Dangerous Liaisons by Choderlos De Laclos Translated with an Introduction and Notes by Helen Constantine

Published by the Penguin Group First published in 1782 Published in Penguin Classics 2007 This translation and editorial material copyright (c) Helen Constantine, 2007 ISBN: 978-0-140-44957-0

PART ONE

LETTER ONE

"Cecile Volanges to Sophie Carnay at the Ursuline convent of..."

As you see, my dear Sophie, I am as good as my word, and not spending all my time on frills and furbelows; I shall always have time for you. All the same, I have seen more finery in one single day than in the whole of the four years we spent together; and I do believe the high-and-mighty Tanville will be more humiliated at my first visit to the convent—for I shall be sure to ask for her—than she doubtless supposed we were by all those visits she used to pay us, "en grande toilette." Mamma asks my opinion about everything; she treats me less like a little schoolgirl than she used to. I have my own maid; I have a room and closet at my disposal, and I am writing this at the prettiest little "secretaire;" I have a key to it and can lock away whatever I wish. Mamma has said that I should go and see her every day when she rises; that I do not need to have my hair dressed until dinner, because we shall always be alone; and that she will tell me each day what time I must join her in the afternoon. The remainder of the time is my own and I have my harp, my drawing and my books, just as I had in the convent; except Mother Perpetue is not there to scold me and if I choose to fritter my time away, that is my affair: but as my Sophie is not there to giggle and chatter with, I may as well keep busy.

It is not yet five o'clock; I am not to see Mamma until seven: there is plenty of time to write, if I only had something to tell! But they have not yet breathed a word. And were it not for all the obvious preparations and all the women who keep coming in to do things for me, I should believe no one had the least notion of marrying me, and that it was simply another piece of our dear Josephine's nonsense. But Mamma has told me so often that a young lady should stay in the convent until she marries that, now she has taken me out, I think Josephine must be right.

A carriage has just pulled up outside the door and Mamma has sent word for me to come to her rooms immediately. Could it be "him?" I am not dressed, my hand is shaking and my heart is thumping. I have asked my maid if she knows who is with my mother. She said: 'It's Monsieur C—, for certain,' and laughed. Oh! I think it must be him! I promise to come back and tell you what happens. That is his name, anyway. I must not keep him waiting. Farewell, for a little while.

Oh, how you'll laugh at your poor Cecile! I was so embarrassed! But you would have fallen into the same trap. When I went in to Mamma's room I saw a gentleman in black standing beside her. I curtsied to him as prettily as I could, and stood there, unable to move. You can imagine how I studied him! 'Madame,' he said to my mother, and with a bow in my direction, 'she is a charming young lady, and I am more than ever sensible of the honour you have done me.' I was overcome by such a fit of the shakes at this boldness, my knees gave way; I found an armchair and sat down, flushed and taken aback. No sooner had I sat down than suddenly the man was kneeling in front of me. At that point your poor friend Cecile lost her head; as Mamma said, I was absolutely panic-stricken. I got up and gave a loud shriek...just like that day when there was the thunderstorm. Mamma burst out laughing, saying: 'Whatever is the matter with you? Sit down and give Monsieur your foot.' My dear, the gentleman was actually a shoemaker. I cannot tell you how embarrassed I was! Luckily there was no one there except Mamma. I think when I am married I shall not employ that shoemaker any more.

We are very worldly-wise now, don't you think? Goodbye! It's nearly six and my maid says I have to dress. Goodbye, dear Sophie; I love you just as much as if we were still in the convent.

P.S. I don't know by whom to send this letter so I shall wait for Josephine to arrive.

Paris, 3 August 17

LETTER TWO

"The Marquise de Merteuil to the Vicomte de Valmont at the Chateau de—"

Come back, my dear Vicomte, come back! What are you doing, what can you possibly be doing at the house of an old aunt who has already left her whole estate to you? Leave immediately; I need you. I have had a wonderful idea, and I want to entrust you with carrying it out. These few words should be enough; you ought to be more than honoured by my decision and hasten here to receive my orders on your knees. You abuse my kindness, even though you have no further use for it. And when faced with the alternatives of eternal hatred or excessive indulgence, your happiness requires my goodness to prevail. I want to acquaint you closely with my plans: but swear to me as my faithful chevalier you will not engage in any other affair until you have brought this one to a conclusion. It is worthy of a hero: you will serve both love and revenge; and, finally, it will be one more "rouerie" to put in your Memoirs: yes, in your Memoirs, for I want them to be published one day, and I shall take it upon myself to write them. But let us leave that aside and come back to what I have in mind.

Madame de Volanges is marrying her daughter. It is still a secret, but she told me yesterday. And whom do you think she has decided upon for a son-in-law? The Comte de Gercourt! Who would ever have thought I should become Gercourt's cousin? I am in such a rage...Well, have you not yet guessed? You slowcoach! Do you mean to say you have forgiven him for his affair with the Intendante? And I, do I not have still more to complain about on his account than you do, you monster? But I am calming down and my soul is quiet once more, in the expectation of exacting my revenge.

