Transcriber’s note

Variable spelling and hyphenation have been retained. Minor punctuation
inconsistencies have been silently repaired. The list of plates appears
in the first volume. A list of the changes made can be found at the end
of the book. Formatting and special characters are indicated as follows:

_italic_

LES LIAISONS DANGEREUSES VOL. II

[Illustration: C. Monet del. Patas sculp.]

LES LIAISONS DANGEREUSES

OR

_LETTERS COLLECTED IN A PRIVATE SOCIETY AND PUBLISHED FOR THE
INSTRUCTION OF OTHERS_

BY CHODERLOS DE LACLOS

TRANSLATED BY ERNEST DOWSON

VOL. II

LONDON PRIVATELY PRINTED 1898

LIST OF PLATES

Vol. II.

  FRONTISPIECE                                   to face the title

  “ARMED WITH MY DARK LANTERN.... I PAID MY FIRST
  VISIT TO YOUR PUPIL”                                         313

  “THE LOVELY FORM LEANED UPON MY ARM”                         329

  “YESTERDAY, HAVING FOUND YOUR PUPIL.... WRITING TO HIM”      401

  “YOU SHALL LISTEN TO ME, IT IS MY WISH”                      435

  “I COMMAND YOU TO TREAT MONSIEUR WITH ALL CONSIDERATION”     543

  “I FEEL THAT MY ILLS WILL SOON BE ENDED”                     549

CONTENTS OF VOLUME THE SECOND

  LETTER                                                           PAGE

  XCI. The Vicomte de Valmont to the Présidente de Tourvel           299

  XCII. The Chevalier Danceny to the Vicomte de Valmont              302

  XCIII. The Chevalier Danceny to Cécile Volanges                    304

  XCIV. Cécile Volanges to the Chevalier Danceny                     306

  XCV. Cécile Volanges to the Vicomte de Valmont                     308

  XCVI. The Vicomte de Valmont to the Marquise de Merteuil           310

  XCVII. Cécile Volanges to Madame de Merteuil                       317

  XCVIII. Madame de Volanges to the Marquise de Merteuil             321

  XCIX. The Vicomte de Valmont to the Marquise de Merteuil           325

  C. The Vicomte de Valmont to the Marquise de Merteuil              333

  CI. The Vicomte de Valmont to Azolan, his _chasseur_               338

  CII. The Présidente de Tourvel to Madame de Rosemonde              341

  CIII. Madame de Rosemonde to the Présidente de Tourvel             345

  CIV. The Marquise de Merteuil to Madame de Volanges                348

  CV. The Marquise de Merteuil to Cécile Volanges                    355

  CVI. The Marquise de Merteuil to the Vicomte de Valmont            361

  CVII. Azolan to the Vicomte de Valmont                             366

  CVIII. The Présidente de Tourvel to Madame de Rosemonde            371

  CIX. Cécile Volanges to the Marquise de Merteuil                   374

  CX. The Vicomte de Valmont to the Marquise de Merteuil             377

  CXI. The Comte de Gercourt to Madame de Volanges                   383

  CXII. Madame de Rosemonde to the Présidente de Tourvel             385

  CXIII. The Marquise de Merteuil to the Vicomte de Valmont          387

  CXIV. The Présidente de Tourvel to Madame de Rosemonde             395

  CXV. The Vicomte de Valmont to the Marquise de Merteuil            397

  CXVI. The Chevalier Danceny to Cécile Volanges                     403

  CXVII. Cécile Volanges to the Chevalier Danceny                    406

  CXVIII. The Chevalier Danceny to the Marquise de Merteuil          408

  CXIX. Madame de Rosemonde to the Présidente de Tourvel             411

  CXX. The Vicomte de Valmont to the Père Anselme                    413

  CXXI. The Marquise de Merteuil to the Chevalier Danceny            415

  CXXII. Madame de Rosemonde to the Présidente de Tourvel            418

  CXXIII. The Père Anselme to the Vicomte de Valmont                 421

  CXXIV. The Présidente de Tourvel to Madame de Rosemonde            423

  CXXV. The Vicomte de Valmont to the Marquise de Merteuil           427

  CXXVI. Madame de Rosemonde to the Présidente de Tourvel            439

  CXXVII. The Marquise de Merteuil to the Vicomte de Valmont         442

  CXXVIII. The Présidente de Tourvel to Madame de Rosemonde          445

  CXXIX. The Vicomte de Valmont to the Marquise de Merteuil          447

  CXXX. Madame de Rosemonde to the Présidente de Tourvel             450

  CXXXI. The Marquise de Merteuil to the Vicomte de Valmont          453

  CXXXII. The Présidente de Tourvel to Madame de Rosemonde           456

  CXXXIII. The Vicomte de Valmont to the Marquise de Merteuil        458

  CXXXIV. The Marquise de Merteuil to the Vicomte de Valmont         463

  CXXXV. The Présidente de Tourvel to Madame de Rosemonde            467

  CXXXVI. The Présidente de Tourvel to the Vicomte de Valmont        470

  CXXXVII. The Vicomte de Valmont to the Présidente de Tourvel       472

  CXXXVIII. The Vicomte de Valmont to the Marquise de Merteuil       476

  CXXXIX. The Présidente de Tourvel to Madame de Rosemonde           479

  CXL. The Vicomte de Valmont to the Marquise de Merteuil            481

  CXLI. The Marquise de Merteuil to the Vicomte de Valmont           484

  CXLII. The Vicomte de Valmont to the Marquise de Merteuil          488

  CXLIII. The Présidente de Tourvel to Madame de Rosemonde           490

  CXLIV. The Vicomte de Valmont to the Marquise de Merteuil          491

  CXLV. The Marquise de Merteuil to the Vicomte de Valmont           495

  CXLVI. The Marquise de Merteuil to the Chevalier Danceny           498

  CXLVII. Madame de Volanges to Madame de Rosemonde                  500

  CXLVIII. The Chevalier Danceny to the Marquise de Merteuil         504

  CXLIX. Madame de Volanges to Madame de Rosemonde                   506

  CL. The Chevalier Danceny to the Marquise de Merteuil              510

  CLI. The Vicomte de Valmont to the Marquise de Merteuil            513

  CLII. The Marquise de Merteuil to the Vicomte de Valmont           516

  CLIII. The Vicomte de Valmont to the Marquise de Merteuil          520

  CLIV. Madame de Volanges to Madame de Rosemonde                    522

  CLV. The Vicomte de Valmont to the Chevalier Danceny               524

  CLVI. Cécile Volanges to the Chevalier Danceny                     528

  CLVII. The Chevalier Danceny to the Vicomte de Valmont             531

  CLVIII. The Vicomte de Valmont to the Marquise de Merteuil         533

  CLIX. The Marquise de Merteuil to the Vicomte de Valmont           535

  CLX. Madame de Volanges to Madame de Rosemonde                     536

  CLXI. The Présidente de Tourvel to----                             538

  CLXII. The Chevalier Danceny to the Vicomte de Valmont             541

  CLXIII. M. Bertrand to Madame de Rosemonde                         542

  CLXIV. Madame de Rosemonde to M. Bertrand                          545

  CLXV. Madame de Volanges to Madame de Rosemonde                    547

  CLXVI. M. Bertrand to Madame de Rosemonde                          551

  CLXVII. Anonymous to M. le Chevalier Danceny                       553

  CLXVIII. Madame de Volanges to Madame de Rosemonde                 555

  CLXIX. The Chevalier Danceny to Madame de Rosemonde                559

  CLXX. Madame de Volanges to Madame de Rosemonde                    563

  CLXXI. Madame de Rosemonde to the Chevalier Danceny                567

  CLXXII. Madame de Rosemonde to Madame de Volanges                  570

  CLXXIII. Madame de Volanges to Madame de Rosemonde                 572

  CLXXIV. The Chevalier Danceny to Madame de Rosemonde               576

  CLXXV. Madame de Volanges to Madame de Rosemonde                   579

LES LIAISONS DANGEREUSES

LETTER THE NINETY-FIRST

THE VICOMTE DE VALMONT TO THE PRÉSIDENTE DE TOURVEL

IN consternation at your letter, Madame, I am still ignorant as to
how I can reply to it. Doubtless, if I needs must choose between your
unhappiness and my own, it is for me to sacrifice myself, and I do not
hesitate: but such important interests deserve, so it seems to me,
to be, before all, investigated and discussed, and how can that be
contrived, if we are to speak and see each other no more?

What! whilst the sweetest of sentiments unite us, shall an empty fear
suffice to separate us, perhaps beyond return! In vain shall tender
friendship and ardent love reclaim their rights: their voice shall not
be heard: and why? What then is this pressing danger which besets you?
Ah, believe me, such fears so lightly conceived are already, it seems
to me, potent enough reasons for security.

Permit me to tell you that I find here traces of the unfavourable
impressions that have been given you about me. One does not tremble
before the man one esteems; one does not, above all, drive away him
whom one has judged worthy of a certain friendship: it is the dangerous
man whom one dreads and shuns.

Who, however, was ever more respectful and submissive than myself?
Already, you may observe, I am circumspect in my language; I no longer
permit myself those names so sweet, so dear to my heart, which it never
ceases to give you in secret. It is no longer the faithful and unhappy
lover, receiving the counsels and the consolations of a tender and
sensitive friend; it is the accused before his judge, the slave before
his master. Doubtless these new titles impose new duties; I pledge
myself to fulfil them all. Listen to me, and, if you condemn me, I obey
the verdict and I go. I promise more: do you prefer the tyranny which
judges without a hearing? Do you feel you possess the courage to be
unjust? Command, and I will still obey.

But this judgment, or this command, let me hear it from your own lips.
And why, you will ask me in your turn. Ah, if you put this question,
how little you know of love and of my heart! Is it nothing then to see
you once again? Nay, when you shall have brought despair into my soul,
perhaps one consoling glance will prevent me from succumbing to it.
In short, if I must needs renounce the love, and the friendship, for
which alone I exist, at least you shall see your work, and your pity
will abide with me; even if I do not merit this slight favour, I am
prepared, methinks, to pay dearly for the hope of obtaining it.

What! you are going to drive me from you! You consent, then, to our
becoming strangers to one another! What am I saying? You desire it; and
although you assure me that absence will not alter your sentiments,
you do but urge my departure, in order to work more easily at their
destruction. You speak already of replacing them by gratitude. Thus,
the sentiment which an unknown would obtain from you for the most
trivial service, or even your enemy for ceasing to injure you--this is
what you offer to me! And you wish my heart to be satisfied with this!
Interrogate your own; if your friends came one day to talk to you of
their gratitude, would you not say to them with indignation: Depart
from me, you are ingrates?

I come to a stop, and beseech your indulgence. Pardon the expression
of a grief to which you have given birth; it will not detract from my
complete submission. But I conjure you, in my turn, in the name of
those sweet sentiments which you yourself invoke, do not refuse to hear
me; and in pity, at least, for the mortal distress in which you have
plunged me, do not defer the moment long. Adieu, Madame.

  At the Château de ..., 27th September, 17**.

LETTER THE NINETY-SECOND

THE CHEVALIER DANCENY TO THE VICOMTE DE VALMONT

O MY friend! your letter has made my blood run cold for fright.
Cécile.... O God! is it possible? Cécile no longer loves me. Yes, I
see this direful truth, through the veil in which your friendship
covers it. You wished to prepare me for the receipt of this mortal
blow; I thank you for your pains; but can one impose on love? It
is ever in advance of all that interests it: it does not hear of
its fate, it divines it. I have no more doubt of mine: speak to me
without concealment, you may do so, and I beg this of you. Inform me
of everything; what gave rise to your suspicions, what has confirmed
them? The least details are precious. Endeavour above all to recall
her words. One word in place of another can change a whole sentence;
the same word often bears two meanings.... You may have been deceived:
alas, I seek to beguile myself still! What did she say to you? Does she
make me any reproach? At least, does she not defend herself for her
faults? I might have foreseen this change, from the difficulties which
she raises lately about everything. Love is not acquainted with so many
obstacles.

What course ought I to adopt? What do you counsel me? If I attempted to
see her! Is that utterly impossible? Absence is so cruel, so dismal
... and she has rejected a means of seeing me! You do not tell me what
it was; if there was in truth too much danger, she knows well that I am
unwilling for her to run too much risk. But I also know your prudence;
so to my misfortune I cannot but believe in it! What am I to do now?
How write to her! If I let her see my suspicions, they will, perhaps,
grieve her; and, if they are unjust, could she pardon me for having
distressed her? To hide them from her is to deceive her, and I know not
how to dissimulate with her.

Oh, if she could only know what I suffer, my pain would move her! I
know her sensibility; she has an excellent heart, and I have a thousand
proofs of her love. Too much timidity, some embarrassment: she is so
young! And her mother treats her with such severity! I will write to
her; I will restrain myself; I will only beg her to leave herself
entirely in your hands. Even if she should still refuse, she can at
least not take offence at my prayer; and perhaps she will consent.

To you, my friend, to you I make a thousand excuses, both for her and
for myself. I assure you that she feels the value of your efforts, that
she is grateful for them. It is timidity, not distrust. Be indulgent;
it is the finest quality in friendship. Yours is very precious to me,
and I know not how to acknowledge all that you do for me. Adieu, I will
write at once.

I feel all my fears return: who would have told me that it should ever
cost me an effort to write to her! Alas, only yesterday it was my
sweetest pleasure! Adieu, my friend, continue your cares for me, and
pity me mightily.

