What does it avail me to talk to you of my sentiments, if it is only in vain that I seek means of convincing you?
After so many repeated efforts, my confidence and my strength both abandon me at once.
If I recall to my mind the pleasures of love, that only produces a more lively sense of regret at being deprived of them.
I see no resource but in your indulgence, and I too well experience at this moment how much I want it, to hope to obtain it.
Yet my passion was never more respectful, or ought to give you less offence: it is such, I can venture to say, as the strictest virtue would have no reason to dread; but I am afraid any longer to take up your time with the pains I experience, certain as I am that the object who causes them, does not share them. I must not, at least, presume too far on goodness, which I should do by dwelling on this melancholy picture; I shall only implore you to give me a reply, and never to doubt the veracity of my sentiments.
Wrote from P———, dated at Paris, Aug. 30, 17—. _____
LETTER XLIX.
CECILIA VOLANGES to the CHEVALIER DANCENY. _____
Without being either fickle or deceitful, it is sufficient, Sir, to account for my conduct, to know there is a necessity for an alteration in it: I have promised myself a sacrifice to God, until I can offer him also the sacrifice of my sentiments for you, which the religious state you are in renders doubly criminal.—I well know it will give me a great deal of uneasiness, and I will not conceal from you that, since the day before yesterday, I have continually wept when I thought on you; but I hope God will grant me the necessary strength to forget you, which I constantly beg of him night and morning.
I even expect, from your friendship and good breeding, that you will not endeavour to interfere with me in the good resolutions that I have been inspired with; and which I endeavour to cherish.
I therefore request that you will not write to me any more, as I assure you I shall give no answer; and it would oblige me to acquaint my mamma of every thing that happens, which would entirely deprive me the pleasure of seeing you.
I shall, notwithstanding, have all the attachment for you, that one can have, consistently with innocence; and from my soul I wish you all manner of happiness.
I know very well you will love me no longer, and, perhaps, you will soon love another better than me; but this will be an additional penance for the fault I committed in giving you my heart, which I ought to have reserved for God and my husband, when I shall have one.
I hope the divine mercy will pity my weakness, and not afflict me with misfortunes that I shall not be able to bear.
Farewell, Sir!
I can assure you, that if it was lawful for me to love any one, I should never love any but you; but that is all I can say, and perhaps more than I ought.
Aug. 31, 17—. _____
LETTER L.
The Presidente DE TOURVEL to the VISCOUNT DE VALMONT. _____
Is it thus, then, Sir, you fulfil the conditions on which I consented to receive your letters sometimes?
And have I not reason to complain, when you mention a sentiment which I should dread to harbour, even were it not inconsistent with every idea of my duty.
If there was a necessity of fresh arguments to preserve this salutary fear, I think I may find sufficient in your last letter; for really, at the time you think to apologise for your passion, you, on the contrary, convince me of its multiplied horrors, for who would wish to purchase pleasure at the expence of reason? Pleasures so transitory, and that are always followed by regret, and often by remorse.
Even yourself, in whom the habitude of this dangerous delirium ought to diminish the effect, are notwithstanding obliged to agree, that it often becomes too strong for you, and you are the first to complain of the involuntary disturbance it causes in you.
What horrible ravages would it not then make in an unexperienced and sensible heart, which would augment its force by the greatness of the sacrifices it would be obliged to make?
You believe, or feign to believe, Sir, that love leads to happiness; but I am fully persuaded that it would make me so totally miserable, that I wish never to hear the word mentioned.
I think that even speaking of it hurts tranquillity; and it is as much from inclination as duty, that I beseech you to be hereafter silent on that subject: this requisition you may very easily grant at this time.
You are now returned to Paris, where you will find opportunities enough to forget a sentiment which probably owed its birth to the habit you have of making this your whole employment; and the strength of your present passion, is probably to be ascribed to your want of other objects in the country.
Are you not now in that place where you often saw me with indifference?
Can you take a step there without meeting an example of your mutability?
Are you not there surrounded by women, who, all more amiable than me, have a greater right to your homage?
I have not the vanity with which my sex is reproached; I have still less of that false modesty, which is nothing less than a refinement of pride; and it is with sincerity I assure you, that I am not conscious of possessing attractions: had I the greatest, I should not think them sufficient to fix you.
To request of you, then, to think no more of me is only to beg of you to do now what you did before, and what you certainly would do in a very short time, were I even to make a contrary request.
This truth, which I do not lose sight of, would be alone a sufficient reason to listen to you no longer.
I have a thousand other reasons; but without entering into long discussion, I shall once more entreat, as I have already done, that you will not write to me more upon a sentiment to which I ought not to listen, much less make any return.
Sept. 1, 17—.
LETTER LI.
The MARCHIONESS DE MERTEUIL to VISCOUNT VALMONT. _____
Upon my word, Viscount, you are intolerable; you treat me with as little ceremony as if I was your mistress.
Do you know you will make me angry, and that I am this instant in a most horrible passion? so you are to meet Danceny to-morrow morning? you know how important it is I should see you before that interview; yet, without giving yourself any farther trouble, you make me wait the whole day, while you run about I know not where.
You are the cause of my having been indecently late at Madame de Volanges', which all the old women thought exceedingly strange; I was under the necessity of amusing them the rest of the evening, to keep them in temper; for one must be on good terms with old women; they decide on the reputation of the young ones.
Now it is one o'clock; and instead of going to bed as I ought, I must sit up to write you a long letter, which will add to my drowsiness by its disagreeable subject.
You are very lucky that I have not time to scold you.
Do not imagine, however, I forgive you: you have only to thank my hurry.
Hear me, then: with a little address, you may, to-morrow, obtain Danceny's confidence.
The opportunity is favourable: it is that of distress.
The little girl has been at confession, has told all like a child, and has been since so terrified with the fear of hell, that she is absolutely determined on a rupture.
She related to me all her little scruples in a manner that I am confident her head is turned.
She showed me that letter, declaring her breaking off, which is in the true style of fanatical absurdity.
She prattled for an hour to me without a word of common sense, and yet she embarrassed me; for you will conceive I could not risk to open my mind to such an idiot.
I observe, however, amidst all this nonsense, that she is not the less in love with her Danceny; I even took notice of one of those resources which love always supplies, and to which the girl is curiously enough a dupe.