Ten days later. A September afternoon. VALMONT is taking tea with LA MARQUISE DE MERTEUIL in her grand salon.
MERTEUIL: It sounds to me as if you made a serious tactical error. Shouldn’t you have taken Madame de Tourvel there and then on the chaise-longue?
VALMONT: I was expecting my aunt and the curé to appear at any moment.
MERTEUIL: Well, it would have been the most interesting thing to happen to them for years.
VALMONT: No, it wasn’t at all the moment: I want her to surrender, but not before she’s put up a fight.
MERTEUIL: She seems to be: she’s succeeded in getting rid of you altogether.
VALMONT: But I got her to agree to let me write to her.
MERTEUIL: Well, in the unlikely event of her defences being pierced by your eloquence, you’re not going to be there to take advantage of it, are you? And by the following day they’ll be back in full repair.
VALMONT: Naturally, writing to someone is a poor substitute, but since I really had no choice in the matter, at least I’ve found a way to keep the thing alive.
MERTEUIL: Perhaps.
VALMONT: I know you’re incurably sceptical, but for me, with a woman, this is by far the best stage, it’s what men talk about all the time but hardly ever experience, the real intoxication: when you know she loves you, but you’re still not quite certain of victory.
MERTEUIL: You know she loves you, then?
VALMONT: Oh, yes. I left my man there to keep an eye on things and a hand on the maid, who’s been most co-operative since I caught them in bed together: and he tells me that when my first letter arrived, she took it to her room and sat turning it over for hours, sighing and weeping. So it seems a reasonable enough conclusion.
(MERTEUIL says nothing, but her expression remains dubious.)
And the maid helped us to another discovery which might interest you.
MERTEUIL: Oh, yes?
VALMONT: Can you guess who it was who kept writing to my beauty, warning her to steer clear of the world’s vilest pervert, namely me? Your damned cousin, the Volanges bitch.
(MERTEUIL bursts out laughing.)
It’s all very well for you to laugh, she’s set me back at least a month.
MERTEUIL: It’s not that.
VALMONT: She wanted me away from Madame de Tourvel: well, now I am and I intend to make her suffer for it. Your plan to ruin her daughter: are you making any progress? Is there anything I can do to help? I’m entirely at your disposal.
MERTEUIL: Well, as a matter of fact, my dear Vicomte, your presence here today forms part of my plan. I’m expecting Danceny at any moment and I want you to help me stiffen his resolve, if that’s the phrase. And then I’ve arranged a little scene I hope you may find entertaining: yes, I’m sure you will.
VALMONT: Is that all you’re going to say?
MERTEUIL: Yes, I think so.
VALMONT: Has Danceny not been a great success?
MERTEUIL: He’s been disastrous. Like most intellectuals, he’s intensely stupid. He really is a most incompetent boy. Charming, but hopeless.
VALMONT: You’d better bring me up to date.
MERTEUIL: Well, I’ve become extremely thick with little Cécile. We go to my box at the Opéra and chatter away all evening. I’m really quite jealous of whoever’s in store for her. She has a certain innate duplicity which is going to stand her in very good stead. She has no character and no morals, she’s altogether delicious.
VALMONT: But what’s happened?
MERTEUIL: She and Danceny are head over heels in love. It started when she asked me if it would be wrong for her to write to him. First I said yes and later I said no, it would be all right, as long as she showed me both sides of the correspondence. Then I arranged a meeting, but Danceny was so paralysed with chivalry, he didn’t lay a finger on her. All his energies go into writing her poems of great ingenuity and minimum impact. I tried to ginger things up by telling her it was Gercourt her mother intended her to marry. She was shocked enough to discover he was a geriatric of 36, but by the time I’d finished describing him, she couldn’t have hated him more if they’d been married ten years. Then, the first major setback: she told her confessor and he took a very strong line. So she severed relations with Danceny and spent all her time praying to be able to forget him, a pleasantly self-contradictory exercise. He remained abject throughout. The only thing I could do was to organize a rendezvous for them to say goodbye to one another and hope for the best. And after all that, what do I find? Danceny has managed to hold her hand for five seconds, and when asked to let go, to Cécile’s extreme annoyance, he does. You really have to put some backbone into him. Afterwards the little one said to me, ‘Oh, Madame, I wish you were Danceny’: and, do you know, just for a minute, I wished I was.
VALMONT: I often wonder how you managed to invent yourself.
