to day, the permission to return to France. I hope you will not doubt
that I have always the same eagerness to betake myself thither, and to
tie there the knots which are to unite me to you and to Mademoiselle de
Volanges. Meanwhile, M. le Duc de ***, my cousin, to whom, as you know,
I am under so many obligations, has just informed me of his recall from
Naples. He tells me that he intends to pass through Rome, and to see,
on his road, that part of Italy with which he is not yet acquainted.
He begs me to accompany him on this journey, which will take about six
weeks or two months. I do not hide from you that it would be agreeable
to me to profit by this opportunity; feeling sure that, once married,
I shall with difficulty find the time for other absences than those
which my service demands. Perhaps, also, it would be more proper, to
wait till winter for the wedding, since it will not be till then that
all my kinsmen will be assembled in Paris; and notably M. le Marquis
de ***, to whom I owe my hope of belonging to you. In spite of these
considerations, my plans in this respect will be entirely subordinate
to your own; and if you should have the slightest preference for your
first arrangements, I am ready to abandon mine. I beg you only to let
me know, as early as possible, your intentions on this subject. I will
await your reply here, and it alone shall regulate my action.

I am with respect, Madame, and with all the sentiments that befit a
son, your most humble, etc.

  The Comte DE GERCOURT.

  Bastia, 10th October, 17**.

LETTER THE HUNDRED AND TWELFTH

MADAME DE ROSEMONDE TO THE PRÉSIDENTE DE TOURVEL

(Dictated)

I HAVE only this instant received, my dearest fair, your letter of the
11th,[8] and the gentle reproaches which it contains. Confess that
you were quite disposed to make one more; and that, if you had not
recollected that you were _my daughter_, you would have really scolded
me. Yet you would have been very unjust! It was the desire and hope I
had of being able to reply to you myself which made me postpone this
from day to day; and you see that, even to-day, I am obliged to borrow
the hand of my maid. My wretched rheumatism has come back again; it
has taken up its abode this time in the right arm, and I am absolutely
crippled. That is what it is, young and fresh as you are, to have so
old a friend! One suffers for those incongruities.

As soon as my pains give me a little respite, I promise to have a long
talk with you. In the meantime, I merely tell you that I have received
your two letters; that they would have redoubled, had that been
possible, my tender friendship for you; and that I shall never cease to
take a very lively interest in all that concerns you.

My nephew too is somewhat indisposed, but in no danger, nor is there
need for the least anxiety; it is a slight indisposition which, as it
appears to me, affects his humour more than his health. We see hardly
anything of him now.

His retreat and your departure do not add to the gaiety of our little
circle. The little Volanges, especially, misses you furiously, and
yawns consumedly all day long. Since the last few days, in particular,
she has done us the honour of falling into a profound sleep every
afternoon.

Adieu, my dearest fair; I am always your very good friend, your mamma,
your sister even, did my great age permit that title. In short, I am
attached to you by all the most affectionate sentiments.

  _Signed_: ADELAIDE, for Madame DE ROSEMONDE.

  At the Château de ..., 14th October, 17**.

LETTER THE HUNDRED AND THIRTEENTH

THE MARQUISE DE MERTEUIL TO THE VICOMTE DE VALMONT

I THINK I ought to warn you, Vicomte, that they are beginning to busy
themselves with you in Paris; your absence is remarked there, and they
are already divining the cause. I was yesterday at a very numerous
supper; it was said positively that you were retained in the country
by an unhappy and romantic love: joy was immediately depicted on the
faces of all those envious of your success, and of all the women whom
you have neglected. If you are advised by me, you will not let these
dangerous rumours acquire credit, but will come at once to destroy them
by your presence.

Remember that, if you once allow the idea that you are irresistible to
be lost, you will soon find that it will, as a matter of fact, become
easier to resist you; that your rivals, too, will lose their respect
for you, and dare to combat you: for which of them does not believe
himself stronger than virtue? Reflect above all that, in the multitude
of women whom you have advertised, all those whom you have not had
will endeavour to undeceive the public, whilst the others will exert
themselves to hoodwink it. In short, you must expect to be appreciated,
perhaps, as much below your value, as you have been, hitherto, beyond
it.

Come back, then, Vicomte, and do not sacrifice your reputation to a
puerile caprice. You have done all we wished with the little Volanges;
and as for your Présidente, it is not, apparently, by remaining ten
leagues away from her, that you will get over your fantasy. Do you
think she will come to fetch you? Perhaps she has already ceased to
dream of you, or is only so far occupied with you as to congratulate
herself on having humiliated you. At any rate, here you will be able to
find some opportunity of a brilliant reappearance: and you have need of
one; and even if you insist on your ridiculous adventure, I do not see
how your return can hurt it ... on the contrary.

In effect, if your Présidente _adores you_, as you have so often
told me and said so little to prove, her sole consolation, her sole
pleasure now, must be to talk of you, and to know what you are doing,
what you are saying, what you are thinking, even the slightest detail
which concerns you. These trifles increase in value according to the
extent of the privations one endures. They are the crumbs that fall
from the rich man’s table: he disdains them; but the poor man collects
them greedily. Now the poor Présidente gathers up all these crumbs at
present; and the more she has, the less will be her haste to abandon
herself to her appetite for the rest.

Moreover, since you know her confidant, you cannot doubt but that
each of her letters contains at least one little sermon, and all that
she thinks befitting “_to corroborate her prudence and fortify her
virtue_.”[9] Why, then, leave to the one resources to defend herself,
to the other the means of injuring you?

It is not that I am at all of your opinion as to the loss you believe
you have sustained by the change of confidant. In the first place,
Madame de Volanges hates you, and hatred is always clearer-sighted and
more ingenious than friendship. All the virtue of your old aunt will
not persuade her to speak ill of her dear nephew, for virtue also has
its weaknesses. Next, your fears depend upon a consideration which is
absolutely false.

It is not true that _the older women grow, the more crabbed and severe
they become_. It is betwixt the ages of forty and fifty that their
despair at the sight of their fading faces, their rage at feeling
obliged to abandon their pretensions and the pleasures to which they
still cling, render almost all women scolds and shrews. They need
this long interval to make the great sacrifice in its entirety; but,
as soon as it is consummated, all distribute themselves into two
classes. The most numerous, that of the women who have had nothing
in their favour save their faces and youth, falls into an imbecile
apathy, and only issues from this for the sake of play or of a few
practices of devotion; this kind is always tiresome, often fond of
scolding, sometimes a little mischievous, but rarely malicious. One
cannot tell, either, whether these women are, or are not, severe:
without ideas, without an existence, they repeat indifferently, and
without understanding, all that they hear said, and in themselves
remain absolutely null. The other class, far rarer, but really
precious, is that of the women who, having possessed character, and
not having neglected to cultivate their reason, know how to create an
existence for themselves when that of nature fails them, and adopt the
plan of transferring to their minds the adornments which they had
before employed for their faces. These last have, as a rule, a very
sound judgment and an intelligence at once solid, gay, and gracious.
They replace seductive charms by ingratiating kindness, and even by
sprightliness, the charm of which increases in proportion to their age:
it is thus that they succeed, after a fashion, in attracting youth by
making themselves loved by it. But then, far from being, as you say,
_crabbed and severe_, the habit of indulgence, their long reflexions
upon human frailty, and, above all, the memories of their youth,
through which alone they have a hold on life, would rather place them,
perhaps too much, on the side of complaisance.

What I may say to you, finally, is that, having always sought out old
women, the utility of whose support I recognized at an early age, I
have encountered several amongst them to whom I was led as much by
inclination as interest. I stop there: for nowadays, when you take fire
so quickly and so morally, I should be afraid lest you fell suddenly in
love with your aged aunt, and buried yourself with her in the tomb in
which you have already lived so long. I resume then.

In spite of the state of enchantment in which you seem to be with your
little school-girl, I cannot believe that she counts at all in your
projects. You found her to your hand, you took her: well and good! But
it cannot be that your fancy enters into it. To tell the truth, it is
not even a complete pleasure: you possess absolutely nothing beyond
her person! I do not speak of her heart, in which I do not doubt you
take not the slightest interest; but you do not even fill her head. I
know not whether you have perceived it, but, for myself, I have the
proof of it in the last letter she sent me;[10] I send it you, that
you may judge of it. Observe that when she speaks of you, it is always
as _M. de Valmont_; that all her ideas, even those which you give rise
to, always end in Danceny; and she does not call him Monsieur, it is
plain _Danceny_ always. Thereby, she singles him out from all the rest;
and, even whilst abandoning herself to you, she is familiar only with
him. If such a conquest seems to you _seductive_, if the pleasures she
gives _attach you_, you are assuredly modest and not hard to please!
That you should retain her, I consent to that; it even forms part of my
projects. But it seems to me that it is not worth putting yourself to
a quarter of an hour’s inconvenience; also, that you had best acquire
some dominion over her, and not allow her, for instance, to approach
Danceny until after you have made her forget him a little more.

Before I cease to occupy myself with you, and come to myself, I wish to
tell you again that this means of sickness, which you announce it is
your resolve to employ, is well known and mighty stale. Truly, Vicomte,
you have no invention! I myself repeat myself sometimes, as you are
about to see; but I try to save myself by the details and, above all, I
am justified by success. I am going to try another still, and run after
a new adventure. I admit that it will not have the merit of difficulty;
but at least it will be a distraction, and I am perishing with _ennui_.

I know not why, but, since the adventure of Prévan, Belleroche has
become insupportable. He has redoubled his attention, his tenderness,
his _veneration_ to such a degree that I can no longer submit to it.
His anger seemed to me, at the outset, amusing; it was very necessary,
however, to calm it, for to let him go on would have been to compromise
myself; and there was no means of making him listen to reason. I
adopted the course then of showing him more love, in order to make
an end of it more easily: but he has taken this seriously, and ever
since surfeits me with his eternal delight. I notice, especially, the
insulting trust which he shews in me, and the security with which he
considers me as his for ever. I am really humiliated by it. He must
rate me lightly indeed, if he believes he has worth enough to make me
constant! Did he not tell me recently that I could never have loved
anyone but himself? Oh, for the moment I had need of all my prudence
not to undeceive him on the spot, by telling him how matters stood.
A merry gentleman, forsooth, to think he has exclusive rights! I
admit that he is well made and of a fair enough countenance; but, all
considered, he is, in fact, but a journeyman love-maker. In short, the
moment has come when we must separate.

I have been attempting this for the last fortnight, and have employed,
in turn, coldness, caprice, ill-humour, and quarrels; but the tenacious
personage is not made thus to lose his hold: a more violent method
must be adopted therefore; consequently, I am taking him to my
country-place. We leave the day after to-morrow. With us there will
only be a few uninterested persons, by no means clear-sighted, and we
shall have almost as much liberty as if we were there alone. There
I will surfeit him with love and caresses to such a degree, we will
live there so entirely for one another, that I wager he will be more
desirous than I am myself for the end of this expedition, which he
considers so great a piece of good fortune; and, if he does not return
more weary of me than I am of him, tell me that I know no more than
you, and I will admit it.

My pretext for this sort of retreat is that I wish to busy myself
exclusively with my great law-suit, which, in fact, will be at last
decided at the commencement of the winter. I am very glad of it; for
it is really disagreeable to have one’s whole fortune hanging thus in
the air. ’Tis not that I am at all anxious as to the result; in the
first place, I am in the right, all my lawyers assure me so; and, even
if I were not, I should be maladroit indeed if I knew not how to gain
a suit where my only adversaries are minors, still of immature years,
and their aged guardian! As nothing, however, should be neglected in a
matter of so great importance, I shall have two advocates on my side.
Does not this expedition seem to you gay? However, if it serves me to
win my suit and rid myself of Belleroche, I shall not think the time
wasted.

Now, Vicomte, divine his successor: I give you a hundred guesses. But
what is the use? Do I not know that you never guess anything? Well
then, it is Danceny! You are astonished, are you not? For after all I
am not yet reduced to the education of children! But this one deserves
to form an exception; he has but the graces of youth, and not its
frivolity. His great reserve in society is well calculated to remove
all suspicion, and one finds him only the more amiable, when he lets
himself go in a _tête-à-tête_. Not that I have yet had one with him on
my own account, I am still no more than his confidant; but beneath this
veil of friendship, I believe I discern a very lively taste for me,
and I feel that I am conceiving a great one for him. It were a mighty
pity that so much wit and delicacy should be debased and wasted upon
that little fool of a Volanges! I hope he is deceived in believing that
he loves her: she so little deserves it! ’Tis not that I am jealous
of her; it is because it would be a crime, and I would save Danceny.
I beg you then, Vicomte, to take precautions that he may not approach
_his Cécile_ (as he still has the bad habit of calling her). A first
fancy has always more sway than one thinks; and I should feel sure of
nothing, were he to see her again at present, especially during my
absence. On my return, I charge myself with everything, and answer for
the result.

I thought seriously of taking the young man with me: but, as usual,
I have made a sacrifice to my prudence; moreover I should have been
afraid lest he discovered anything between Belleroche and myself, and
I should be in despair if he were to have the least idea of what was
passing. I would at least offer myself to his imagination as pure and
spotless, such indeed as one should be, to be really worthy of him.

