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Eugenie De Franval by Donatien Alfonse Francois, Marquis De Sade To instruct man and correct his morals: such is the sole goal we set for ourselves in this story. In reading it, may the reader be steeped in the knowledge of the dangers which forever dog the steps of those who, to satisfy their desires, will stop at nothing! May they be persuaded that the best education, wealth, talent, and the gifts of Nature are likely to lead one astray unless they are buttressed and brought to the fore by self- restraint, good conduct, wisdom, and modesty. Such are the truths we intend to relate. May the reader show himself indulgent for the monstrous details of the hideous crime we are obliged to describe; but is it possible to make others detest such aberrations unless one has the courage to lay them bare, without the slightest embellishment? It is rare that everything conspires in one person to lead him to prosperity; does Nature shower her gifts upon him? Then Fortune refuses him her gifts. Does Fortune lavish her favours upon him? Then Nature proves niggardly. It would appear that the hand of Heaven has wished to show us that, in each individual as in the most sublime operations, the laws of equilibrium are the prime laws of the Universe, those which at the same time govern everything that happens, everything that vegetates, and everything that breathes. Franval lived in Paris, the city of his birth, and possessed, among a variety of other talents, an income of four hundred thousand livres, a handsome figure, and a face to match. But beneath this seductive exterior was concealed a plethora of vices, and unfortunately among them those which, when adopted and practised, quickly lead to crime. Franval's initial shortcoming was an imagination the disorderliness of which defies description; that is, a shortcoming that one cannot correct; its effects only worsen with age. The less one can do, the more one undertakes; the less one acts, the more one invents; each period of one's life brings new ideas to the fore, and satiety, far from dampening one's ardour, paves the way for even more baleful refinements. As we have said, Franval was generously endowed with all the charm of youth and all the talents which embellish it; but so great was his contempt of both moral and religious duties that it had become impossible for his tutors to inculcate any of them in him. In an age when the most dangerous, the most insidious books are available to children, as well as to their fathers and their tutors, when rashness of thought passes for philosophy, when incredulity passes for strength, and libertinage is mistaken for imagination, Franval's wit provoked approving laughter. He may have been scolded immediately afterward, but later he was praised for it. Franval's father, an ardent advocate of fashionable sophisms, was the first to encourage his son to think soundly on all these matters. He even went so far as to personally lend his son the works most liable to corrupt him all the more quickly. In the light of which, what teacher would have dared to inculcate principles different from those of the household wherein the young Franval was obliged to please? Be that as it may, Franval lost his parents while he was still very young, and when he was nineteen an elderly uncle, who also died shortly thereafter, bequeathed him, upon the occasion of his marriage, the full wealth due him from his inheritance. With such a fortune, Monsieur de Franval should have had not the slightest difficulty in finding a wife. An infinite number of possible matches were proposed, but since Franval had begged his uncle to arrange a match for him with a girl younger than he, and with as few relatives as possible, the old man directed his attentions to a Mademoiselle de Farneille, the daughter of a financier, who had lost her father and whose only family was her widowed mother. The girl was actually quite young, only fifteen, but she had sixty thousand very real livres annual income and one of the most charming and delightful faces in all Paris... one of those virgin-like faces in which the qualities of candour and charm vie with each other beneath the delicate features of love and feminine grace. Her long blond hair cascaded down below her waist and her large blue eyes bespoke both tenderness and modesty; she had a slender, lithe, and graceful figure, skin that was lily-white, and the freshness of roses about her. She was blessed with many talents, was possessed of a lively but slightly melancholy imagination - that gentle melancholy which predisposes one to a love of books and a taste for solitude, attributes which Nature seems to accord to those whom she has fated for misfortune, as though to make it less bitter for them by the sombre and touching pleasure it brings them, a pleasure which makes them prefer tears to the frivolous joy of happiness, which is a much less active and less pervasive force. Madame de Farneille, who was thirty-two at the time of her daughter's marriage, was also a witty and winning woman, but perhaps a trifle too reserved and severe. Desirous to see her only child happy, she had consulted all of Paris about this marriage. And since she no longer had any family, she was obliged to rely for advice on a few of those cold friends who care not a whit about anything. They succeeded in convincing her that the young man who was being proposed for her daughter was, beyond any shadow of a doubt, the best match she could make in Paris, and that she would be utterly and unpardonably foolish if she were to turn it down. And so the marriage took place, and the young couple, wealthy enough to take their own house, moved into it within a few days. Young Franval's heart did not contain any of those vices of levity, disorder, or irresponsibility which prevent a man from maturing before the age of thirty. Possessed of a fair share of self-confidence, and being an orderly man who was at his best in managing the affairs of a household, Franval had all the qualities necessary for this aspect of a happy life. His vices, of a different order altogether, were rather the failings of maturity than the indiscretions of youth: he was artful, scheming, cruel, base, self-centred, given to manoeuvring, deceitful, and cunning - all of this he concealed not only by the grace and talent we have previously mentioned but also by his eloquence, his uncommon wit, and his most pleasing appearance. Such was the man we shall be dealing with. Mademoiselle de Farneille, who in accordance with the custom had only known her husband at most a month prior to their marriage, was taken in by this sparkling exterior, and she had become his dupe. She idolized him, and the days were not long enough for her to feast her adoring eyes upon him; so great was her adoration in fact, that had any obstacles intervened to trouble the sweetness of a marriage in which, she said, she had found her only happiness in life, her health, and even her life, might have been endangered. As for Franval, a philosopher when it came to women as he was with regard to everything else in life, coolness and impassivity marked his attitude toward this charming young woman. "The woman who belongs to us," he would say, "is a sort of individual whom custom has given us in bondage. She must be gentle, submissive... utterly faithful and obedient; not that I especially share the common prejudice concerning the dishonour a wife can impose upon us when she imitates our debaucheries. 'Tis merely that a man does not enjoy seeing another usurp his rights. Everything else is a matter of complete indifference, and adds not a jot to happiness." With such sentiments in a husband, it is easy to predict that a life of roses is not what lies in store for the poor girl who is married to him. Honest, sensible, well-bred, lovingly anticipating the every desire of the only man in the world she cared about, Madame de Franval bore her chains during the early years without ever suspecting her enslavement. It was easy for her to see that she was merely gleaning meagre scraps in the fields of Hymen, but, still too happy with what little he left her, she devoted her every attention and applied herself scrupulously to make certain that during those brief moments when Franval acknowledged her tenderness he would at least find everything that she believed her beloved husband required to make him happy. And yet the best proof that Franval had not been completely remiss in his duties was the fact that, during the first year of their marriage, his wife, then aged sixteen and a half, gave birth to a daughter even more beautiful than her mother, a child whom her father straightway named Eugenie - Eugenie, both the horror and the wonder of Nature. Monsieur de Franval, who doubtless had formed the most odious designs upon the child the moment she was born, immediately separated her from her mother. Until she was seven, Eugenie was entrusted to the care of some women on whom Franval could rely, and they confined themselves to inculcating in her a good disposition and to teaching her to read. They scrupulously avoided imparting to her the slightest knowledge of any religious or moral principles of the sort that a girl of that age normally receives. Madame de Farneille and her daughter, who were grieved and shocked by such conduct, reproached Monsieur de Franval for it. He replied imperturbably that his plan was to make his daughter happy, and he had no intention of filling her mind with chimeras designed solely to frighten men without ever proving of the least worth to them. He also said that a girl who needed nothing more than to learn how to make herself pleasing and attractive would be well advised to remain ignorant of such nonsense, for such fantasies would only disturb the serenity of her life without adding a grain of truth to her moral character or a grain of beauty to her body. Such remarks were sorely displeasing to Madame de Farneille, who was increasingly attracted to celestial ideas the more she withdrew from worldly pleasures. Piety is a failing inherent in periods of advancing age or declining health. In the tumult of the passions, we generally feel but slight concern over a future we gauge to be extremely remote, but when passions' language becomes, less compelling, when we advance on the final stages of life, when in a word everything leaves us, then we cast ourselves back into the arms of the God we have heard about when we were children. And if, according to philosophy, these latter illusions are fully as fantastic as the others, they are at least not as dangerous. Franval's mother-in-law had no close relatives, she herself had little or no influence, and at the very most a few casual friends who proved less than that when put to the test. Having to do battle against an amiable, young, well-situated son-in-law, she very wisely decided that it would be simpler to limit herself to remonstrating than to undertake more vigorous measures with a man who could ruin the mother and cause the daughter to be confined if they should dare to pit themselves against him. In consideration of which a few remonstrances were all she ventured, and as soon as she saw that they were to no avail, she fell silent. Franval, certain of his superiority and perceiving that they were afraid of him, soon threw all restraint to the winds and, only thinly disguising his activities simply for the sake of appearances, he advanced straight toward his terrible goal. When Eugenie was seven years old, Franval took her to his wife; and that loving mother, who had not seen her child since the day she had brought her into the world, could not get her fill of fondling and caressing her. For two hours she hugged the child to her breast, smothering her with kisses and bathing her with her tears. She wanted to learn all her little talents and accomplishments; but Eugenie had none except the ability to read fluently, to be blessed with perfect health, and to be as pretty as an angel. Madame de Franval was once again plunged into despair when she realized that it was only too true that her daughter was quite ignorant of the most basic principles of religion. "What are you doing, Sir," she said to her husband. "Do you mean to say you are bringing her up only for this world? Deign to reflect that she, like all of us, is destined to dwell but a second here, afterward to plunge into an eternity, which will be disastrous if you deprive her of the wherewithal to find happiness at the feet of Him from whom all life cometh." "If Eugenie knows nothing, Madame," Franval replied, "if these maxims are carefully concealed from her, there is no way she could be made unhappy; for if they are true, the Supreme Being is too just to punish her for her ignorance, and if they are false, what need is there to speak to her about them? As for the rest of her education, please have confidence in me. Starting today I shall be her tutor, and I promise you that in a few years your daughter will surpass all the children her own age." Madame de Franval wished to pursue the matter further; calling the heart's eloquence to the aid of reason, a few tears expressed themselves for her. But Franval, who was not in the least moved by the tears, did not seem even to notice them. He had Eugenie taken away, and informed his wife that if she tried to interfere in any way with the education he planned to give his daughter, or if she attempted to inculcate in the girl principles different from those with which he intended to nourish her, she would by so doing deprive herself of the pleasure of seeing her daughter, whom he would send to one of those chateaux from which she would not re-emerge. Madame de Franval, accustomed to submission, heard his words in silence. She begged her husband not to separate her from such a cherished possession and, weeping, promised not to interfere in any way with the education that was being prepared for her. From that moment on, Mademoiselle de Franval was installed in a very lovely apartment adjacent to that of her father, with a highly intelligent governess, an assistant governess, a chambermaid, and two girl companions her own age, solely intended for Eugenie's amusement. She was given teachers of writing, drawing, poetry, natural history, elocution, geography, astronomy, Greek, English, German, Italian, fencing, dancing, riding and music. Eugenie arose at seven every day, in summer as well as winter. For breakfast she had a large piece of rye bread, which she took with her out into the garden. She ran and played there till eight, when she came back inside and spent a few moments with her father in his apartment, while he acquainted her with the little tricks and games that society indulges in. Till nine she worked on her lessons; at nine her first tutor arrived. Between then and two she was visited by no less than five teachers. She ate lunch with her two little friends and her head governess. The dinner was composed of vegetables, fish, pastries, and fruit; never any meat, soup, wine, liqueurs, or coffee. From three to four, Eugenie went back out again to play with her companions. There they exercised together, playing tennis, ball, skittles, battledore and shuttlecock, or seeing how far they could run and jump. They dressed according to the seasons; they wore nothing that constricted their waists, never any of those ridiculous corsets equally dangerous for the stomach and chest which, impairing the breathing of a young person, perforce attack the lungs. From four to six, Mademoiselle de Franval received other tutors; and as all had not been able to appear the same day, the others came the following day. Three times a week, Eugenie went to the theatre with her father, in the little grilled boxes that were rented for her by the year. At nine o'clock she returned home and dined. All she then had to eat were vegetables and fruit. Four times a week, from ten to eleven, she played with her two governesses and her maid, read from one or more novels, and then went to bed. The three other days, those when Franval did not dine out, she spent alone in her father's apartment, and Franval devoted this period to what he termed his conferences. During these sessions he inculcated in his daughter his maxims on morality and religion, presenting to her on the one hand what some men thought on these matters, and then on the other expounding his own views. Possessed of considerable intelligence, a vast range of knowledge, a keen mind, and passions that were already awakening, it is easy to judge the progress that these views made in Eugenie's soul. But since the shameful Franval's intention was not only to strengthen her mind, these lectures rarely concluded without inflaming her heart as well; and this horrible man succeeded so well in finding the means to please his daughter, he corrupted her so cleverly, he made himself so useful both to her education and her pleasures, he so ardently anticipated her every desire that Eugenie, even in the most brilliant circles, found no one as attractive as her father. And even before he made his intentions explicit, the innocent and pliant creature had filled her young heart with all the sentiments of friendship, gratitude, and tenderness which must inevitably lead to the most ardent love. She had eyes only for Franval; she paid no attention to anyone but him, and rebelled at any idea that might separate her from him. She would gladly have lavished upon him not her honour, not her charms - all these sacrifices would have seemed far too meagre for the object of her idolatry - but her blood, her very life, if this tender friend of her heart had demanded it. Mademoiselle de Franval's feelings for her mother, her respectable and wretched mother, were not quite the same. Her father, by skillfully conveying to his daughter that Madame de Franval, being his wife, demanded certain ministrations from him which often prevented him from doing for his dear Eugenie everything his heart dictated, had discovered the secret of implanting in the heart of this young person much more hate and jealousy than the sort of respectable and tender sentiments that she ought to have felt for such a mother. "My friend, my brother," Eugenie sometimes used to say to Franval, who did not want his daughter to employ other expressions with him, "this woman you call your wife, this creature who, you tell me, brought me into this world, is indeed most demanding, since in wishing to have you