invalid. She was still in bed, with big rings round her eyes; I do hope she slept as badly as I did. I took advantage of a moment when Madame de Rosemonde was otherwise engaged to hand her my letter, which she rejected. However I left it lying on the bed and very politely went over and fetched my old aunt’s armchair up beside the bed as she wanted to sit near to her ‘dear child’; to avoid scandal, the letter had to be secreted away. The patient was ill-advised enough to say she thought she had a temperature and Madame de Rosemonde called upon me to feel her pulse, expressing great confidence in my medical skills. My beauty thus had the double mortification of letting me take hold of her arm and of having her little stratagem exposed. In fact, I took her hand and squeezed it while I ran my other hand over her cool, plump arm; the naughty girl did not have the slightest reaction, which prompted me to say, as I let go: ‘No trace of fever at all; the heart seems sluggish.’ I suspected she was looking daggers at me so I avoided her gaze, as a punishment for her behaviour. A moment later she said she’d get up and we left her. She came down to dinner, which was not a cheerful occasion. She announced she would not be taking a walk, which was her way of letting me know that I wouldn’t have any chance of speaking to her. I realized that it was up to me to throw in a sigh or two and a grieved look; no doubt she was expecting me to do so for that was the only time during the day when I succeeded in meeting her eye. Chaste she may be but she has her sly little ways like any other. I grasped the opportunity to ask her if she had relented enough to let me know my fate
and was somewhat surprised to hear her reply: Yes, Monsieur, I have written you a letter. I was very eager to receive it but either because she was being sly again or awkward or shy, she didn’t let me have it until it was time for her to retire. Here it is, together with a draft of mine. Read it and judge for yourself what an arrant hypocrite she is to deny that she feels any love for me when I’m certain that it’s not true. And then later on she’ll complain if I deceive her when she’s had no qualms at all in deceiving me now. Fair lady, the cleverest of men can just about hold his own with the most truthful woman. Yet one has to pretend to believe all this rubbish and become haggard with despair because the lady is pleased to play at being hard to get! How can we resist retaliating against such vicious conduct! Ah, we must remain patient … And now, goodbye, I’ve still a lot of writing to do.
And by the way, please send back that heartless woman’s letter. It may be that later on she might think that such trivia have some sort of value. We must make sure everything’s in order.*
I haven’t mentioned the Volanges girl; we’ll come back to her at the first available opportunity.
26
Madame de Tourvel to the Vicomte de Valmont 21 August 17—
You would certainly never have received this letter from me, Monsieur de Valmont, if my stupid behaviour of yesterday evening hadn’t forced me to embark on an explanation today. Yes, I admit I was crying, I may even have let slip the couple of words which you quote so accurately; you clearly missed nothing, either of my tears or my words, so I must give you an explanation of everything.
Les Liaisons Dangereuses Page 10
