Your warm advocacy of Monsieur de Valmont makes me so frightened that I must answer your likely objections without delay. I can hear you quoting Madame de Merteuil, whose relationship with him has been forgiven; you’ll be asking me why I allow him into my house; you’ll tell me that far from being ostracized by decent people, he’s admitted and even warmly welcomed in what is known as ‘good society’. I think I can answer all those objections.
First of all, Madame de Merteuil, though indeed a woman highly regarded, has perhaps only one fault: she overestimates her ability; she’s a skilful driver who enjoys guiding her chariot between rocks and precipices and whose sole justification is that she remains unscathed. We can certainly praise but it would be unwise to follow her; she agrees with that view herself and condemns herself for it. With greater insight she has developed stricter principles, and I have no hesitation in assuring you that she would support my judgement.
As far as I’m concerned, I shan’t try to justify myself more than anybody else. Certainly, Monsieur de Valmont comes to my house and he is accepted every where. This is one more absurdity to add to the thousand and one others condoned by society. You know as well as I do that we spend our lives noticing them, complaining about them, and committing them. Monsieur de Valmont has an honoured name, great wealth, and many likeable qualities and he recognized early on that to acquire social prestige two things only were required: to be equally adept at flattery and ridicule. No one possesses this double gift better than Valmont: he uses the first to charm, the second to intimidate. People don’t think highly of him but they indulge him. This is how he exists in a world which is prudent rather than courageous and which prefers to humour him rather than stand up to him.
But one thing is certain: not even Madame de Merteuil, let alone any other woman, would be rash enough to go off and shut herself away in the country, almost on her own, with such a man. It was left to the most chaste and modest of women to offer an example of such an absurdity—you must forgive the expression, it is one which, as your friend, I could not avoid. Dear, dear friend, it is your own high principles that are leading you astray because they give you a sense of security; but you must reflect that you will be judged on the one hand by the frivolous who’ll refuse to believe in such principles because they don’t exist amongst themselves, and on the other hand by mischief-makers who’ll pretend not to believe in them in order to punish you for holding them. Just consider that, at this moment, you are doing things that even some men wouldn’t risk doing. Indeed, amongst the younger set with whom Monsieur de Valmont has established an all too powerful reputation as an oracle, I have noticed that the most sensible of them are chary of appearing to be too closely associated with him—and yet you’re not afraid of him! Oh, I do entreat you to come back to Paris now and if my reasoning doesn’t convince you, let me appeal to you as a friend. It’s my friendship which is my justification for continuing to urge you to leave. I expect you’ll be thinking that these friendly warnings are too stern and I do sincerely hope they’re unfounded; but I’d prefer you to complain that I’m too concerned rather than uncaring.
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The Marquise de Merteuil to the Vicomte de Valmont 24 August 17—
My dear Vicomte, as soon as you start being scared of succeeding, as soon as you plan to arm your opponent against yourself and seem less keen on winning than on just waging war, then there’s really nothing more to be said. Your conduct shows either exemplary caution or else exemplary stupidity. To be blunt, I’m afraid you’re pulling the wool over your own eyes.
Not that I’m blaming you for failing to take advantage of the right moment; for one thing, I’m not at all certain in my own mind that it was the right moment;* for another, I’m perfectly well aware that, contrary to conventional wisdom, opportunity always knocks more than once whereas a false step can never be retraced.
But your real howler was to embark on letter-writing. I defy you to foresee now where that may land you. Do you, perchance, hope to prove to that woman that she’s got to give herself to you?* It seems to me that’s something which has to be felt, not proved, and to convince anyone of it you must appeal to the heart, not the head; but what’s the point of softening a heart by correspondence when you’re not there to take advantage of it? Even assuming your fine phrases manage to whip her into a frenzy, do you flatter yourself that she won’t have time to pull herself together and stop herself from admitting it? Just consider how long it takes to write a letter, how long it takes to reach her, and see if a woman, particularly a pious high-principled woman like yours, can persist over such a long period in wanting to do something she’s trying hard never to do anyway. That sort of thing may work with children who when they write ‘I love you’ don’t realize that they’re saying: ‘Take me.’ But Madame de Tourvel is virtuous and argumentative and seems to have a pretty good grasp of the exact value of words, so, in spite of the advantage you gained over her while talking, in her letter she beats you hands down. And do you know what happens next? The very fact of arguing means that you refuse to give in. You cast around for good reasons, you find some, you put them forward and then stick by them not because they’re good but to avoid having to contradict yourself.
And there’s something else I’m surprised you haven’t noticed: there’s nothing harder than writing something you don’t really feel, I mean doing it convincingly; it’s not that you don’t use the proper words but they’re not arranged in the proper way or rather, they obviously are arranged and that’s quite enough. Just reread your letter: it’s organized in such a way that every sentence gives the game away. I’m willing to believe that your judge’s wife isn’t sophisticated enough to notice it but what does that matter? The effect is still obvious. It’s the weakness of novels; while the author works himself up into a passion, the reader remains unmoved. Héloïse* is the only possible exception; and though the author of that book is very gifted, this observation has always led me to think that the novel was based on fact. Talking is quite different. With practice, you can make your voice tremble with emotion and that can be enhanced by a few well-placed tears; eyes can express a blend of tenderness and desire; and finally, a few broken words help to reinforce the air of bewilderment and agitation which is the most eloquent proof of love. Above all, the presence of our lover prevents women from thinking and makes us want to surrender.
