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Dangerous Connections, v. 1, 2, 3, 4

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Title: Dangerous Connections, v. 1, 2, 3, 4

Author: Choderlos de Laclos

Translator: Thomas Moore


        
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                Most recently updated: June 18, 2026

Language: English

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*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK DANGEROUS CONNECTIONS, V. 1, 2, 3, 4 ***

DANGEROUS
CONNECTIONS:

A SERIES OF
LETTERS,
SELECTED FROM THE CORRESPONDENCE
OF
A PRIVATE CIRCLE;
AND PUBLISHED FOR THE INSTRUCTION
OF SOCIETY.

BY M. C**** DE L***.

“I have observed the Manners of the Times, and have
wrote those Letters.”

J. J. Rousseau, Pref. to the New Eloise.

SECOND EDITION.
IN FOUR VOLUMES.

VOL. I.

London:
PRINTED FOR J. EBERS, OLD BOND STREET.
1812




ADVERTISEMENT
FROM THE
EDITOR.

We think it incumbent on us to acquaint the Public, notwithstanding the
title of this work, and what the Compiler asserts in his preface, that
we do not pledge ourselves for the authenticity of this Collection, and
that we have even very forcible reasons to believe it a fiction.

Nay, that the author, who seems studiously to have sought nature, has
himself awkwardly defeated his intention, by the epocha in which he
has placed his events. The morals of several of his personages are so
corrupt, that it is impossible they should have existed in this age;
an age of philosophy, and in which an extensive diffusion of knowledge
has had the happy effect to render the men famed for morality and
integrity, and the female sex for reserve and modesty.

We are therefore inclined to think, if the adventures related in this
work have any foundation in truth, they must have happened at some
other time and place: and we blame the author much, who, probably
seduced by the hope of interesting us the more, has dared to modernize
and to decorate, with our usages and customs, morals to which we are
utter strangers.

To preserve, at least, the too credulous reader, as much as in our
power, from all surprise on this subject, we will strengthen our
opinion with an unanswerable argument; for though similar causes never
fail to produce the same effects, yet we cannot now find a young
lady, with an estate of 60,000 livres a year, take the veil, nor a
Presidente, in the bloom of youth and beauty, die of grief.




PREFACE.


This Work, or rather Collection, which the Public will, perhaps, still
find too voluminous, contains but a small part of the correspondence
from which it is extracted. Being appointed to arrange it by the
persons in whose possession it was, and who, I knew, intended it for
publication, I asked, for my sole recompence, the liberty to reject
every thing that appeared to me useless, and I have endeavoured to
preserve only the letters which appeared necessary to illustrate
the events, or to unfold the characters. If to this inconsiderable
share in the work be added an arrangement of those letters which I
have preserved, with a strict attention to dates, and some short
annotations, calculated, for the most part, to point out some
citations, or to explain some retrenchments I have made, the Public
will see the extent of my labours, and the part I have taken in this
publication.

I have also changed, or suppressed, the names of the personages, and
if, among those I have substituted, any resemblance may be found which
might give offence, I beg it may be looked on as an unintentional error.

I proposed farther alterations, as to purity of style and diction, in
both which many faults will be found. I could also have wished to have
been authorised to shorten some long letters, several of which treat
separately, and almost without transition, of objects totally foreign
to one another. This liberty, in which I was not indulged, would
not have been sufficient to give merit to the work, but would have
corrected part of its defects.

It was objected to me, that the intention was to publish the letters
themselves, and not a work compiled from the letters; that it would
be as distant from probability as truth, that eight or ten persons,
who were concerned in this correspondence, should have wrote with
equal purity of style:—And on my representing that there was not one
which did not abound with essential faults, and was not very open
to criticism, I was answered, that every reasonable reader would
undoubtedly expect to find faults in a collection of letters of private
persons, since among all those hitherto published by authors of the
highest reputation, and even some academicians, there are none totally
exempt from censure. Those reasons have not convinced me; and I am
still of opinion they are easier to give than likely to obtain assent;
but I had not my option, and submitted, reserving only the liberty of
entering my protest, and declaring my dissent, as I now do.

As to the merit of this work, perhaps it does not become me to touch
upon it; my opinion neither can, or ought, to influence any one.
However, as some wish to know something of a book before they take it
in hand, those who are so disposed will proceed with this preface—the
rest will do better to pass on to the work itself.

Though inclined to publish those letters, I am yet far from thinking
they will meet success; and let not this sincere declaration be
construed into the affected modesty of an author: for I declare, with
the same frankness, that if I had thought this collection an unworthy
offering to the Public, it should not have taken up any part of my
time.—Let us try to reconcile this apparent contradiction.

The merit of a work consists in its utility, or its agreeableness,
and even in both, when it admits of both. But success, which is not
always the criterion of merit, often arises more from a choice of
subject than the execution, more from the aggregate of the objects
presented than the manner of treating them: such a collection as the
title announces this to be, being the letters of a whole circle, and
containing a diversity of interests, is not likely to fix the attention
of the reader. Besides, the sentiments they contain being feigned or
dissembled, can only excite an interest of curiosity, always infinitely
inferior to that of sentiment, and less disposed to indulgence, as well
as more apt to be struck with defects in the narrative, as they are
constantly in opposition to the only desire curiosity seeks to gratify.
These defects are, perhaps, partly compensated by the quality of the
work; I mean the variety of style—A merit which an author seldom
attains, but which here presents itself, and prevents, at least, a dull
uniformity. Perhaps merit may also be allowed to many observations,
either new or little known, which are interspersed through those
letters: and this, to pass the most favourable judgment on them, will
be found to constitute their best pretension to pleasing.

The utility of the work, which will, perhaps, be more strongly
contested, appears more easy to establish: it is at least useful to
morality, to lay open the means used by the wicked to seduce the
innocent; and those letters will efficaciously concur for so salutary
a purpose. There will also be found in them the proof and example of
two important truths, which one would be apt to think unknown, seeing
how little they are practised: the one, that every woman who admits a
bad man to her society, ends with becoming his victim; the other, that
every mother is at least imprudent, that suffers any but herself to
gain possession of her daughter’s confidence.

Young persons, of both sexes, may also here learn, that the
friendship so readily held out to them by people of bad morals,
is ever a dangerous snare, equally fatal to their happiness and
virtue; yet, abuse or evil always unhappily confining too nearly on
good, appears so much to be dreaded in this respect, that far from
recommending the perusal of works of this kind to youth, I think it
of the utmost importance to keep all such very far from their reach.
The time when productions of the nature of the present may be no
longer dangerous, but begin to be useful, was fixed by a lady of
great good understanding. “I think,” said she to me, after having
read the manuscript of this correspondence, “I should render my
daughter an essential service in putting this book in her hands on
her wedding-day.” Should all mothers think thus, I shall congratulate
myself on having published it.

Yet I shall leave this flattering supposition at a distance; and I
still think this collection will please but few.—Men and women of
depraved minds will take an interest in discountenancing a work that
may injure them; and as they are never wasting in ingenuity, they may
bring over the whole class of rigorists, who will be alarmed at the
picture we have dared to present of profligacy.

The pretenders to free thinking will take no concern in the fate of a
devout woman, whom, for that reason, they will not fail to pronounce
weak, whilst the devotee will be displeased to see virtue sink under
misfortune, and will complain that religion does not sufficiently
display its power. On the other hand, persons of a delicate taste
will be disgusted with the simplicity and defective style of many of
the letters, whilst the generality of readers, led away with the idea
that every thing that appears in print is a work of labour, will think
he sees in some of the other letters the laboured style of an author
sufficiently apparent, notwithstanding the disguise he has assumed.

To conclude; it will be pretty generally said, that a thing is little
worth out of its place; and that if the too correct style of authors
takes off from the gracefulness of miscellaneous letters, negligences
in these become real faults, and make them insupportable when
consigned to the press.

I sincerely own that those reproaches may have some foundation. I
believe also, I might possibly be able to answer them, even without
exceeding the length of a preface: but it is clear, that were I to
attempt to answer every thing, I could do nothing else; and that if I
had deemed it requisite to do so, I should at once have suppressed both
preface and book.




EXTRACT
FROM THE
CORRESPONDENCE
ON WHAT CONCERNS THE
HAPPINESS OF MAN AND SOCIETY.
[No. III.]
THE UTILITY OF NOVELS.
THE NOVEL OF
DANGEROUS CONNECTIONS.


Are novels useful, or are they prejudicial to the morals? is a question
long agitated, and not yet resolved; for the reasons on both sides
are equally plausible. Undoubtedly Richardson, who is read and cited
every where, though prolix and diffuse, has not a little contributed
to the practice of pure morality; and yet, on the other hand, what
mischiefs have been produced by the immense multitude of novels of
all sorts with which France and all Europe have been overrun for some
years past; and, as if the evil done by these temporary plagues was not
sufficiently accomplished during their short existence, it is prolonged
by reviving them in eternal collections. A novel, the morality of which
is equivocal, is a very dangerous poison; a novel that only possesses
mediocrity, is at best useless. Even a good novel is but aliment for a
child, or some weak being, to whom morality unadorned is a disgusting
object. Hence we may conclude, that every thinking man will take care
to banish this kind of works from his library.

He will then likewise proscribe that novel, now so much prized,
called _Dangerous Connections, or Letters collected in a Society, and
published for the Instruction of other Societies_.

After having read a few pages of this work, one is almost led to think
this title a piece of pleasantry; the letters of Madame de Merteuil,
and of the Viscount de Valmont, _published_ truly _for the instruction
of society_. Is it in order to form people to the detestable art of
seduction, or to inspire them with a horror of it? and yet this work
has been censured, and approved; has had all the honours of war, while
so many other useful works are like the manes of the ancients, to whom
a sepulchre was denied, and who were forced to wander upon the gloomy
banks of the Styx, and admitted only by stealth. _O cæcas hominum
mentes!_

I am far from a wish to calumniate the author, who, I am assured, is
a military man of the highest character for wit and good conduct; but
his work, which seems to have a moral end in view, is in reality very
dangerous. It has been said to be a picture of the manners of a certain
class in society; and, if it was not a resemblance, where would be
its utility? Must monsters be created to cause in us an aversion of
ordinary vices? If it is true, it ought to have been concealed; there
are shocking nudities which our minds revolt at rather than receive
any instruction from. The veil that covers the Tiberiuses and the
Messalinas, ought not to be wholly lifted up.

Young men will find in this novel easy means of seduction; young women
will here see portraits of embellished vice; and old libertines will
be amused by the exploits of Valmont. But what a monster is Valmont,
if such a character exists; and those who know that class of society,
assure us, they have met with many such. If there really are such
beings, ought not their society to be avoided carefully? It is a forest
filled with robbers: to enter it we should be well armed. It is a road
full of great precipices, to avoid falling into which, we must be very
circumspect.

What a character is the Marchioness de Merteuil! Sometimes she is a
Medea, sometimes a Messalina. Read the tenth letter: vice is to be
drawn; but should it be drawn in such seducing colours? Are there many
young people who will prefer the character of a virtuous man to the
brilliant and lively one of the profligate Valmont? Are there many who
will not blush at the awkwardness of Cecilia? And when one blushes at
being ridiculed, they are not very far from the vice that exempts them
from it. In France, ridicule is too much dreaded; they would rather be
vicious; and this book will rather assist that taste.

The style of romances may serve to lead us to the knowledge of the
morals of ages and nations. Thus the country, which has lately produced
the natural and moving _Henrietta of Gerstenfeld_, is far from the
state of depravity of Paris and London. I form my opinion from the
book. In the last age the French novels were full of gallantry and
virtuous love, because then they were gallant and respectful. In this
age, they have substituted wit to love, and the novels are stuffed with
an unintelligible jargon of metaphysics. Of this they grew tired, and
libertinism succeeded to it. From thence so many licentious romances.
The immense quantity that are produced is a complete proof of the
corruption of the age; the rapidity with which they are bought, the
rage with which they are devoured, farther prove this depravation.

Doing justice to the zeal that seems to animate the author of those
observations, we may be permitted, I hope, to make some farther
remarks on the manner he has presented his? Before we begin to examine
the degree of moral utility contained in the novel of _Dangerous
Connections_, the author of the correspondence first begs leave to ask
whether novels in general are useful or prejudicial to morals? This
method is the most prudent; but is it not singular, that, acknowledging
the indecision of this question, because the reasons for and against
are equally seducing, he is still so bold to condemn, indiscriminately,
all novels, without assigning any new reasons in justification of this
definitive sentence? On the contrary, the author asserts, Richardson’s
novels have been useful to morality, to preserve them in their purity
and in the same breath advises all thinking men to banish them from
their libraries! Are the consequences suitable to the premises? Is
not that confounding the genus with the species? But if it was even
true, that the best novel is only food for infancy, or a weak being,
for whom unadorned morality is a terrifying object, would the author’s
decision be the more justifiable? I will not determine; but I would ask
what he means by those _thinking_ men, for whom unadorned morality is
not terrifying? It would be, perhaps, those declaiming misanthropes,
who censure and despise every thing that does not bear a resemblance
to their savage and austere way of thinking? I have sometimes had
a good opinion of their understanding, but been ever diffident of
their hearts; were we to attend to them, we should also banish from
our libraries the divine poem of Telemachus, which is the first of
novels, which modest qualification does not hinder it from being, if
one may venture to call it, the first of our books; not only by the
grandeur of the business it treats, but also by the manner in which it
is treated. We should also banish from our libraries even the works of
the _Correspondence_, the morality of which is become very interesting,
by an ornamented, pure and elegant style; if, notwithstanding those
qualities, this work has its opposers, would it find many readers if it
was divested of them? God forbid I should ever intend making a general
apology for all novels! that would be the idea of a Demoniac; I only
mean to justify useful novels. If any one makes a bad use of this kind
of writing, I most willingly acquiesce in their condemnation. Let us
now examine whether the author of _Dangerous Connections_ deserves to
suffer.

What is a novel? A correct picture of morals put in motion.—What
should be the aim of a novel? To blend instruction with
amusement.—When the morals of the actors are corrupt, is it allowable,
with deference to decency, to draw them in their proper shades and
colours? Undoubtedly it is; but with the greatest caution, lest by
giving vice, whose contagion must be dreaded, its true, though seducing
and agreeable aspect, without resisting, diminishing, or rendering
useless, the effect it may produce by the contrast of gentleness,
peace, and happiness, which virtue secures. The author of the _Errors
of the Heart and Mind_, and the other of the _Confessions of the
Count of ——_, have gone wide of this mark; yet their characters
are drawn after nature; the Meilcourts are still the ornament of
the Bon Ton societies. But should irregularities be drawn without
inflicting their punishment? Should vice, with impunity, applaud
its infamous triumphs? Should innocence weep without being avenged?
Certainly not. Those novels deserve the severest censure of the author
of the Correspondence; those are the books which should be carefully
concealed from the busy curiosity of young people. Let any one take
the trouble to compare the works I have now quoted, and similar ones,
with the novel of _Dangerous Connections_, shall we not always feel a
certain aversion, a kind of antipathy for Valmont and the Marchioness
de Merteuil, notwithstanding the brilliant cast he has given two
performers. Let some attention be paid to the skill with which he
has contrasted them in the gentle, sensible, and generous Madame de
Rosemonde; how moving, how unaffected her virtue. The following letter,
wrote to the victim of the profligate Valmont, is, in my opinion,
alone sufficient to counterbalance, at least, the impression this same
Valmont, and the infamous accomplice in his crimes, could make.


        LETTER CXXX.

        _Madame de_ Rosemonde, _to the Presidente de_ Tourvel.


        “Why, my lovely dear, will you no longer be my daughter?
        Why do you seem to announce that our correspondence is
        to cease?[1] Is it to punish me for not guessing at
        what was improbable; or do you suspect me of creating
        you affliction designedly? I know your heart too well,
        to imagine you would entertain such an opinion of
        mine.—The distress your letter plunges me in is much
        less on my own account than yours. Oh! my young friend,
        with grief I tell you, you are too worthy of being
        beloved ever to be happy in love. Where is there a truly
        delicate and sensible woman, who has not met unhappiness
        where she expected bliss? Do men know how to rate the
        women they possess?

        “Not but many of them are virtuous in their addresses,
        and constant in their affections—but even among those,
        how few that know how to put themselves in unison
        with our hearts. I do not imagine, my dear child,
        their affection is like ours. They experience the
        same transport often with more violence, but they are
        strangers to that uneasy officiousness, that delicate
        solicitude, that produces in us those continual tender
        cares, whose sole aim is the beloved object. Man enjoys
        the happiness he feels, woman that she gives.

        “This difference, so essential, and so seldom observed,
        influences, in a very sensible manner, the totality of
        their respective conduct. The pleasure of the one is
        to gratify desires; but that of the other is to create
        them. To know to please is in man the means of success;
        and in woman it is success itself.

        “And do not imagine the exceptions, be they more or
        less numerous, that may be quoted, can be successfully
        opposed to those general truths, which the voice of the
        public has guarantied, with the only distinction as to
        men of infidelity from inconstancy; a distinction of
        which they avail themselves, and of which they should be
        ashamed; which never has been adopted by any of our sex
        but those of abandoned characters, who are a scandal to
        us, and to whom all methods are acceptable which they
        think may deliver them from the painful sensation of
        their own meanness.

        “I thought, my lovely dear, those reflections might be
        of use to you, in order to oppose the chimerical ideas
        of perfect happiness, with which love never fails to
        amuse our imagination. Deceitful hope! to which we are
        still attached, even when we find ourselves under the
        necessity of abandoning it—whose loss multiplies and
        irritates our already too real sorrows, inseparable
        from an ardent passion. This task of alleviating your
        trouble, or diminishing their number, is the only one I
        will or can now fulfil. In disorders which are without
        remedy, no other advice can be given, than as to the
        regimen to be observed. The only thing I wish you to
        remember is, that to pity is not to blame a patient.
        Alas! who are we, that we dare blame one another? Let us
        leave the right of judging to the Searcher of hearts;
        and I will even venture to believe, that in his paternal
        sight, a crowd of virtues may compensate a single
        weakness.

        “But I conjure you, above all things, my dear friend, to
        guard against violent resolutions, which are less the
        effects of fortitude than despondency: do not forget,
        that although you have made another possessor of your
        existence (to use your own expression) you had it not
        in your power to deprive your friends of the share they
        were before possessed of, and which they will always
        claim.

        “Adieu, my dear child! Think sometimes on your tender
        mother; and be assured you always will be, above every
        thing, the dearest object of her thoughts.

        “_Castle of ——._”

If the openness of the little Volanges, or her ignorance, should seem
ridiculous to those of her own age, the unhappy consequences that
resulted from it, will be an useful lesson to mothers to be cautious
in what hands they intrust the education of their children. But can
a young girl, who has once imbibed this bad education, avoid the
consequences I mention, without any other guide but her timidity and
absolute ignorance of vice? Is it in a corrupt world, in which she is
just entering, that she will receive the fatal knowledge? Does not
the author of the Correspondence himself say, “To enter it, we should
be well armed; it is a road full of precipices: to avoid falling
into which, we must be very circumspect.” This is all well—But if,
unfortunately, I am blind, or without a guide, who is to restore me
sight, or lead me? I conclude, then, that a young person, who would
be pleased, at first, with the brilliant character of the Marchioness
de Merteuil, would soon change her opinion, and not be tempted to
imitate her, when she would see the dreadful and examplary punishment
inflicted on this guilty woman. She will shudder at the thought of the
miseries to which one single fault condemned Cecilia Volanges. Valmont
perishing in the bloom of life, by a violent death, loaded with the
contempt and disgrace of all men of worth, disowned even by the wicked,
will deter all those, whose vanity and a desire to shine might induce
them to copy such a character, from attempting to imitate him.

(By the ABBÉ KENTZINGER.)


[1] See Letter cxxviii.




DANGEROUS CONNECTIONS.


LETTER I.