You have been irritated as many times as I have, by the importance Gercourt attaches to what kind of wife he will have, and the stupid presumption which convinces him that he will escape his inevitable fate. You know his ridiculous predilection for girls educated at convents and his even more ridiculous "penchant" for blondes. As a matter of fact, I wager that in spite of the sixty thousand "livres" the little Volanges girl will bring him, he would never have thought of marriage if her hair was dark or if she had not been to the convent. So let us make a fool of him: he certainly will be one day; I have not the slightest doubt about that. But what would be amusing would be that he should be a fool right from the start. What fun we should have next day hearing him brag about it! For brag he will; and then once you have succeeded in educating the girl, we shall be extremely unlucky if Gercourt, like any other man, does not become the laughing-stock of Paris.

Besides, the heroine of this new romance deserves all your attentions: she is really pretty; only fifteen, a rosebud; truly, impossibly gauche, and lacking in style: but you men are not worried about such things; moreover, she has a certain look of languor that I must admit is rather fetching. Added to that, she comes to you on my recommendation; all you have to do is thank me and do as I bid you.

You will receive this letter tomorrow morning. I insist that you be here tomorrow evening at seven. I shall receive no one until eight, not even the reigning Chevalier: he does not have the head for so large an undertaking. As you can see I have not been blinded by love. At eight o'clock I shall give you back your freedom, and at ten you shall return and have supper with the beautiful creature; for both mother and daughter will sup with me. Adieu, it is midday gone. Soon my thoughts will no longer be of you.

Paris, 4 August 17

LETTER THREE

"Cecile Volanges to Sophie Carnay"

My dear friend, I am still completely in the dark. Yesterday Mamma had a great many people to supper. I was very bored, in spite of it being in my interest to study the men especially. Both the men and the women all looked at me a great deal, and they were whispering; I could tell they were talking about me: it made me blush, I could not help it. I wished I could have prevented it, for I noticed that when the other women were looked at, they did not blush. Or else it is the rouge they wear, which means you cannot see their colour when they are embarrassed. It must be very difficult not to blush when a man stares at you.

What bothered me most was not knowing their opinion of me. I did think I heard the word "pretty" two or three times: but I heard the word "gauche" very plainly; and that must be what they think, for the woman who said it is a relative and a friend of my mother and even appears to have taken an immediate liking to me. She was the only person who spoke a few words to me in the course of the evening. We shall sup tomorrow at her house.

I also heard a man, who I am certain was talking about me, say to somebody after supper: 'We must let her ripen; next winter we shall see.' Perhaps he is the one who is to marry me; but then it would be within the next four months! I should dearly love to know what is going on.

Here comes Josephine and she says she is in a hurry. But I want to tell you about yet another of my faux pas. Oh, I do believe that friend of my mother's is right!

After supper they started playing cards. I went and sat next to Mamma. I don't know how it came about but I fell asleep almost immediately. I was woken by a great guffaw of laughter. I could not tell if they were laughing at me but I think they must have been. I was extremely relieved when Mamma gave me permission to go to bed. It was after eleven, can you believe! Goodbye, my dear Sophie; be true to your friend Cecile. The world is not so amusing as we once imagined, I can tell you.

Paris, 4 August 17

LETTER FOUR

"The Vicomte de Valmont to the Marquise de Merteuil in Paris"

Your orders are charming; and your manner of issuing them even more delightful. You make despotism itself seem something to be cherished. Not for the first time, as you know, do I regret I am no longer your slave. And "monster" though I may be, I can never recall without a pleasurable feeling the days when you bestowed sweeter names upon me. Indeed, I often long to merit them anew and, with you, hold up to the world an example of perfect constancy. But larger matters beckon. It is our destiny to make conquests; we have to follow it. Perhaps we shall meet again at the end of the course; for I have to say, my most beautiful Marquise, without wishing to anger you, that at the very least you follow hard at my heels. Since we separated for the good of society and we both preach the gospel in our different ways, it seems to me that in this mission of love you have made more converts than I have. I know your zeal, your ardent fervour. And if God were to judge us by our works, you would be the patron of a great city some day, whereas your friend would be at most a village saint. This parlance surprises you, does it not? But for the last week I have understood and spoken none other; and it is in order to improve in this respect that I see I am obliged to disobey you.

Do not be angry. Listen to me. I shall confide to you, keeper of all my heart's secrets, the most ambitious plan I have ever conceived.
What are you proposing? That I seduce a young girl who has seen nothing, knows nothing; who would be delivered up to me defenceless, so to speak; who would be certain to be bowled over at my first compliment and who would be swayed perhaps more rapidly by curiosity than by love. Twenty other men would have as much success as I. Not so with the business which occupies my thoughts. Its successful outcome assures me of glory as much as pleasure. The god of love himself, preparing my crown, cannot decide between the myrtle and the laurel, or rather he will weave them together to honour my triumph. You yourself, my love, will be struck with holy awe, and will say with enthusiasm: 'There goes a man after my own heart.'