MERTEUIL: I had no choice, did I, I’m a woman. Women are obliged to be far more skilful than men, because who ever wastes time cultivating inessential skills? You think you put as much ingenuity into winning us as we put into losing: well, it’s debatable, I suppose, but from then on, you hold every ace in the pack. You can ruin us whenever the fancy takes you: all we can achieve by denouncing you is to enhance your prestige. We can’t even get rid of you when we want to: we’re compelled to unstitch, painstakingly, what you would just cut through. We either have to devise some way of making you want to leave us, so you’ll feel too guilty to harm us; or find a reliable means of blackmail: otherwise you can destroy our reputation and our life with a few well-chosen words. So of course I had to invent: not only myself, but ways of escape no one else has ever thought of, not even I, because I had to be fast enough on my feet to know how to improvise. And I’ve succeeded, because I always knew I was born to dominate your sex and avenge my own.
VALMONT: Yes; but what I asked you was how.
MERTEUIL: When I came out into society I’d already realized that the role I was condemned to, namely to keep quiet and do as I was told, gave me the perfect opportunity to listen and pay attention: not to what people told me, which was naturally of no interest, but to whatever it was they were trying to hide. I practised detachment. I learned how to smile pleasantly while, under the table, I stuck a fork into the back of my hand. I became not merely impenetrable, but a virtuoso of deceit. Needless to say, at that stage nobody told me anything: and it wasn’t pleasure I was after, it was knowledge. But when, in the interests of furthering that knowledge, I told my confessor I’d done ‘everything’, his reaction was so appalled, I began to get a sense of how extreme pleasure might be. No sooner had I made this discovery than my mother announced my marriage: so I was able to contain my curiosity and arrived in Monsieur de Merteuil’s arms a virgin.
All in all, Merteuil gave me little cause for complaint: and the minute I began to find him something of a nuisance, he very tactfully died.
I used my year of mourning to complete my studies: I consulted the strictest moralists to learn how to appear; philosophers to find out what to think; and novelists to see what I could get away with. And finally I was well placed to perfect my techniques.
VALMONT: Describe them.
MERTEUIL: Only flirt with those you intend to refuse: then you acquire a reputation for invincibility, whilst slipping safely away with the lover of your choice. A poor choice is less dangerous than an obvious choice. Never write letters. Get them to write letters. Always be sure they think they’re the only one. Win or die.
(VALMONT smiles. He looks at her for a moment.)
VALMONT: These principles are infallible, are they?
MERTEUIL: When I want a man, I have him; when he wants to tell, he finds he can’t. That’s the whole story.
VALMONT: And was that our story?
(MERTEUIL pauses before answering.)
MERTEUIL: I wanted you before we’d even met. My self-esteem demanded it. Then, when you began to pursue me … I wanted you so badly. It’s the only one of my notions has ever got the better of me. Single combat.
VALMONT: Thank you.
(He’s about to say more, but is interrupted by the arrival of Merteuil’s MAJORDOMO, escorting the CHEVALIER DANCENY, a Knight of Malta, an eager and handsome young man of about 20. DANCENY hurries over and bows to kiss MERTEUIL’s hand. Then he acknowledges VALMONT.)
DANCENY: Vicomte.
VALMONT: My dear young man. How good to see you again.
(DANCENY turns back to MERTEUIL, speaks a trifle breathlessly.)
DANCENY: I’m so sorry to be late, Madame.
MERTEUIL: Very nearly too late.
(But looking up at his sincerely repentant expression, she softens.)
As you know, Mademoiselle de Volanges …
DANCENY: It gives me such pleasure to hear her name spoken, Madame.
MERTEUIL: Yes, yes, quite. As I was saying, Mademoiselle de Volanges has done me the honour of making me her confidante and counsellor in this matter which concerns you both.
DANCENY: She could hardly have chosen more wisely.
MERTEUIL: Yes, well, be that as it may, I felt very strongly that in this situation, which is exceedingly delicate, you too might find it beneficial to be able to confide in someone sympathetic, a person of experience: and the Vicomte de Valmont, who is known to you as well as being an old friend of mine and a man of unswerving discretion, seems to me an ideal choice. And should you agree, he’s very kindly consented to devote himself to your interests.
(A frown crosses VALMONT’s face: but by the time DANCENY, who for his part seems slightly flustered by this offer, turns to him, it’s vanished.)
DANCENY: Well …
VALMONT: Perhaps it is my reputation which is causing you to hesitate: if so, I think I can assure you that a man’s own mistakes are not necessarily a guide to his faculty for objective judgement.