Cecilia Volanges _to_ Sophia Carnay, _at the Convent of the Ursulines
of ——._


You see, my dear friend, I keep my word, and that dress does not
totally take up all my time; I shall ever have some left for you. In
this single day I have seen more finery of attire, than in the four
years we have spent together; and I believe the haughty Tanville[1]
will be more mortified at my first visit, when I shall certainly desire
to see her, than she used to be every time she came to see us _in
fiochi_. Mamma advises with me in every thing; she behaves to me no
longer as a boarder in a convent. I have a chamber-maid to myself; a
chamber and a closet of my own, and a very pretty scrutoire, of which
I keep the key, and where I can lock up every thing. My Mamma has told
me, I must be with her every morning at her levee; that it would be
sufficient to have my head dressed by dinner, because we should always
be alone, and that then she would each day tell me what time I should
come to her apartment in the evening. The remainder of my time is at
my own disposal; I have my harpsichord, my drawings, and books, just
as in the convent, only that the mother abbess is not here to scold.
And I may always be idle, if I please: but as I have not my dear Sophy
to chat and laugh with, I am as well pleased with some occupation.
It is not yet five, and I am not to go to Mamma till seven: what a
deal of time, if I had any thing to tell you! but nothing has been
yet mentioned to me of any consequence: and if it were not for the
preparation I see making, and the number of women employed for me, I
should be apt to think they have no notion of my nuptials, and that it
was one of old Josephine’s[2] tales. Yet Mamma having so often told
me, that a young lady should remain in a convent, until she was on the
point of marriage, and having now brought me home, I am apt to think
Josephine right.

A coach has just stopped at our door, and Mamma has sent for me. If it
should be my intended!—I am not dressed, and am all in agitation; my
heart flutters. I asked my maid, if she knew who was with my Mamma?
“Why,” says she, laughing, “it is Mr. C——.” I really believe it is
he. I will certainly return and write you the whole; however, that’s
his name. I must not make them wait. Adieu, for a moment!

How you will laugh at your poor Cecilia, my dear Sophy! I’m quite
ashamed! But you would have been deceived as well as I. On entering
Mamma’s room, I saw a gentleman in black, standing close by her, I
saluted him as well as I could, and remained motionless. You may guess,
I examined him from head to foot. “Madam,” said he to Mamma, “this
is a most charming young lady, and I am extremely sensible of your
goodness.” So positive a declaration made me tremble all over; and
not being able to support me, I threw myself in an armed chair, quite
red and disconcerted. In an instant he was at my knees, and then you
may judge how poor Cecilia’s head was bewildered; I instantly started
up and shrieked, just as on the day of the great thunder. Mamma burst
out laughing, saying, “Well, what’s the matter? Sit down, and give Mr.
—— your foot.” Thus, my dear friend, Mr. —— turns out to be my
shoemaker. You can’t conceive how much I was ashamed; happily, there
was no one but Mamma present. I am, however, resolved when I am married
he shall not be my shoemaker. Well! am I not now much the wiser?
Farewell! it is almost six, and my maid says it is time to dress.
Adieu! my dear Sophy; I love you as much as I did at the convent.

P. S. I don’t know whom to send with this, and shall wait till
Josephine calls.

_Paris, Aug._ 3, 17—.


[1] A boarder in the same convent.

[2] Josephine was the portress of the convent.




LETTER II.

_The_ Marchioness de Merteuil _to the_ Viscount Valmont, _at the_
_Castle of ——._


Return, my dear Viscount, return! How can you think of idling your days
with an old aunt, whose fortune is already settled on you! Set out the
moment you receive this letter, for I want you much. A most enchanting
idea has just struck me, and I wish to confide the execution of it to
you.

This hint should be sufficient, and you should think yourself so highly
honoured by my choice, as to fly to receive my orders on your knees:
but my favours are thrown away on one who no longer sets a value on
them; and you presume upon my kindness, where the alternative must
be eternal hatred, or excessive indulgence. I will acquaint you with
my scheme; but you, like a true knight errant, must first swear to
undertake no other adventure until this is achieved. It is worthy
a hero. You will at once satiate love and revenge. It will be an
additional exploit to your memoirs; yes, your memoirs, for I will have
them published, and I will undertake the task. But to return to what
more immediately concerns us. Madame de Volanges intends to marry her
daughter: it is yet a secret; but she yesterday informed me of it. And
whom do you think she has chosen for her son-in-law? Count Gercourt.
Who could have thought I should have been allied to Gercourt? I am
provoked beyond expression at your stupidity! Well, don’t you guess
yet? Oh, thou essence of dulness! What, have you then pardoned him the
affair of Madame the Intendante? And I, monster![1] have I not more
reason for revenge? But I shall resume my temper; the prospect of
retaliation, recalls my serenity.

You and I have been often tormented with the important idea framed
by Gercourt, of the lady he intended honour with his hand, and his
ridiculous presumption of being exempt from the unavoidable fate
of married men. You know his foolish prepossessions in favour of
conventual education, and his still more weak prejudices for women of a
fair complexion: and I really believe, notwithstanding Volanges’ sixty
thousand livres a year, he never would have thought of this girl, had
she not been black eyed, or not educated in a convent.

Let us convince him, he is a most egregious fool, as one day or other
he must be: but that’s not the business; the jest will be, should he
act upon so absurd an opinion. How we should be diverted the next day
with his boasts! for boast he will: and if once you properly form
this little girl, it will be astonishing if Gercourt does not become,
like so many others, the standing ridicule of Paris. The heroine of
this new romance merits all your attention; she is really handsome,
just turn’d of fifteen, and a perfect rose-bud; awkward as you could
wish, and totally unpolished: but you men don’t mind such trifles;
a certain languishing air, which promises a great deal, added to
my recommendation of her, leaves only to you to thank me and obey.
You will receive this letter to-morrow morning: I require to see
you at seven in the evening. I shall not be visible to any one else
till eight, not even to my chevalier, who happens to be my reigning
favourite for the present; he has not a head for such great affairs.
You see I am not blinded by love. I shall set you at liberty at eight,
and you’ll return to sup with the charming girl at ten, for the mother
and daughter sup with me. Farewell! it is past noon. Now for other
objects.

_Paris, Aug._ 4, 17—.


[1] To understand this passage, it must be remarked, that the Count de
Gercourt had quitted the Marchioness de Merteuil for the Intendante de
——, who had on his account abandoned the Viscount de Valmont, and
that then the attachment of the Marchioness to the Viscount commenced.
As that adventure was long antecedent to the events which are the
subject of these letters, it has been thought better to suppress the
whole of that correspondence.




LETTER III.

Cecilia Volanges _to_ Sophia Carnay.


I have yet no news for my dear friend. Mamma had a great deal of
company at supper last night. Notwithstanding the strong inclination I
had to make my observations, especially among the men, I was far from
being entertained. The whole company could not keep their eyes from me;
they whispered; I could observe plainly they were speaking of me, and
that made me blush; I could not help it: I wish I could; for I observed
when any one looked at the other ladies they did not blush, or the
rouge they put on prevented their blushes from being seen. It must be
very difficult not to change countenance when a man fixes his eyes on
you.

What gave me the most uneasiness was, not to know what they thought
of me; however, I think I heard the word pretty two or three times:
but I’m sure I very distinctly heard that of awkward; and that must be
very true, for she that said so is a relation, and an intimate friend
of Mamma’s. She seems even to have taken a sudden liking to me. She
was the only person who took a little notice of me the whole evening.
I also heard a man after supper, who I am sure was speaking of me, say
to another, “We must let it ripen, we shall see this winter.” Perhaps
he is to be my husband; but if so, I have still to wait four months! I
wish I knew how it is to be.

Here’s Josephine, and she says she is in haste. I must, however, tell
you one of my awkward tricks—Oh, I believe that lady was right.

After supper, they all sat down to cards. I sat next Mamma. I don’t
know how it happened, but I fell asleep immediately. A loud laugh
awoke me. I don’t know whether I was the object of it; but I believe I
was. Mamma gave me leave to retire, which pleas’d me much. Only think,
it was then past eleven! Adieu, my dear Sophy! continue to love thy
Cecilia, I assure you the world is not so pleasing as we used to think
it.

_Paris, Aug._ 4, 17—.




LETTER IV.

_The_ Viscount de Valmont _to the_ Marchioness de Merteuil.


Your orders are enchanting, and your manner of giving them still more
delightful; you would even make one in love with despotism. It is not
the first time, you know, that I regret I am no longer your slave;
and yet, monster as you style me, I recall with rapture the time when
you honoured me with softer names. I have often even wish’d again to
deserve them, and to terminate, by giving along with you an example of
constancy to the world. But matters of greater moment call us forth;
conquest is our destiny, and we must follow it: we may, perhaps,
meet again at the end of our career; for permit me to say, without
putting you out of temper, my beautiful Marchioness! you follow me
with a pretty equal pace; and since, for the happiness of the world,
we have separated to preach the faith, I am inclined to think, that in
this mission of love, you have made more proselytes than I. I am well
convinced of your zeal and fervour; and if the God of Love judged us
according to our works, you would be the patron saint of some great
city, whilst your friend would be at most a common village saint. This
language no doubt will surprise you; but you must know, that for these
eight days I hear and speak no other; and to make myself perfect in it,
I am obliged to disobey you.

Don’t be angry, and hear me. As you are the depository of all the
secrets of my heart, I will intrust you with the greatest project I
ever formed. What do you propose to me? To seduce a young girl, who
has seen nothing, knows nothing, and would in a manner give herself up
without making the least defence, intoxicated with the first homage
paid to her charms, and perhaps incited rather by curiosity than
love; there twenty others may be as successful as I. Not so with the
enterprise that engrosses my mind; its success insures me as much glory
as pleasure; and even almighty Love, who prepares my crown, hesitates
between the myrtle and laurel, or will rather unite them to honour my
triumph. Even you yourself, my charming friend, will be struck with a
holy respect, and in a fit of enthusiasm, will exclaim, This is the man
after my own heart!

You know the Presidente Tourvel, her devout life, her conjugal
love, and the austerity of her principles; that is the object I
attack; that is the enemy worthy of me; that is the point I intend to
carry. I must tell you, the President is in Burgundy, prosecuting a
considerable suit, (I hope to make him lose one of greater importance,)
his inconsolable partner is to remain here the whole time of this
afflicting widowhood. A mass each day, a few visits to the neighbouring
poor, prayers morning and evening, a few solitary walks, pious
conferences with my old aunt, and sometimes a melancholy game at whist,
are her only amusements: but I am preparing some of a more efficacious
nature for her. My guardian angel led me here for our mutual happiness.
Fool that I was! I used to regret the time that I sacrificed to the
customary ceremonies. How should I now be punished, by being obliged to
return to Paris! Fortunately there must be four to make a whist party;
and as there is no one here but the curate of the place, my eternal
aunt has pressed me much to sacrifice a few days to her; you may judge,
I did not refuse her. You can’t conceive how much she caresses me ever
since; and above all, how much she is edified by seeing me so regular
at mass and at prayers. But little does she imagine the divinity I
adore there.

Thus, in the space of four days, have I given myself up to a violent
passion. You are no stranger to the impetuosity of my desires, and
how readily all obstacles fly before me: but I’ll tell you what you
don’t know, that solitude adds immensely to the ardour of desire. I
have but one idea; I cherish it by day, and dream on’t by night. I
must possess this woman, lest I should be so ridiculous as to be in
love; for whither may we not be led by frustrated desire? Oh, delicious
enjoyment! I implore thee for my happiness, and, above all, for my
repose. How happy it is for us, that the women make so weak a defence!
Were it otherwise, we should be but their cowardly slaves. I feel
myself at this moment penetrated with gratitude towards complaisant
ladies, which, naturally leads me to you, at whose feet I prostrate
myself to obtain my pardon, and finish this already too long letter.
Adieu, my charming friend!

_Castle of ——, Aug._ 3, 17—.




LETTER V.

_The_ Marchioness de Merteuil, _to the_ Viscount Valmont.


Do you know, Viscount, your letter is wonderfully insolent, and has
almost made me angry? But it plainly proves that you have lost your
reason; and that consideration alone suppresses my indignation. Like a
tender and generous friend, I forget my own injury, and am wholly taken
up with your danger; and irksome as it is to enter into argument, I
yield to the necessity of it at this time.

You possess the Presidente Tourvel! What a ridiculous extravagance! I
here plainly perceive your downright folly, whose nature is to desire
that you cannot obtain. But let’s examine this woman. She has regular
features, it’s true, but a total want of expression; a tolerable
shape, but without the least elegance; dresses most horridly, with a
bundle of ruffs about her neck, and her stays up to her chin. I tell
you as a friend, two such women would be quite sufficient to ruin your
reputation. Do you remember the day she collected for the poor at
St. Roch, when you thank’d me so much for the view of so curious an
exhibition. I think I see her still giving her hand to that great looby
with the long hair, ready to fall at each step with her calash of four
ells over every one’s head, and blushing at every courtesy. Who then
would have dared to tell you, you will sigh for this woman? For shame,
Viscount! Blush yourself, and return to reason. I’ll promise to keep
this matter secret.

Let us now examine the disagreeable consequences that await you.
What rival have you to encounter? A husband. Don’t you feel yourself
humiliated at that name? What a shame if you fail! and if you succeed,
where is the glory?—I go farther: pleasure is out of the question; for
who ever had any with a prude? I mean, with a sincere one: reserv’d
in the very bosom of pleasure, they give you but half enjoyments. The
entirely devoting one’s self, that delirium of voluptuousness, where
pleasure is refined by excess—all those gifts of love are strangers
to them. I’ll prognosticate for you: suppose your summit of happiness,
you’ll find your Presidente will think she has done enough in treating
you as a husband; and, be assured, that in the most tender conjugal
tête-à-tête, the numerical distinction _two_ is always apparent. But
in this case it is much worse; your prude is a devotee, and of that
sort you are in a perpetual state of childhood; perhaps you may get
over this obstacle: but don’t flatter yourself that you’ll annihilate
it. Should you conquer the love of God, you’ll not be able to dispel
the fear of the devil; and though in holding your charmer in your arms,
you may feel her heart palpitate, it will be from fear, not love. You
might, perhaps, had you known this woman sooner, have made something
of her; but she is now two-and-twenty, and has been married almost two
years. Believe me, Viscount, when a woman is so far incrusted, she
must be left to her fate; she will never be any thing more than an
undistinguishable individual of a species.

And for such a curious object you refuse to obey me; you bury yourself
in your aunt’s sepulchre; you abandon a most delicious adventure that
is marked out for the advancement of your reputation. By what fatality
is it, that Gercourt must always have the advantage of you?

I declare I am not out of temper: but at this instant I am inclined to
think you don’t deserve the reputation you possess; and I consider your
conduct with such a degree of indignation, as tempts me to withdraw my
confidence from you. No, I never can bring myself to make Madame de
Tourvel’s lover the confidant of my secret designs.

I will tell you, however, that the little Volanges has made a conquest.
Young Danceny is distracted for her. He has sung with her, and she
really sings better than belongs to a convent boarder. They have yet
many duos to rehearse together, and I am much mistaken if she would not
readily get into unison with him; it is true, Danceny is but a boy
yet, who will waste his time in making love, but never will come to
the point. Little Volanges is wild enough; but at all events, it will
never be so pleasing as you could have made it. I am out of temper with
you, and shall most certainly fall out with the Chevalier when he comes
home. I would advise him to be mild, for at this time I should feel no
difficulty to break with him.

I am certain that if I had sense enough to break off with him now, he
would be a prey to the most violent despair; yet nothing diverts me
more than an enraged lover. He, perhaps, would call me perfidious,
and that word has ever pleased me; it is, after the epithet cruel,
the sweetest to a woman’s ear, and the least painful to deserve. I
will seriously ruminate on this rupture. You are the cause of all
this—I shall leave it on your conscience. Adieu! recommend me to your
Presidente in her prayers.

_Paris, Aug._ 7, 17—.




LETTER VI.

Viscount de Valmont _to the_ Marchioness de Merteuil.


There is then no woman that does not abuse the empire she has gained;
and you, whom I have so often called my indulgent friend, are no
longer so, you are not afraid to attack me even in the very object of
my affections. What a picture have you drawn of Madame de Tourvel!
What man would not have forfeited his life by so daring an act of
insolence? And what woman but you would not, at least, have determined
me to blast her reputation? For heaven’s sake! never put me to such
rude trials again. I will not be answerable for the consequence. In
the name of friendship, have patience till I have this woman, if you
must slander her. Don’t you know, that the time for its causing any
impression on me will be after I have enjoyed her? But where do I
wander? Does Madame de Tourvel, in order to inspire a passion, need any
deception? No; to be adorable, ’tis enough she is herself. You find
fault with her dress: you are right; all ornaments are prejudicial
to her; every thing that hides her lovely form is hurtful. It is in
unaffected negligence she is truly ravishing. Thanks to the suffocating
heat of the season, a deshabille of plain lawn adorns her charming,
easy shape. A thin muslin handkerchief covers her bosom; and my
stolen, but penetrating glances, have already seized its enchanting
form. You say her figure has no expression. What should it express,
when nothing speaks to her heart? No, indubitably, she has not, like
our coquettes, those false looks, which sometimes seduce, but ever
deceive. She knows not how to fill up a void of phrase by an affected
smile; and though she has the finest teeth in the world, she only
laughs at what pleases her. But she is particularly admirable in the
most trifling amusements, where she gives the picture of the frankest
and most natural gaiety. In visiting a wretched being that she hastens
to relieve, her looks declare the unsullied joy and compassionate
bounty of her heart. At the most trifling expression of praise or
flattery, the tender embarrassment of unaffected modesty is suffused
over her celestial figure. She is a prude and devotee, and thence you
conclude, she is cold and inanimate. I think quite otherwise. What
astonishing sensibility must she not have, to diffuse it as far as her
husband, and to love a being always absent! What stronger proof can you
require? I found out a method, however, to obtain another; I directed
our walk in such a manner that we had a ditch to leap over, and
although very active, she is still more timid—you may very well judge
a prude dreads taking a leap. She was obliged to trust herself to me.
I raised this modest woman in my arms. Our preparations, and the skip
of my old aunt, made our sprightly devotee laugh most immoderately:
but as soon as I seized on her, by a dexterous awkwardness, our arms
were mutually entwined in each other; I pressed her bosom against mine,
and in this short interval I felt her heart palpitate more quickly; a
lovely blush covered her face, and her modest embarrassment informed me
her heart beat with love and not with fear. My aunt was deceived as you
had been, and said, “The child is frightened;” but the charming candour
of this child would not permit her to countenance a lie, and she
ingenuously answered, “Oh, no; but—” That word alone has cleared up my
doubts. From this instant, sweet hope has banished cruel inquietude.
I will have this woman. I will take her from a husband who does not
deserve her. I’ll even snatch her from the god she adores.

How delicious to be by turns the object and conqueror of her remorse!
Far be from me the idea of curing her of her prejudices! they will add
to my glory and happiness. Let her rely on her virtue, and sacrifice
it. Let her crime terrify her, without being able to resist its
impulse; and, alarmed with a thousand terrors, let her neither be able
to forget or conquer them but in my embraces.

Then I’ll consent to her saying, “I adore thee.” She, of all your sex,
will be the only one worthy to pronounce that word. Then shall I truly
be the god of her idolatry. Confess ingenuously to me, that in our
arrangements, as indifferent as they are free, what we style happiness
scarce deserves the name of pleasure. I’ll freely acknowledge,
I imagined my heart withered, and incapable only of sensual
gratification; I began to deplore my prematurely advanced age; Madame
de Tourvel has restored me to the illusive charms of youth. With her,
actual enjoyment is not necessary to my happiness. The only thing that
alarms me is the time this adventure will take up; for I am resolved to
risk nothing. In vain do I bring to remembrance my successful acts of
temerity on many occasions; I can’t think of attempting them now. To
crown my bliss, she must give herself up, and that’s not an easy matter
to accomplish.

I am confident even you must approve my discretion, for as yet I have
not mentioned the word love; but we are already got as far as those
of friendship and confidence. In order to deceive her as little as
possible, and, above all, to guard against any thing that may come to
her knowledge which might shock her, I have myself related to her,
by way of self-accusation, some of my most remarkable adventures.
You would be delighted to see how innocently she catechises me. She
says she is determined to make a convert of me: but has not the least
suspicion how much the purchase will cost her. She does not think, that
her becoming advocate, to use her own words, _for the many I have
undone_, she is beforehand pleading her own cause.

This idea struck me yesterday, in the midst of one of her little
sermons, and I could not resist the pleasure of interrupting her, to
tell her that she spoke like a prophet. Adieu, my lovely friend! you
see I am not totally lost.

P. S. But what’s become of our poor Chevalier? Has he destroyed himself
in a fit of despair? Indeed you are a million of times worse than I;
and if I was vain, you’d mortify me to be so much outdone.

_From the Castle of_ ——,

_Aug._ 9, 17—.




LETTER VII.

