She remained silent some time after; then again began to speak; but her discourse was so incoherent, we were soon convinced the frenzy was returned.
However there was a quiet interval afterwards, until at last she desired the letter should be given to her.
The moment she cast her eyes on it, she exclaimed,
"Good God! from him!" and then in a strong and oppressed tone of voice,
"Take it, take it."
She instantly ordered the curtains of her bed to be closed, and desired no one should come near her; but we were all soon obliged to come round her: the frenzy returned with more violence than ever, accompanied with most dreadful convulsions—Those shocking incidents continued the whole evening; and the account I received this morning, informs me, the night has been no less turbulent.
On the whole, I am astonished she has held out so long in the condition she is: and I will not conceal from you, that I have very little, if any, hope of her recovery.
I suppose this unfortunate letter is from M. de Valmont—What! can he still dare to write to her!
Forgive me, my dear friend; I must put a stop to my reflections—It is, however, a most cruel case, to see a woman make so wretched an end, who has, until now, lived so happy, and was so worthy being so.
Paris, Dec. 2, 17—. _____
LETTER CL.
CHEVALIER DANCENY to the MARCHIONESS DE MERTEUIL. _____
In expectation of the happiness of seeing you, I indulge myself, my tender friend, in the pleasure of writing to you; and thus by occupying myself with you, I dispel the gloom that otherwise would be occasioned by your absence.
To delineate to you my sentiments, to recall yours to my mind, is a true enjoyment to my heart; and thus even the time of privation affords me a thousand ideas precious to my love—Yet, if I am to believe you, I shall not obtain any answer from you, even this letter shall be the last, and we shall abandon a correspondence which, according to you, is dangerous, and of which we have no need—Certainly I shall believe you if you persist; for what can you desire that does not of course become my desire?
But before you ultimately decide upon it, will you not permit a slight conversation on the subject.
Of the head of danger you are the only judge—I can frame no calculation of it—and I shall confine myself to requesting you would look to your own safety, for I can have no tranquillity while you are disquieted—As to this object, it is not we two that are but one, it is thou that art us both.
As to the matter of necessity, we can have but one thought; and if we differ in opinion, it can only rise from a want of proper explanation, or from not understanding one another.
I shall therefore state to you what I think is my sensation.
Without doubt a letter appears very unnecessary when we can see one another freely—What could it say that a word, or look, or even silence itself, could not express?
A hundred times before, this appeared to me so clear, that in the very moment that you spoke to me of not writing any more, that idea my mind immediately adopted—It was a restraint upon it perhaps, but did not affect it—Thus, when I have offered a kiss upon your bosom, and found a ribband or piece of gauze in my way, I only turn it aside, and have not the least sentiment of an obstacle.
But since we have separated, and you are no longer there, this idea of correspondence by letters has returned to torment me—What is the reason, I have said to myself, of this additional privation?
Why is it, because we are at some distance, we have nothing more to say to each other?
Suppose that a fortunate concurrence of circumstances should bring us together for a day, shall we then employ in conversation the time that ought to be wholly dedicated to enjoyment, which letters between us would prevent?
I say enjoyment, my dear friend; for with you the very moments of repose furnish, too, a delicious enjoyment; in a word, whenever such a happy opportunity offers, the conclusion is still separation; and one is so solitary, it is then a letter becomes truly precious: if not read, it is sure to be the only object that employs the eye.
Ah! there can be no doubt, but one may look at a letter without reading it; as I think that I even could have some pleasure at night by barely touching your portrait.
Your portrait have I said? but a letter is the portrait of the soul; it has not, like a cold image, that degree of stagnation so opposite to love; it yields to all our actions by turns; it becomes animated, gives us enjoyment, and sinks into repose—All your sentiments are precious to me; and will you deprive me of the means of becoming possessed of them?
Are you quite sure that a desire to write to me will never torment you?
If in the midst of your solitude your heart should be too much compressed or desolated; if a joyous emotion should pass to your soul; if an involuntary sadness should disturb it for a moment, it would not then be in the bosom of your friend that you would pour out your happiness or distress; you would then have a sensation he should not share; and you would punish him to wander in solitude and distrust far from you.
My friend, my dearest friend! you are to pronounce—I have only proposed to myself to discuss the question with you, and not to over-rule you—I have only offered you reasons—I dare hope I should have stood on stronger ground if I had proceeded to entreaties—I shall endeavour, then, if you should persist, not to be afflicted; I shall use my efforts to tell myself what you would have wrote to me; but you would tell it better than I, and I should have a much higher gratification in hearing it from you.
Adieu, my charming friend!
The hour approaches at last, when I shall be able to see you: I fly from you with the more haste, in order the sooner to meet you again.
Paris, Dec. 3, 17—. _____
LETTER CLI.
The VISCOUNT DE VALMONT to the MARCHIONESS DE MERTEUIL. _____
Surely, Marchioness, you do not take me to be such a novice, to imagine I could be duped in the tete-a-tete which I found you in this afternoon; or by the astonishing chance that led Danceny to your house!
Not but your well-practised countenance wonderfully assumed a calm serenity of expression; or that you, by the most trifling word, betrayed, which sometimes happens, the least disorder or uneasiness.
I will even allow your submissive looks served you eminently; and could they have made themselves as well credited as readily understood, far from having or harbouring the least suspicion, I should not at all have doubted the great vexation this troublesome trio gave you.
But to display to greater advantage those extraordinary talents, to ensure the success you promised yourself, to carry on the deception you intended, you should have formed your inexperienced lover with more care.
Since you have begun to educate youth, you should teach your pupils not to blush or be disconcerted at a little raillery; not to deny so warmly for one woman, the same charge which they so faintly excuse themselves in for all others; teach them also to learn to hear encomiums on their mistress, without enhancing them. And if you permit them to fix their looks on you in the circle, let them be taught to disguise that glance of enjoyment which is so easy to discover, and which they so unskilfully blend with the glance of love—Then you will be able to exhibit them in your public exercises, and their behaviour will not do any prejudice to their sage institutrix.
Even myself, happy to be able to contribute to your celebrity, will compose and publish the exercises to be performed in this new college.
But I am astonished, I must own, that you should have undertaken to treat me as a school-boy.
O! with any other woman, what pleasure I should have in being revenged!
How transcendent it would be to that she should think to deprive me of!
Yes, it is for you alone I condescend to give preference to satisfaction rather than revenge: and do not think I am restrained by the least doubt or uncertainty—I know all.
You have been in Paris now four days, and each day Danceny has been with you, and you have not admitted any one but him—even this day your door was still close; and had your porter's assurance been equal to his mistress's, I should not have seen you: yet you wrote me I might depend on being the first informed of your arrival. Of that same arrival, the particular day of which could not be ascertained, although you was writing to me the eve of your departure—Can you deny those facts, or will you attempt to excuse them?
They are both equally impossible; and still I keep my temper!
Acknowledge here your power; be satisfied to have experienced it, but do not any longer abuse it.
We know each other, Marchioness; that should be sufficient.
To-morrow you are to be out for the day you told me; be it so, if you really go out, and you think I shall know it: but you will be home in the evening; we shall not have too much time until the next day to settle our difficult reconciliation.
Let me know, then, if it will be at your house, or yonder, we shall make our numerous reciprocal expiations.