It’s the following day, 1 October. The low afternoon sun slants in through the windows of the salon in Mme de Rosemonde’s château. At first, the room is empty: then CÉCILE appears, arm-in-arm with MME DE MERTEUIL who seems almost to be supporting her. CÉCILE looks exhausted and distraught; MERTEUIL, solicitous.
MERTEUIL: My dear, I really can’t help you unless you tell me what’s troubling you.
CÉCILE: I can’t, I just can’t.
MERTEUIL: I thought we’d agreed not to keep any secrets from one another.
CÉCILE: I’m so unhappy.
(She bursts into tears. MERTEUIL takes her in her arms and soothes her mechanically, her expression, as long as it’s not seen by CÉCILE, bored and impatient.)
Everything’s gone wrong since the day Maman found Danceny’s letters.
MERTEUIL: Yes, that was very stupid of you. How could you have let that happen?
CÉCILE: Someone must have told her, she went straight to my bureau and opened the drawer I was keeping them in.
MERTEUIL: Who could have done such a thing?
CÉCILE: It must have been my chambermaid …
MERTEUIL: Or your confessor perhaps?
CÉCILE: Oh, no, surely not.
MERTEUIL: You can’t always trust those people, my dear.
CÉCILE: That’s terrible.
MERTEUIL: But today, what is the matter today?
CÉCILE: You’ll be angry with me.
MERTEUIL: Are you sure you don’t want me to be angry with you?
CÉCILE: I don’t know how to speak the words.
MERTEUIL: Perhaps I am beginning to get angry.
(She’s spoken quietly; and now there’s a long silence. Finally, CÉCILE takes a deep breath.)
CÉCILE: Last night …
MERTEUIL: Yes.
CÉCILE: So that we could exchange letters to and from Danceny without arousing suspicion, I gave Monsieur de Valmont the key to my bedroom …
MERTEUIL: Yes.
CÉCILE: And last night he used it. I thought he’d just come to bring me a letter. But he hadn’t. And by the time I realized what he had come for, it was, well, it was too late to stop him …
(She bursts into tears again; but this time MERTEUIL doesn’t take her in her arms. Instead, she considers her coolly for a moment before speaking.)
MERTEUIL: You mean to tell me you’re upset because Monsieur de Valmont has taught you something you’ve undoubtedly been dying to learn?
(CÉCILE’s tears are cut off and she looks up in shock.)
CÉCILE: What?
MERTEUIL: And am I to understand that what generally brings a girl to her senses has deprived you of yours?
CÉCILE: I thought you’d be horrified.
MERTEUIL: Tell me: you resisted him, did you?
CÉCILE: Of course I did, as much as I could.
MERTEUIL: But he forced you?
CÉCILE: It wasn’t that exactly, but I found it almost impossible to defend myself.
MERTEUIL: Why was that? Did he tie you up?
CÉCILE: No, no, but he has a way of putting things, you just can’t think of an answer.
MERTEUIL: Not even no?
CÉCILE: I kept saying no, all the time: but somehow that wasn’t what I was doing. And in the end …
MERTEUIL: Yes?
CÉCILE: I told him he could come back tonight.
Silence. CÉCILE seems, once again, trembling on the edge of tears.)
I’m so ashamed.
MERTEUIL: You’ll find the shame is like the pain: you only feel it once.
CÉCILE: And this morning it was terrible. As soon as I saw Maman, I couldn’t help it, I burst into tears.
MERTEUIL: I’m surprised you missed the opportunity to bring the whole thing to a rousing climax by confessing all. You wouldn’t be worrying about tonight if you’d done that; you’d be packing your bags for the convent.
CÉCILE: What am I going to do?
MERTEUIL: You really want my advice?
CÉCILE: Please.
(MERTEUIL considers a moment.)
MERTEUIL: Allow Monsieur de Valmont to continue your instruction. Convince your mother you have forgotten Danceny. And raise no objection to the marriage.
(CÉCILE gapes at her, bewildered.)
CÉCILE: With Monsieur de Gercourt?
MERTEUIL: When it comes to marriage one man is as good as the next; and even the least accommodating is less trouble than a mother.
CÉCILE: But what about Danceny?
MERTEUIL: He seems patient enough; and once you’re married, you should be able to see him without undue difficulty.
CÉCILE: I thought you once said to me, I’m sure you did, one evening at the Opéra, that once I was married, I would have to be faithful to my husband.
MERTEUIL: Your mind must have been wandering, you must have been listening to the opera.
CÉCILE: So, are you saying I’m going to have to do that with three different men?