Cecilia Volanges _to_ Sophia Carnay.[1]


If I have not said any thing to you as yet of my marriage, it is
because I am as ignorant of the matter as the first day I came home. I
begin to accustom myself not to think about it, and I am very happy as
I am. I practice my harpsichord and singing much; and I am fonder of
them than when I had a master, or rather now I have got a better one.
The Chevalier Danceny, the gentleman I mentioned to you before, with
whom I sang at Madame Merteuil’s, is so obliging to come every day to
sing with me for hours together. He is exceedingly agreeable. He sings
like an angel, and sets the words of his own composition to very pretty
music. It is a great pity he is a Knight of Malta! I think, were he to
embark in wedlock, his wife would be very happy. He is the sweetest
creature breathing. Without the affectation of complaisance, every
thing he does is endearing. He always chides me about music, or some
other trifle; but he blends with his censures so much concern and good
nature, that one can’t help being pleased. His very looks seem to speak
obliging things. And with all this, he is the most complaisant man
possible: for instance; yesterday he was asked to a private concert,
but spent the evening at Mamma’s, which gratified me exceedingly; for,
when he is absent, I have no one to speak to, and am quite stupid:
but, when he is with us, we chat and sing together, and he always has
something to say to me. Madame de Merteuil and he are the only two
amiable persons I yet know. Adieu, my dear friend! I promised to be
perfect to-day in a little air, with a very difficult accompaniment,
and I must keep my word. I must set about practising it against his
return.

_From ——, Aug._ 7, 17—.


[1] Not to tire the reader’s patience, we suppress many of the letters
of this daily correspondence, and give only them we think necessary for
unfolding the events of this society. For the same reason we suppress
all those of Sophia Carnay, and several of those of the actors in this
piece.




LETTER VIII.

Presidente de Tourvel _to_ Madame de Volanges.


Permit me, Madam, to assure you, no one can be more sensible of
the confidence you repose in me, nor have more at heart the happy
establishment of Mademoiselle de Volanges than I have. With my whole
soul I wish her that felicity which I am confident she merits, and
which I have no doubt she will obtain through your prudence. I have not
the honour of knowing Count Gercourt, but conceive the most favourable
opinion of him, as he is your choice. I limit my good wishes to the
hope that this match may be as happy as mine, which was also one of
your making, and which gratitude daily calls to my remembrance. May
the happiness of Mademoiselle de Volanges be the reward of that I
enjoy, and may the best of friends be also the happiest of mothers!

I am really mortified that I am not at present able, personally, to
assure you of the grateful sentiments of my heart, and to accomplish
what I wish for much, an acquaintance with Mademoiselle de Volanges.

After having experienced your maternal fondness, I think I am entitled
to the tender friendship of a sister from her. I entreat you, Madam, to
claim it for me, until I have it in my power to deserve it. I propose
residing in the country during Mr. de Tourvel’s absence. I now enjoy
and improve in the respectable company of Madame Rosemonde. This lady
is ever delightful; her great age has not the least impaired her
gaiety or memory; her body may be eighty-four, but her understanding
is only twenty. Our retirement is enlivened by the Viscount Valmont,
her nephew, who has condescended to spend a few days with us. I only
knew him by character, which gave me an unfavourable opinion of him,
that now I don’t think he deserves. Here, where the bustle of the
world does not affect him, he is very agreeable, and owns his failings
with great candour. He converses with me very confidentially, and I
sometimes sermonize him with asperity; you, who know him well, will, I
dare say, think such a conversion worth attempting: but I am afraid,
notwithstanding all his promises, eight days in Paris will destroy all
my labours; however, his residence here will be so much gained from his
general course of life, and I am clear, that the best thing he can do
will be to remain in inactivity. He knows that I am now writing to you,
and begs leave to present his most respectful compliments. I beg you’ll
also accept mine with that condescension you have ever had for me, and
be assured of the sincerity of the sentiments with which I have the
honour to be, &c.

_From the Castle of_ ——,
_Aug._ 9, 17—.




LETTER IX.

Madame de Volanges _to the_ Presidente de Tourvel.


I never yet doubted, my young and charming friend, of your friendship
for me, nor of the interest you take in all my concerns. It is not to
clear up this point, on which I hope we are for ever agreed, that I
reply to your answer; but I think myself obliged to say a word or two
relative to Viscount Valmont.

I must own, I did not expect to meet such a name in a letter from
you. How is it possible there can be any communication between you
and him? You do not know that man. Where did you find the idea you
have imbibed of the heart of a libertine? You tell me of his uncommon
candour; yes, truly, Valmont’s candour is very uncommon. He is yet more
false and dangerous than he is lovely and seducing: never since his
earliest youth, has he taken a step, or spoke a word, without a design;
and never formed a design that was not criminal or improper. My dear
friend, you know me; you know that of all the virtues I endeavour
to acquire, indulgence is the one I cherish most; and if Valmont had
been hurried away by the impetuosity of his passions, or if, like a
thousand more at his time of life, he had been seduced by the errors
of youth, I would have compassionated his person, blamed his conduct,
and have patiently waited until time, the happy maturer of green years,
should have made him fit for the society and esteem of worthy people:
but that’s not Valmont’s case; his conduct is the result of principle;
he calculates how far a man can proceed in villainy without risking
reputation, and has chosen women for his victims, that his sacrifices
may be wicked and cruel without danger. I shall not dwell on the
numbers he has seduced; but how many has he not utterly undone? Those
scandalous anecdotes never come within the sphere of your retired and
regular course of life. I could, however, relate you some that would
make you shudder; but your mind, pure as your soul, would be defiled
with such descriptions: convinced, as I am, that Valmont will never be
an object of danger to you, such armour is unnecessary to guard you. I
can’t, however, refrain telling you, that successful or not, no woman
he ever yet dangled after, but had reason to repent her folly. The
only exception to this general rule is the Marchioness de Merteuil;
she alone has been capable not only of resisting, but of completely
defeating his wickedness.

I must acknowledge, this trait in her character strikes me the most
forcibly; and has amply justified her to the world for some trifling
indiscretions in the outset of her widowhood.[1] However, my charming
friend, authorised as I am, by age, experience, and much more by
friendship, I am obliged to inform you, the world take notice of
Valmont’s absence; and that if they come to know that he has for any
time formed a trio with you and his aunt, your reputation will be
at his mercy, which is the greatest misfortune that can happen to a
woman. I therefore advise you to prevail on his aunt not to detain
him longer; and if he should still determine to remain, I think you
should not hesitate a moment on quitting the place. But why should he
remain? How does he employ himself in the country? I am certain, if his
motions were watched, you would discover that he has only taken up his
residence in that commodious retreat for the accomplishment of some act
of villainy he meditates in the neighbourhood.

When it is not in our power to prevent an evil, let us at least take
care to preserve ourselves from its consequences. Adieu! my lovely
friend. An accident retards my daughter’s marriage for some little
time. Count Gercourt, whom we daily expected, informs me his regiment
is ordered for Corsica; and as the military operations are not yet
over, it will be impossible for him to return before winter: this
disconcerts me; however, it gives me hope we shall have your company at
the wedding; and I was vexed it should take place without you. Adieu! I
am as free from compliment as reserve, entirely yours.

P. S. Bring me back to the recollection of Madame de Rosemonde, whom I
shall always love for her great merit.


[1] Madame de Volanges’ error informs us, that Valmont, like most
profligate wretches, did not impeach his accomplices.




LETTER X.

_The_ Marchioness de Merteuil, _to_ Viscount Valmont.


Are you out of temper with me, Viscount, or are you dead, or, which is
pretty much the same, do you live no longer but for your Presidente?
This woman, who has restored you to the _illusive charms of youth_,
will also soon restore you to its ridiculous follies. You are already
a timid slave; you may as well be in love at once. You renounce your
_happy acts of temerity on many occasions;_ and thus, without any
principle to direct you, give yourself up to caprice, or rather chance.
Do you know, that love is like physic, _only the art of assisting
nature?_ You see I fight you on your own ground, but it shall not
excite any vanity in me; for there is no great honour in engaging a
vanquished enemy. _She must give herself up_, you tell me; without
doubt she must, and will, as others, but with this difference, that
she’ll do it awkwardly. But that it may terminate in her giving herself
up, the true method is to begin by taking her. What a ridiculous
distinction, what nonsense in a love matter; I say love; for you
really are in love. To speak otherwise would be deceiving you, would
be concealing your disorder from you. Tell me, then, my dear sighing
swain, of the different women you have had, do you think you gained any
of them by force? Whatever inclination we may have to yield, however
we feel our compliance unavoidable, still must there be a pretence;
and can there be a more commodious one for us, than that which gives
us the appearance of being overcome by force? For my part, I own
nothing charms me to much as a brisk lively attack, where every thing
is carried on with regularity, but with rapidity; which never puts us
to the painful dilemma of being ourselves constrained to remedy an
awkwardness which, on the contrary, we should convert to our advantage;
and which keeps up the appearance of violence, even when we yield,
and dexterously flatters our two favourite passions, the glory of a
defence, and the pleasure of a defeat. I must own that this talent,
which is more uncommon than one would imagine, always pleased me, even
when it did not guide me, and that it has sometimes happened that I
have only surrendered from gratitude: thus, in our tournaments of old,
beauty gave the prize to valour and address.

But you, you who are no longer yourself, you proceed as if you dreaded
success. And pray how long is it since you have fallen into the method
of travelling so gently, and in such bye-roads? Believe me, when one
has a mind to arrive, post-horses and the high road is the only method.

But let us drop this subject; it the more puts me out of temper, as it
deprives me of the pleasure of seeing you. At least, write me oftener
than you do, and acquaint me with your progress. You seem to forget
that this ridiculous piece of business has already taken up a fortnight
of your time, and that you neglect every body.

Now I mention neglect, you resemble those who send regularly to inquire
of the state of health of their sick friends, and who never concern
themselves about the answer. You finish your last letter by asking
whether the Chevalier is dead. I make no reply, and you are no farther
concerned about the matter; have you forgot my lover is your sworn
friend? But comfort yourself; he is not dead; or if he was, it would be
from excess of pleasure. This poor Chevalier, how tender! How formed
for love! How sensibly he affects one! He distracts me. Seriously,
then, his happiness in being loved by me, inspires me with a true
affection for him.

The very day I wrote you that I was taken up in contriving our
rupture, how happy did I not make him! And yet I was in earnest
engaged how I should make him desperate when he appeared. Whether
whim or inclination, he never appeared to so much advantage. However,
I received him coolly; he expected to spend a couple of hours with
me before my time of seeing company. I told him I was going abroad,
he begg’d to know where; I refused to tell him. He insisted to know;
_where you will not be,_ I replied with some tartness. Happily for
him he was petrified at my answer; for had he pronounced a syllable,
a scene would have ensued which would infallibly have brought on the
intended rupture. Astonished at his silence, I cast a look at him,
with no other design, I swear, but to observe his countenance; I was
instantly struck with the deep and tender sadness that covered this
charming figure, which you have owned it is so difficult to resist.
The same cause produced the same effect; I was a second time overcome;
from that instant I endeavoured to prevent his having any reason to
complain. I am going out on business, said I, in a milder tone, and
the business relates to you; ask no more questions. I shall sup at
home; at your return you’ll know all: he then recovered his speech; but
I would not suffer him to go on. I’m in great haste, continued I. Leave
me until night. He kissed my hand and departed. In order to make him,
or perhaps myself, amends, I immediately resolved to show him my villa,
of which he had not the least suspicion; I called my faithful maid,
Victoire. I am seized with my dizziness, said I; let all my servants
know I am gone to bed; when alone, I desired her to put on a footman’s
dress, and metamorphosed myself into a chamber-maid.

She ordered a hackney-coach to my garden-door, and we instantly set
out; Being arrived at this temple dedicated to love, I put on my
genteelest deshabille; a most delicious one, and of my own invention:
it leaves nothing exposed, but every thing for fancy to imagine.
I promise you the pattern for your Presidente, when you shall have
rendered her worthy of wearing it.

After those preparations, whilst Victoire was taken up with other
matters, I read a chapter of the Sopha, a letter of the New Eloisa,
and two of La Fontaine’s Tales, to rehearse the different characters I
intended to assume. In the mean time, my Chevalier came to my house,
with his usual eagerness. My porter refused him admittance, and
informing him I was indisposed, delivered him a note from me, but not
of my writing; according to my usual discretion. He opens, and finds in
Victoire’s writing;—“At nine precisely, at the Boulevard, opposite the
coffee-houses.”

Thither he proceeds, and a little footman whom he does not know, or at
least thinks he does not know, for it was Victoire, tells him he must
send back his carriage and follow him. All this romantic proceeding
heated his imagination, and on such occasions a heated imagination is
useful. At last he arrives, and love and astonishment produced in him
the effect of a real enchantment. In order to give him time to recover
from his surprise, we walked a while in the grove; I then brought
him back to the house. The first thing which presented itself to his
view, was a table with two covers, and a bed prepared. From thence we
went into the cabinet, which was most elegantly decorated. There, in
suspense, between reflection and sentiment, I flung my arms around
him, and letting myself fall at his knees—“Alas! my dear friend,”
said I, “what reproaches do I not deserve, for having, for a moment,
given you uneasiness by an affected ill-humour, in order to enhance
the pleasure and surprise of this moment, for having concealed my heart
from your tenderness! Forgive me; I will expiate my crime with the most
ardent love.” You may guess what was the effect of this sentimental
declaration. The happy Chevalier raised me, and my pardon was sealed on
the same sopha where you and I, in a similar way, so cheerfully sealed
our eternal rupture.

As we had six hours to pass together, and that I was determined
the whole time should be devoted to delight him, I moderated his
transports, and called lovely coquetry to the aid of tenderness. I
don’t know I ever took so much pains to please, or ever, in my own
opinion, succeeded so well. After supper, by turns, childish and
rational, wanton and tender, sometimes even libertine. I took pleasure
in considering him as a Sultan, in the midst of his Seraglio, to whom
I alternately supplied the places of different favourites; and indeed,
his reiterated offerings, though always received by the same woman,
were received as by a new mistress.

At length, when day appeared, it was necessary to part; and
notwithstanding all he said, and even what he did, to prove the
contrary, there was, on his part, as much necessity for it, as want of
inclination. At the instant of parting, for a last adieu, I delivered
him the key of this happy mansion: I had it for you alone, said I, and
it is fit you should be the master of it; it is but right the high
priest should dispose of the temple. By this artifice, I anticipated
any reflections which might arise in his mind relative to the propriety
of a villa, which is ever matter of suspicion. I know him so well,
that I’m certain he will never make use on’t but for me; and if I
should have a fancy to go there without him, I have another key. He by
all means would make an appointment for another day; but I as yet love
him too much, to wear him out soon; the true maxim is, not give into
excess, but with those one wishes to be rid of. This he is a stranger
to; but, happily for him, I know it for us both.

I perceive it is now three in the morning, and that I have wrote a
volume, though I intended but a short letter. Such are the charms
of confidential friendship; it is that confidential friendship that
renders you the object I love most; but indeed the Chevalier is the
object that pleases me most.

_From ——, Aug._ 12, 17—.




LETTER XI.

_The_ Presidente de Tourvel _to_ Madame Volanges.


The severity of your letter would have terrified me strangely, dear
madam, if I had not here stronger reasons to think myself perfectly
safe, than those you give me for apprehension. The formidable Mr.
de Valmont, the terror of our sex, seems to have laid aside his
murderous arms, before he entered this castle. Far from having formed
any design, he did not even appear to have brought any claims; and
the accomplishments of an amiable man, which his enemies even give
to him, almost vanish to give place to the character of good-natured
creature. Probably it is the country air has wrought this miracle;
one thing I can assure you, tho’ incessantly with me, even seemingly
pleased with my company, not a word that has the least tendency to love
has escaped him, not even one of those phrases that most men assume,
without having, like him, any thing to plead in their justification.
Never does he put one under the necessity of flying for shelter to
that reservedness to which a woman, who will maintain her dignity, is
obliged to have recourse now-a-days, to keep the men within bounds. He
does not abuse the gaiety he inspires. Perhaps he flatters a little too
much; but it is with so much delicacy, that he would reconcile even
modesty to praise. To conclude, had I a brother, I would wish him to be
what Mr. de Valmont is here. There are many women, perhaps, would wish
him to have a more _pointed_ gallantry; and I own I am greatly obliged
to him for the good opinion he entertains, by not confounding me with
them.

This description undoubtedly differs very much from that you have given
me; and yet they may both carry a resemblance, if we ascertain our
times. He himself agrees he has done many wrong things, and, perhaps,
the world has imputed many more to him. But I have seldom met with men
who spoke more respectfully of women of character, almost to enthusiasm.

In this point, at least, you inform me he is not a deceiver. I rest
the proof on his conduct to Madame de Merteuil. He often speaks of
her; and always so much in her praise, and with the appearance of so
much affection, that I imagined, until I received your letter, that
what he had called friendship was really love. I condemn myself for
my rash opinion, in which I am the more blameable, as he himself has
frequently spoke in her justification; and I own his honest sincerity
I looked on as artifice. I don’t know, but it appears to me, that the
man who is capable of so constant a friendship for a deserving woman,
cannot be an abandoned libertine; but whether we are to attribute
his prudent conduct here to any scheme in this neighbourhood, as you
suppose, is a question. There are some few agreeable women around us;
however, he seldom goes abroad except in the morning, and then he says
he goes a shooting; he seldom brings home any game, it is true, but he
tells us he is a bad shot. However, what he does out of doors, concerns
me but little; and if I wished to be informed, it would be only to have
one more reason to come into your opinion, or to bring you over to mine.

As to what you propose, that I should endeavour to shorten the time
of Mr. de Valmont’s residence here, it appears to me a matter of
some difficulty, to desire an aunt not to have her nephew with her;
and a nephew for whom she has the greatest affection. However, I
promise you, through deference only, and not that I see any necessity
for it, to take the first opportunity to make this request either
to him or her. As to myself, Mr. de Tourvel is acquainted with my
intention of remaining here until his return, and he would, with
reason, be astonished at my levity. Thus, Madam, I have given you a
long explanation; but I thought a justification of Mr. de Valmont to
you, where it appears very necessary, a debt to truth. I am not the
less sensible of the friendship which suggested your advice. I am also
indebted to it for the obliging manner in which you acquaint me of the
delay of Madame de Volanges’ nuptials, for which accept my most sincere
thanks; but whatever pleasure I might expect on that occasion in your
company, would be willingly sacrificed to the satisfaction of knowing
Mademoiselle de Volanges’ happiness sooner completed, if, after all,
she can be more so than with a mother, every way deserving her respect
and tenderness. I partake with her those sentiments which attach me
to you, and beg you’ll receive this assurance of them with your usual
goodness.

I have the honour to be, &c.

_From ——, Aug._ 13, 17—.




LETTER XII.

Cecilia Volanges _to the_ Marchioness de Merteuil.


Madam,

My Mamma is indisposed; she will not go out to-day, and I must keep her
company: thus I am deprived the honour of attending you to the opera. I
assure you I regret more the loss of your company than the performance.
I hope you are persuaded of this, for I have a great affection for
you. Be so good to tell the Chevalier Danceny, I have not yet got the
collection which he mentioned, and that if he can bring it himself
to-morrow, I shall be obliged to him. If he comes to-day, he will be
told we are not at home; but the reason is, Mamma sees no company. I
hope she will be better to-morrow.

I have the honour, &c.

_From ——, Aug._ 13, 17—.




LETTER XIII.

_The_ Marchioness de Merteuil _to_ Cecilia Volanges.


I am much concerned, my charming girl, to be deprived of the pleasure
of seeing you, as well as for the cause; I hope we shall find another
opportunity. I performed your commission with the Chevalier Danceny,
who will certainly be very sorry to hear of your Mamma’s indisposition;
if she’ll admit me to-morrow, I’ll wait on her. She and I will attack
the Chevalier de Belleroche at piquet[1]; and in winning his money,
we shall have the double pleasure of hearing you sing with your
amiable master, to whom I shall propose it. If it be agreeable to your
Mamma and you, I will answer for my two Knights and myself. Adieu, my
lovely girl! My compliments to Madame de Volanges. I embrace you most
affectionately.

_From ——, Aug._ 13, 17—.


[1] This is the same who is mentioned in Madame de Merteuil’s letters.




LETTER XIV.

Cecilia Volanges _to_ Sophia Carnay.


