A week later. After lunch. The salon in Mme de Rosemonde’s château. MME DE TOURVEL is stretched out on the chaise-longue, ashen; CÉCILE sits in the window, working at her tapestry; MME DE ROSEMONDE and MME DE VOLANGES sit at the card table; and only VALMONT is on his feet, moving around the room, his eye roving from MME DE TOURVEL to CÉCILE and back again.
ROSEMONDE: You’ll be pleased to hear, my dear, that Armand is on his feet again and back at work.
VALMONT: Who?
ROSEMONDE: Monsieur Armand, you remember, whose family you helped so generously.
VALMONT: Oh, yes.
(He comes to rest and sits down, his eye fixed now on MME DE TOURVEL. When she looks at him, he looks away for a few seconds at CÉCILE, and is gratified to notice, when he looks back at MME DE TOURVEL, that she’s still looking at him, although she looks away again, in some confusion, the minute he catches her out.)
ROSEMONDE: We’ve been keeping an eye on things while you’ve been away: I must say he never ceases to sing your praises.
(She turns to MME DE VOLANGES.)
When my nephew was last staying here, we discovered quite by chance that he had been down to the village and …
(VALMONT suddenly rises to his feet, still staring at MME DE TOURVEL.)
VALMONT: Are you feeling all right, Madame?
(Momentary confusion.)
I’m sorry to interrupt you, Aunt, it seemed to me all of a sudden that Madame de Tourvel didn’t look at all well.
TOURVEL: I’m … no, I’m quite all right.
(By now, MME DE ROSEMONDE and MME DE VOLANGES are on their feet and hurrying towards MME DE TOURVEL, who now does look genuinely ill, despite her feeble protests. As they bear down on her, VALMONT turns towards CÉCILE, who’s still sitting, needle poised, in the window, and deftly throws a letter into her lap. She’s so amazed by this, she sits there for a moment, gaping: until she grasps the significance of VALMONT’s impatient gestures, tosses her tapestry aside and stuffs the letter in her pocket. Finally, again at a gesture from VALMONT, she moves towards the chaise-longue, exhibiting polite concern and standing, next to VALMONT, at a respectful distance from the centre of attention, MME DE TOURVEL.)
ROSEMONDE: You do look dreadfully pale, my dear.
TOURVEL: I’m all right.
VOLANGES: Perhaps you need some air. Do you feel constricted in any way?
TOURVEL: No, really …
VALMONT: I feel sure Madame de Volanges is right, as usual. A turn around the grounds, perhaps.
ROSEMONDE: Yes, yes, a little walk in the garden, it’s not too cool, I think.
TOURVEL: Well, perhaps …
VOLANGES: Come along, my dear, we’ll all accompany you.
TOURVEL: I’ll be quite happy on my own.
VALMONT: You’ll have to excuse me, ladies, but I think you’re right to insist on chaperoning Madame.
(MME DE TOURVEL is wrong-footed by this: she frowns slightly in puzzlement and allows a shawl to be wrapped around her shoulders, as she’s propelled towards the french windows by MME DE ROSEMONDE and MME DE VOLANGES.)
ROSEMONDE: Fresh air will do you the world of good.
VOLANGES: The meal was somewhat heavy, perhaps …
ROSEMONDE: I don’t believe that can be the cause, Solange is an excellent cook …
(During this exchange, CÉCILE has gathered up her shawl and made to follow the others. As she’s spreading it across her shoulders, however, she’s startled to find it tugged away from her by VALMONT, who drops it on a chair and simultaneously murmurs to her between clenched teeth.)
VALMONT: Come back for it.
(She frowns at him for a moment, then follows the still-clucking ladies, who are now supporting MME DE TOURVEL on either side, out into the garden. Hiatus. VALMONT moves around the room, apparently well pleased. Presently, CÉCILE reappears and stands hesitantly just inside the windows. VALMONT picks up her shawl and strides towards her.)
I don’t want to arouse suspicion, Mademoiselle, so I must be brief and I must ask you to pay close attention to what I say. As you’ve no doubt guessed, the letter I gave you is from our friend, the Chevalier Danceny.
CÉCILE: Yes, I thought so, Monsieur.
VALMONT: And as I’m sure you’re also aware, the handing-over of letters is a far from easy matter to accomplish. I can’t very well create a diversion every day.
CÉCILE: And Maman has taken away my paper and pens.
VALMONT: Right, now listen carefully: there are two large cupboards in the antechamber next to your room. In the left-hand cupboard, you will find a supply of paper, pens and ink.
CÉCILE: Oh, thank you!
VALMONT: I suggest you return the Chevalier’s letters to me, when you’ve read them, for safe-keeping.
CÉCILE: Must I?
VALMONT: It would be wise.
(At this point, VALMONT produces a key from his waistcoat pocket.)
Now, this key resembles the key to your bedroom, which I happen to know is kept in your mother’s room, on the mantelpiece, tied with a blue ribbon. Take it, attach the blue ribbon to it and put it in the place of your bedroom key, which you will then bring to me. I’ll be able to get a copy cut within two hours, I’ll return you the original and you can put it back in your mother’s room. Then I’ll be able to collect your letters and deliver Danceny’s without any complications.
(He hands the key to CÉCILE, who takes it dubiously.)
Oh, and on the shelf below the writing paper, you’ll find a feather and a small bottle of oil, so that you can oil the lock and hinges on your bedroom door.
CÉCILE: Are you sure, Monsieur, I’m not sure it would be right …
VALMONT: How else are we going to manage this? Your mother never lets you out of her sight. You really must trust me, my dear.