always by her side, she deprives me of the happiness of spending my life with you.... It is quite obvious to me that you prefer her to your Eugenie. As for me, I shall never love anything that steals your heart away from me." "You are wrong, my dear friend," Franval replied. "No one in this world will ever acquire over me rights as strong as yours. The ties which bind this woman and your best friend - the fruit of usage and social convention, which I view philosophically- will never equal the ties between us.... You will always be my favourite, Eugenie; you will be the angel and the light of my life, the hearth of my heart, the moving force of my existence." "Oh! how sweet these words are!" Eugenie replied. "Repeat them to me often, my friend.... If only you knew how happy these expressions of your tenderness make me !" And taking Franval's hand and clasping it to her heart, she went on: "Here, feel, I can feel them all there...." "Your tender caresses assure me it's true," Franval answered, pressing her in his arms.... And thus, without a trace of remorse, the perfidious wretch concluded his plans for the seduction of this poor girl. Eugenie's fourteenth year was the time Franval had set for the consummation of his crime. Let us shudder !... He did it. The very day that she reached that age, or rather the day she completed her fourteenth year, they were both in the country, without the encumbering presence of family or other intrusions. The Count, having that day attired his daughter in the manner that vestal virgins had been clothed in ancient times upon the occasion of their consecration to the goddess Venus, brought her upon the stroke of eleven o'clock into a voluptuous drawing room wherein the daylight was softened by muslin curtains and the furniture was bedecked with flowers. In the middle of the room was a throne of roses; Franval led his laughter over to it. "Eugenie," he said to her, helping her to sit down upon it, "today be the queen of my heart and allow me, on bended knee, to worship and adore thee." "You adore me, my brother, when it is to you that I owe everything, you who are the author of my days, who has formed me.... ah! let me rather fall down at your feet; that is the only place I belong, and the only place I aspire to with you." "Oh my dear, my tender Eugenie," said the Count, seating himself beside her on the flower-strewn chairs which were to serve as the scene of his triumph, "if indeed it is true that you owe me something, if your feelings toward me are as sincere as you say they are, do you know by what means you can persuade me of your sincerity?" "What are they, my brother? Tell them to me quickly, so that I may be quick to seize them." "All these many charms, Eugenie, that Nature has lavished upon you, all these physical charms with which She has embellished you - these you must sacrifice to me without a moment's delay." "But what is it you ask of me? are you not already the master of everything? Does not what you have wrought belong to you? Can another delight in your handiwork?" "But you are not unaware of people's prejudices...." "You have never concealed them from me." "I do not wish to flout them without your consent." "Do you not despise them as much as I?" "Surely, but I do not want to be your tyrant, and even less your seducer. The services I am soliciting, nay the rewards I request, I wish to be won through love, and through love alone. You are familiar with the world and with its ways; I have never Concealed any of its lures from you. My habit of keeping other men from your eyes, so that I alone will be the constant object of your vision, has become a hoax, a piece of trickery unworthy of me. If in the world there exists a being whom you prefer to me, name him without delay, I shall go to the ends of the earth to find him and straightway lead him back here into your arms. In a word, it is your happiness I seek, my angel, yours much more than mine. These gentle pleasures you can give me will be nothing to me, if they are not the concrete proof of your love. Therefore, Eugenie, make up your mind. The time has come for you to be immolated, and immolated you must be. But you yourself must name the priest who shall perform the sacrifice; I renounce the pleasures which this title assures me if it is not your heart and soul which offer them to me. And, s1ill worthy of your heart, if 'tis not I whom you most prefer, still I shall, by bringing you him whom you can love and cherish, at least have merited your tender affection though I may not have won the citalel of your heart. And, failing to become Eugenie's lover, I shall still be her friend." "You will be everything, my brother, you will be everything," Eugenie said, burning with love and desire. "To whom do you wish me to sacrifice myself if it is not to him whom I solely adore! What creature in the entire universe can be more worthy than you of these meagre charms that you desire... and over which your burning hands are already roaming with great ardour! Can't you see by the fire which inflames me that I am just as eager as you to know these pleasures of which you have spoken? Ah! do, do what you will, my dear brother, my best friend, make Eugenie your victim; immolated by your beloved hands, she will always be triumphant." The fervent Franval who, considering the character we know him to possess, had draped himself in so much delicacy only in order to seduce his daughter all the more subtly, soon abused her credulity and, with all the obstacles eliminated or overcome both by the principles with which he had nourished that open and impressionable heart and by the cunning with which he had ensnared her at this final moment, he concluded his perfidious conquest and himself became with impunity the ravisher of that virginity of which Nature and the bonds of blood had made him the trusted defender. Several days passed in mutual intoxication. Eugenie, old enough to experience the pleasures of love, her appetite whetted by his doctrines, yielded herself to its transports. Franval taught her all its mysteries; he traced for her all its paths and byways. The more he paid obeisance, the more complete became his conquest. She would have wished to receive him in a thousand temples simultaneously; she accused her friend's imagination of being too timid, of not throwing all caution to the winds. and she had the feeling that he was hiding something from her. She complained of her age, and of a kind of ingenuousness which perhaps kept her from being seductive enough. And if she wished to further her amorous education, it was to insure that no means of inflaming her lover remained unknown to her. They returned to Paris, but the criminal pleasures which this perverse man had reveled in had too delightfully flattered his moral and physical faculties for that trait of character, inconstancy, which generally caused him to break off his other affairs, to have the least effect in breaking the bonds of this one. He had fallen hopelessly in love, and from this dangerous passion there inevitably ensued the cruelest abandonment of his wife.... Alas! what a victim. Madame de Franval, who was then thirty-one, was in the full flower of her beauty. An impression of sadness, the sort which inevitably follows upon the sorrows which consumed her, made her even more attractive. Bathed in her own tears, a constant prey to melancholy, her beautiful hair carelessly scattered over an alabaster throat, her lips lovingly pressed against the portraits of her faithless daughter and tyrant-husband, she resembled one of those beautiful virgins whom Michelangelo was wont to portray in the throes of sorrow. As yet she was still unaware of that which was destined to crown her affliction. The manner in which Eugenie was being educated, the essential things to which Madame de Franval was not privy or those she was told only to make her hate them; the certainty that these duties, despised by Franval, would never be permitted to her daughter; the little time she was allowed to spend with the young person; the fear that the peculiar education that Eugenie was being given might sooner or later lead her into the paths of crime; and, finally, Franval's wild conduct, his daily harshness toward her - she whose only concern in life was to anticipate his every wish, who knew no other charms than those resulting from her having interested or pleased him: these alone, for the moment, were the only causes of her distress. But imagine with what sorrow and pain this tender soul would be afflicted when she learned the full truth! Meanwhile, Eugenie's education continued. She herself had expressed a desire to follow her masters until she was sixteen, and her talents, the broad scope of her knowledge, the graces which daily developed in her - all these further tightened Franval's fetters. It was easy to see that he had never loved anyone the way he loved Eugenie. On the surface, nothing in Eugenie's daily routine had been changed save the time of the lectures. These private discussions with her father occurred much more frequently and lasted far into the night. Eugenie's governess was the only person privy to the affair, and they trusted her sufficiently not to be worried about her indiscretion. There were also a few changes in Eugenie's meal schedule: now she ate with her parents. In a house like Franval's, this circumstance soon placed Eugenie in a position to meet people and to be courted with a view toward marriage. Several men did ask for her hand. Franval, certain of his daughter's heart and feeling he had nothing to fear from these requests, had nonetheless failed to realize that this virtual flood of proposals might end by revealing everything. In one conversation with her daughter - a favour so devoutly desired by Madame de Franval and so rarely obtained - this tender mother informed Eugenie that Monsieur de Colunce had asked for her hand. "You know the gentleman," Madame de Franval said. "He loves you; he is young, agreeable, and one day he will be rich. He awaits your consent... naught but your consent. What will my answer be?" Taken aback, Eugenie reddened and replied that as yet she did not feel inclined toward marriage, but suggested the matter be referred to her father; his wish would be her command. Seeing in this reply nothing but candour pure and simple, Madame de Franval waited patiently for a few days until at last she found an occasion to speak to her husband about it. She communicated to him the intentions of the Colunce family, and those of young Colunce himself, and told him what his daughter's reply had been. As one can imagine, Franval already knew everything; but he made little effort to disguise his feelings. "Madame," he said dryly to his wife, "I must ask you to refrain from interfering in matters pertaining to Eugenie. I should have imagined that you would have surmised, from the care you saw me take to keep her away from you, how deeply I desired to make certain that anything relating to her should in no wise concern you. I reiterate my orders on this subject. I trust you will not forget them again." "But what, Sir, shall I reply," she answered, "since the request has been made through me?" "You will say that I appreciate the honour, and that my daughter has certain cohgenital defects which make marriage impossible for her." "But, Monsieur, these defects are not real. Why should I then falsely saddle her with them, and why deprive your daughter of the happiness she may find in marriage?" "Has marriage then made you so profoundly happy, Madame ?" "Doubtless all other wives have not failed so signally to win their husband's devotion, or" (and this was accompanied by a sigh) "all husbands are not like you." "Wives... wives are faithless, jealous, imperious, coquettish, or pious.... Husbands are treacherous, inconstant, cruel, or despotic. There, Madame, you have the summary of everyone on earth. Do not expect to find a paragon." "Still, everyone gets married." "True, the fools and ne'er-do-wells. In the words of one philosopher, 'People get married only when they do not know what they are doing, or when they no longer know what to do.' " "Then you think the human race should be allowed to die out ?" "And why not? A planet whose only product is poison cannot be rooted out too quickly." "Eugenie will not be grateful to you for your excessive sternness toward her." "Has she evinced any desire to marry this young man?" "She said that your wishes were her commands." "In that case, Madame, my commands are that you pursue this matter no further." And Monsieur de Franval left the room after reiterating most vigorously to his wife that she never speak to him on the subject again. Madame de Franval did not fail to inform her mother of the conversation that she had just had with her husband, and Madame de Farneille, a more subtle soul and one more versed in the effects of the passions than was her attractive daughter, immediately suspected something unnatural was involved. Eugenie saw her grandmother very seldom, no more than an hour, on festive or important occasions, and always in the presence of her father; Desirous of clarifying the matter, Madame de Farneille sent word to her son-in-law asking him to accord her the presence of her granddaughter one day, and requesting that he might allow her to stay one entire afternoon, in order to distract her, she said, from a migraine headache from which she was suffering. Franval sent back an irritable reply saying that there was nothing Eugenie feared more than the vapours, but that he would nonetheless bring her personally to her grandmother whenever the latter desired. He added, however, that Eugenie would not be able to remain for very long, since she was obliged to go from her grandmother's to a physics course which she was assiduously following. When they arrived at Madame de Farneille's, she did not hide from her son-in-law her astonishment at his refusal of the proposed marriage. "I imagine that you safely can allow your daughter to persuade me herself," Madame de Farneille went on, "of this defect which, according to you, must deprive her of marriage." "Whether this defect is real or not, Madame," said Franval, who was slightly surprised by his mother-in-law's resolution, "the fact is that it would cost me a small fortune to marry my daughter, and I am still too young to consent to such sacrifices. When she is twenty-five, she may do as she wishes. Until then, she cannot count on me or my support." "And do you feel the same way, Eugenie?" said Madame de Farneille. "With this one difference," Eugenie said with considerable firmness. "My father has given me permission to marry when I am twenty-five. But to you both here present, Madame, I swear that I shall never in my life take advantage of this permission, which with my way of thinking would only lead to unhappiness." "At your age one does not have `a way of thinking,' said Madame de Farneille, "and there is something quite out of the ordinary in all this, which I intend to ferret out." "I urge you to try, Madame," Franval said, leading his daughter away. "In fact, you would be well advised to seek the services of your clergy to help you in solving the enigma. And when all your powers have scraped and delved and you are at last enlightened in the matter, please let me know whether or not I was right in opposing Eugenie's marriage." Franval's sarcasm concerning his mother-in-law's ecclesiastical advisers was aimed at a respectable personage whom it will be appropriate to introduce at this point, since the sequence of events will soon show him in action. He was the confessor both of Madame de Farneille and her daughter, one of the most virtuous men in all France: honest, benevolent, a paragon of candour and wisdom, Monsieur de Clervil, far from having all the vices of men of the cloth, was possessed only of gentle and useful qualities. The rod and the staff of the poor, the sincere friend of the wealthy, the consoler of the wretched and downtrodden, this worthy man combined all the gifts which make a person agreeable, all the virtues which make one sensitive. When consulted, Clervil replied as a man of good common sense that before taking a stand in the matter they would have to unravel the reasons why Monsieur de Franval was opposed to his daughter's marriage; and although Madame de Farneille offered a few remarks suggesting the possibility of an affair - one which in fact existed all too concretely - the prudent confessor rejected these ideas. And finding them too outrageously insulting both for Madame de Franval and for her husband, he indignantly refused even to consider the possibility. "Crime is such a distressing thing, Madame," this honest man was sometimes wont to say, "it is so highly unlikely that a decent person should voluntarily exceed all the bounds of modesty and virtue, that it is never with anything but the most extreme repugnance that I make up my mind to ascribe such wrongs to someone. Be wary in suspecting the presence of vice. Our suspicions are often the handiwork of our pride and vanity, and almost always the fruit of a secret comparison that takes place in the depths of our soul: we hasten to assign evil, for this gives us the right to feel superior. If we reflect seriously upon the matter, would it not be better to leave a secret sin forever hidden rather than to dream up imaginary ones because of our unforgivable haste, and thus, for no reason, to sully in our eyes people who have never committed any wrongs save those which our pride has ascribed to them? And would our world not be a better place if this principle were always followed? Is it not infinitely less necessary to punish a crime than it is essential to prevent it from spreading? By leaving it in the darkness it seeks, have we not as it were annihilated it? Scandal noised abroad is certain scandal, and the recital of it awakens the passions of those who are inclined toward the same kind of crime. Crime being inevitably blind, the guilty party of the as yet undiscovered crime flatters him self that he will be luckier than the criminal whose crime has been found out. 