I did not write to you yesterday, my dear Sophy; but I assure you it
was not pleasure that prevented me. My Mamma was indisposed, and I did
not quit her the whole day. At night, when I retired, I had not spirits
to do any thing; and I went to bed very early, in order to terminate
the day: never did I pass so long a one. It is not but I love Mamma
very much; but I don’t know how it was. I was to have gone to the opera
with Madame de Merteuil; the Chevalier Danceny was to have been there.
You know they are the two I love most. When the hour of the opera
arrived, my heart was oppressed in spite of me; every thing displeased
me, and I wept involuntarily. Fortunately Mamma was in bed, and could
not see me. I am sure Chevalier Danceny must have been chagrined as
well as I; but the company and performance must have amused him: I am
very differently situated. But Mamma is better to-day, and Madame de
Merteuil, Chevalier Danceny, and another gentleman, will be with us.
Madame de Merteuil comes late, and it’s very tiresome to be so long
alone. It is only eleven, yet I must practise my harpsichord, it is
true; and then my toilet will take me up some time, for I will have
my head well dressed to-day. I really believe our mother Abbess was
right, that one becomes a coquet on entering into life. I never had so
strong a desire to be handsome, as for some days past, and I think I am
not so handsome as I thought; in women’s company that paint, one looks
much worse; for example, all the men think Madame de Merteuil handsomer
than me; that does not vex me much, because she loves me: and then
she assures me the Chevalier Danceny thinks me handsomer than her. It
is very good natured of her to tell me so; she even seemed to be glad
of it. Now I don’t conceive how that can be. It is because she loves
me so much! And he too! Oh that gives me infinite pleasure! I really
think, barely looking at him makes me appear handsome. I would always
be looking at him, if I was not afraid of meeting his eyes: for as
often as that happens, it disconcerts me, and gives me uneasiness; but
that signifies nothing. Adieu, my dear Sophy! I am going to dress.

_Paris, Aug._ 14, 17—.




LETTER XV.

Viscount Valmont _to the_ Marchioness de Merteuil.


Indeed you are very kind not to abandon me to my melancholy fate: the
life I lead here is really fatiguing, from excess of repose and insipid
uniformity. Reading your letter with the particulars of your delightful
excursion, I was tempted twenty times to pretend business, fly to your
feet, and beg of you to commit, in my favour, an infidelity to your
Chevalier, who really does not deserve his bliss. Do you know you have
roused my jealousy? Why tell me of an eternal rupture? I recant an oath
taken in a fit of frenzy. We should not have been entitled to so solemn
a privilege, had we seriously intended to keep it. Ah, may I be one day
revenged in your embraces, for the vexation the Chevalier’s happiness
gives me! I am all indignation I own, to think that a man who has
scarce common sense, without taking the least trouble, and only simply
following the instinct of his heart, should find a happiness I can’t
attain. Oh, I will disturb him: promise me I shall disturb him! But
have you not humiliated yourself? You take the trouble to deceive him,
and he is happier than you. You think you have him in your toils, but
you are in his. He sleeps quietly, whilst you wake for his pleasures.
What could his slaves do more?

Hark ye, my lovely friend, while you divide yourself among many, I
am not in the least jealous; I then look down on your lovers as on
Alexander’s successors; incapable of preserving among them that empire
where I reigned sole monarch; but that you should give yourself up
entirely to one of them, that another should exist as happy as me,
I will not suffer; don’t expect I’ll bear it! Either take me again,
or take another; and do not, by any exclusive caprice, betray the
inviolable friendship we have sworn to each other.

Is it not curious, that I should have reason to complain of love? You
see I give into your ideas, and confess my errors. If not to be able
to exist without the possession of what we desire, if to sacrifice
time, pleasure, and life for it, then am I really in love; and I have
made no progress. I should not even have a word to say to you on the
subject, but for an accident that racks my imagination, and leaves me
in suspense between hope and fear.

You know my huntsman; a treasure of intrigue, and a true valet as ever
dramatic pen drew. You may conceive he had it in his instructions to be
in love with the waiting-maid, and make the servants drunk.

The rascal is happier than his master; he has already succeeded; and
has just discovered that Madame de Tourvel has appointed one of her
people to observe me, and even to follow me in my morning excursions,
as much as possible, without being perceived.

What does this woman mean? Thus, then, the most virtuous of them will
venture to do things, that one of us would not dare think on! Well, I
swear—but before I think of being revenged for this female artifice, I
will endeavour to convert it to my advantage. Hitherto those suspected
excursions had no view; I must give them one. This deserves my utmost
attention, and I quit you to reflect on it. Adieu, my charming friend!

_Always from the Castle of_ ——,
_Aug._ 15, 17—.




LETTER XVI.

Cecilia Volanges _to_ Sophia Carnay.


Ah, Sophia, I have a deal of news! But may be I should not tell you:
I must tell it, however, to somebody, I can’t keep it. Chevalier
Danceny—I’m in such trouble, I can’t write; I don’t know where to
begin. Since the agreeable evening that I related to you I spent at
Mamma’s[1], with him and Madame de Merteuil, I said no more of him:
that was because I resolved not to say any more of him to any one;
but I was always thinking of him notwithstanding. Since that, he is
become so melancholy, that it makes me uneasy; and when I asked him the
reason, he answered me he was not so, but I could plainly see he was.
He was yesterday more so than usual; that did not, however, prevent him
from singing with his usual complaisance; but every time he looked at
me, my heart was ready to break. After we had done singing, he locked
up my harpsichord; and bringing me the key, begged I would play again
in the evening when I was alone. I had no suspicion of any thing; I
even refused him: but he insisted so much, that I promised I would.
He had his reasons for it. When I retired to my room, and my maid
was gone, I went to my harpsichord. I found hid among the strings an
unsealed letter from him. Ah, if you did but know all he writes! Since
I read his letter, I am in such raptures I can think of nothing else.
I read it over four times running, and then locked it in my desk. I
got it by heart; and when I laid down I repeated it so often, I could
not think of sleeping; as soon as I shut my eyes, I thought I saw him,
telling me every thing I had just read. I did not sleep till very late;
and, as soon as I awoke, (though it was very early,) I got up for the
letter, to read it at my leisure; I took it into bed, and began to kiss
it; as if——but may be I did wrong to kiss a letter thus, but I could
not help it.

Now, my dear friend, if I am very well pleased, I am also very much
troubled; for certainly I must not answer it. I know that must not be,
and yet he urges it; and if I don’t answer it, I am certain he will
be again melancholy. It is a great pity; what would you advise me
to? But you know no more than I. I have a great mind to tell Madame
de Merteuil, who has a great affection for me. I wish I could console
him; but I would not do any thing wrong. We are taught good-nature, and
yet we are forbid to follow its dictates, when a man is in question.
That I can’t understand. Is not a man our neighbour as well as a woman,
and still more so? For have we not a father as well as a mother, a
brother as well as a sister, and there is the husband besides? Yet if
I was to do any thing that was not right, perhaps Mr. Danceny himself
would no longer have a good opinion of me! Oh, then I would rather he
should be melancholy! And I shall still be time enough; though he wrote
yesterday, I am not obliged to write to-day; and I shall see Madame de
Merteuil this evening, and if I can have so much resolution, I will
tell her all. Following her advice, I shall have nothing to reproach
myself; and may be she may tell me I may give him a few words of
answer, that he may not be melancholy. I’m in great uneasiness! Adieu!
Be sure tell me what you think I ought to do.

_Aug._ 13, 17—.


[1] The letter that is mentioned here was not found; but there is
reason to believe that it is that Madame de Merteuil mentions in her
letter which Cecilia Volanges refers to.




LETTER XVII.

_The Chevalier_ Danceny _to_ Cecilia Volanges.


Before I give way, Miss, whether shall I call it, to the pleasure or
necessity of writing to you, I begin by entreating you to hear me: I am
sensible I stand in need of your indulgence, in daring to declare my
sentiments for you; if they wanted only vindication, indulgence would
be useless. Yet, after all, what am I about to do, but exhibit your
own productions? I have nothing to say that my looks, my confusion, my
conduct, and even my silence, have not already told you! Why should
you be displeased with sentiments to which you have given birth?
Proceeding from you, they certainly should be offered you; if they are
as inflamed as my heart, they are as chaste as your own. Where is the
crime to have discovered how to set a proper value on your charms, your
bewitching qualifications, your enchanting graces, and that affecting
ingenuousness which so much enhances such valuable accomplishments? No;
undoubtedly there is not: but one may be unhappy, without being guilty,
which must be my fate, should you refuse to accept a homage, the first
my heart ever made. Were it not for you, I should still have been, if
not happy, yet undisturbed. I saw you, and tranquillity fled my soul,
and left my happiness uncertain!

And yet you seem to wonder at my grief, and demand the cause; I have
even sometimes thought it gave you uneasiness. Ah, speak but the word,
and my felicity will be complete! But before you pronounce it, remember
it may also overwhelm me in misery. Be the arbitress of my fate, you
can make me happy or miserable for ever; into what dearer hands can
I commit such a trust? I shall finish as I began, by imploring your
indulgence; I have entreated you to hear me; I shall farther presume to
beg an answer. If refused, I shall think you are offended; though my
heart is witness, my respect equals my love.

P. S. If you indulge me with an answer, you can convey it in the
same way through which manner you receive this: it is both safe and
commodious.

_Aug._ 18, 17—.




LETTER XVIII.

Cecilia Volanges _to_ Sophia Carnay.


What, my Sophia, you blame beforehand the step I intend to take! I had
uneasiness enough already, but you add considerably to it. You say,
I certainly ought not to answer his letter; you are quite, at your
ease, and can give advice; but you know not how I am circumstanced,
and are not able, not being on the spot, to give an opinion. Sure I
am, were you so situated, you would act as I do. Certainly, according
to etiquette, I should not answer his letter; and by my letter of
yesterday, you may perceive my intention was not to reply; but I don’t
think any one was ever so circumstanced as I am.

And, then, to be left to my own discretion! For Madame de Merteuil,
whom I depended on seeing in the evening, did not come. Every thing
is against me; she is the cause of my knowing him. In her company, it
has almost always been, that I have seen and spoke to him. It is not
that I have any ill-will towards her for it—but I’m left to myself
when I want her advice most. Well, I’m greatly to be pitied! Only
think, yesterday he came as usual. I was so confused I could not look
at him; he could not speak to me, for Mamma was with us. I knew he
would be vexed when he found I had not wrote to him; I did not know
how to appear. He immediately asked me if I had a mind he should bring
my harpsichord. My heart beat so I could scarcely say yes. When he
returned it was much worse. I just glanced at him. He did not see me,
but looked as if he was ill; that made me very unhappy. He tuned my
harpsichord, and said, with a sigh, Ah, Miss! He spoke but those two
words; and in such a tone as threw me into the greatest confusion. I
struck a few chords without knowing what I did: Mamma asked him to
sing; he excused himself, saying, he was not well; but I had no excuse,
and was forced to sing. I then wished I had no voice; and chose, on
purpose, a song that I did not know; for I was certain I could not sing
any one, and some notice would have been taken.

Fortunately a visitor came; and as soon as I heard a coach coming, I
stopped, and begged he would put up my harpsichord. I was much afraid
he would then go away, but he returned. Whilst Mamma and the lady, who
came, were chatting together, I wished to look at him for a moment; I
met his eyes, and I could not turn mine from him. That instant I saw
his tears flow, and he was obliged to turn his head aside to hide them.
I found I could not withstand it; and that I was also ready to weep. I
retired, and instantly wrote with a pencil on a slip of paper, “I beg
you’ll not be so dejected; I promise to answer your letter.”—Surely
you can’t say there was any harm in this; I could not help it. I put
my note in the strings of my harpsichord, as his was, and returned to
the saloon. I found myself much easier, and was impatient until the
lady went away. She was on her visits, and soon retired. As soon as
she was gone, I said I would again play on my harpsichord, and begged
he would bring it. I saw by his looks he suspected nothing; but when he
returned, oh, he was so pleased! In laying the instrument before me, he
placed himself in such a manner that Mamma could not see, and squeezed
my hand—but it was but for a moment: I can’t express the pleasure I
received; I drew it away however; so that I have nothing to reproach
myself with.

Now, my dear friend, you see I can’t avoid writing to him, since I have
promised; and I will not chagrin him any more I am determined; for I
suffer more than he does. Certainly, as to any thing bad, I would not
be guilty of it, but what harm can there be in writing, when it is to
prevent one from being unhappy? What puzzles me is, that I shall not
know what to say; but that signifies nothing; and I am certain its
coming from me will be quite sufficient.

Adieu, my dear friend! If you think me wrong, tell me; but I don’t
believe I am. As the time draws near to write to him, my heart beats
strangely; however, it must be so, as I have promised it.

_From ——, Aug._ 20, 17—.




LETTER XIX.

Cecilia Volanges _to_ Chevalier Danceny.


You was so pensive, Sir, yesterday, and it gave me so much uneasiness
to see you so, that I could not avoid promising to answer the letter
you wrote me. I now think it unbecoming; yet, as I promised, I will
not break my word, a proof of the friendship I have for you. Now I
have made this acknowledgment, I hope you will never more ask me to
write to you again, or ever let any one know I have wrote to you; for
I should most certainly be blamed, and it might occasion me a deal of
uneasiness. But above all, I hope you will not have a bad opinion of
me, which would give me the greatest concern; for I assure you, I
could not have been induced to do this by any one else. I wish much you
would not be so melancholy as you have been, lately, as it deprives me
of all the satisfaction I have in your company. You see, Sir, I speak
very sincerely to you. I wish much that our friendship may be lasting;
but I beg you’ll write to me no more.

         I have the honour to be,
                     Cecilia Volanges.
_Aug._ 20, 17—.




LETTER XX.

_The_ Marchioness de Merteuil _to_ Viscount Valmont.


So, knave, you begin to wheedle, lest I should laugh at you! Well, I
forgive you. You say so many ridiculous things, that I must pardon
you, the trammels you are kept in by your Presidente; however, my
Chevalier would be apt not to be so indulgent, and not to approve
the renewal of our contract; neither would he find any thing very
entertaining in your foolish whim. I laughed, however, exceedingly at
it, and was truly sorry I was obliged to laugh alone. Had you been
here, I don’t know how far my good humour might have led me; but
reflection came to my aid, and I armed myself with severity. It is not
that I have determined to break off for ever; but I am resolved to
delay for some time, and I have my reasons. Perhaps some vanity might
arise in the case, and _that_ once roused, one does not know whither
it may lead. I should be inclined to enslave you again, and oblige you
to give up your Presidente; but if a person of my unworthiness should
give you a disgust for virtue itself, in a human shape, what a scandal!
To avoid this danger, these are my stipulations.

As soon as you have obtain’d your lovely devotee, and that you can
produce your proofs, come, I am yours. But I suppose it unnecessary
to inform you that, in important matters, none but written proofs
are admitted. By this arrangement I shall, on the one hand, become a
reward instead of a consolation, and this idea pleases me most: on the
other hand, your success will be more brilliant, by becoming in the
same moment the cause of an infidelity. Come then, come speedily, and
bring the pledge of your triumph; like our valiant knights of old, who
deposited, at their ladies’ feet, the trophies of their victories. I am
really curious to know what a prude can say after such an adventure;
what covering she can give her words after having uncovered her person.
You are to judge whether I rate myself too high; but I must assure you
beforehand, I will abate nothing. Till then, my dear Viscount, you
must not be angry that I should be constant to my Chevalier; and that
I should amuse myself in making him happy, although it may give you a
little uneasiness.

If I was not so strict a moralist, I believe at this instant he would
have a most dangerous rival in the little Volanges. I am bewitched
with this little girl: it is a real passion. I am much mistaken, or
she will be one day or other one of our most fashionable women. I can
see her little heart expanding; and it is a most ravishing sight!—She
already loves her Danceny to distraction, yet knows nothing of it; and
he, though deeply smitten, has that youthful timidity, that frightens
him from declaring his passion. They are both in a state of mutual
adoration before me: the girl has a great mind to disburden her heart,
especially for some days past; and I should have done her immense
service in assisting her a little; but she is yet a child, and I must
not commit myself. Danceny has spoke plainer; but I will have nothing
to do with him. As to the girl, I am often tempted to make her my
pupil; it is a piece of service I’m inclined to do Gercourt. He gives
me time enough, as he must remain in Corsica until October. I have in
contemplation to employ that time effectually, and to give him a well
trained wife, instead of an innocent convent pensioner. The insolent
security of this man is surprising, who dares sleep quietly whilst a
woman he has used ill is unrevenged! If the little thing was now here,
I do not know what I might say to her.

Adieu, Viscount—good night, and good success; but, for God’s sake,
dispatch. Remember, if you let this woman slip, the others will blush
at having been unconnected with you.

_Aug._ 20, 17—.




LETTER XXI.

_From_ Viscount Valmont _to the_ Marchioness de Merteuil.


I have at length, my dear friend, made an advance, and one of such
importance, that though it has not led to the full completion of my
wishes, convinces me I am in the right road, and dispels my dread of
having gone astray. I have at last made my declaration of love; and
although the most obstinate silence was preserved, I have obtained
an answer of the most flattering, unequivocal nature; yet, not to
anticipate matters, but to recur to their origin: you may remember a
spy was appointed over my proceedings; well, I determined this shameful
treatment should be converted into the means of public edification;
and I laid my plan thus: I ordered my confident to look out for some
distressed person in the neighbourhood, who wanted relief. This you
know was not a very difficult discovery. Yesterday evening he informed
me that the effects of a whole family were to be seized on as this
morning, for payment of taxes. I first took care to be certain that
there was neither woman nor girl in the house, whose age or appearance
could raise any suspicion of my intended scheme. When I was satisfied
of this, I mentioned at supper that I intended going a shooting next
day. Here I must do my Presidente justice; she certainly felt some
remorse for the orders she had given; and not being able to overcome
her curiosity, she determined to oppose my design. It would be
exceedingly hot; I should probably injure my health; I should kill
nothing, and fatigue myself in vain; and during this conversation, her
eyes, which spoke a plainer language than she perhaps intended, told
me she wished those simple reasons should pass current. You may guess
I did not assent to them, and even was proof against a smart invective
upon shooting and sportsmen; I held my ground even against a little
cloud of discontent that covered her celestial face during the rest of
the evening. I was at one time afraid she had revoked her orders, and
that her delicacy would mar all. I did not reflect sufficiently on the
strength of woman’s curiosity, and was mistaken; my huntsman cleared up
my doubts however that night, and I went to bed quite satisfied.

At daylight I rose, and set out. I was scarcely fifty yards from the
castle, when I perceived my spy at my heels. I began to beat about,
directing my course across the fields towards the village I had in
view; my amusement on the way was making the fellow scamper; who, not
daring to quit the high road, was often obliged to run over treble the
ground I went. My exertions to give him exercise enough, put me in a
violent heat, and I seated myself at the foot of a tree. And would you
believe it, he had the insolence to slide behind a thicket not twenty
yards from, me, and seat himself also. I once had a great inclination
to send him the contents of my piece, which, though only loaded with
small shot, would have cured his curiosity; but I recollected he was
not only useful, but even necessary to my designs, and that saved him.
On my arrival at the village, all was bustle; I went on, and inquired
what was the matter, which was immediately related to me. I ordered the
collector to be sent for; and, giving way to my generous compassion,
I nobly paid down fifty-six livres, for which five poor creatures
were going to be reduced to straw and misery. On this trifling act,
you can’t conceive the chorus of blessings the bystanders joined in
around me—what grateful tears flowed from the venerable father of
the family, and embellished this patriarchal figure, which a moment
before was hideously disfigured with the wild stamp of despair! While
contemplating this scene, a younger man, leading a woman with two
children, advancing hastily towards me, said to them, “Let us fall
on our knees before this image of God;” and I was instantly surrounded
by the whole family prostrate at my feet.

I must acknowledge my weakness; my eyes were full, and I felt within me
an involuntary but exquisite emotion. I was amazed at the pleasure that
is felt in doing a benevolent act; and I’m inclined to think, those we
call virtuous people, have not so much merit as is ascribed to them.
Be that as it may, I thought it fit to pay those poor people for the
heart-felt satisfaction I had received. I had ten louis-d’ors in my
purse, which I gave them; here acknowledgments were repeated, but not
equally pathetic: the relief of want had produced the grand, the true
effect; the rest was the mere consequence of gratitude and surprise
for a superfluous gift.

