Three weeks later. Early evening. The principal salon in Mme de Rosemonde’s château in the country. The late sun slants through the french windows. VALMONT is interviewing AZOLAN, his valet de chambre, a dapper young man, resplendent in the livery of a chasseur.
VALMONT: So he grasped what was going on, did he?
AZOLAN: Oh, yes, sir. I was watching him and he was watching you.
VALMONT: I just hope he was better at understanding what was happening than he was at shadowing me; I sat down for a rest on the way and he was trampling about behind some bush, making so much noise I had a good mind to give him a legful of small shot. Except then I suppose he’d have had even more trouble keeping up.
AZOLAN: He knew what you were doing: and after you’d gone he talked to the family.
VALMONT: I must say the family was very well chosen.
AZOLAN: Thank you, sir.
VALMONT: Solidly respectable, gratifyingly tearful, no suspiciously pretty girls. Well done.
AZOLAN: I do my best for you, sir.
VALMONT: And not even unduly expensive. Fifty-six livres to save an entire family from ruin, that seems a genuine bargain.
AZOLAN: These days, my lord, you can find half a dozen like that, any village in the country.
VALMONT: Really? I must say, it’s no longer a mystery to me why people fall so easily into the habit of charitable enterprises. All that humble gratitude. It was most affecting.
AZOLAN: Certainly brought a tear to my eye, sir.
VALMONT: How are you getting on with the maid?
AZOLAN: Julie? Tell you the truth, it’s been a bit boring. If I wasn’t so anxious to keep your lordship abreast, I think I’d only have bothered the once. I’m not sure she doesn’t feel the same, but, you know, what else is there to do in the country?
VALMONT: Yes, it wasn’t so much the details of your intimacy I was after, it was whether she’s agreed to bring me Madame de Tourvel’s letters and do you think she’ll keep her mouth shut?
AZOLAN: She won’t steal the letters, sir.
VALMONT: She won’t?
AZOLAN: You know better than me, sir, it’s easy enough making them do what they want to do; it’s trying to get them to do what you want them to do, that’s what gives you a headache.
VALMONT: And them, as often as not.
AZOLAN: As for keeping her mouth shut, I haven’t asked her to keep her mouth shut, because that’s the one thing most likely to give her the idea of opening it.
VALMONT: You may well be right. But look, Madame de Tourvel told me she’d been warned about me: that means some officious friend must have written to her about me. I need to know who.
AZOLAN: I shouldn’t worry about all that, if I was you, sir. If she’s interested enough to have you followed, I’d say it was only a matter of time.
VALMONT: Do you think so?
AZOLAN: Anyway, apparently she keeps her letters in her pockets.
VALMONT: I wish I knew how to pick pockets. Why don’t our parents ever teach us anything useful?
(Pause, as VALMONT considers.)
Where do you and Julie meet?
AZOLAN: Oh, in my room, sir.
VALMONT: And is she coming tonight?
AZOLAN: Afraid so.
VALMONT: Then I think I may have to burst in on you. See if blackmail will succeed better than bribery. About two o’clock suit you? I don’t want to embarrass you, will that give you enough time?
AZOLAN: Ample, sir.
VALMONT: Good.
AZOLAN: Then you won’t have to pay her, sir, will you?
VALMONT: Oh, I think if she delivers, we can afford to be generous, don’t you?
AZOLAN: It’s your money, sir.
VALMONT: Don’t worry, I shan’t overlook your contribution.
AZOLAN: Well, that’s very decent of you, sir.
(VALMONT looks up at the sound of approaching female voices. He turns back to AZOLAN.)
VALMONT: Off you go, then. See you at two.
AZOLAN: Right, sir. I’ll be sure to arrange her so she can’t say she’s there to borrow a clothes brush.
(He leaves by one door as MME DE ROSEMONDE and MME DE TOURVEL arrive by another. MME DE ROSEMONDE is 84, arthritic but lively, intelligent and sympathetic; and MME DE TOURVEL is a handsome woman of 22, dressed not as Merteuil described, but in an elegantly plain linen gown. She is clearly in a state of considerable excitement.)
ROSEMONDE: Here he is. I said he would be here.
(VALMONT rises to greet them. TOURVEL cannot help reacting to his presence.)
VALMONT: Ladies.
ROSEMONDE: Madame de Tourvel has some mystery to reveal to us.
TOURVEL: To you, Madame, to you.
VALMONT: Oh, well, then, perhaps I should go for a walk.
TOURVEL: No, no, it, it concerns you as well, I mean, it particularly concerns you. In fact, I must begin by asking you some questions.
VALMONT: Very well. Just let me help my aunt to her chair.
ROSEMONDE: Thank you, my boy.
