silence, have not already told you!

Why should you be

displeased with sentiments to which you have given birth?
Proceeding from you, they certainly should be offered you; if
they are as inflamed as my heart, they are as chaste as your
own. Where is the crime to have discovered how to set a proper
value on your charms, your bewitching qualifications, your
enchanting graces, and that affecting ingenuousness which so
much enhances such valuable accomplishments? No;
undoubtedly there is not: but one may be unhappy, without
being guilty, which must be my fate, should you refuse to
accept a homage, the first my heart ever made. Were it not for
you, I should still have been, if not happy, yet undisturbed. I
saw you, and tranquillity fled my soul, and left my happiness
uncertain!

And yet you seem to wonder at my grief, and demand the

cause; I have even sometimes thought it gave you uneasiness.
Ah, speak but the word, and my felicity will be complete! But
before you pronounce it, remember it may also overwhelm me
in misery. Be the arbitress of my fate, you can make me happy
or miserable for ever; into what dearer hands can I commit such
a trust? I shall finish as I began, by imploring your indulgence; I
have entreated you to hear me; I shall farther presume to beg
an answer. If refused, I shall think you are offended; though my
heart is witness, my respect equals my love.

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P. S. If you indulge me with an answer, you can convey it in the
same way through which manner you receive this: it is both safe
and commodious.

Aug. 18, 17ʁ.

LETTER 18

CECILIA VOLANGES to SOPHIA CARNAY.

What, my Sophia, you blame beforehand the step I intend to

take! I had uneasiness enough already, but you add
considerably to it. You say, I certainly ought not to answer his
letter; you are quite, at your ease, and can give advice; but you
know not how I am circumstanced, and are not able, not being
on the spot, to give an opinion. Sure I am, were you so situated,
you would act as I do. Certainly, according to etiquette, I should
not answer his letter; and by my letter of yesterday, you may
perceive my intention was not to reply; but I don't think any one
was ever so circumstanced as I am.

And, then, to be left to my own discretion! For Madame de

Merteuil, whom I depended on seeing in the evening, did not
come. Every thing is against me; she is the cause of my knowing
him. In her company, it has almost always been, that I have

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seen and spoke to him. It is not that I have any ill-will towards
her for itʁbut I'm left to myself when I want her advice most.
Well, I'm greatly to be pitied! Only think, yesterday he came as
usual. I was so confused I could not look at him; he could not
speak to me, for Mamma was with us. I knew he would be
vexed when he found I had not wrote to him; I did not know
how to appear. He immediately asked me if I had a mind he
should bring my harpsichord.

My heart beat so I could scarcely say yes. When he returned it

was much worse. I just glanced at him. He did not see me, but
looked as if he was ill; that made me very unhappy. He tuned
my harpsichord, and said, with a sigh, Ah, Miss! He spoke but
those two words; and in such a tone as threw me into the
greatest confusion. I struck a few chords without knowing what
I did: Mamma asked him to sing; he excused himself, saying, he
was not well; but I had no excuse, and was forced to sing. I then
wished I had no voice; and chose, on purpose, a song that I did
not know; for I was certain I could not sing any one, and some
notice would have been taken.

Fortunately a visitor came; and as soon as I heard a coach

coming, I stopped, and begged he would put up my
harpsichord. I was much afraid he would then go away, but he
returned. Whilst Mamma and the lady,

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who came, were chatting together, I wished to look at him for a
moment; I met his eyes, and I could not turn mine from him.
That instant I saw his tears flow, and he was obliged to turn his
head aside to hide them. I found I could not withstand it; and
that I was also ready to weep. I retired, and instantly wrote with
a pencil on a slip of paper, "I beg you'll not be so dejected; I
promise to answer your letter."ʁSurely you can't say there was
any harm in this; I could not help it. I put my note in the strings
of my harpsichord, as his was, and returned to the saloon. I
found myself much easier, and was impatient until the lady
went away. She was on her visits, and soon retired. As soon as
she was gone, I said I would again play on my harpsichord, and
begged he would bring it. I saw by his looks he suspected
nothing; but when he returned, oh, he was so pleased! In laying
the instrument before me, he placed himself in such a manner
that Mamma could not see, and squeezed my handʁbut it was
but for a moment: I can't express the pleasure I received; I
drew it away however; so that I have nothing to reproach
myself with.

Now, my dear friend, you see I can't avoid writing to him, since
I have promised; and I will not chagrin him any more I am
determined; for I suffer more than he does. Certainly, as to any
thing bad, I would not be guilty of it, but what harm can there
be in writing, when it is to prevent one from being unhappy?
What puzzles me is, that I shall not know what to say; but that

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signifies nothing; and I am certain its coming from me will be
quite sufficient.

Adieu, my dear friend! If you think me wrong, tell me; but I don't
believe I am. As the time draws near to write to him, my heart
beats strangely; however, it must be so, as I have promised it.

From ʁʁ, Aug. 20, 17ʁ.

LETTER 19

CECILIA VOLANGES to CHEVALIER DANCENY.

You was so pensive, Sir, yesterday, and it gave me so much

uneasiness to see you so, that I could not avoid promising to
answer the letter you wrote me. I now think it unbecoming; yet,
as I promised, I will not break my word, a proof of the
friendship I have for you. Now I have made this
acknowledgment, I hope you will never more ask me to write to
you again, or ever let any one know I have wrote to you; for I
should most certainly be blamed, and it might occasion me a
deal of uneasiness. But above all, I hope you will not have a bad
opinion of me, which would give me the greatest concern; for I
assure you, I could not have been induced to do this by any one
else. I wish much you would not be so melancholy as you have

75
been, lately, as it deprives me of all the satisfaction I have in
your company. You see, Sir, I speak very sincerely to you. I wish
much that our friendship may be lasting; but I beg you'll write to
me no more.

