Who, me insult you! Me make you contemptible, at a time when I reverence as much as cherish you! when you raised my vanity by thinking me worthy of you!
Appearances have deceived you.
I will not deny they make against me: but had you not sufficient within your own heart to contend against them?
Did it not revolt at the idea of having a cause of complaint against me?
Yet you believed it!
Thus you not only thought me capable of this atrocious frenzy, but even dreaded you had exposed yourself to it by your indulgence.
Ah! if you think yourself so much degraded by your love, I must be very despicable in your sight.
Oppressed by the painful sense of this idea, I lose the time I should employ in destroying it, endeavouring to repel it.
I will confess all: another consideration still prevents me.
Must I go back to facts I would wish to forget for ever, and recall your attention and my own to errors I shall ever repent; the cause of which I cannot yet conceive, which fill me with mortification and despair.
If I excite your anger by accusing myself, the means of revenge will not be out of your reach; it will be sufficient to abandon me to my own remorse.
Yet the first cause of this unhappy event is, the all-powerful charm I feel in being with you: it was it made me too long forget an important business that could not be put off.
I stayed with you so long, I did not find the person at home I wanted to see; I expected to have met her at the opera, where I was also disappointed.
Emily, who I met there, and knew at a time when I was a stranger to you and love, Emily had not her carriage, and requested I would set her down at a little distance from thence; I consented, as a matter of no consequence.
It was then I met you. I was instantly seized with the apprehension you would think me guilty.
The dread of afflicting or displeasing you is so powerful, it is impossible for me to conceal it, and was soon perceived.
I will even own, it induced me to prevail on this girl not to show herself; this precaution, the result of delicacy, was unfavourable to love: but she, like the rest of her tribe, accustomed to the abuse of her usurped power, would not let slip so splendid an opportunity.
The more she observed my embarrassment increase, the more she affected to show herself; and her ridiculous mirth, which I blush to think you could for a moment imagine yourself to be the object, had no other foundation than the cruel anxiety I felt, which proceeded from my love and respect.
So far, doubtless, I am more unfortunate than guilty. Those crimes being thus done away, I am clear of reproach.
In vain, however, are you silent on those of love, which I must break through, as it concerns me so much.
Not but, in my confusion for this unaccountable misconduct, which I cannot without great grief recall to my remembrance; yet I am so sensible of my error, I would patiently bear the punishment, wait my pardon from time, from my excessive love, and my repentance; only what I yet have to say concerns your delicacy.
Do not think I seek a pretence to excuse or palliate my fault; I confess my guilt: but I do not acknowledge, nor ever will, this humiliating error can be a crime of love.
For where is the analogy between a surprise of the sensations, a moment of inadvertency, which is soon replaced by shame and regret, and an immaculate sentiment, which delicate souls are only capable of, supported by esteem, and of which happiness is the fruit?
Ah! do not thus profane love; or, rather, do not profane yourself, by uniting in the same point of view what never can be blended.
Leave to despicable and degraded women the dread of a rivalship, and experience the torments of a cruel and humiliating jealousy; but turn your eyes from objects that would sully them: and pure as the Divinity, punish the offence without feeling it.
What punishment can you inflict on me will be more sorrowful than what I already feel—that can be comparable to the grief of having incurred your displeasure—to the despair of giving you affliction—to the unsufferable idea of being unworthy of you?
Your mind is taken up with punishing, whilst I languish for consolation; not that I deserve it, but only that I am in want of it, and that it is you alone can console me.
If on a sudden, forgetful of our mutual love as of my happiness, you will abandon me to perpetual sorrow, I shall not dispute your right—strike: but should you incline to indulgence, and again recall those tender sentiments that united our hearts; that voluptuousness of soul, ever renewing, ever increasing; those delightful days we passed together; all the felicities that love only can give; you will, perhaps, prefer the power of renewing to that of destroying them.
What shall I say?
I have lost all, and lost it by my own folly: but still all may be retrieved by your goodness.
You are now to decide.
I shall add but one word more.
Yesterday you swore my happiness was certain whilst it depended on you.
Ah! will you this day, then, Madam, give me up to everlasting despair?
Paris, Nov. 15, 17—. _____
LETTER CXXXVIII.
VISCOUNT DE VALMONT to the MARCHIONESS DE MERTEUIL. _____
I insist on it, my charming friend, I am not in love; and it is not my fault, if circumstances oblige me to play the character of a lover.—Only consent to return, and you will be able to judge my sincerity—I made my proofs yesterday, and cannot be injured by what happens today.
I was with the tender prude, having nothing else to do; for the little Volanges, nothwithstanding her situation, was to spend the night at Madame de V—-'s early ball: the want of business first gave me an inclination to prolong the evening; and I had, with this intention, even required a little sacrifice: it was scarcely granted, than the pleasure I promised myself was disturbed with the idea of this love which you so obstinately will have it, or at least reproach me with being infected; so I determined at once to be certain myself, and convince you, that it was a calumny of your own.
In consequence I took a violent resolution; on a very slight pretence, I took leave, and left my fair one quite surprised, and doubtless more afflicted, while I quietly went to meet Emily at the opera: she can satisfy you, that until morning, when we parted, no regret disturbed our amusements.
Yet there was a pretty large field for uneasiness, if my total indifference had not preserved me: for you must know, I was scarce four houses from the opera, with Emily in my carriage, when that of the austere devotee ranged close beside mine, and a stop which happened, left us near half a quarter of an hour close by each other; we could see one another as plain as at noon day, and there was no means to escape.
That is not all; I took it in my head to tell Emily confidentially, that was the letter-woman. You may recollect, perhaps, that piece of folly, and that Emily was the desk.
She did not forget it, and as she laughs immoderately, she was not easy until she had attentively viewed this piece of virtue, as she called her; and with scandalous bursts, such as would even disconcert effrontery.
Still this is not all; the jealous woman sent to my house that same night; I was not at home, but she obstinately sent a second time, with orders to wait my return.
I sent my carriage home, as soon as I resolved to spend the night with Emily, without any other orders to my coachman, than to return this morning.
When he got home he found the messenger, whom he informed I was not to return that night.
You may guess the effect of this news, and that at my return, I found my discharge announced with all the dignity the circumstance required.
Thus, this adventure, which according to your opinion, was never to be determined, could, as you see, have been ended this morning? if it should not, I would not have you think I prize a continuance of it; but I do not think it consistent with my character to be quitted: moreover, I intend to reserve the honour of this sacrifice for you.
I have answered her severe note with a long sentimental epistle; I have given long reasons, and rely on love to make them acceptable.
I have already succeeded—I have received a second note, still very rigorous, and which confirms an everlasting rupture, as it ought to be—but the ton is not the same; I must not be seen again; this resolution is announced four times in the most irrevocable manner.