Notwithstanding all this anger, she nevertheless has my letter; and I depend upon her curiosity that she will read it.
The circumstances of this day would lead me too far.
I enclose you the rough draft of my two letters, which will acquaint you with every thing.
If you wish to know the course of this correspondence, you must accustom yourself to decypher my minutes; for I would not for the world take the trouble of copying them.
Adieu, my lovely friend!
Aug. 25, 17—. _____
LETTER XXXV.
VISCOUNT VALMONT to the Presidente DE TOURVEL. _____
You must be obeyed, Madam; and I must convince you, that, notwithstanding all the faults you are pleased to think me guilty of, I have yet at least so much delicacy as not to suffer a single reproach to escape my lips, and sufficient resolution to impose on myself the most painful sacrifice.
You command me to be silent, and to forget you.
Well, I shall constrain my love to be silent, and, if possible, I shall forget the cruel manner in which it has been received.
Undoubtedly my wish to please gave me no right to it; and I must farther acknowledge, that the necessity I was under of having your indulgence, was not a sufficient title to obtain it: but you consider my love as an atrocious affront; you forget that if it is a fault, you are at once both the cause and the apology for it.
You forget also, that accustomed as I was to lay open my soul to you, even when that confidence might be detrimental to me, it was no longer possible for me to hide the sentiments with which I was affected; and what is the result of sincerity, you look upon as the effect of arrogance; and in recompence of the most tender, the most respectful, and the most sincere love, you drive me far from you.
You even threaten me with your hatred.
Where is the man who would not complain to be so treated?
But I submit, and suffer all without murmuring. You strike, and I adore!
The inconceivable ascendant you have obtained over me, has rendered you sole mistress of my sentiments; and if my love alone disobeys, if you cannot destroy it, it is because it is your own work, not mine.
I ask no return; that I never flattered myself with: I don't even implore that pity which the concern you seem to take for me flattered me with the hope of; but I believe, I own, I have a right to claim your justice.
You inform me, Madam, that some persons have endeavoured to prejudice me in your esteem.
If you had given credit to the advice of your friends, you would not have even suffered me to approach you.
Those are your terms; who then are those officious friends?
Certainly those people of such severe morals, and such rigid virtue, will have no objection to give up their names; they certainly would not take shelter behind the same screen with the vilest of slanderers; and I shall then be no longer ignorant of their name and their charge.
Consider, Madam, I have a right to know both one and the other, since you judge me from their report.
A criminal is never condemned without being told his crime, and naming his accusers.
I ask no other favour; and I, beforehand, engage to make good my justification, and to compel them to retract.
If I have, perhaps, too much despised the empty clamours of the public, which I set little value on, it is not so with your esteem; and when I consecrate my whole life to merit it, it shall not be ravished from me with impunity.
It becomes so much the more precious to me, as I shall, without doubt, owe to it the request you fear to make me, and which, you say, would give me a right to your gratitude.
Ah! far from requiring any, I shall think myself highly indebted to you, if you can assist me with an opportunity of being agreeable to you.
Begin then by doing me more justice, and let me be no longer ignorant of what you wish me to do; if I could guess at it, I would save you the trouble of telling it me.
To the pleasure of seeing you, add the happiness of serving you, and I shall extol your indulgence.
What then can prevent you; it is not, I hope, the dread of a refusal?
That, I feel, I should never be able to pardon you.
It is not one not to return you your letter.
I wish more than you that it may no longer be necessary to me; but accustomed as I am to believe you so soft a disposition, it is in this letter only that I can find you such as you wish to appear.
When I form the vow of endeavouring to make you sensible to my flame, I feel that you would fly a hundred leagues from me, rather than consent; when your accomplishments justify and augment my passion, it still tells me that it insults you; and when in your presence this passion is my supreme good, I feel that it is my greatest torment.
You may now conceive that my greatest happiness would be to return you this fatal letter: to ask it again would give me a kind of authority to believe its contents.
After this, I hope you will not doubt of my readiness to return it.
Aug. 21, 17—. _____
LETTER XXXVI.
VISCOUNT VALMONT to the Presidente DE TOURVEL. (Post mark from Dijon.) _____
Your severity, Madam, increases daily; and permit me to say, you seem to dread more being indulgent than unjust.
After passing judgment on me without giving me a hearing, you must certainly be sensible it was less difficult not to read my reasons than to answer them.
You obstinately refuse to receive my letters; you return them contemptuously; and you force me to use artifice at the very instant that my sole object is to convince you of my integrity.
The obligation you lay me under of defending myself, will, I hope, apologize for the means I am constrained to use.
Moreover, as I am convinced, that to be justified in your mind, it will be sufficient that the sincerity of my sentiments should be laid open to you, I thought this innocent stratagem might be forgiven.
I will, then, dare hope that you will forgive it; and that you will not be much surprised that love is more industrious to show itself than indifference is to banish it.
Permit me then, Madam, to lay my heart entirely open to you.
It is yours, and it is but right you should know it.
When I arrived at Madame de Rosemonde's, I little imagined the fate that awaited me.
I knew not you was here; and I must add with the sincerity that characterises me, had I known it, my repose would not have been disturbed: not but that I should have rendered that homage to your beauty it so justly requires; but being long accustomed to experience only desires, to surrender only to those where my hopes flattered success, I knew nothing of the torments of love.