'Tis not a lesson he has been given, but a counsel, and he gives himself over to excesses that he might never have dared to indulge in without the rash revelations... falsely mistaken for justice, but which, in reality, are nothing more than ill-conceived severity, or vanity in disguise." This initial conference therefore led to no other resolution than the decision to investigate carefully the reasons for Franval's aversion to the marriage of his daughter, and the reasons why Eugenie shared his opinions. It was decided not to undertake anything until these motives were discovered. "Well, Eugenie," Franval said to his daughter 'that evening, "now can you see for yourself that they want to separate us? And do you think they'll succeed, my child?... Will they succeed in breaking the sweetest bonds in my life?" "Never... never! Don't be afraid, my dearest friend! These bonds in which you delight are as precious to me as they are to you. You did not deceive me when you formed them; you clearly warned me how they would shock the morality of our society. But I was hardly frightened at the idea of breaking a custom which, varying from clime to clime, cannot therefore be sacred. I wanted these bonds; I wove them without remorse. Therefore you need have no fear that I shall break them." "Alas, who knows?... Colunce is younger than I... He has everything a man needs to win you. Eugenie, leave off listening to a vestige of madness which doubtless blinds you. Age and the torch of reason will soon dispel the aura and lead to regrets, you'll confide them to me, and I shall never forgive myself for having been the cause of them.' "No," Eugenie said firmly, "no, I have made up my mind to love no one but you. I should deem myself the most miserable of women if I were obliged to marry... Can you imagine," she went on heatedly, "me, me married to a stranger who, unlike you, would not have double reason to love me and whose feelings therefore would at best be no stronger than his desire... Abandoned and despised by him, what would become of me thereafter? A prude, a sanctimonious person, or a whore? No, no, I prefer being your mistress, my friend. Yes, I love you a hundred times better than being reduced to playing one or the other of these infamous roles in society... But what is the cause of all this commotion?" Eugenie went on bitterly. "Do you know what it is, my friend? Who is the cause of it?... Your wife?... She and she alone. Her implacable jealousy... You may be sure of it: these are the only reasons behind the disasters that threaten us.... Oh, I don't blame her: everything is simple... everything conceivable... one can resort to anything when it is a question of keeping you. What would I not do if I were in her place, and someone were trying to steal your affections from me ?" Deeply moved, Franval showered his daughter with a thousand kisses. And Eugenie, finding the encouragement in these criminal caresses to plumb more forcefully the depths of her appalling soul, chanced to mention to her father, with an unforgivable impudence, that the only way for either one of them to escape her mother's surveillance would be to give her a lover. The idea amused Franval. But being a much more evil person than his daughter, and wishing to prepare imperceptibly this young heart for all the impressions of hatred for his wife that he desired to implant therein, he answered that he found this vengeance far too mild, adding that there were plenty of other means of making a woman miserable when she put her husband into a bad humour. Several weeks passed, during which Franval and his daughter finally decided to put into effect the first plan conceived for the despair of this monster's virtuous wife, rightly believing that before going on to more drastic and shameful acts, they should at least try to give her a lover. For not only would this furnish material for all the other acts, but, if it succeeded, it would necessarily oblige Madame de Franval to cease concerning herself with the faults of others, since she would have her own to worry about. For the execution of this project, Franval cast a careful eye upon all the young men he knew and, after considerable reflection, came to the conclusion that only Valmont could serve as his man. Valmont was thirty years old, had a charming face, considerable intelligence and a vivid imagination, and no principles whatever. He was, consequently, ideally suited to play the role they were going to offer him. One day Franval invited him to dinner and, as they were leaving the table, he took him aside: "My friend," he said to him, "I have always believed you worthy of me. The time has come to prove that I have not erred in my judgment. I demand a proof of your sentiments... a most extraordinary proof." "What kind of proof, my dear fellow? Explain yourself, and never for a moment doubt of my eagerness to be of service to you! " "What do you think of my wife ?" "A delightful creature. And if you weren't her husband, I would long since have made her my mistress." "This consideration is most delicate and discerning, Valmont, but it does not touch me." "What do you mean?" "I am going to astound you... 'tis precisely because you are fond of me, and because I am Madame de Franval's husband, that I demand that you become her lover." "Are you mad?" "No, but given to whimsy... capricious. You've been aware of these qualities in me for a long time. I want to bring about the downfall of virtue, and I maintain that you are the one to snare it." "What nonsense!" "Not in the least, 'tis a masterpiece of reason." "What I You mean you really want me to make you a...?" "Yes, I want it, I demand it, and I shall cease to consider you my friend if you refuse me this favour.... I shall help you.... I'll arrange it so that you can be alone with her... more and more often, if need be... and you will take advantage of these occasions. And the moment I am quite certain of my destiny, I shall, if you like, throw myself at your feet to thank you for your obliging kindness." "Franval, don't take me for an utter fool. There's something most strange about all this.... I refuse to lift a finger until you tell me the whole truth." "All right . . . but I suspect you're a trifle squeamish... I doubt you have sufficient strength of mind to hear all the details of this matter.... You're still a prey to prejudice ... still gallant, I venture to say, eh?... If I tell you everything you'll tremble like a child and refuse to do anything further." "Me, tremble?... In all honesty I must say I'm overwhelmed by the way you judge me. Listen, my friend, I want you to know that there is no aberration in the world, not a single vice, however strange or abnormal, that is capable of alarming my heart for even a moment." "Valmont, have you ever taken the trouble to cast a careful eye on Eugenie from time to time?" "Your daughter?" "Or, if you prefer, my mistress." "Ah, you scoundrel! Now I understand." "This is the first time in my life I find you perceptive." "What? On your word of honour, you're in love with your daughter ?" "Yes, my friend, exactly as Lot! I have always held the Holy Scriptures in highest esteem, as I have always been persuaded that one accedes to Heaven by emulating its heroes!... Ah! my friend, Pygmalion's madness no longer amazes me.... Is the world not full of such weaknesses? Was it not necessary to resort to such methods to populate the world? And what was then not a sin, can it now have become one? What nonsense! You mean to say that a lovely girl cannot tempt me because I am guilty of having sired her? That what ought to bind me more intimately to her should become the very reason for my removal from her? 'Tis because she resembles me, because she is flesh of my flesh, that is to say that she is the embodiment of all the motives upon which to base the most ardent love, that I should regard her with an icy eye? . . . Ah, what sophistry!... How totally absurd! Let fools abide by such ridiculous inhibitions, they arc not made for hearts such as ours. The dominion of beauty, the holy rights of love are oblivious to futile human conventions. In their ascendancy they annihilate these conventions as the rays of the rising sun purge the earth of the shrouds which cloak it by night. Let us trample underfoot these abominable prejudices, which are always the enemies of happiness. If at times they beguile the reason, it has always been at the expense of the most exquisite pleasures.... May we forever despise them!" "I'm convinced," Valmont responded, "and I am willing to admit that your Eugenie must be a delightful mistress. A beauty more lively than her mother's, even though she does not possess, as does your wife, that languor which seizes the soul with such voluptuousness. But Eugenie has that piquant quality which breaks and subdues us, which, as it were, seems to subjugate anything which would like to offer resistance. While one seems to yield, the other demands; what one allows, the other offers. Of the two, I much prefer the latter." "But it's not Eugenie I'm giving you, but her mother." "And what reasons do you have for resorting to such methods ?" "My wife is jealous, an albatross on my neck. She's forever spying on me. She wants Eugenie to marry. I must saddle my wife with sins in order to conceal my own. Therefore you must have her... amuse yourself with her for a time... and then you'll betray her. Let me surprise you in her arms... and then I shall punish her or, using this discovery as a weapon, I shall barter it in return for an armistice on both our parts. But no love, Valmont; with ice in your veins, capture and win her, but do not let her gain mastery over you. If you let sentiments become involved, my plans are as good as finished." "Have no fear: she would be the first woman who had aroused my heart." Thus our two villains came to a mutual agreement, and it was resolved that in a very few days Valmont would undertake to seduce Madame de Franval, with full permission to employ anything he wished in order to succeed... even the avowal of Franval's love, as the most powerful means of inducing this virtuous woman to seek vengeance. Eugenie, to whom the plan was revealed, thought it monstrously amusing. The infamous creature even dared declare that if Valmont should succeed, to make her happiness as complete as possible she would like to verify with her own eyes her mother's disgrace, she absolutely had to witness that paragon of virtue incontestably yielding to the charms of a pleasure that she so rigorously condemned in others. At last the day arrived when the most virtuous, the best, and most wretched of women was not only going to receive the most painful blow that anyone can be dealt but also when her hideous husband was destined to outrage her, abandoning her - handing her over himself - to him by whom he had agreed to be dishonoured.... What madness!... What utter disdain of all principles. With what view in mind does Nature create hearts as depraved as these ?... A few preliminary conversations had set the stage for the present scene. Furthermore, Valmont was on close enough terms with Franval so that his wife had not the slightest compunction about remaining alone with him, as indeed she had done on more than one occasion in the past. The three of them were sitting in the drawing room. Franval rose and said: "I must leave. An important matter requires my presence.... 'Tis to leave you in the care of your governess," he said, laughing, "leaving you with Valmont. The man's a pillar of virtue. But if he should forget himself, please be kind enough to inform me. I still do not love him enough to yield him my rights...." And the insolent fellow departed. After exchanging a few banalities, the aftereffects of Franval's little joke, Valmont said that he had found his friend changed during the past six months. "I haven't dared broach the subject, to ask him the reasons," Valmont said, "but he seems to be upset and distressed." "One thing which is certain," Madame de Franval replied, "is that he is upsetting and distressing those around him." "Good heavens! What are you saying?... that my friend has been treating you badly?" "If it were still only that!" "Be so good as to inform me, you know how devoted I am... my inviolable attachment." "A series of frightful disorders... moral corruption, in short every kind of wrong... would you believe it? We received a most advantageous offer to marry our daughter ... and he refused...." And here the artful Valmont averted his eyes, the expression of a man who has understood... who sighs to himself... and is afraid to explain. "What is the matter, Monsieur," Madame de Franval resumed, "what I have told you does not surprise you? Your silence is most singular." "Ah, Madame, is it not better to remain silent than to say things which will bring despair to someone one loves?" "And what, may I ask, is that enigma? Explain yourself, I beg of you." "How can you expect me not to shudder if I should be the one who causes the scales to fall from your eyes," Valmont said, warmly seizing one of her hands. "Oh, Monsieur," Madame de Franval went on, with great animation, "either explain yourself or say not another word, I beseech you. The situation you leave me in is terrible." "Perhaps less terrible than the state to which you yourself reduce me," said Valmont, casting a look of love at the woman he was intent on seducing. "But what does all that mean, Sir? You begin by alarming me, you make me desire an explanation, then daring to insinuate certain things that I neither can nor should endure, you deprive me of the means of learning from you what upsets me so cruelly. Speak, Sir, speak or you shall reduce me to utter despair." "Very well, Madame, since you demand it I shall be less obscure, even though it costs me dearly to break your heart.... Learn, if you must, the cruel reason behind your husband's refusal to Monsieur Colunce's request... Eugenie..." "Yes ?" "Well, the fact is, Madame, that Franval adores her. Today less her father than her lover, he would rather give up his own life than give up Eugenie." Madame de Franval had not heard this fatal revelation without reacting, and she fell down in a faint. Valmont hastened to her assistance, and as soon as she had come to her senses he pursued: "You see, Madame, the cost of the disclosure you demanded.... I would have given anything in the world to..." "Leave me, Monsieur, leave me," said Madame de Franval, who was in a state difficult to describe. "After a shock such as this I need to be alone for a while." "And you expect me to leave you in this situation? Ah, your grief is too fully felt in my own heart for me not to ask you the privilege of sharing it with you. I have inflicted the wound. Let me bind it up." "Franval, in love with his daughter! Just Heaven! This creature whom I have borne in my womb, 'tis now she who breaks my heart so grievously!... So horrible, so shocking a crime!... Ah, Monsieur, is it possible?... Are you quite certain?" "Madame, had I the slightest doubt I should have remained silent. I would a hundred times rather have preferred not to tell you anything than to alarm you in vain. 'Tis from your own husband I have the certitude of this infamy, which he confided to me. In any event, try and be calm, I beg of you. Rather let us concentrate now on the means of breaking off this affair than on those of bringing it to light. And you alone hold the key to this rapture...." "Ah, tell me this minute what it is. This crime horrifies me." "Madame, a husband of Franval's character is not brought back by virtue. He is little disposed to believe in the virtue of women. Virtue, he maintains, is the fruit of their pride or their temperament, and what they do to remain faithful to us is done more to satisfy themselves than either to please or enchain us.... You will excuse me, Madame, if I say that on this point I must admit that I tend to share his opinion. Never in my experience has a wife succeeded in destroying her husband's vices by means of virtue. What would prick him, what would stimulate him much more would be a conduct approximating his own, and by this would you bring him more quickly back to you. Jealousy would be the inevitable result; how many hearts have been restored to love by this infallible means. Your husband, then seeing that this virtue to which he is accustomed, and which he has been so insolent as to despise is rather the work of reflection than of the organs' insouciance, will really learn to esteem it in you, at the very moment when he believes you capable of discarding it. He imagines... he dares to say that if you have never had any lovers, it is because you have never been assaulted. Prove to him that this is a decision which lies solely in your own hands... to revenge yourself for his wrongdoings and his contempt. Perhaps, according to your strict principles, you will have committed a minor sin. But think of all the sins you will have prevented! Think of the husband you will have steered back to you! And for no more than the most minor outrage to the goddess you revere, what a disciple you will have brought back into her temple. Ah, Madame, I appeal only to your reason. By the conduct I dare to prescribe to you, you will bring Franval back forever, you will captivate him eternally. The reverse conduct - the one you have been following - sends him flying away from you. He will escape you, never to return. Yes, Madame, I dare to affirm that either you do not love your husband or you should cease this hesitation." Madame de Franval, very much taken aback by this declaration, remained silent for some time. Then, remembering Valmont's earlier looks, and his initial remarks, she managed to reply adroitly: "Monsieur, let us presume that I follow the advice you give me; upon whom do you think I should cast my eye to upset my husband further?" "Ah, my dear, my divine friend," Valmont cried, oblivious to the trap she had set for him, "upon the one man in the world who loves you most, upon him who has adored you since first he set eyes upon you and who swears at your feet to die beneath your sway.... "Leave, Monsieur," Madame de Franval said imperiously, "leave and never let me see you again. Your ruse has been discovered. You accuse my husband of wrongs of which he can only be innocent merely to advance your own treacherous schemes of seduction. And let me tell you that even were he guilty, the means you offer me are too repugnant to my heart for me to entertain them for a moment. Never do the failings of a husband justify or exonerate those of a wife. For her they must become the reasons for even greater virtue, so that the Just and Righteous man, whom the Almighty will come upon in the afflicted cities on the verge of suffering the effects of his wrath, may divert the flames which are about to consume them." Upon