  Paris, 15th October, 17**.

LETTER THE HUNDRED AND FOURTEENTH

THE PRÉSIDENTE DE TOURVEL TO MADAME DE ROSEMONDE

MY dear friend, I yield to the impulse of my grave anxiety; and without
knowing whether you will be able to reply to me, I cannot refrain from
questioning you. The condition of M. de Valmont, which you tell me is
_not dangerous_, does not leave me as much confidence as you appear to
have. It not rarely happens that melancholy and disgust with the world
are the symptoms and precursors of some grave illness; the sufferings
of the body, like those of the mind, make us desirous of solitude; and
often we reproach with ill-humour him who should merely be pitied for
his pain.

It seems to me that he ought at least to consult someone. How is it
that you, who are ill yourself, have not a doctor by your side? My own,
whom I have seen this morning, and whom, I do not conceal from you, I
have indirectly consulted, is of opinion that, in persons naturally
active, this sort of sudden apathy should never be neglected; and, as
he said besides, sicknesses that are not taken in time no longer yield
to treatment. Why let one who is so dear to you incur this risk?

What enhances my anxiety is that I have received no news of him for
four days. My God! Are you not deceiving me as to his condition? Why
should he have suddenly ceased to write? If it were only the effect
of my obstinacy in returning his letters to him, I think he would
have adopted this course sooner. In short, although I do not believe
in presentiments, I have been, for some days past, in a state of
gloom which alarms me. Ah, perhaps I am on the eve of the greatest of
misfortunes!

You would not believe, and I am ashamed to tell you, how pained I
am not to receive those same letters which, however, I should still
refuse to read. I was at least sure that he was thinking of me, and I
saw something which came from him! I did not open those letters, but I
wept when I looked at them: my tears were sweeter and more easy, and
they alone partially dissipated the customary depression in which I
live since my return. I conjure you, my indulgent friend, write to me
yourself as soon as you are able, and, in the meanwhile, have your news
and his sent to me daily.

I perceive that I have hardly said a word as to yourself, but you know
my sentiments, my unlimited attachment, my tender gratitude for your
sensitive friendship; you will pardon my trouble, my mortal sufferings,
the terrible torture of having to dread calamities of which I am,
perhaps, the cause. Great Heaven! this agonizing idea pursues me and
rends my heart: this misfortune was lacking me, and I feel that I was
born to experience all.

Adieu, my dear friend: love me, pity me. Shall I have a letter from you
to-day?

  Paris, 16th October, 17**.

LETTER THE HUNDRED AND FIFTEENTH

THE VICOMTE DE VALMONT TO THE MARQUISE DE MERTEUIL

IT is an incredible thing, my lovely friend, how easily, when two
people are separated, they cease to understand one another. As long as
I was near you, we had never but one same feeling, one like fashion of
seeing things; and, because for nearly three months I have ceased to
see you, we are no longer of the same opinion upon anything. Which of
us two is wrong? You would certainly not hesitate about your reply: but
I, wiser or more polite, do not decide. I am only going to answer your
letter, and continue to expound my conduct.

To begin with, I thank you for the notice you give me of the rumours
which are current about me; but I am not yet uneasy: I believe I am
certain to have something soon wherewith to make them cease. Reassure
yourself; I shall reappear in the world only more celebrated than ever,
and always more worthy of you.

I hope that even the adventure of the little Volanges will be counted
for something to me, although you appear to make so little of it: as
though it were nothing to carry off, in one evening, a young girl from
her cherished lover; to make use of her afterwards as much as one
wishes, and absolutely as one’s own property, without any further
pother; to obtain from her favours which one does not even dare demand
from all the wenches whose trade it is; and this without in the least
distracting her from her tender love; without rendering her inconstant
or even unfaithful: for, as you say, I do not even fill her head! So
that, when my fantasy has passed, I shall restore her to the arms of
her lover, so to speak, without her having perceived anything. Pray,
is this a very ordinary achievement? And then, believe me, once issued
from my hands, the principles which I am imparting to her will not fail
to develop; and I predict that the shy scholar will soon soar upon a
flight fitting to do honour to her master.

If, nevertheless, you prefer the heroic manner, I will shew you the
Présidente, that exemplary model of all the virtues! respected even by
our veriest libertines! of such a virtue that one had given up even the
thought of attacking her! I will show her, I say, forgetting her duties
and her virtue, sacrificing her reputation and two years of prudence,
to run after the happiness of pleasing me, to intoxicate herself with
that of loving me, finding herself sufficiently compensated for such
sacrifices by a word, a glance, things which she will not even always
obtain. I will do more, I will leave her; and either I do not know this
woman, or she will not give me a successor. She will resist her need
of consolation, the habit of pleasure, even the desire of vengeance.
In short, she will have existed only for me; and, be her career short
or long, I alone shall have opened and shut the barrier. Once having
attained this triumph, I will say to my rivals: Behold my handiwork,
and seek throughout the century for a second example!

You will ask me, whence comes to-day this excessive assurance? It is
because for the last week I have been in my fair one’s confidence; she
does not tell me her secrets, but I surprise them. Two letters from her
to Madame de Rosemonde have sufficiently instructed me, and I shall
only read the others out of curiosity. I require absolutely nothing
else to ensure success than to approach her, and I have found the
means. I shall instantly employ them.

You are curious, I believe?... But no, to punish you for not believing
in my inventions, you shall not know them. Once for all, if you had
your deserts, I should withdraw my confidence from you, at least in
this adventure; indeed, were it not for the sweet price you have set
on my success, I should speak of it no further to you. You see that
I am vexed. However, in the hope that you will correct yourself, I
am willing to stop with this slight punishment; and, once more grown
indulgent, will forget my rash projects for a moment, to discuss your
own with you.

There you are then, in the country, which is as tedious as sentiment
and as sad as constancy! And that poor Belleroche! You are not
contented with making him drink the waters of oblivion, you must also
put him to the torture! How does he like it? Does he bear up well
beneath the nausea of love? I would give much to see him become only
the more enamoured; I am curious to see what more efficacious remedy
you would succeed in finding. I pity you, truly, that you have been
compelled to have recourse to that. Once only in my life have I made
love from calculation. I had certainly an excellent reason, since it
was to the Comtesse de ***; and twenty times I was tempted to say,
whilst in her arms, “Madame, I renounce the place I am soliciting;
permit me to retire from that which I occupy.” Wherefore, of all the
women I have had, she is the only one of whom it gives me real pleasure
to speak ill.

As for your own motive, I find it, to tell the truth, of a rare
absurdity; and you were right in believing I should never guess the
successor. What! It is for Danceny you are taking all this trouble!
Oh, my dear friend, leave him to adore _his virtuous Cécile_, and do
not compromise yourself at these childish games. Leave boys to form
themselves in their _nurses’_ hands, or to play with school-girls _at
little innocent games_. How can you burden yourself with a novice, who
will know neither how to take you nor how to leave you, and with whom
all will have to be done by you! I tell you, seriously, I disapprove of
this choice; and however secret it may remain, it will humiliate you at
least in my eyes and in your own conscience.

You have taken, you say, a great fancy to him: nay, nay, you surely
make a mistake; and I even believe I have found the source of your
error. This fine disgust with Belleroche came to you at a time of
famine; and, as Paris offered you no choice, your ideas, which are
always too volatile, turned towards the first object they encountered.
But reflect: on your return you will be able to choose between a
thousand; and if, in fine, you dread the inaction in which you risk
falling if you delay, I offer myself to you to amuse your leisure.

By the time of your arrival, my great affairs will be terminated in
some fashion or other; and assuredly neither the little Volanges nor
the Présidente herself will occupy me so much then as to prevent me
from being with you as much as you desire. Perhaps, even, between now
and then, I shall have already restored the little girl into the
hands of her discreet lover. Without admitting, whatever you may say,
that it is not a pleasure which _attaches_, as it is my intention that
she should retain all her life a superior notion of me to that of all
other men, I have adopted a tone with her, which I could not keep up
long without injuring my health; and, from henceforth, I am only drawn
to her by the care which one owes to family affairs....

[Illustration: Mle. Gérard del. Pauquet sculp.]

You do not understand me?... The fact is that I am awaiting a second
period to confirm my hope, and to assure me that I have thoroughly
succeeded in my projects. Yes, my lovely friend, I have already a first
promise that the husband of my pupil will not run the risk of dying
without posterity; and that the head of the house of Gercourt will
be in future only a cadet of that of Valmont. But let me finish, at
my fantasy, this adventure which I only undertook at your entreaty.
Remember that, if you render Danceny inconstant, you destroy all the
raciness of the story. Consider, finally, that offering, as I do, to
serve you, I have, it seems to me, some right to be preferred.

I count so much on this, that I am not afraid to cross your views, by
endeavouring myself to augment the discreet lover’s tender passion for
the first and worthy object of his choice. Yesterday, having found your
pupil employed in writing to him, after I had first disturbed her at
this sweet occupation for the sake of another, sweeter still, I asked
to see her letter; and as I found it cold and constrained, I made
her feel that it was not thus that she should console her lover, and
persuaded her to write another at my dictation; in which, imitating,
as well as I could, her little prattle, I tried to foster the young
man’s love by a more certain hope. The little person was quite
enchanted, she said, to find herself expressing herself so well; and,
for the future, I am to be charged with the correspondence. What have
I not done for this Danceny? I shall have been at once his friend, his
confidant, his rival and his mistress! Again, at this moment, I am
rendering him the service of saving him from your dangerous chains.
Yes, dangerous without a doubt: for to possess you and lose you is to
buy a moment of happiness with an eternity of regret. Adieu, my lovely
friend; have the courage to dispatch Belleroche as soon as you can.
Leave Danceny alone, and prepare yourself to receive once more, and to
renew to me, the delicious pleasures of our first _liaison_.

P.S. I congratulate you upon the approaching decision of the great
law-suit. I shall be delighted if this happy event occurs during my
reign.

  At the Château de ..., 19th October, 17**.

LETTER THE HUNDRED AND SIXTEENTH

THE CHEVALIER DANCENY TO CÉCILE VOLANGES

MADAME DE MERTEUIL left this morning for the country; thus, my charming
Cécile, I am now deprived of the sole pleasure which remained to me
during your absence, that of talking of you to your friend and mine.
For some time past, she has allowed me to give her that title; and
I have profited by it with all the more eagerness because it seemed
to bring me nearer to you. Lord! how amiable this woman is! And with
what a flattering charm she knows how to endow friendship! It seems as
though that sweet sentiment is embellished and fortified in her by all
that she denies to love. If you knew how she loves you, how it pleases
her to hear me speak of you!... ’Tis that, no doubt, which draws me so
much towards her. What happiness it were, to be able to live entirely
for you both, to pass uninterruptedly from the delights of love to
the sweets of friendship, to consecrate all my existence to it, to be
in some measure the point of union of your mutual attachment, and to
feel always that, in occupying myself with the happiness of the one,
I was working equally for that of the other. Love, love dearly, my
charming friend, this adorable woman. Give greater value still to the
attachment I have for her by participating in it. Since I have tasted
the charm of friendship, I am desirous that you should experience it
in your turn. From pleasures which I do not share with you I seem only
to obtain a half enjoyment. Yes, my Cécile, I would fain surround your
heart with all the softest sentiments, so that its every vibration
might give you a sensation of happiness; and I should still feel that I
could never repay you more than a part of the felicity which I should
derive from you.

Why must it be that these charming projects are only a chimera of
my imagination, and that reality offers me, on the contrary, only
indefinite and dolorous privations? The hope which you had held out to
me of seeing you in the country I see well that I must renounce. I have
no other consolation than that of persuading myself that you do really
find it impossible. And you refrain from telling me this, from grieving
over it with me! Twice already have my complaints on this subject been
left without a reply. Ah! Cécile, Cécile, I do believe that you love me
with all the faculties of your soul; but your soul is not ardent like
my own. Why does it not lie with me to overthrow the obstacles? Why
is it not my interests that have to be considered instead of yours? I
should know how to prove to you that nothing is impossible to love.

You tell me nothing, either, of the duration of this cruel absence:
here, at least, I should perhaps see you. Your charming eyes would
reanimate my drooping soul; their touching expression would reassure
my heart, which has sometimes need of it. Forgive me, my Cécile; this
fear is not a suspicion. I believe in your love, in your constancy. Ah,
I should be too unhappy, if I were to doubt it. But so many obstacles!
And always renewed! I am sad, my friend, very sad. It seems as though
the departure of Madame de Merteuil had renewed in me the sentiment of
all my woes.

Adieu, my Cécile; adieu, my beloved. Remember that your lover is
grieving, and that you alone can restore him to happiness.

  Paris, 17th October, 17**.

LETTER THE HUNDRED AND SEVENTEENTH

CÉCILE VOLANGES TO THE CHEVALIER DANCENY

(Dictated by Valmont)

Do you think then, my dear friend, that I had any need of scolding
to make me sad, when I know that you grieve? And do you doubt that I
suffer as much as you, at all your sorrows? I even share those which I
cause you knowingly; and I have one more than you when I see that you
do not do me justice. Oh! that is not right! Indeed, I see what vexes
you; it is that, the last two times you asked to come here, I did not
answer you: but was the answer such an easy one to give? Do you suppose
I do not know that what you want is very wicked? And yet, if I have
already so much difficulty in refusing you at a distance, pray, what
would it be if you were here? And then, because I had wished to console
you for a moment, I should be sorry all my life.