You know the Presidente de Tourvel: her devotion, her love for her husband, her strict principles? She is the object of my attack. She is the enemy worthy of me. She is the goal I am aiming to reach;

"And though I fail to carry off the prize Still there is honour in the enterprise."

One may quote bad verse when it written by a great poet.

You will know that the President is in Burgundy as a result of an important trial: I hope to make him lose a more important one. His inconsolable better half has to spend the whole of her time during this distressing grass-widowhood here. Mass each day, a few visits to the poor in the canton, prayers morning and evening, solitary walks, pious conversations with my old aunt, and the occasional dreary game of whist. These were to be her only pleasures. I am preparing some more effective ones for her. My guardian angel has led me here for her happiness and for mine. What a fool I was, regretting the twenty-four hours that I was sacrificing out of respect for the conventions. I should be well and truly punished now if I were obliged to return to Paris! Happily four people are needed to play whist; and since there is no one here beside the local curate, my immortal aunt has been very pressing that I should give up a few days to her. I said I would, as you can guess. You cannot imagine how nice she has been to me ever since, and especially how edified she is at seeing me regularly at prayers and Mass. She does not suspect what divinity it is I adore.

So here am I, for the last four days victim of a powerful passion. You know how keen my desire is, how I thrive on obstacles; but what you do not know is how greatly solitude adds to the ardour of desire. I have now but one thought. I think about it by day; I dream of it by night. I really need to have this woman, to save me from the stupidity of being in love with her. For where does frustrated desire lead a man? O delicious pleasure! Come to me, I implore you, make me a happy man and above all bring me peace. How fortunate we are that women defend themselves so badly, or we should be nothing but their timid slaves. At this moment I have feelings of gratitude towards women of easy virtue, which brings me naturally to your feet. I prostrate myself before them to obtain my pardon, and there conclude this too lengthy epistle.

Adieu, my darling: no hard feelings.

From the Chateau de—, 5 August 17

LETTER FIVE

"The Marquise de Merteuil to the Vicomte de Valmont"

Do you know, Vicomte, your letter is uncommonly rude, and I might very well be angered by it. But it is a clear proof to me that you have taken leave of your senses, and that alone has saved you from my indignation. As your generous, sensitive friend, I shall forget the wrong you are doing to me so that I can think about the danger you are in; and however tedious it might be to reason with you, I concede your need of this at present.

You, have the Presidente de Tourvel! What a stupid fantasy! I recognize here your characteristic perverseness in wanting only what you believe to be unobtainable. What does this woman have to recommend her, then? Regular features, I suppose, but quite without expression; a fairly good figure, but she does not move well. And always dressed up in that silly fashion! With all those kerchiefs tied around her bosom and her bodice buttoned right up to her chin! I am telling you this as a friend: two women like that and you would lose all the reputation you have. Just remember that day when she was collecting alms at Saint-Roch, and you thanked me so profusely for affording you that spectacle? I can see her now, about to sink down at every step, her hand held out to that long-haired beanpole of a man, blushing at every bow and always overwhelming someone with her yards of skirt. Who would have thought then that you would one day desire this woman? Really, Vicomte, you should blush yourself and come to your senses. I shall keep your secret.

And besides, look what unpleasant things are in store for you! What rival are you up against? A husband! Don't you feel humiliated by that word? What shame if you fail! And how little glory in success! I would say more. Do not expect to derive any pleasure from this. Does one ever with prudes? I mean the real prudes. They hold back at the very heart of rapture and offer nothing but half-pleasures. That entire abandonment of the self, that delirious ecstasy where pleasure becomes purified by excess, all this wealth of love is unknown to them. I predict this: at very best your Presidente will believe she has given you her all by treating you as she does her husband, and even the tenderest conjugal intimacy is not so very intimate. In this case it is far worse. Your prude is religious, with a simple piety which means she is condemned to being a child for ever. Perhaps you will overcome that obstacle, but do not flatter yourself that you will remove it; you may be able to conquer her love of God but you will not overcome her fear of the Devil; and when you hold your mistress in your arms and feel her heart beating, it will be in fear, not love. Perhaps, had you come to know this woman earlier, you could have made something of her; but she is twenty-two, and she has been married for almost two years. Believe me, Vicomte, when prejudice has become so ingrained in a woman, it is best to leave her to her fate. She will never be anything but a nobody.

Yet it is because of this beauty that you refuse to obey me, that you are burying yourself in your aunt's mausoleum, and renouncing the most delicious adventure, the one best designed to add to your repute! Are you fated to have Gercourt always retain some advantage over you? I am speaking quite neutrally; but at this moment I am tempted to believe you do not deserve your reputation. I am even tempted to withdraw my trust in you. I should never be able to accustom myself to telling my secrets to the lover of Madame de Tourvel.