DANCENY: No, of course not, I certainly wouldn’t have the impudence, no, it’s … the fact is, this is not a conventional intrigue with the aim of … that’s to say, my love and respect …
VALMONT: We’re not dealing, you mean, with a frivolous coquette or a bored wife?
DANCENY: Precisely. A person like Mademoiselle de Volanges must be treated with the utmost consideration. And my own position has certain weaknesses, of which I’m only too bitterly aware. Her great fortune, for example, compared to my own precarious condition …
VALMONT: Naturally, there would be no excuse for trying to manoeuvre her into such a pass that she would be forced to marry you, that would be quite wrong.
DANCENY: You do understand how I feel.
MERTEUIL: Of course he does, what did I tell you?
DANCENY: You see, I’m quite happy with things as they are, as long as she consents to see me, to continue with the music lessons.
VALMONT: Ah, the music lessons.
(The MAJORDOMO reappears and crosses the room to murmur to MERTEUIL. She gives him some instructions in an undertone and he bows and leaves.)
In any case, I have absolutely no wish to press my attentions on you …
DANCENY: No, please …
VALMONT: But do rest assured that I am honoured to be at your disposal.
DANCENY: The honour, Monsieur, is entirely mine, and any contact with you would be a privilege. Perhaps you would care to …?
MERTEUIL: I’m sorry to interrupt you, Chevalier, but I’m afraid you must leave. Madame de Volanges has just been announced. You see now why I was concerned at your late arrival.
DANCENY: Maybe this would be a good opportunity for me to pay my respects and hope to …
MERTEUIL: I really think at this juncture, Monsieur Danceny, it would be prudent for you not to be found here. That is if you want me to be of any effective assistance in the future.
(During this speech, a FOOTMAN has entered.)
DANCENY: Of course, whatever you think fit.
MERTEUIL: Goodbye, Chevalier. My man will show you to a side exit.
(DANCENY kisses her hand in hurried farewell. VALMONT takes his arm as he crosses to the door.)
VALMONT: I have to go to Versailles tomorrow, I don’t know if you’d care to accompany me.
DANCENY: I’d like that very much.
VALMONT: Good, I’ll send a carriage for you at nine.
(DANCENY vanishes with the FOOTMAN, VALMONT turns back to MERTEUIL.)
So this is the scene you have planned for me?
MERTEUIL: If you’d care to go behind the screen.
(She indicates a screen in a corner of the room, a trace of anxious impatience in her voice.)
VALMONT: I think you might have consulted me before offering my services as general factotum to that exasperating boy. I don’t find lovers’ complaints remotely entertaining outside of the Opéra.
MERTEUIL: I was sure that if anyone could help him …
VALMONT: Help? He doesn’t need help, he needs hindrances: if he has to climb over enough of them, he might inadvertently fall on top of her.
MERTEUIL: I’ll see what I can do: now, Vicomte, the screen.
(VALMONT starts moving towards it, then hesitates.)
VALMONT: Are you sure I shouldn’t confront her? Give her some evidence for those rude letters?
MERTEUIL: Quick.
(VALMONT moves swiftly and is only just behind the screen in time not to be seen by MME DE VOLANGES, as she’s shown in by the MAJORDOMO. MERTEUIL, who has assumed a grave expression, rises to greet her, kissing her on both cheeks.)
VOLANGES: Your note said it was urgent …
MERTEUIL: It’s days now, I haven’t been able to think about anything else, I couldn’t decide what to do for the best.
Finally I saw there was no escaping the fact it was my plain duty to tell you. Please sit down.
(MME DE VOLANGES, now decidedly uneasy, does so, as MERTEUIL paces to and fro, looking anguished.)
As you know, in recent weeks, Cécile has been kind enough to accept my friendship and, I believe, bestow on me her own.
VOLANGES: Yes, of course, she’s devoted to you.
MERTEUIL: This is what makes this duty doubly difficult to perform.
VOLANGES: This has something to do with Cécile?
MERTEUIL: I may be wrong; I pray Heaven I am.
(She pauses again; by now, MME DE VOLANGES is thoroughly alarmed.)
VOLANGES: Go on.
(MERTEUIL takes a deep breath.)
MERTEUIL: I have reason to believe that a, how can I describe it, a dangerous liaison has sprung up between your daughter and the Chevalier Danceny.
(Silence. MME DE VOLANGES is dumbfounded and so, should he be visible behind the screen, is VALMONT. But it takes only a few seconds for MME DE VOLANGES to recover her equilibrium.)