(VALMONT installs MME DE ROSEMONDE in her armchair, then turns his attention back to MME DE TOURVEL.)
VALMONT: Now.
TOURVEL: Where did you go this morning, Monsieur?
VALMONT: Well, as you know, I was up early to go out hunting.
TOURVEL: And did you succeed in making a kill this time?
VALMONT: No, I’ve had the most wretched luck ever since I arrived here. Also I’m a terrible shot.
TOURVEL: But on this occasion, Monsieur le Vicomte, what exactly was it you were hunting?
VALMONT: I’m sorry, I’m afraid I don’t quite follow …
TOURVEL: You may as well own up, Monsieur, I know where you were this morning.
ROSEMONDE: I think it’s time somebody explained to me what’s going on.
TOURVEL: Georges, my footman, just happened to be in the village earlier today …
VALMONT: I do hope you haven’t been listening to servants’ gossip.
TOURVEL: I can see Monsieur de Valmont is determined not to tell you, so I shall have to. There’s a family in the village, the man has been ill, he found himself not able to pay his taxes this year. So this morning the bailiff arrived to seize their few sticks of furniture. Whereupon your nephew, whose valet had been making enquiries in the village to see if anyone was suffering from particular hardship, arrived, paid off the family’s debts and added a generous contribution to help them back on their feet again.
ROSEMONDE: Is this true, my dear?
VALMONT: Well, I … it’s simply … Yes.
(MME DE ROSEMONDE rises to her feet and spreads out her arms.)
ROSEMONDE: You dear boy, come and let me give you a hug!
(VALMONT crosses to her and they embrace. Then VALMONT turns and advances towards MME DE TOURVEL, smiling radiantly, his arms outstretched. A spasm of panic crosses her face but she has no choice but to submit to the embrace: VALMONT squeezes her powerfully. Then he releases her and, as she looks at him, ashen and mesmerized, he turns aside, wiping away a surreptitious tear.)
It’s so like you to make a secret of something like that.
(In the ensuing silence, MME DE TOURVEL moves across to the tapestry frame, and picks up the already-threaded needle. But her hands are shaking so badly, she has to put it down again.)
We must visit this family in the morning, my dear, to see if we can help in any other way.
TOURVEL: Yes, I’d like that.
VALMONT: Do sit down, aunt.
ROSEMONDE: No, I must try to find Monsieur le Curé. I shan’t be long, but I do want to tell him about this before he leaves, he’ll be so pleased.
(She bustles out of the room, and a long silence ensues. MME DE TOURVEL makes a renewed and determined effort to get to grips with her tapestry; VALMONT finds a chair facing her, watches and waits. The light is beginning to die. Finally, MME DE TOURVEL, struggling for composure, feels compelled to break the silence.)
TOURVEL: I can’t understand how someone whose instincts are so generous could lead such a dissolute life.
VALMONT: I’m afraid you have an exaggerated idea both of my generosity and of my depravity. If I knew who’d given you such a dire account of me, I might be able to defend myself; since I don’t, let me make a confession: I’m afraid the key to the paradox lies in a certain weakness of character.
TOURVEL: I don’t see how so thoughtful an act of charity could be described as weak.
VALMONT: This appalling reputation of mine, you see, there is some justification for it. I’ve spent my life surrounded by immoral people; I’ve allowed myself to be influenced by them and sometimes even taken pride in outshining them. Whereas, in this case, I’ve simply fallen under a quite opposite kind of influence: yours.
TOURVEL: You mean you wouldn’t have done it …?
VALMONT: Not without your example, no. It was by way of an innocent tribute to your goodness.
(There’s a pause, during which MME DE TOURVEL, uncertain how to react, abandons her tapestry, hovers indecisively for a second and then sits, perching on the edge of a chaise-longue.)
You see how weak I am? I promised myself I was never going to tell you. It’s just, looking at you …
VALMONT: You needn’t worry, I have no illicit intentions, I wouldn’t dream of insulting you. But I do love you. I adore you.
(He’s across the room in an instant, drops to one knee in front of her and takes her hands in his.)
Please help me!
(MME DE TOURVEL wrenches her hands free and bursts into tears.)
What is it?
TOURVEL: I’m so unhappy!
(She buries her face in her hands, sobbing. For an instant, a shadow of a smile twitches across VALMONT’s face, before he speaks in a voice on the edge of tears.)
VALMONT: But why?
TOURVEL: Will you leave me now?
(VALMONT rises and moves away across the room, ostensibly making an effort to control himself.)
VALMONT: I shouldn’t have said anything, I know I shouldn’t, I’m sorry. But really, you have nothing to fear. Nothing at all. Tell me what to do, show me how to behave, I’ll do anything you say.
(MME DE TOURVEL manages to control herself and looks up at him.)