  Paris, 27th September, 17**.

LETTER THE NINETY-THIRD

THE CHEVALIER DANCENY TO CÉCILE VOLANGES

(Enclosed in the preceding)

I CANNOT conceal from you how grieved I have been to hear from Valmont
of the scant confidence you continue to place in him. You are not
ignorant that he is my friend, that he is the only person who can
bring us together once more: I had thought that these titles would be
sufficient with you; I see with pain that I have made a mistake. May I
hope that at least you will inform me of your motives? Will you again
find fresh difficulties which will prevent you? I cannot, however,
without your help, penetrate the mystery of this conduct. I dare not
suspect your love; doubtless you too would not venture to betray mine.
Ah! Cécile!...

Is it true then that you have rejected a means of seeing me? A
_simple_, _convenient_ and _sure_ means?[1] And is it thus that you
love me? An absence so short has indeed changed your sentiments. But
why deceive me? Why tell me that you love me always, that you love me
more? Your Mamma, in destroying your love, has she also destroyed your
sincerity? If she has at least left you some pity, you will not learn
without sorrow the fearful tortures which you cause me. Ah! I should
suffer less were I to die.

Tell me then, is your heart closed to me beyond recall? Have you
utterly forgotten me? Thanks to your refusals, I know not either when
you will hear my complaints, nor when you will reply to them. Valmont’s
friendship had assured our correspondence: but you, you have not wished
it; you found it irksome; you preferred it to be infrequent. No, I
shall believe no more in love, in good faith. Nay, whom can I believe,
if my Cécile has deceived me?

Answer me then: is it true that you no longer love me? No, that is not
possible; you are under an illusion; you belie your heart. A passing
fear, a moment of discouragement, which love has soon caused to vanish:
is it not true, my Cécile? Ah, doubtless; and I was wrong to accuse
you. How happy I should be to be proved wrong! How I should love to
make you tender excuses, to repair this moment of injustice with an
eternity of love!

Cécile, Cécile, have pity on me! Consent to see me, employ for that
every means! Look upon the effects of absence! Fears, suspicions,
perhaps even coldness! A single look, a single word, and we shall be
happy. But what! Can I still talk of happiness? Perhaps it is lost to
me, lost for ever. Tortured by fear, cruelly buffeted between unjust
suspicions and the most cruel truth, I cannot stay in any one thought;
I only maintain existence to love you and to suffer. Ah, Cécile,
you alone have the right to make it dear to me; and I expect, from
the first word that you will utter, the return of happiness or the
certainty of an eternal despair.

  Paris, 27th September, 17**.

LETTER THE NINETY-FOURTH

CÉCILE VOLANGES TO THE CHEVALIER DANCENY

I CAN gather nothing from your letter, except the pain it causes me.
What has M. de Valmont written to you, then, and what can have led you
to believe that I no longer loved you? That would be, perhaps, far
happier for me, for I should certainly be less tormented; and it is
very hard, when I love you as I do, to find that you always believe
that I am wrong, and that, instead of consoling me, it is from you
always that I receive the hurts which give me most pain. You believe
I am deceiving you, and am telling you what is not the truth; it is a
pretty notion you have of me! But, if I were to be as deceitful as you
reproach me with being, what interest should I have? Assuredly, if I
loved you no longer, I should only have to say so, and everybody would
praise me; but unhappily it is stronger than I; and it must needs be
for some one who feels no obligation to me for it at all!

What have I done, pray, to make you so vexed? I did not dare to take
a key, because I was afraid that Mamma would perceive it, and that
it would cause me more trouble, and you too on my account, and again
because it seems to me a bad action. But it was only M. de Valmont who
had spoken to me of it; I could not know whether you wished it or no,
since you knew nothing about it. Now I know that you desire it, do I
refuse to take this key? I will take it to-morrow; and then we shall
see what more you will have to say.

It is very well for M. de Valmont to be your friend; I think I love you
at least as well as he can: and yet it is always he who is right, and I
am always wrong. I assure you I am very angry. That is quite the same
to you, because you know that I am quickly appeased: but, now that I
shall have the key, I shall be able to see you when I want to; and I
assure you that I shall not want to, when you act like this. I would
rather have the grief that comes from myself, than that it came from
you: you see what you are ready to cause.

If you liked, how we would love each other! And, at least, we should
only know the troubles that are caused us by others! I assure you that,
if I were mistress, you would never have any complaint to make against
me: but if you do not believe me, we shall always be very unhappy, and
it will not be my fault. I hope we shall soon be able to meet, and that
then we shall have no further occasion to fret as at present.

If I had been able to foresee this, I would have taken the key at once;
but, truly, I thought I was doing right. Do not be angry with me then,
I beg you. Do not be sad any more, and love me always as well as I love
you; then I shall be quite happy. Adieu, my dear love.

  At the Château de ..., 28th September, 17**.

LETTER THE NINETY-FIFTH

CÉCILE VOLANGES TO THE VICOMTE DE VALMONT

I BEG you, Monsieur, to be so kind as to return me the key which you
gave me to put in the place of the other; since everybody wishes it, I
must needs consent also.

I do not know why you wrote to M. Danceny that I no longer loved him:
I do not believe I have ever given you reason to think so; and it has
caused him a great deal of pain, and me too. I am quite aware that you
are his friend; but that is not a reason for vexing him, nor me either.
You would give me great pleasure by telling him to the contrary the
next time you write to him, and that you are sure of it; for it is in
you that he has the most confidence; and for me, when I have said a
thing, and am not believed, I do not know what to do.

As for the key, you can be quite easy; I well remember all that you
recommended me in your letter. However, if you still have it, and
would like to give it me at the same time, I promise I will pay great
attention to it. If it could be to-morrow as we go to dinner, I would
give you the other key the day after to-morrow, at breakfast, and you
could give it back to me in the same manner as the first. I should be
very pleased if it does not take long, because there will be less time
for the danger of Mamma’s seeing it.

Again, when once you have that key, you will be very kind to make
use of it to take my letters also; and, in that way, M. Danceny will
more often receive news of me. It is true that it will be much more
convenient than it is at present; but at first it frightened me too
much: I beg you to excuse me, and I hope you will none the less
continue to be as obliging as in the past. I shall always be very
grateful to you.

I have the honour to be, Monsieur, your most humble and obedient
servant.

  At the Château de ..., 28th September, 17**.

LETTER THE NINETY-SIXTH

THE VICOMTE DE VALMONT TO THE MARQUISE DE MERTEUIL

I WILL wager that since your adventure, you have been daily expecting
my compliments and praises; I doubt not even that you feel a trifle out
of humour at my long silence: but what do you expect? I have always
thought that, when one has naught but praise to give a woman, one may
be at one’s ease about her, and occupy one’s self with other matters.
However, I thank you on my own account and congratulate you on yours. I
am even ready to make you completely happy by admitting that this time
you have surpassed my expectation. After that, let us see if, on my
side, I have come up to yours, at least in part.

It is not of Madame de Tourvel that I want to talk to you; her too
laggard progress, I know, displeases you. You only love accomplished
facts. Spun-out scenes weary you; for my part I had never tasted such
pleasure as I find in these feigned delays. Yes, I love to see, to
watch this prudent woman, engaged, without her perceiving it, on a
course which admits of no return, whose rapid and dangerous declivity
carries her on in spite of herself and forces her to follow me. Then,
terrified at the danger she runs, she would fain halt, but cannot
hold herself in. Her skill and caution can indeed shorten her steps;
yet they must inevitably succeed one another. Sometimes, not daring to
behold the danger, she shuts her eyes and, letting herself go, abandons
herself to my care. More often, a fresh alarm reanimates her efforts:
in her mortal terror she would attempt once more to turn back; she
wastes her strength in painfully overcoming a short distance; and soon
a magic power replaces her nearer to that danger which she had vainly
sought to fly. Then, having only me for guide and support, with no
more thought to reproach me for an inevitable fall, she implores me to
retard it. Fervent prayers, humble supplications, all that mortals in
their terror offer to the divinity--it is I who receive them from her;
and you would have me, deaf to her entreaties, and myself destroying
the cult which she pays me, employ, to precipitate her, the power which
she invokes for her support! Ah, leave me at least the time to observe
those touching combats between love and virtue.

How then! Do you think that the same spectacle which makes you run
eagerly to the theatre, which you applaud there with fury, is less
engrossing in real life? Those sentiments of a pure and tender soul
which dreads the happiness which it desires, and never ceases to defend
itself even when it ceases to resist, you listen to with enthusiasm;
should they not be priceless to him who has called them forth? That,
however, is the delicious enjoyment which this heavenly woman offers me
daily; and you reproach me for relishing its sweetness! Ah, the time
will come only too soon when, degraded by her fall, she will be to me
no more than an ordinary woman.

But, in talking of her to you, I forget that I did not want to talk
to you of her. I do not know what power constrains me, drags me back
to her ceaselessly, even when I outrage her. Away with her dangerous
idea; let me become myself again to treat a gayer subject. It concerns
your pupil, who is now become my own, and I hope that here you will
recognize me.

Some days ago, being better treated by my gentle Puritan, and in
consequence less engrossed by her, I remarked that the little Volanges
was, in fact, extremely pretty, and, that if there was folly in being
in love with her, like Danceny, there was, perhaps, no less on my
part in not seeking from her a distraction rendered necessary by my
solitude. It seemed to me just, moreover, to repay myself for the
care I was giving her: I reminded myself as well that you had offered
her to me, before Danceny had any pretensions; and I considered
myself justified in claiming certain rights on a property which he
only possessed because I had refused and relinquished it. The little
person’s pretty face, her fresh mouth, her infantile air, her very
_gaucherie_, fortified these sage resolutions; I consequently resolved
on action, and my enterprise has been crowned by success.

You must be already wondering by what means I have so soon supplanted
the favoured lover; what form of seduction befits such youth and such
inexperience. Spare yourself the trouble; I employed none at all.
Whereas you, wielding skilfully the weapons of your sex, triumph by
subtilty, I, rendering his imprescriptible rights to man, subjugated by
authority. Sure of my prey if I could get within reach of it, I only
required a ruse to approach her; and even that which I employed barely
merits the name.

[Illustration: Mle Gerard del. Masquelier sculp.]

I profited by the first letter which I received from Danceny for his
fair; and, after having let her know of it by the concerted signal,
instead of employing my skill to get it into her hands, I used it to
find a lack of means to do so: the impatience to which this gave rise I
feigned to share; and, after having caused the ill, I pointed out the
remedy.

The young person occupies a chamber one door of which opens into the
corridor; but, naturally, the mother had taken away the key. It was
merely a question of obtaining possession of this. Nothing more easy of
execution; I only asked to have it at my disposal for two hours, and I
answered for the procural of one similar to it. Then, correspondence,
interviews, nocturnal _rendez-vous_--everything became easy and safe:
however, would you believe it? The timid child took alarm and refused.
Another man would have been in despair; for my part, I only saw there
the occasion for a more piquant pleasure. I wrote to Danceny to
complain of this refusal, and I did it so well that our blockhead had
no peace until he had obtained from his timorous mistress, and even
urged her, that she should grant my request and so surrender herself
utterly to my discretion.

I was mighty pleased, I confess, at having thus changed the _rôles_,
and induced the young man to do for me what he calculated I should do
for him. This notion doubled, in my eyes, the value of the adventure:
thus, as soon as I had the precious key, I hastened to make use of it;
this was last night.

After assuring myself that all was quiet in the _château_, armed with
my dark lantern, and in the costume, befitting the hour, which the
circumstance demanded, I paid my first visit to your pupil. I had
caused all preparations to be made (and that by herself) to permit of a
noiseless entrance. She was in her first sleep, the sleep of her age;
so that I reached her bedside before she had awakened. At first I was
tempted to go even further, and try to pass for a dream; but, fearing
the effects of surprise and the noise which it entails, I preferred to
awake the lovely sleeper with precautions, and did in fact succeed in
preventing the cry which I feared.

After calming her first fears, as I had not come there for
conversation, I risked a few liberties. Doubtless she has not been
well taught at her convent to how many varied perils timid innocence
is exposed, and all that it has to guard if it would not be surprised;
for, devoting all her attention, all her strength, to defending herself
from a kiss, which was only a feigned attack, she left all the rest
without defence; who could fail to draw profit from it! I changed my
tactics accordingly, and promptly took the position. Here we both alike
had thought ourselves to be lost: the little girl, in a mighty scare,
tried to cry out in good earnest; luckily her voice was drowned by
tears. She had thrown herself upon the bell-rope; but my adroitness
restrained her arm in time.

“What would you do,” I asked her then; “ruin yourself utterly? Let
anyone come: what does it matter to me? Whom will you persuade that I
am not here with your consent? Who else but you can have furnished me
with the means of entering? And this key, which I have obtained from
you, which I could only obtain from you--will you undertake to explain
its use?”

This short harangue calmed neither her grief nor her anger; but it
brought about her submission. I know not if I had the accents of
eloquence; it is true, at any rate, that I had not its gestures. With
one hand employed in force, the other in love, what orator could
pretend to grace in such a situation? If you rightly imagine it, you
will admit that at least it was favourable to the attack: but, as for
me, I have no head at all; and, as you say, the most simple woman, a
school-girl, can lead me like a child.

