Dangerous Liaisons by Pierre Choderlos de Laclos (the reading list .TXT) 📕

to make her relinquish her demand of the little one’s letters: for he will not give them up, and I am of opinion he ought not: here love and sound sense agree. I have read those letters; I could hardly bear it; however, they may hereafter be useful.

Notwithstanding all our discretion, something may blaze abroad, which might break off the marriage, and render abortive all our Gercourt schemes: but as I must be revenged of the mother, for my own satisfaction, in that case, I must reserve to myself the debauching of the daughter. In selecting those letters, and only producing a part, the little Volanges would appear to have made the first advances, and have absolutely given herself up: and some of the letters might even entangle the mother, or, at least, make her appear guilty of an unpardonable negligence. I readily conceive, that the scrupulous Danceny would at first be startled; but as he would be personally attacked, I believe he might be brought to. It is a thousand to one, that it does not happen so; but we must provide against everything.

Adieu, my lovely friend! I would be glad you could sup tomorrow at the Marechale de ⸻; I could not be off.

I think it unnecessary to recommend secrecy with Madame Volanges, about my country jaunt: she would soon take it into her head to remain in town; but when once arrived, she will not go back the next day; and if she only gives us eight days, I will answer for everything.

Sept. 9, 17⁠—.

Letter 67 The Presidente de Tourvel to the Viscount de Valmont

I was determined not to answer you any more, Sir, and, perhaps, the embarrassment I now experience, is the strongest proof that I ought not. Notwithstanding, I will leave you no cause of complaint against me; and will convince you that I have done everything I ought.

I gave you leave to write to me, you say? I admit it; but when you put me in mind of this permission, do you think I forget the conditions on which it was granted? If I had adhered to them as strictly as you have disregarded them, you would not have received a single line from me; yet this is now the third, and whilst you are doing everything you possibly can to oblige me to break off this correspondence, I am employed in the means of keeping it up. There is one, and it is the only one, which, if you refuse, will be sufficient proof, say what you will, how little you esteem it:

Give over, then, a language that I neither can nor will hear; renounce a passion that terrifies and offends me; and which, perhaps, you should be the less attached to, as it is the only obstacle that separates us. Is this passion, then, the only one that you are capable of? is it so powerful as to exclude friendship? and could you possibly not wish to have her for a friend, whom you would wish to inspire with more tender sentiments? I cannot believe it: this humiliating idea would turn me against you forever!

Thus offering you my friendship, Sir, I give you everything that belongs to me; everything that is at my disposal; what can you wish for more? To this proposition, so pleasing to my mind, I shall expect your consent; as also, your word of honour, that this friendship will constitute your happiness. I shall forget everything that has been related to me, and I will depend upon your care to justify my choice.

You see how frankly I deal with you, which ought to be a proof of my confidence in you; it rests with you to increase it still more; but I must inform you, that the first expression of love will forever destroy it, and will bring back all my fears: it will be the first signal of an eternal silence from me to you.

If, as you say, you have abandoned your errors, would you not rather be the object of friendship of a virtuous woman, than that of the remorse of a guilty one? Adieu, Sir! You may conceive that having said thus much, I can say nothing more that you have not already answered.

Sept. 9, 17⁠—.

Letter 68 Viscount de Valmont to the Presidente de Tourvel

How is it possible, Madam, to answer your last letter; how shall I dare speak truth, when my sincerity may ruin me with you? Yet I must; I often tell myself, I would rather deserve than obtain you; and were you forever to refuse me a happiness I incessantly wish for, I will at least make you acknowledge, that my heart is worthy of it.

What a pity it is, as you say, that I have abandoned my errors, with what transport should I not have read that letter which I tremble to answer today? You deal frankly with me; you testify your confidence. You even offer me your friendship: how bountiful are you, Madam, and how much I regret I cannot benefit by them. Why am I no longer the same!

For if I really was, if I had but a common passion for you, that slight desire, the child of seduction and pleasure, which is yet now called love, I would speedily take advantage of everything I could obtain, without being much concerned about the delicacy of the measures, provided they ensured success. I would flatter your frankness, in order to dive into you; I would endeavour to gain your confidence, with an intention to betray it; I would accept your friendship in the hope of leading you astray.⁠—This picture, no doubt, alarms you, Madam;⁠—but it would be the true portrait of myself, if I was to tell you that I consented to be your friend only.

What! Should I consent to share with another a sentiment proceeding from your soul? If I should ever tell