But you should know the little Volanges girl has already turned one head. Young Danceny is mad about her. He has sung with her. And it must be said that she sings better than schoolgirls normally do. They practise a great many duets and I fancy she is very inclined to try singing in harmony with him; but this Danceny is like a child— he will pay court to someone and not get anywhere. The girl, for her part, is quite timid; but in any case it will be much less amusing than if you had anything to do with it. I am cross and shall pick a quarrel with my Chevalier when he arrives; he would be well-advised to treat me with care. At the moment, for two pins, I would break it off. I am sure if I had the good sense to leave him now he would be in despair, and nothing is so amusing as a despairing lover. He would call me false and I've always liked the word "false." Next to the word "cruel," which one has to go to more trouble to deserve, it is the one that sounds sweetest to a woman's ears. Seriously, I shall think about breaking it off. See what you have done! So I leave it to your conscience. Adieu. Ask your Presidente to remember me in her prayers.

Paris, 7 August 17

LETTER SIX

"The Vicomte de Valmont to the Marquise de Merteuil"

So there is not a woman in the whole world who does not abuse the influence she has acquired! Even you, whom I was wont to call my kind friend, you have ceased to be one, and do not shrink from attacking me concerning the object of my affections! How dare you portray Madame de Tourvel like that!...Any man would pay for such outrageous insolence with his life! Any other woman but you would have deserved punishment at the very least! I beg you not to try me so sorely; I cannot answer for my ability to withstand it. In the name of friendship, wait until I have possessed the woman if you wish to insult her. Do you not know that only pleasure has the right to untie the blindfold from love's eyes?

But what am I saying? Does Madame de Tourvel need to put on an act? No. In order to be adorable, all she has to do is be herself. You say she is plainly dressed; and so she is: all ornament spoils her; everything that hides her detracts from her beauty; in the abandonment of "deshabille" she is truly ravishing. Thanks to the exhaustingly hot weather we are having, I can see her supple curves through her simple linen gown. A single muslin kerchief covers her breasts, and my eyes, covert but penetrating, have already taken the measure of their enchanting contours. Her face, you say, is without expression. But what should it express in the moments when nothing speaks to her heart? No, it is quite true that she does not have, unlike our coquettes, that falseness which sometimes seduces, but invariably deceives. She does not know how to disguise an empty phrase with a studied smile. And though she has the most beautiful teeth in the world, she only laughs at what she finds truly amusing. But you should see what a picture of naive and frank gaiety she presents when we play games; her look of pure joy, goodness and compassion when she is near some poor wretch she is anxious to help. You should see how, especially at the slightest word of praise or flattery, her heavenly face takes on a touching embarrassment, which is quite unaffected!...She is chaste and religious, and you therefore judge her to be cold and lifeless? I think the opposite...What astonishing sensitivity must she have to extend those feelings even to her husband, and carry on loving a person who is never there? What stronger proof could you ask for? And yet I have been able to discover more.

I contrived a walk so that we would need to cross a large ditch. Although she is very nimble, she is yet more timid: you can well understand that a prude would be afraid to take a tumble! She had to entrust herself to me. I held this modest woman in my arms. Our preparations and the carrying-over of my old aunt had made the merry devotee laugh out loud; but the moment I grasped her, with a deliberate awkwardness, our arms entwined around each other. I pressed her bosom against mine; and in that brief interval I felt her heart beating ever more rapidly. A lovely blush came over her face and her embarrassed modesty told me straight away that "her heart had palpitated with love and not with fear." However, my aunt made the same mistake as you and started to say: 'The child is afraid'; but the "child's" charming candour did not allow her to tell a lie, and she naively replied: 'Oh no, but...' That one word told me everything. From that moment on, sweet hope replaced cruel anguish. I shall have this woman. I shall take her away from the husband who defiles her. I shall dare to ravish her even from the God she adores. How delicious to be both object and conqueror of her remorse! Far be it from me to destroy the prejudices which beset her! They will only add to my happiness and my triumph. Let her believe in virtue, but let her sacrifice it for my sake; let her be terrified by her sins but unable to prevent herself committing them; and, agitated by a thousand terrors, let her be able to forget and overcome them only in my arms. May she say, with my consent: I adore you. She alone of all women will be worthy to utter those words. I shall indeed be the god she worships before all others.

Let us be frank: in our own relationship, unemotional as it is uncomplicated, what we call happiness is scarcely a pleasure. Shall I tell you plainly? I thought my heart had withered away, and with nothing but sensualities left to me I was bemoaning my premature old age. Madame de Tourvel has given me back the charming illusions of my youth. When I am with her I have no need to pretend to be happy.
The only thing which frightens me is the time this affair will take me; for I cannot risk leaving anything to chance. It is no use reminding myself of bold strategies that have succeeded in the past; I cannot make up my mind to use them. If I am to be truly happy she must give herself to me. And it is no small matter.