This one, whilst still in high dudgeon, felt that she must adopt some
course, and enter into a compromise. As prayers found me inexorable,
she had to resort to bargaining. You think I sold the important
post dearly: no, I promised everything for a kiss. It is true that,
the kiss once obtained, I did not keep my promise: but I had good
reasons. Had we agreed whether it was to be taken or given? By dint of
bargaining, we fell into an agreement over the second; and this one,
it was said, was to be received. Then, guiding her timid arms round my
body, and pressing her more amorously with one of mine, the soft kiss
was effectually received; nay excellently, nay perfectly received:
so much so, indeed, that love itself could have done no better. Such
good-faith deserved a reward; thus I at once granted her request. My
hand was withdrawn; but I know not by what chance I found myself in
its place. You will suppose me then mighty eager, energetic, will you
not? By no means. I have acquired a taste for delay, I have told you.
Once sure of arriving, why take the journey with such haste? Seriously,
I was mighty pleased to observe once more the power of opportunity,
and I found it here devoid of all extraneous aid. It had love to fight
against, however, and love sustained by modesty and shame, and above
all, fortified by the temper which I had excited, and which had much
effect. It was opportunity alone; but it was there, always offered,
always present, and love was absent.

To verify my observations, I was cunning enough to employ no more
force than could be resisted. Only, if my charming enemy, abusing my
good-nature, seemed inclined to escape me, I constrained her by that
same fear whose happy effects I had just experienced. Well, well!
without any other further trouble, the languishing fair, forgetful of
her vows, began by yielding and ended by consenting: not that, after
this first moment, there was not a return of mingled reproaches and
tears; I am uncertain whether they were real or feigned: but, as ever
happens, they ceased as soon as I busied myself in giving cause for
them anew. Finally, from frailty to reproach, and reproach to frailty,
we separated, well satisfied with one another, and equally agreed on
the _rendez-vous_ to-night.

I did not retire to my own room until the break of day, and I was
exhausted with fatigue and sleepiness: however, I sacrificed both to
my desire to be present at breakfast this morning; I have a passion
for watching faces on the day after. You can have no idea of this one.
There was an embarrassment in the attitude! a difficulty in the gait!
eyes always lowered, and so big, and so heavy! The face so round was
elongated! Nothing could have been more amusing. And, for the first
time, her mother, alarmed at this extreme alteration, displayed a most
tender interest in her! And the Présidente too, who was very busy about
her! Ah, those attentions of hers are only lent; a day will come when
she will need them herself, and that day is not far distant. Adieu, my
lovely friend.

  At the Château de ..., 1st October, 17**.

LETTER THE NINETY-SEVENTH

CÉCILE VOLANGES TO MADAME DE MERTEUIL

OH, my God, Madame, I am in such distress! I am so unhappy! Who will
console me in my trouble? Who will advise me in the embarrassment in
which I am? That M. de Valmont ... and Danceny! No, the idea of Danceny
fills me with despair.... How can I tell you? How can I relate it? I
do not know what to do. However, my heart is full.... I must speak to
some one, and you are the only one whom I can, whom I dare confide in.
You have shown me so much kindness! But do not have any for me now,
I am not worthy of it: what shall I say? I do not wish it. Everybody
here has shown an interest in me to-day ... they have all increased my
grief. I felt so much that I did not deserve it! Oh, scold me on the
contrary; scold me well, for I am very guilty: but afterwards save me;
if you have not the goodness to advise me, I shall die of grief.

Listen then ... my hand trembles, as you see, I can hardly write, I can
feel my face is all on fire.... Oh, it is indeed the blush of shame. Ah
well, I will endure it; it will be the first punishment for my fault.
Yes, I will tell you all.

You must know then, that M. de Valmont, who has hitherto always handed
me M. Danceny’s letters, suddenly found it was too difficult; he
wanted to have a key to my chamber. I can truly assure you that I did
not want this: but he went so far as to write to Danceny, and Danceny
also wished it; and as for me, it gives me so much pain to refuse him
anything, especially since my absence, which makes him so unhappy, that
I ended by consenting. I never foresaw the misfortune which it would
lead to.

Yesterday, M. de Valmont made use of this key to come into my room when
I was asleep; I was so little prepared for this, that he frightened me
very much when he awoke me: but as he spoke to me at once, I recognized
his voice, and did not cry out; and then the idea came to me at first
that he had come, perhaps, to bring me a letter from Danceny. It was
very far from that. A moment afterwards, he tried to embrace me; and
whilst I defended myself, as was natural, he contrived to do what I
would not have suffered for the whole world ... but he would have a
kiss first. It had to be done, for what was there to do? All the more,
as I had tried to call out; but, in addition to my not being able, he
was careful to tell me that, if anyone came, he would know how to put
all the blame on me; and, indeed, it was very easy, because of the key.
Then he still refused to retire. He wanted a second one; and this one,
I do not know how it was, but it quite confused me; and afterwards,
it was even worse than before. Oh! indeed this is dreadful. In short,
after ... you will surely excuse me from telling the rest: but I am as
unhappy as anyone can be.

What I reproach myself with the most, and of which I must nevertheless
speak to you, is that I am afraid I did not resist as much as I might
have. I do not know how it happened. I certainly do not love M. de
Valmont, quite the contrary; and there were moments when it was just
as though I loved him.... You can imagine that did not prevent me
from always saying no to him: but I felt sure that I did not act as I
spoke, and that was in spite of myself; and then again, I was mightily
confused! If it is always as difficult as that to resist, one ought
to be well accustomed to it! It is true that M. de Valmont has a way
of saying things to which one does not know how to answer. At last,
would you believe it, when he went away, it was as though I was sorry;
and I was weak enough to consent to his returning this evening: that
distresses me more even than all the rest.

Oh! in spite of it, I promise you truly that I will prevent him from
coming. He had hardly gone away, before I felt how very wrong I had
been in promising him. I wept too all the rest of the time. It is about
Danceny, especially, that I am so grieved! Every time I thought of him,
my tears flowed so fast that I was suffocated, and I did nothing but
think of him ... and now again, you see the result; here is my paper
all soaked. No, I shall never be consoled, were it only because of
him.... At last I was worn out, and yet I was not able to sleep one
minute. And this morning, on rising, when I looked at myself in the
mirror, I was frightened, so much had I changed.

Mamma perceived it as soon as she saw me, and asked me what was the
matter. As for me, I started crying at once. I thought she was about
to scold me, and, perhaps, that would have hurt me less: but on the
contrary she spoke gently to me! Little did I deserve it. She told
me not to grieve like that! She did not know the cause of my grief.
I should make myself ill! There are moments when I should like to
be dead. I could not contain myself. I threw myself sobbing into her
arms, and said to her, “Oh, Mamma, your daughter is very miserable!”
Mamma could not keep herself from crying a little; and all this only
increased my grief. Luckily she did not ask me why I was so unhappy,
for I should not have known what to tell her.

I implore you, Madame, write to me as soon as you can, and tell me what
I ought to do: for I have not the courage to think of anything, and I
can only grieve. Will you be so kind as to send your letter through M.
de Valmont; but, if you write to him at the same time, do not, I beg
you, tell him that I have said anything.

I have the honour to be, Madame, always with great affection, your most
humble and obedient servant....

I dare not sign this letter.

  At the Château de ..., 1st October, 17**.

LETTER THE NINETY-EIGHTH

MADAME DE VOLANGES TO THE MARQUISE DE MERTEUIL

IT is but a few days ago, my charming friend, that you were asking me
for consolation and advice: to-day, it is my turn; and I make you the
same request which you made to me. I am indeed in real distress, and I
fear that I have not taken the best means to remove the vexations from
which I suffer.

It is my daughter who is the cause of my anxiety. Since my departure
I had seen she was always sad and melancholy; but I was prepared for
that, and had armed my heart with the severity I judged necessary. I
hoped that absence, distraction, would soon destroy a love which I
looked upon rather as a childish error than as a real passion. However,
far from having recovered since our sojourn here, I notice that the
child abandons herself more and more to a dangerous melancholy; and I
am actually afraid that her health is suffering. Particularly during
the last few days, it has visibly altered. Yesterday, above all, it
struck me, and everybody here was genuinely alarmed.

What proves to me, besides, how keenly she is affected is that I see
her prepared to overcome the shyness she has always shown with me.
Yesterday morning, at the mere question I put to her, as to whether
she were ill, she threw herself into my arms, telling me that she was
very miserable; and she cried till she sobbed. I cannot describe to
you the pain it caused me; tears came to my eyes at once; and I had
only the time to turn away, to prevent her from seeing them. Luckily
I had sufficient prudence to put no questions to her, and she did not
dare to tell me any more; but it is none the less clear that it is this
unfortunate passion which is tormenting her.

What course am I to take, however, if it lasts? Am I to be the cause
of my daughter’s unhappiness? Shall I blame her for the most precious
qualities of the soul, sensibility and constancy? Am I her mother only
for that? And if I should stifle that so natural sentiment, which
makes us desire the happiness of our children; if I should regard as
a weakness what I hold, on the contrary, to be the most sacred of all
duties; if I force her choice, shall I not have to answer for the
disastrous consequences which may ensue? What a use to make of maternal
authority, to give my daughter a choice between unhappiness and sin!

My friend, I shall not imitate what I have so often blamed. Doubtless,
I have tried to make a choice for my daughter; I did, in that, but aid
her with my experience; it was not a right which I exercised, but a
duty which I fulfilled. I should betray one, on the contrary, were I to
dispose of her to the neglect of an inclination, the birth of which I
have not been able to prevent, and of which neither she nor I can judge
the duration or the extent. No, I will never endure that she should
marry one man that she may love another; and I would rather compromise
my authority than her virtue.

I think, therefore, that I shall be taking the more prudent course in
retracting the promise I have given to M. de Gercourt. You have just
heard my reasons for this; it seems to me they ought to outweigh my
promises. I say more: in the state in which things are, to fulfil my
engagement would really be to violate it. For, after all, if I owe it
to my daughter not to betray her secret to M. de Gercourt, I owe it
to him at least not to abuse the ignorance in which I keep him, and
to do for him all that I believe he would do for himself, if he were
informed. Shall I, on the contrary, betray him ignobly, when he relies
on my faith, and, whilst he honours me by choosing me for his second
mother, deceive him in the choice he wishes to make of the mother of
his children? These reflexions, so true, and to me irrefutable, alarm
me more than I can say.

With the misfortunes which they make me dread I compare my daughter
happy with the bridegroom her heart has chosen, knowing her duties only
from the sweetness which she finds in fulfilling them; my son-in-law
equally contented and congratulating himself each day upon his choice;
neither of them finding happiness save in the happiness of the other,
and in that of co-operating to augment my own. Ought the hope of so
sweet a future to be sacrificed to vain considerations? And what are
those which restrain me? Only interested views. Pray, what advantage
will my daughter gain from being born rich, if she is, none the less,
to be the slave of fortune?

I agree that M. de Gercourt is a better match, perhaps, than I ought to
hope for my daughter; I confess, indeed, that I was extremely flattered
at the choice he made of her. But, after all, Danceny is of as good a
family as his; he yields no whit to him in personal qualities; he has
over M. de Gercourt the advantage of loving and of being beloved: in
truth, he is not rich; but has not my daughter enough for two? Ah, why
ravish from her the sweet satisfaction of enriching him whom she loves!

Those marriages which one calculates instead of assorting, which one
calls marriages of convenience, and which are in fact convenient in all
save taste and character--are they not the most fertile source of those
scandalous outbreaks which become every day more frequent? I prefer to
delay; at least I shall have time to study my daughter, whom I do not
know. I have, indeed, the courage to cause her a passing sorrow, if she
is to gain, thereby, a more substantial happiness: but I have not the
heart to risk abandoning her to eternal despair.

Those, my dear friend, are the ideas which torment me, and as to which
I ask your advice. These serious topics contrast mightily with your
amiable gaiety, and seem hardly fitting to your youth: but your reason
has so far outgrown that! Your friendship, moreover, will assist your
prudence; and I have no fear that either will refuse the maternal
solicitude which invokes them.

Adieu, my charming friend; never doubt the sincerity of my sentiments.

  At the Château de ..., 2nd October, 17**.

LETTER THE NINETY-NINTH

THE VICOMTE DE VALMONT TO THE MARQUISE DE MERTEUIL

A FEW more small incidents, my lovely friend; but scenes merely, no
more actions. Arm yourself, therefore, with patience, assume a stock of
it even: for while my Présidente advances so imperceptibly, your pupil
retreats, which is worse still! Well, well! I have wit enough to amuse
myself with these vexations. Truly, I am acclimatizing myself mighty
well to my sojourn here; and I may say that I have not experienced a
single moment of _ennui_ in my old aunt’s dreary _château_. In fact, do
I not find here enjoyment, privation, uncertainty, and hope? What more
has one upon a greater stage? Spectators? Ah, let me be, they will not
be lacking! If they do not see me at work, I will show them my labour
accomplished; they will only have to admire and applaud. Yes, they will
applaud; for at last I can predict with certainty the moment of my
austere Puritan’s fall. I assisted this evening at the death struggle
of virtue. Sweet frailty will now rule in its stead. I fix the time at
a date no later than our next interview: but already I hear you crying
out against vain-glory. To announce one’s victory, to boast in advance!
Prithee, calm yourself! To prove my modesty, I will begin with the
story of my defeat.