In the midst of the unmerited benedictions of this family, I had some
resemblance to the hero of a drama in the _denouement_ of a play.
Remark that the faithful spy was observable in the crowd. My end was
answered: I disengaged myself from them, and returned to the castle.

Every thing considered, I applaud myself for my invention. This woman
is well worth all my solicitude; and it will one day or other prove to
be my title to her: having, as I may say, thus paid for her beforehand,
I shall have a right to dispose of her at my will, without having any
thing to reproach myself with.

I had almost forgot to tell you, that, to make the most of every thing,
I begged the good people to pray for the success of my undertakings.
You shall now see whether their prayers have not already been in some
measure efficacious. But I’m called to supper, and I should be too late
for the post, if I did not now conclude. I am sorry for it, as the
sequel is the best. Adieu, my lovely friend! You rob me a moment of the
pleasure of seeing her.

_Aug._ 20, 17—.




LETTER XXII.


_The_ Presidente de Tourvel _to_ Madame de Volanges.

You will, I doubt not, Madam, be desirous to be informed of an incident
in the life of Mr. de Valmont, which seems to me to form a striking
contrast to all those that have been related to you. Nothing can be
more painful than to think disadvantageously of any one, or so grievous
as to find those who have every qualification to inspire the love of
virtue, replete with vice; besides, you are so inclined to the exercise
of the virtue of indulgence, that I think I can’t please you more, than
in furnishing you motives for reconsidering any judgment you may have
formed, that may be justly accused of rigour. Mr. Valmont now seems
entitled to this favour, I may almost say to this act of justice, for
the following reason:

This morning he went on one of those excursions, which might have given
room to imagine a scheme in the neighbourhood; a supposition which, I
must own, I too hastily adopted.

Happily for him, and still more happily for us, since it preserves us
from an act of injustice, one of my people had occasion to go the same
way;[1] and thus my fortunate, but censurable curiosity was satisfied.
He acquainted us that Mr. de Valmont, having found at the village of
——, an unhappy family whose effects were on the point of being sold
for payment of taxes, not only discharged the debt for the poor people,
but even gave them a pretty considerable sum besides. My servant was
witness to this virtuous act; and informs me that the country people,
in conversation, told him, that a servant, whom they described, and
who mine believes to belong to Mr. de Valmont, had been yesterday at
the village to make inquiry after objects of charity. This was not a
transitory fit of compassion; it must have proceeded from determined
benevolence, the noblest virtue of the noblest minds; but be it chance
or design, you must allow, it is a worthy and laudable act; the bare
recital of it melted me to tears! I will add also still farther, to do
him justice, that when I mentioned this transaction, of which he had
not given the least hint, he begin by denying it to be founded; and
even when he acquiesced, seemed to lay so little stress on it, that his
modesty redoubled its merit. Now tell me, most venerable friend, if
M. de Valmont is an irretrievable debauchee? If he is so, and behaves
thus, where are we to look for men of principle? Is it possible that
the wicked should participate with the good the extatic pleasures of
benevolence? Would the Almighty permit that a virtuous poor family
should receive aid from the hand of an abandoned wretch, and return
thanks for it to his Divine Providence? And is it possible to imagine
the Creator would think himself honoured in hearing pure hearts pouring
blessings on a reprobate? No; I am rather inclined to think that
errors, although they may have been of some duration, are not eternal;
and I cannot bring myself to think, that the man who acts well, is
an enemy to virtue. Mr. de Valmont is only, perhaps, another example
of the dangerous effects of connections. I embrace this idea, and it
gratifies me. If, on the one hand, it clears up his character in your
mind, it will, on the other, enhance the value of the tender friendship
that unites me to you for life.

                             I am, &c.

P. S. Madame de Rosemonde and I are just going to see the poor honest
family, and add our assistance to Mr. de Valmont’s. We take him with
us, and shall give those good people the pleasure of again seeing
their benefactor; which, I fancy, is all he has left us to do.

_Aug._ 20, 17—.


[1] Madame de Tourvel does not venture to say it is done by her order.




LETTER XXIII.

_The_ Viscount de Valmont _to the_ Marchioness de Merteuil.


I broke off at our return to the castle. Now to my narrative: I had
scarce time to dress and return to the saloon, where my charmer was
making tapestry, whilst the curate read the gazette to my old aunt.
I placed myself near the frame. Softer looks than usual, almost
bordering on fondness, soon informed me the spy had made a report of
his business; and, in fact, the lovely woman could no longer keep the
secret; being under no apprehension of interrupting the good pastor,
whose utterance was perfectly in the pulpit style. I have also some
news to tell, said she, and immediately related my adventure with an
exactitude that did honour to her historian’s accuracy. You may guess
how my modesty displayed itself; but who can stop a woman’s tongue, who
unconsciously praises the man she loves? I determined to let her go on.
One would have imagined she was preaching the panegyric of some saint,
whilst I, not without a degree of hope, attentively observed every
circumstance that bore an appearance propitious to love: her animated
look, free action, and above all, the tone of her voice, which, by a
sensible alteration, betrayed the emotion of her soul. She had scarcely
finished, when Madame de Rosemonde said, “Come, my dear nephew, let me
embrace you.” I soon concluded the lovely panegyrist could not offer
an objection to my saluting her in turn. She attempted to fly; but I
soon seized her in my arms; and far from being able to resist, she had
scarce power to support herself. The more I contemplate this woman,
the more amiable she is. She hastened back to her frame, with every
appearance of resuming her work, but in such confusion, that her hand
shook, and at length obliged her to throw it aside.

After dinner, the ladies would visit the objects of my unaffected
charity; I accompanied them; but I shall spare you the unentertaining
narrative of this second scene of gratitude. My anxious heart, panting
with the delightful remembrance of what had passed, made me hasten our
return to the Castle. On the road, my lovely Presidente, more pensive
than usual, spoke not a word; and I, entirely absorbed in the means of
employing the events of the day to advantage, was also silent. Madame
de Rosemonde alone spoke, and could receive but few and short answers.
We must have tired her out, which was my design, and it succeeded to my
wish. When we alighted she retired to her apartment, and left my fair
one and me tête-à-tête in a saloon, poorly lighted: gentle darkness,
thou encourager of timid love!

I had not much trouble to direct our conversation to my object. The
fervour of my lovely preacher was more useful than my own skill. “When
the heart is so inclined to good,” said she, glancing a most enchanting
look, “how is it possible it should at the same time be prone to vice?”
“I don’t deserve,” replied I, “either this praise or censure; and I
can’t conceive how, with so much good sense as you possess, you have
not yet discovered my character. Were my candour even to hurt me in
your opinion, you are still too deserving to with-hold my confidence
from you. You’ll find all my errors proceed from an unfortunate
easiness of disposition. Surrounded by profligates, I contracted their
vices; I have, perhaps, even had a vanity in excelling them. Here
too the sport of example, impelled by the model of your virtues, and
without hope of ever attaining them, I have however endeavoured to
follow you: and, perhaps, the act you value so highly to-day would lose
its merit, if you knew the motive!” (You see, my charming friend, how
nearly I approached to the truth.) “It is not to me those unfortunate
people are obliged, for the relief they have experienced. Where you
imagined you saw a laudable act, I only sought the means to please. I
was only, if I must so say, the feeble agent of the divinity I adore!”
(Here she would have interrupted me, but I did not give her time.)
“Even at this instant,” added I, “it is weakness alone extracts this
secret from me. I had resolved not to acquaint you of it; I had placed
my happiness in paying to your virtues, as well as your charms, a
pure and undiscoverable homage. But, incapable of deceit, with such
an example of candour before me, I will not have to reproach myself
with any vile dissimulation. Imagine not that I dare offend you by a
criminal presumption. I know I shall be miserable; but I shall cherish
my sufferings: they are the proofs of the ardour of my love:—at your
feet, in your bosom, I will deposit my grievances; there will I
gather strength to bear up against new sufferings; there I shall meet
compassion, mixed with goodness and consolation; for I know you’ll pity
me. O thou whom I adore! hear me, pity me, help me.” All this time was
I on my knees, squeezing her hands in mine; but she, disengaging them
suddenly, and covering her eyes with them, exclaimed, “What a miserable
wretch am I!” and burst into tears. Luckily I had worked myself up to
such a degree that I wept also; and taking her hands again, I bathed
them with my tears. This precaution was very necessary; for she was
so much engaged with her own anguish, that she would not have taken
notice of mine, if I had not discovered this expedient to impress
her with it. This also gave me leisure to contemplate her charming
form—her attractions received additional embellishment from her tears.
My imagination began to be fired, and I was so overpowered, that I was
tempted to seize the opportunity!

How weak we are, how much governed by circumstances! since I myself,
forgetful of my ultimate design, risked losing, by an untimely triumph,
the charms of a long conflict, and the pleasing struggles that precede
a difficult defeat; and hurried away by an impetuosity excusable only
in a raw youth, was near reducing Madame de Tourvel’s conqueror to
the paltry triumph of one woman more on his list. My purpose is, that
she should yield, yet combat; that without having sufficient force to
conquer, she should have enough to make a resistance; let her feel her
weakness, and be compelled to own her defeat. The sorry poacher takes
aim at the game he has surprised—the true huntsman runs it fairly
down. Is not this an exalted idea? But perhaps by this time I should
have only had the regret of not having followed it, if chance had not
seconded my prudence.

A noise of some one coming towards the saloon struck us. Madame de
Tourvel started in a fright, took a candle, and went out. There was no
opposing her. It was only a servant. When I was certain who it was, I
followed her. I had gone but a few steps, when, whether her fears or
her discovering me made her quicken her pace, she flung herself into,
rather than entered, her apartment, and immediately locked the door.
Seeing the key inside, I did not think proper to knock; that would have
been giving her an opportunity of too easy resistance. The happy simple
thought of looking through the key-hole struck me, and I beheld this
adorable woman bathed in tears, on her knees, praying most fervently.
What deity dared she invoke? Is there one so powerful as the god of
love? In vain does she now seek for foreign aid; I am henceforward the
arbiter of her fate.

Thinking I had done enough for one day, I retired to my apartment, and
sat down to write to you. I had hopes of seeing her again at supper;
but she sent word she was gone to bed indisposed. Madame de Rosemonde
proposed to go to see her in her room; but the arch invalid pretended
a head-ach, that prevented her from seeing any one. You may guess I
did not sit up long after supper, and had my head-ach also. After I
withdrew, I wrote her a long letter, complaining of her rigour, and
went to bed, resolved to deliver it this morning. I slept badly, as
you perceive by the date of this letter. I rose and read my epistle
over again, which does not please me: it expresses more ardour than
love, and more chagrin than grief. It must be altered when I return to
a sufficient degree of composure.

It is now dawn of day, and I hope the freshness of the morning will
bring on a little sleep. I return to bed; and whatever ascendant this
woman may have over me, I promise you never to be so much taken up with
her, as not to dedicate much of my thoughts to you. Adieu, my lovely
friend.

_Aug._ 21, 17—, _four o’clock in the morning._




LETTER XXIV.

Viscount Valmont _to the_ Presidente Tourvel.


From mere compassion, Madam, vouchsafe to calm my perturbed soul;
deign to inform me what I have to hope or fear. When placed between
the extremes of happiness and misery, suspense is a most insupportable
torment. Alas! why did I ever speak to you? Why did I not endeavour to
resist the dominion of your charms that have taken possession of my
imagination? Had I been content with silently adoring you, I should
at least have the pleasure that ever attends even secretly harbouring
that passion; and this pure sentiment, which was then untroubled by
the poignant reflections that have arisen from my knowledge of your
sorrow, was enough for my felicity: but the source of my happiness is
become that of my despair, since I saw those precious tears; since I
heard that cruel exclamation, _Ah! miserable wretch that I am._ Those
words, Madam, will for a long time wring my heart. By what fatality
happens it, that the softest passion produces only horror to you!
Whence proceed these fears? Ah! they do not arise from an inclination
of sharing in the passion. Your heart I have much mistaken; it is not
made for love: mine, which you incessantly slander, is yet the only
one of sensibility; yours is even divested of pity—were it not, you
could have afforded a wretched being, who only related his sufferings,
one word of consolation; you would not have deprived him of your
presence, when his sole delight is in seeing you; you would not have
made a cruel mockery of his disquietude, by acquainting him you were
indisposed, without giving him liberty to make any inquiries on the
state of your health; you would have known, that a night that brought
you twelve hours rest, was to him an age of torment.

Tell me, how have I deserved this afflicting rigour? I am not afraid
even to appeal to yourself: what have I done, but yielded to an
involuntary sensation, inspired by beauty, and justified by virtue,
always kept within due limits by respect, the innocent avowal of which
proceeded from hopeless confidence? and will you betray that confidence
that you seemed to countenance, and to which I unreservedly gave way?
No, I will not believe it; that would be supposing you capable of an
injustice, and I never can entertain, even for a moment, such an idea:
I recant my reproaches; I may have been led to write them, but never
seriously believed them. Ah, let me believe you all perfection; it is
the only satisfaction now left me! Convince me you are so, by extending
your generous care to me; of the many you have relieved, is there a
wretch wants it so much as I do? Do not abandon me to the distraction
you have plunged me into: assist me with your reason, since you have
deprived me of mine; and as you have reformed me, complete your work by
enlightening me.

I will not deceive you; it will be impossible for you to conquer my
love, but you may teach me how to regulate it: by guiding my steps,
by prescribing to me my conversation, you will, at least, preserve me
from the most dreadful of all misfortunes, that of incurring your
displeasure. Dispel, at least, my desponding fears; tell me you pity
and forgive me; promise me your indulgence; you never will afford me
that extent of it I wish; but I call for so much of it as is absolutely
necessary to me: will you refuse it?

Adieu, Madam! Accept, graciously, the homage of my feelings, to which
my respect is inseparably united.

_Aug._ 20, 17—.




LETTER XXV.

Viscount Valmont _to the_ Marchioness de Merteuil.


I now transmit to you the proceedings of yesterday: at eleven I went
to Madame de Rosemonde’s, and under her auspices, was introduced to
the fair pretended invalid, who was still in bed. Her eyes seemed very
heavy; I hope she slept as badly as I did. I seized an opportunity,
whilst Madame de Rosemonde was at a distance, to present my letter; it
was refused, but I left it on the bed, and very politely approached
my old aunt’s easy chair, who would be near _her dear child_, to
whom it now became necessary to put up the letter to avoid scandal.
She indiscreetly said, she believed she had a little fever. Madame
de Rosemonde desired I would feel her pulse, praising, at the same
time, my skill in physic: thus my enchantress experienced a double
mortification, to be obliged to give me her arm, and to find her little
artifice would be detected. I took her by the hand, which I squeezed
in one of mine, whilst, with the other, I ran over her smooth delicate
arm; the sly being would not answer a single one of my inquiries,
which made me say, as I retired, “I could not feel even the slightest
emotion.” I suspected her looks would be rather severe; in order to
disappoint her, I did not look at her: a little after she said she was
desirous to rise, and we left her alone. She appeared at dinner, which
was rather gloomy, and informed us she would not go out to walk, which
was telling me I should not have an opportunity of speaking to her. It
then became necessary, and I felt this to be the fit place, to fetch a
sigh and assume a melancholy look; she undoubtedly expected it, for it
was the first time, that day, our eyes met. With all her discretion,
she has her little artifices as well as others. I found an opportunity
to ask her _if she had decided my fate?_ I was not a little astonished
to hear her reply, _Yes, Sir, I have wrote to you._ I was very
anxious to see this letter; but whether it was design, awkwardness,
or timidity, she did not deliver it until night, when she retired to
her apartment. I send it you, as also the rough copy of mine; read and
give your opinion; observe with what egregious falsity she protests
she is not in love, when I am certain of the contrary; and she’ll
complain, if I deceive her afterwards, and yet is not afraid to deceive
me beforehand!—My lovely friend, the most artful man is barely on a
level with the most inexperienced woman. I must, however, give in to
all this nonsense, and fatigue myself to death with despair, because
Madam is pleased to play a severe character.—How is it possible not to
resolve to avenge such indignities,—but patience! Adieu, I have still
a great deal to write.

Now I think on’t, send me back the inhuman woman’s letter; it is
possible that hereafter she may expect to find a great value set upon
such wretched stuff, and one must be regular.

I say nothing of little Volanges, she shall be our subject the first
opportunity.

_Aug._ 22, 17—.




LETTER XXVI.

_The_ Presidente de Tourvel _to_ Viscount Valmont.


You certainly, Sir, would not receive a letter from me, if my foolish
conduct, last night, did not put me under the necessity of coming to
an explanation. I wept I own; and the words you cite may have escaped
me; tears, words, and every thing you have carefully noted; it is then
necessary to explain all:

Being accustomed to inspire only becoming sentiments, and habituated
only to conversations that I might attend to without a blush, and
consequently to possess a degree of confidence, which, I flatter
myself, I have a right to, I am a stranger to dissimulation, and know
not how to suppress the sensations which I experience. The astonishment
and confusion your behaviour threw me into, an unaccountable dread,
from a situation not at all suited to me, and perhaps the shocking
thought of seeing myself confounded with the women you despise, and
treated with the same levity; all these reasons united, provoked my
tears, and may have made me, and I think with reason, say, I was
miserable.

This expression, which you think so pointed, would be still certainly
too weak, if my tears and words had another motive; if instead of
disapproving sentiments that ought to offend me, I had the slightest
apprehension of participating them.

No, Sir, I have no such apprehensions; if I had, I should fly a
hundred leagues from you; I would fly to some desert, there to bewail
the misfortune of having known you. Notwithstanding my certainty of not
having, or ever having, an affection for you, perhaps I should have
acted more properly, in following the advice of my friends, in never
permitting you to approach me.

I thought, and that is my only error, that you would have had some
respect for a woman of character, whose wish was to find you deserve
a similar appellation, and to do you justice, and who pleaded in your
vindication, whilst you were insulting her by your criminal designs:
no, Sir, you do not know me, or you would not thus presume, upon your
own injustice, and because you have dared to speak a language I should
not have listened to, you would not have thought, yourself, to write
me a letter I ought not to read; and you desire I should _guide
your steps, and prescribe your conversation!_ Well, Sir, silence and
oblivion is the only advice that is suitable for me to give, and you
to follow; then, only, will you have a title to pardon: you might even
obtain some title to my gratitude—but no, I shall make no request to
a man who has lost all respect for me; I will not repose confidence in
one who has already abused it. You oblige me to fear, nay, perhaps, to
hate you, which was not my wish; I hoped to see in you the nephew of my
most respectable friend; I opposed the voice of friendship to that of
the public that accused you: you have destroyed all; and I foresee you
will not be disposed to regain any thing.

I shall content myself with informing you, Sir, your sentiments offend
me; that your declaration of them is an insult, and far from ever
thinking to partake of them, you’ll oblige me never to see you more,
if you don’t observe, on this subject, a silence, which I think I have
a right not only to expect, but to require. I enclose you the letter
you wrote me, and I hope you will, in the same manner, return me this:
I should be extremely mortified that any traces should remain, of an
event which ought never to have existed.

                         I have the honour,
_Aug._ 21, 17—.




LETTER XXVII.

Cecilia Volanges _to the_ Marchioness de Merteuil.


How shall I thank you, dear Madam, for your goodness: you judged well
that it would be easier for me to write than speak; what I have to
tell you is not an easy matter; but you are my friend! Yes, you are my
very good friend! And I’ll endeavour not to be afraid; and then I have
so much occasion for your advice!—I am in great grief; I think every
one guesses my thoughts, especially when he is present; I redden up as
soon as any one looks at me. Yesterday, when you saw me crying, it was
because I wanted to speak to you, and I don’t know what hindered me;
when you asked me what ailed me, the tears came into my eyes in spite
of me. I could not have spoke a word. If it had not been for you, Mamma
would have taken notice of it; and then what would have become of me?
This is the way I spend my time for these four days: that day, Madam, I
will out with it, on that day Chevalier Danceny wrote to me; I assure
you, when I received his letter, I did not know what it was; but to
tell the truth, I read it with great pleasure. I would have suffered
any thing all my lifetime, rather than he should not have wrote it to
me; however, I know very well I must not tell him so; and I can even
assure you, that I told him I was very angry; but he says it gets the
better of him, and I believe him; for I had resolved not to answer him,
and yet I could not avoid it. I wrote him but once, it was partly even
to tell him not to write to me any more; yet he is continually writing;
and as I don’t answer him, I see plainly he is very melancholy, and
that afflicts me greatly: so that I do not know what to do, nor what
will become of me: I am much to be pitied!