I am certain you will admire my prudence. The word 'love' has not yet been uttered, but we already talk about 'confidence' and 'interest'. So in order to deceive her as little as possible, and especially to forestall what might happen if she were to hear rumours about me, I have myself told her, as though admitting my faults, some of my more famous traits. You would laugh to see how solemnly she preaches at me. She says she wishes to convert me. She does not yet suspect what it will cost her to try. She is a long way from supposing that "by pleading for the unfortunate women I have deceived," in her parlance, she is pleading her own cause in advance. This idea struck me yesterday in the middle of one of her sermons, and I could not resist interrupting, to assure her that she spoke like one of the prophets. Farewell, my dearest. As you see, I am not quite a lost cause.

P.S. By the way, has that poor Chevalier killed himself yet in desperation? Truly you are a hundred times worse than I am, and if I had any self-respect you would put me to shame.

From the Chateau de—, 9 August 17

LETTER SEVEN

"Cecile Volanges to Sophie Carnay"

If I have not mentioned my marriage, it is because I know no more than I did at the outset. I have got into the habit of not thinking about it, and I am finding this life rather to my liking. I study singing and the harp a great deal; it seems to me that I like them better since I no longer have a music master, or rather it is because I have a better one. Monsieur le Chevalier Danceny, the gentleman I told you about whom I sang with at Madame de Merteuil's, is good enough to come here every day and sing with me for hours at a time. He is extremely nice. He sings like an angel and composes very pretty tunes, for which he also writes the words. What a shame he is a Knight of Malta! It seems to me that were he to marry, he would make his wife very happy...He is gentle and charming. He never seems to be paying me a compliment and yet everything he says is flattering. He corrects me constantly, in music and in other things; but there is so much enthusiasm and good humour mingled with his criticism that it is impossible not to be grateful. He has only to look at you and you think he is saying something agreeable. On top of all that he is most obliging. For example yesterday he was invited to an important concert but he chose to stay the whole evening at Mamma's. I was exceedingly pleased; for when he is not there nobody talks to me and I am bored. But when he is there we sing and chat to one another. He always has something to tell me. He and Madame de Merteuil are the only two people I really like. But farewell, my dear friend. I have promised to get by heart a little aria whose accompaniment is very difficult, and I don't wish to break my word. I shall go back to my work until he arrives.

From—, 7 August 17

LETTER EIGHT

"The Presidente de Tourvel to Madame de Volanges"

I could not be more sensible of the confidence you place in me, Madame, nor could anyone be more anxious than I to establish Mademoiselle de Volanges in society. It is indeed with all my heart that I wish her a happiness which I am sure she deserves, and which I am certain may be safely entrusted to your wisdom. I am not acquainted with Monsieur le Comte de Gercourt; but since you have honoured him by your choice I can only form a most advantageous opinion of him. I shall simply send my best wishes, Madame, for a marriage as happy and successful as my own, which is also your doing, and for which my gratitude increases every day. May the happiness of your daughter be your reward for the happiness you have obtained for me; and may the best of friends be also the most blessed of mothers!

I am truly sorry I may not offer you the expression of my sincere good wishes in person and make the acquaintance of Mademoiselle de Volanges as soon as I would wish. Since your kindness to me has been truly that of a mother, I may surely expect from her the tender affection of a sister. Would you kindly beg her, Madame, to extend those feelings to me, until such time as I am in a position to deserve them.

I intend to stay in the country for the whole period of Monsieur de Tourvel's absence. I am spending this time enjoying and benefiting from the company of the estimable Madame de Rosemonde. This woman is always charming; her great age takes nothing away from her; she has not lost her memory or her sense of fun. Only in body is she eighty-four years old; in spirit she is but twenty.

Our retirement here is enlivened by her nephew the Vicomte de Valmont, who has consented to give up a few days of his time for us.
I only knew him by reputation, and that gave me very little desire to get to know him better; but he seems to me to be worthier than people think. Here, where he is not affected adversely by the social whirl, he shows a surprising capacity for serious conversation, and blames himself for his misdemeanours with unusual candour. He confides in me most freely, and I lecture him very severely. You, who know him, will agree it would be wonderful to make a convert of him. But despite his promises, I am well aware that a week in Paris will make him forget all my sermons. At least his stay here will somewhat restrict the way he normally behaves; and I think that, judging from how he generally conducts his life, the best thing he could do is to do nothing at all. He knows that I am engaged in writing to you, and has asked me to send you his regards. Be so good as to accept mine also and do not doubt that I remain your sincere friend, etc.

From the Chateau de—, 9 August 17

LETTER NINE

"Madame de Volanges to the Presidente de Tourvel"

I have never been in any doubt, my dear young friend, about your friendship, nor the sincere interest you take in all of my concerns.
But it is not to clarify this point, which is, I trust, henceforth understood between us, that I am sending you this reply: I believe it is imperative that I should have a few words with you about the Vicomte de Valmont.