See, I have nothing to conceal from you; here are my reasons, judge for
yourself. I should, perhaps, have done what you wish, had it not been
for what I have told you, the news that this M. de Gercourt, who is
the cause of all my grief, will not arrive yet awhile; and as Mamma,
for some time past, has shown me much more kindness; as I, on my side,
caress her as much as I can, who knows what I may not be able to
obtain from her? And if we could be happy without my having anything to
reproach myself with, would not that be much better? If I am to believe
what I have been often told, men no longer love their wives so much,
if they have loved them overmuch before they were wives. That fear
restrains me even more than the rest. My friend, are you not sure of my
heart, and will there not be always time?

Listen; I promise you that, though I cannot avoid the misfortune of
marrying M. de Gercourt, whom I hate so much already before I know him,
nothing shall any longer prevent me from being yours as much as I am
able, and even before everything. As I do not care to be loved except
by you, and you must see quite well that, if I do wrong, it is not my
fault, the rest will be just the same to me; provided that you promise
to love me always as much as you do now. But until then, my friend, let
me continue as I am; and ask me no more for a thing which I have good
reasons for declining to do, and which it yet vexes me to refuse you.

I should be very glad, too, if M. de Valmont were not so urgent for
you; it only serves to make me grieve still more. Oh, you have a very
good friend in him, I assure you! He does everything that you would do
yourself. But adieu, my dear love; it was very late when I began to
write to you, and I have spent part of the night over it. I am going to
bed now, and to make up for the lost time. I embrace you, but do not
scold me any more.

  At the Château de ..., 18th October, 17**.

LETTER THE HUNDRED AND EIGHTEENTH

THE CHEVALIER DANCENY TO THE MARQUISE DE MERTEUIL

IF I am to believe my almanack, my adorable friend, it is but two days
that you have been absent; but, if I am to believe my heart, it is two
centuries. Now, I have it from yourself, it is always one’s heart that
one should believe; it is therefore quite time then that you should
return, and all your affairs must be more than finished. How can you
expect me to be interested in your law-suit, when, be it lost or won,
I must equally pay the costs by the tedium of your absence? Oh, how
querulous I feel! And how sad it is to have so fair a subject for
ill-humour, but no right to show it!

Is it not, however, a real infidelity, a black betrayal, to leave your
friend far away from you, after having accustomed him to be unable to
dispense with your presence? In vain will you consult your advocates,
they will find you no justification for this ill-behaviour; and then
those gentry do but talk of reasons, and reasons are not sufficient
answer to sentiments.

For myself, you have told me so often that it was reason which sent
you on this journey, that I have entirely done with it. I will no
longer listen to it, not even when it tells me to forget you. That
is, however, a most reasonable reason: in fact, it would not be so
difficult as you suppose. It would be sufficient merely to lose the
habit of always thinking of you; and nothing here, I assure you, would
recall you to me.

Our loveliest women, those who are said to be the most amiable, are yet
so far below you that they could but give a very feeble idea of you.
I think even that, with practised eyes, the more one thought at first
they resembled you, the more difference one would remark afterwards: in
vain their efforts, in vain their display of all they know, they always
fail in being you; and therein, positively, lies the charm. Unhappily,
when the days are so long, and one is unoccupied, one dreams, one
builds castles in the air, one creates one’s chimera; little by
little the imagination is exalted; one would fain beautify one’s
work, one gathers together all that may please, finally one arrives
at perfection; and, as soon as one is there, the portrait recalls the
model; and one is astonished to find that one has but dreamed of you.

At this very moment, I am again the dupe of an almost similar error.
You will believe, perhaps, that it was in order to occupy myself with
you that I started to write to you? Not at all: it was to distract
myself from you. I had a hundred things to say of which you were not
the object, things which, as you know, interest me very keenly; and it
is from these, nevertheless, that I have been distracted. And since
when, pray, does the charm of friendship divert us from that of love?
Ah, if I were to look closely into the matter, perhaps I should have
a slight reproach to make myself! But hush! Let us forget this little
error, for fear of reverting to it, and let my friend herself ignore
it.

Why, then, are you not here to reply to me, to lead me back if I go
astray, to talk to me of my Cécile, to enhance, if that be possible,
the happiness I derive from her love by the sweet thought that, in
loving her, I love your friend? Yes, I confess it, the love which she
inspires in me has become even more precious since you have been kind
enough to receive my confidence. I love so much to open my heart to
you, to pour my sentiments unreservedly into yours! It seems to me that
I cherish them the more, when you deign to receive them; and again I
look at you and say to myself: It is in her that all my happiness is
bound up.

I have nothing new to tell you with regard to my situation. The last
letter I received from _her_ increases and assures my hope, but delays
it still. However, her motives are so tender and so pure that I can
neither blame her for them nor complain. Perhaps you do not understand
too well what I am telling you; but why are you not here? Although one
may say all to one’s friend, one dare not write it. The secrets of
love, especially, are so delicate that one may not let them go thus
upon their _parole_. If one allows them out sometimes, one must none
the less never let them out of sight; one must, as it were, see them
reach their new refuge. Ah, come back then, my adorable friend; you
see how very necessary is your return. Forget, in short, the _thousand
reasons_ which detain you where you are, or teach me to live where you
are not.

I have the honour to be, etc.

  Paris, 19th October, 17**.

LETTER THE HUNDRED AND NINETEENTH

MADAME DE ROSEMONDE TO THE PRÉSIDENTE DE TOURVEL

ALTHOUGH I am still suffering greatly, my dearest fair, I am
endeavouring to write to you myself, in order to be able to speak to
you of what interests you. My nephew still keeps up his misanthropy. He
sends every day most regularly to ask after my health; but he has not
come once to enquire for himself, although I have begged him to do so.
Thus I see no more of him than if he were in Paris. I met him to-day,
however, in a place where I little expected him. It was in my chapel,
whither I had gone for the first time since my painful indisposition.
I learned to-day that for the last four days he has gone regularly to
hear mass. God grant that this last!

When I entered, he came up to me, and congratulated me most
affectionately on the improved state of my health. As mass was
beginning, I cut short the conversation, which I expected to resume
afterwards; but he had disappeared before I could rejoin him. I will
not hide from you that I found him somewhat changed. But, my dearest
fair, do not make me repent of my confidence in your reason, by a too
lively anxiety; and, above all, rest assured that I would rather choose
to pain than deceive you.

If my nephew continues to keep aloof from me, I will adopt the course,
as soon as I am better, of visiting him in his chamber; and I will
try to penetrate the cause of this singular mania, which, I can well
believe, has something to do with you. I will write and tell you
anything I may find out. Now I take leave of you, as I can no more move
my fingers: besides, if Adelaide knew that I had written, she would
scold me all the evening. Adieu, my dearest fair.

  At the Château de ..., 20th October, 17**.

LETTER THE HUNDRED AND TWENTIETH

THE VICOMTE DE VALMONT TO THE PÈRE ANSELME

(a Bernardine of the monastery of the Rue Saint-Honoré)

I HAVE not the honour of being known to you, Monsieur: but I know of
the entire confidence which Madame la Présidente de Tourvel reposes
in you, and I know, moreover, how much this confidence is deserved. I
believe, then, that I may address myself to you without indiscretion,
in order to obtain a very essential service, truly worthy of your holy
office, and one in which the interests of Madame de Tourvel and myself
are one.

I have in my hands important papers which concern her, which cannot
be entrusted to anybody, and which I would not, and must not, give
up except into her hands. I have no means of informing her of this,
because reasons which, perhaps, you will have heard from her, but which
I do not consider myself authorized to state, have led her to take the
course of refusing all correspondence with me: a course that, to-day,
I confess willingly, I cannot blame, since she could not foresee
events which I myself was very far from expecting, and which were
only rendered possible by that superhuman force which we are forced
to recognize. I beg you, therefore, Monsieur, to be so good as to
inform her of my new resolutions, and to ask her to grant me a private
interview, in which I can, at least in part, repair my errors and, as a
last sacrifice, destroy in her presence the sole existing traces of an
error or fault which has rendered me guilty in her eyes.

It will not be until after this preliminary expiation that I shall dare
to lay at your feet the humiliating confession of my long disorders,
and to entreat your mediation for an even more important and,
unhappily, more difficult reconciliation. May I hope, Monsieur, that
you will not refuse me this precious and necessary aid, and that you
will deign to sustain my weakness and guide my feet into the new way
which I desire most ardently to follow, but which, I blush to confess,
I do not yet know?

I await your reply with the impatience of the repentance which desires
to make reparation, and I beg you to believe me, with equal gratitude
and veneration,

Your most humble, etc.

P.S. I authorize you, Monsieur, should you deem it proper, to
communicate this letter in its entirety to Madame de Tourvel, whom I
shall make it my duty to respect all my life long, and in whom I shall
never cease to honour one whom Heaven has used to bring back my soul to
virtue, by the touching spectacle of her own.

  At the Château de ..., 22nd October, 17**.

LETTER THE HUNDRED AND TWENTY-FIRST

THE MARQUISE DE MERTEUIL TO THE CHEVALIER DANCENY

I HAVE received your letter, my too youthful friend; but, before I
thank you, I must scold you, and I warn you that, if you do not correct
yourself, you shall have no more answers from me. Quit then, if you
will believe me, that tone of flattery, which is no more than jargon,
when it is not the expression of love. Pray, is that the language of
friendship? No, my friend, every sentiment has its befitting speech,
and to make use of any other is to disguise the thought which one
expresses. I am well aware that our frivolous women understand nothing
that is said to them, if it be not translated, in some way, into this
customary jargon; but I confess that I thought I deserved that you
should distinguish between them and me. I am truly grieved, and perhaps
more than I ought to be, that you have judged me so ill.

You will only find then in my letter the qualities which yours lacks:
frankness and simplicity. I will certainly tell you, for instance, that
it would give me great pleasure to see you, and that I am vexed to have
only tiresome people round me instead of people who please me; but this
very phrase you translate thus: _Teach me to live where you are not_;
so that, I suppose, when you are with your mistress, you will not be
able to live unless I make a third. The pity of it! And these women
_who always fail in being me_: perhaps you find that your Cécile also
fails in that! That, however, is the result of a language which, owing
to the abuse made of it nowadays, is even lower than the jargon of
compliments, and has become no more than a mere formula, in which one
no more believes than in a most humble servant.

My friend, when you write to me, let it be to tell me your fashion of
thinking and feeling, and not to send me phrases which I can find,
without your aid, more or less well turned in any novel of the day. I
hope you will not be angry at what I am telling you, even if you should
detect a little ill-humour; for I do not deny I feel some: but, to
avoid even the shadow of the fault for which I reproach you, I will not
tell you that this ill-humour is, perhaps, somewhat augmented by the
distance at which I am from you. It seems to me that, all considered,
you are worth more than a law-suit and two advocates, perhaps, even
more than the _attentive_ Belleroche.

You see that, instead of despairing at my absence, you ought to
congratulate yourself upon it, for I have never paid you so pretty a
compliment. I believe your example is catching, and I, too, am inclined
to flatter you: but nay, I prefer to keep to my frankness; it is that
alone, then, which assures you of my tender friendship, and of the
interest which it inspires in me. It is very sweet to have a young
friend whose heart is occupied elsewhere. That is not the system of all
women, but it is mine. It seems to me that one abandons one’s self with
more pleasure to a sentiment from which one can have nothing to fear:
thus I have passed with you, early enough, perhaps, into the rôle of
confidant. But you choose your mistresses so young that you have made
me perceive for the first time that I begin to grow old! You have acted
well in preparing for yourself a long career of constancy, and I wish
with all my heart that it may be reciprocated.

You are right in yielding to the _pure and tender motives_ which,
according to what you tell me, _delay your happiness_. A long defence
is the only merit left to those who do not resist always; and what I
should find unpardonable in any other than a child like the little
Volanges would be the lack of knowledge how to escape a danger of which
she has been amply forewarned by the confession she has made of her
love. You men have no idea of what virtue is, nor of what it costs
to sacrifice it! But, however incapable a woman may be of reasoning,
she ought to know that, independently of the sin which she commits, a
frailty is the greatest of misfortunes to her; and I cannot conceive
how anyone can ever let herself be caught, if she has time for a
moment’s reflexion on the subject.

Do not proceed to dispute this idea, for it is this which principally
attaches me to you. You will save me from the perils of love; and,
although I have known well enough hitherto to defend myself without
your aid, I consent to be grateful to you for it, and I shall love you
for it the more and better.

Upon this, my dear Chevalier, I pray God to have you in His good and
holy keeping.

  At the Château de ..., 22nd October, 17**.

