If Mr. de Valmont has not wrote to you, it is not my fault.
I could not prevail on him; because I have never been alone with him; we have agreed never to speak to one another before company; and all upon your account, that he may the sooner do what you would have him.
I don't say, but what I wish it as well as you; and you ought to be very sure of it: but what would you have me do?
If you think it is so easy, find out the way; it is what I wish for as much as you do.
Do you think it so pleasing to be scolded every day by mamma? She who before never said any thing to me, now it is worse than if I was in a convent.
I used to be consoled thinking it was for you; even sometimes, I was very glad of it.
Now I perceive you are vexed without my giving any occasion for it. I am more melancholy than for any thing that has happened till now.
Nothing can be more difficult than to receive your letters; so that if Mr. de Valmont was not so complaisant and dexterous as he is, I should not know what to do; and it is still more difficult to write to you.
In the morning I dare not, because my mamma is always near me, and comes every moment into my chamber.
Sometimes I can do it in the afternoon, under pretence of singing or playing on the harp.
I must stop at the end of every line, that they may hear me play.
Fortunately my chambermaid falls asleep sometimes at night, and I tell her I can go to bed very well alone; that she may go, and leave me the candle; I am sometimes obliged to hide behind the curtain, that no one may see the light, and listen; for, on the least noise, I hide every thing in my bed, lest any one should come.
I wish you were only here to see: you would be convinced one must have a great affection to do all this.
In short, you may depend I do every thing in my power.
I can't help telling you I love you, and will always love you.
I never told you so with more sincerity, yet you are angry.
You assure me, however, before I told you so, that it would be enough to make you happy; you can't deny it, for it is in your letters: although I have them no longer, I remember it as well as when I used to read them every day; and because we are now absent, you have altered your mind; but this absence will not last for ever, perhaps.
Good God! how unhappy I am; and you are the cause of it all.
Now I think of it, about your letters; I hope you have kept all those that mamma took from me, and that she sent you back.
Surely the time will come, when I shan't be so closely watched as I am at present, and you will give them to me again.
How happy shall I be, when I can keep them always, without any one prying into them.—Now, I return them back to Mr. de Valmont, as it would otherwise be running too great a risk, and yet I never return any but it gives me a great deal of trouble.
Adieu, my dear friend!
I love you with all my heart, and I will love you all my life.
I hope now you will not be vexed any more; if I was sure of it, I would not be so myself.
Write to me as soon as you can, for I find that until then I shall be always uneasy.
From the Castle of ——, Sept. 21, 17—. _____
LETTER LXXXIII.
VISCOUNT DE VALMONT, to the Presidente DE TOURVEL. _____
For heaven's sake, Madam, let us renew the conversation so unfortunately interrupted, that I may convince you how different I am from the odious picture that has been drawn of me, and may, at least, enjoy that amiable confidence you placed in me.
How many charms do you not add to virtue!
How you embellish and make us cherish virtuous sentiments!
It is there you are truly enchanting; that is the strongest of all seductions; it is the only one which is truly respectable and powerful.
It is enough to see you, to wish to please you; and to converse with you, to augment this wish: but he that has the happiness to know you, who can sometimes read your mind, soon gives way to a more noble enthusiasm, and, struck with veneration as with love—in your person adores the image of all the virtues.
Formed, perhaps, more than any other, to cherish and admire them, but led away by some errors that had fatally drawn me from virtue, it is you have brought me back, who have again made me feel all its charms.
Would you impute, then, to criminality this new affection?
Will you blame your own work?
Would you reproach yourself the interest you ought to take in it?—How can you dread so virtuous a sentiment, and what happiness can be greater than to experience it?
My affection frightens you.
You think it too violent, too immoderate; qualify it, then, by a softer passion.
Do not reject the obedience I offer you, which I now swear never to withdraw myself from, and in which I shall be ever virtuously employed.
What sacrifice would be painful when your heart could dispense the reward?
Where is the man so unthinking as not to know how to enjoy the privations he imposes on himself; who would not prefer a word or a look which should be granted him, to all the enjoyments he could steal or surprise?
And yet you have believed me to be such a man, and have dreaded me.
Ah! why is not your happiness dependent on me?
How pleasingly should I be avenged in making you happy!
But the influence of barren friendship will not produce it; it is love alone can realize it.
This word alarms you; and, pray, why?
A tender attachment, a stronger union, congenial thoughts, the same happiness as the same sorrows; what is there in this that is foreign to you?
Yet such is love; such is, at least, the passion you have inspired, and which I feel.
It is it that calculates without interest, and rates the actions according to their merit, and not their value, the inexhaustible treasure of sensitive souls; every thing becomes precious formed for it or by it.