I confess I never expected to come across that name in your letters. Indeed, what can you two have in common? You do not know this man; where could you have learned about the soul of a libertine? You talk about his "unusual candour:" ah yes! Valmont's candour really must be very unusual. He is even more duplicitous and dangerous than he is charming and seductive, and never from his most tender years has he taken one step or spoken one word without having some scheme or other; never has he had a scheme which was not dishonourable or wicked. My dear, you know me; you know that, among the virtues I try to acquire, tolerance is the one I most cherish. So, if Valmont were carried along by the fire of his passion, or if, like a thousand others, he were led astray into errors common to the age, then, while blaming him for his conduct, I should sympathize with him; I should hold my tongue and wait for him to turn over a new leaf and once again earn the esteem of respectable people. But that is not Valmont. His conduct is the result of his principles. He can calculate how far a man may permit himself to do dreadful deeds without compromising himself; and so that he may be wicked and cruel with impunity he has chosen women to be his victims. I shall not stop to count all the women he has seduced; but how many of them has he not ruined? These scandalous stories do not reach your ears in the modest seclusion you live in. I could tell you some which would make you shudder; but your sight, as pure as your soul, would be sullied by such images. You are certain that Valmont will never pose a danger for you, and that you have no need of such weapons to defend yourself. All I will say to you is that, among all the women he has pursued, whether or not he has had any success with them, there is not one who has not had reason to regret it. Madame de Merteuil is the sole exception to this rule. She is the only one to have been able to resist and control his wicked behaviour. I must admit that this aspect of her life is the one which does her most credit to my way of thinking; and it was sufficient to vindicate her completely in the eyes of society, whatever reckless behaviour she may have been blamed for at the beginning of her widowhood.

In any case, my dear, what age, experience and most of all friendship give me the right to say to you is that people are starting to notice that Valmont is not around; and if they get to know that he has stayed alone with you and his aunt, your reputation will be in his hands. And that is the worst misfortune that can befall any woman. I advise you then to persuade his aunt not to keep him any longer; and if he insists on staying, I think you should not hesitate to leave yourself. Why should he stay? What can he be doing in the country? If you were to have his movements watched, I am certain you would discover that he has only been placing himself in a more convenient position to carry out some blackguardly deed in the neighbourhood. But though we may not remedy the evil, let us make sure it does not happen to us.

Farewell, my dear friend; the marriage of my daughter has been delayed a little. The Comte de Gercourt, whom we were daily expecting, writes to say that his regiment is in Corsica. And as there are still war manoeuvres in progress it will be impossible for him to get away before the winter. It is most inconvenient. But it gives me hope that we shall now have the pleasure of seeing you at the wedding; I should have been disappointed if it had taken place without you. Goodbye; I am unreservedly and sincerely yours.

P.S. Remember me to Madame de Rosemonde who, as ever, has my loving regard, as she well deserves.

From—, 11 August 17

LETTER TEN

"The Marquise de Merteuil to the Vicomte de Valmont"

Are you sulking, Vicomte? Or dead? Or are you living only for your Presidente, which comes to very much the same thing? This woman who has given you back "the illusions of your youth" will also give you back its silly prejudices before very long. There you are, in a state of timid servitude already. You might as well be in love. You renounce your "bold strategies that have succeeded in the past." So you are behaving in an unprincipled fashion, leaving everything to chance, or rather the whim of the moment. Do you not remember that love is, like medicine, "only the art of giving Nature a hand?" You see I am attacking you with your own weapons. But I shall not take any pride in it, or I should be beating a man who is down. "She must give herself," you tell me. Ha! No doubt she must; so she will give herself, as the others have done, except that she will give herself with a bad grace. But so that she may end by giving herself, the proper thing to do is to take her at the outset. What a silly distinction—and typical of the illogicality of love. Yes, love; for you are in love. Were I to call it by any other name, I should be deceiving you; I should be hiding your malady from you. So tell me then, my languorous lover, do you believe you have "raped" the women you have had? However much a woman wants to give herself, however eager she is to do it, she must still have a pretext; and is there a more convenient one than that which makes it seem she is yielding to force? I confess that, as far as I am concerned, one of the things which flatters me most is a vigorous and skilful attack, where everything happens in an ordered fashion, though rapidly; it never puts us in the painful or embarrassing position of needing to make amends for some "gaucherie" which we should have profited from instead; it keeps up the semblance of violence even in the granting of our favours, and cleverly flatters our two favourite passions:
the glory of defence and the pleasure of defeat. I acknowledge that this talent, rarer than one might think, has always given me pleasure, even when it has not prevailed, and I have on occasion capitulated, solely as a reward. It is just as it was in the jousting matches of old, when Beauty bestowed the prize for skill and valour.

But you, no longer yourself, are behaving as if you were afraid of success. Why? Since when have you travelled in short stages and by the side roads? My friend, when you wish to reach your destination, travel by the post-chaise and the high road! But let us leave this subject, which makes me crosser and crosser the more it deprives me of the pleasure of your company. At least write to me more often than you do, and tell me what progress you are making. Do you realize this silly affair has been taking up almost two weeks of your time, and that you are neglecting everyone?