LETTER THE HUNDRED AND TWENTY-SECOND

MADAME DE ROSEMONDE TO THE PRÉSIDENTE DE TOURVEL

I HAD hoped, my amiable daughter, to be able at last to calm your
anxieties; and I see with grief, on the contrary, that I must still
augment them. Be calm, however; my nephew is not in danger: I cannot
even say that he is really ill. But something extraordinary is
assuredly passing within him. I understand naught of it; but I left
his room with a sentiment of sadness, perhaps even of alarm, which I
reproach myself for causing you to share, although I cannot refrain
from discussing it with you. This is the narrative of what passed: you
may rest assured that it is a faithful one; for, if I were to live
another eighty years, I should never forget the impression which this
sad scene made upon me.

I visited my nephew this morning; I found him writing, surrounded by
sundry heaps of papers which seemed to be the object of his labours. He
was so busied that I was already in the middle of his chamber before he
turned his head to discover who had entered. As soon as he recognized
me, I noticed clearly that, on rising, he made an effort to compose his
features, and it was this fact, perhaps, which further attracted my
attention. In truth, he had made no toilette and wore no powder; but
I found him pale and wan, and, above all, of a changed expression. His
glance, which we have known so gay and keen, was sad and downcast; in
short, between ourselves, I should not have cared for you to see him
thus; for he had a very pathetic air, and most fitting, I dare believe,
to inspire that tender pity which is one of the most dangerous snares
of love.

Although impressed by what I had noticed, I none the less commenced
the conversation as though I had perceived nothing. I spoke to him
first of his health; and, though he did not tell me that it was good,
he nevertheless did not say that it was bad. Thereupon, I complained
of his retirement, which had almost the air of a mania, and I tried to
infuse a little gaiety into my mild reproof; but he only answered, in
heartfelt accents, “It is one wrong the more, I confess; but it shall
be retrieved with the rest.” His expression, even more than his words,
somewhat disturbed my playfulness, and I hastened to tell him that he
attached too much importance to a mere friendly reproach.

We then commenced to talk quietly. He told me soon afterwards that
perhaps an affair, _the most important affair of his life_, would
shortly recall him to Paris: but as I was afraid of guessing it,
my dearest fair, and feared lest this prologue should lead up to a
confidence which I did not desire, I put no question to him, and
contented myself with replying that a little more dissipation would
benefit his health. I added that, this once, I would not press him
to remain, as I loved my friends for themselves; at this simple
expression, he grasped my hands, and, speaking with a vehemence which
I cannot describe to you: “Yes, aunt,” he said me, “love, love well a
nephew who respects and cherishes you; and, as you say, love him for
himself. Do not grieve about his happiness, and do not trouble, with
any regret, the eternal peace which he hopes soon to enjoy. Repeat to
me that you love me, that you forgive me. Yes, you will forgive me, I
know your goodness; but how can I hope for the same indulgence from
those whom I have so greatly offended?” He then stooped over me to
conceal, as I think, the signs of grief which, in spite of himself, the
sound of his voice betrayed to me.

Moved more than I can say, I rose precipitately; and doubtless he
noticed my alarm, for, at once growing more composed: “Pardon me,” he
resumed, “pardon me, Madame; I feel that I am wandering, in spite of my
will. I beg you to forget my remarks, and only to remember my profound
veneration. I shall not fail,” he added, “to come and renew my respects
to you before my departure.” It seemed to me that this last sentence
suggested that I should bring my visit to a conclusion, and I went away.

But the more I reflect upon it, the less can I guess what he wished to
say. What is this affair, _the most important of his life_? On what
ground does he ask my forgiveness? Whence that involuntary emotion when
he spoke to me? I have already asked myself these questions a thousand
times without being able to reply to them. I do not even see anything
therein which relates to you: however, as the eyes of love are more
clear-sighted than those of friendship, I was unwilling to leave you in
ignorance of anything that passed between my nephew and myself.

I have made four attempts to finish this long letter, which would be
longer still, were it not for the fatigue I feel. Adieu, my dearest
fair.

  At the Château de ..., 25th October, 17**.

LETTER THE HUNDRED AND TWENTY-THIRD

THE PÈRE ANSELME TO THE VICOMTE DE VALMONT

I HAVE had the honour of receiving your letter, M. le Vicomte; and
yesterday I betook myself, in accordance with your wishes, to the
person in question. I explained to her the object and the motives of
the visit you had asked me to pay her. Determined as she was upon the
prudent course which she had adopted at first, upon my pointing out
to her that by a refusal she, perhaps, incurred a risk of putting an
obstacle in the way of your happy return, and also of opposing, in some
manner, the merciful decrees of Providence, she consented to receive
your visit, always on condition that it shall be the last, and has
charged me to tell you that she will be at home on Thursday next, the
28th. If this day should not be convenient to you, will you be so good
as to inform her, and appoint another. Your letter will be received.

Meanwhile, M. le Vicomte, permit me to invite you not to delay, without
grave reasons, in order that you may be able to abandon yourself the
sooner and more entirely to the laudable dispositions which you display
to me. Remember that he who hesitates to improve the moment of grace
runs the risk of its being withdrawn from him; that, if the mercy
of God is infinite, yet the use of it is regulated by justice; and
that a moment may come when the God of mercy shall turn into a God of
vengeance.

If you continue to honour me with your confidence, I beg you to believe
that all my attention shall be yours, as soon as you desire it:
however greatly I may be busied, my most important business will ever
be to fulfil the duties of my sacred office, to which I am peculiarly
devoted, and the finest moment of my life will be that in which, by the
blessing of the Almighty, I shall see my efforts prosper. Weak sinners
that we are, we can do nothing by ourselves! But the God who recalls
you can do all; and we shall owe alike to His bounty--you, the constant
desire to be reconciled to Him, and I the means of being your guide. It
is by His aid that I hope soon to convince you that Holy Religion alone
can give, even in this world, that solid and durable happiness which in
the blindness of human passions we seek in vain.

I have the honour to be, with respectful consideration, etc.

  Paris, 25th October, 17**.

LETTER THE HUNDRED AND TWENTY-FOURTH

THE PRÉSIDENTE DE TOURVEL TO MADAME DE ROSEMONDE

IN the midst of the astonishment, in which the news I received
yesterday has thrown me, Madame, I cannot forget the satisfaction which
it must cause you, and I hasten to acquaint you with it. M. de Valmont
is occupied neither with me nor with his love; he only would retrieve
by a more edifying life the faults, or rather the errors, of his
youth. I have been informed of this great event by the Père Anselme,
to whom he applied for future direction, and also in order to contrive
an interview with me, the principal object of which I judge to be the
return of my letters, which he had hitherto retained, in spite of the
request I had made him to the contrary.

Doubtless, I cannot but applaud this happy termination, and felicitate
myself, if, as he states, I am in any way responsible for it. But why
needed it that I should be the instrument, and why should it have cost
me my life’s repose? Could not M. de Valmont’s happiness have been
secured by any other means than my misery? Oh, my indulgent friend,
forgive me this complaint! I know that it is not mine to question the
decrees of God; but whilst I pray to Him ceaselessly, and always in
vain, for strength to conquer my unhappy love, He lavishes it on one
who has not prayed for it, and leaves me without succour, utterly
abandoned to my weakness.

But let me stifle this guilty plaint. Do I not know that the prodigal
son on his return obtained more favour from his father than the son who
had never been absent? What account have we to ask from Him who owes
us nothing. And even were it possible that we had any rights before
Him, what had been my own? Could I boast of a virtue that already I do
but owe to Valmont? He has saved me, and how should I dare complain
if I suffer for his sake! No, my sufferings will be dear to me, if
his happiness is the price. Doubtless, it was needful for him to
return to the common Father. The God who made him must have cherished
His handiwork. He did not create this charming being only to be a
reprobate. ’Tis for me to pay the penalty of my audacious imprudence;
ought I not to have felt that, since it was forbidden me to love him, I
ought never to have allowed myself to see him?

’Tis my fault or my misfortune that I held out too long against this
truth. You are my witness, my dear and venerable friend, that I
submitted to this sacrifice as soon as I recognized its necessity: but
it just failed in being complete, in that M. de Valmont did not share
it. Shall I confess to you that it is this idea which, at present,
torments me most? Insufferable pride, which sweetens the ills we bear
by the thought of those we inflict! Ah, I will conquer this rebellious
heart, I will accustom myself to humiliations!

It is above all to obtain this result that I have at last consented to
receive, on Thursday next, the painful visit of M. de Valmont. Then
I shall hear him tell me himself that I am nothing to him; that the
weak and fugitive impression I had made upon him is entirely effaced!
I shall see his gaze directed towards me without emotion, whilst the
fear of betraying my own will make me lower my eyes. Those same letters
which he refused so long to my repeated requests I shall receive from
his indifference; he will give them up to me as useless things, which
have no further interest for him; and my trembling hands, receiving
this deposit of shame, will feel that it is given to them by a hand
which is firm and tranquil! And then I shall see him depart from me ...
depart for ever; and my eyes, which will follow him, will not see his
own look back to me!

And I have been reserved for so much humiliation! Ah, let me, at least,
make use of it by allowing it to impregnate me with the sentiment of
my weakness.... Yes, these letters, which he no longer cares to keep,
I will religiously preserve. I will impose on myself the shame of
reading them daily until the last traces of them are effaced by my
tears; and his own I will burn as infected by the dangerous poison
which has corrupted my soul. Oh, what is this love then, if it makes us
regret even the risks to which it has exposed us; if one can be afraid
of feeling it still, even when one no longer inspires it? Let us shun
this dire passion, which leaves no choice betwixt misery or shame, nay,
often unites them both: let prudence at least replace virtue.

How far away is Thursday still! Why can I not this instant consummate
the grievous sacrifice, and forget at once its object and its cause!
This visit troubles me; I repent of my promise of it. Alas! What need
has he to see me again? What are we to one another now? If he has
offended me, I forgive him. I congratulate him even on his wish to
repair his faults; I praise him for it. I will do more, I will imitate
him; and I, who have been beguiled by like errors, shall be brought
back by his example. But, since his intention is to flee from me, why
does he begin by seeking me out? What is most urgent for either of us,
is it not that each should forget the other? Doubtless that is so; and
that, henceforth, shall be my sole care.

If you will permit me, my amiable friend, I will come to you in order
to occupy myself with this arduous task. If I have need of succour,
perhaps even of consolation, I will not receive it from any other than
you. You alone know how to understand me and to speak to my heart. Your
precious friendship shall fill my whole existence. Nothing shall seem
too difficult for me to second the care that you must take of yourself.
I shall owe you my tranquillity, my happiness, my virtue, and the fruit
of your kindness to me will be that, at last, I shall become worthy of
it.

I have written very wildly, I think, in this letter; I gather so,
at least, from the trouble which has unceasingly harassed me whilst
writing. If any sentiments occur in it at which I ought to blush, cover
them with the indulgence of your friendship; I rely upon it entirely.
It is not from you that I would hide any of the movements of my heart.

Adieu, my venerable friend. I hope, in a few days, to announce the day
of my arrival.

  Paris, 25th October, 17**.

LETTER THE HUNDRED AND TWENTY-FIFTH

THE VICOMTE DE VALMONT TO THE MARQUISE DE MERTEUIL

BEHOLD her vanquished then, this proud woman who dared to think she
could resist me! Yes, my friend, she is mine, mine entirely; since
yesterday there is nothing left for her to grant me.

I am still too full of my happiness to be able to appreciate it: but
I am amazed at the unknown charm I have experienced. Can it be true,
then, that virtue enhances the value of a woman even at the very
moment of her fall? Nay, let us relegate this puerile notion with
other old wives’ tales. Does one not almost always encounter a more
or less well-feigned resistance at a first triumph? And have I found
elsewhere the charm of which I speak? Yet it is not that of love;
for, after all, if I have sometimes had, with some astounding woman,
moments of weakness which resembled that pusillanimous passion, I
have always known how to overcome them and return to my principles.
Even if the scene of yesterday had carried me, as I believe it did,
somewhat further than I counted on; even if, for a moment, I shared the
trouble and intoxication which I caused, that passing illusion would be
dissipated by now: and nevertheless the same charm subsists. I should
even find, I confess, a sweet enough pleasure in abandoning myself to
it, if it did not cause me some anxiety. Shall I be dominated at my
age, like a school-boy, by an unknown and involuntary sentiment? Nay: I
must before all combat it and understand it.

Perhaps, as far as that goes, I have already caught a glimpse of the
cause! I am pleased with this idea, at any rate, and I would fain have
it true.

In the crowd of women with whom I have hitherto played the part and
performed the functions of lover, I had never yet met one who had not
at least as much desire to give herself as I had to persuade her to it;
I was even in the habit of calling those women prudes who did no more
than meet me half-way, in contrast to so many others whose provocative
defence did but imperfectly conceal the first advances they had made.

Here, on the contrary, I met with a preconceived unfavourable
prejudice, which was subsequently strengthened by the advice and
stories of a spiteful but clear-sighted woman; a natural and extreme
timidity, fortified by an enlightened modesty; an attachment to virtue
directed by religion, with already two years of victory to its account;
finally, a vigorous course of conduct inspired by these different
motives, which all had for their aim escape from my pursuit.

