"Do you know that you have lost more than you believe, in not undertaking this child? She is really delicious! She has neither character nor principles; judge how sweet and easy her society will be. I do not think she will ever shine by sentiment; but everything announces in her the liveliest sensations. Lacking wit and subtilty, she has, however, if one may so speak, a certain natural falseness which sometimes astonishes even me, and which will be all the more successful, in that her face presents the image of candor and ingenuousness. She is naturally very caressing, and I sometimes amuse myself thereby: her little head grows excited with incredible rapidity, and she is then all the more delightful, because she knows nothing, absolutely nothing, of all that she so greatly desires to know. She is seized with quite droll fits of impatience; she laughs, pouts, cries, and then begs me to teach her with a truly seductive good faith. Really, I am almost jealous of the man for whom that pleasure is reserved…"
There is something about the line that just flowed so effortlessly, mindlessly from my head through the nib of my pen onto the paper before me that gives me pause, though I am not accustomed to having to proofread my own correspondence. The Vicomte de Valmont has been so long my lover, so long my friend, so long my pawn, that I could truly, without the slightest shadow of a doubt, manipulate him in my sleep. Sometimes I even look forward to the days where I have a letter to write to him in return, reveling in the natural ease with which I write the letters, knowing I have nothing to worry about, knowing that I can't possibly slip up with a man I know as well as I do Valmont. And yet…
I read back over the previous line and allow my lips to press themselves into a thin, disapproving line. "Really, I am almost jealous of the man for whom that pleasure is reserved…" the words roll around relentlessly in my brain, nagging at me not only with the truth that comes from deep within our subconscious when we keep the least watch on it, but also with the horrible sense that they do not belong in this letter, serving no real purpose. Mindlessly easy these letters may be to write, but that never meant that I filled them with useless drivel; each word has a purpose, a way of making Valmont more firmly mine. Lips going even thinner, if possible, I read back over the entire letter, keeping my face composed, though disapproving, until I reach that fateful paragraph and I feel the heat suffuse my features, thankfully hidden behind my makeup. As the heat spreads to my chest, which I know will show the scalding red that my face feels, but does not show, I attempt to get a hold of myself.
My mind races as I try to figure out what to do, and when my blush stops spreading and growing in intensity I read again, this time attempting a different outlook on the words. There is a sexual undertone, no doubt about it, but the words evoke a captivating image that may just hook Valmont to the point where he overlooks the key phrase. I wonder, with a touch of desperation that is most unwelcome, how much he reads into my letters, for I am sure he knows I play word games with him. What are the chances that he will simply overlook the words that I find to be so delightfully scandalous? Good, I hope, as I am unwilling to rewrite the letter and sending the Vicomte a letter with words crossed out is unacceptable.
I am unable to keep my eyes from scanning over the body of the letter again, taking in each elegant loop and deliberate stroke of my pen, trying to keep the new meaning I have attached to my words fixed in my head, trying not to let the true meaning shine through and instead see it with another's eyes. "Really, I am almost jealous of the man for whom that pleasure is reserved…" I end the sentence with a decisive period, and skip to the next line, to the next paragraph, determined to move on despite the unsettling way the letter doubles in my vision, one version truth, they other deception.
Despite my determination to move from the topic, too sudden of a change would alert him to something, and perhaps cause him to re-read words which a woman with less daring than I would never send, and I cannot truly help but prattle on, bragging slightly, for another few sentences. This paragraph too, ends with a decisive period as I refuse to look back upon it or the one previous to it.
"It is at this moment that you would be very useful to me. You are sufficiently intimate with Danceny to obtain his confidence, and, if he once gave it to you, we should advance at full speed."
I can almost make myself believe that those two sentences sum up the reason for the previous two paragraphs, and the dangerous truths that I hope to have hidden within my elegant script. I sign with my usual dismissive, airy phrasing, wishing that I could dismiss the contents of the letter as quickly as my words make it seem.
"Adieu, Vicomte; I am going to attend to my toilette, what time I will read your volume.
Paris, 27th August, 17-."1
I seal the letter and hand it to my maid to be posted before I can think twice about it, before I can consider setting the missive alight and watching my secrets be swallowed in flames.
AN: All quotations taken from letter 38, the Marquise de Merteuil to the Vicomte de Valmont.