VOLANGES: No, no, that’s completely absurd. Cécile is still a child, she understands nothing of these things; and Danceny is an entirely respectable young man.
MERTEUIL: If you were to be right, no one would be happier than I.
VOLANGES: Naturally, they’ve never been together unchaperoned, generally by me and often by you.
MERTEUIL: Precisely, that’s when I first formed the impression that something was passing between them: the way they looked at each other.
VOLANGES: I’m sure it’s merely their feeling for the music.
MERTEUIL: Perhaps so. But there was one other thing. Tell me, does Cécile have a great many correspondents?
VOLANGES: She writes, I suppose, an average number of letters. Relatives, friends from the convent … Why?
MERTEUIL: I went into her room at the beginning of this week, I simply knocked and entered without waiting for a reply, and she was stuffing a letter into the left-hand drawer of her bureau, in which, I couldn’t help noticing, there seemed to be a large number of similar letters.
(Silence. Then MME DE VOLANGES rises to her feet.)
VOLANGES: I’m most grateful to you. I’ll see myself out.
MERTEUIL: I hope you don’t think me interfering.
VOLANGES: Not at all.
MERTEUIL: And do I hope, if, God forbid, you do discover anything compromising, you won’t tell Cecile it was I who was responsible. I would hate to forfeit her trust, and if there is to be a period of difficulty, I would like to think my advice might be of some use to her.
VOLANGES: Of course.
(MERTEUIL rings. MME DE VOLANGES stands there, still in a state of mild shock.)
MERTEUIL: Would you think it impertinent if I were to make another suggestion?
VOLANGES: No, no.
MERTEUIL: If my recollection is correct, I overheard you saying to the Vicomte de Valmont that his aunt had invited you to stay at her château.
VOLANGES: She has, yes, repeatedly.
MERTEUIL: A spell in the country might be the very thing until all this blows over.
VOLANGES: If what you tell me has any truth in it, I may very well send her back to the convent.
MERTEUIL: Wouldn’t it be better to threaten that as a punishment if there’s any resumption of relations?
VOLANGES: Perhaps. I can’t believe you’re right about this.
MERTEUIL: Let’s hope not.
(The MAJORDOMO has arrived and MERTEUIL beckons him over. MME DE VOLANGES meanwhile is lost in thought. She looks up, frowning.)
VOLANGES: Isn’t the Vicomte staying there at the moment?
MERTEUIL: I understand he’s returned to Paris.
(She embraces MME DE VOLANGES warmly.)
I expect I’ve imagined the whole thing and tomorrow we’ll be able to laugh at my stupidity. If so, I hope you’ll be able to forgive me.
VOLANGES: My dear, I shall always be more than grateful for your concern.
(They part; and she moves slowly out of the room, bowed down with care, following the MAJORDOMO. Because of her slow progress, VALMONT emerges from behind the screen before she’s disappeared, to MERTEUIL’s alarm. But MME DE VOLANGES doesn’t look back and VALMONT can’t resist making faces at her retreating back, causing MERTEUIL to hiss at him.)
MERTEUIL: Stop it.
VALMONT: So, you understand I’ve returned to Paris?
MERTEUIL: You asked for hindrances.
VALMONT: You’re a genuinely wicked woman.
MERTEUIL: And you wanted a chance to make my cousin suffer.
VALMONT: I can’t resist you.
MERTEUIL: I’ve made it easy for you.
VALMONT: But all this is most inconvenient: the Comtesse de Beaulieu has invited me to stay.
MERTEUIL: Well, you’ll have to put her off.
VALMONT: The Comtesse has promised me extensive use of her gardens. It seems her husband’s fingers are not as green as they once were.
MERTEUIL: Maybe not. But from what I hear, all his friends are gardeners.
MERTEUIL: You want your revenge: I want my revenge. I’m afraid there’s really only one place you can go.
VALMONT: Back to Auntie, eh?
MERTEUIL: Back to Auntie. Where you can also pursue that other matter. You have some evidence to procure, have you not?
VALMONT: Don’t you think it would be a generous gesture, show a proper confidence in my abilities, I mean, to take that evidence for granted, and …?
MERTEUIL: I need it in writing, Vicomte.
(He gives her his most charming smile, but it leaves her unmoved.)
And now you must leave me.
VALMONT: Must I? Why?
MERTEUIL: Because I’m hungry.
VALMONT: Yes, I’ve quite an appetite myself.
MERTEUIL: Then go home and eat.