It is not then, as in my other adventures, a mere capitulation, more
or less advantageous, whereof it is easier to take advantage than to
be proud; it is a complete victory, purchased at the cost of a hard
campaign, and determined by cunning manœuvres. ’Tis not surprising,
then, that this success, due to myself alone, should seem all the
more precious to me; and the excess of pleasure which I experienced
when I triumphed, and which I feel still, is no more than the sweet
impression of the sentiment of glory. I cherish this point of view,
which saves me from the humiliation of thinking that I can be in any
manner dependent upon the slave whom I have subjected; that I do not
possess in myself alone the plenitude of my happiness; and that the
power of giving me the whole energy of pleasure should be reserved to
such or such a woman, excluding all the others.

These deliberate reflexions shall regulate my conduct on this important
occasion; and you may rest assured that I will not let myself be
enchained to such a degree that I cannot always play with these new
bonds and break them at my will. But I am talking to you already of my
rupture, while you do not yet know the means by which I have acquired
my rights: read then, and learn to what virtue is exposed when it seeks
to succour folly. I studied so attentively my conversation and the
replies I obtained that I hope to be able to repeat them to you with a
precision that will delight you.

You will see from the copies of the two letters enclosed[11] what
mediator I chose to reconcile me with my fair, and what zeal the holy
personage employed to reunite us. One thing more I must tell you, which
I learned from a letter intercepted in the usual way: the fear and the
petty humiliation of being quitted had somewhat disturbed the austere
Puritan’s prudence, and had filled her head with sentiments which were
none the less interesting because they were not common-sense. It was
after these preliminaries, necessary for you to know, that yesterday,
Thursday the twenty-eighth, the day settled and appointed by the
ingrate, I presented myself before her in the quality of a timid and
repentant slave, to leave her crowned with victory.

It was six o’clock in the evening when I came to the fair recluse; for
since her return her door has been shut to everyone. She attempted to
rise when I was announced; but her trembling knees did not allow her to
remain in this position: she immediately resumed her seat. She showed
signs of impatience, because the servant who had introduced me had some
task to perform in the apartment. We filled up the interval with the
customary compliments. But, in order to waste no time, when moments
were so precious, I carefully examined the locality; and at once my
eye fixed upon the scene of my victory. I could have wished for one
more suitable, although there was an ottoman in that very room. But I
noticed that, facing it, was a portrait of the husband; and I confess
that, with such a singular woman, I was afraid lest one haphazard
glance in that direction should destroy the result of all my labours.
At last, we were left alone and I broached the question.

After having explained, in a few words, that the Père Anselme must have
informed her of the motives of my visit, I complained of the severe
treatment I had been subject to, and dwelt particularly on the _scorn_
which had been displayed me. She defended herself, as I expected; and,
as you would expect yourself, I founded my proofs on the distrust and
fear which I had inspired, on the scandalous flight which had ensued,
her refusal to answer my letters, even to receive them, etc., etc. As
she was commencing a justification which would have been very easy, I
felt bound to interrupt her; and, to obtain pardon for this brusque
proceeding, I covered it at once with a flattery. “If so many charms,”
I went on, “have made so profound an impression on my heart, the effect
of so many virtues has been no less upon my soul. Led away, no doubt,
by my desire to approach them, I dared to deem myself worthy. I do not
reproach you for having judged otherwise; but I am punished for my
mistake.” As she maintained an embarrassed silence, I continued:

“It was my wish, Madame, either to justify myself in your eyes, or to
obtain from you pardon for the wrongs you suppose me to have committed;
so that I can at least end, with a certain tranquillity, days to which
I attach no more value since you have refused to embellish them.”

Here, however, she endeavoured to reply:

“My duty did not permit me....” And the difficulty of completing the
lie, which duty required, did not permit her to finish her phrase. I
resumed, therefore, in a more tender tone: “Is it true that it is from
me you have fled?” “My departure was necessary.” “And that you drive
me away from you?” “It must be so.” “And for ever?” “I must.” I have
no need to tell you that, during this short dialogue, the voice of the
gentle prude was oppressed, and that her eyes were not raised to mine.

I judged it my duty to give this languid scene a touch of animation;
thus, rising with an air of vexation: “Your firmness,” I then said,
“restores to me all my own. Well, yes, Madame, we shall be separated
even more than you think. And you may congratulate yourself at your
leisure over the success of your handiwork.” Somewhat surprised at
this tone of reproach, she sought to reply: “The resolution you have
taken....” said she. “It is but the result of my despair,” I resumed
with passion. “You wished me to be unhappy; I will prove that you
have succeeded even beyond your hopes.” “I desire your happiness,”
she answered. And the sound of her voice began to announce a strong
emotion. Casting myself, therefore, on my knees before her, and in that
dramatic tone which you know is mine: “Ah, cruel one!” I cried. “Can
any happiness exist for me in which you have no share? Where can I find
it away from you? Ah, never, never!” I confess that, in abandoning
myself to this extent, I had counted much on the support of tears;
but, either from ill-disposition, or perhaps owing to the constant and
painful attention I was giving to everything, it was impossible for me
to weep.

Luckily I remembered that, in order to subjugate a woman, all means
are equally good, and that it would be sufficient to astound her
by some great change of manner in order to produce an impression
at once favourable and profound. Thus, for the sensibility which
proved lacking, I substituted terror; and for that, merely changing
the inflexion of my voice, and keeping in the same posture, “Yes,”
I continued, “I make this vow at your feet, to possess you or die.”
As I uttered these last words, our eyes met. I know not what the
timid creature saw, or thought she saw, in mine; but she rose with a
terrified air, and escaped from the arm with which I had encircled
her. It is true, I did nothing to retain her: for I had often remarked
that scenes of despair rendered in too lively a key became ridiculous,
if they were unduly prolonged, or left one only such really tragic
resources as I was very far from wishing to take. However, whilst she
withdrew from me, I added in a low and ominous whisper, but loud enough
for her to hear me: “Well then, death!”

I then rose; and, after a moment’s silence, cast upon her, as if at
random, wild glances, which were none the less clear-sighted and
observant for their distracted air. Her ill-assured attitude, her
heavy breathing, the contraction of all her muscles, the half-raised
position of her trembling arms, all gave sufficient proof to me that
the effect was such as I had wished to produce: but, since, in love,
nothing ever finishes except at close quarters, and we were still at
some distance from one another, it became necessary before all things
to draw together. It was in order to succeed in this, that I passed, as
soon as possible, to an appearance of tranquillity, capable of calming
the effects of so violent a condition, without weakening its impression.

This was my transition: “I am very miserable! It was my wish to live
for your happiness, and I have troubled it. I devote myself for
your peace, and I trouble it too....” Then, with a composed, but
constrained, air: “Forgive me, Madame; little accustomed as I am to
the storms of passion, I know ill how to repress its movements. If I
was wrong to abandon myself to them, at least remember ’tis for the
last time. Ah, be calm, be calm, I conjure you!” And, during this long
speech, I insensibly drew nearer. “If you would have me be calm,”
replied the frightened fair, “pray be more tranquil yourself.” “Ah,
well! yes, I promise you,” said I. I added, in a fainter voice, “If
the effort be great, at least it is not for long. But,” I continued,
with a distraught air, “I came, did I not, to return you your letters?
For mercy’s sake, deign to take them back. This sorrowful sacrifice
remains for me to perform; leave me naught which may tend to diminish
my courage.” And, drawing the precious collection from my pocket:
“Behold,” said I, “the deceitful receptacle of your assurances of
friendship! It bound me to life: take it back from me. Give me thus,
yourself, the signal which must separate me from you for ever....”

Here, my timorous mistress gave way entirely to her tender concern:
“But, M. de Valmont, what is the matter with you, and what is it you
would say? Is not the step which you took yesterday a voluntary one?
Is it not the fruit of your own reflexions? And are they not the
same which led you yourself to approve the inevitable course which
duty has made me adopt?” “Well, then,” I answered, “that course is
responsible for my own.” “And what is that?” “The only one which, while
it separates me from you, can put an end to my pain.” “But answer me,
what is it?” Here I clasped her in my arms, nor did she defend herself
in any way; and, judging from this forgetfulness of the proprieties how
strong and potent was her emotion: “Adorable creature,” said I, risking
a little enthusiasm, “you have no conception of the love which you
inspire in me; you will never know to what an extent you were adored,
and how much dearer this sentiment was to me than existence! May all
your days be calm and fortunate; may they be adorned with all the
happiness which you have ravished from me! Reward this sincere prayer
by a regret, a tear at least; believe that the last sacrifice which I
shall make will not be the most grievous to my heart. Farewell!”

Whilst I spoke thus, I felt her heart throbbing violently; I observed
the changed expression of her face; I saw, above all, that her tears
were choking her and yet were few and painful in their flow. It was
not till then that I resolved to feign departure; when, retaining
me forcibly: “Nay, listen to me,” she said quickly. “Leave me,” I
answered. “You _shall_ listen to me; it is my wish.” “I must flee from
you, I must!” “No,” she cried....

[Illustration: Mlle Gerard del. Bertaux et Dupréel sculp.]

At this last word she flung herself, or rather fell swooning into my
arms. As I was still doubtful of so fortunate a success, I feigned the
utmost alarm; but, alarmed as I was, I led her, or carried her, to
the spot I had originally fixed upon as the field of my triumph; and
in truth she did not return to herself until she was submissive and
already abandoned to her happy conqueror.

Thus far, my lovely friend, you will find, I believe, a purity of
method which will give you pleasure, and you will see that I departed
in nothing from the true principles of that war which, as we have often
remarked, so strongly resembles the real war. Judge me then as though
I had been Frederic or Turenne. I was forced to combat an enemy who
would do nothing but temporize; by scientific manœuvres I obtained the
choice of positions and of the field; I was able to inspire the enemy
with confidence, in order the more easily to catch up with him in his
retreat; I was able to add terror to this feeling before the fight
was engaged; I left nothing to chance, except in my consideration of
a great advantage in case of success, and the certainty of resources
in case of defeat; in short, I did not engage until I had an assured
retreat, by which I could cover and preserve all that I had previously
conquered. That is, I believe, all that one can do: but I am afraid,
at present, lest, like Hannibal, I may be enervated by the delights of
Capua. Now for what has passed since.

I fully expected that such a great event would not be accomplished
without the customary tears and despair; and, if I noticed at first
somewhat more confusion and a sort of shrinking, I attributed both to
the character of the prude: thus, without concerning myself with these
slight differences, which I thought purely local, I simply followed
the highroad of consolation, thoroughly persuaded that, as happens
ordinarily, sensations would assist sentiment, and that a single action
would do more than any speech, which last, however, I did not neglect.
But I met with a really alarming resistance, less indeed from its
excessive character than from the form under which it was displayed.

Imagine a woman seated, of an immovable rigour, and an unchanging face;
having the air neither of thinking, hearing nor understanding; whose
fixed eyes give issue to a continuous stream of tears, which fall,
however, without an effort. Such was Madame de Tourvel, whilst I was
speaking; but, if I tried to recall her attention to me by a caress,
by even the most innocent gesture, this apparent apathy was at once
succeeded by terror, gasping for breath, convulsions, sobs and, at
intervals, cries, but with not an articulate word.

These cries were resumed several times, and always more loudly; the
last even was so violent that I was entirely discouraged by it, and
feared for a moment that I had won a useless victory. I fell back upon
the customary commonplaces; and, amongst their number, found this one:
“And you are in despair because you have made my happiness?” At this
word, the adorable woman turned towards me; and her face, although
still rather wild, had, nevertheless, resumed already its celestial
expression. “Your happiness!” she said. You can guess my answer. “You
are happy then?” I redoubled my protestations. “And happy through me!”
I joined praises and tender speeches. Whilst I was speaking, all her
limbs grew supple; she sank down languorously, leaning back in her
armchair; and yielding to me a hand which I had ventured to take: “I
feel,” said she, “that that idea consoles and relieves me.”

You may judge that, thus shown the way, I no longer left it; it was
really the right and, perhaps, the only one. So that, when I would fain
attempt a second success, I met, at first, with a certain resistance,
and what had passed before rendered me circumspect: but, having
summoned this same idea of my happiness to my aid, I soon perceived
its favourable effects: “You are right;” the tender creature said to
me, “I can no longer support my existence, except in so far as it may
serve to render you happy. I devote myself entirely to that: from this
moment, I give myself to you, and you shall meet, on my side, neither
with refusals nor regrets.” It was with this candour, naive or sublime,
that she abandoned to me her person and her charms, and enhanced my
happiness by participating in it. The intoxication was reciprocal and
complete; and for the first time mine survived the pleasure. I only
left her arms to fall at her knees and swear an eternal love to her;
and, to tell the whole truth, I believed what I said. And, even after
we had separated, the idea of her never left me, and I was obliged to
make an effort in order to distract myself.

Ah, why are you not here at least to counterbalance the charm of the
action by that of the reward? But I shall lose nothing by waiting, is
not that so? And I hope I may consider as settled the happy arrangement
which I proposed to you in my last letter. You see that I fulfil my
word, and that, as I promised you, my affairs will be sufficiently
advanced to enable me to give you a portion of my time. Hasten then to
dismiss your heavy Belleroche, and leave the mawkish Danceny where he
is, to occupy yourself only with me. But what are you doing so long in
the country, that you do not even answer me? Do you know that I should
like to scold you? But happiness tends to indulgence. And then I do not
forget that, in entering once more the ranks of your adorers, I submit
anew to your little fantasies. Remember, however, that the new lover
will lose no whit of the former rights of a friend.