In very truth, your pupil is a most ridiculous little person! She is,
indeed, a child, whom one should treat as such, and whom one would
favour by doing no more than putting her under penance! Would you
believe that, after what passed between us, the day before yesterday,
after the amicable manner in which we separated yesterday morning,
when I sought to return in the evening, as she had agreed, I found her
door bolted on the inside? What say you to that? Such childishness one
sometimes meets with on the eve: but on the morrow! Is it not amusing?

I did not, however, laugh at it at first; I had never felt so strongly
the imperiousness of my character. Assuredly, I was going to this
_rendez-vous_ without pleasure, and solely out of politeness. My
own bed, of which I had great need, seemed to me, for the moment,
preferable to anyone else’s, and I had dragged myself from it with
regret. No sooner, however, had I met with an obstacle than I burned
to overcome it; I was humiliated, above all, that a child should have
tricked me. I withdrew, then, in considerable ill-humour; and, with the
intention of concerning myself no further with this silly child and her
affairs, I had written her a note, on the spur of the moment, which I
intended to give her to-day, and in which I accounted her at her just
value. But night brings counsel, as they say; methought this morning
that, having no choice of distractions here, I had better keep this
one: I suppressed, therefore, the severe letter. Since reflecting upon
it, I wonder that I can ever have entertained the idea of concluding
an adventure before holding in my hands the wherewithal to ruin the
heroine. Observe, however, whither a first impulse impels us! Happy,
my fair friend, is he who has trained himself, as you have, never to
give way to one! In fine, I have postponed my vengeance; I have made
this sacrifice to your intentions towards Gercourt.

Now that I am no longer angry, I see your pupil’s conduct only in a
ridiculous light. In fact, I should be glad to know what she hopes to
gain thereby! As for myself, I am at a loss: if it be only to defend
herself, you must admit that she is somewhat late in starting. Some
day she will have to tell me herself the key to this enigma. I have
a great desire to know it. It may be, perhaps, only that she found
herself fatigued? Frankly, that might well be possible: for, without
a doubt, she is still ignorant that the darts of love, like the lance
of Achilles, bear their own remedy for the ills they cause. But nay,
by the little wry face she pulled all day, I would wager that there
enters into it ... repentance ... there ... something ... like virtue
... Virtue! It becomes her indeed to show it! Ah, let her leave it
to the woman veritably born to it, to the only one who knows how to
embellish it, who could make it lovable!... Pardon, my fair friend: but
it is this very evening that there occurred between Madame de Tourvel
and myself the scene of which I am about to send you an account, and I
still feel some emotion at it. I have need to do myself violence, in
order to distract me from the impression which it made upon me; ’tis
even to aid me in this that I have sat down to write to you. Something
must be pardoned to this first moment.

It is some days, already, since we are agreed, Madame de Tourvel and
I, upon our sentiments; we only dispute about words. It was always,
in truth, her _friendship_ which responded to my _love_; but this
conventional language did not change things in substance; and, had we
remained thus, I should have gone, perhaps, less quickly, but not less
surely. Already even there was no more question of driving me away, as
she had wished at first; and as for the interviews which we have daily,
if I devote my cares to offering her the occasions, she devotes hers to
seizing them.

As it is ordinarily when walking that our little _rendez-vous_ occur,
the shocking weather, which set in to-day, left me no hope; I was even
really vexed by it; I did not foresee how much I was to gain from this
_contretemps_.

Being unable to go out, they started play after rising from table; as
I play little, and am no longer indispensable, I chose this time to
go to my own room, with no other intention than to wait there until
the game was likely to be over. I was on my way to rejoin the company,
when I met the charming woman; she was about to enter her apartment,
and, whether from imprudence or weakness, she said to me in her gentle
voice, “Where are you going? There is nobody in the _salon_.” I needed
no more, as you may believe, to try and enter her room; I met with
less resistance than I expected. It is true that I had taken the
precaution to commence the conversation at the door, and to commence it
indifferently; but hardly were we settled, than I brought back the real
subject, and spoke of _my love for my friend_. Her first reply, though
simple, seemed to me sufficiently expressive: “Oh, I pray you,” said
she, “do not let us speak of that here;” and she trembled. Poor woman!
She sees she is lost.

[Illustration: Mle Gerard del. Baquoy sculp.]

However, she was wrong to be afraid. For some time past, assured of
success some day or other, and seeing that she was spending so
much strength in useless struggles, I had resolved to husband my own,
and to wait, without further effort, until she should surrender from
lassitude. You are quite aware that here I require a complete triumph,
and that I wish to owe nothing to opportunity. It was, indeed, owing to
this preconceived plan, and in order to be pressing without engaging
myself too far, that I came back to this word love, so obstinately
declined: sure that my ardour was sufficiently believed in, I tried a
tone more tender. Her refusal no longer put me out, it pained me: did
not my sensitive friend owe me some consolation?

As she consoled me, withal, one hand lingered in my own, the lovely
form leaned upon my arm, and we were drawn extremely near. You have
surely remarked, in such a situation, how, in proportion to the
weakening of the defence, entreaties and refusals pass at closer
quarters; how the head is averted and the gaze cast down; whilst
remarks, always uttered in a weak voice, become rare and intermittent.
These precious symptoms announce, in no equivocal manner, the soul’s
consent: but it has rarely yet extended to the senses; I even hold that
it is always dangerous to attempt just then any too marked assault;
because, this state of self-abandonment being never without a very
sweet pleasure, one knows not how to dispel it, without giving rise to
a humour which is invariably in the favour of the defence.

But, in the present case, prudence was all the more necessary to me
in that I had, above all, to dread the alarm which this forgetfulness
of herself could not fail to induce in my gentle dreamer. Thus, this
avowal which I demanded, I did not even require that it should be
pronounced; a glance would suffice; only one glance, and I was happy.

My lovely friend, her fine eyes were, in fact, raised to mine; her
celestial mouth even uttered, “Well yes, I ...” But on a sudden her
gaze was withdrawn, her voice failed, and this adorable woman fell
into my arms. Hardly had I had time to receive her, when, extricating
herself with convulsive force, her eyes wild, her hands raised to
Heaven ... “God ... O my God, save me!” she cried; and at once, swifter
than lightning, she was on her knees, ten paces from me. I could hear
her ready to suffocate. I advanced to her assistance; but, seizing one
of my hands, which she bedewed with tears, sometimes even embracing my
knees: “Yes, it shall be you,” she said, “it shall be you who will save
me! You do not wish my death, leave me; save me; leave me; in the name
of God, leave me!” And these inconsequent utterances barely escaped
through her redoubled sobs. Meanwhile, she held me with a strength
which did not permit me to withdraw: then, collecting my own, I raised
her in my arms. At the same instant, her tears ceased; she said no
more: all her limbs stiffened, and violent convulsions succeeded to
this storm.

I was, I confess, deeply moved, and I believe I should have consented
to her request, had not circumstances compelled me to do so. The fact
remains that, after rendering her some assistance, I left her as she
prayed me, and I congratulate myself on this. I have already almost
received the reward.

I expected that, as on the day of my first declaration, she would not
appear that evening. But, towards eight o’clock, she came down to the
_salon_, and only informed the company that she had been greatly
indisposed. Her face was dejected, her voice feeble, her attitude
constrained; but her gaze was soft, and was often fixed upon me. Her
refusal to play having even compelled me to take her place, she took up
hers at my side. During supper, she remained alone in the _salon_ when
we returned; methought I saw that she had wept: to make certain, I told
her that I feared she still felt the effects of her indisposition, to
which she answered me obligingly, “The complaint does not go as quickly
as it comes!” Finally, when we retired, I gave her my hand; and, at the
door of her apartment, she pressed mine with vigour. ’Tis true, this
movement seemed to me to have something involuntary; but so much the
better; it is a proof the more of my empire.

I would wager that at present she is enchanted to have reached this
stage; the cost is paid; there is nothing left but to enjoy. Perhaps,
whilst I am writing to you, she is already occupied with this soft
thought! And even if she is employed, on the contrary, on a fresh
project of defence, do we not know well what becomes of all such
plans? I ask you then, can it go further than our next interview? I
quite expect, by the way, that there will be some ceremony about the
surrender; very good! But, once the first step taken, do these austere
prudes ever know where to stop? Their love is a veritable explosion;
resistance lends it greater force. My shy Puritan would run after me,
if I ceased to run after her.

In short, my lovely friend, I shall on an early day be with you, to
claim fulfilment of your word. You have not forgotten, doubtless, what
you promised me after success: that infidelity to your Chevalier? Are
you ready? For myself, I desire it as much as if we had never known
each other. For the rest, to know you is perhaps a reason for desiring
it more:

 “_Je suis juste, et ne suis point galant._”[2]

Moreover it shall be the first infidelity I will make to my serious
conquest, and I promise you to profit by the first pretext to be
absent for four-and-twenty hours from her. It shall be her punishment
for keeping me so long away from you. Do you know that this adventure
has occupied me for more than two months? Yes, two months and three
days; ’tis true that I include to-morrow, since it will not be truly
consummated till then. That reminds me that Madame de B*** held out
for three whole months. I am most pleased to see that frank coquetry
possesses more power of resistance than austere virtue.

Adieu, my lovely friend; I must leave you, for it is mighty late. This
letter has led me on further than I had intended; but, as I am sending
to Paris to-morrow, I was fain to profit by it to let you participate
one day sooner in the joy of your friend.

  At the Château de ..., 2nd October, 17**, in the evening.

LETTER THE HUNDREDTH

THE VICOMTE DE VALMONT TO THE MARQUISE DE MERTEUIL

MY friend, I am tricked, betrayed, lost, I am in despair; Madame de
Tourvel has gone. She has gone, and I did not know it! And I was not
there to oppose departure, to reproach her with her unworthy treachery!
Ah, do not think I would have let her leave; she would have stayed;
yes, she would have stayed, if I had had to employ violence! But think!
in credulous security, I slept tranquilly; I slept, and the thunderbolt
has fallen upon me. No, I do not understand this departure at all; I
must abandon all hope of understanding women.

When I recall the events of yesterday! What do I say? Even of yesterday
night! That glance so sweet, that voice so tender, and that pressure of
the hand! And all the time, she was planning flight from me! O women,
women! After this, complain that you are deceived! Yes, any perfidy
that one employs is a theft from your store.

What pleasure I shall take in avenging myself! I shall find her again,
this perfidious woman; I shall resume my empire over her. If love
sufficed to procure me the means of that, what will it not do when
assisted by vengeance? I shall see her again at my knees, trembling and
bathed in tears; and I--I shall be pitiless.

What does she at present? What does she think? Perhaps she applauds
herself for having deceived me; and, faithful to the tastes of her sex,
this pleasure seems to her the sweetest. What the so greatly vaunted
virtue could not obtain the spirit of ruse has brought about without an
effort. Madman that I was, I dreaded her virtue; it was her ill-faith
that I had to fear.

And to be obliged to swallow my resentment! To dare show no more than a
gentle sorrow, when I have a heart full of rage! To see myself reduced
once more to be suppliant to a rebellious woman who has escaped from
my sway! Ought I to be humiliated to such a degree? And by whom? By a
timid woman, who was never practised in fight. What does it serve me to
have established myself in her heart, to have scorched her with all the
fires of love, to have carried the trouble of her senses to the verge
of delirium, if, calm in her retreat, she can to-day plume herself more
on her escape than I upon my victories? And should I suffer it? My
friend, you do not believe it; you have no such humiliating idea of me!

But what fatality attaches me to this woman? Are there not a hundred
others who desire my attentions? Will they not be eager to respond
to them? Even if none were worth this one, does not the attraction
of variety, the charm of fresh conquests, the pride of numbers offer
pleasure sweet enough? Why run after that which eludes us, and neglect
what is in our path? Ah, why?... I know not, but I feel it extremely.

There is no happiness or peace for me, save in the possession of this
woman whom I hate and love with equal fury. I will only support my
lot from the moment when I shall dispose of hers. Then, tranquil and
satisfied, I shall see her in her turn given over to the storms which
I experience at this moment; I will excite a thousand others more! Hope
and fear, security and distrust, all the ills devised by hate, all the
good that love affords, I want them to fill her heart, to succeed one
another at my will. That time shall come.... But how many labours yet!
How near I was yesterday! And how far away I see myself to-day! How to
approach her again? I dare not take any measure; I feel that, before I
adopt any course, I need greater calmness, and my blood leaps within my
veins.

What enhances my torment is the calm with which everyone here
replies to my questions upon this event, upon its cause, and all the
extraordinary features it presents.... No one knows anything, no one
cares to know anything: they would hardly have spoken of it, had I
allowed them to speak of anything else. Madame de Rosemonde, to whom
I hastened this morning when I learned the news, answered me, with
the indifference of her age, that it was the natural result of the
indisposition which seized Madame de Tourvel yesterday; that she had
been afraid of an illness, and had preferred to be at home: she thinks
it quite simple; she would have done the same, she told me: as if there
could be anything in common between the two! Between her, who has only
death before her, and the other, who is the charm and torment of my
life!

Madame de Volanges, whom I at first suspected of being an accomplice,
seems only to be affected in that she was not consulted as to the step.
I am delighted, I confess, that she has not had the pleasure of harming
me. That proves again that she is not in this woman’s confidence to
the extent I feared: that is always one enemy the less. How pleased
she would be with herself, if she knew that it was I who was the cause
of the flight! How swollen with pride, if it had been through her
counsels! How her importance would have been enhanced! Great God, how
I hate her! Oh, I will renew with her daughter, I will mould her to
my fantasy: I think, therefore, I shall remain here for some time; at
least, the little reflexion I have been able to make leads me to this
course.