I beg, Madam, you’ll tell me, would there be any great harm in writing
an answer to him now and then, only until he can prevail on himself to
write me no more, and to be as we used to be before? For myself, if
it continues this way, I don’t know what I shall do. I assure you, on
reading his last letter, I could not forbear crying all the time; and
I am very certain, that if I do not answer him again, it will make us
both very uneasy.

I will enclose you his letter, or a copy of it, and you’ll see he does
not ask any harm. However, if you think it is not proper, I promise
you I will not give way to my inclination; but I believe you’ll think
as I do, that there’s no harm in it.

And now that I am upon it, give me leave to put you a question: I have
been often told it was very wrong to be in love with any body, but
why so? What makes me ask you, is this; the Chevalier Danceny insists
there’s no harm at all in it, and that almost every body is; if that’s
the case, I don’t know why I should be the only one should be hindered;
or is it that it is only wrong for young ladies? For I heard Mamma
herself say, that Madam de D—— loved M. M——, and she did not speak
as if it was so bad a thing; and yet I am sure she would be very angry
with me, if she had the least suspicion of my affection for M. Danceny.
She behaves to me always as if I was a child, and never tells me any
thing at all. I thought, when she took me from the convent, I was to
be married; but now I think not. It is not that I care much about it,
I assure you; but you who are so intimate with her, you, perhaps, know
something about it; and if you do, I hope you will tell me.

This is a very long letter, Madam; but since you was so good to give me
leave to write to you, I made use of it to tell you every thing, and I
depend on your friendship.

                         I have the honour, &c.
_Paris, Aug._ 23, 17—.




LETTER XXVIII.

Chevalier Danceny _to_ Cecilia Volanges.


You still, Miss, refuse to answer my letters. Will nothing move you?
and must every day banish the hopes it brings! What sort of friendship
is it that you consent shall subsist between us? If it is not powerful
enough even to make you sensible of my anguish; if you can coolly,
and unmoved, look on me, while I suffer, the victim of a flame which
I cannot extinguish; if, instead of inspiring you with a confidence
in me, my sufferings can hardly move your compassion.—Heavens! your
friend suffers, and you will do nothing to assist him. He requests
only one word, and you refuse it him! And you desire him to be
satisfied with a sentiment so feeble, that you even dread to repeat
it. Yesterday you said you would not be ungrateful. Believe me, Miss,
when a person repays love only with friendship, it arises not from a
fear of being ungrateful: the fear then is only for the appearance of
ingratitude. But I no longer dare converse with you on a subject which
must be troublesome to you, as it does not interest you; I must, at all
events, confine it within myself, and endeavour to learn to conquer it.
I feel the difficulty of the task; I know I must call forth my utmost
exertions: there is one however will wring my heart most, that is,
often to repeat, yours is insensible.

I will even endeavour to see you less frequently; and I am already
busied in finding out a plausible pretence. Must I then forego the
pleasing circumstance of daily seeing you; I will at least never cease
regretting it. Perpetual anguish is to be the reward of the tenderest
affection; and by your desire, and your decree, I am conscious I never
shall again find the happiness I lose this day. You alone were formed
for my heart. With what pleasure shall I not take the oath to live only
for you! But you will not receive it. Your silence sufficiently informs
me that your heart suggests nothing to you in my favour; that is at
once the most certain proof of your indifference, and the most cruel
manner of communicating it. Farewell, Miss.

I no longer dare flatter myself with receiving an answer; love would
have wrote it with eagerness, friendship with pleasure, and even
pity with complacency; but pity, friendship, and love, are equally
strangers to your heart.

_Paris, Aug._ 23, 17—.




LETTER XXIX.

Cecilia Volanges _to_ Sophia Carnay.


It is certain, Sophy, that I told you, one might in some cases write to
an admirer; and I assure you, I am very angry with myself for having
followed your advice, which has been the cause of so much uneasiness
to the Chevalier Danceny and me; and what proves I was right, is, that
Madame de Merteuil, who is a woman that ought to know those things
perfectly, has at length come to think as I do. I owned every thing to
her: at first she thought as you did; but when I had explained every
thing to her, she was sensible it was a different case: she requires
only that I should show her all my letters, and those of Chevalier
Danceny, to be certain I should say nothing but what I ought; so now I
am pretty easy. Lord! how I do love Madame de Merteuil; she is a good
woman, and a very respectable one; so that her advice may be safely
followed. Oh! how I shall write to M. Danceny, and how well satisfied
he’ll be; he will be more so than he thinks; for, till now, I only
mentioned friendship to him, and he wanted me always to call it love.
I believe it was pretty much the same; but I was afraid—that was the
fact. I told Madame de Merteuil of it; she told me I was in the right;
and that an avowal of love ought only to be made when one could no
longer help it: now I’m sure I cannot help it much longer; after all,
it is all one, and it will please him most.

Madame de Merteuil told me also, that she would lend me some books,
which treat that subject very fully, and would teach me how to conduct
myself, and also to write better than I do: for she tells me all my
faults, and that is a proof she loves me; she charged me only to say
nothing to Mamma of those books, because it would look as if she had
neglected my education, and that might displease her. I will engage I
shall say nothing of it.

It is, however, very extraordinary, that a woman, who is but a very
distant relation, should take more care of me than my mother! I am very
happy to be acquainted with her.

She has asked my Mamma leave to take me to the opera, to her own box,
the day after to-morrow; she told me we should be by ourselves, and
would chat all the while, without danger of being overheard.—I like
that a great deal better than the opera. My marriage will be, in part,
the subject of our conversation, I hope; for she told me it was very
certain I was to be married; but we had not an opportunity to say any
more. Is it not very strange Mamma says nothing at all to me about it.

Adieu, my dear Sophy; I am going to write to Chevalier Danceny. I am
quite happy.

_Aug._ 24, 17—.




LETTER XXX.

Cecilia Volanges _to the_ Chevalier Danceny.


At last, Sir, I consent to write to you, to assure you of my
friendship, of my _love_ even, since without that you must be unhappy.
You say I have not a tender heart: I assure you you are much mistaken;
and I hope you now doubt it no longer. If you were uneasy because I
did not write to you, do you think it did not give me a great deal of
concern too? The reason was, I would not, for all the world, do any
thing that was wrong; and I should not even have owned my affection
for you, if I could have helped it; but your grief gave me too much
uneasiness. I hope now you will be so no longer, and that we shall be
very happy.

I expect to have the pleasure of seeing you this evening, and that you
will come early; it will not be as much so as I wish. Mamma sups at
home, and I believe she will ask you to stay. I hope you will not be
engaged, as you was the day before yesterday. Surely the company you
went to sup with must have been very pleasing, for you went very soon;
but let us talk no more of that. Now that you know I love you, I hope
you will be with me as often as you can; for I am never pleased but
when with you; and I wish, with all my heart, you were the same.

I am very sorry you should still be melancholy; but it is not my fault.
I shall desire to play on the harpsichord as soon as you come, that you
may have my letter immediately. I think that is the best thing I can
do.

Farewell, Sir; I love you with all my heart; the oftener I tell you so,
the more happy I feel. I hope you will be so too.

_Aug._ 24, 17—.




LETTER XXXI.

Chevalier Danceny _to_ Cecilia Volanges.


Yes, certainly, we shall be very happy. My happiness is secure, since
I am beloved by you. Yours will never end, if it lasts as long as my
love. And do you love me, and no longer dread telling me so? _The
oftener you tell me so, the more happy you feel._ After having read
the enchanting _I love you,_ wrote with your hand, I heard your lovely
mouth repeat the avowal. I figured to me those charming eyes, rendered
still more so by the expression of tenderness fixed on me. I have
received your vows to live for me alone. Oh receive mine, to devote my
life to your happiness, and be assured I never will deceive you!

What a happy day was yesterday! Why has not Madame de Merteuil always
secrets to impart to your Mamma? Why must the idea of the restraint
that attends us, be mixed with the delicious remembrance that fills my
soul? Why can’t I for ever squeeze that lovely hand, that wrote _I love
you,_ imprint it with my kisses, and be thus revenged for your refusal
of a greater favour?

Tell me, then, my Cecilia, when your Mamma came back, when, by her
presence, we were constrained to behave with indifference to each
other, when you could no longer console me by assurances of love, for
the refusal of proof, did not you feel some sorrow? did not you say to
yourself, one kiss would have made him completely happy, and refused
it? Promise me, my lovely charmer, that you’ll be not so rigorous the
first opportunity. Such a promise will enable me to bear up against the
disappointments that I foresee are preparing for us, and the crosses I
shall meet, will at least be softened by the certainty that you share
them.

Adieu, my adorable Cecilia! The hour is come that I am to be with you.
It would be impossible for me to leave off, if it was not to go to you.
Adieu, once more, my dearest love!

_Aug._ 25, 17—.




LETTER XXXII.

Madame de Volanges _to the_ Presidente de Tourvel.


You wish then, Madam, that I should form a good opinion of the virtue
of Monsieur de Valmont? I own I cannot bring myself to it; and that I
should have as much difficulty to think so from the simple fact you
relate, as to believe a man of acknowledged worth to be vicious for
the commission of one fault. Human nature is not perfect in any shape,
neither in good nor evil. The profligate wretch has his virtues as well
as the virtuous man his weaknesses. This truth is so much the more
necessary to be believed, because, from thence arises the necessity of
indulgence for the wicked as well as the good; and that it preserves
these from pride, and those from being discouraged. You will, without
doubt, think that I don’t now practise the doctrine I speak; but it
appears to me a most dangerous weakness, to put the man of virtue and
the profligate on an equality.

I will not take upon me to scrutinize the motives of Mr. Valmont’s
action; I’ll even think it in itself laudable; but nevertheless, has he
not, all his life, been employed in spreading trouble, dishonour, and
scandal in families? Listen, if you will, to the voice of the unhappy
people he has relieved: but let not that prevent you from attending
to the cries of a hundred victims that he has sacrificed. If, as you
say, he was only one example of the danger of connections, would he
be the less a dangerous connection? You suppose him capable of a
happy reformation: let us go farther, suppose this miracle completed;
would not the public opinion be still against him, and ought not that
to be sufficient to regulate your conduct? God alone can absolve at
the moment of repentance; he is the searcher of hearts; but men can
judge only by actions; and no one, after having lost the esteem of
the world, has a right to complain of diffidence, which makes this
loss so difficult to be repaired. I would have you think above all, my
dear young friend, that to lose this esteem, it is sometimes enough to
seem to set little value upon it, and do not tax this severity with
injustice; for as the world has a right to think that no one renounces
this precious jewel, who has good pretensions to it, whoever is not
restrained by this consideration, is on the brink of danger. Such,
however, would be the aspect, an intimate connection with Mr. de
Valmont would carry with it, were it ever so innocent.

Alarmed with the warmth with which you defend him, I hasten to
anticipate the objections I foresee you’ll make. You’ll quote Madame
de Merteuil, whose connection with him has escaped censure; you’ll
perhaps ask me why I admit him to my house? You will tell me, that far
from being rejected by the worthy part of society, he is admitted, even
sought for, by what is called good company: I can, I believe, answer to
all.

Madame de Merteuil, who is really a very valuable woman, has, perhaps,
no other defect but that of too much confidence in her own strength;
she is a dexterous guide, who delights in driving her chariot between
rocks and precipices, in which her success alone justifies her: it is
right to praise her, but it would be imprudent to follow her; she
herself is convinced, and condemns herself for it, and as she grows in
experience, her conduct is more reserved; and I can confidently assure
you, we are both of the same opinion.

As to what relates to myself, I will not excuse it more than in others;
I admit Mr. de Valmont: without doubt he is received every where;
that is an inconsequence to be added to the many others that govern
society. You know as well as me, that we spend our lives in remarking,
complaining, and giving ourselves up to them. Mr. de Valmont, with a
pompous title, a great fortune, many amiable qualities, saw early,
that to gain an ascendant in society, it was sufficient to know how
to manage with equal address, praise, and ridicule. No one, like him,
possesses this double talent; with the one he seduces, with the other
he makes himself dreaded: he is not esteemed, but flattered. Such is
his existence in the midst of a world, that, more prudent than bold,
would rather keep on good terms with him than combat him.

But neither Madame de Merteuil nor any other woman would venture to
shut herself up in the country, almost tête-à-tête, with such a man. It
was reserved for the most discreet, and the most virtuous among them,
to set an example of such an inconsequence; pardon the expression,
it slipped from me through friendship. My charming friend, even your
virtue betrays you, by the security it inspires you with. Think, then,
on the one hand, that you will have for judges frivolous people, who
will not believe in a virtue, the model of which they cannot find
among themselves; and on the other, profligates, who will feign not
to believe in it to punish you. Consider you are now doing what many
men would be afraid to risk; for among the young men of fashion, to
whom Mr. de Valmont is now become the oracle, the most prudent seem to
dread appearing too intimately connected with him; and you are under
no apprehensions; ah, return, I conjure you! If my reasons are not
sufficient to persuade you, at least give way to my friendship; it is
it that makes me renew my instances, it is it must justify them. You
will think it severe, and I wish it may be useless; but I would much
rather you should have reason to complain of its solicitude, than its
negligence.

_Aug._ 24, 17—.




LETTER XXXIII.

_The_ Marchioness de Merteuil _to the_ Viscount de Valmont.


Now that you dread succeeding, my dear Viscount, now that your scheme
is to furnish arms against yourself, and that you wish more to fight
than conquer, I have nothing more to say. Your conduct is certainly a
masterpiece of prudence; in a contrary supposition, it would be the
highest act of folly; and to tell you my sentiments freely, I fear your
project is entirely chimerical.

I do not reproach you for having let slip the opportunity; for I really
cannot see that you had it in your power; and I know well, whatever
others may say, that an opportunity lost may be found again, and that a
rash step is irrecoverable.

But I admire your wisdom in commencing a correspondence, and I defy
you to foresee how it will end. You perhaps hope to prove to this
woman, that she should give herself up? And that seems to me a truth of
opinion, more than of demonstration; and that to make it be relished,
you soften, and not argue; but what purpose would it answer to soften
by letter, since you would not be on the spot to benefit by it? If all
your fine phrases should even produce the intoxication of love, do you
flatter yourself that it would be of so long a duration that reflection
would not come time enough to prevent its consequences? Think, then,
how much it will take to write a letter, and how much before it can be
delivered; and then consider if a woman, of the principles of your
devotee, can think so long on what she endeavours never at all to think
of: this proceeding may do very well with children, who while they
write, I love you, do not know they say I give myself up to you; but
Madame de Tourvel’s reasoning virtue makes her know the value of the
terms. This appears very plain; for notwithstanding the advantage you
had over her in your conversation, she foils you in her letter; and
what will be the consequence? That by long debating, you will not bring
to compliance; that by dint of searching for good reasons, she will
find them, will give them, and stick to them; not so much because they
are good in themselves, as not to act inconsistently.

Moreover, a remark I am astonished you have not made, is, that nothing
is so difficult in love, as to write what one does not feel. I mean to
write with the appearance of truth; it is not but the same phrases are
used; they are not arranged in the same manner; or rather, they are
arranged with too much perspicuity, and that is worse.

Read over your letter again; it displays so much regularity that you
are discovered in every phrase. I am inclined to think your Presidente
is so unfashionable as not to perceive it; but what is that to the
purpose? the consequence will be still the same; that is the defect
of romance; the author racks his brain, heats his imagination, and
the reader is unmoved. Heloise is the only exception I know; and
notwithstanding the great talents of the author, from this observation
alone, I have ever been of opinion, that the work is grounded in
truth; not so in speaking; the custom of conversation gives it an air
of tenderness, to which the facility of tears still greatly adds;
expressive desires blend themselves with the languishing look, and,
at last, incoherent speeches more readily bring on that turbulence
of passion, which is the true eloquence of love; but above all, the
presence of the beloved object banishes reflection, and makes us wish
to be overcome.

Believe me, my dear Viscount, she does not desire you should write any
more; retrieve your error, and wait for the opportunity of speaking
to her. This woman has more fortitude than I expected; her defence is
good, and were it not for the length of her letter, and the pretence
she gives you for a replication in her grateful phrase, she would not
at all have betrayed herself.

And what, I think, ought to ascertain your success is, she exhausts all
her strength at once; and I foresee she will persist in it, for the
defence of a word, and will have none left for the crisis.

I send you back your two letters, and, if you are prudent, they should
be the last till after the happy moment. It is too late to say any
thing of the little Volanges, who comes on very well, and gives me
great satisfaction. I believe I shall have done before you, which ought
to make you very happy. Farewell for to-day!

_Aug._ 24, 17—.




LETTER XXXIV.

Viscount Valmont _to the_ Marchioness de Merteuil.


You write enchantingly, my charming friend; but why take so much
trouble to prove a position which all the world knows, that to make
a quick progress in love matters, it is better to speak than write?
This, I believe, is the full contents of your letter; and is it not the
first elements of the art of seduction? I will only remark, that you
make but one exception to this principle, and that there are two: with
children, who take this step through timidity, and give themselves up
through ignorance, you must add the women of genius, who are dupes to
self-love and vanity, which leads them into the snare. For example;
I am very certain that the Countess de B——, who answered, without
hesitating, my first letter, had then no more affection for me, than I
had for her; and that in this connection she had no other view, than
being engaged with a person whom she imagined would do her honour.

However, a lawyer will tell you, that the maxim is not applicable to
the question; for you suppose that it is at my option to write or
speak, which is not the case. Since the affair of the 20th, my cruel
charmer, who keeps on the defensive, has studiously avoided meeting
me, a piece of address which totally disconcerts me: so that if it
should continue, she will oblige me to think seriously on the means
of regaining this advantage; as I most assuredly will not be baffled
by her in this manner; even my letters are the occasion of a little
warfare: not satisfied with giving no reply, she even refuses receiving
them, and I am under the necessity of a new stratagem for each, which
does not always succeed.

You may recollect in what a simple manner I delivered the first;
the second was not more difficult. She required I should return her
letter; I gave her mine instead of it, without her having the least
suspicion. But whether from vexation to have been duped, whether
through capriciousness or virtue, for she will oblige me to believe she
is virtuous, she has obstinately refused the third. I expect, however,
from the embarrassment that this refusal had like to put her in, she
will in future be more cautious.

However, I was not much astonished that she would not receive that
letter, which I offered her in a very plain manner—that would have
been granting something—and I expect a longer defence. After this
effort, which was only an essay by way of trial, I put a cover over my
letter, and taking the opportunity when she was at her toilette, when
Madame de Rosemonde and her waiting-maid were present, I sent it her by
my huntsman, ordering him to tell her that it was the paper she asked
me for. I rightly judged that she would dread a scandalous explanation,
which a refusal would necessarily have brought on; and indeed she took
the letter. My ambassador, who had orders to observe her countenance
diligently, and who is a shrewd fellow, perceived only a slight blush,
with more embarrassment than anger.

I applauded myself, being very certain that she would either keep this
letter, or, if she meant to return it, she must take an opportunity
when we were alone, and then could not avoid a conference. About an
hour after, one of her people came into my room, from his mistress,
and delivered me a packet, folded in another form than my own, on the
cover of which I immediately perceived the long-wished-for characters.
I broke the seal with rapture—Behold! it was my own letter, unsealed,
and doubled down.—I suspect she dreaded I was not so scrupulous as
she, on the score of scandal, which made her invent this diabolical
stratagem. You know me well—I have no occasion to describe the rage
this put me into. However, I was obliged to be calm, and to think of
other means—and this is the only one I could think of:—

Every morning there is a man sent for the letters from this to the post
office, which is about three quarters of a league; for this purpose a
small box, in the shape of a trunk, is made use of; the master of the
post office keeps one key, and Madame de Rosemonde the other. Every one
puts in their letters when they think proper, and they are carried at
night to the post office: in the morning the messenger goes back for
those that arrive. All the servants, strangers and others, take it in
turn. It was not my servant’s turn; but he offered to go, on pretence
that he had business there.

I wrote my letter. I disguised the superscription in a feigned hand,
and counterfeited tolerably, on the cover, the post mark of _Dijon_. I
chose this town in a gay humour, as I wished for the same rites as the
husband; I also wrote from the same place; and likewise because my fair
one had been all day expressing her wish to receive letters from Dijon,
I thought it but right to give her that satisfaction.

Those precautions taken, it was a matter of no difficulty to mix this
letter with the others; and I still had it in view to be witness to
its reception; for the custom is to assemble together at breakfast,
and wait the arrival of the letters before we separate. At length they
arrived.