Adieu, as of old.... Yes, _adieu my angel! I send thee all the kisses
of love._

P.S. Do you know that Prévan, after his month of prison, has been
obliged to leave his regiment? It is the news of all Paris to-day.
Truly, he is cruelly punished for a sin which he did not commit, and
your success is complete!

  Paris, 29th October, 17**.

LETTER THE HUNDRED AND TWENTY-SIXTH

MADAME DE ROSEMONDE TO THE PRÉSIDENTE DE TOURVEL

I SHOULD have replied to you before, my amiable child, if the fatigue
consequent on my last letter had not brought back my pains, which
have once more deprived me during these last days of the use of my
arm. I was most anxious to thank you for the good news which you have
given me of my nephew, and I was no less eager to offer you my sincere
congratulations on your own count. One is forced to recognize in this
a real effect of Providence, which, by touching the heart of one, has
also saved the other. Yes, my dearest fair, God, who only wished to try
you, has succoured you at a moment when your strength was exhausted;
and, in spite of your little murmur, you owe Him, methinks, your
thanksgiving. It is not that I do not feel that it would have been
more agreeable to you, if this resolution had come to you first, and
that Valmont’s had been only the consequence of it; it seems even,
humanly speaking, that the rights of our sex would have been better
preserved, and we would not lose any of them! But what are these
slight considerations in view of the important objects which have been
obtained? Does a man who has been saved from shipwreck complain that he
has not had a choice of means?

You will soon find, my dear daughter, that the sorrow which you dread
will alleviate itself; and, even if it were to subsist for ever and in
its entirety, you would none the less feel that it was still easier
to endure than remorse for crime and contempt of yourself. It would
have been useless for me to speak to you earlier with this apparent
severity: love is an involuntary sentiment which prudence can avoid,
but which it could not vanquish, and which, once born, dies only by its
fine death, or from the absolute lack of hope. It is this last case,
in which you are, which gives me the courage and the right to tell you
frankly my opinion. It is cruel to alarm one hopelessly sick, who is no
longer susceptible to aught save consolations and palliation; but it is
right to enlighten a convalescent as to the dangers he has incurred, in
order to inspire him with that prudence of which he has need, and with
submission to counsels which may still be necessary to him.

Since you choose me for your physician, it is as such that I speak
to you, and that I tell you that the little indisposition which you
experience at present, and which perhaps demands some remedies, is
nothing in comparison with the alarming malady from which your recovery
is assured. Next, as your friend, as the friend of a reasonable and
virtuous woman, I will permit myself to add that this passion, which
has subjugated you, already so unfortunate in itself, became even more
so through its object. If I am to believe what is told me, my nephew,
whom I confess I love, perhaps to weakness, and who, indeed, unites
many laudable qualities to many attractions, is not without danger
for women; there are women whom he has wronged, and he sets almost an
equal price upon their seduction and their ruin. Indeed, I believe
that you may have converted him. Never was there a person more worthy
to do this: but so many others have flattered themselves with the same
thought, and their hopes have been deceived, that I love better far to
think you should not be reduced to this resource.

Consider now, my dearest fair, that instead of the many risks you would
have had to run, you will have, besides the repose of your conscience
and your own peace of mind, the satisfaction of having been the
principal cause of Valmont’s happy reformation. For myself, I do not
doubt but that this is, in large part, the result of your courageous
resistance, and that a moment of weakness on your part might have left
my nephew, perhaps, in eternal error. I love to think so, and desire to
see you think the same; you will find in that your first consolations,
and I, fresh reasons for loving you more.

I expect you here within a few days, my amiable daughter, as you have
announced. Come and recover calm and happiness in the same spot where
you had lost it; come, above all, to rejoice with your fond mother that
you have so happily kept the word you gave her, to do nothing unworthy
of her or of yourself!

  At the Château de ..., 30th October, 17**.

LETTER THE HUNDRED AND TWENTY-SEVENTH

THE MARQUISE DE MERTEUIL TO THE VICOMTE DE VALMONT

IF I have not replied to your letter of the 19th, Vicomte, it is not
that I have not had the time; it is quite simply that it put me in a
bad humour, and that I found it lacking in common-sense. I thought,
therefore, that I could not do better than leave it in oblivion: but,
since you come back to it, since you appear to cling to the ideas it
contains, and take my silence for consent, I must tell you plainly what
I think.

I may sometimes have had the pretension to replace in my single person
a whole seraglio; but it has never suited me to make a part of one.
I thought you knew this. Now, at least, when you can no longer be
ignorant of it, you will easily imagine how absurd your proposal must
have appeared to me. I indeed! I am to sacrifice a fancy, and a fresh
fancy moreover, in order to occupy myself with you! And to occupy
myself in what way? By awaiting my turn, like a submissive slave, for
the sublime favours of _Your Highness_! When, forsooth, you want a
moment’s distraction from _that unknown charm_ which _the adorable_,
_the celestial_ Madame de Tourvel has alone made you experience, or
when you are afraid of compromising, in the eyes of _the seductive
Cécile_, the superior idea which it is your good pleasure that she
should preserve of you: then, condescending even to myself, you
will come in search of pleasures, less keen in truth, but without
consequence; and your precious bounties, although somewhat rare, will,
nevertheless, suffice for my happiness!

You, certainly, are rich in your good opinion of yourself: but,
apparently, I am not equally so in modesty; for however I may look at
myself, I cannot find myself reduced to such a point. Perhaps this is a
fault of mine; but I warn you I have many others also.

I have, in especial, that of believing that the _school-boy_, _the
mawkish_ Danceny, who is solely occupied with me, and sacrifices to
me, without making a merit of it, a first passion, even before it has
been satisfied, who, in a word, loves me as one loves at his age, may
work more effectively than you, for all his twenty years, to secure my
happiness and my pleasure. I will even permit myself to add that, if it
were my whim to give him an assistant, it would not be you, at any rate
not at this moment.

And for what reasons, do you ask me? But, to begin with, there might
very well be none: for the caprice which might make me prefer you
could equally cause your exclusion. However, I am quite willing, out
of politeness, to give you the reason of my opinion. It seems to me
that you would have too many sacrifices to make me; and I, instead of
being grateful for them, as you would not fail to expect, should be
capable of believing that you were still my debtor! You quite see that,
far as we are from each other in our fashion of thinking, we cannot
come together again in any manner: and I am afraid that it might need
time, a long time, before I should change my sentiments. When I am
converted, I promise I will inform you. Until then, believe me, make
other arrangements, and keep your kisses; you have so many better
occasions to dispose of them!...

_Adieu, as of old_, say you? But of old, it seems to me, you took a
little more account of me; you had not relegated me entirely to minor
parts; and, above all, you were quite willing to wait until I had said
yes, before making sure of my consent. Be satisfied then, if instead of
bidding you also adieu as of old, I bid you adieu as at present.

Your servant, M. le Vicomte.

  At the Château de ..., 31st October, 17**.

LETTER THE HUNDRED AND TWENTY-EIGHTH

THE PRÉSIDENTE DE TOURVEL TO MADAME DE ROSEMONDE

I ONLY received yesterday, Madame, your tardy reply. It would have
killed me on the instant, if my existence had still been in my own
hands; but another is its possessor, and that other is M. de Valmont.
You see that I hide nothing from you. If you must consider me no longer
worthy of your friendship, I fear even less to lose it than to retain
it by guile. All that I can tell you is that, placed by M. de Valmont
between his death or his happiness, I resolved in favour of the latter.
I neither vaunt myself on this, nor accuse myself; I simply state the
fact.

You will easily understand, after this, what impression your letter
must have made upon me, with the severe truths which it contains. Do
not believe, however, that it was able to give birth to a regret in me,
nor that it can ever cause me to change in sentiment or in conduct. It
is not that I do not have cruel moments: but when I fear that I can no
longer endure my torments, I say to myself: Valmont is happy; and all
vanishes before this idea, or rather it converts all into pleasures.

It is to your nephew then that I have devoted myself; it is for him
that I have ruined myself. He has become the one centre of my thoughts,
my sentiments, my actions. As long as my life is necessary to his
happiness, it will be precious to me, and I shall deem it fortunate.
If some day he thinks differently ... he shall hear from me neither
complaint nor reproach. I have already dared to cast my eyes upon that
fatal moment; and I have resolved on my course.

You see, now, how little I need be affected by the fear you seem to
have, lest one day M. de Valmont should ruin me: for, ere he can wish
for that, he will have ceased to love me; and what will then be vain
reproaches to me which I shall not hear? He alone shall be my judge.
As I shall have lived but for him, it will be in him that my memory
shall repose; and if he is forced to admit that I loved him, I shall be
sufficiently justified.

You have now read, Madame, in my heart. I preferred the misfortune of
losing your esteem by my frankness to that of rendering myself unworthy
of it by the degradation of a lie. I thought I owed this complete
confidence to the kindness you have shewn me. To add one word more
would be to lead you to suspect that I have the vanity to count upon it
still, when, on the contrary, I do myself justice in ceasing to pretend
to it.

I am with respect, Madame, your most humble and obedient servant.

  Paris, 1st November, 17**.

LETTER THE HUNDRED AND TWENTY-NINTH

THE VICOMTE DE VALMONT TO THE MARQUISE DE MERTEUIL

TELL me then, my lovely friend, whence comes the tone of bitterness
and banter which prevails in your last letter? Pray, what crime have
I committed, apparently without suspecting it, which put you in such
ill-humour? You reproach me with having the air of counting on your
consent before I had obtained it: but I believed that what might seem
presumption in the case of everybody could never be taken, between you
and me, for ought save confidence: and since when has that sentiment
done detriment to friendship or to love? In uniting hope to desire,
I did but yield to the natural impulse which makes us ever place the
happiness we seek as near to us as possible; and you took for the
effect of pride what was no more than the result of my eagerness. I
know mighty well that custom has introduced in such a case a respectful
doubt: but you also know that it is but a form, a mere protocol;
and I was authorized, it seems to me, to believe that these minute
precautions were no longer necessary between us.

Methinks, even, that this free and frank method, when it is founded on
an old _liaison_, is far preferable to the insipid flattery which so
often takes the relish out of love. Perhaps, moreover, the value which
I find in this manner does but come from that which I attach to the
happiness which it recalls to me: but, for that very cause, it would be
more painful still for me to see you judge of it otherwise.

That, however, is the only error which I am conscious of; for I do not
imagine that you could have thought seriously that there existed any
woman in the world whom I could prefer to you, and, even less, that I
could appreciate you so ill as you feign to believe. You have looked
at yourself, you tell me, in this connection, and you have not found
yourself reduced to such a point. I well believe it, and it proves
that you have a faithful mirror. But could you not have drawn the
conclusion, with more ease and justice, that I was very certain not to
have judged you so?

I seek in vain for a cause for this strange idea. It seems, however,
that it is due, more or less, to the praises I have permitted myself
to make of other women. At least I infer it, from your affectation of
picking out the epithets _adorable_, _celestial_, _seductive_, which I
made use of in speaking to you of Madame de Tourvel or of the little
Volanges. But are you not aware that these words, more often used by
chance than from reflexion, are less expressive of the account one
takes of the person than of the situation in which one finds one’s self
at the time of speaking? And if, at the very moment when I was keenly
affected either by one or the other, I was none the less desirous of
you; if I showed you a marked preference over both of them; since, in
short, I could not renew our former _liaison_, except to the prejudice
of the two others, I do not find in that so great a matter for reproach.

It will be no more difficult for me to justify myself as to _the
unknown charm_ with which you seem to be also somewhat shocked: for,
to begin with, it does not result that it is stronger from the fact
that it is unknown. Ah, who could give it the palm over the delicious
pleasures which you alone know how to render always fresh, as they are
always keen? I did but wish to tell you, therefore, that it was of
a kind which I had not experienced before, but I did not pretend to
assign a class to it; and I added what I repeat to-day, that, whatever
it may be, I shall know how to combat and to conquer it. I shall bring
even more zeal to this, if I can see in this trivial task a homage to
be offered to you.

As for the little Cécile, I think it hardly necessary to speak of her
to you. You have not forgotten that it was at your request that I
charged myself with the child, and I only await your permission to be
rid of her. I may have remarked upon her ingenuousness and freshness;
I may even, for a moment, have thought her _seductive_, because, in a
more or less degree, one always take pleasure in one’s own handiwork;
but, assuredly, she is not in any way of sufficient consequence to fix
one’s attention upon her.

And now, my lovely friend, I appeal to your justice, to your first
kindness for me, to the long and perfect friendship, the entire
confidence which has since welded the bonds between us: have I deserved
the severe tone which you adopt with me? But how easy it will be for
you to compensate me for it when you like! Say but one word, and you
will see whether all the charms and all the seductions will detain me
here, not for a day, but for a minute. I will fly to your feet and into
your arms, and I will prove to you a thousand times, and in a thousand
manners, that you are, that you will ever be the true sovereign of my
heart.

Adieu, my lovely friend; I await your reply with much eagerness.

  Paris, 3rd November, 17**.