Do you not think, in fact, that, after so marked a step, my ingrate
must dread my presence? If then the idea has come to her that I might
follow her, she will not fail to close her door to me; and I wish as
little to accustom her to that means as to endure the humiliation. I
prefer, on the contrary, to announce to her that I shall remain here; I
will even make entreaties for her return; and when she is persuaded of
my absence, I will appear at her house: we shall see how she supports
the interview. But I must postpone it, in order to enhance the effect,
and I know not yet if I have the patience; twenty times to-day I have
opened my mouth to call for my horses. However, I will command myself;
I promise to await your reply here; I only beg you, my lovely friend,
not to keep me waiting for it.

The thing which would thwart me the most would be not to know what is
passing; but my _chasseur_, who is in Paris, has certain rights of
access to the waiting-maid; he will be able to serve me. I am sending
him instructions and money. I beg you to find it good that I join both
to this letter, and also to be at the pains to send them to him by one
of your people, with orders to place them in his own hands. I take this
precaution because the rascal is in the habit of failing to receive
the letters I write to him, when they command him some task which irks
him. And for the moment he does not seem to me so enamoured of his
conquest as I could wish him to be.

Adieu, my lovely friend; if any happy idea comes to you, any means of
accelerating my progress, inform me of it. I have, more than once, had
experience of how useful your friendship can be to me; I experience it
even at this moment: for I feel calmer since I have written to you;
at least I am speaking to some one who understands me, and not to the
automata with whom I vegetate since this morning. In truth, the further
I go the more am I tempted to believe that you and I are the only
people in the world who are of any consequence.

  At the Château de ..., 3rd October, 17**.

LETTER THE HUNDRED AND FIRST

THE VICOMTE DE VALMONT TO AZOLAN, HIS _CHASSEUR_

(Enclosed in the preceding)

YOU must be addle-pated, indeed, to start hence this morning without
knowing that Madame de Tourvel was leaving also; or, if you knew, not
to come and warn me. Of what use is it, pray, that you should spend my
money in getting drunk with the valets; that you should pass the time
which you ought to employ in my service in making yourself agreeable
to the maids, if I am no better informed of what is passing? This,
however, is what comes of your negligence! But I warn you, if a single
instance occurs in this matter, it is the last you shall commit in my
service.

I require you to keep me informed of all that happens with Madame de
Tourvel: of her health; if she sleeps; if she is dull or gay; if she
often goes abroad, and whom she frequents; if she receives company, and
of whom it consists; how she passes her time; if she shows ill-humour
with her women, particularly with the one she brought here with
her; what she does when she is alone; if, when she reads, she reads
uninterruptedly, or often puts her reading aside to dream; and alike,
when she is writing. Remember also to become the friend of him who
carries her letters to the post. Offer often to do this commission for
him in his stead; and if he accepts, only dispatch those which seem
to you indifferent, and send me the others, above all those, if you
come across any, addressed to Madame de Volanges. Make arrangements to
be, for some time longer, the happy lover of your Julie. If she has
another, as you believed, make her consent to a participation, and do
not plume yourself on any ridiculous delicacy; you will be in the same
case with many others who are worth more than you. If, however, your
substitute should become too importunate; should you perceive, for
instance, that he occupied Julie too much during the day, and that she
was less often with her mistress, get rid of him by some means, or seek
a quarrel with him: have no fear of the results, I will support you.
Above all, do not quit that house. It is by assiduity that one sees
all, and sees clear.

If chance even should cause one of the men to be dismissed, present
yourself to seek his place, as being no longer attached to me. Say in
that case that you left me to seek a quieter and more regular house.
Endeavour, in short, to get yourself accepted. I shall none the less
keep you in my service during this time: it will be as it was with the
Duchesse de ***; and in the end Madame de Tourvel will recompense you
as well.

If you had skill and zeal enough, these instructions ought to suffice;
but to make up for both, I send you money. The enclosed note authorizes
you, as you will see, to receive twenty-five louis from my man of
business; for I have no doubt that you are without a sou. You will
employ what is necessary of this sum to induce Julie to establish a
correspondence with me. The rest will serve to make the household
drink. Have a care that this takes place as often as possible in
the lodge of the porter of the house, so that he may be glad to see
you come. But do not forget that it is your services, and not your
pleasures, that I wish to pay for.

Accustom Julie to observe and report everything, even what might appear
to her trivial. It were better that she should write ten useless
sentences than that she should omit one which was of interest; and
often what appears indifferent is not so. As it is necessary that I
should be informed at once, if anything were to happen which should
seem to you to deserve attention, immediately on receipt of this letter
you will send Philippe on the message-horse to establish himself
at...;[3] he will remain there until further orders; it will make a
relay in case of need. For the current correspondence, the post will
suffice.

Be careful not to lose this letter. Read it over every day, to assure
yourself that you have forgotten nothing, as well as to make sure that
you still have it. In short, do all that needs to be done, when one is
honoured with my confidence. You know that, if I am satisfied with you,
you will be so with me.

  At the Château de ..., 3rd October, 17**.

LETTER THE HUNDRED AND SECOND

THE PRÉSIDENTE DE TOURVEL TO MADAME DE ROSEMONDE

YOU will be greatly astonished, Madame, to learn that I am leaving
you so precipitately. This proceeding will appear to you very
extraordinary: but your surprise will be redoubled, when you learn my
reasons for it! Perhaps, you will find that, in confiding them to you,
I do not sufficiently respect the tranquillity necessary to your age;
that I even infringe the sentiments of veneration which are your due by
so many titles? Ah! Madame, forgive me: but my heart is oppressed; it
feels a need to pour out its griefs upon the bosom of a friend who is
as kind as she is prudent: whom else, save you, could it choose? Look
upon me as your child. Show me the kindness of a mother; I implore it.
Perhaps my sentiments toward yourself give me some right to expect it.

Where has the time gone when, absorbed entirely in those laudable
sentiments, I was ignorant of those which, afflicting my soul with the
mortal sorrow I feel, deprive me of the strength to combat them at the
same time that they impose upon me the duty? Ah, this fatal visit has
been my ruin!... What shall I say to you, in fine? I love, yes, I love
to distraction. Alas! that word which I write for the first time, that
word so often entreated without being ever obtained, I would pay with
my life the sweet privilege of letting him who has inspired it hear
it but a single time; and yet I must unceasingly withhold it. He will
continue to doubt my feelings towards him; he will think he has cause
to complain of them. I am indeed unhappy! Why is it not as easy for him
to read in my heart as to reign there? Yes, I should suffer less, if he
knew all that I suffer; but you yourself, to whom I say it, will still
have but a feeble idea of it.

In a few moments, I am about to fly from him and cause him grief.
Whilst he will still believe he is near me, I shall already be far
away; at the hour when I was accustomed to see him daily, I shall be
where he has never been, where I must not permit him to come. Already,
all my preparations are complete, all is there beneath my eyes; I can
let them rest on nothing which does not speak of this cruel separation.
Everything is ready except myself...!

And the more my heart resists, the more does it prove to me the
necessity of submission to it. Doubtless, I shall submit to it; it is
better to die than to lead a life of guilt. I feel it already, I know
it but too well; I have only saved my prudence, my virtue is gone. Must
I confess it to you. What yet remains to me I owe to his generosity.
Intoxicated with the pleasure of seeing him, of hearing him; with the
sweetness of feeling him near me; with the still greater happiness
of being able to make his own, I was powerless and without strength;
hardly enough was left me to struggle: I had no longer enough to
resist. Well! he saw my trouble and had pity on me. Could I do aught
else than cherish him? I owe him far more than life.

Ah, if, by remaining near him, I had but to tremble for that, do not
suppose I had ever consented to go away! What is life to me without
him? Should I not be too happy to lose it? Condemned to be the cause
of his eternal misery and my own; to dare neither to pity myself nor
console him; to defend myself daily against him, and against myself; to
devote my cares to causing him pain, when I would consecrate them all
to his happiness; to live thus, is it not to die a thousand times? Yet
that is what my fate must be. I will endure it, however; I will have
the courage. O you, whom I chose for my mother, receive this vow.

Receive also that which I make, to hide from you none of my actions:
receive it, I beseech you; I beg it of you as a succour of which I
have need: thus, pledged to tell you all, I shall acquire the habit of
believing myself always in your presence. Your virtue shall replace my
own. Never, doubtless, shall I consent to come before you with a blush;
and, restrained by this powerful check, whilst I shall cherish in you
the indulgent friend, the confidant of my weakness, I shall also honour
in you the guardian angel who will save me from shame.

Shame enough must I feel, in having to make you this request. Fatal
effect of presumptuous confidence! Why did I not dread sooner this
inclination which I felt springing up? Why did I flatter myself that I
could master it or overcome it at my will? Insensate! How little I knew
what love was! Ah, if I had fought against it with more care, perhaps
it would have acquired less dominion; perhaps then this separation
would not have been necessary; or, even if I had submitted to that
sorrowful step, I need not have broken off entirely a relation which
it would have been sufficient to render less frequent! But to lose all
at one stroke, and for ever! O my friend!... But what is this? Even
in writing to you, shall I be led away to vent criminal wishes? Ah!
away, away! and at least let these involuntary errors be expiated by my
sacrifices.

Adieu, my venerable friend; love me as your daughter, adopt me for
such; and be sure that, in spite of my weakness, I would rather die
than render myself unworthy of your choice.

  At the Château de ..., 3rd October, 17**,
  at one o’clock in the morning.

LETTER THE HUNDRED AND THIRD

MADAME DE ROSEMONDE TO THE PRÉSIDENTE DE TOURVEL

I WAS more grieved at your departure, my fairest dear, than surprised
at its cause; a long experience and the interest which you inspire in
me had sufficed to enlighten me as to the state of your heart; and,
if all must be told, there was nothing, or almost nothing, that your
letter taught me. If it had been my only source of information, I
should be still in ignorance of whom it was you loved; for, in speaking
to me of _him_ all the time, you did not even once write his name.
I had no need of that; I am well aware who it is. But I remark it,
because I remind myself that that is ever the style of love. I see that
it is still the same as in past times.

I had hardly expected ever to be in the case to hark back to memories
so far removed from me, and so alien to my age. Since yesterday,
nevertheless, I have truly been much occupied with them, through the
desire which I felt to find in them something which might be useful to
you. But what can I do, except admire and pity you? I praise the wise
course you have taken: but it alarms me, because I conclude from it
that you judged it necessary; and, when one has gone so far, it is very
difficult to remain always at a distance from him to whom our heart is
incessantly attracting us. However, do not lose courage. Nothing should
be impossible to your noble soul; and, even if you should some day have
the misfortune to succumb (which God forbid!), believe me, my fairest
dear, reserve for yourself at least the consolation of having struggled
with all your power. And then, what human prudence cannot effect,
divine grace will, if it be so pleased. Perhaps you are on the eve of
its succour; and your virtue, proved by these grievous struggles, will
issue from them purer and more lustrous. Hope that you may receive
to-morrow the strength which you lack to-day. Do not count upon this in
order to repose upon it, but to encourage you to use all your own.

Whilst leaving to Providence the care of succouring you in a danger
against which I can do nothing, I reserve to myself that of sustaining
and consoling you, as far as within me lies. I shall not assuage your
pains, but I will share them. It is by virtue of this that I will
gladly receive your confidences. I feel that your heart must have need
of unburdening itself. I open mine to you; age has not yet so chilled
it that it is insensible to friendship. You will always find it ready
to receive you. It will be a poor solace to your sorrow; but at least
you will not weep alone: and when this unhappy love, obtaining too much
power over you, compels you to speak of it, it is better that it should
be with me than with _him_. Here am I talking like you; and I think
that, between us, we shall succeed in avoiding his name: for the rest,
we understand one another.

I know not whether I am doing right in telling you that he seemed
keenly grieved at your departure; it would be wiser, perhaps, not to
speak of it: but I have no love for the prudence which grieves its
friends. Yet I am forced to speak about it at no greater length. My
weak sight and tremulous hands do not admit of long letters, when I
have to write them myself.

Adieu then, my fairest dear; adieu, my amiable child: yes, I gladly
adopt you for my daughter, and you have, indeed, all that is needed to
make the pride and pleasure of a mother.

  At the Château de ..., 3rd October, 17**.

LETTER THE HUNDRED AND FOURTH

THE MARQUISE DE MERTEUIL TO MADAME DE VOLANGES

IN truth, my good and dear friend, I could hardly refrain from a
movement of pride when I read your letter. What! you honour me with
your entire confidence! You even deign to ask for my advice! Ah, I am
happy indeed, if I deserve this favourable opinion on your part: if I
do not owe it only to the prepossession of friendship. For the rest,
whatever the motive may be, it is none the less precious to my heart;
and to have obtained it is only one reason the more in my eyes why
I should labour harder to deserve it. I am going then (but without
pretending to give you a counsel) to tell you freely my fashion of
thinking. I distrust myself, because it is different from yours: but
when I have exposed my reasons to you, you will judge them; and if you
condemn them, I subscribe to your judgment in advance. I shall at least
show thus much wisdom, that I do not think myself wiser than you.