Take my advice: you’ve been asked to stop writing; take advantage of this to correct your mistake and wait for a chance to speak. D’you know, that woman’s stronger than I thought? Her defences are first-rate; there were only two things which gave her away: her letter was too long and she expressed her gratitude, thereby offering you a pretext to return to the charge.
There’s one other factor which promises well for your campaign: she’s committing too many forces in one operation; I predict that she’ll use them up in the war of words and won’t have any in reserve to defend herself when it comes to deeds.
I’m sending you back your letters and if you’re wise, they’ll be the last you write before victory is yours. If it wasn’t so late I’d tell you about the Volanges girl who’s coming along nicely. I’m highly satisfied with her. I reckon I’ll get her past the finishing post before you and you must be feeling very ashamed at that.
Goodbye for now.
34
The Vicomte de Valmont to the Marquise de Merteuil 25 August 17—
You talk admirable good sense, fair lady, but why make such an effort to prove what every schoolboy knows? In love, rapid progress is achieved by talking rather than writing: that, I think, just about sums up your letter. Really, my dear! That’s the most elementary principle of the game. But may I point out that you allow only one exception, whereas there are two: in addition to children who follow this primrose path through timidity and come to grief through ignorance, you must include clever women who allow themselves to become involved through conceit and are brought down by their own vanity. For instance, I’m quite sure that the
Comtesse de B—–,* who found no difficulty in responding to my letter, felt at the time no more love for me than I for her and merely saw the chance of talking about a subject that would increase her prestige.
However that may be, a lawyer would say that in this case the question is ultra vires. You are in fact assuming that I have the choice between writing and speaking. This is not the case; ever since that business on the 20th, my heartless lady has remained on the defensive and thwarted any manœuvre to see her with masterly skill. It’s reached the stage where, if this continues, she’ll force me to give serious thought to finding means to regain my advantage, since I’m certainly not prepared to be outmanœuvred by her in any way. Even my letters have become the subject of a minor war: she’s not content to leave them unanswered, she’s refusing to accept them. Each letter requires a fresh stratagem and they’re not all successful.
You’ll recall how simply I managed to get the first one to her. The second one was equally easy: she had asked me to return her letter; quite unsuspectingly, she got mine instead. But either because she resented being taken in or from some whim or other or even the voice of conscience—I’m being forced to take that voice seriously—she stubbornly declined to accept the third one. However, I have hopes that the embarrassment which nearly resulted from that refusal will make her think twice next time.
I wasn’t really surprised that she didn’t accept this third letter when I merely tried to hand it to her: that would have meant climbing down, and I’m anticipating a more spirited defence. After this attempt, made purely on the off-chance, I put my letter into an envelope and seizing the opportunity as she was dressing for dinner in the presence of Madame de Rosemonde and her maid, I got my man to take it in to her, instructing him to say it was the document she’d been asking for. I’d assumed, quite rightly, that she’d be scared of the scandal involved in having to explain should she refuse it, and she did, in fact, accept the letter. I’d told my emissary to watch her closely; he has quite a sharp eye and failed to detect anything more than a faint flush in her cheeks, embarrassment rather than anger.
I was naturally congratulating myself that she would either keep the letter or if she wanted to return it, would have to see me alone, giving me the chance to speak with her. About an hour later, one of her servants comes into my room and on behalf of his mistress hands me an envelope, different from mine, addressed in the handwriting which I was longing to see. I tore it open. It was my own letter, unopened and merely folded in half. I suspect that this diabolical trick was inspired by her fear that I’d be less scared of any scandal than she would.
You know what I’m like and I don’t need to tell you that I flew into a rage. However, as I’ve got to find other ways, I’ve now calmed down. This is the only idea I could come up with.
Every morning they go and pick up the mail at the post, which is just over a mile from here. They use a box, something like a church offertory box; the postmaster has one key, Madame de Rosemonde the other. Everybody puts their letters in this box any time they like during the day, then they’re taken to the post every evening and letters that have come in are collected every morning. The servants, including the guests’ servants, take it in turns to operate this system. It wasn’t my man’s turn but he volunteered to do it, pretending he had business nearby.
Meanwhile I wrote my letter, disguising my handwriting for the address and producing a reasonably good imitation of the Dijon stamp on the envelope. I chose Dijon because I felt it was more fun, since I was soliciting the husband’s rights, to write from that town and also because my lovely lady had been talking all day about how much she was looking forward to getting letters from Dijon. I felt it was up to me to gratify such conjugal concern.
Having arranged all this, it was child’s play to slip my letter in with the rest. This subterfuge gave me the added advantage of enabling me to watch her receive it, as it’s the practice here to congregate at breakfast-time and before going our own ways, wait for the post to arrive, which it finally did.