LETTER THE HUNDRED AND THIRTIETH

MADAME DE ROSEMONDE TO THE PRÉSIDENTE DE TOURVEL

AND why, my dearest fair, would you cease to be my child? Why do you
seem to announce to me that all correspondence will cease between
us? Is it to punish me for not having guessed what was against all
probability; or do you suspect me of having guided you wilfully? Nay, I
know your heart too well to believe that it can think thus of mine. The
pain, therefore, which your letter caused me is far less relative to me
than to yourself!

O my youthful friend! I tell it you with sorrow: you are far too worthy
of being loved that ever love should make you happy. Ah! what woman
who was truly delicate and sensitive has not found misfortune in this
very sentiment which promised her so much felicity! Do men know how to
appreciate the woman they possess?

’Tis not that many are not honourable in their actions, and constant
in their affections: but, even amongst these, how few know how to put
themselves in unison with our hearts! Do not suppose, my dear child,
that their love is like our own. Indeed, they experience the same
intoxication, often even they bring more ardour to it; but they do not
know that anxious eagerness, that delicate solicitude, which causes
in us those tender and constant cares of which the beloved object is
ever the single aim. The man’s pleasure lies in the happiness which
he feels, the woman’s in that which she bestows. This difference,
so essential and so little noticed, has, however, a very sensible
influence on the sum of their respective conduct. The pleasure of the
one is ever to gratify his desires; that of the other is, especially,
to arouse them. To please, with him, is but a means to success;
whereas, with her, it is success itself. And coquetry, with which women
are so often reproached, is nothing else than the abuse of this manner
of feeling, and by that very fact proves its reality. In short, that
exclusive taste, which particularly characterizes love, is in the man
naught but a preference, serving at the most to enhance a pleasure
which, perhaps, another object would diminish, but would not destroy;
whilst in women it is a profound sentiment, which not only destroys
every extraneous desire, but which, stronger than nature, and removed
from its dominion, allows them to experience only repugnance and
disgust at the very point where pleasure seems to be born.

And do not deem that more or less numerous exceptions, which one might
quote, can successfully contradict these general truths. They are
guaranteed by the public voice, which has distinguished infidelity
from inconstancy for men alone; a distinction by which they prevail
when they should be humiliated, and which, for our sex, has never been
adopted save by those depraved women who are its shame, and to whom all
means seem good which they hope can save them from the painful feeling
of their baseness.

I had thought, my dearest fair, that it might be of use to you to
have these reflexions to oppose to the chimerical ideas of perfect
happiness with which love never fails to abuse our imagination: the
lying spirit, to which one still clings even when forced to abandon it,
and the loss of which irritates and multiplies the sorrows, already
too real, that are inseparable from a lively passion! This task of
alleviating your pains, or of diminishing their number, is the only one
I would fulfil at this moment. In disorders without remedy it is to the
regimen alone that advice can be applied. The only thing I ask of you
is to remember that to pity a sick person is not to blame him. Who are
we, pray, that any of us should blame another? Let us leave the right
to judge to Him alone who reads in our hearts, and I even dare believe
that, in His paternal sight, a host of virtues may redeem a single
weakness.

But I conjure you, my dear friend, guard yourself above all from those
violent resolutions which are less a proof of strength than of entire
discouragement: do not forget that, in rendering another possessor
of your existence, to employ your own expression, it is not in your
power to deprive your friends of the part of it which they previously
possessed and will never cease to reclaim.

Adieu, my dear daughter; think sometimes of your affectionate mother,
and believe that you will ever be, and above all else, the object of
her dearest thoughts.

  At the Château de ..., 4th November, 17**.

LETTER THE HUNDRED AND THIRTY-FIRST

THE MARQUISE DE MERTEUIL TO THE VICOMTE DE VALMONT

’TIS well done, Vicomte, and I am better pleased with you this time
than the last; but now, let us talk in all friendship, and I hope to
convince you that, for you as for myself, the arrangement which you
appear to desire would be a veritable piece of madness.

Have you not yet remarked that pleasure, which is, in effect, the sole
motive of the union of the two sexes, does not, nevertheless, suffice
to form a _liaison_ between them; and that, if it is preceded by the
desire which attracts, it is no less followed by the disgust which
repels? ’Tis a law of nature which love alone can change; and love:
does one have it when one wills? Yet one needs it ever; and it would
be really too embarrassing, if one had not discovered that it happily
suffices if it exists only on one side. The difficulty has thus been
rendered less by one half, even without much being lost thereby; in
fact, the one derives pleasure from the happiness of loving, the other
from that of pleasing, which is a little less keen indeed, but to which
is added the pleasure of deceiving; that sets up an equilibrium, and
everything is arranged.

But tell me, Vicomte, which of us two will undertake to deceive the
other? You know the story of the two sharpers, who recognized each
other while playing: “We shall make nothing,” said they, “let us divide
the cost of the cards;” and they gave up the game. We had best follow,
believe me, their prudent example, and not lose time together which we
can so well employ elsewhere.

To prove to you that in this I am influenced as much by your interests
as my own, and that I am acting neither from ill-humour nor caprice, I
do not refuse you the price agreed upon between us: I feel perfectly
that each of us will suffice to the other for one night; and I do not
even doubt but that we should know too well how to adorn it, not to
see it end with regret. But do not let us forget that this regret is
necessary to happiness; and, however sweet be our illusion, let us not
believe that it can be lasting.

You see that I am meeting you in my turn, and even before you have yet
set yourself right with me: for, after all, I was to have the first
letter of the celestial prude; however, whether because you still cling
to it, or because you have forgotten the conditions of a bargain which
interests you, perhaps, less than you would fain have me believe,
I have received nothing, absolutely nothing. Yet, unless I make a
mistake, the tender Puritan must write frequently; else what would
she do when she is alone? Surely she has not wit enough to distract
herself? I could have, then, did I wish, some slight reproaches to make
you; but I pass them over in silence, in consideration of a little
temper that I showed, perhaps, in my last letter.

Now, Vicomte, it only remains for me to make one request of you, and
this is again as much for your sake as my own; it is to postpone a
moment which I desire, perhaps, as much as you, but the date of which
must, I think, be deferred until my return to town. On the one hand,
we should not find the necessary freedom here; and, on the other, I
should incur some risk: for it needs but a little jealousy to attach
this tedious Belleroche more closely than ever to my side, although he
now only holds by a thread. He is already driven to exert himself in
order to love me; to such a degree at present that I put as much malice
as prudence into the caresses which I lavish on him. But at the same
time you can see that this would not be a sacrifice to make to you! A
reciprocal infidelity will render the charm far more potent.

Do you know I regret sometimes that we are reduced to these resources!
In the days when we loved--for I believe it was love--I was happy; and
you, Vicomte!... But why be longer concerned with a happiness which
cannot return? Nay, say what you will, such a return is impossible.
First, I should require sacrifices which, assuredly, you could not or
would not make, and which, like enough, I do not deserve; and then, how
is it possible to fix you? Oh, no, no. I will not even occupy myself
with the idea; and, in spite of the pleasure which I derive at the
present moment from writing to you, I far prefer to leave you abruptly.

Adieu, Vicomte.

  At the Château de ..., 6th November, 17**.

LETTER THE HUNDRED AND THIRTY-SECOND

THE PRÉSIDENTE DE TOURVEL TO MADAME DE ROSEMONDE

DEEPLY touched, Madame, with your kindness to me, I would abandon
myself entirely to it, were I not prevented in some sort from accepting
it by the fear of profaning it. Why must it be that, while I see it to
be so precious, I feel at the same time that I am no longer worthy of
it! Ah! I will at least venture to express to you my gratitude; I will
admire above all that indulgent virtue which only knows our frailties
to compassionate them, and whose potent charm preserves so soft and
strong an empire over hearts, even by the side of the charm of love.

But can I still deserve a friendship which no longer suffices for
my happiness? I say the same of your counsels: I feel their worth,
but I cannot follow them. And how should I not believe in a perfect
happiness, when I experience it at this moment? Yes, if men are such
as you say, we ought to shun them; but then Valmont is so far from
resembling them! If, like them, he has that violence of passion which
you call ardour, how far it is surpassed by his delicacy. O my friend!
You talk of sharing my troubles; take a part, then, in my happiness; I
owe it to love, and how greatly does the object enhance its value. You
love your nephew, you say, perhaps, foolishly. Ah, if you did but know
him as I do! I love him with idolatry, and, even so, far less than he
deserves. He may, doubtless, have been led astray by certain errors; he
admits it himself; but who ever knew true love as he does? What more
can I say to you? He feels it as he inspires it.

You will think that this is _one of those chimerical ideas with which
love never fails to abuse our imagination_: but, in that case, why
should he have become more tender, more ardent, when he has nothing
further to obtain? I will confess, before, I found in him an air of
reflexion, of reserve, which rarely abandoned him, and which often
reminded me, in spite of myself, of the cruel and false impressions
which had been given me of him. But, since he has been able to abandon
himself without constraint to the movements of his heart, he seems to
guess all the desires of mine. Who knows if we were not born for each
other! If this happiness was not reserved for me, of being necessary
to his! Ah, if it is an illusion, let me die, then, before it comes to
an end. But no; I am fain to live to cherish, to adore him. Why should
he cease to love me? What other woman could he render happier than me?
And I feel, from my own experience, that the happiness one arouses
is the strongest tie, the only one which really attaches. Yes, it is
this delicious sentiment which ennobles love, which purifies it in
some sort, and makes it worthy of a tender and generous soul, such as
Valmont’s.

Adieu, my dear, my venerable, my indulgent friend. It is in vain that I
would write to you at greater length: here is the hour at which he has
promised to come. Forgive me! But you wish me happiness, and, at this
moment, it is so great that I can scarcely support it.

  Paris, 7th November, 17**.

LETTER THE HUNDRED AND THIRTY-THIRD

THE VICOMTE DE VALMONT TO THE MARQUISE DE MERTEUIL

WHAT, then, my lovely friend, are those sacrifices which you deem I
would not make for you, the reward of which, however, would be to
please you? Let me only know them, and if I hesitate to offer them
to you, I permit you to refuse the homage. Pray, what opinion have
you conceived of me of late, if even in your indulgence you doubt
my sentiments or my energy? Sacrifices which I would not or could
not make! You think, then, that I am in love and subjugated? And you
suspect me of having attached to the person the price which I set upon
success? Ah, thank Heaven, I am not yet reduced to that, and I offer
to prove it to you. Yes, I will prove it to you, even if it should be
at Madame de Tourvel’s expense. After that, assuredly, you can have no
further doubt.

I have been able, without compromising myself, to devote some time to
a woman who has, at least, the merit of being of a sort that is rarely
met with. Perhaps, moreover, the dead season at which this adventure
befell, caused me to abandon myself more to it; and, even now, when the
great current has scarcely begun to flow, it is not surprising that
it should almost entirely occupy me. But remember, please, that it is
scarce eight days since I culled the fruits of three months’ labour. I
have often dallied longer with what was of much less value and had not
cost me so much!... And never did you draw a conclusion from it to my
prejudice.

Besides, would you like to know the true cause of the zeal I am
bringing to bear upon it? I will tell you. This woman is naturally
timid; at first she doubted incessantly of her happiness, and this
doubt sufficed to trouble it: so much so that I am only just beginning
to see the extent of my power in this direction. Yet it was a thing I
was curious to know; and the occasion is not so readily offered as you
may think.

To begin with, for many women pleasure is always pleasure, and never
aught else; and in the sight of these, whatever the title with which
they adorn us, we are never more than factors, mere commissioners,
whose activity is all our merit, and amongst whom he who does the most
is always he who does best.

In another class, perhaps nowadays the most numerous, the celebrity of
the lover, the pleasure of having carried him off from a rival, the
fear of being robbed of him in turn, absorb the women almost entirely:
we count, indeed, more or less, for something in the kind of enjoyment
they obtain; but it depends more on the circumstances than on the
person: it comes to them through us and not from us.

I needed, then, for the purposes of my observation, to find a delicate
and sensitive woman, who made love her sole affair, and who in love
itself saw only her lover; whose emotions, far from following the
common road, ever started from the heart to reach the senses; whom I
have seen, for instance (and I do not speak of the first day), rise
from the moment of enjoyment in despair, and a moment later recover
pleasure in a word which was responsive to her soul. Last, she must
unite to all this that natural candour, grown insurmountable by force
of habit, which would not permit her to dissimulate the least sentiment
of her heart. Now you will admit, such women are rare; and I dare
believe that, failing this one, I should never, perhaps, have met
another. It should not be surprising therefore, that she should hold
me longer than another; and if the trouble that I take with her makes
her happy, perfectly happy, why should I refuse it, especially as it
pleases me instead of being disagreeable to me? But, because the mind
is engaged, does it follow that the heart is caught? Certainly not. Nor
will the value which I admit I set upon this adventure prevent me from
embarking on others, or even from sacrificing it to some more agreeable
one.