If, however, and in this single instance, my opinion should seem
preferable, you must seek for the cause of this in the illusions of
maternal love. Since this sentiment is a laudable one, it needs must
have a place in you. Indeed, how very recognizable it is in the course
which you are tempted to take! It is thus that, if it sometimes
happens to you to make a mistake, it never arises except through a
choice of virtues.

Prudence, it seems to me, is the quality to be preferred, when one is
disposing of another’s fate; and, above all, where it is a question of
fixing it by an indissoluble and sacred bond, such as that of marriage.
’Tis then that a mother, equally wise and tender, ought, as you say so
well, _to aid her daughter with her experience_. Now, I ask you, what
is she to do in order to succeed in this, if it be not to distinguish
for her between what is pleasant and what is suitable?

Would it not, then, be to degrade the maternal authority, would it
not be to annul it, if you were to subordinate it to a frivolous
inclination, the illusory power of which is only felt by those who
dread it, and disappears as soon as it is despised? For myself, I
confess, I have never believed in these irresistible and engrossing
passions, through which, it seems, we are agreed to pay general
excuses for our disorders. I cannot conceive how a fancy which is born
in a moment, and in a moment dies, can have more strength than the
unalterable principles of honour, modesty and virtue; and I can no more
understand why a woman who is false to them can be held justified by
her pretended passion, than a thief would be by his passion for money,
or an assassin by that for revenge.

Ah, who is there that can say that she has never had to struggle? But
I have ever sought to persuade myself that, in order to resist, it
sufficed to have the will; and thus far, at least, my experience has
confirmed my opinion. What would virtue be without the duties which
it imposes? Its worship lies in our sacrifices, its recompense in our
hearts. These truths cannot be denied except by those who have an
interest in disregarding them, and who, already depraved, hope to have
a moment’s illusion by endeavouring to justify their bad conduct by bad
reasons. But could one fear it from a shy and simple child; a child
whom you have borne, and whose pure and modest education can but have
fortified her happy nature? Yet it is to this fear, which I venture
to call humiliating to your daughter, that you are ready to sacrifice
the advantageous marriage which your prudence had contrived for her!
I like Danceny greatly; and for a long time past, as you know, I have
seen little of M. de Gercourt: but my friendship with the one and my
indifference towards the other do not prevent me from feeling the
enormous difference which exists between the two matches.

Their birth is equal, I admit; but one is without fortune, whilst
that of the other is so great that, even without birth, it would have
sufficed to obtain him everything. I quite agree that money does
not make happiness, but it must be admitted, also, that it greatly
facilitates it. Mademoiselle de Volanges is rich enough for two, as
you say: however, an income of sixty thousand livres, which she will
enjoy, is not over much when one bears the name of Danceny; when
one must furnish and maintain a house which corresponds with it. We
no longer live in the days of Madame de Sévigné. Luxury swallows up
everything; we blame it, but we needs must imitate it, and in the end
the superfluous stints us of the necessary.

As to the personal qualities which you count for much, and with good
reason, M. de Gercourt is, assuredly, irreproachable on that score;
and, as for him, his proof is over. I like to think, and, in fact, I
do think, that Danceny is no whit his inferior: but are we as sure of
that? It is true that thus far he has seemed exempt from the faults of
his age, and that, in spite of the tone of the day, he shows a taste
for good company which makes one augur favourably for him: but who
knows whether this apparent virtue be not due to the mediocrity of his
fortune? Putting aside the fear of being a cheat or a drunkard, one
needs money to be a gambler or a libertine, and one may yet love the
faults the excesses of which one dreads. In short, he would not be the
first in a thousand to frequent good company solely because he lacked
the means of doing otherwise.

I do not say (God forbid!) that I believe all this of him; but it would
be always a risk to run; and what reproaches would you not have to
make yourself, if the event were not happy! How would you answer your
daughter, if she were to say to you, “Mother, I was young and without
experience; I was seduced even by an error pardonable at my age: but
Heaven, which had foreseen my weakness, had granted me a wise mother,
to remedy it and protect me from it. Why, then, forgetful of your
prudence, did you consent to my unhappiness? Was it for me to choose
a husband, when I knew nothing of the marriage-state? If I had wished
to do so, was it not your duty to oppose me? But I never had this mad
desire. Determined to obey you, I awaited your choice with respectful
resignation; I never failed in the submission which I owed to you, and
yet I bear to-day the penalty which is only the rebellious children’s
due. Ah! your weakness has been my ruin!...”

Perhaps, her respect would stifle these complaints: but maternal love
would divine them; and the tears of your daughter, though hidden,
would none the less drip upon your heart. Where then will you look for
consolation? Will it be to that mad love against which you should have
armed her, and by which, on the contrary, you would have yourself to be
seduced?

I know not, my dear friend, whether I have too strong a prejudice
against this passion: but I deem it redoubtable even in marriage. It is
not that I disapprove of the growth of a soft and virtuous sentiment to
embellish the marriage bond, and to sweeten, in some sort, the duties
which it imposes: but it is not to that passion, that it belongs to
form it; it is not for the illusion of a moment to settle the choice of
our life. In fact, in order to choose, one must compare; and how can
that be done, when one is occupied by a single object, when even that
object one cannot know, plunged as one is in intoxication and blindness?

I have, as you may well believe, come across many women afflicted with
this dangerous ill; of some of them I have received the confidences. To
hear them, there is not one of them whose lover is not a perfect being:
but these chimerical perfections exist only in their imaginations.
Their feverish heads dream only of virtues and accomplishments; they
adorn with them, at their pleasure, the object whom they prefer: it
is the drapery of a god, often worn by an abject model; but whatever
it may be, hardly have they clothed it than, the dupes of their own
handiwork, they prostrate themselves to adore it.

Either your daughter does not love Danceny, or else she is under this
same illusion; if their love is reciprocal, it is common to both.
Thus your reason for uniting them for ever resolves itself into the
certainty that they do not, and cannot, know each other. But, you will
ask, do M. de Gercourt and my daughter know each other any better? No,
doubtless; but at least they are simply ignorant, they are under no
delusion. What happens in such a case between two married persons whom
I assume to be virtuous? Each of them studies the other, looks face
to face at the other, seeks and soon discovers what tastes and wishes
he must give up for the common tranquillity. These slight sacrifices
are not irksome, because they are reciprocal, and have been foreseen:
soon they give birth to mutual kindness; and habit, which fortifies all
inclinations which it does not destroy, brings about, little by little,
that sweet friendship, that tender confidence, which, joined to esteem,
form, so it seems to me, the true and solid happiness of marriage.

The illusions of love may be sweeter; but who does not know that they
are less durable? And what dangers are not brought about by the moment
which destroys them? It is then that the least faults appear shocking
and unendurable, by the contrast which they form with the idea of
perfection which had seduced us. Each one of the couple believes,
however, that only the other has changed, and that he has always the
same value as that which, in a mistaken moment, had been attributed to
him. The charm which he no longer experiences he is astonished at no
longer producing; he is humiliated at this: wounded vanity embitters
the mind, augments injuries, causes ill-humour, begets hate; and
frivolous pleasures are paid for finally by long misery.

Such, my dear friend, is my manner of thinking upon the subject which
occupies us; I do not defend it, I simply expound it; ’tis for you
to decide. But if you persist in your opinion, I beg you to make me
acquainted with the reasons which have outweighed my own: I shall be
glad indeed to gather light from you, and, above all, to be reassured
as to the fate of your amiable child, whose happiness I ardently
desire, both through my friendship for her and through that which
unites me to you for life.

  Paris, 4th October, 17**.

LETTER THE HUNDRED AND FIFTH

THE MARQUISE DE MERTEUIL TO CÉCILE VOLANGES

WELL, well, little one! So here you are quite vexed, quite ashamed.
And that M. de Valmont is a wicked man, is he not? How now! He dares
to treat you as the woman he would love the best! He teaches you what
you are dying with desire to know! In truth, these proceedings are
unpardonable. And you, on your side, you wished to keep your virtue for
your lover (who does not abuse it): you cherish only the pains of love
and not its pleasures! Nothing could be better, and you will figure
marvellous well in a romance. Passion, misfortune, above all, virtue:
what a heap of fine things! In the midst of this brilliant pageant, one
feels _ennui_ sometimes, it is true, but one pays it back.

See the poor child, then, how much she is to be pitied! Her eyes looked
worn, the day after? What will you say, pray, when it is your lover’s
that look thus? Nay, my sweet angel, you will not always have them so;
all men are not Valmonts. And then, not to dare to raise those eyes!
Oh, in truth, you were right there; everybody would have read in them
your adventure. Believe me, however, if it were so, our women and even
our damsels would have a far more modest gaze.

In spite of the praise I am forced to give you, as you see, I must,
however, admit that you failed in your _chef-d’œuvre_; which was to
have told everything to your Mamma. You had started so well! You had,
already, thrown yourself into her arms, you sobbed, she also wept:
what a pathetic scene! And what a pity not to have completed it! Your
tender mother, quite ravished with delight, and to assist your virtue,
would have shut you up in a convent for the rest of your life; and
there you could have loved Danceny as much as you wished, without
rivals and without sin: you could have broken your heart at your ease;
and Valmont, assuredly, would not have come to trouble your grief with
vexatious pleasures.

Seriously, at past fifteen can one be so utterly a child as you are?
You are right, indeed, to say that you do not deserve my kindness. Yet
I would be your friend: you have need of one, perhaps, with the mother
you possess and the husband whom she would give you! But if you do
not form yourself more, what would you have one do with you? What can
one hope for, when that which generally excites intelligence in girls
seems, on the contrary, to deprive you of it?

If you could bring yourself to reason for a moment, you would soon find
that you ought to congratulate yourself, instead of complaining. But
you are shamefaced, and that disturbs you! Well, calm yourself; the
shame caused by love is like its pain; it is only experienced once.
Indeed one can feign it afterwards, but one no longer feels it. The
pleasure, however, remains, and that is surely something. I think even
that I gathered the fact, from your little chattering letter, that you
were inclined to count it for much. Come now, a little honesty. That
trouble which prevented you _from acting as you spoke_, which made you
find it _so difficult to resist_, which made you feel _as though you
were sorry_ when Valmont went away, was it really shame which caused
it, or was it pleasure? and _his way of saying things to which one does
not know how to answer_, may that not have arisen from his _way of
acting_? Ah, little girl, you are fibbing, and you are fibbing to your
friend. That is not right. But let us leave that.

What would be a pleasure to anybody, and could be nothing else, becomes
in your position a veritable happiness. In fact, placed as you are
between a mother whose love is necessary to you, and a lover by whom
you desire to be loved always, do you not see that the only means of
obtaining these opposite ends is to occupy yourself with a third party?
Distracted by this new adventure, whilst, in your Mamma’s eyes, you
will have the air of sacrificing to your submission an inclination
which displeases her, in the eyes of your lover you will acquire the
honour of a fine defence. Whilst assuring him incessantly of your love,
you will not grant him the last proofs of it. Such refusals, so little
painful to you in the case in which you will be, he will not fail to
attribute to your virtue; he will complain of them, perhaps, but he
will love you more for them; and to obtain the double merit of having
sacrificed love in the eyes of one, of resisting it in those of the
other, will cost you nothing more than to taste its pleasures. Oh, how
many women have lost their reputation which they would have carefully
preserved, had they been able to retain it by similar means!

Does not the course which I propose to you seem to you the most
reasonable, as it is the most pleasant? Do you know what you have
gained from that which you have adopted? Only that your Mamma has
attributed your increased melancholy to an increase of love, that
she is incensed at it, and that, to punish you, she only waits for
additional proof. She has just written to me; she will make every
attempt to extract the admission from you. She will go so far, she
told me, as to propose Danceny to you, as a husband, and that, in
order to induce you to speak. And if, letting yourself be beguiled by
this deceitful tenderness, you answered as your heart bade you, soon,
confined for a long time, perhaps for ever, you would weep for your
blind credulity at your leisure.

This ruse which she wishes to employ against you you must combat
with another. Begin then, by seeming less melancholy, to lead her to
believe that you think less of Danceny. She will allow herself to
be the more easily persuaded in that this is the ordinary effect of
absence; and she will be the better disposed to you for it, since she
will find in it an opportunity for applauding her own prudence which
suggested this means to her. But if, some doubt still remaining, she
were, nevertheless, to persist in proving you, and were to speak to
you of marriage, fall back, as a well-bred daughter, upon perfect
submission. As a matter of fact, what do you risk? As far as husbands
are concerned, one is worth no more than another; and the most
uncompromising is always less troublesome than a mother.

Once more satisfied with you, your mother will at last marry you;
and then, less hampered in your movements, you will be able, at your
choice, to quit Valmont and take Danceny, or even to keep them both.
For, mark this, your Danceny is charming; but he is one of those men
whom one has when one wills and as long as one wills: one can be at
one’s ease, then, with him. It is not the same with Valmont: it is
difficult to keep him, and dangerous to leave him. One must employ with
him much tact, or, if one has not that, much docility. On the other
hand, if you could succeed in attaching him to you as a friend, what
a piece of fortune that would be! He would set you, at once, in the
first rank of our women of fashion. It is in this way that one acquires
consideration in the world, and not by dint of tears and blushes, as
when your nuns made you take your dinner on your knees.