Madame de Rosemonde unlocked the box. ‘One from Dijon,’ she said, passing my letter to Madame de Tourvel. ‘That’s not my husband’s writing!’ the judge’s wife said anxiously and quickly slit open the envelope. One glance sufficed and her face was so transfixed that Madame de Rosemonde noticed and asked: ‘What’s the matter?’ I went over to her as well and said: ‘Is it really such distressing news?’ The saintly woman was hanging her head in embarrassment, not trusting herself to say a word; she pretended to run her eyes over the letter which she was hardly in a fit state to read. Enjoying her confusion and welcoming the chance to goad her a little, I added: ‘You seem less upset… I trust that means that your letter contained just unexpected news, not bad news.’ At this her anger got the better of her discretion. ‘It contains things that are grossly offensive,’ she retorted, ‘and I’m amazed that anyone could presume to write such a letter.’ ‘But who…?’ Madame de Rosemonde interposed. ‘It’s not signed’, the lovely lady replied angrily, ‘but I consider that the letter and its author are both equally contemptible. I don’t want to say anything more on the subject.’ So saying, she tore the shameless epistle up, stuffed the pieces into her pocket, sprang to her feet and left the room.*
She may be angry but she’s still got my letter and I’m quite content to leave it to her curiosity to peruse it right through.
A detailed account of my day would take me too far. Here are drafts of my two letters,* so now you’re as well informed as I am. If you want to be kept up to date with this correspondence, you must get used to decyphering my scribble: copying them out would be too excruciatingly boring for words. Goodbye, lovely lady.
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The Vicomte de Valmont to Madame de Tourvel 21 August 17—
I must obey you, Madame; I must prove that for all the faults you like to credit me with, I still have enough delicacy of feeling not to lay myself open to reproach and the courage to accept the most grievous sacrifices. You order me to leave you alone and to forget you. So be it: I shall force my heart to be silent and I shall forget, if I can, how cruelly you have treated it. Certainly my longing to please you gave me no right to succeed in doing so, nor did my need for your indulgence entitle me to obtain it. But you call my love offensive, forgetting that however wrong it might be, you were its sole cause and justification. You forget too that, as I had become accustomed to baring my innermost soul to you, even though my frankness could do me harm, I had lost the ability to conceal the feelings which were overwhelming me, so that what you consider my impudence was nothing but my good faith. And so your reward for my most true, most tender, and most respectful love is to banish me. You even speak of hating me… Who else would not complain at such treatment? But I shall not complain, I shall submit and suffer in silence; you strike me down, I worship you. Your power over me is unimaginable, you control my feelings absolutely; and if my love is able to resist you and you are unable to destroy it, this is only because this love is of your making, not mine.
I am not asking for your love in return; I have never deluded myself on that score. I don’t even expect the compassion which your earlier interest in me might at times have led me to hope for. But I confess that I do think I may appeal to your sense of justice.
You tell me that people have been trying to poison your mind against me and that had you taken your friends’ advice to heart, you would not even have let me hear you: those were your very words. Who are these busybodies? Surely such stern judges, with such rigid principles, will not refuse to be named? Surely they would not wish to take refuge in secrecy and behave like any low gossipmonger? I shall then no longer be left in ignorance of their names and of their accusations. I would ask you to remember, dear Madame, that since you are passing judgement on me on their testimony, I have the right to know both these things. No one finds a man guilty without telling him his crime or naming his accusers. That is the only favour I ask of you and I undertake in advance to justify myself and force th
em to retract.
If I may have displayed too openly my contempt for the empty babble of public opinion for which I’ve no great respect, your good opinion of me is quite another matter; and since I intend to dedicate my life to obtaining it, I shan’t stand idly by and let anyone deprive me of it. And it is all the more precious to me inasmuch as it is your good opinion of me which will no doubt allow you to make the request that you are afraid to make and which, you say, might even allow me to enjoy your gratitude. Ah, far from demanding your gratitude, I shall feel that I owe gratitude to you for giving me the chance to please you. So start treating me more fairly: don’t keep hiding from me what you wish me to do. Were I able to read your mind, I should spare you the trouble of having to tell me. And if with the pleasure of meeting you I have the added good fortune of serving you, I shall be even better rewarded by your forgiveness. What could hold you back? I hope that it’s not your fear that I might refuse, that’s something I couldn’t forgive. My failure to return your letter wasn’t a refusal; I’m even more anxious than you that I shall have no further need for it. You see, having become used to thinking that you have such a gentle soul, it’s only in that letter that you appear as you wish to appear. Whenever I feel the desire to soften your heart, it tells me that rather than let me do so, you would take refuge far away from me; when everything about you strengthens and justifies my love, it is your letter that informs me that my love is offensive; and every time I see you and my love for you seems a blessing from Heaven, I only need to read it to realize that it is just a cruel martyrdom. As you see, nothing would make me happier than to return this horrible document; and for you to ask me for it once again would justify me in thinking that I need no longer believe in its contents. I hope you have no doubts as to my eagerness to hand it back to you.
Les Liaisons Dangereuses Page 12
