As she was beginning a justification, which would have been very easy, I thought proper to interrupt her; and to compensate for this abrupt behaviour, I immediately threw in a flattery.
"If such charms," said I, "have made so deep an impression on my heart, so many virtues have made as great a one on my mind.
Seduced by the desire of imitating them, I had the vanity to think myself worthy of them.
I do not reproach you for thinking otherwise; but I punish myself for my error."
As she preserved a silent perplexity I went on.
"I wish, Madam, to be justified in your sight, or obtain your pardon for all the wrongs you suppose me to have been guilty of; that I may, at least, terminate in tranquillity a life which is no longer supportable since you refuse to embellish it."
To this, however, she endeavoured to reply.
"My duty would not permit me."—The difficulty to finish the fib which duty required, did not allow her to end the sentence.
I replied in the most tender strain,
"Is it true, then, it was me you fled from?—this retreat was necessary—and that you should put me from you—It must be so—and for ever—I should—" It is unnecessary to tell you, during this short dialogue, the tender prude's voice was oppressed, and she did not raise her eyes.
I thought it was time to animate this languishing scene; and rising in a pet,—"Your resolution, Madam," said I, "has given me back mine.
We will part; and part forever: you will have leisure to congratulate yourself on your work."
Surprised with this reproaching tone, she should have replied—"The resolution you have taken," said she—"Is only the effect of despair," I replied with passion. "It is your pleasure I should be miserable—you shall have the full extent of your wish.
I wish you to be happy."
Here the voice began to announce a strong emotion: then falling at her knees, in the dramatic style, I exclaimed,
"Ah, cruel woman! Can there be happiness for me that you do not partake?
How then shall I find it, when absent from you?
Oh, never, never!"—I own, in abandoning myself thus, I depended much on the assistance of tears; but, whether for want of disposition, or, perhaps, only the continual, painful attention my mind was engaged in, I could not weep.
Fortunately I recollected, all means are equally good to subdue a woman; and it would be sufficient to astonish her by a grand movement, to make a deep and favourable impression.
I therefore made terror supply the place of absent sensibility; changing only my tone, but still preserving my posture, I continued,
"Yes, at your feet I swear I will die or possess you."
As I pronounced those last words our eyes met.
I don't know what the timid woman saw, or thought she saw, in mine; but she rose with a terrified countenance, and escaped from my arms, which surrounded her waist: it it is true, I did not attempt to hold her; for I have often observed, those scenes of despair became ridiculous when pushed with too much vivacity or lengthened out, and left no resource but what was really tragic, of which I had not the least idea.
Whilst she fled from me, I added in a low disastrous tone, but so that she might hear,
"Well then, death."
I rose silently, and casting a wild look on her, as if by chance, nevertheless observed her unsteady deportment, her quick respiration, her contracted muscles, her trembling, half-raised arms; every thing gave me sufficient evidence, the effect was such as I wished to produce: but as in love nothing can be brought to issue at a distance, and we were pretty far asunder, it was necessary to draw nearer.
To attain which, I assumed, as soon as possible, an apparent tranquillity, proper to calm the effects of this violent agitation, without weakening the impression.
My transition was:—"I am very miserable.
I only wished to live for your happiness, and I have disturbed it:"—then with a composed but constrained air;—"Forgive me, Madam; little used to the rage of passions, I do not know how to suppress their violence.
If I am wrong in giving way to them, I beg you will remember it shall be the last time.
Compose yourself; I entreat you compose yourself."
During this long discourse, I drew near insensibly.
"If you wish I should be calm," replied the terrified fair, "do you then be calm."
"I will then, I promise you," said I; and in a weaker tone, "If the effort is great, it ought not at least to be long: but I came to return your letters.
I request you will take them.
This afflicting sacrifice is the only one remaining; let me have nothing to weaken my resolution."
Then drawing from my pocket the precious collection—"Here is the deceitful deposit of your friendship: it made this life supportable; take it back, and give the signal that is to separate us for ever."
Here the timid lover gave way to her tender grief—"But, M. de Valmont, what is the matter?
What do you mean?
Is not your proceeding to-day your own voluntary act?
Is it not the result of your own reflections?
And is it not they have approved this necessary step, in compliance with my duty?"
I replied, "Well, this step decides mine."—"And what is that?"—"The only one that can put an end to my sufferings, by parting me from you."—"But answer me what is it."—Then pressing her in my arms without any opposition, and observing from the neglect of decency, how strong and powerful her emotions were, I exclaimed,
"Adorable woman! you can't conceive the love you inspire. You will never know how much you was adored, and how much dearer this passion was than my existence.
May all your days be fortunate and peaceful!
May they be decorated with that happiness you have deprived me of!
At least, repay this sincere wish with one sigh, one tear; and be assured, the last sacrifice I make will not be the most painful to my heart.
Adieu!"
Whilst I spoke, I felt her heart throb violently; her countenance altered; her tears almost suffocated her.
Then I resolved to feign retreat: but she held me strongly.—"No, hear what I have to say," said she, eagerly.