MERTEUIL: I’m saying, you stupid little girl, that provided you take a few elementary precautions, you can do it, or not, with as many men as you like, as often as you like, in as many different ways as you like. Our sex has few enough advantages, you may as well make the most of those you have. Now here comes your mama, so remember what I’ve said and, above all, no more snivelling.
CÉCILE: Yes, Madame.
(And by now, MME DE VOLANGES is more or less upon them. She acknowledges MERTEUIL perfunctorily, but her anxious attention is directed almost entirely towards CÉCILE, whose expression is now profoundly thoughtful.)
VOLANGES: How are you feeling now, my dear?
CÉCILE: Oh, much better, thank you, Maman.
VOLANGES: You look so tired. I think you should go to bed.
CÉCILE: No, really, I’ve …
MERTEUIL: I think you should do as your mother suggests. We can arrange for something to be brought to your room. I’m sure it would do you good.
CÉCILE: Well. Perhaps you’re right, Madame.
(She curtsies to MERTEUIL and kisses her mother on both cheeks.)
VOLANGES: I’ll come up and see you later on.
(CÉCILE makes a demure exit, watched by the others. When she’s left the room, MME DE VOLANGES turns back to MERTEUIL.)
You have such a very good influence on her.
MERTEUIL: I like to think so. But what do you suppose is the matter?
VOLANGES: Didn’t she tell you?
MERTEUIL: No, we merely spoke of how she was enjoying the country.
VOLANGES: That makes me even more certain of the cause of her unhappiness. She’s pining for that young man. I’m afraid it’s beginning to affect her health.
MERTEUIL: Do you think so?
VOLANGES: This morning, I simply asked her how she’d slept, and she threw herself into my arms and cried and cried.
(MME DE VOLANGES sighs deeply. Then she turns decisively to MERTEUIL.)
My dear, I’d be very grateful if you would allow me to discuss this with you seriously. I’ve been brooding about it all day, and now I really feel I need your advice.
MERTEUIL: My dear friend, please, I’d be proud to think I could be of any help to you.
VOLANGES: Well. I’ve been reconsidering. I really think perhaps I should break off Cécile’s engagement with Monsieur de Gercourt.
(MERTEUIL’s head jerks up.)
He is no doubt a better match than Danceny, but the family, after all, is not decisively superior. Danceny is not rich, of course: but I dare say Cécile is rich enough for both of them. And the most important thing is that they love each other. Don’t you agree?
(Silence. MERTEUIL is thinking fast.)
You think I’m wrong?
MERTEUIL: I have every confidence that your eventual decision will be the right one. If I were able to take a more objective view of the situation, it would only be because, in this case, I am not affected by the altogether praiseworthy emotion of maternal love.
VOLANGES: Please go on, I do rely on your judgement.
MERTEUIL: Well. It seems to me a question of distinguishing what’s correct from what’s pleasurable. To say this young man is entitled to your daughter just because of his passion for her is a little like saying a thief is entitled to your money. I’m not at all sure how appropriate an emotion love is, particularly within marriage. I believe friendship, trust and mutual respect are infinitely more important.
VOLANGES: And you don’t approve of Danceny?
MERTEUIL: There’s no denying that, as suitors, there can be no comparison between them. I know money isn’t everything: but will sixty thousand a year really be sufficient to maintain the kind of establishment Cécile will be obliged to run, even as Madame Danceny? Of course, I wouldn’t dream of suggesting in any way that Danceny has allowed himself to be influenced by financial considerations …
VOLANGES: But?
MERTEUIL: Precisely.
(Silence. MME DE VOLANGES reflects.)
But, as I say, this is only an opinion. Naturally, it’s your decision.
VOLANGES: Yes.
MERTEUIL: Perhaps you ought not to take it on the strength of a single outburst, which might have any number of, well, medical explanations, for example.
VOLANGES: Perhaps you’re right.
MERTEUIL: In any event, I hope we can discuss it further when we’re all back in Paris.
(She accompanies this remark with a gesture which alerts MME DE VOLANGES to the fact that VALMONT has entered the room. VALMONT bows, as the ladies turn to him.)
VALMONT: Mesdames.
VOLANGES: If you’ll excuse me, Monsieur, I must go and make arrangements for some supper to be taken up to my daughter.
VALMONT: Oh, is she indisposed?
VOLANGES: For the moment.
VALMONT: The young have such miraculous powers of recuperation. I’m sure she’ll soon be back in the saddle. Tell her I hope so, at least.
VOLANGES: Thank you, Monsieur.
(She leaves the room briskly. VALMONT watches her go and then turns back to grin at MERTEUIL.)