these words Madame de Franval left the room and, calling for Valmont's servants, obliged him to withdraw, much ashamed of his initial efforts. Although this attractive woman had seen through Valmont's ruses, what he had said coincided so well with her own and her mother's fears that she resolved to do everything within her power to ascertain these cruel facts. She paid a visit to Madame de Farneille, recounted to her everything that had happened and returned, her mind made up as to the steps that we are going to see her undertake. It has long been said, and rightfully so, that we have no greater enemies than our own servants; forever jealous, always envious, they seem to seek to lighten the burden of their own yoke by discovering wrongs in us which, then placing us in a position inferior to themselves, allow them for the space of a few moments at least to gratify their vanity by assuming a superiority over us which fate has denied them. Madame de Franval bribed one of Eugenie's servants: the promise of a fixed pension, a pleasant future, the appearance of doing a good deed - all swayed this creature and she promised to arrange it the following night so that Madame de Franval could dispel all doubts as to her unhappiness. The moment arrived. The wretched mother was admitted to a room adjoining the room wherein, each night, her perfidious husband outraged both his nuptial bonds and the bonds of Heaven. Eugenie was with her father; several candles remained lighted on a corner cupboard; they were going to illuminate this crime.... The altar was prepared, the victim took her place upon it, he who performs the sacrifice followed her.... Madame de Franval was no longer sustained by anything save her despair, her outraged love, and her courage.... She burst open the doors restraining her, she hurled herself into the room, and there, her face bathed in tears, she fell on her knees at the feet of the incestuous Franval: "Oh, you," she cried, addressing herself to Franval, "you who fill my life with misery and sorrow, I have not deserved such treatment... However you have insulted and wronged me, I still worship you. See my tears, and do not dismiss my appeal: I ask you to have mercy on this poor wretched child who, deceived by her own weakness and your seduction, thinks she can find happiness in shamelessness and crime.... Eugenie, Eugenie, do you want to thrust a sword into the heart of her who brought you into the world? No longer consent to be the accomplice of this heinous crime whose full horror has been concealed from you! Come... let me fold you in my waiting arms. Look at your wretched mother on her knees before you, begging you not to outrage both your honour and Nature.... But if you both refuse," the distraught woman went on, bearing a dagger to her heart, "this is the means I shall employ to escape the dishonour with which you are trying to cover me. I shall make my blood flow and stain you here, and you will have to consummate your crimes upon my sad body." That Franval's hardened heart was able to resist this spectacle, those who are beginning to know this scoundrel will have no trouble believing; but that Eugenie remained unmoved by it is quite inconceivable. "Madame," said this corrupted girl with the cruelest show of impassivity, "I must admit I find it hard to believe you in full possession of your reason, after the scene you have just made in your husband's room. Is he not the master of his own actions ? And when he approves of mine, what right have you to blame them? Do we worry our heads or pry into your indiscretions with Monsieur Valmont? Do we disturb you in the exercise of your pleasures? Therefore deign to respect ours, or do not be surprised if I urge your husband to take whatever steps are required to oblige you to do so ...." At this point Madame de Franval could no longer control her patience, and the full force of her anger was turned against the unworthy creature who could so forget herself as to speak to her in such terms. Struggling to her feet, Madame de Franval threw herself furiously upon her daughter, but the odious and cruel Franval, seizing his wife by the hair, dragged her in a rage away from her daughter out of the room. He threw her violently down the stairs of the house, and she fell, bloody and unconscious, at the door of one of the chambermaids' rooms. Awakened by this terrible noise, the maid quickly saved her mistress from the wrath of her tyrant, who was already on his way downstairs to finish off his hapless victim.... They took her to her room, locked her in, and began to administer to her, while the monster who had just treated her with such utter fury flew back to his detestable companion to spend the night as peacefully as though he had not debased himself lower than the most ferocious beasts by assaults so execrable, so designed to degrade and humiliate her... so horrible, in a word, that we blush at the necessity of having to reveal them. Poor Madame de Franval no longer had any illusions left, and there was no other for her to espouse. It was all too clear that her husband's heart, that is, the most beloved possession of her life, had been taken from her. And by whom? By the very person who owed her the most respect, and who had just spoken to her with utter insolence. She also began to suspect strongly that the whole adventure with Valmont had been nothing more than a detestable trap set to ensnare her in a web of guilt, if 'twere possible or, failing that, to ascribe the guilt to her in any event, in order to counterbalance, and hence justify, the thousand times more serious wrongs which they dared to heap upon her. Nothing could have been more certain. Franval, informed of Valmont's failure, had prevailed upon him to replace the truth by imposture and indiscretion, and to noise it abroad that he was Madame de Franval's lover. And they had decided that they would forge abominable letters which would document, in the most unequivocal manner, the existence of the illicit commerce in which, however, poor Madame de Franval had actually refused to involve herself. Meanwhile, in deep despair, Madame de Franval, whose body was covered with numerous wounds, fell seriously ill. Her barbarous husband, refusing to see her and not even bothering to inform himself of her condition, left with Eugenie for the country, on the pretense that since there was fever in the house he did not care to expose his daughter to it. During her illness, Valmont several times came to call at her door, but was each time refused admission. Locked in her room with her mother and Monsieur de Clervil, Madame de Franval absolutely refused to see anyone else. Consoled by such dear friends as these, who were so fully worthy of being able to influence her, and nourished back to health by their loving care, forty days later Madame de Franval was in a condition to see people again. At which time Franval brought his daughter back to Paris and, with Valmont, mapped out a campaign intended to counter the one it appeared that Madame de Franval and her friends were preparing to direct against him. Our scoundrel paid his wife a visit as soon as he judged she was well enough to receive him. "Madame," he said coldly, "you must be aware of my concern for your condition. I cannot conceal from you the fact that your condition is the sole factor restraining Eugenie. She was determined to bring a complaint against you for the way you have treated her. However she may be persuaded of the basic respect due a mother by her daughter, still she cannot ignore the fact that this same mother threw herself on her daughter with a drawn dagger. Such a violent and unseemly act, Madame, could well open the eyes of the government to your conduct and, inevitably, pose a serious threat to both your honour and your liberty." "I was not expecting such recriminations, Monsieur," Madame de Franval replied. "And when my daughter, seduced by you, becomes at the same time guilty of incest, adultery, libertinage, and ingratitude - of the most odious sort - toward her who brought her into the world,... yes, I must confess, I did not imagine that after this complexity of horrors that I would be the one against whom a complaint would be brought. It takes all your cunning, all your wickedness, Monsieur, to accuse innocence the while excusing crime with such audacity." "I am not unaware, Madame, that the pretense for your scene was the odious suspicion you dared to formulate regarding me. But chimeras do not justify crimes. What you have imagined is false. But, unfortunately, what you have done is only too real. You evinced astonishment at the reproaches my daughter directed at you at the time of your affair with Valmont. But, Madame, she has only discovered the irregularities of your conduct since they have been the talk of all Paris. This affair is so well known, and the proofs of it unfortunately so solid, that those who speak to you about it are at the very most guilty of indiscretion, but not of calumny." "I, Sir," said this respectable woman, rising to her feet, indignantly, "I have an affair with Valmont! Just Heaven! 'Tis you who have said it! " ( Breaking into tears :) "Ungrateful wretch! This is how you repay my tenderness.... This is my recompense for having loved you so. It is not enough for you to outrage me so cruelly. It is not enough that you seduce my daughter. You have to go even further and, by ascribing crimes which for me would be more terrible than death, dare to justify your own...." (Regaining her composure:) "You say, Monsieur, that you have the proofs of this affair. All right, show them. I demand that they be made public, and I shall force you to show them to everyone if you refuse to show them to me." "No, Madame, I shall not show them to the whole world; it is not generally the husband who openly displays this sort of thing; he bemoans it, and conceals it as best he can. But if you demand it, Madame, I shall certainly not refuse you...." (And then taking a letter case from his pocket:) "Sit down," he said, "this must be verified calmly. Ill-humour and loss of temper would be harmful but would not convince me. Therefore, I beg you to keep control of yourself, and let us discuss this with composure." Madame de Franval, thoroughly convinced of her innocence, did not know what to make of these preparatory remarks. And her surprise, mingled with fright, kept her in a state of extreme agitation. "First of all, Madame," said Franval, emptying one side of the letter case, "here is all your correspondence with Valmont over the past six months. Do not accuse this worthy gentleman either of imprudence or indiscretion. He is doubtless too honourable a man to have dared fail you so badly. But one of his servants, more adroit than Valmont is attentive, discovered the secret way to procure for me this precious monument to your extreme fidelity and your eminent virtue." (Then, leafing through the letters which he spread out on the table :) "Please allow me," he went on, "to choose one from among many of these ordinary displays of chitchat by an overheated woman... overheated, I might add, by a most attractive man; one, I say, which seemed to me more lascivious and decisive than the others. Here it is, Madame: My boring husband is dining tonight in his maisonette on the outskirts of Paris with that horrible creature... a creature it is impossible I brought into the world. Come, my love, come and comfort me for all the sorrows which these two monsters give me.... What am I saying? Is this not the greatest service they could be doing me at present, and will that affair not prevent my husband from discovering ours? Let him then tighten the bonds as much as he likes; but at least let him not bethink himself to desire breaking those which attach me to the only man whom I have ever adored in this world. "Well, Madame?" "Well, Monsieur, I must say I admire you," Madame de Franval replied. "Each day adds to the incredible esteem you so richly deserve. And however many fine qualities I have recognized in you hitherto, I confess I was yet unaware you were also a forger and a slanderer." "Ah, so you deny the evidence ?" "Not in the least. All I ask is to be persuaded. We shall have judges appointed... experts. And, if you agree, we shall ask that the most severe penalty be exacted against whichever of the two parties is found guilty." "That is what I call effrontery! Well, the truth is I prefer it to sorrow.... Now, where were we? Ah, yes; that you have a lover, Madame," said Franval, shaking out the other side of the letter case, "a lover with a handsome face, and a boring husband, is most assuredly nothing so extraordinary. But that at your age you are supporting this lover - at my expense - I trust you will allow me not to find this quite so simple.... And yet here are 100,000 ecus in notes, either paid by you or made out in your hand in favour of Valmont. Please run through them, I beg of you," this monster added, showing them to her without allowing her to touch them.... To Zaide, jeweller By the present note I hereby agree to pay the sum of twenty-two thousand livres on the account of Monsieur de Valmont, by arrangement with him. FARNEILLE DE FRANVAL "Here's another made out to Jamet, the horse merchant, for six thousand livres. This is for the team of dark bay horses which today are both Valmont's delight and the admiration of all Paris. . . . Yes, Madame, the whole package comes to three hundred thousand, two hundred and eighty-three 1ivres, and ten sous, a third of which total you still owe, and the balance of which you have most loyally paid.... Well, Madame ?" "Ah, Monsieur, this fraud is too crude and vulgar to cause me the least concern. To confound those who have invented it against me, I demand but one thing: that the people in whose names I have, so it is alleged, made out these documents, appear personally and swear under oath that I have had dealings with them." "They will, Madame, of that you may be sure. Do you think they themselves would have warned me of your conduct if they were not determined to back up their claims? Indeed, without my intervention, one of them would have signed a writ against you today...." At this point poor Madame de Franval's beautiful eyes filled with bitter tears. Her courage failed to sustain her any longer, and she fell into a fit of despair with the most frightful symptoms: she began to strike her head against the marble objects around her, bruising her face horribly. "Monsieur," she cried out, throwing herself at her husband's feet, "please do away with me, I beseech you, by means less slow and less torturous. Since my life is an obstacle to your crimes, end it with a single blow... refrain though from inching me into my grave.... Am I guilty of having loved you? of having rebelled against what was so cruelly stealing your heart from me ?... Well then, barbarian, punish me for these transgressions. Yes, take this metal shaft," she said, throwing herself on her husband's sword, "and pierce my breast with it, with no pity. But at least let me die worthy of your esteem, let me take as my sole consolation to the grave the certainty that you believe me incapable of the infamies of which you accuse me ... solely to cover your own...." She was on her knees at Franval's feet, her head and bust thrown back, her hands wounded and bleeding from the naked steel she had tried to seize and thrust into her breast. This lovely breast was laid bare, her hair was in disarray, its strands soaked by the tears that flowed abundantly. Never had sorrow been more pathetic and more expressive, never had it been seen in a more touching, more noble, and more attractive garb. "No, Madame," Franval said, resisting her movement, "no, 'tis not your death I desire, but your punishment. I can understand your repentance, your tears do not surprise me, you are furious at having been discovered. I approve of this frame of mind, which leads me to believe you plan to amend your ways, a change that the fate I have in mind for you, and because of which I must depart in order to give it my every care, will doubtless precipitate." "Stop, Franval," the unhappy woman cried, "do not voice abroad the news of your dishonour, nor tell the world that you are a perjurer, a forger, a slanderer, and guilty of incest into the bargain.... You wish to have done with me, I shall run away, I shall leave in search of some refuge where your very memory shall disappear from my mind.... You will be free, you can exercise your criminal desires with impunity.... Yes, I shall forget you, if I can, oh heartless man. Or, if your painful image remains graven in my heart, if it still pursues me in my distant darkness, I shall not obliterate it, traitor, that effort is beyond my abilities; no, I shall not obliterate it, but I shall punish my own blindness, and shall bury in the horror of the grave the guilty altar which committed the error of holding you too dear...." With these words, the final outcry of a soul overwhelmed by a recent illness, the poor woman fainted and fell unconscious to the floor. The cold shadows of death spread over the roses of her beautiful complexion, already withered by the stings of despair. She appeared little more than a lifeless mass, from which, however, grace, modesty, and seemliness... all the attributes of virtue, had refused to flee. The monster left the room and repaired to his own chambers, there to enjoy, with his guilty daughter, the terrible triumph which vice, or rather low villainy, dared to win over innocence and unhappiness. Franval's abominable daughter infinitely savoured the details of this encounter. She only wished she could have seen them. She would have liked to carry the horror even further and see Valmont vanquish her mother's resistance, and then have Franval surprise them in the act. What means, if that were to happen, what means of justification would their victim then have had left? And was it not important for them to deprive her of any and all means? Such was Eugenie. Meanwhile, Franval's poor wife had only the refuge of her mother's breast for her tears, and it was not long before she revealed to her the reasons for her latest sorrow. It was at this juncture that Madame de Farneille came to the conclusion that Monsieur de Clervil's age, his calling, and his personal prestige perhaps might exercise a certain good influence on her son-in-law. Nothing is more confident than adversity. As best she could, she apprised this worthy ecclesiastic of