If you are wise then, you will endeavour to be reconciled with Valmont,
who must be mighty wroth with you; and, as one should know how to
repair one’s follies, do not fear to make a few advances to him;
besides, you will soon learn that, if men make us the first ones, we
are almost always obliged to make the second. You have a pretext for
them: for you must not keep this letter; and I require you to hand it
to Valmont as soon as you have read it. Do not forget, however, to seal
it beforehand. First, in order to secure for yourself the merit of the
step you are taking with regard to him, and to prevent your having the
air of being advised to it; and, secondly, because there is no one in
the world, save yourself, of whom I am sufficiently the friend to speak
to as I do to you.

Adieu, sweet angel; follow my advice, and you shall tell me if you feel
the better for it.

P.S. By the way, I was forgetting ... one word more. Look to it that
you cultivate your style more. You write always like a child. I quite
see whence it arises; it is because you say all that you think, and no
whit of what you do not think. That may pass between you and me, who
have nothing to hide from one another: but with everybody! With your
lover above all! You would always have the air of a little fool. You
must remember that, when you write to anyone, it is for him and not for
yourself: you must, therefore, think less of telling him what you think
than what will give him most pleasure.

Adieu, sweetheart: I kiss you instead of scolding you, in the hope that
you will become more reasonable.

  Paris, 4th October, 17**.

LETTER THE HUNDRED AND SIXTH

THE MARQUISE DE MERTEUIL TO THE VICOMTE DE VALMONT

AMAZING, Vicomte, and this time I love you furiously! For the rest,
after the first of your two letters, I could expect the second: thus it
did not astonish me; and whilst, proud already of your success to come,
you were soliciting its reward, and asking me if I were ready, I saw
clearly that I had no such need for haste. Yes, upon my honour; reading
the beautiful account of that tender scene, which had _moved you so
deeply_, observing your restraint, worthy of the fairest days of our
chivalry, I said to myself a score of times: The affair has failed!

But that is because it could not befall otherwise. What do you expect
a poor woman to do who surrenders, and is not taken? My faith, in such
a case one must at least save one’s honour; and that is what your
Présidente does. I know well that, for myself, who can perceive that
the step she has taken is really not without some effect, I propose
to make use of it myself on the first rather serious occasion which
presents itself: but I promise you that, if he for whom I go to that
trouble profits no better than you from it, he may assuredly renounce
me for ever.

Here you are then, reduced, brought to impotence! And that between two
women, one of whom had already crossed the Rubicon, and the other was
asking nothing better than to do so. Well, well, you will think that
I am boasting, and say that it is easy to prophesy after the event;
but I can swear to you that I expected as much. It is because you have
not really the genius of your estate; you know nothing except what you
have learned, and you invent nothing. Thus, as soon as circumstances
no longer lend themselves to your accustomed formulas, and you
are compelled to leave the beaten road, you pull up short like a
school-boy. In short, a piece of childishness on the one side, a return
of prudery on the other, are enough to disconcert you, because you do
not meet with them every day; and you know not how either to prevent
or remedy them. Ah, Vicomte, Vicomte, you teach me not to judge men by
their successes; and soon we shall have to say of you: On such and such
a day, he was brave! And when you have committed follies after follies,
you come running to me! It seems that I have nothing else to do but to
repair them. It is true, that there would be work enough there.

Whatever may be the state of these two adventures, one was undertaken
against my will, and I will not meddle in it; for the other, as you
have brought some complaisance for me to bear upon it, I make it my
business. The letter which I enclose, which you will read first and
then give to the little Volanges, is more than sufficient to bring her
back to you: but, I beg you, give some attention to this child, and let
us make her, in concert, the despair of her mother and of Gercourt.
You need not fear to increase the doses. I see clearly that the little
person will not take alarm; and, our views upon her once fulfilled, she
may become what she will.

I am entirely without interest on her account. I had had some desire
to make of her, at least, a subaltern in intrigue, and to take her to
play _understudies_ to me: but I see that she has not the stuff in her;
she has a foolish ingenuousness, which has not even yielded to the
specific you have employed, though it be one which rarely fails; and it
is, according to me, the most dangerous disease a woman can have. It
denotes, above all, a weakness of character almost always incurable,
and opposed to everything; in such wise that, whilst we busied
ourselves in forming this little girl for intrigue, we should have
made nothing of her but a facile woman. Now I know nothing so insipid
as that idiotic facility, which surrenders without knowing how or why,
solely because it is attacked and knows not how to resist. This kind of
woman is absolutely nothing than a pleasure machine.

You will tell me that this is all there is to do, and that it is enough
for our plans. Well and good! But do not let us forget that, with that
kind of machine, everybody soon attains to a knowledge of the springs
and motors; in order therefore to employ this one without danger, one
must hasten, stop at the right moment and break it afterwards. In
truth, there will be no lack of means to disembarrass ourselves of it,
and Gercourt, at any rate, will shut it up securely, when it is our
pleasure. Indeed, when he can no longer doubt of his dishonour, when it
is quite public and notorious, what will it matter to us if he avenges,
provided that he do not console, himself? What I say of the husband,
you doubtless think of the mother; thus the affair is settled.

The course I deem the better, and upon which I have decided, has
induced me to conduct the little person somewhat rapidly, as you will
see by my letter; it also renders it most important that nothing should
be left in her hands which might compromise us, and I beg you to pay
attention to this. This precaution once taken, I charge myself with the
moral teaching; the rest concerns you. If, however, we see in the issue
that ingenuousness is cured, we have always time to change our project.
We should, in any case, have had, one day or other, to occupy ourselves
with what we are about to do: in no case will our pains be wasted.

Do you know that mine risked being so, and that the Gercourt’s star
came near to carrying the day over my prudence? Did not Madame de
Volanges show a moment of maternal weakness? Did she not want to marry
her daughter to Danceny? It was that which was presaged by that more
tender interest which you remarked “_the day after_.” It is you again
who would have been the cause of this noble masterpiece! Luckily, the
tender mother wrote to me, and I hope that my reply will disillusion
her. I talk so much virtue in it, and above all I flatter her so, that
she is bound to think I am right.

I am sorry that I have not found time to make a copy of my letter, to
edify you with the austerity of my morals. You would see how I despise
women who are so depraved as to take a lover! ’Tis so convenient to be
a rigorist in conversation! It does no hurt, except to others, and in
no way impedes ourselves.... And then, I am quite aware that the good
lady had her little peccadillos like any other in her young days, and
I was not sorry to humiliate her, at least before her conscience; it
consoled me a little for the praises I gave her against my own. It was
similarly that, in the same letter, the idea of harming Gercourt gave
me the courage to speak well of him.

Adieu, Vicomte; I thoroughly approve the course you adopt in remaining
some time where you are. I have no means of spurring on your progress:
but I invite you to distract yourself with our common pupil. As for
myself, in spite of your obliging summons, you see well that you have
still to wait, and you will doubtless admit that it is not my fault.

  Paris, 3rd October, 17**.

LETTER THE HUNDRED AND SEVENTH

AZOLAN TO THE VICOMTE DE VALMONT

MONSIEUR,

Conformably to your orders, I went, immediately on the receipt of your
letter, to M. Bertrand, who gave me the twenty-five louis, as you had
ordered him. I asked him for two more for Philippe, whom I had told
to set off immediately, as Monsieur had commanded me, and who had no
money; but your man of business would not do so, saying that he had
no order from you for that. I was obliged therefore to give him these
myself, and Monsieur will hold me acquitted of them, if it be his good
pleasure.

Philippe set off yesterday evening. I strongly impressed upon him not
to leave the inn, so that we might be certain of finding him if we had
need of him.

I went immediately afterwards to Madame la Présidente’s to see
Mademoiselle Julie; but she was gone out, and I could only speak with
La Fleur, from whom I could learn nothing, as, since his arrival, he
has only been to the house at meal-times. It is the second lackey who
does all the service, and Monsieur knows that I was not acquainted with
him. But I began to-day.

I returned this morning to Mademoiselle Julie, and she seemed delighted
to see me. I questioned her upon the cause of her mistress’s return;
but she told me that she knew naught of it; and I believe she told
the truth. I reproached her with having failed to inform me of her
departure, and she assured me that she had not known it till the night
before, when putting Madame to bed; so that she spent all the night in
packing, and the poor wench had not two hours’ sleep. She did not leave
her mistress’s chamber that night until past one, and left her just as
she was sitting down to write.

In the morning, Madame de Tourvel, before leaving, handed a letter to
the porter of the _château_. Mademoiselle Julie does not know for whom:
she says that it was, perhaps, for Monsieur; but Monsieur does not
speak of it.

During the whole journey, Madame had a great hood over her face; by
reason of this one could not see her: but Mademoiselle Julie feels
assured that she often wept. She did not speak one word, and she would
not halt at...,[4] as she had done on her coming, which was none too
pleasing to Mademoiselle Julie, who had not breakfasted. But, as I said
to her, the masters are the masters.

On arriving, Madame went to bed: but she only remained there two hours.
On rising, she summoned her Swiss, and gave him orders to admit nobody.
She made no toilette at all. She sat down to table for dinner, but only
took a little soup, and went away at once. Her coffee was brought to
her room, and Mademoiselle Julie entered at the same time. She found
her mistress arranging papers in her writing-desk, and she saw that
they were letters. I would wager that they were those from Monsieur;
and of the three which came to her in the afternoon, there was one
which she had still before her all the evening. I am quite certain that
it is also one from Monsieur. But why then did she leave like this?
That is what astounds me. For that matter, Monsieur is sure to know,
and it is no business of mine.

Madame la Présidente went in the afternoon to the library, and took
thence two books which she carried to her _boudoir_: but Mademoiselle
Julie is certain that she did not read a quarter of hour in them during
the whole day, and that she does nothing but read this letter and
dream, with her head resting on her hand. As I thought that Monsieur
would be pleased to know what these books are, and as Mademoiselle
Julie could not say, I obtained admission to the library under the
pretence of wishing to see it. There are only two books missing: one
is the second volume of the _Pensées chrétiennes_, and the other, the
first of a book entitled _Clarissa_. I write the name as it is written:
Monsieur will, perhaps, know what it is.

Yesterday evening, Madame did not sup; she only took some tea.

She rang at an early hour this morning; asked at once for her horses,
and went, before nine o’clock, to the Bernardines, where she heard
mass. She wished to confess; but her confessor was away, and he will
not return for a week or ten days. I thought it well to inform Monsieur
of this.

She returned immediately, breakfasted, and then began to write, and
she remained thus for nearly an hour. I soon found occasion to do what
Monsieur desired the most; for it was I who carried the letters to the
post. There was none for Madame de Volanges: but I send one to Monsieur
which was for M. le Président: it seemed to me that this should be the
most interesting. There was one also for Madame de Rosemonde; but I
imagined that Monsieur could always see that when he wished, and I let
it go. For the rest, Monsieur is sure to know everything, since Madame
la Présidente has written to him also. I shall in the future obtain
all those which Monsieur desires; for it is Mademoiselle Julie, almost
every day, who gives them to the servants, and she has assured me that,
out of friendship for me, and for Monsieur too, she will gladly do what
I want.

She did not even want the money which I offered her: but I feel sure
that Monsieur would like to make her some little present; and if this
is his wish, and he is willing to charge me with it, I shall easily
find out what will give her pleasure.

I hope that Monsieur will not think that I have shown any negligence
in his service, and I have set my heart on justifying myself against
the reproaches he makes me. If I did not know of Madame la Présidente’s
departure, it was, on the contrary, my zeal in Monsieur’s service which
was the cause, since it was that which made me start at three o’clock
in the morning; which was the reason that I did not see Mademoiselle
Julie the night before, as usual, having gone to Tournebride to sleep,
so that I might not have to arouse the _château_.

As for the reproach Monsieur makes me of being often without money;
first, it is because I like to keep myself decent, as Monsieur may see;
and then one must maintain the honour of the coat one wears: I know,
indeed, that I ought, perhaps, to save a little for the future; but I
trust entirely to the generosity of Monsieur, who is so good a master.

As for entering the service of Madame de Tourvel whilst remaining in
that of Monsieur, I beg that Monsieur will not require this of me. It
was very different with Madame la Duchesse; but certainly I would not
wear a livery, and a livery of the robe no less, after having had the
honour of being Monsieur’s _chasseur_. In every other way, Monsieur may
dispose of him who has the honour to remain, with as much affection as
respect, his most humble servitor.

  ROUX AZOLAN, _chasseur_.

  Paris, 5th October, 17**, at eleven o’clock at night.

LETTER THE HUNDRED AND EIGHTH

THE PRÉSIDENTE DE TOURVEL TO MADAME DE ROSEMONDE

O MY indulgent mother, how many thanks I have to render you, and what
need I had of your letter! I have read it again and again; I cannot put
it away from me. I owe to it the few less painful moments I have spent
since my departure. How good you are! Prudence and virtue know then how
to compassionate weakness! You take pity on my ills! Ah, if you knew
them! ... they are terrible. I thought I had experienced the pains of
love; but the inexpressible torment, that which one must have felt to
have any idea of it, is to be separated from the object of one’s love,
to be separated for ever!... Yes, the pain which crushes me to-day will
return to-morrow, the day after, all my life! My God, how young I am
still, and how long a time I have to suffer!

To be one’s self the architect of one’s own misery; to tear out one’s
heart with one’s own hands; and, whilst suffering these insupportable
sorrows, to feel at each instant that one can make them cease with a
word, and that this word is a crime! Ah, my friend!...