I am free to such an extent that I have not even neglected the little
Volanges, whom, nevertheless, I hold so cheap. Her mother brings her
back to town in three days; and yesterday I assured my communications;
a little money to the porter, a few compliments to his wife, did the
business. Can you conceive that Danceny never thought of this simple
method? And then they tell us that love creates ingenuity! On the
contrary, it stupefies those whom it enslaves. Shall not I, then, know
how to defend myself from it? Ah, you may be easy. Already, in a few
days, I am about to weaken the impression, too lively perhaps, which I
have experienced, by dividing it; and, if a simple division will not
do, I will multiply them.

I shall be none the less ready to restore the little school-girl to
her discreet lover as soon as you think proper. It seems to me that
you have no longer any motive for preventing it; and I consent to do
poor Danceny this signal service. ’Tis in truth, the least I can do in
return for those he has done me. He is, at present, in the greatest
anxiety to discover whether he will be received at Madame de Volanges’;
I calm him, to the utmost of my power, by assuring him that I will
contrive his happiness on an early occasion; and, in the meantime, I
continue to charge myself with the correspondence which he means to
resume on the arrival of _his Cécile_. I have already six letters from
him, and I shall, certainly, have one or two more before the happy day.
The lad must have mighty little to do!

But let us leave this childish couple and return to ourselves, so that
I may occupy myself exclusively with the sweet hope your letter gave
me. Yes, without a doubt you will hold me, and I would not pardon
you for doubting it. Pray, have I ever ceased to be constant to you?
Our bonds have been relaxed, but never broken; our pretended rupture
was only an error of our imagination. Our sentiments, our interests
remained none the less united. Like the traveller who returns in
disillusion, I will confess that I deserted happiness to run after
hope; and will say with d’Harcourt:

 “The more strange lands I saw, I loved my country more.”[12]

Please, then, oppose no longer the idea, or rather the sentiment, which
restores you to me; and, after having tasted all the pleasures, in our
different courses, let us enjoy the happiness of feeling that none of
them is comparable with that which we had of old, and which we shall
find more delicious still.

Adieu, my charming friend. I consent to await your return; but hasten
it, I pray you, and do not forget how greatly I desire it.

  Paris, 8th November, 17**.

LETTER THE HUNDRED AND THIRTY-FOURTH

THE MARQUISE DE MERTEUIL TO THE VICOMTE DE VALMONT

TRULY, Vicomte, you are like the children, before whom one cannot say
a word, and to whom one can show nothing because they would at once
lay hold of it! A bare idea which comes to me, upon which I warned
you even that I was not settled--because I speak of it to you, you
take advantage of it to recall my attention to it when I am seeking
to forget it, and to make me, in a measure, participate, in spite of
myself, in your headstrong desires! Is it generous, pray, to leave me
to support the whole burden of prudence alone? I tell you again, and
repeat it more often to myself, the arrangement which you suggest is
really impossible. Even if you were to include all the generosity you
display at this moment, do you suppose that I have not my delicacy
also, or that I should be ready to accept sacrifices which would be
harmful to your happiness?

Now is it not true, Vicomte, that you are under an illusion as to the
sentiment which attaches you to Madame de Tourvel? It is love, or love
has never existed: you deny it in a hundred fashions, but you prove
it in a thousand. What, for instance, of that subterfuge you employ
towards yourself (for I believe you to be sincere with me), which makes
you ascribe to curiosity the desire which you can neither conceal nor
overcome of retaining this woman? Would not one say that you had never
made any other woman happy, perfectly happy? Ah, if you doubt that, you
have but a poor memory! Nay, it is not that. Quite simply, your heart
imposes on your intelligence, and is rewarded with bad arguments: but
I, who have great interest in not being deceived by them, am not so
easily satisfied.

Thus, while remarking your politeness, which has made you rigorously
suppress all the words which you imagined had displeased me, I saw,
nevertheless, that, perhaps without taking notice of it, you none the
less retained the same ideas. ’Tis true, it is no longer the adorable,
the celestial Madame de Tourvel; but it is _an astounding woman_, _a
delicate and sensitive woman_, even to the exclusion of all others; in
short _a rare woman_ and such that _you would never have met another_.
It is the same with that unknown charm, which is not _the strongest_.
Well, so be it: but, since you had never found it before, it is easy
to believe that you would be no more likely to find it in the future,
and the loss you would incur would be none the less irreparable. Either
these are certain symptoms of love, Vicomte, or we must renounce all
hope of ever finding any.

Rest assured that this time I am speaking to you without temper. I have
promised I will no more indulge in it; I recognized too clearly that
it might become a dangerous snare. Believe me, let us be no more than
friends, and let us be content with that. Only do justice to my courage
in defending myself: yes, my courage; for one has sometimes need of it,
if it be only to refrain from taking a course which one feels to be a
bad one.

It is only, then, in order to bring you to my opinion by persuasion
that I am going to answer the question you put as to the sacrifices
which I should exact, and which you could not make. I employ the word
_exact_ expressly, for I am very sure that, in a moment, you will,
indeed, find me over exacting: so much the better! Far from being
annoyed at your refusal, I shall thank you for it. Come, it is not with
you that I care to dissimulate, although, perhaps, I had need do so.

I would exact then--observe my cruelty!--that this rare, this
astounding Madame de Tourvel should become no more to you than an
ordinary woman, merely a woman such as she is: for you must not deceive
yourself; the charm which you think to find in others exists in us,
and it is love alone which so embellishes the beloved object. What I
now require, impossible as it may be, you would, perhaps, make a grand
effort to promise me, to swear it even; but I confess, I should put no
faith in empty words. I could only be convinced by the whole tenor of
your conduct.

Nor is that even all: I should be capricious. The sacrifice of the
little Cécile, which you offer me with so good a grace, I should not
care about at all. I should ask you, on the contrary, to continue this
troublesome service until fresh orders on my part, whether because I
should like thus to abuse my empire, or that, more indulgent or more
just, it would suffice me to dispose of your feelings, without wishing
to thwart your pleasures. Be that as it may, I would fain be obeyed;
and my orders would be very rigorous!

’Tis true that then I should think myself obliged to thank you; and who
knows? Perhaps even to reward you. For instance, I should assuredly
shorten an absence which would become insupportable to me. In short, I
should see you again, Vicomte, and I should see you ... how?... But you
must remember this is no more than a conversation, a plain narrative of
an impossible project, and I would not be the only one to forget it....

Do you know that my law-suit makes me a little uneasy? I wanted, at
last, to know exactly what my prospects were; my advocates, indeed,
quote me sundry laws, and above all many _authorities_, as they call
them: but I cannot see so much reason and justice in them. I am almost
inclined to regret that I declined the compromise. However, I am
reassured when I reflect that the attorney is skilful, the advocate
eloquent, and the plaintiff pretty. If these three arguments were to
be of no more worth, it would be necessary to change the whole course
of affairs; and what, then, would become of the respect for ancient
customs?

This law-suit is now the only thing which retains me here. That of
Belleroche is finished: non-suited, costs divided. He is regretting
this evening’s ball; it is indeed the regret of the unemployed! I will
restore him his complete liberty on my return to town. I make this
grievous sacrifice for him, but am consoled by the generosity he finds
in it.

Adieu, Vicomte; write to me often. The particulars of your pleasures
will recompense me, at least in part, for the tedium I undergo.

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

LETTER THE HUNDRED AND THIRTY-FIFTH

THE PRÉSIDENTE DE TOURVEL TO MADAME DE ROSEMONDE

I AM endeavouring to write to you, without yet knowing if I shall
be able. Ah God! When I think of my last letter, which my excessive
happiness prevented me from continuing! It is the thought of my despair
which overwhelms me now, which leaves me only strength enough to feel
my sorrows, and deprives me of the power of expressing them.

Valmont--Valmont no longer loves me, he has never loved me. Love
does not vanish thus. He deceives me, betrays me, outrages me. All
misfortunes and humiliations that can be heaped together I experience,
and it is from him that they come!

Do not suppose that this is a mere suspicion: I was so far from having
any! I have not even the consolation of a doubt: what could he say to
justify himself?... But what matters it to him! He will not even make
the attempt.... Unhappy wretch! What will thy reproaches and tears
avail with him? He is far from thinking of thee!

’Tis true, then, that he has sacrificed me, exposed me even ... and to
whom?... A low creature.... But what am I saying? Ah, I have even lost
the right to despise her! She has been false to fewer duties, she is
not so guilty as I. Oh, how bitter is the sorrow which is founded upon
remorse! I feel my torments redouble.

Adieu, my dear friend; however unworthy I may have made myself of your
pity, you will still feel it for me, if you can form any idea of what I
suffer.

I have just read over my letter, and I perceive it can tell you
nothing; I will try, then, to master up courage to relate the cruel
incident. It was yesterday; for the first time since my return I was
going to sup abroad. Valmont came to see me at five o’clock; never had
he seemed so fond. He gave me to understand that my project of going
out vexed him, and you may judge that I soon formed that of remaining
with him. However, two hours and a half later, and suddenly, his air
and tone underwent a sensible change. I know not whether I had let fall
something which may have displeased him; be that as it may, shortly
afterwards he pretended to recollect some business which compelled
him to leave me, and went away: not without displaying a very lively
regret, which seemed affectionate, and which I then believed to be
sincere.

Being left alone, I judged it more proper not to excuse myself from
my first engagement since I was at liberty to fulfil it. I completed
my toilette and entered my carriage. Unfortunately, my coachman took
me by way of the Opera, and I was involved in the crowd of people
leaving; four yards in front of me, and in the rank next to my own, I
perceived Valmont’s carriage. My heart instantly palpitated, but it
was not from fear; and my only idea was the desire that my carriage
should go forward. Instead of that, it was his own which was forced to
retreat, and came alongside of mine. I instantly advanced; what was my
astonishment to find a courtesan at his side, one well known as such! I
withdrew, as you may well believe, and I had already seen quite enough
to wound my heart; but you would hardly believe that this same woman,
apparently informed by an odious confidence, never quitted the window
of the carriage, nor ceased to stare at me, with peals of scandalous
laughter.

In the condition of prostration to which I was reduced, I let myself,
nevertheless, be driven to the house where I was to sup; but it was
impossible for me to remain; I felt each instant on the point of
swooning away, and, above all, I could not restrain my tears.

On my return, I wrote to M. de Valmont, and sent him my letter
immediately; he was not at home. Wishing, at any price, to issue from
this state of death, or to confirm it for ever, I sent again with
orders to wait for him; but before midnight my servant returned,
telling me that the coachman, who was back, had told him that his
master would not be home that night. I thought this morning that I had
nothing else to do than ask him for the return of my letters, and beg
him to visit me no more. I have, indeed, given orders to this effect,
but doubtless they were superfluous. It is nearly noon; he has not yet
presented himself, and I have not received a word from him.

Now, my dear friend, I have nothing further to add: you are informed of
everything, and you know my heart. My sole hope is that I may not long
afflict your tender friendship.

  Paris, 15th November, 17**.

LETTER THE HUNDRED AND THIRTY-SIXTH

THE PRÉSIDENTE DE TOURVEL TO THE VICOMTE DE VALMONT

DOUBTLESS, Monsieur, after what passed yesterday, you will not expect
me to receive you again; nor, doubtless, are you at all desirous that
I should! This note, therefore, is written less with the intention of
begging you to come no more, than to request you to return the letters,
which should never have existed, and which, if they may have interested
you for a moment, as proofs of the infatuation you had occasioned, can
only be indifferent to you now that this is dissipated, and that they
only express a sentiment which you have destroyed.

I admit and confess that I am to blame for having shewn in you a
confidence of which so many before me have been victims; in that I
accuse myself alone: but I believed, at least, that I had not deserved
to be handed over by you to insult and contempt. I believed that, in
sacrificing all for you, and losing for you alone my rights to my
own and others’ esteem, I could, nevertheless, expect to be judged
by you not more severely than by the public, whose opinion still
discriminates, by an immense interval, between the frail woman and the
woman who is depraved.

These wrongs, which would be wrongs in the case of anybody, are the
only ones I shall mention. I shall be silent on those of love; your
heart would not understand mine. Adieu, Monsieur.

  Paris, 15th November, 17**.

LETTER THE HUNDRED AND THIRTY-SEVENTH

THE VICOMTE DE VALMONT TO THE PRÉSIDENTE DE TOURVEL

THIS instant only, Madame, has your letter been handed to me; I
shuddered as I read it, and it has left me with barely the strength
to reply to it. What terrible idea, then, do you form of me? Ah,
doubtless, I have my faults, and such faults as I shall never forgive
myself, all my life, even were you to cover them with your indulgence.
But how far from my soul have those ever been with which you reproach
me! What, I! Humiliate you! Degrade you! When I respect you as much as
I cherish you; when I have never felt a moment of pride save when you
judged me worthy of you! You are deceived by appearances, and I admit
they may have seemed against me: but did not your heart contain the
wherewithal to contend against them, and did it not rebel at the mere
thought that it could have a cause of complaint against mine? However,
you believed it. So you not only judged me capable of this atrocious
madness, but you even feared you had exposed yourself to it through
your bounty to me. Ah, if you consider yourself to such a degree
degraded by your love, I am myself, then, all that is vile in your eyes!

Oppressed by the painful emotion which this idea causes me, I am
losing, in repelling it, the time I should employ in destroying it. I
will confess all: I am restrained also by quite another consideration.
Must I retrace facts which I would fain obliterate, and fix your