the truth about Franval's chaotic conduct; she convinced him of the truth which he had hitherto been disinclined to believe, and she beseeched him above all to employ with such a scoundrel only that persuasive eloquence which appeals to the heart rather than to the head. And after he had talked with this traitor, she suggested that Monsieur de Clervil solicit a meeting with Eugenie, during which he could similarly put to use whatever he should deem most appropriate toward enlightening the poor child as to the abyss that had opened beneath her feet and, if possible, to bring her back to her mother's heart and to the path of virtue. Franval, informed that Clervil intended to request to see both him and his daughter, had time enough to conspire with Eugenie, and when they had settled on their plans they sent word to Madame de Farneille that both were prepared to hear him out. The credulous Madame de Franval held out the highest hopes for the eloquence of this spiritual guide. The wretched are wont to seize at straws with such avidity, in order to procure for themselves a pleasure which the truth disowns, that they fabricate most cunningly all sorts of illusions! Clervil arrived. It was nine in the morning. Franval received him in the room where he was accustomed to spending the night with his daughter. He had embellished it with every imaginable elegance, but had nonetheless allowed it to retain a certain disorder which bore witness to his criminal pleasures. In a neighbouring room, Eugenie could hear everything, the better to prepare herself for the conversation with her which was due to follow. "It is only most reluctantly, and with the greatest fear of disturbing you, Monsieur," Clervil began, "that I dare to present myself before you. Persons of our calling are commonly so much a burden to those who, like yourself, spend their lives tasting the pleasures of this world, that I reproach myself for having consented to Madame de Farneille's desires and having requested to converse with you for a moment or two." "Please sit down, Monsieur, and so long as reason and justice hold sway in your conversation, you need never fear of boring me." "Sir, you are beloved of a young wife full of charm and virtue and whom, it is alleged, you make most miserable. Having as arms naught but her innocence and her candour, and with only a mother's ear to hear her complaints, still idolizing you despite your wrongs, you can easily imagine the frightful position in which she finds herself!" "If you please, Monsieur, I should like us to get down to the facts. I have the feeling you are skirting the issue; pray tell me, what is the purpose of your mission ?" "To bring you back to happiness, if that is possible." "Therefore, if I find myself happy in my present situation, may I assume that you should have nothing further to say to me?" "It is impossible, Monsieur, to find happiness in the exercise of crime." "I agree. But the man who, through profound study and mature reflection, has been able to bring his mind to the point where he does not see evil in anything, where he contemplates the whole of human endeavour with the most supreme indifference and considers every action of which man is capable as the necessary result of a power, whatever its nature, which is at times good and at times bad, but always imperious, inspires us alternately with what men approve and what they condemn, but never anything that disturbs or troubles it - that man, I say, and I'm sure you will agree, can be just as happy living the way I do as you are in your chosen calling. Happiness is ideal, it is the work of the imagination. It is a manner of being moved which relies solely upon the way we see and feel. Except for the satisfaction of needs, there is nothing which makes all men equally happy. Not a day goes by but that we see one person made happy by something that supremely displeases another. Therefore, there is no certain or fixed happiness, and the only happiness possible for us is the one we form with the help of our organs and our principles." "I know that, Monsieur, but though our mind may deceive us, our conscience never leads us astray, and here is the book wherein Nature has inscribed all our duties." "And do we not manipulate this factitious conscience at will? Habit bends it, it is for us like soft wax which our fingers shape as they choose. If this book were as certain as you pretend, would man not be endowed with an invariable conscience? From one end of the earth to the other, would not all of man's actions be the same for him? And yet is such truly the case ? Does the Hottentot tremble at what terrifies the Frenchman? And does the Frenchman not do daily what would be punishable in Japan? No, Monsieur, no, there is nothing real in the world, nothing deserving of praise or approbation, nothing worthy of being rewarded or punished, nothing which, unjust here, is not quite lawful five hundred leagues away. In a word, no wrong is real, no good is constant." - "Do not believe it, Sir. Virtue is not an illusion. It is not a matter of ascertaining whether something is good here, or bad a few degrees farther away, in order to assign it a precise determination of crime or virtue, and to make certain of finding happiness therein by reason of the choice one has made of it. Man's only happiness resides in his complete submission to the laws of his land. He has either to respect them or to be miserable, there is no middle ground between their infraction and misfortune. 'Tis not, if you prefer to state it in these terms, these things in themselves which give rise to the evils which overwhelm us whenever we allow ourselves free reign to indulge in these forbidden practices, 'tis rather the conflict between these things - which may be intrinsically either good or bad - and the social conventions of the society in which we live. One can surely do no harm by preferring to stroll along the boulevards than along the Champs Elysees. And yet if a law were passed forbidding our citizens from frequenting the boulevards, whosoever should break this law might be setting in motion an eternal chain of misfortunes for himself, although in breaking it he had done something quite simple. Moreover, the habit of breaking ordinary restrictions soon leads to the violation of more serious ones, and from error to error one soon arrives at crimes of a nature to be punished in any country under the sun and to inspire fear in any reasonable creature on earth, no matter in what clime he may dwell. If man does not have a universal conscience, he at least has a national conscience, relative to the existence that we have received from Nature, and in which her hand inscribes our duties in letters which we cannot efface without danger. For example, Monsieur, your family accuses you of incest. It makes no difference what sophistries you employ to justify this crime or lessen the horror, or what specious arguments you apply to it or what authorities you call upon by buttressing these arguments with examples drawn from neighbouring countries, the fact remains that this crime, which is only a crime in certain countries, is most assuredly dangerous wherever the law forbids it. It is no less certain that it can give rise to the most frightful consequences, as well as other crimes necessitated by this first one... crimes, I might add, of a sort to be deemed abominable by all men. Had you married your daughter on the banks of the Ganges, where such marriages are permitted, perhaps you might have committed only a minor wrong. But in a country where these unions are forbidden, by offering this revolting spectacle to the public... and to the eyes of a woman who adores you and who, by this treacherous act, is being pushed to the edge of the grave, you are no doubt committing a frightful act, a crime which tends to break the holiest bonds of Nature: those which, attaching your daughter to her who gave her life, ought to make this person the most respected, the most sacred of all objects to her. You oblige this girl to despise her most precious duties, you cause her to hate the very person who bore her in her womb; without realizing it, you are preparing weapons that she may one day direct against you. In every doctrine you offer her, in every principle you inculcate in her, your condemnation is inscribed. And if one day her arm is raised against you in an attempt against your life, 'tis you who will have sharpened the dagger." "Your way of reasoning, so different from that of most men of the cloth," Franval replied, "compels me to trust in you, Monsieur. I could deny your accusations. I hope that the frankness with which I reveal myself to you will also oblige you to believe the wrongs I impute to my wife when, to expose them, I employ the same truthfulness with which I intend to characterize my own confessions. Yes, Monsieur, I love my daughter, I love her passionately, she is my mistress, my wife, my daughter, my confidante, my friend, my only God on earth; in fine, she possesses all the homage that any heart can ever hope to obtain, and all homage of which my heart is capable is due her. These sentiments will endure as long as I live. Being unable to give them up, I doubtless must therefore justify them. "A father's first duty toward his daughter is undeniably - I'm sure you will agree, Monsieur - to procure for her the greatest happiness possible. If he does not succeed in this task, then he has failed in his obligations toward her; if he does succeed, then he is blameless. I have neither seduced nor constrained Eugenie - this is a noteworthy consideration, which I trust you will not forget. I did not conceal the world from her. I expounded for her the good and bad sides of marriage, the roses and the thorns it contains. It was then I offered myself, and left her free to choose. She had adequate time to reflect on the matter. She did not hesitate: she claimed that she could find happiness only with me. Was I wrong to give her, in order to make her happy, what she appeared in full knowledge to desire above all else ?" "These sophistries justify nothing, Monsieur. You were wrong to give your daughter the slightest inclination that the person she could not prefer without crime might become the object of her happiness. No matter how lovely a fruit might appear, would you not regret having offered it to someone if you knew that lurking within its flesh was death? No, Monsieur, no: in this whole wretched affair you have had only one object in mind, and that object was you, and you have made your daughter both an accomplice and a victim. These methods are inexcusable.... And what wrongs, in your eyes, do you ascribe to that virtuous and sensitive wife whose heart you twist and break at will? What wrongs, unjust man, except the wrong of loving you?" "This is the point I wish to discuss with you, Sir, and 'tis here I expect and hope for your confidence. After the full candour to which I have treated you, in making a full confession of all that is ascribed to me, I trust I have some right to expect such confidence." And then Franval, showing Clervil the forged letters and notes he had attributed to his wife, swore to him that nothing was more authentic than these documents, and than the affair between Madame de Franval and the person who was the subject of the papers. Clervil was familiar with the entire matter. "Well, Monsieur," he said firmly to Franval, "was I not right to tell you that an error viewed at first as being without consequence in itself can, by accustoming us to exceed limits, lead us to the most extravagant excesses of Crime and wickedness? You have begun with an act which, in your eyes, you deemed totally inoffensive, and you see to what infamous lengths you are obliged to go in order to justify or conceal it? Follow my advice, Monsieur, throw these unpardonable atrocities into the fire and, I beg of you, let us forget them, let us forget they ever existed." "These documents are authentic, Monsieur." "They are false." "You can only be in doubt about them. Is that sufficient reason for you to contradict me ?" "Pardon me, Monsieur, but the only reason I have to suppose they are authentic is your word on the matter, and you have good reason indeed for buttressing your accusation. As for believing them false, I have your wife's word for it, and she too would have good reason to tell me if they were authentic, if they actually were. This, Sir, is how I judge. Self-interest is the vehicle for all man's actions, the wellspring of everything he does. Wherever I can discover it, the torch of truth immediately lights up. This rule has never once failed me, and I have been applying it for forty years. And furthermore, will your wife's virtue not annihilate this loathsome calumny in everyone's eyes? And is it possible that your wife, with her frankness and her candour, with indeed the love for you which still burns within her, could ever have committed such abominable acts as those you charge her with? No, Monsieur, this is not how crime begins. Since you are so familiar with its effects, you should manoeuvre more cleverly." "That, Sir, is abusive language." "You'll forgive me, Monsieur, but injustice, calumny, libertinage revolt my soul so completely that I sometimes find it hard to control the agitation which these horrors incite in me. Let us burn these papers, Monsieur, I most urgently beseech you... burn them for your honour and your peace of mind." "I never suspected, Monsieur," said Franval, getting to his feet, "that in the exercise of your ministry one could so easily become an apologist... the protector of misconduct and of adultery. My wife is dishonouring me, she is ruining me. I have proved it to you. Your blindness concerning her makes you prefer to accuse me and rather suppose that 'tis I who am the slanderer than she the treacherous and debauched woman. All right, Monsieur, the law shall decide. Every court in France shall resound with my accusations, I shall come bearing proof, I shall publish my dishonour, and then we shall see whether you will still be guileless enough, or rather foolish enough, to protect so shameless a creature against me." "I shall leave you now, Monsieur," Clervil said, also getting to his feet. "I did not realize to what extent the faults of your mind had so altered the qualities of your heart and that, blinded by an unjust desire for revenge, you had become capable of coolly maintaining what could only derive from delirium.... Ah! Monsieur, how all this has persuaded me all the more that when man oversteps the bounds of his most sacred duties, he soon allows himself to annihilate all the others.... If further reflection should bring you back to your senses, I beg of you to send word to me, Monsieur, and you will always find, in your family as well as in myself, friends disposed to receive you. May I be allowed to see Mademoiselle your daughter for a moment ?" "You, Sir, may do as you like. I would only suggest, nay urge you that when talking with her you either employ more eloquent means or draw upon sounder resources in presenting these luminous truths to her, truths in which I was unfortunate enough to perceive naught but blindness and sophistries." Clervil went into Eugenie's room. She awaited him dressed in the most elegant and most coquettish negligee. This sort of indecency, the fruit of self-negligence and of crime, reigned unashamedly in her every gesture and look, and the perfidious girl, insulting the graces which embellished her in spite of herself, combined both the qualities susceptible of inflaming vice and those certain to revolt virtue. Since it was not appropriate for a girl to engage in so detailed a discussion as a philosopher such as Franval had done, Eugenie confined herself to persiflage. She gradually became openly provocative, but upon seeing that her seductions were in vain, and that a man as virtuous as the one with whom she was dealing had not the slightest intention of allowing himself to be ensnared in her trap, she adroitly cut the knots holding the veil of her charms and, before Clervil had the time to realize what she was doing, she had arranged herself in a state of great disorder. "The wretch," she cried at the top of her lungs, "take this monster away from me! And, above all, let not my father know of his crime. Just Heaven! I was expecting pious counsel from him... and the vile man assaulted my modesty.... Look," she cried to the servants who had hastened to her room upon hearing her cries, "look at the condition this shameless creature has put me in. Look at them, look at these benevolent disciples of a divinity they insult and outrage. Scandal, debauchery, seduction: there is the trinity of their morality, while we, dupes of their false virtue, are foolish enough to go on worshiping them." Clervil, although extremely annoyed by such a scene, nonetheless succeeded in concealing his emotions. And as he left the room he said, with great self-possession, to the crowd around him: "May heaven preserve this unfortunate child.... May it make her better if it can, and let no one in this house offend her sentiments of virtue more than I have done... sentiments that I came here less to defile than to revive in her heart." Such were the only fruits which Madame de Farneille and her daughter culled from a negotiation they had approached so hopefully. They were far from realizing the degradations that crime works in the souls of the wicked: what might have some effect on others only embitters them, and it is in the very lessons of good that they find encouragement to do evil. From then on, everything turned more venomous on both sides. Franval and Eugenie clearly saw that Madame de Franval would have to be persuaded of her alleged wrongs, in a way that would no longer allow her to doubt of the matter. And Madame de Farneille, in concert with her daughter, concocted serious plans to abduct Eugenie. They discussed the project with Clervil; this worthy man refused to have any part of such drastic resolutions. He had, he said, been too badly treated in this affair to be able to undertake anything more than imploring forgiveness for the guilty, and this he urgently did pray for, steadfastly refusing to involve himself in any other duty or effort of mediation. How sublime were his sentiments! Why is it that this nobility is so rare among men of the cloth? Or why had so singular a man chosen so soiled a calling? Let us begin with Franval's endeavours. Valmont reappeared. "You're an