CÉCILE: Well, I know Monsieur Danceny has every confidence in you …
VALMONT: Believe me, Mademoiselle, if there’s one thing I can’t abide, it’s deceitfulness. It’s only my very warm friendship for Danceny which would ever make me consider such methods.
(CÉCILE smiles uncertainly and puts the key away. She stands there, obviously racked with indecision.)
And now I suggest you rejoin your mama and the others before they send out a search party.
CÉCILE: Yes, Monsieur. Thank you, Monsieur.
(She turns and hurries back into the garden with her shawl. VALMONT watches her go, thoughtful.)
VALMONT: My pleasure.
(He moves over to an armchair and sinks into it, picks up a book from the arm of the chair, finds his place and settles to read. The lights change. It’s early evening now, and VALMONT, still reading, looks up as MME DE TOURVEL comes into the room. She freezes as soon as she sees VALMONT, who puts down his book and rises to his feet.)
I trust you’re feeling a little better, Madame.
TOURVEL: If I had felt ill, Monsieur, it would not be difficult to guess who was responsible.
VALMONT: You can’t mean me. Do you?
TOURVEL: You promised to leave here.
VALMONT: And I did.
TOURVEL: Then how can you be insensitive enough to return uninvited and without warning?
VALMONT: I find myself obliged to attend to some urgent business in the area: in which, moreover, my aunt is crucially involved.
TOURVEL: I only hope it can be dealt with promptly.
(By now, MME DE TOURVEL has cautiously moved closer to the centre of the room. As the conversation continues, VALMONT contrives, imperceptibly, to manoeuvre himself between her and the door.)
VALMONT: Why are you so angry with me?
TOURVEL: I’m not angry. Although, since you gave me a solemn undertaking not to offend me when you wrote and then in your very first letter spoke of nothing but the disorders of love, I’m certainly entitled to be.
VALMONT: I was away almost three weeks and wrote to you only three times. Since I was quite unable to think about anything but you, some might say I showed heroic restraint.
TOURVEL: Not in so far as you persisted in writing about your love, despite my pleas for you not to do so.
VALMONT: It’s true: I couldn’t find the strength to obey you.
TOURVEL: You claim to think there’s some connection between what you call love and happiness: I can’t believe that there is.
VALMONT: In these circumstances, I agree. When the love is unrequited …
TOURVEL: As it must be. You know it’s impossible for me to reciprocate your feelings; and even if I did, it could only cause me suffering, without making you any the happier.
VALMONT: But what else could I have written to you about, other than my love? What else is there? I believe I’ve done everything you’ve asked of me.
TOURVEL: You’ve done nothing of the sort.
VALMONT: I left here when you wanted me to.
TOURVEL: And you came back.
(Silence, as VALMONT searches for a way forward, momentarily at a loss.)
I’ve offered you my friendship, Monsieur. It’s the only thing I can give you: why can’t you accept it?
VALMONT: I could pretend to: but that would be dishonest.
TOURVEL: You’re not answering my question.
VALMONT: The man I used to be would have been content with friendship; and set about trying to turn it to his advantage. But I’ve changed now: and I can’t conceal from you that I love you tenderly, passionately and above all, respectfully. So how am I to demote myself to the tepid position of friend?
(VALMONT’s strategy has paid off, because at this moment MME DE TOURVEL decides to leave the room and finds the way blocked.)
And in any case, you’re no longer even pretending to show friendship.
TOURVEL: What do you mean?
VALMONT: Well, is this friendly?
TOURVEL: You can hardly expect me to stay here and listen to the expression of sentiments you know very well I can only find insulting.
VALMONT: I think you’re misunderstanding me: I know you can bestow on me nothing more than your friendship, for which, by the way, I’m profoundly grateful. In the same way, I can feel nothing less for you than love. We both know this is the true position: can’t we simply acknowledge it? I don’t see why recognition of the truth should lose me your friendship. Openness and honesty scarcely deserve to be punished, don’t you agree?
TOURVEL: You are adept, Monsieur, at framing questions which preclude the answer no. Your honesty or otherwise is not at issue. The point is, surely, that I was weak enough to be persuaded to grant you a favour you should never have obtained; and furthermore I did this under certain conditions, not a single one of which you have observed. Naturally, I feel you’ve exploited my good faith.
VALMONT: What can I say to reassure you? How can you be afraid of me when, because I love you, your happiness is far more important to me than my own? You’ve made me a better person: you mustn’t now undo your handiwork.
TOURVEL: I’ve no wish to: but I must ask whether you’re going to leave the room or let me pass.
VALMONT: But why?
TOURVEL: Because I find this conversation distressing. I can’t seem to make you understand what I mean; and I’ve no wish to hear what you invariably get round to saying.
VALMONT: Very well, I shall leave you in possession of the field.
TOURVEL: Thank you.
VALMONT: But look: I shall expedite my business, as you ask. But we are to be living under the same roof, at least for a few days; could we not contrive to tolerate it when fate throws us together? Surely we don’t have to try to avoid each other?
(Silence. VALMONT waits.)
TOURVEL: Of course not. Providing you adhere to my few simple rules.
VALMONT: I shall obey you in this as in everything. I wish you knew me well enough to recognize how much you’ve changed me. My friends in Paris remarked on it at once. I’ve become the soul of consideration, charitable, conscientious, more celibate than a monk …
TOURVEL: More celibate?
VALMONT: Well, you know, the stories one hears in Paris. (Pause.) It’s all due to your influence, I have you to thank for it. And now, good evening.
(He bows deep and turns away, begins moving towards the door.)
TOURVEL: Monsieur …?
VALMONT: What?
(She looks at him for a moment, troubled: then shakes her head.)
TOURVEL: Nothing.