VALMONT: You see, she can hardly bear to be in the same room with me.
MERTEUIL: But I gather you’ve had your revenge. Well done.
VALMONT: So you know?
MERTEUIL: The little one could hardly wait to tell me.
VALMONT: A favourable report, I trust?
MERTEUIL: On the contrary, Vicomte, if I hadn’t spoken to her sharply, I think on your next visit you’d have found her door bolted as well as locked.
VALMONT: You surprise me. I was malicious enough to use no more strength than could easily be resisted.
MERTEUIL: Still, for some reason she seems to think it was rather an underhand approach.
VALMONT: I’d been postponing it, to tell you the truth. But when I heard you were expected today, I wanted to be able to afford you some amusement at least.
MERTEUIL: It’s just as well I did decide to look in, because, as it turns out, your initiative came within an ace of sabotaging our whole plan.
VALMONT: What do you mean?
MERTEUIL: Madame de Volanges was so concerned about Cécile’s appearance this morning, she resolved to allow her to marry Danceny after all.
VALMONT: No.
MERTEUIL: I think I’ve been able to talk her out of it: but the fact remains, you almost lost us our revenge on Gercourt.
VALMONT: I could hardly be expected to anticipate this sudden access of compassion. After all, to my knowledge, Mother Volanges has never shown signs of it before.
MERTEUIL: I’m beginning to have my doubts about you, Vicomte. Do you really deserve your reputation? You see, the real reason I consented to spend a night at this lugubrious address was that I was hoping to be shown some tear-stained bit of paper.
VALMONT: Ah.
MERTEUIL: But I can only assume from what you’ve been saying that no such document exists.
VALMONT: No.
MERTEUIL: Probably just as well, no doubt you’re exhausted after last night’s exertions.
VALMONT: I think you know me better than that.
MERTEUIL: Well, I wonder. Can you account for this extraordinary dilatoriness?
VALMONT: Lugubrious or not, I haven’t experienced a moment’s boredom in all the weeks I’ve spent here. I appreciate you may have excellent reasons for your impatience, but you mustn’t try to deprive me of my simple pleasures. I’ve explained to you before how much I enjoy watching the battle between love and virtue.
MERTEUIL: What concerns me is that you appear to enjoy watching it more than you used to enjoy winning it.
VALMONT: All in good time.
MERTEUIL: The century is drawing to its close, Vicomte.
VALMONT: It’s true that she’s resisted me for more than two months now; and that’s very nearly a record. But I really don’t want to hurry things. We go for a walk together almost every day: a little further every time down the path that has no turning. She’s accepted my love; I’ve accepted her friendship; we’re both aware how little there is to choose between them. Her eyes are closing. Every step she tries to take away from the inevitable conclusion brings her a little nearer to it. Hopes and fears, passion and suspense: even if you were in the theatre, what more could you ask?
MERTEUIL: An audience?
VALMONT: But you: you’re my audience. And when Gercourt is married and Madame de Tourvel eventually collapses, we shall tell everyone, shall we not? And the story will spread much faster than the plot of the latest play; and I’ve no doubt it will be much better received.
MERTEUIL: I hope you’re right, Vicomte, I wish I could share your confidence.
VALMONT: I’m only sorry our agreement does not relate to the task you set me rather than the task I set myself.
MERTEUIL: I am grateful, of course: but that would have been almost insultingly simple. One does not applaud the tenor for clearing his throat.
VALMONT: You’re right, how could one possibly compare them …?
(He breaks off as MME DE ROSEMONDE comes into the room, followed by MME DE TOURVEL. MME DE ROSEMONDE bustles over to MERTEUIL to embrace her: MERTEUIL responds convincingly, but it’s clear she has immediately registered the look which passes between VALMONT and MME DE TOURVEL, a look that indicates that there has indeed been some progress in their relationship.)
ROSEMONDE: I’m so delighted you could manage to visit us, my dear, even if only for such a short time.
MERTEUIL: I wish I could stay longer, Madame, but my husband’s estate …
ROSEMONDE: Do you know, I was thinking yesterday, it’s more than five years since you were last here, with your dear husband. Such a kind and such a vigorous man, who could have imagined … ah, well …
(MERTEUIL, who is centrally placed, has been watching MME DE TOURVEL and, more particularly, VALMONT, who really is lost in contemplation of MME DE TOVRVEL. She doesn’t like what she sees: it clearly troubles her, even though, after only the briefest pause, she manages a civil reply to MME DE ROSEMONDE.)
MERTEUIL: Yes, Madame, there’s no denying that life is frighteningly unpredictable.