imbecile," Eugenie's guilty lover said to him, "you are unworthy of being my student. And if you do not come off better in a second meeting with my wife, I shall trumpet your name all over Paris. You must have her, my friend, and I mean really have her, my eyes must be persuaded of her defeat... in fine, I must be able to deprive that loathsome creature of any means of excuse and of defence." "And what if she resists?" Valmont responded. "Then employ violence... I shall make certain that there is no one around.... Frighten her, threaten her, what does it matter?... I shall consider all the means of your triumph as so many favours I owe you." "Listen," Valmont then said, "I agree to everything you propose, I give you my word of honour that your wife will yield. But I require one condition, and if you refuse it then I refuse to play the game. We agreed that jealousy is to have no part in our arrangements, as you know. I therefore demand that you accord me half an hour with Eugenie. You have no idea how I shall act after I have enjoyed the pleasure of your daughter's company for a short while...." "But Valmont..." "I can understand your fears. But if you deem me your friend I shall not forgive you for them. All I aspire to is the charm of seeing Eugenie alone and talking with her for a few moments." "Valmont," said Franval, somewhat astonished, "you place too high a fee on your services. I am as fully aware as you of the ridiculous aspects of jealousy, but I idolize the girl you are referring to, and I should rather give up my entire fortune than yield her favours." "I am not claiming them, so set your mind at rest." And Franval, who realized that, among all his friends and acquaintances, there was none capable of serving his purposes so well as Valmont, was adamantly opposed to letting him escape: "All right," he said, a trifle testily, "but I repeat that your services come very dear, and by discharging them in this manner you have relieved me from any obligation toward you, and from any gratitude." "Oh! gratitude is naught but the price paid for honest favours. It will never be kindled in your heart for the services I am going to render you. And I shall even go so far as to predict that these selfsame services will cause us to quarrel before two months are up. Come, my friend, I know the ways of men... their faults and failings, and everything they involve. Place the human animal, the most wicked animal of all, in whatever situation you choose, and I shall predict every last result that will perforce ensue.... Therefore I wish to be paid in advance, or the game is off." "I accept," said Franval. "Very well then," Valmont replied. "Now everything depends on you. I shall act whenever you wish." "I need a few days to make my preparations," Franval said. "But within four days at the most I am with you." Monsieur de Franval had raised his daughter in such a way that he had no misgivings about any excessive modesty on her part which would cause her to refuse to participate in the plans he was formulating with his friend. But he was jealous, and this Eugenie knew. She loved him at least as much as he adored her, and as soon as she knew what was in the offing she confessed to Franval that she was terribly afraid this tete-a-tete with Valmont might have serious repercussions. Franval, who believed he knew Valmont well enough to be persuaded that all this would only provide certain nourishments for his head without any danger to his heart, reassured his daughter as best he could, and went about his preparations. It was then that Franval learned, from servants in whom he had complete confidence and whom he had planted in the service of his mother-in-law, that Eugenie was in the gravest danger and that Madame de Farneille was on the verge of obtaining a writ to have her taken away from him. Franval had no doubt but that the whole plot was Clervil's work. And momentarily putting aside his plans involving Valmont, he turned his complete attention to ridding himself of this poor ecclesiastic whom he wrongly judged to be the instigator of everything. He sowed his gold; this powerful weapon of every vice is properly planted in a thousand different hands, and finally six trustworthy scoundrels are ready and willing to do his bidding. One evening when Clervil, who was wont to dine rather frequently with Madame de Farneille, was leaving her house alone and on foot, he was surrounded and seized.... He was told that the arrest was made upon the orders of the government, and shown a forged document. Then he was thrown into a post chaise and he was driven in all haste to the prison of an isolated chateau which Franval owned in the depths of the Ardennes. There the poor man was turned over to the concierge of the chateau as a scoundrel who was plotting to kill his master. And the most careful precautions were taken to make certain that this unfortunate victim, whose only wrong was to have shown himself overly indulgent toward those who outraged him so cruelly, could never again be seen. Madame de Farneille was on the brink of despair. She had not the slightest doubt but that the whole affair was the work of her son-in-law. Her efforts to ascertain the whereabouts of Clervil slowed those touching upon Eugenie's abduction. Having at her disposal only a limited amount of money, and with only a few friends, it was difficult to pursue two equally important undertakings at once. And furthermore, Franval's drastic action had forced them onto the defensive. They directed all their energies, therefore, toward finding the father confessor. But all their efforts were in vain; our villain had executed his plan so cleverly that it became impossible to uncover the slightest trace. Madame de Franval, who had not seen her husband since their last scene, was hesitant to question him. But the intensity of one's interest in a matter destroys any other considerations, and she finally found the courage to ask her tyrant if he planned to add to the already long list of grievances of which he was guilty on her behalf by depriving her mother of the best friend she had in the world. The monster protested his innocence. He even carried hypocrisy so far as to offer to help in the search. And seeing that he needed to mollify his wife's hardened heart and mind in preparation for the scene with Valmont, he again promised her that he would do everything in his power to find Clervil. He even caressed his credulous wife, and assured her that, no matter how unfaithful he might be to her, he found it impossible, deep in his heart, not to adore her. And Madame de Franval, always gentle and accommodating, always pleased by anything which brought her closer to a man who was dearer to her than life itself, gave herself over to all the desires of this perfidious husband; she anticipated them, served them, shared them all, without daring, as she should have, to profit from the occasion in order at least to extract a promise from this barbarian to improve his ways, one which would not precipitate his poor wife each day into an abyss of torment and sorrow. But even had she extracted such a promise, would her efforts have been crowned with success ? Would Franval, so false in every other aspect of his life, have been any more sincere in the one which, according to him, was only attractive to the extent one could go beyond certain set limits. He would doubtless have made all sorts of promises solely for the pleasure of being able to break them; and perhaps he might even have made her demand that he swear to them, so that to his other frightful pleasures he might add that of perjury. Franval, absolutely at peace, turned all his attention to troubling others. Such was his vindictive, turbulent, impetuous nature when he was disturbed; desiring to regain his tranquillity at any cost whatever, he would awkwardly obtain it only by those means most likely to make him lose it again. And if he regained it? Then he bent all his physical and moral faculties to making certain he lost it again. Thus, in a state of perpetual agitation, he either had to forestall the artifices he obliged others to employ against him, or else he had to use some of his own against them. Everything was arranged to Valmont's satisfaction; his tete-a-tete took place in Eugenie's apartment and lasted for the better part of an hour. There, in the ornate room, Eugenie, on a pedestal, portrayed a young savage weary of the hunt, leaning on the trunk of a palm tree whose soaring branches concealed an infinite number of lights arranged in such a way that their reflections, which shone only on the beautiful girl's physical charms, accentuated them most artfully. The sort of miniature theatre wherein this tableau vivant appeared was surrounded by a six-foot-wide moat which was filled with water and acted as a barrier which prevented anyone from approaching her on any side. At the edge of this circumvallation was placed the throne of a knight, with a silk cord leading from the base of the pedestal to the chair. By manipulating this string, the person in the chair could cause the pedestal to turn in such a manner that the object of his admiration could be viewed from every angle by him, and the arrangement was such that, no matter which way he turned her, she was always delightful to behold. The Count, concealed behind a decorative shrub, was in a position to view both his mistress and his friend. According to the agreement, Valmont was free to examine Eugenie for half an hour.... Valmont took his place in the chair... he is beside himself; never, he maintains, has he seen so many allurements in one person. He yields to the transports which inflame him, the constantly moving cord offers him an endless succession of new angles and beauties. Which should he prefer above all others, to which shall he sacrifice himself? He cannot make up his mind: Eugenie is such a wondrous beauty! Meanwhile the fleeting minutes pass; for time, in such circumstances, passes quickly. The hour strikes, the knight abandons himself, and the incense flies to the feet of a god whose sanctuary is forbidden him. A veil descends, it is time to leave the room. "Well, are you content now ?" Franval said, rejoining his friend. "She is a delightful creature," Valmont replied. "But Franval, if I may offer you one piece of advice, never chance such a thing with any other man. And congratulate yourself for the sentiments I have for you in my heart, which protect you from all danger." "I am counting on them," Franval said rather seriously. "And now, you must act as soon as you can." "I shall prepare your wife tomorrow.... It is your feeling that a preliminary conversation is required.... Four days later you can be sure of me." They exchanged vows and took leave of each other. But after his hour with Eugenie, Valmont had not the slightest desire to seduce Madame de Franval or further to assure his friend of a conquest of which he had become only too envious. Eugenie had made such a profound impression upon him that he was unable to put her out of his mind, and he was resolved to have her, no matter what the cost, as his wife. Recollecting upon the matter in tranquillity, once he was no longer repelled by the idea of Eugenie's affair with her father, Valmont was quite certain that his fortune was equal to that of Colunce and that he had just as much right to demand her hand in marriage. He therefore presumed that were he to offer himself as her husband, he could not be refused. He also concluded that by acting zealously to break Eugenie's incestuous bonds, by promising her family that he could not but succeed in such an undertaking, he would inevitably obtain the object of his devotion. There would, of course, be a duel to be fought with Franval, but Valmont was confident that his courage and skill would successfully overcome that obstacle. Twenty-four hours sufficed for these reflections, and 'twas with these thoughts crowding through his mind that Valmont set off to visit Madame de Franval. She had been informed of his impending call. It will be recalled that in her last conversation with her husband, she had almost become reconciled with him; or, rather, having yielded to the insidious cunning of this traitor, she was no longer in a position to refuse to see Valmont. As an objection to such a visit, she brought up the remarks and the ideas that Franval had advanced, and the letters he had shown her; but he, with seeming unconcern, had more than reassured her that the surest way of convincing people that there was absolutely nothing to her alleged affair with Valmont was to see him exactly as before; to refuse to do so, he assured her, would only lend credence to their suspicions. The best proof a woman can provide of her chastity, he told her, was to continue seeing in public the man to whom her name had been linked. All this was so much sophistry, and Madame de Franval was perfectly well aware of it. Still, she was hoping for some explanation from Valmont, and her desire to obtain it, coupled with her desire not to anger her husband, had blinded her to all the good reasons that should normally have kept her from seeing Valmont. Thus Valmont arrived to pay his call, and Franval quickly left them alone as he had the previous time: the explanations and clarifications were sure to be lively and long. Valmont, his head bursting with the ideas which had filled it during the previous twenty-four hours, cut short the formalities and came straight to the point. "Oh, Madame! Do not think of me as the same man who, the last time he saw you, conducted himself so guiltily in your eyes," he hastened to say. "Then I was the accomplice of your husband's wrongdoings; today I come to repair those wrongs. Have confidence in me, Madame, I beseech you to believe my word of honour that I have come here neither to lie to you nor to deceive you in any way." Then he confessed to the forged letters and promissory notes and apologized profusely for having allowed himself to be implicated in the affair. He warned Madame of the new horrors they had demanded of him, and as a proof of his candour, he confessed his feelings for Eugenie, revealed what had already been done, and pledged his word to break off everything, to abduct Eugenie from Franval and spirit her away to one of Madame de Farneille's estates in Picardy, if both these worthy ladies would grant him the permission to do so, and as a reward would bestow on him in marriage the girl whom he would thus have rescued from the edge of the abyss. Valmont's declarations and confessions had such a ring of truth about them that Madame de Franval could not help but be convinced. Valmont was an excellent match for her daughter. After Eugenie's wretched conduct, had she even a right to expect as much? Valmont would assume the responsibility for everything; there was no other way to put a stop to this frightful crime which was driving her to distraction. Moreover, could she not flatter herself that, once the only affair which could really become dangerous both for her and her husband had been broken off, his sentiments might once again be directed toward her? This last consideration tipped the scales in favour of Valmont's plan, and she gave her consent, but only on condition that Valmont give her his word not to fight a duel with her husband and that, after he had delivered Eugenie into Madame de Farneille's hands, he would go abroad and remain there until Franval's fury had abated sufficiently to console himself for the loss of his illicit love and finally consent to the marriage. Valmont agreed to everything; and for her part, Madame de Franval assured him of her mother's full co-operation and promised that she would in no wise oppose or obstruct any of the decisions they came to together. Upon which Valmont left, after again apologizing for having acted so basely against her by participating in her unprincipled husband's schemes. Madame de Farneille, who was immediately apprised of the affair, left the following day for Picardy, and Franval, caught up in the perpetual whirlwind of his pleasures, counting solidly on Valmont and no longer fearful of Clervil, cast himself into the trap prepared for him with the same guilelessness which he had so often desired to see in others when, in his turn, he had been making his preparations to ensnare them. For about six months Eugenie, who was now just shy of turning seventeen, had been going out alone or in the company of a few of her female friends. On the eve of the day when Valmont, in accordance with the arrangements made with her father, was to launch his assault upon Madame de Franval, Eugenie had gone alone to see a new play at the Comedie-Francaise. She likewise left the theatre alone, having arranged to meet her father at a given place from which they were to drive elsewhere to dine together.... Shortly after her carriage had left the Faubourg Saint-Germain, ten masked men stopped the horses, opened the carriage door, seized Eugenie, and bundled her into a post chaise beside Valmont who, taking every precaution to keep her from crying out, ordered the post chaise to set off with all possible speed, and in the twinkling of an eye they were out of Paris. Unfortunately, it had been impossible to get rid of Eugenie's retainers or her carriage, and as a result Franval was notified very quickly. Valmont, to make a safe escape, had counted both on Franval's uncertainty as to the route he would take and the two or three hour advance that he would necessarily have. If only he could manage to reach Madame de Farneille's estate, that was all he would need, for from there two trustworthy women and a stage-coach were waiting for Eugenie to drive her toward the border, to a sanctuary with which even he was unfamiliar. Meanwhile, Valmont would go immediately to Holland, returning only to marry Eugenie when Madame de Farneille and her daughter informed him there were no further obstacles. But fate allowed these well-laid plans to come to grief through the designs of the horrible scoundrel with whom we are dealing. When the news reached him, Franval did not lose a second. He rushed to the post house and asked for what routes horses had been given since six o'clock that evening. At seven, a traveling coach had departed for Lyon; at eight, a post chaise for Picardy. Franval did not hesitate: the coach for Lyon was certainly of no interest to him, but a post chaise heading toward a province where Madame de Farneille had an estate, yes, that was it: to