Speaking of neglect, you are like those people who regularly send for news of their friends who are ill, but who never wait for an answer. You ended your last letter by asking me if the Chevalier was dead. I did not reply, and you did not trouble to ask again. Have you forgotten that my lover is your bosom friend? But rest assured, he is not dead; or if he were it would be because he had expired from joy. How tender-hearted he is, this poor Chevalier! Just made for loving! How acutely he feels things! My head is whirling. Seriously, the perfect happiness he finds in being loved by me has made me form a real attachment to him.

How happy I made him on the very day I wrote to you that I had in mind to break it off! Just as I was occupied in finding a way to make him despair, he was announced. Whether it was fancy or reason on my part, never had he seemed more handsome. However, I received him coldly. He was hoping to spend a couple of hours with me before it was time for my doors to be opened to everyone. I told him I was about to go out. He asked me where I was going; I refused to tell him. He insisted. "Away from you," I answered sharply. Fortunately for him he was struck dumb by my rejoinder. For had he said anything a scene would most certainly have ensued, which would have brought about the rift I had intended. Surprised by his silence, I looked at him with no other intention, I swear, than to see his expression. On his charming face I discovered a sadness, at once profound and touching, which you yourself have acknowledged is very difficult to resist. The same cause produced the same effect. For a second time I was overcome. From that moment on, my only concern was to find ways of preventing him finding fault with me. 'I am going out on business,' I said, rather more gently, 'and it has something to do with you; but do not ask questions. I shall sup at home; come back and you shall know the truth.' So he started to speak again, but I did not permit him to go on. 'I am in a great hurry,' I continued. 'Leave me. Until tonight.' He kissed my hand and left.

To make it up to him, and perhaps to myself as well, I decided to introduce him to my "petite maison" whose existence he did not suspect. I called my faithful Victoire: 'I have a migraine. I am in bed if anyone calls.' And alone with my trusty confidante, while she dressed up as a lackey, I put on the clothes of a chambermaid. Then she called a cab to come to the garden gate and off we went. Once arrived in the temple of love, I chose the most elegant "neglige." This one was delightful, and of my own invention: it reveals nothing and leaves everything to the imagination. I promise you a pattern for your Presidente, when you have rendered her fit to wear it.

After these preparations, while Victoire busied herself with other details, I read a chapter of "Le Sopha," a letter of "Heloise" and two tales of La Fontaine, to establish in my mind the various tones I wished to adopt. Meanwhile, keen as ever, my Chevalier arrives at my door. My footman refuses him entry, telling him I am ill. That was the first thing. At the same time he gives him a note from me, not in my handwriting, as is my prudent custom. My Chevalier opens it and finds, in Victoire's handwriting: 'At nine o'clock sharp, on the boulevard, outside the cafes.' He goes there, and a little lackey he doesn't know, or at least thinks he does not, for it is in fact Victoire, comes to tell him to send his cab away and follow him. These romantic procedures excite him inordinately, but excitement does nobody any harm. He finally arrives, and is spellbound with amazement and love. To give him time to collect himself we walk a while in the shrubbery. Then I bring him back to the house. The first thing he sees is two places laid at a table; the next, a bed all prepared. Then we go into the boudoir, which is very beautifully decorated. There, half deliberately and half on impulse, I put my arms around him and allow myself to fall down at his knees. 'Oh, my friend,' I say, 'I am sorry that in order to spring this little surprise on you I distressed you by seeming annoyed, and by hiding my true feelings for a moment from your eyes. Forgive me my wrongdoing. I wish to expiate it with my love.' You may judge the effect of these sentimental words. The happy Chevalier raised me to my feet, and my forgiveness was sealed upon the same ottoman where you and I so gaily, and in the same manner, sealed our eternal rupture.

As we had six hours to spend together and I had resolved that all this time should be just as delightful for him, I curbed his passion and moved from tenderness to a pleasant flirtatiousness. I do not believe I ever took so much care to please anyone, nor do I think I was ever so satisfied with myself before. After supper, childish and reasonable by turns, gay and sensitive, sometimes even libertine, I enjoyed thinking of him as a sultan in the middle of his harem, and myself by turns a different favourite. In fact, each time his attentions were paid they were always received by the same woman, yet always by a different mistress.

Finally, at dawn, we were obliged to go our separate ways. And whatever he said, whatever he did, even, to prove the contrary, his need to go was as great as his disinclination to do so. The moment we were leaving, as a last farewell, I took the key of that happy abode and, putting it into his hands, said: 'I only took it for your sake. It is only right that you should be master of it. It is for the High Priest to do as he likes with the Temple.' In this adept fashion I forestalled the thoughts which might have been provoked in him by the ever suspect ownership of a "petite maison." I know him well enough to be certain he will use it for me alone; and, in any case, if the fancy took me to go there without him, I have another key. He was very eager to make a date to return, but I still like him too much to wish to exhaust him so quickly. One should permit oneself excess only with people one intends to leave shortly. He does not know that; but happily I know it for both of us.

I see that it is three in the morning, and I have written a book when I planned to write one line. Such are the joys of a trusting friendship, and that is why you are still the one I like the best; but the truth is, the Chevalier is the one I find the more attractive.

