I had resolved not to acquaint you of it; I had placed my happiness in paying to your virtues, as well as your charms, a pure and undiscoverable homage.
But, incapable of deceit, with such an example of candour before me, I will not have to reproach myself with any vile dissimulation.
Imagine not that I dare offend you by a criminal presumption.
I know I shall be miserable; but I shall cherish my sufferings: they are the proofs of the ardour of my love:—at your feet, in your bosom, I will deposit my grievances; there will I gather strength to bear up against new sufferings; there I shall meet compassion, mixed with goodness and consolation; for I know you'll pity me.
O thou whom I adore! hear me, pity me, help me."
All this time was I on my knees, squeezing her hands in mine; but she, disengaging them suddenly, and covering her eyes with them, exclaimed,
"What a miserable wretch am I!" and burst into tears.
Luckily I had worked myself up to such a degree that I wept also; and taking her hands again, I bathed them with my tears.
This precaution was very necessary; for she was so much engaged with her own anguish, that she would not have taken notice of mine, if I had not discovered this expedient to impress her with it.
This also gave me leisure to contemplate her charming form—her attractions received additional embellishment from her tears.
My imagination began to be fired, and I was so overpowered, that I was tempted to seize the opportunity!
How weak we are, how much governed by circumstances! since I myself, forgetful of my ultimate design, risked losing, by an untimely triumph, the charms of a long conflict, and the pleasing struggles that precede a difficult defeat; and hurried away by an impetuosity excusable only in a raw youth, was near reducing Madame de Tourvel's conqueror to the paltry triumph of one woman more on his list.
My purpose is, that she should yield, yet combat; that without having sufficient force to conquer, she should have enough to make a resistance; let her feel her weakness, and be compelled to own her defeat.
The sorry poacher takes aim at the game he has surprised—the true huntsman runs it fairly down.
Is not this an exalted idea?
But perhaps by this time I should have only had the regret of not having followed it, if chance had not seconded my prudence.
A noise of some one coming towards the saloon struck us.
Madame de Tourvel started in a fright, took a candle, and went out.
There was no opposing her.
It was only a servant.
When I was certain who it was, I followed her.
I had gone but a few steps, when, whether her fears or her discovering me made her quicken her pace, she flung herself into, rather than entered, her apartment, and immediately locked the door.
Seeing the key inside, I did not think proper to knock; that would have been giving her an opportunity of too easy resistance.
The happy simple thought of looking through the key-hole struck me, and I beheld this adorable woman bathed in tears, on her knees, praying most fervently.
What deity dared she invoke?
Is there one so powerful as the god of love?
In vain does she now seek for foreign aid; I am henceforward the arbiter of her fate.
Thinking I had done enough for one day, I retired to my apartment, and sat down to write to you.
I had hopes of seeing her again at supper; but she sent word she was gone to bed indisposed.
Madame de Rosemonde proposed to go to see her in her room; but the arch invalid pretended a head-ach, that prevented her from seeing any one.
You may guess I did not sit up long after supper, and had my head-ach also.
After I withdrew, I wrote her a long letter, complaining of her rigour, and went to bed, resolved to deliver it this morning.
I slept badly, as you perceive by the date of this letter.
I rose and read my epistle over again, which does not please me: it expresses more ardour than love, and more chagrin than grief.
It must be altered when I return to a sufficient degree of composure.
It is now dawn of day, and I hope the freshness of the morning will bring on a little sleep.
I return to bed; and whatever ascendant this woman may have over me, I promise you never to be so much taken up with her, as not to dedicate much of my thoughts to you.
Adieu, my lovely friend.
Aug. 21, 17—, four o'clock in the morning. _____
LETTER XXIV.
VISCOUNT VALMONT to the Presidente DE TOURVEL. _____
From mere compassion, Madam, vouchsafe to calm my perturbed soul; deign to inform me what I have to hope or fear.
When placed between the extremes of happiness and misery, suspense is a most insupportable torment.
Alas! why did I ever speak to you?
Why did I not endeavour to resist the dominion of your charms that have taken possession of my imagination?
Had I been content with silently adoring you, I should at least have the pleasure that ever attends even secretly harbouring that passion; and this pure sentiment, which was then untroubled by the poignant reflections that have arisen from my knowledge of your sorrow, was enough for my felicity: but the source of my happiness is become that of my despair, since I saw those precious tears; since I heard that cruel exclamation, Ah! miserable wretch that I am.
Those words, Madam, will for a long time wring my heart.
By what fatality happens it, that the softest passion produces only horror to you!
Whence proceed these fears?
Ah! they do not arise from an inclination of sharing in the passion.