doubt it would have been madness. He therefore promptly had the eight best horses at the post hitched up to the carriage in which he was riding, ordered saddles for his servants and, while the horses were being harnessed, purchased and loaded some pistols. And then he set off like an arrow, drawn by love, despair, and a thirst for revenge. When he stopped to change horses at Senlis, he learned that the post chaise he was pursuing had only just left.... Franval ordered his men to proceed at top speed. Unfortunately for him, he overtook the post chaise; both he and his servants, with drawn pistols, stopped Valmont's coach, and as soon as the impetuous Franval recognized his adversary, he blew his brains out before Valmont had a chance to defend himself, seized Eugenie, who was faint with fright, tossed her into his own carriage, and was back in Paris before ten o'clock the following morning. Not in the least apprehensive about all that had just happened, Franval devoted his full attention to Eugenie.... Had the traitorous Valmont tried to take advantage of the circumstances? Was Eugenie still faithful, and were his guilty bonds still intact and unsullied ? Mademoiselle de Franval reassured her father: Valmont had done no more than reveal his plans to her and, full of hope that he would soon be hers in marriage, he refrained from profaning the altar whereon he wished to offer his pure vows. Franval was reassured by her solemn oaths.... But what about his wife?... Was she aware of these machinations? was she involved in them in any way? Eugenie, who had had ample time to inform herself on this matter, guaranteed that the entire plot had been the work of her mother, upon whom she showered the most odious names. She also declared that that fateful meeting between Valmont and her mother, wherein the former was, so Franval thought, preparing to serve him so well, had in fact been the meeting during which Valmont had most shamelessly betrayed him. "Ah!" said Franval, beside himself with anger, "if only he had a thousand lives... I would wrench them from him one after the other.... And my wife I Here I was trying to lull her, and she was the first to deceive me;... that creature people think so soft and gentle... that angel of virtue!... Ah, traitor, you female traitor, you will pay dearly for your crime.... My revenge calls for blood, and, if I must, I shall draw it with my own lips from your treacherous veins.... Do not be upset, Eugenie," Franval went on in a state of great agitation, "yes, calm yourself, you need some rest. Go and take a few hours' rest, and I shall take care of everything." Meanwhile Madame de Farneille, who had stationed spies along the road, was soon informed of everything that had just happened. Knowing that her granddaughter had been recaptured and Valmont killed, she lost not a moment returning to Paris.... Furious, she immediately called her advisers together; they pointed out to her that Valmont's murder was going to deliver Franval into her hands, and that the influence she feared was shortly going to vanish and she would straightway regain control over both her daughter and Eugenie. But they counselled her to avoid a public scandal, and, for fear of a degrading trial, to solicit a writ that would put her son-in-law out of the way. Franval was immediately informed of this counsel and of the proceedings that were being taken as a result. Having learned both that his crime was known and that his mother-in-law was, so they told him, only waiting to take advantage of his disaster, Franval left with all dispatch for Versailles, where he saw the Minister and disclosed the whole affair to him. The Minister's reply was to advise Franval to waste no time leaving for one of his estates in Alsace, near the Swiss border. Franval returned home at once, having made up his mind not to leave without both his wife and his daughter, for a number of reasons: to make sure he would not miss out on his plans for revenge and the punishment he had reserved for his wife's treason, and also to be in possession of hostages dear enough to Madame de Farneille's heart so that she would not dare, at least politically, to instigate actions against him. But would Madame de Franval agree to accompany him to Valmor, the estate to which the Minister had suggested he retire? Feeling herself guilty of that kind of treason which had been the cause of everything which had happened, would she be willing to leave for such a distant place? Would she dare to entrust herself without fear to the arms of her outraged husband? Such were the considerations which worried Franval. To ascertain exactly where he stood, Franval at once went in to see his wife, who already knew everything. "Madame," he said to her coldly, "you have plunged me into an abyss of woe by your thoughtless indiscretions. While I condemn the effects, I nonetheless applaud the cause, which surely stems from your love both for your daughter and myself. And since the initial wrongs are mine, I must forget the second. My dear and tender wife, who art half my life," he went on, falling to his knees, "will you consent to a reconciliation which nothing can ever again disturb? I come here to offer you that reconciliation, and to seal it here is what I place in your hands...." So saying he lays at his wife's feet all the forged papers and false correspondence with Valmont. "Burn all these, my dear friend, I beseech you," the traitor went on, with feigned tears, "and forgive what jealousy drove me to. Let us banish all this bitterness between us. Great are my wrongs, that I confess. But who knows whether Valmont, to assure the success of his plans, has not painted an even darker picture of me than I truly deserve.... If he dared tell you that I have ever ceased to love you... that you were other than the most precious object in the world, and the one most worthy of respect - ah, my dear angel, if he sullied himself with calumnies such as these, then I say I have done well to rid the world of such a rogue and imposter!" "Oh! Monsieur," Madame de Franval said in tears, "is it possible even to conceive the atrocities you devised against me? How do you expect me to have the least confidence in you after such horrors ?" "Oh! most tender and loving of women, my fondest desire is that you love me still! What I desire is that, accusing my head alone for the multitude of my sins, you convince yourself that this heart, wherein you reign eternally, has ever been incapable of betraying you.... Yes, I want you to know that there is not one of my errors which has not brought me closer to you.... The more I withdrew from my dear wife, and the greater the distance between us became, the more I came to realize how impossible it was to replace her in any realm whatsoever. Neither the pleasures nor the sentiments equalled those that my inconstancy caused me to lose with her, and in the very arms of her image I regretted reality.... Oh! my dear, my divine friend, where else could I find a heart such as yours? Where else savour the pleasures one culls only in your arms? Yes, I forsake all my errors, my failings... henceforth I wish to live only for you in this world... to restore in your wounded heart that love which my wrongs destroyed... wrongs whose very memory I now abjure. It was impossible for Madame de Franval to resist such tender effusions on the part of the man she still adored. Is it possible to hate what one has loved so dearly? Can a woman of her delicate and sensitive soul have naught but cold, unfeeling looks for the object which was once so precious to her, cast down at her feet, weeping bitter tears of remorse? She broke down and began to sob.... "I who have never ceased adoring you, you cruel and wicked man," she said, pressing her husband's hands to her heart, " 'tis I whom you have wantonly driven to despair. Ah! Heaven is my witness that of all the scourges with which you might have afflicted me, the fear of losing your heart, of being suspected by you, became the most painful of all to bear.... And what object do you choose to outrage me with?... My daughter... 'tis with her hands you pierce my heart... do you wish to oblige me to hate her whom Nature has made so dear to me ?" "Listen to me," Franval said, his tone waxing ever more ardent, "I want to bring her back to you on her knees, humbled, I want her to abjure, as I have done, both her shamelessness and her sins; I want her to obtain, as I have, your pardon. Let us henceforth concern ourselves, all three of us, with nothing but our mutual happiness. I am going to return your daughter to you... return my wife to me... and let us flee." "Flee, Great God!" "My adventure is stirring up trouble . . . tomorrow may already be too late.... My friends, the Minister, everyone has advised me to take a voyage to Valmor.... Please come with me, my love! Is it possible that at the very moment when I prostrate myself before you asking for your forgiveness you could break my heart by your refusal?" "You frighten me.... What, this adventure ..." "... is being treated not as a duel but as a murder." "Dear God! And I am the cause of it!... Give me your orders, do: dispose of me as you will, my dear husband. I am ready to follow you, to the ends of the earth, if need be.... Ah! I am the most wretched woman alive!" "Consider yourself rather the most fortunate, since every moment of my life is henceforth going to be dedicated to changing into flowers the thorns which in the past I have strewn in your path.... Is a desert not enough, when two people love each other? Moreover, this is a situation which cannot last forever. I have friends who have been apprised... who are going to act." "But my mother... I should like to see her...." "No, my love, above all not that. I have positive proof that 'tis she who is stirring up Valmont's family against me, and that, with them, 'tis she who is working toward my destruction...." "She is incapable of such baseness. Stop imagining such perfidious horrors. Her soul, totally disposed toward love, has never known deceit.... You never did appreciate her, Franval. If only you had learned to love her as I do! In her arms we both would have found true happiness on earth. She was the angel of peace that Heaven offered to the errors of your life. Your injustice rejected her proffered heart, which was always open to tenderness, and by inconsequence or caprice, by ingratitude or libertinage, you voluntarily turned your back on the best and most loving friend that Nature ever created for you.... Is it true then, you really don't want me to see her ?" "No. I'm afraid I must insist. Time is too precious! You will write her, you will describe my repentance to her. Perhaps she will be moved by my remorse... perhaps I shall one day win back her love and esteem. The storm will one day abate, and we shall come back to Paris, and there, in her arms, we shall revel in her forgiveness and tenderness.... But now, let us be off, dear friend, we must be gone within the hour at most, the carriage awaits without...." Terrified, Madame de Franval did not dare raise any further objections. She went about her preparations. Were not Franval's slightest wishes her commands. The traitor flew back to his daughter and brought her back to her mother. There the false creature throws herself at her mother's feet with full as much perfidy as had her father. She weeps, she implores her forgiveness, and she obtains it. Madame de Franval embraces her; how difficult it is to forget one is a mother, no matter how one's children have sinned against her. In a sensitive soul, the voice of Nature is so imperious that the slightest tear from these sacred objects of a mother's affection is enough to make her forget twenty years of faults and failings. They set off for Valmor. The extreme haste with which this voyage had been prepared justified in Madame de Franval's eyes, which were still as blind and credulous as ever, the paucity of servants that they took along with them. Crime shuns a plethora of eyes, and fears them all; feeling its security possible only in the darkness of mystery, it envelops itself in shadow whenever it desires to act. When they reached the country estate, nothing was changed, all was as he had promised: constant attentions, respect, solicitous care, evidence of tenderness on the one hand... and on the other, the most ardent love - all this was lavished on poor Madame de Franval, who easily succumbed to it. At the end of the world, far removed from her mother, in the depths of a terrible solitude, she was happy because, as she would say, she had her husband's heart again and because her daughter, constantly at her knees, was concerned solely with pleasing her. Eugenie's room and that of her father were no longer adjoining. Franval's room was at the far end of the chateau, Eugenie's was next to her mother's. At Valmor, the qualities of decency, regularity, and modesty replaced to the utmost degree all the disorders of the capital. Night after night Franval repaired to his wife's room and there, in the bosom of innocence, candour, and love, the scoundrel shamelessly dared to nourish her hopes with his horrors. Cruel enough not to be disarmed by those naive and ardent caresses which the most delicate of women lavished upon him, it was at the torch of love itself that the villain lighted the torch of vengeance. As one can easily imagine, however, Franval's attentions toward Eugenie had not diminished. In the morning, while her mother was occupied with her toilet, Eugenie would meet her father at the far end of the garden, and from him she would receive the necessary instructions and the favours which she was far from willing to cede completely to her rival. No more than a week after their arrival in this retreat, Franval learned that Valmont's family was prosecuting him unremittingly, and that the affair was going to be dealt with in a most serious manner. It was becoming difficult, so they said, to pass it off as a duel, for unfortunately there had been too many witnesses. Furthermore, so Franval was informed, beyond any shadow of a doubt Madame de Farneille was leading the pack of her son-in-law's enemies, her clear intention being to complete his ruin by putting him behind bars or obliging him to leave France, and thus to restore to her as soon as possible the two beloved creatures from whom she was presently separated. Franval showed these missives to his wife. She at once took out pen and paper to calm her mother, to urge her to see matters in a different light, and to depict for her the happiness she had been enjoying ever since misfortune had succeeded in mollifying the soul of her poor husband. Furthermore, she assured her mother that all her efforts to force her back to Paris with her daughter would be quite in vain, for she had resolved not to leave Valmor until her husband's difficulties had been settled, and ended by saying that if ever the malice of his enemies or the absurdity of his judges should cause a warrant for his arrest to be issued which was degrading to him, she had fully made up her mind to accompany him into exile. Franval thanked his wife. But having not the least desire to sit and wait for the fate that was being prepared for him, he informed her that he was going to spend some time in Switzerland. He would leave Eugenie in her care, and he begged both women, nay made them promise, not to leave Valmor so long as his fate was still in doubt. No matter what fate might decide for him, he said, he would still return to spend twenty-four hours with his dear wife, to consult with her as to the means for returning to Paris if nothing stood in the way or, if fortune had turned against him, for leaving to go and live somewhere in safety. Having taken these decisions, Franval, who had not for a moment forgotten that the sole cause of his misfortunes was his wife's rash and imprudent plot with Valmont, and who was still consumed with a desire for revenge, sent word to his daughter that he was waiting for her in the remote part of the park. He locked himself in an isolated summer house with her, and after having made her swear blind obedience to everything he was going to order her to do, he kissed her and spoke to her in the following manner: "You are about to lose me, my daughter, perhaps forever." And seeing tears welling up into Eugenie's eyes: "Calm yourself, my angel," he said to her, "our future happiness is in your hands, and in yours alone. Only you can determine whether we can again find the happiness that once was ours, whether it be in France or somewhere else. You, Eugenie, I trust are as persuaded as one can possibly be that your mother is the sole cause of our misfortunes. You know that I have not lost sight of my plans for revenge. If I have concealed these plans from my wife, you have been aware of my reasons and have approved of them; in fact 'twas you who helped me fashion the blindfold with which it seemed prudent to cover her eyes. The time has come to act, Eugenie, the end is at hand. Your future peace of mind and body depends on it, and what you are going to undertake will assure mine forever as well. You will, I trust, hear me out, and you are too intelligent a girl to be in the least alarmed by what I am about to propose. Yes, my child, the time has come to act, and act we must, without delay and without remorse, and this must be your work. "Your mother has wished to make you miserable, she has defiled the bonds to which she lays claim, and by so doing she has lost all rights to them. Henceforth she is not only no longer anything more than an ordinary woman for you, but she has even become your worst, your mortal enemy. Now, the law of Nature most deeply graven in our hearts is that we must above all rid ourselves, if we can, of those who conspire against us. This sacred law, which constantly moves and inspires us, does not instill within us the love of our neighbour as being above the love we owe ourselves. First ourselves, then the others: this is nature's order of progression. Consequently, we must show no respect, no quarter for others as soon as they have shown that our misfortune or our ruin is the object of their desires. To act differently, my daughter, would be to show preference for others above ourselves, and that would be absurd. Now, let me come to the reasons behind the action I shall counsel you to take. "I am obliged to leave, and you know the reasons why. If I leave you with this woman, Eugenie, within the space of a month her mother will have enticed her back to Paris, and since, after the scandal that has just occurred, you can no longer marry, you can rest assured that these two cruel persons will gain ascendancy over you only to send you to a convent, there to weep over your weakness and repent of our pleasures. 