Madame de Rosemonde opened the box. “From Dijon,” said she, giving the
letter to Madame de Tourvel. “It is not my husband’s writing,” replied
the other, in some confusion, breaking open the seal immediately. The
first glance informed her who it came from, and made such a change in
her countenance, that Madame de Rosemonde took notice of it, and said,
“What ails you?” I immediately drew near, saying, “This letter must be
very dreadful indeed!” The timorous devotee did not lift up her eyes,
nor speak a syllable; and to conceal her embarrassment, feigned to run
over the letter, which she was scarce able to read. I enjoyed her
uneasiness; and wishing to push it a little farther.—“Your easy air,”
replied I, “makes me hope that this letter has been the occasion of
more astonishment than grief.” Her anger then overpowered her prudence.
“It contains,” replied she, “things that offend me much; and that I am
astonished any one would dare write to me.” And “who then can it be?”
replied Madame de Rosemonde. “It is not signed,” replied the angry
fair; “but the letter and its author I equally despise: and I shall
take it as a favour to say no more about it.” So saying, she tore the
audacious epistle, put the scraps in her pocket, rose, and went out.

Notwithstanding all this anger, she nevertheless has my letter; and I
depend upon her curiosity that she will read it.

The circumstances of this day would lead me too far. I enclose you
the rough draft of my two letters, which will acquaint you with every
thing. If you wish to know the course of this correspondence, you must
accustom yourself to decypher my minutes; for I would not for the world
take the trouble of copying them. Adieu, my lovely friend!

_Aug._ 25, 17—.




LETTER XXXV.

Viscount Valmont _to the_ Presidente de Tourvel.


You must be obeyed, Madam; and I must convince you, that,
notwithstanding all the faults you are pleased to think me guilty
of, I have yet at least so much delicacy as not to suffer a single
reproach to escape my lips, and sufficient resolution to impose on
myself the most painful sacrifice. You command me to be silent, and
to forget you. Well, I shall constrain my love to be silent, and,
if possible, I shall forget the cruel manner in which it has been
received. Undoubtedly my wish to please gave me no right to it; and I
must farther acknowledge, that the necessity I was under of having your
indulgence, was not a sufficient title to obtain it: but you consider
my love as an atrocious affront; you forget that if it is a fault, you
are at once both the cause and the apology for it. You forget also,
that accustomed as I was to lay open my soul to you, even when that
confidence might be detrimental to me, it was no longer possible for
me to hide the sentiments with which I was affected; and what is the
result of sincerity, you look upon as the effect of arrogance; and
in recompence of the most tender, the most respectful, and the most
sincere love, you drive me far from you. You even threaten me with your
hatred. Where is the man who would not complain to be so treated? But I
submit, and suffer all without murmuring. You strike, and I adore! The
inconceivable ascendant you have obtained over me, has rendered you
sole mistress of my sentiments; and if my love alone disobeys, if you
cannot destroy it, it is because it is your own work, not mine.

I ask no return; that I never flattered myself with: I don’t even
implore that pity which the concern you seem to take for me flattered
me with the hope of; but I believe, I own, I have a right to claim your
justice.

You inform me, Madam, that some persons have endeavoured to prejudice
me in your esteem. If you had given credit to the advice of your
friends, you would not have even suffered me to approach you. Those
are your terms; who then are those officious friends? Certainly those
people of such severe morals, and such rigid virtue, will have no
objection to give up their names; they certainly would not take shelter
behind the same screen with the vilest of slanderers; and I shall
then be no longer ignorant of their name and their charge. Consider,
Madam, I have a right to know both one and the other, since you judge
me from their report. A criminal is never condemned without being told
his crime, and naming his accusers. I ask no other favour; and I,
beforehand, engage to make good my justification, and to compel them to
retract.

If I have, perhaps, too much despised the empty clamours of the public,
which I set little value on, it is not so with your esteem; and when
I consecrate my whole life to merit it, it shall not be ravished from
me with impunity. It becomes so much the more precious to me, as I
shall, without doubt, owe to it the request you fear to make me, and
which, you say, would give me a right to your gratitude. Ah! far from
requiring any, I shall think myself highly indebted to you, if you can
assist me with an opportunity of being agreeable to you.

Begin then by doing me more justice, and let me be no longer ignorant
of what you wish me to do; if I could guess at it, I would save you
the trouble of telling it me. To the pleasure of seeing you, add the
happiness of serving you, and I shall extol your indulgence. What then
can prevent you; it is not, I hope, the dread of a refusal? That,
I feel, I should never be able to pardon you. It is not one not to
return you your letter. I wish more than you that it may no longer
be necessary to me; but accustomed as I am to believe you so soft a
disposition, it is in this letter only that I can find you such as
you wish to appear. When I form the vow of endeavouring to make you
sensible to my flame, I feel that you would fly a hundred leagues from
me, rather than consent; when your accomplishments justify and augment
my passion, it still tells me that it insults you; and when in your
presence this passion is my supreme good, I feel that it is my greatest
torment. You may now conceive that my greatest happiness would be to
return you this fatal letter: to ask it again would give me a kind of
authority to believe its contents. After this, I hope you will not
doubt of my readiness to return it.

_Aug._ 21, 17—.




LETTER XXXVI.

Viscount Valmont _to the_ Presidente de Tourvel.

(_Post mark from Dijon._)


Your severity, Madam, increases daily; and permit me to say, you seem
to dread more being indulgent than unjust. After passing judgment on me
without giving me a hearing, you must certainly be sensible it was less
difficult not to read my reasons than to answer them. You obstinately
refuse to receive my letters; you return them contemptuously; and
you force me to use artifice at the very instant that my sole object
is to convince you of my integrity. The obligation you lay me under
of defending myself, will, I hope, apologize for the means I am
constrained to use. Moreover, as I am convinced, that to be justified
in your mind, it will be sufficient that the sincerity of my sentiments
should be laid open to you, I thought this innocent stratagem might be
forgiven. I will, then, dare hope that you will forgive it; and that
you will not be much surprised that love is more industrious to show
itself than indifference is to banish it.

Permit me then, Madam, to lay my heart entirely open to you. It is
yours, and it is but right you should know it.

When I arrived at Madame de Rosemonde’s, I little imagined the fate
that awaited me. I knew not you was here; and I must add with the
sincerity that characterises me, had I known it, my repose would not
have been disturbed: not but that I should have rendered that homage
to your beauty it so justly requires; but being long accustomed to
experience only desires, to surrender only to those where my hopes
flattered success, I knew nothing of the torments of love. You was
witness to the pressing instances of Madame de Rosemonde, to detain
me some time. I had already spent one day with you: at length I
acquiesced, or rather thought I acquiesced, to the pleasure so natural
and reasonable, of paying a proper regard to so respectable a relation.

The manner of living here undoubtedly differed widely from that I had
been accustomed to; yet I perceived no difficulty in conforming to
it, and without ever thinking of diving into the cause of so sudden a
change, I attributed it solely to that easiness of temper, which, I
believe, I have already mentioned to you.

Unfortunately (but why must it be a misfortune?) knowing you more, I
soon discovered that that enchanting form, which alone had raised my
admiration, was the smallest of your attractions; your celestial soul
astonished and seduced mine; I admired your beauty, but adored your
virtue. Without a thought of obtaining you, I was resolved to deserve
you; seeing your indulgence for my past follies, I was ambitious to
merit your approbation for the future.

I sought it in your conversation, I watched for it in your looks; in
those looks which diffused a poison so much more dangerous, as it
spread without design, and was received without diffidence.

Then I knew what was love; but far from complaining, resolved to bury
it in eternal silence. I gave way without dread or reserve to this
most delicious sentiment. Each day augmented its power; and soon the
pleasure of seeing you became a necessity. Were you absent a moment,
my heart was oppressed; at the noise of your approach it fluttered with
joy. I no longer existed but by you and for you; and yet I call on
yourself to witness, if ever in the gaiety of rural amusements, or in
the more serious conversations, a word ever escaped from me that could
betray the secret of my heart.

At length the day arrived which gave birth to my misfortune; and by an
inconceivable fatality, a worthy action gave the signal. Yes, Madam,
it was in the midst of the poor wretches I had delivered, that giving
way to that precious sensibility that embellishes beauty itself, and
enhances virtue, you led a heart astray which was already too much
intoxicated by love.

You may, perhaps, recollect, what a gloom spread over me at my return.
Alas, I was totally employed in combating a passion which I found was
overpowering me!

It was after having exhausted all my strength and reason in this
unequal combat, that an accident I could not have foreseen, left us
alone; then I own I was overcome. My full heart could neither command
my words or tears; but is it then a crime? And if it be one, is it not
sufficiently punished by the racking torments to which I am devoted?

Consumed by a hopeless love, I implore your pity, and you return
me hate: no other happiness in view but that of gazing on you, my
unconscious eyes seek you, and I tremble to meet your looks. In the
deplorable state to which you have reduced me, I pass my days in
concealing my sorrows, and my nights in cherishing them; whilst you,
tranquil and peaceful, only know them by having been the cause, and
enjoying it; and yet it is you that complain, and I excuse myself.

This is, notwithstanding, a true recital of what you call injuries,
which rather deserve to be called misfortunes. A pure and sincere love,
a profound respect, and an entire submission, are the sentiments with
which you have inspired me. I should not dread to present such homage
even to the Divinity. Oh thou, who art one of his most beautiful works,
imitate his mercy, think on my cruel torments; above all, think that as
you have put me between the supremest felicity and despair, the first
word you pronounce will for ever decide my fate!

_Aug._ 23 ,17—.




LETTER XXXVII.

_The_ Presidente de Tourvel _to_ Madame de Volanges.


I submit, Madam, to the sympathetic voice of friendship. Long
accustomed to have a deference to your advice, I am led to believe it
always founded in reason. I will even acknowledge that Mr. de Valmont
must be exceedingly dangerous indeed, if he can assume the character
he puts on here, and be the man you represent him. However, since you
require it, I will do all in my power to remove him hence if possible;
for it often happens that things, very simple in themselves, become
extremely embarrassing through forms.

It appears, however, totally impracticable to make this requisition to
his aunt; it would be equally revolting to both. I would not, without
great reluctance, even determine to quit this place; for besides the
reasons I already wrote you relative to Mr. de Tourvel, if my departure
should be contrary to Mr. de Valmont’s wishes, as is not impossible,
could he not readily follow me to Paris? And his return, of which I
should be, or, at least, appear to be, the object, would it not seem
much more extraordinary than an accidental meeting in the country, at a
lady’s who is known to be his relation, and my particular friend?

I have, then, no other resource left but to prevail on him to leave
this place. I am aware of the difficulties I have to encounter in such
a proposal; yet as he seems to make it a point to convince me, that he
is not the unprincipled character he has been represented to me, I
hope to succeed. I shall even be glad of an opportunity to be satisfied
whether (to use his own words) the truly virtuous females ever had, or
ever will have occasion to complain of his conduct. If he goes, as I
hope he will, it will certainly be in deference to my request; for I
have no manner of doubt of his intention to spend a great part of the
autumn here; but if, on the contrary, he should obstinately refuse me,
it will be time enough for me to depart, which I promise you I will do.

This I believe, Madam, is all your friendship requires of me: I shall
eagerly gratify it, and convince you, that notwithstanding _the warmth_
with which I have defended Mr. de Valmont, I am nevertheless disposed
not only to hear, but also to follow the advice of my friends.

_From ——, Aug._ 25, 17—.




LETTER XXXVIII.

_The_ Marchioness de Merteuil _to_ Viscount Valmont.


My dear Viscount, I this moment received your enormous packet. If the
date is right, I should have had it twenty-four hours sooner; however,
was I to take the time to read it, I should not have any to answer
it; therefore, I prefer owning its receipt, and let us chat on other
matters. It is not that I have any thing to say relative to myself; for
the autumn has left nothing in Paris scarce that bears the human form,
and for this month past, my prudence and discretion are truly amazing;
any other than my Chevalier would be tired out with my constancy.
Having no other amusement, I divert myself with the little Volanges,
who shall be the subject of this epistle.

Do you know you have lost more than you can imagine, in not taking
this child under your tuition? She is really delightful; she has
neither disposition or motive; you may then guess her conversation is
mild and easy. I do not think she will ever shine in the sentimental
line; but every thing announces the most lively sensations. Without
wit or artifice, she has, notwithstanding, a certain kind of natural
duplicity, if one may speak so, which sometimes astonishes me, and will
be much more successful, as her figure exhibits the picture of candour
and openness. She is naturally very caressing, and she sometimes
entertains me: her imagination is surprisingly lively; and she is the
more agreeable, as she is totally ignorant, and longs to know every
thing. Sometimes she takes fits of impatience that are truly comic; she
laughs, she frets, she cries, and then begs of me to instruct her, with
a most seducing innocence. I am almost jealous of whoever that pleasure
is reserved for.

I do not know whether I wrote you, that for four or five days past I
had the honour to be her confident. You may guess at first I affected
an appearance of severity; but when I observe that she imagined I was
convinced with her bad reasons, I let them pass current; and she is
fully persuaded it is entirely owing to her eloquence: this precaution
was necessary, lest I should be exposed. I gave her leave to write and
say, _I love_; and the same day, without her having any suspicion, I
contrived a tête-à-tête for her with her Danceny. But only think, he is
such a fool, he has not yet obtained a single kiss from her. However,
the boy makes pretty verses. Lord, what stupid creatures those wits
are! He is so much so, that he makes me uneasy; for I am resolved not
to have any thing to do with him.

Now is the time you might be very useful to me. You are enough
acquainted with Danceny to gain his confidence; and if he once gave it
you, we should go on at a great rate. Make haste with your Presidente,
for I am determined Gercourt shall not escape. I spoke to the little
thing yesterday about him, and painted him in such colours, that she
could not hate him more were she married to him for ten years. However,
I gave her a long lesson on conjugal fidelity; nothing is equal to my
severity on this point. By this means I establish my reputation for
virtue, which too great a condescension might destroy; and increase the
hatred with which I mean to gratify her husband. And, lastly, I hope,
by making her think it is not lawful to indulge in a love matter only
during the short time she is unmarried, she will come to a decision
more expeditiously to lose no time.

Adieu, Viscount! I shall read your volume at my toilette.

_Aug._ 27, 17—.




LETTER XXXIX.

Cecilia Volanges _to_ Sophia Carnay.


My dear Sophia, I am very melancholy and uneasy. I have wept almost the
whole night. Not but that at present I am very happy; but I foresee it
will not last long.

I was at the opera last night with Madame de Merteuil; we chatted a
good deal of my match; I am not much pleased with the husband she
announces to me. She tells me I am to be married next October, to the
Count de Gercourt: he is of a noble family, rich, and colonel of the
regiment of ——; that is all very well. But, on the other hand, he is
old—he is almost six and thirty. Madame de Merteuil says he is morose
and ill-tempered; and she dreads much I shall not be happy with him. I
even perceived plainly she spoke as if she was certain of it, though
she would not speak out, for fear of giving me uneasiness. She dwelt
almost the whole evening on the duties of wives to their husbands: she
acknowledges Mr. de Gercourt is not at all amiable, and yet, she says,
I must love him. She has even told me that when I am married, I must
not love Chevalier Danceny, as if that was in my power! I assure you I
shall ever love him; or rather would never be married at all. Let Mr.
de Gercourt take the consequence—he is not the man of my choice. He
is now in Corsica—a great distance. I wish with all my heart he may
stay there these ten years. If I was not afraid of being sent back to
the convent, I would tell mamma that he is not agreeable to me; but to
do that might be still worse. I don’t know how to act. I never loved
Mr. de Danceny as much as I do now; and when I think I have only one
month more to be as I am, the tears burst into my eyes immediately. I
have no consolation but in Madame de Merteuil’s friendship; she is so
tender hearted, she unites with me in all my sorrows; and then she is
so amiable, that when I am in her company, I think no more of them;
besides, she is very useful to me, for she has taught me what little I
know; and she is so good natured, I can tell her every thing I think
of, without being at all ashamed. When she thinks it not right, she
sometimes chides me, but always very gently: whenever that happens I
spare no endeavours to appease her. She, at least, I may love as much
as I will, and there is no harm in that; which gives me great pleasure.
However, we have agreed that I must not appear so fond of her before
every one, and especially before mamma, lest she should entertain any
suspicion on the score of the Chevalier Danceny. I assure you, if
I could always live as I now do, I should think myself very happy.
Nothing torments me but this horrid Gercourt! But I shall say no more
of him: I find if I did, I should be melancholy. I will go write to
Chevalier Danceny, and will only talk to him of my love, and will not
touch any subject that may distress him.

Adieu, my dear friend. You now find you are wrong in complaining of my
silence; and that notwithstanding _the busy life I lead_, as you call
it, I have still time to love and write to you.[1]

 _Aug._ 27, 17—.


[1] We shall hereafter suppress Cecilia Volanges and Chevalier
Danceny’s letters, being uninteresting.




LETTER XL.

_The_ Viscount de Valmont _to the_ Marchioness de Merteuil.


My inhuman mistress not content with declining an answer to my letters,
and even refusing to receive them, she endeavours to deprive me of the
pleasure of seeing her, and insists I should quit this place. What will
surprise you more is, that I have acquiesced in every thing. You will,
no doubt, blame me. Yet I thought I should not let slip the opportunity
of receiving her commands; being, on the one hand, convinced, that
whosoever commands is responsible, and on the other, that the imaginary
air of authority we give the women, is the most difficult snare for
them to escape: besides, the precautions she has taken not to be with
me alone, put me in a very dangerous situation, which I thought it
prudent to be extricated from at all events: for being incessantly with
her, without being able to direct her attention to the subject of love,
it was the more to be dreaded she would become accustomed to see me
with indifference—a disposition of mind which you very well know is
seldom overcome.

You may judge I did not acquiesce without making conditions. I even
took care to stipulate for one impossible to be performed; not only
that I may be at liberty to keep or break my word, but engage in a
discussion, either verbally or in writing, whenever my fair one might
be more satisfied with me, or feel the necessity of relaxing. I should
have ill managed indeed, if I did not obtain an equivalent for giving
up my pretensions, though they are not of a justifiable nature.

Having laid before you my reasons in this long exordium, I begin the
history of the two last days. I shall annex, as proofs, my fair one’s
letter with my answer. You will agree with me few historians are more
exact than I am.

You may recollect the effect my letter from Dijon had the day before
yesterday. The remainder of that day was rather tempestuous. The pretty
prude did not make her appearance until dinner was on the table, and
informed us she had got a bad head-ach; a pretence for concealing the
most violent ill humour that ever possessed woman. Her countenance was
totally altered; the enchanting softness of her tone was changed to a
moroseness that added new beauty to her. I shall make a good use of
this discovery in future; and convert the tender mistress into the
passionate one.

I foresaw the evening would be dull; to avoid which, I pretended to
have letters to write, and retired to my apartment. I returned about
six to the Saloon; Madame de Rosemonde proposed an airing, which was
agreed to. But the instant the carriage was ready, the pretended sick
lady, by an act of infernal malice, pretended, in her turn, or, perhaps
to be revenged of me for my absence, feigned her head-ach much worse,
and forced me to undergo a tête-à-tête with my old aunt. I don’t know
whether my imprecations against this female demon had their effect; but
she was in bed at our return.

Next morning, at breakfast, she was no more the same woman: her natural
sweetness had returned, and I had reason to think my pardon sealed.
Breakfast being over, the lovely woman arose with an easy air, and
walked towards the park; I soon followed her, as you may imagine.
“Whence arises this inclination for a walk?” said I, accosting her. “I
have wrote a great deal this morning,” she replied, “and my head is
a little fatigued.”—“I am not so happy,” replied I, “as to have to
reproach myself with being the cause of that fatigue.”—“I have wrote
you,” said she, “but I hesitate to deliver my letter:—it contains
a request, and I fear I must not flatter myself with success.”—“I
swear if it be possible.”—“Nothing more easy,” replied she; “and
though perhaps you ought to grant it from a motive of justice, I will
consent even to obtaining it as a favour.” She then delivered me her
letter, which I took, as also her hand, which she drew back, without
anger, and more confusion than vivacity. “The heat is more intense
than I imagined,” said she; “I must return.” In vain did I strive to
persuade her to continue our walk;—she returned to the Castle;—and
were it not for the dread of being seen, I would have used other means
as well as my eloquence. She returned without uttering a syllable; and
I plainly saw this pretended walk had no other object than to deliver
me her letter. She retired to her apartment, and I to mine, to read
her epistle. I beg you will read that, and my answer, before you go
farther.




