A couple of days later. The middle of the night. A bedroom in a house on the outskirts of Paris which belongs to ÉMILIE, a courtesan. She’s in bed with VALMONT, lying in his arms, her eyes flashing in the candlelight. He seems lost in thought. ÉMILIE shifts her position and he smiles down at her.
VALMONT: I thought the Dutch were supposed to be famous for their capacity for alcohol.
ÉMILIE: Three bottles of burgundy and a bottle of cognac would finish anybody.
VALMONT: Did he drink that much?
ÉMILIE: You were pouring.
VALMONT: I hope you’re not missing him.
ÉMILIE: Don’t be silly. I just don’t think it was necessary to bundle him into your carriage.
VALMONT: Man in that condition, I thought it best to send him back to his house.
ÉMILIE: This is his house.
VALMONT: Oh. I thought it was your house.
ÉMILIE: He owns it. I just live in it. And he’s so rarely in France. Seems a shame.
(She grins broadly.)
VALMONT: Oh, well, I’m sure my coachman will use his imagination.
ÉMILIE: I’m sure, since you’re perfectly aware of the position and have no doubt given him explicit instructions, he won’t have to.
VALMONT: Explicit instructions?
ÉMILIE: Yes.
(Silence.)
VALMONT: I must say, Émilie, I do think it’s the height of bad manners to talk about some foreigner when you’re in bed with me. I think some appropriate punishment is called for. Turn over.
(ÉMILIE hesitates, looking up at him for a moment. Then she breaks into a smile.)
ÉMILIE: All right.
(She does so, looking up at him expectantly.)
VALMONT: Now, do you have pen, ink and writing paper?
(ÉMILIE is puzzled. After a while, she answers.)
ÉMILIE: Yes, over there, in the bureau. Why?
(Instead of answering, VALMONT gets out of bed, crosses the room, finds what he’s looking for in the bureau and brings it back to the bed. He puts down the pen and inkwell carefully, twitches back the bedclothes, spreads a sheet of paper across the small of ÉMILIE’s back, arranges himself comfortably and reaches for the pen.)
VALMONT: Now don’t move.
(ÉMILIE is still puzzled. But she submits graciously enough. VALMONT begins to write.)
‘My dear Madame de Tourvel … I have just come … to my desk …’
(ÉMILIE understands now. She turns her head to smile up at him.)
Don’t move, I said.
(He resumes.)
‘… in the middle of a stormy night, during which I have been tossed from exaltation to exhaustion and back again. The position in which I find myself as I write has made me more than ever aware of the power of love. I can scarcely control myself sufficiently to put my thoughts in order; but despite these torments I guarantee that at this moment I am far happier than you. I hope one day you may feel the kind of disturbance afflicting me now: meanwhile please excuse me while I take steps to calm what I can only describe as a mounting excitement.’
(He moves aside paper, pen and inkwell and leans back to nuzzle ÉMILIE, who hasn’t moved.)
We’ll finish it later, shall we?
(The lights fade to black.)