From—, 12 August 17

LETTER ELEVEN

"The Presidente de Tourvel to Madame de Volanges"

The severe tone of your letter would have made me very apprehensive, Madame, if, happily, I had not discovered more cause to feel safe here than you have given me for alarm. The redoubtable Monsieur Valmont, that terror of our sex, seems to have laid down his deadly weapons before coming to the chateau. He has not been in the least scheming, nor has he given any appearance of doing so; and his power to charm, which even his enemies concede he has, is here almost non-existent, for he is just like a child. Apparently it is the country air which has worked this miracle. But I do assure you that, though constantly in my company and even, apparently, enjoying it, he has not uttered one single word of anything resembling love, not one of those phrases that every man allows himself, with far less reason than he has. He never forces that reticence upon me that all respectable women are obliged to adopt nowadays to keep the men around them at a proper distance. He never abuses the gaiety he provokes. Perhaps he is something of a flatterer; but he is so tactful that he would accustom modesty itself to being praised. In brief, if I had a brother, I should wish him to be like Monsieur de Valmont as he has proved himself to be here. Perhaps many women would prefer him to be more overtly gallant; but I admit that I am infinitely grateful to him for being able to judge my character well enough not to count me among their number.

This portrait is no doubt very different from the one you have painted. And yet both of them have perhaps been true at different periods in his life. He himself admits he has often done wrong, and no doubt people accuse him of more besides. But I have come across very few men who speak more respectfully, I might even say enthusiastically, about respectable women. At least on that subject, as you say, he is to be believed. His conduct with Madame de Merteuil is proof of that. He talks to us a great deal about her and always speaks so highly of her, and seems to have such a true attachment for her, that until I received your letter I had the impression that what he called friendship between the two of them was most certainly love. I blame myself for this hasty judgement, and all the more so because he has himself often been careful to justify her character. I admit I thought he was only being chivalrous when it was honest sincerity on his part. I am not sure, but it seems to me that a man who is capable of such loyal friendship with so estimable a woman is not an irredeemable libertine. I do not know either whether we owe his present good conduct to any plans he has hereabouts, as you suppose. Certainly there are some attractive women in the neighbourhood. But he seldom goes out, except in the mornings and then he says he is going hunting. It is true he hardly ever brings back any game, but he insists that he is not skilled at this activity. In any case, what he does with himself when he is out is none of my business, and if I tried to find out it would only be in order to come round to your view or to bring you round to mine.

As to your suggestion that I work towards cutting short Monsieur de Valmont's intended stay here: it would seem to me very difficult to dare ask his aunt to do without her nephew's company, especially since she has such a great affection for him. But I do promise I shall take the opportunity of making this request, either to her or to him; but only through deference to you and not because there is any real need to do so. As far as I am concerned, Monsieur de Tourvel knows of my intention to stay here until he returns, and he would be quite understandably surprised were I to change my mind for a trifle.

These explanations are laborious, Madame: but I felt it was only my honest duty to give a good account of Monsieur de Valmont, for in your eyes he would seem to have much need of this. I am no less sensible of the friendly concern which dictates your advice. It is also to this that I owe your charming compliment about the delay in the wedding of Mademoiselle, your daughter. I am so very sincerely obliged to you. But, whatever pleasure I promise myself in spending this time with you, I should willingly sacrifice it to the wish to see Mademoiselle de Volanges settled happily sooner, if indeed it were possible for her to be happier than with a mother so worthy of all her love and respect—two sentiments which I assure you I share with her in my profound affection for your good self.

I have the honour to be, etc.

From—, 13 August 17

LETTER TWELVE

"Cecile Volanges to the Marquise de Merteuil"

Mamma is unwell, Madame; she cannot go out and I must keep her company. So I shall not have the honour of accompanying you to the Opera. I assure you I am more sorry not to be with you than I am to miss the performance. I beg you to believe me. I do like you so very much! Would you be kind enough to inform the Chevalier Danceny that I do not have the songbook he mentioned, and that if he can bring it tomorrow I shall be truly delighted? If he comes today he will be told we are not at home; but that is because Mamma does not wish to receive anybody. I hope she will be better tomorrow.

I have the honour to be, etc.

From—, 13 August 17

LETTER THIRTEEN

"The Marquise de Merteuil to Cecile Volanges"

I am very sorry to hear, my dear, that I am to be deprived of the pleasure of your company as well as to hear the reason for it. I hope the occasion will present itself again. I will fulfil your charge with respect to the Chevalier Danceny, who will no doubt be extremely sorry to hear of your Mamma's indisposition. If she wishes to receive me tomorrow, I shall go and keep her company. We shall together challenge the Chevalier de Belleroche to piquet; and, while we are winning money from him, we shall have the even greater pleasure of hearing you sing with your charming teacher, to whom I shall propose it. If this is agreeable to your Mamma and to yourself, I can answer for myself and my two chevaliers. Farewell, my dear: my compliments to dear Madame de Volanges. With all my love,

From—, 13 Aug 17