LETTER XLI.

_The_ Presidente de Tourvel _to_ Viscount Valmont.


Your behaviour towards me, Sir, has the appearance of your seeking
opportunities to give me more reason to complain of your conduct than
I hitherto have had. Your obstinacy in teasing me incessantly with a
subject that I neither will or ought to attend to; the ill use you
have made of my candour, or timidity, to convey your letters to me;
but, above all, the indelicate manner you imagined to hand me the
last, without having paid the least attention to the consequences of a
surprise which might have exposed me, would authorise me to reproach
you in terms as severe as merited. But I am inclined, instead of
renewing my complaint, to bury all in oblivion, provided you agree to a
request as simple as it is just.

You yourself have told me, Sir, I ought not to apprehend a denial;
although, from an inconsistency which is peculiar to you, this phrase
was even followed by the only refusal you had in your power to give,[1]
I am still disposed to think you will, on this occasion, keep a promise
you so formally and so lately made.

I require, therefore, you would retire from hence, and leave me, as
your residence here any longer will expose me to the censure of the
public, which is ever ready to paint things in the worst colours, and
a public whom you have long habituated to watching such women as have
admitted you into their society.

Though my friends have for some time given me notice of this danger, I
did not pay proper attention to it; I even combated their advice whilst
your behaviour to me gave me reason to think you did not confound me
with the crowd of women who have reason to lament their acquaintance
with you. Now that you treat me in the same manner, and that I can
no longer mistake, it is a duty I owe to the public, my friends, and
myself, to take the necessary resolution. I might also add, that a
denial would avail little, as I am determined, in case of a refusal, to
leave this place immediately.

I do not seek to lessen the obligation your complaisance will lay me
under; and will not conceal from you, that if you lay me under the
necessity of leaving this, you will put me to inconvenience. Convince
me then, Sir, as you have often told me, that a woman of virtue will
never have reason to complain of you: show me, at least, that if you
have ill treated such a woman, you are disposed to atone for the injury
you have done her.

Did I think my request required any justification in your sight, it
would be enough, I think, to tell you the whole conduct of your life
makes it necessary; it is not my fault a reformation has not taken
place. But I will not recall events that I wish to forget, and which
would lead me to pass a severe sentence on you at the time I am
offering you an opportunity of deserving my utmost gratitude. Farewell,
Sir. Your determination will tell me in what light I am to behold you
for life.

                         Your most humble, &c.
_Aug._ 25, 17—.


[1] See Letter the 35th.




LETTER XLII.

Viscount de Valmont _to the_ Presidente de Tourvel.


Though the conditions you impose on me, Madam, are severe indeed,
I shall not refuse to comply; for I perceive it is impossible for
me to oppose any of your wishes. As we are agreed on this point,
I dare flatter myself that, in return, you will permit me to make
some requests, much easier to be granted than yours, and which,
notwithstanding, I don’t wish to obtain but through a perfect
resignation to your will.

The one, which I hope your justice will suggest, is, to name my
accusers; I think the injury they have done me authorises me to demand
who they are: the other request, for which I crave your indulgence, is,
to permit me sometimes to renew the homage of a passion, which now,
more than ever, will deserve your pity.

Reflect, Madam, that I am earnest to obey you, even at the expence of
my happiness; I will go farther, notwithstanding my conviction, that
you only wish my absence to rid you of the painful sight of the victim
of your injustice.

Be ingenuous, Madam; you dread less the public censure, too long used
to reverence you, to dare to harbour a disadvantageous opinion of you,
than to be made uneasy by the presence of a man, whom it is easier to
punish than to blame. You banish me on the same principle that people
turn their eyes from the miserable wretches they do not choose to
relieve.

And then absence will redouble my torments; to whom but you can I
relate my grievances? From what other person am I to expect that
consolation, which will become so necessary in my affliction? Will you,
who are the cause, refuse me that consolation?

Be not surprised, neither that before my departure, I should endeavour
to justify my sentiments for you, nor that I shall not have the
resolution to set out, until I receive the order from your own mouth.

Those reasons oblige me to request a moment’s interview. It would be
in vain to think that a correspondence by letter would answer the end.
Volumes often cannot explain what a quarter of an hour’s conversation
will do. You will readily find time to grant me this favour; for,
notwithstanding my eagerness to obey you, as Madame de Rosemonde is
well apprised of my design to spend a part of the autumn with her, I
must, at all events, wait the return of the post, to pretend a letter
of business obliging me to return.

Farewell, Madam; never till now did I experience the force of this
expression, which recalls to me the idea of my separation from you.
If you could conceive how distressingly it affects me, my obedience
would find me some favour in your sight. Receive, however, with more
indulgence, the homage of the most tender and respectful passion.

_Aug._ 26,17—.




_Sequel to the Fortieth Letter._

_From the_ Viscount de Valmont _to the_ Marchioness de Merteuil.


Now, my lovely friend, let us discuss this affair a little. You readily
conceive, that the virtuous, the scrupulous Madame de Tourvel, cannot
grant the first of my requests—that of informing me who my accusers
are, without a breach of friendship: thus, by promising every thing
on that condition, I am not at all committed; and you must be very
sensible, that the negative she must give me, will give me a title to
all my other objects; so that, by leaving this place, I shall obtain
the advantage of a regular correspondence, with her own consent; for I
don’t set great value upon the interview that I ask, by which I mean
no more than to accustom her beforehand not to refuse other personal
applications to her, when I shall have real occasion for them.

The only thing that remains to be done before my departure is, to know
who are those that take the trouble to prejudice me in her opinion.

I presume it is that pedantic scoundrel her husband; I wish it may;
for, as a conjugal prohibition is a spur to desire, I should be certain
that from the moment of gaining her consent to write to me, I should
have nothing more to fear from the husband, because she would then find
herself under the necessity of deceiving him.

And if she has a confidential friend, and that friend should be against
me, I think it will be necessary to raise a cause of misunderstanding
between them, in which I hope to succeed: but, in the first place, I
must see my way clear.

I imagined yesterday I had attained that necessary preliminary; but
this woman does not act like any other. We were in her apartment when
dinner was announced. She had just time to finish her toilet; and from
her hurry, and making apologies, I observed her leave the key in her
bureau; and she always leaves the key in her chamber door. My mind was
full of this during dinner. When I heard her waiting-maid coming down
stairs, I instantly feigned a bleeding at the nose, and went out. I
flew to the bureau, found all the drawers open, but not a single paper;
yet there is no occasion to burn them, situated as she is. What can she
do with the letters she receives? and she receives a great many. I left
nothing unexamined; all was open, and I searched every where; so that I
am convinced this precious deposit is confided only to her pocket.

How they are to be got at, my mind has been fruitlessly employed ever
since yesterday in contriving means: I cannot conquer my inclination
to gain possession of them. I often regret that I have not the talent
of a pickpocket. Don’t you think it ought to be made a part of the
education of a man of intrigue? Would it not be humorous enough to
steal a letter or a portrait of a rival, or to extract from the pocket
of a prude, materials to unmask her? But our forefathers had no ideas:
it is in vain for me to rack my brains; for it only convinces me of my
own inability, without furnishing me any remedy.

I returned to dinner very dissatisfied: my fair one however brought me
into good humour, by her anxious enquiries on my feigned indisposition:
I did not fail to assure her that I had for some short time, violent
agitations, which impaired my health. As she is persuaded the cause
proceeded from her, ought she not in conscience endeavour to calm
them? Although a devotee, she has very little charity; she refuses any
compliance to supplications of love; and this refusal appears to me
sufficient to authorise any theft to obtain the object. But adieu; for
although I am writing to you, my mind is taken up with those cursed
letters.

_Aug._ 27, 17—.




LETTER XLIII.

_The_ Presidente de Tourvel _to the_ Viscount de Valmont.


Why, Sir, do you endeavour at a diminution of my gratitude to you? Why
obey me only by halves, and in some measure make a bargain of a simple,
genteel act? It is not, then, sufficient that I am sensible of its
value! You not only ask a great deal of me, but you demand what it is
impossible to grant. If my friends have talked of you to me, they could
only do so from regard for me: should they even be mistaken, their
intention was not the less good; and yet you require that I should
repay this proof of their esteem, by giving you up their names. I must
own I have been very wrong in acquainting you of it; and I now feel it
in a very sensible manner. What would have been only candour with any
one else, becomes imprudence with you, and would be a crime was I to
attend to your request. I appeal to yourself, to your honour; how could
you think me capable of such a proceeding? Ought you even to have made
me such a proposition? No, certainly; and I am sure, when you reflect,
you will desist from this request.

The other you make of writing to me is little easier to grant; and if
you will think a moment, you cannot in justice blame me. I do not mean
to offend you; but after the character you have required, and which you
yourself confess to have partly merited, what woman can avow holding a
correspondence with you? And what virtuous woman could resolve to do
that which she would be obliged to conceal?

If I was even certain that your letters would be such as would give
me no cause of discontent, and that I could always be conscious I was
sufficiently justified in receiving them, then, perhaps, the desire
of proving to you that reason, not hatred, guided me, would make me
surmount those powerful considerations, and cause me to do what I ought
not, in giving you sometimes permission to write to me; and if, indeed,
you wish it as much as you express, you will readily submit to the only
condition that can possibly make me consent to it: and if you have any
gratitude for this condescension, you will not delay your departure a
moment.

Give me leave to make one observation on this occasion: you received
a letter this morning, and you did not make use of that opportunity
to acquaint Madame de Rosemonde of your intended departure as you
promised me; I now hope that nothing will prevent you from keeping your
word. I hope much that you will not wait for the interview you ask,
which I absolutely will not agree to; and that, instead of the order
that you pretend to be so necessary, you will be satisfied with my
request, which I again renew to you. Farewell, Sir!

_Aug._ 27, 17—.




LETTER XLIV.

Viscount de Valmont _to the_ Marchioness de Merteuil.


Share in my joy, my charming friend; I am loved; I have at length
triumphed over that rebellious heart. In vain does she still
dissemble; my happy address has discovered the secret. Thanks to my
unremitting efforts, I know all that interests me: since last night,
that propitious night, I am again myself; I have discovered a double
mystery of love and iniquity; I shall enjoy the one, and be revenged
of the other; I shall fly from pleasure to pleasure. The bare idea of
it transports me almost beyond the bounds of prudence; and yet I shall
have occasion for some of it, to enable me to put any proper order in
my narrative; but let us try:

Yesterday, after I had wrote my letter, I received one from the
celestial devotee; I send it enclosed; you will observe she with less
awkwardness than might be expected, gives me leave to write to her;
yet presses my departure, which I well knew I could not defer without
prejudice to myself. However, tempted by a curiosity to know who had
wrote against me, I was still undetermined how to act. I attempted
to bribe her chamber-maid, to induce her to give me her mistress’s
pockets, which she could easily do at night, and replace them the next
morning, without giving the least suspicion. I offered ten louis d’ors
for this trifling service; but I found her a hesitating, scrupulous, or
timid creature, whom neither my eloquence nor money could bring over. I
was using farther solicitations, when the bell rung for supper. I was
then obliged to break off; and thought myself very happy in obtaining
from her a promise to keep my secret, on which, however, you may
believe I placed little dependence.

I never was more out of humour. I found I had committed myself, and
reproached myself much for the imprudent step I had taken.

After I retired in great anxiety, I spoke to my huntsman, who was
entitled, as a successful lover, to some share of credit. I desired
he would prevail on this girl to do what I required, or at least to
insure secrecy: he, who in general makes no doubt of success in any
thing he undertakes, appeared dubious of this negociation, and made
a reflection, the depth of which astonished me: “You certainly know
better than I can tell you, Sir,” said he, “that to kiss a girl is
nothing more than to indulge her in a fancy of her own, and that,
there is a wide difference often between that and making her act
according to our wishes; and I have so much less dependence on her, as
I have much reason to think she has another swain, and that I only owe
my good fortune to her want of occupation in the country; and had it
not been for my zeal for your service, Sir, I should not have sought
it more than once (this lad is a treasure). As to the secret,” added
he, “what purpose will it answer to make her promise, since she will
risk nothing in deceiving us? To speak of it again, would only make her
think it of greater importance, and make her more anxious to insinuate
herself into her mistress’s favour, by divulging it.” The justness of
these reflections added to my embarrassment. Fortunately the fellow was
in a talking mood; and as I had occasion for him, I let him go on:
while relating his adventures with this girl, he informed me the room
she slept in was only separated from the apartment of her mistress by a
single partition, and as the least noise would be heard, they met every
night in his room. I instantly formed my plan, which I communicated to
him, and we executed it successfully.

I awaited until the clock struck two, and then, as was agreed, went to
the rendezvous, with a lighted candle in my hand, and under pretence of
having several times in vain rung the bell. My confidant, who plays his
part to admiration, performed a little scene of surprise, despair, and
confusion, which I put a stop to, by sending him to warm me some water,
which I pretended to have occasion for; the scrupulous waiting-maid was
the more disconcerted, as the fellow, who had improved on my scheme,
had made her make a toilet very suitable to the heat of the season, but
which it by no means apologised for.

Being sensible the more this girl was humbled, the less trouble I
should have to bring her to my designs, I did not suffer her to change
either her situation or dress; and having ordered my servant to wait
for me in my room, I sat by her bed-side, which was in much disorder,
and began a conversation. It was necessary to keep the ascendant I had
obtained, and I therefore preserved a _sang froid_ that would have done
honour to the continence of Scipio; and without taking the smallest
liberty with her, which her ruddy countenance, and the opportunity,
perhaps, gave her a right to hope; I talked to her of business with as
much indifference, as I would have done with an attorney.

My conditions were, that I would observe the strictest secrecy,
provided the day following, at the same hour, she put me in possession
of her mistress’s pockets, and my offer of ten louis-d’ors. I now
confirm I will not take any advantage of your situation. Every thing
was granted, as you may believe; I then retired, and left the happy
couple to repair their lost time.

I employed mine in sleep: and in the morning, wanting a pretence not
to answer my fair one’s letter before I had examined her papers, which
could not be till the night following, I resolved to go a-hunting,
which took up the greatest part of the day.

At my return I was received very coolly. I have reason to believe
she was a little piqued at my want of eagerness to make good use of
the time that remained, especially after the softer letter which she
wrote me. I formed this conjecture, because, on Madame de Rosemonde’s
having reproached me on my long absence, the fair one replied with some
acrimony, “Oh, let us not reproach Mr. de Valmont for his attachment
to the only pleasure he can find here.” I complained that they did not
do me justice, and took the opportunity to assure them I was so well
pleased with their company, that I sacrificed to it a very interesting
letter that I had to write; adding, that not having been able to sleep
several nights, I endeavoured to try if fatigue would not bring me my
usual rest; my looks sufficiently explained the subject of my letter,
and the cause of my want of rest. I took care to affect, during the
whole evening, a melancholy softness, which succeeded tolerably well,
and under which I disguised my impatience for the hour which was to
give me up the secret she so obstinately persisted in concealing. At
length we retired; and soon after the faithful waiting-maid brought
me the stipulated price of my discretion: when in possession of this
treasure, I proceeded with my usual prudence to arranging them; for it
was of the utmost importance to replace every thing in order.

I first hit upon two letters from the husband, indigested stuff,
a mixture of uninteresting details of law-suits, and unmeaning
protestations of conjugal love, which I had the patience to read
through; but not a syllable in either concerning me. I put them in
their place with some disgust; but that vanished on finding, in my
hand-writing, the scraps of my famous letter from Dijon, carefully
collected. Fortunately it came into my head to run them over. You may
guess the excess of my raptures, when I distinctly perceived the traces
of my adorable devotee’s tears. I must own I gave way to a puerile
emotion, and kissed this letter with a transport that I did not think
myself susceptible of. I continued the happy search; I found all my
letters in order according to their dates; and what still surprised me
more agreeably was, to find the first of them, that which I thought
had been returned to me by my ungrateful fair one, faithfully copied
in her own hand-writing, but in an altered and trembling manner, which
sufficiently testified the soft agitation of her heart during the time
she was employed at it.

So far I was entirely occupied with love; but soon gave way to the
greatest rage. Who think you it is that wants to destroy me, with
this woman I adore? What fury do you suppose wicked enough to form so
diabolical a plan! You know her: it’s your friend, your relation; it
is Madame de Volanges. You cannot conceive what a string of horrible
stories the infernal Megera has wrote against me. It is she, and
she alone, has disturbed the peace of this angelic woman; it is by
her counsels, by her pernicious advice, that I find myself obliged
to retire; I am sacrificed to her! Certainly her daughter shall be
seduced; but that is not sufficient, she shall be ruined; and since the
age of this accursed woman shelters her from my blows, I must strike at
her in the object of her affections.

She will then force me to return to Paris; she obliges me to it! Be it
so; I will return; but she shall have reason to lament my return. I am
sorry Danceny is to be the hero of this adventure; he has a fund of
honour that will be a restraint upon us; but he is in love, and we are
often together: I may turn him to account. My anger overcomes me, and I
forget that I am to give you the recital of what has passed to-day.

This morning I saw my lovely prude; she never appeared so charming;
that was of course; it is the most powerful moment with a woman, that
shall produce an intoxication of soul, which is so often spoke of, and
so rarely felt, when, though certain of their affections, we have not
yet possessed their favours; which is precisely my case. Perhaps the
idea, also, of being deprived of the pleasure of seeing her, served to
embellish her. At length the post arrived, and brought me your letter
of the 27th; and whilst I was reading it, I hesitated whether I should
keep my word or not; but I met my fair one’s eyes, and I found it
impossible to refuse her any thing.

I therefore announced my departure immediately after Madame de
Rosemonde left us: I was four paces distant from the austere lovely
one, when she started with a frightened air, “leave me, leave me, Sir,”
said she; “for the love of God, leave me!” This fervent prayer, which
discovered her emotion, animated me the more; I was now close to her,
and took hold of her hands, which she had joined together with the most
moving, affecting expressiveness. I then began my tender complaints,
when some evil genius brought back Madame de Rosemonde. The timid
devotee, who has in reality some reason to be apprehensive, seized the
opportunity, and retired.

I notwithstanding offered her my hand, which she accepted; and judging
favourably of this kindness, which she had not shown for so long a
time, and again renewing my complaints, I endeavoured to squeeze hers.
She at first endeavoured to draw it back; but upon a more pressing
instance, she gave it up with a good grace, although without either
answering this emotion or my discourse. Being come to the door of
her apartment, I wanted to kiss that hand before I left her: she
struggled, but an _ah! think I am going to part_, pronounced with great
tenderness, made her awkward and defenceless; the kiss was scarcely
given, when the hand recovered its strength to escape, and the fair one
entered her apartment where the waiting-maid was: here ends my tale.

As I presume you will be to-morrow at the Lady Marechale’s de ——,
where, certainly, I shall not go to look for you; and as at our first
interview we shall have a great many things to talk over, especially
that of the little Volanges, which I do not lose sight of; I have
determined to send this letter before me; and although it is so long,
I will not close it until the moment I am going to send it to the
post; for I am so circumstanced, that a great deal may depend on an
opportunity; and I leave you to watch for it.

P. S. Eight o’clock at night.

Nothing new; not the least moment of liberty; even the greatest care
employed to avoid it. Yet as much grief as decency would permit, for
the least another event, which may not be a matter of indifference, as
Madame de Rosemonde has commanded me to give an invitation to Madame de
Volanges, to come and spend a few days in the country.

Adieu, my lovely friend, until to-morrow, or the day after at farthest!

_Aug._ 28, 17—.




LETTER XLV.

_The_ Presidente de Tourvel _to_ Madame de Volanges.


Mr. de Valmont is gone this morning, Madam: you seemed so anxiously
to wish for this event, that I have thought it my duty to impart
it to you. Madame de Rosemonde is inconsolable for the loss of her
nephew, whose company was really very pleasing: she spent the whole
morning in talking to me of him with her usual sensibility; she was
inexhaustible in his praise. I thought myself bound to attend to it
without interruption; and indeed I must own she was right on many
heads; besides, I was sensible I was the cause of this separation, and
have no prospect of making her amends for the pleasure of which I have
deprived her. You know I am not naturally inclined to gaiety, and our
manner of life here will not contribute much to increase it.

Had I not been following your advice, I should have been inclined to
think I had acted too precipita

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