TOURVEL: I thought the least I could hope for was that you would respect me.
VALMONT: But I do, of course I do!
TOURVEL: Then forget all this, don’t say another word, you’ve offended me deeply, it’s unforgivable.
VALMONT: I thought you might at least give me some credit for being honest.
TOURVEL: On the contrary, this confirms everything I’ve been told about you. I’m beginning to think you may well have planned the whole exercise.
VALMONT: When I came to visit my aunt, I had no idea you were here: not that it would have disturbed me in the slightest if I had known. You see, up until then, I’d only ever experienced desire. Love, never.
VALMONT: No, no, you made an accusation, you must allow me the opportunity to defend myself. Now, you were there when my aunt asked me to stay a little longer, and at that time I only agreed in deference to her, although I was already by no means unaware of your beauty.
TOURVEL: Monsieur …
VALMONT: No, the point is, all this has nothing to do with your beauty. As I got to know you, I began to realize that beauty is the least of your qualities. I became fascinated by your goodness, I was drawn in by it, I didn’t understand what was happening to me, and it was only when I began to feel actual physical pain every time you left the room, that it finally dawned on me: I was in love, for the first time in my life. I knew it was hopeless, of course, but that didn’t matter to me, because it wasn’t like it always had been, it wasn’t that I wanted to have you, no. All I wanted was to deserve you.
(MME DE TOURVEL rises decisively to her feet.)
TOURVEL: I really will have to leave you, Monsieur, you seem determined to persist with a line of argument you must know I ought not to listen to and I don’t want to hear.
VALMONT: No, no, please, sit down, sit down. I’ve already told you, I’ll do anything you say.
(Silence. They watch each other. Eventually, MME DE TOURVEL sits down again.)
TOURVEL: There’s only one thing I would like you to do for me.
VALMONT: What? What is it?
TOURVEL: But I don’t see how I can ask you, I’m not even sure if I want to put myself in the position of being beholden to you.
VALMONT: Oh, please, no, I insist, if you’re good enough to give me an opportunity to do something you want, anything, it’s I who will be beholden to you.
(MME DE TOURVEL looks at him for a moment with characteristic openness.)
TOURVEL: Very well, then, I would like you to leave this house.
(There flashes momentarily across VALMONT’s face the expression of a chess champion who has just lost his queen.)
VALMONT: I don’t see why that should be necessary.
TOURVEL: Let’s just say you’ve spent your life making it necessary.
(By now, VALMONT has recovered his equilibrium; and thought very fast.)
VALMONT: Well then, of course, whatever you say. I couldn’t possibly refuse you.
(It’s MME DE TOURVEL’s turn to be surprised.)
Will you allow me to give my aunt, say, twenty-four hours’ notice?
TOURVEL: Well, yes, naturally.
VALMONT: I shall find something in my mail tomorrow morning which obliges me to return at once to Paris.
TOURVEL: Thank you, I’d be very grateful.
VALMONT: Perhaps I might be so bold as to ask a favour in return.
(MME DE TOURVEL frowns, hesitating.)
I think it would only be just to let me know which of your friends has blackened my name.
TOURVEL: You know very well that’s impossible, Monsieur. If friends of mine have warned me against you, they’ve done so purely in my own interest and I could hardly reward them with betrayal, could I? I must say, you devalue your generous offer if you want to use it as a bargaining point.
VALMONT: Very well, I withdraw the request. I hope you won’t think I’m bargaining if I ask you to let me write to you.
TOURVEL: Well …
VALMONT: And hope that you will do me the kindness of answering my letters.
TOURVEL: I’m not sure a correspondence with you is something a woman of honour could permit herself.
VALMONT: So you’re determined to refuse all my suggestions, however respectable?
TOURVEL: I didn’t say that.
VALMONT: I really don’t see how you could possibly be harmed by conceding me this very minor but, as far as I’m concerned, vitally important consolation.
TOURVEL: I would welcome the chance to prove to you that what motivates me in this is not hatred or resentment, but …
VALMONT: But what?
(But MME DE TOURVEL seems unable to find a satisfactory answer to this. And, moving as suddenly and swiftly as before, VALMONT again crosses the room, drops to one knee and takes her hand. She struggles to free it.)
TOURVEL: For God’s sake, Monsieur, please, leave me alone!
VALMONT: I only want to say what I hardly thought it would be possible for me to say to you: goodbye.
(He kisses her hand. She submits briefly, her expression anguished, then begins to struggle again, whereupon he releases her instantly, rises to his feet and bows.)
I’ll write soon.
(He hurries away into the darkness, just failing to muffle a discreet sob. MME DE TOURVEL is left alone, rooted to the chaise-longue. She looks terrified.)