When I adopted this painful course, and separated myself from him,
I hoped that absence would augment my courage and my strength: how
greatly I was deceived! It seems, on the contrary, as though it had
completed the work of destruction. I had more to struggle against,
’tis true: but, even while resisting, all was not privation; at least
I sometimes saw him; often even, without daring to direct my eyes
towards him, I felt his own were fixed on me. Yes, my friend, I felt
them; it seemed as though they warmed my soul; and without passing
through my eyes, they none the less arrived at my heart. Now, in my
grievous solitude, isolated from all that is dear to me, closeted with
my misfortune, every moment of my sorrowful existence is marked by my
tears, and nothing sweetens its bitterness; no consolation is mingled
with my sacrifices; and those I have thus far made have only served to
render more dolorous those which are left to make.

Yesterday again, I had a lively feeling of this. Amongst the letters
they brought me, there was one from him; they were still two paces off
from me when I recognized it amongst the rest. I rose involuntarily,
I trembled, I could hardly hide my emotion; and this state was not
altogether unpleasant. A moment later, finding myself alone, this
deceitful sweetness soon vanished, and left me but one sacrifice the
more to make. Could I actually open this letter, which, however, I
burned to read? In the fatality which pursues me, the consolations
which seem to present themselves do nothing, on the contrary, but
impose fresh privations; and those become crueller still from the
thought that M. de Valmont shares them.

There it is at last, that name which so constantly fills my mind, and
which it costs me so much to write; the sort of reproach you make me
really alarmed me. I beg you to believe that a false shame has not
altered my confidence in you; and why should I fear to name him? Ah, I
blush for my sentiments, but not for the object which causes them! Who
other than he is worthy to inspire them? However, I know not why, this
name does not come naturally to my pen; and, even this time, I had need
of reflexion to write it. I return to him.

You tell me that he seemed to you _keenly grieved at my departure_.
What, then, did he do? What did he say? Did he speak of returning to
Paris? I beg you to dissuade him as much as you can. If he has judged
me aright, he cannot bear me any ill-will for this step: but he must
feel also that it is a course from which there is no return. One of
my greatest torments is not to know what he thinks. I have still his
letter there ... but you are surely of my opinion that I ought not to
open it.

It is only through you, my indulgent friend, that I can feel myself
not entirely separated from him. I would not abuse your kindness; I
understand, perfectly, that your letters cannot be long ones: but you
will not deny your child two words; one to sustain her courage, and the
other to console her. Adieu, my venerable friend.

  Paris, 5th October, 17**.

LETTER THE HUNDRED AND NINTH

CÉCILE VOLANGES TO THE MARQUISE DE MERTEUIL

IT is only to-day, Madame, that I have given M. de Valmont the letter
which you have done me the honour to write me. I kept it for four days,
in spite of the alarm which I often felt lest it should be found; but I
concealed it very carefully; and, when my grief once more seized me, I
shut myself up to reperuse it.

I quite see that what I believed to be so great a misfortune is hardly
one at all; and I must confess that there is certainly pleasure in
it: so much so that I hardly grieve about it any more. It is only the
thought of Danceny which still sometimes torments me. But there are
already moments when I do not think of him at all! Moreover it is true
that M. de Valmont is mighty amiable!

I was reconciled with him two days ago: it was very easy for me; for I
had but said two words to him, when he told me that, if I had anything
to say to him, he would come to my chamber in the evening, and I only
had to answer that I was very willing. And then, as soon as he had
come there, he seemed no more vexed than if I had never done anything
to him. He did not scold me till afterwards, and then very gently; and
it was in a manner ... just like you; which proved to me that he also
had much friendship for me. I should not know how to tell you all the
odd things he related to me, and which I never should have believed,
particularly about Mamma. You would give me much pleasure by telling
me if it is all true. What is very sure is that I could not restrain
my laughter; so that once I burst out laughing, which gave us a mighty
fright: for Mamma might have heard; and if she had come to see, what
would have become of me? I am sure she would have sent me to the
convent that very moment.

As we must be prudent, and as M. de Valmont has told me himself that
he would not risk compromising me for anything in the world, we have
agreed that henceforward he should only come to open the door, and that
we should go to his room. In that, there is nothing to fear; I have
already been there, yesterday, and even now, while I write to you, I am
again expecting him to come. Now, Madame, I hope you will not scold me
any more.

There is one thing, however, which has greatly surprised me in your
letter; it is what you tell me against the time when I am married,
with regard to Danceny and M. de Valmont. I fancy that one day, at the
Opera, you told me, on the contrary, that, once married, I could only
love my husband, and that I should even have to forget Danceny: for
that matter, I may have misunderstood you, and I would far rather have
it different, as now I shall not be so much afraid of the time for my
marriage. I even desire it, since I shall have more liberty; and I hope
then that I shall be able to arrange in such a fashion that I need only
think of Danceny. I feel sure that I shall never be really happy except
with him: for the idea of him always torments me now, and I have no
happiness except when I succeed in not thinking of him, which is very
difficult; and, as soon as I think of him, I at once become sad again.

What consoles me a little is that you assure me Danceny will love me
the more for this: but are you quite certain?... Oh, yes, you would not
deceive me! It is amusing, however, that it is Danceny I love, and that
M. de Valmont.... But, as you say, perhaps it is fortunate! Well, we
shall see.

I understood none too well what you said about my fashion of writing.
It seems to me that Danceny finds my letters good as they are. I quite
feel, however, that I ought to tell him nothing of what passes with M.
de Valmont: thus you have no reason to be afraid.

Mamma has not yet spoken to me of my marriage: but let her do so; when
she speaks to me of it, since it is to entrap me, I promise you I shall
know how to lie.

Adieu, my dear, kind friend; I thank you mightily, and I promise you I
will never forget all your kindnesses to me. I must finish now; it is
near one o’clock; so M. de Valmont cannot be long now.

  At the Château de ..., 10th October, 17**.

LETTER THE HUNDRED AND TENTH

THE VICOMTE DE VALMONT TO THE MARQUISE DE MERTEUIL

“_Powers of Heaven! I had a soul for sorrow, grant me one now for
felicity._”[5] It is the tender Saint-Preux, I think, who thus
expresses himself. Better balanced than he, I possess these two
existences at once. Yes, my friend, I am at the same time most happy
and most miserable; and since you have my entire confidence, I owe you
the double relation of my pleasures and my pains.

Know then that my ungrateful Puritan treats me ever with the same
rigour. I am at the fourth letter which has been returned. Perhaps I am
wrong to call it the fourth; for, having excellently well divined, on
the return of the first, that it would be followed by many others, and
being unwilling thus to waste my time, I adopted the course of turning
my complaints into commonplaces, and putting no date: and, since the
second post, it is always the same letter which comes and goes; I
merely change the envelope. If my fair one ends as ordinarily end the
fair, and softens, if only from lassitude, she will keep the missive
at last; and it will be time enough then to pick up the threads. You
see that, with this new manner of correspondence, I cannot be perfectly
well informed.

I have discovered, however, that the fickle creature has changed her
confidant: at least, I have made sure that, since her departure from
the _château_, no letter has come for Madame de Volanges, whilst there
have been two for the old Rosemonde; and, as the latter says nothing
to us of them, as she no longer opens her mouth on the subject of
_her dearest fair_, of whom previously she never ceased to speak, I
concluded that it was she who had her confidence. I presume that, on
one side, the need of speaking of me and, on the other, a little shame
at returning with Madame de Volanges to the subject of a sentiment so
long disavowed have caused this great revolution. I fear that I have
lost by the change: for, the older women grow, the more crabbed and
severe do they become. The first would have told her far more ill of
me: but the latter will say more of love; and the sensitive prude has
far more fear of the sentiment than of the person.

The only means of getting at the facts, is, as you see, to intercept
the clandestine correspondence. I have already sent the order to my
_chasseur_; and I am daily awaiting its execution. So far, I can do
nothing except at random: thus, for the last week, I run my mind
in vain over all recognized means, all those in the novels and in
my private recollections; I can find none which befits either the
circumstances of the adventure or the character of the heroine. The
difficulty would not be to present myself before her, even in the
night, nor again to induce her slumber, and make of her a new Clarissa:
but, after more than two months of care and trouble, to have recourse
to means which are foreign to me! To follow slavishly in the tracks
of others, and triumph without glory!... No, she shall not have _the
pleasures of vice and the honours of virtue_.[6] ’Tis not enough for
me to possess her, I wish her to give herself. Now, for that, I need
not only to penetrate to her presence, but to reach her by her own
consent; to find her alone and with the intention of listening to me;
above all, to close her eyes as to the danger; for if she sees it, she
will know how to surmount it or to die. But the more clearly I see what
I need to do, the more difficult do I find its execution; and though
it should induce you to laugh at me once more, I will confess that
my embarrassment is enhanced in proportion to the extent to which it
occupies me.

My brain would reel, I think, were it not for the lucky distraction
which our common pupil affords me; I owe it to her that I have still
something else to do than compose elegies. Would you believe that this
little girl had taken such fright that three whole days passed before
your letter produced its effect? ’Tis thus that one false idea can
spoil the most fortunate nature! In short, it was not until Saturday
that she came and hovered round me, and stammered out a few words, and
those pronounced in so low a voice, so stifled with shame, that it was
impossible to hear them. But the blush which accompanied them made me
guess their sense. Thus far, I had retained my pride: but, subdued by
so pleasant a repentance, I consented to promise a visit to the fair
penitent that same evening; and this grace on my part was received with
all the gratitude that so great a condescension demanded.

As I never lose sight either of your projects or my own, I resolved
to profit by this occasion to gain a just estimate of the child’s
value, and also to accelerate her education. But to pursue this work
with greater freedom, I found it necessary to change the place of our
_rendez-vous_; for a simple closet, which separates your pupil’s room
from that of her mother, could not inspire sufficient security to allow
her to reveal herself at her ease. I promised myself then _innocently_
to make some noise, which would cause her enough alarm to induce her,
for the future, to seek a safer asylum; this trouble she spared me
again.

The little person loves laughter; and to promote her gaiety, I
bethought myself, during our _entr’actes_, to relate to her all the
scandalous anecdotes which occurred to my mind; and, so as to render
them more piquant and better to fix her attention, I attributed
them all to her mother, whom I was thus pleased to bedaub with vice
and ridicule. It was not without motive that I made this choice; it
encouraged my timid school-girl better than anything else, and I
inspired her, at the same time, with the most profound contempt for
her mother. I have long remarked that, if it be not always necessary
to employ this means to seduce a young girl, it is indispensable, and
often even the most efficacious, when one wishes to deprave her; for
she who does not respect her mother will not respect herself: a moral
truth which I hold to be so useful that I have been glad indeed to have
furnished an example in support of the precept.

Meanwhile, your pupil, who had no thought of morals, was stifling her
laughter every moment; finally, she had almost thought to have burst
out with it. I had no difficulty in persuading her that she had made _a
terrible noise_. I feigned a huge fright, which she easily shared. That
she might the better remember it, I did not give way to the pleasure
of a reappearance, and left her alone, three hours earlier than was
customary; we agreed, therefore, on separating, that, from the morrow,
it was in my room that we should meet.

I have already twice received her there; and in this short period the
scholar has become almost as learned as the master. Yes, in truth, I
have taught her everything, even to complaisances! I have only made an
exception of precautions.

Occupied thus all night, I gain thereby in that I sleep a great portion
of the day; and as the actual society of the _château_ has nothing to
attract me, I hardly appear in the _salon_ for an hour during the day.
To-day, I even adopted the course of eating in my room, and I do not
intend to leave it again, except for short walks. These eccentricities
pass on the ground of my health. I have declared that I am _worn out
with vapours_; I have also announced a little fever. It cost me no more
than to speak in a slow and faint voice. As for the alteration in my
face, trust your pupil for that. “_Love will provide._”[7]

I employ my leisure in meditating means of recovering over my ingrate
the advantages I have lost; and also in composing a sort of catechism
of debauch for the use of my scholar. I amuse myself by mentioning
nothing except by its technical name; and I laugh in advance at the
interesting conversation which this ought to furnish between Gercourt
and herself on the first night of their marriage. Nothing could be more
amusing than the ingenuity with which she makes use already of the
little she knows of this tongue! She has no conception that one can
speak differently. This child is really seductive! The contrast of
naive candour with the language of effrontery does not fail to have an
effect; and, I know not why, but it is only _bizarre_ things which give
me any longer pleasure.

Perhaps, I am abandoning myself overmuch to this, since I am
compromising by it both my time and my health: but I hope that my
feigned malady, besides that it will save me from the _ennui_ of the
drawing-room, will, perhaps, be of some use to me with the rigid
Puritan, whose ferocious virtue is none the less allied with soft
sensibility. I doubt not but that she is already informed of this
mighty event, and I have a great desire to know what she thinks of it;
all the more so in that I will wager she does not fail to attribute
the honour of it to herself. I shall regulate the state of my health
according to the impression which it makes upon her.

Here you are, my fair friend, as fully acquainted with my affairs as I
am myself. I hope to have, shortly, more interesting news to tell you;
and I beg you to believe that, in the pleasure which I promise myself,
I count for much the reward which I expect from you.

  At the Château de ..., 11th October, 17**.

LETTER THE HUNDRED AND ELEVENTH

THE COMTE DE GERCOURT TO MADAME DE VOLANGES

ALL seems to be quiet in this country, Madame; and we expect, from day