My comparison appears to me the more just, as, like him, you never are the lover or friend of a woman, but always her tyrant or her slave.
And I am very certain, you very much humbled and debased yourself very much, to get into favour again with this fine object! Happy in your success, as soon as you think the moment arrived to obtain your pardon, you leave me for this grand event.
Even in your last letter, the reason you give for not entertaining me solely with this woman is, because you will not tell me any thing of your grand affairs; they are of so much importance, that your silence on that subject is to be my punishment: and after giving me such strong proofs of a decided preference for another, you coolly ask me whether we have a mutual interest!
Have a care, Viscount; if I once answer you, my answer shall be irrevocable: and to be in suspense, is perhaps saying too much; I will therefore now say no more of that matter.
I have nothing more to say, but to tell you a trifling story; perhaps you will not have leisure to read it, or to give so much attention to it as to understand it properly?
At worst, it will be only a tale thrown away.
A man of my acquaintance, like you, was entangled with a woman, who did him very little credit; he had sense enough, at times, to perceive, this adventure would hurt him one time or other—Although he was ashamed of it, yet he had not the resolution to break off—His embarrassment was greater, as he had frequently boasted to his friends, he was entirely at liberty; and was not insensible, the more he apologised, the more the ridicule increased—Thus, he spent his time incessantly in foolery, and constantly saying, it is not my fault.
This man had a friend, who was one time very near giving him up in his frenzy to indelible ridicule: but yet, being more generous than malicious, or perhaps from some other motive, she resolved, as a last effort, to try a method to be able, at least, with her friend, to say, it is not my fault.
She therefore sent him, without farther ceremony, the following letter, as a remedy for his disorder.
"One tires of every thing, my angel! It is a law of nature; it is not my fault.
"If, then, I am tired of a connection that has entirely taken me up four long months, it is not my fault.
"If, for example, I had just as much love as you had virtue, and that's saying a great deal, it is not at all surprising that one should end with the other; it is not my fault.
"It follows, then, that for some time past, I have deceived you; but your unmerciful affection in some measure forced me to it!
It is not my fault.
"Now a woman I love to distraction, insists I must sacrifice you: it is not my fault.
"I am sensible here is a fine field for reproaches; but if nature has only granted men constancy, whilst it gives obstinacy to women, it is not my fault.
"Take my advice, choose another lover, as I have another mistress—The advice is good; if you think otherwise, it is not my fault.
"Farewell, my angel! I took you with pleasure, I part you without regret; perhaps I shall return to you; it is the way of the world; it is not my fault."
This is not the time to tell you, Viscount, the effect of this last effort, and its consequences; but I promise to give it you in my next letter; you will then receive also my ultimatum on renewing the treaty you propose.
Until when, adieu.
Now I think on it, receive my thanks for your particular account of the little Volanges; that article will keep till the day after her wedding, for the scandalous gazette.
I condole with you, however, on the loss of your progeny.
Good night, Viscount.
Nov. 24, 17—. Castle of ——. _____
LETTER CXLII.
VISCOUNT DE VALMONT to the MARCHIONESS DE MERTEUIL. _____
I don't know, my charming friend, whether I have read or understood badly your letter, the little tale you relate, and the epistolary model it contains—But this I must say, the last is an original, and seems very proper to take effect; therefore I only copied it, and sent it without farther ceremony to the celestial Presidente.
I did not lose a moment, for the tender epistle was dispatched yesterday evening—I chose to act so; for first, I had promised to write to her; and, moreover, I thought a whole night not too much for her to collect herself, and ruminate on this grand event, were you even to reproach me a second time with the expression.
I expected to have sent you back this morning my well-beloved's answer; it is now near twelve, and it is not yet come—I shall wait until five; and if I receive no news by that time, I shall in person seek it, for every thing must be done according to form, and the difficulty is only in this first step.
Now you may believe I am impatient to know the end of your story of that man of your acquaintance, who was so violently suspected of not knowing how to sacrifice a woman upon occasion—Did he not amend, and did not his generous friend forgive him?
I am no less anxious to receive your ultimatum as you call it so politically; but I am curious, above all, to know if you can perceive any impression of love in this last proceeding?
Ah! doubtless there is, and a good deal!
But for whom?
Still I make no pretensions; I expect every thing from your goodness.
Adieu, charmer!
I shall not close my letter until two, in hope of adding the wished-for answer.
Two o'clock in the afternoon.
Nothing yet—the time slips away; I can't spare a moment—but surely now you will not refuse the tenderest kisses of love.
Paris, Nov. 27, 17—. _____
LETTER CXLIII.
The Presidente DE TOURVEL to MADAME DE ROSEMONDE. _____
The veil is rent, Madam, on which was painted my illusory happiness—The fatal truth is cleared, that leaves me no prospect but an assured and speedy death; and my road is traced between shame and remorse.
I will follow it—I will cherish my torments if they will shorten my existence—I send you the letter I received yesterday; it needs no reflections; it contains them all—This is not a time for lamentation—nothing remains but sufferings—I want not pity, I want strength.
Receive, Madame, the only adieu I shall make, and grant my last request: leave me to my fate—forget me totally—do not reckon me among the living.
There is a limit in misery, when even friendship augments our sufferings and cannot cure them—When wounds are mortal, all relief is cruel.
Every sentiment but despair is foreign to my soul—nothing can now suit me, but the darkness where I am going to bury my shame—There will I weep crimes, if I yet can weep; for since yesterday I have not shed a tear—my withered heart no longer furnishes any.
Adieu, Madame!
Do not reply to this—I have taken a solemn oath on this letter never to receive another.
Paris, Nov. 27, 17—. _____
LETTER CXLIV.