I have the honour to be, CECILIA VOLANGES. Aug. 20, 17ʁ.

LETTER 20

The MARCHIONESS DE MERTEUIL to VISCOUNT VALMONT.

So, knave, you begin to wheedle, lest I should laugh at you!

Well, I forgive you. You say so many ridiculous things, that I
must pardon you, the trammels you are kept in by your
Presidente; however, my Chevalier would be apt not to be so
indulgent, and not to approve the renewal of our contract;
neither would he find any thing very entertaining in your foolish
whim. I laughed, however, exceedingly at it, and was truly sorry
I was obliged to laugh alone. Had you been here, I don't know
how far my good humour might have led me; but reflection
came to my aid, and I armed myself with severity. It is not that
I have determined to break off for ever; but I am resolved to
delay for some time, and I have my reasons. Perhaps some
vanity might arise in the case, and that once roused, one does

76
not know whither it may lead. I should be inclined to enslave
you again, and oblige you to give up your Presidente; but if a
person of my unworthiness should give you a disgust for virtue
itself, in a human shape, what a scandal! To avoid this danger,
these are my stipulations.

As soon as you have obtain'd your lovely devotee, and that you
can produce your proofs, come, I am yours. But I suppose it
unnecessary to inform you that, in important matters, none but
written proofs are admitted. By this arrangement I shall, on the
one hand, become a reward instead of a consolation, and this
idea pleases me most: on the other hand, your success will be
more brilliant, by becoming in the same moment the cause of
an infidelity. Come then, come speedily, and bring the pledge of
your triumph; like our valiant knights of old, who deposited, at
their ladies' feet, the trophies of their victories. I am really
curious to know what a prude can say after such an adventure;
what covering she can give her words after having uncovered
her person. You are to judge whether I rate myself too high; but
I must assure you beforehand, I will abate nothing. Till then, my
dear Viscount, you must not be angry that I should be constant
to my Chevalier; and that I should amuse myself in making him
happy, although it may give you a little uneasiness.

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If I was not so strict a moralist, I believe at this instant he
would have a most dangerous rival in the little Volanges. I am
bewitched with this little girl: it is a real passion. I am much
mistaken, or she will be one day or other one of our most
fashionable women. I can see her little heart expanding; and it
is a most ravishing sight!ʁShe already loves her Danceny to
distraction, yet knows nothing of it; and he, though deeply
smitten, has that youthful timidity, that frightens him from
declaring his passion. They are both in a state of mutual
adoration before me: the girl has a great mind to disburden her
heart, especially for some days past; and I should have done
her immense service in assisting her a little; but she is yet a
child, and I must not commit myself. Danceny has spoke
plainer; but I will have nothing to do with him. As to the girl, I
am often tempted to make her my pupil; it is a piece of service
I'm inclined to do Gercourt. He gives me time enough, as he
must remain in Corsica until October. I have in contemplation to
employ that time effectually, and to give him a well trained wife,
instead of an innocent convent pensioner.

The insolent security of this man is surprising, who dares sleep

quietly whilst a woman he has used ill is unrevenged! If the little
thing was now here, I do not know what I might say to her.

Adieu, Viscountʁgood night, and good success; but, for God's

sake, dispatch. Remember, if you let this woman slip, the others
will blush at having been unconnected with you.

Aug. 20, 17ʁ.

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LETTER 21

From VISCOUNT VALMONT to the MARCHIONESS DE

MERTEUIL.

I have at length, my dear friend, made an advance, and one of

such importance, that though it has not led to the full
completion of my wishes, convinces me I am in the right road,
and dispels my dread of having gone astray. I have at last
made my declaration of love; and although the most obstinate
silence was preserved, I have obtained an answer of the most
flattering, unequivocal nature; yet, not to anticipate matters,
but to recur to their origin: you may remember a spy was
appointed over my proceedings; well, I determined this
shameful treatment should be converted into the means of
public edification; and I laid my plan thus: I ordered my
confident to look out for some distressed person in the
neighbourhood, who wanted relief. This you know was not a
very difficult discovery. Yesterday evening he informed me that
the effects of a whole family were to be seized on as this
morning, for payment of taxes. I first took care to be certain
that there was neither woman nor girl in the house, whose age
or appearance could raise any suspicion of my intended

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scheme. When I was satisfied of this, I mentioned at supper
that I intended going a shooting next day. Here I must do my
Presidente justice; she certainly felt some remorse for the orders
she had given; and not being able to overcome her curiosity,
she determined to oppose my design. It would be exceedingly
hot; I should probably injure my health; I should kill nothing, and
fatigue myself in vain; and during this conversation, her eyes,
which spoke a plainer language than she perhaps intended, told
me she wished those simple reasons should pass current. You
may guess I did not assent to them, and even was proof
against a smart invective upon shooting and sportsmen; I held
my ground even against a little cloud of discontent that covered
her celestial face during the rest of the evening. I was at one
time afraid she had revoked her orders, and that her delicacy
would mar all. I did not reflect sufficiently on the strength of
woman's curiosity, and was mistaken; my huntsman cleared up
my doubts however that night, and I went to bed quite
satisfied.

At daylight I rose, and set out. I was scarcely fifty yards from
the castle, when I perceived my spy at my heels. I began to
beat about, directing my

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