'Tis your grandmother who hounds and pursues me, Eugenie, 'tis she who joins hands with my enemies to complete my destruction. Can such zeal, such methods have any purpose other than to regain possession of you, and can you doubt that once she has you she will have you confined? The worse things go with me, the more those who are persecuting and tormenting us will grow strong and increasingly influential. Now, it would be wrong to doubt that, inwardly, your mother is the brains behind this group, as it would be wrong to doubt that, once I have gone, she will rejoin them. And yet this faction desires my ruin only in order to make you the most wretched woman alive. Therefore we must lose no time in weakening it, and it will be deprived of its most sturdy pillar if your mother is removed from it. Can we opt for another course of action? Can I take you with me? Your mother will be most annoyed, will run back to her mother, and from that day on, Eugenie, we will never know another moment's peace. We will be persecuted and pursued from place to place, no country will have the right to offer us asylum, no refuge on the face of the earth will be held sacred... inviolable, in the eyes of the monsters whose fury will pursue us. Do you have any idea how far these odious arms of despotism and tyranny can stretch when they have the weight of gold behind them and are directed by malice? But with your mother dead, on the contrary, Madame de Farneille, who loves her more than she loves you and who has acted solely for her sake in this whole endeavour, seeing her faction deprived of the only person to whom she was really attached in the group, will abandon everything, will stop goading my enemies and arousing them against me. At this juncture, one of two things will happen: either the Valmont incident will be settled and we shall be able to return to Paris in safety, or else the case will become more serious, in which case we shall be obliged to leave France and go to another country, but at least we shall be safe from Madame de Farneille's machinations. But as long as her daughter is still alive, Madame de Farneille will have but a single purpose in mind, and that will be our ruin, because, once again, she believes that her daughter's happiness can be obtained only at the price of our downfall. "No matter from what angle we view our situation, then, you will see that Madame de Franval is the constant thorn in the side of our security, and her loathsome presence is the most certain obstacle to our happiness. "Eugenie, Eugenie," Franval continued warmly, taking his daughter's hands in his, "my dear Eugenie, you do love me? Do you therefore consent to lose forever the person who adores you, for fear of an act as essential to our interests? My dear and loving Eugenie, you must decide: you can keep only one of us. You are obliged to kill one of your parents, only the choice of which heart you shall choose as the target of your dagger yet remains. Either your mother must perish, or else you must give me up.... What am I saying? You will have to slit my throat.... Alas, could I live without you? Do you think it would be possible for me to live without my Eugenie? Could I endure the memory of the pleasures I have tasted in these arms, these delightful pleasures that I shall have lost forever? Your crime, Eugenie, your crime is the same in either case: either you must destroy a mother who loathes you and who lives only to make you unhappy, or else you must murder a father whose every breath is drawn only for you. Choose, Eugenie, go ahead and choose, and if 'tis I you condemn, then do not hesitate, ungrateful daughter: show no pity when you pierce this heart whose only wrong has been to love you too deeply; strike, and I shall bless the blows you strike, and with my last breath I shall say again how I adore you. Franval fell silent, to hear what his daughter would reply, but she seemed to be lost in deep thought. Finally she threw herself into her father's arms. "Oh, you, you whom I shall love all my life, can you doubt of the choice I shall make? Can you suspect my courage? Arm me at once, and she who, by her terrible deeds and the threat she poses to your safety, is proscribed will soon fall beneath my blows. Instruct me, Franval, tell me what to do; leave, since your safety demands it, and I shall act while you are gone. I shall keep you apprised of everything. But no matter what turn things may take, once our enemy has been disposed of, do not leave me alone in this chateau.... Come back for me, or send for me to come and join you wherever you may be." "My darling daughter," said Franval, kissing this monster who had shown herself to be an all too apt pupil of his seductions, "I knew that I would find in you all the sentiments of love and steadfastness of purpose necessary to our mutual happiness.... Take this box. Death lies within its lid...." Eugenie took the fatal box and repeated her promises to her father. Other decisions were taken: it was decided that Eugenie would await the outcome of the trial, and that the decision as to whether the projected crime would take place or not would be dependent upon whether the decision was for or against her father.... They took leave of each other, Franval went to pay a call upon his wife, and there carried audacity and deceit so far as to inundate her with his tears, the while receiving from this heavenly angel, without once giving himself away, the touching caresses so full of candour which she lavished upon him. Then, having been given her solemn promise that she would most assuredly remain in Alsace with Eugenie no matter what the outcome of his case, the scoundrel mounted his horse and rode away, leaving behind him the innocence and virtue which his crimes had sullied so long. Franval proceeded to Basel, and there procured lodgings, for at Basel he was safe from any legal actions that might be instituted against him and at the same time was as close to Valmor as one could possibly be, so that his letters might maintain Eugenie in the frame of mind he desired to keep her in while he was away.... Basel and Valmor were about twenty-five leagues apart, and although the road between them went through the Black Forest, communications were easy enough, so that he was able to receive news of his daughter once a week. As a measure of precaution, Franval brought an enormous sum of money with him, but more in paper than in cash. Let us leave him then, getting settled in Switzerland, and return to his wife. Nothing could have been purer or more sincere than this excellent woman's intentions. She had promised her husband to remain in the country until he had given her further orders, and nothing in the world could have made her change her mind, as she was wont to assure Eugenie every day.... Unfortunately too far removed from her mother to place her trust in this worthy woman, still a party to Franval's injustice - the seeds of which he nourished by his letters sent regularly once a week - Eugenie did not for a moment entertain the thought that she could have a worse enemy in the world than her mother. And yet there was nothing her mother did not do to try and break down the invincible antipathy that this ungrateful child kept buried deep in her heart. She showered friendship and caresses on her, she expressed tender satisfaction with her over her husband's fortunate change of heart, she even went so far in her manifestations of gentleness and meekness as to thank Eugenie at times and give her all the credit for the happy conversion. And then she would grieve at being the innocent cause of the new calamities that were threatening Franval; far from accusing Eugenie, she put the entire onus on herself and, clasping Eugenie to her heart, she would tearfully ask her whether she could ever forgive her mother.... Eugenie's heart remained hardened to these angelic advances, and her perverse soul was deaf to the voice of Nature, for vice had closed off every avenue by which one might reach her.... Coldly withdrawing from her mother's arms, she would look at her with eyes that were often wild and would say to herself, by way of encouragement: How false this woman is... how full of deceit and treachery. The day she had me abducted she caressed me in exactly the same way. But these unjust reproaches were naught but the abominable sophisms with which crime steadies and supports itself whenever it tries to smother the conscience. Madame de Franval, whose motives in having Eugenie abducted were her own happiness and peace of mind, and in the interest of virtue, had, it is true, concealed her plans. But such pretense is condemned only by the guilty party who is deceived by it, and in no wise offends probity. Thus Eugenie resisted all her mother's proffered tenderness because she wanted to commit an atrocity, and not in the least because of any wrongs on the part of a mother who had surely committed none with regard to her. Toward the end of the first month of their stay at Valmor, Madame de Farneille wrote to her daughter that her husband's case was becoming increasingly serious and that, in view of the fear of an unfavourable decision by the court, the return of both Madame de Franval and Eugenie had become a matter of urgent necessity, not only to make an impression on the public, which was spreading the worst kind of gossip, but also to join forces with her and together seek some sort of arrangement that might be able to disarm the forces of justice, and answer for the culprit without sacrificing him. Madame de Franval, who had resolved not to conceal anything from her daughter, immediately showed her this letter. Staring coldly at her mother, Eugenie asked her evenly what she intended to do in view of this sad news? "I don't know," Madame de Franval replied. "But the fact is I wonder what good we are doing here? Would we not be serving my husband's interests far better by taking my mother's advice?" "'Tis you who are in full charge, Madame," Eugenie replied. "My role is to obey, and you may rest assured of my obedience." But Madame de Franval, clearly seeing from the curt manner of her daughter's reply that she was dead set against it, told her that she was going to wait, that she would write again, and that Eugenie could be quite sure that if ever she were to fail to follow Franval's intentions, it would only be when she was completely certain that she could serve him better in Paris than at Valmor. Another month passed in this manner, during which Franval continued to write both to his wife and daughter, and from whom he received letters that could not help but please him, since he saw in those from his wife naught but the most perfect acquiescence to his every desire, and in those from his daughter an unwavering determination to carry out the projected crime as soon as the turn of events required it, or whenever Madame de Franval seemed on the verge of complying with her mother's solicitations. For, as Eugenie noted in one of her letters, "If I see in your wife naught but the qualities of honesty and candour, and if the friends working on your case in Paris succeed in bringing it to a happy conclusion, I shall turn over to you the task you have entrusted me and you can accomplish it yourself when we are together, if you deem it advisable then. But of course if you should in any case order me to act, and should find it indispensable that I do so, then I shall assume the full responsibility for it by myself, of that you may be sure." In his reply, Franval approved of everything she reported to him, and these were the last two letters he received and sent. The following mail brought him no more. Franval grew worried. And when the succeeding mail proved equally unsatisfactory, he grew desperate, and since his natural restlessness no longer allowed him to wait for further mails, he immediately decided to pay a personal visit to Valmor to ascertain the reasons for the delays in the mails that were upsetting him so cruelly. He set off on horseback, followed by a faithful valet. He had calculated his voyage to arrive the second day, late enough at night not to be recognized by anyone. At the edge of the woods which surrounds the Valmor chateau and which, to the east, joins the Black Forest, six well-armed men stopped Franval and his servant and demanded their money. These rogues had been well informed; they knew with whom they were dealing and were fully aware that Franval, being implicated in an unpleasant affair, never travelled without his paper money and immense amounts of gold.... The servant resisted, and was laid out lifeless at the feet of his horse. Franval, drawing his sword, leapt to the ground and attacked these scurvy creatures. He wounded three of them, but found himself surrounded by the others. They stripped him of everything he had, without however being able to disarm him, and as soon as they had despoiled him the thieves escaped. Franval followed them, but the brigands had vanished so swiftly with their booty and horses that it was impossible to tell in which direction they had gone. The weather that night was miserable. The cutting blast of the north wind was accompanied by a driving hail - all the elements seemed to be conspiring against this poor wretch. There are perhaps cases in which Nature, revolted by the crimes of the person she is pursuing, desires to overwhelm him with all the scourges at Her command before drawing him back again into her bosom.... Franval, half-naked but still holding onto his sword, directed his footsteps as best he could away from this baleful place, and toward Valmor. But as he was ill-acquainted with this estate, which he had visited only the one time we have seen him there, he lost his way on the darkened roads of this forest with which he was totally unfamiliar.... completely exhausted, and racked by pain and worry, tormented by the storm, he threw himself to the ground; and there the first tears he had ever shed in his life flowed abundantly from his eyes.... "Ill-fated man," he cried out, "now is everything conspiring to crush me at last... to make me feel the pangs of remorse. It took the hand of disaster to pierce my heart. Deceived by the blandishments of good fortune, I should have always gone on failing to recognize it. Oh you, whom I have outraged so grievously, you who at this very moment are perhaps becoming the victim of my fury and barbarous plans, you my adorable wife... does the world, vainglorious of your existence, still possess you? Has the hand of Heaven put a stop to my horrors?... Eugenie! my too credulous daughter... too basely seduced by my abominable cunning... has Nature softened your heart?... Has she suspended the cruel effects of my ascendancy and your weakness? Is there still time? Is there still time, Just Heaven?..." Suddenly the plaintive and majestic sound of several pealing bells, rising sadly heavenward, came to add to the horror of his fate.... He was deeply affected ... he grew terrified.... "What is this I hear?" he cried out, getting to his feet. "Barbarous daughter... is it death?... is it vengeance?... Are the Furies of hell come then to finish their work? Do these sounds announce to me...? Where am I? Can I hear them?... Finish, oh Heaven, finish the task of destroying the culprit...." And, prostrating himself: "Almighty God, suffer me to join my voice to those who at this moment are imploring Thee... see my remorse and Thy power, and pardon me for disowning Thee. I beseech Thee to grant me this prayer, the first prayer I dare to direct at Thee! Supreme Being, preserve virtue, protect her who was Thy most beautiful image on this earth. I pray that these sounds, these mournful sounds, may not be those I fear and dread." And Franval, completely distraught, no longer aware of what he was doing nor where he was going, his speech but an incoherent mumble, followed whatever path he chanced across.... He heard someone ... he regained control of himself and listened.... It was a man on horseback. "Whoever you are," Franval called out, advancing toward this man, "whoever you may be, take pity on a poor wretch whom pain and sorrow has rendered distraught. I am ready to take my own life.... Instruct me, help me, if you are a man, and a man of any compassion... deign to save me from myself." "Good God!" replied a voice too well-known to poor Franval. "What! You here?... For the sake of all that is holy, leave, go away!" And Clervil - for 'twas he, this worthy mortal, who had escaped from Franval's prison, whom fate had sent toward this miserable creature in the saddest moment of his life - Clervil jumped down off his horse and fell into the arms of his enemy. "So 'tis you, Monsieur," Franval said, clasping the honourable man to his breast, "you upon whom I have wrought so many horrible acts which weigh so heavily on my conscience!" "Calm yourself, Monsieur, you must calm yourself. I put away from me all the misfortunes that have recently surrounded me, nor do I remember those which you wished to inflict upon me when Heaven allows me to serve you... and I am going to be of service to you, Monsieur, doubtless in a manner which will be rather cruel, but necessary.... Here, let us sit down at the foot of this cypress, for now its sinister boughs alone shall be a fitting wreath for you. Oh, my dear Franval, what reverses of fortune I must acquaint you with!... Weep, my friend, for tears will relieve you, and I must cause even more bitter tears to flow from your eyes.... Your days of delight are over... they have vanished as a dream. And all you have left to you are days of sorrow and grief." "Oh, Monsieur, I understand you... those bells..." "Those bells are bearing the homage, the prayers of the inhabitants of Valmor to the feet of Almighty God, for He has allowed them to know an angel only so that they might pity and mourn her all the more." At which point Franval, placing the tip of his sword at his heart, was about to cut the frail thread of his days, but Clervil forestalled this desperate act: "No, no, my friend," he cried, " 'tis not death that is needed, but reparation. Hear what I have to say, I have much to tell you, and to tell it, an atmosphere of calm is required." "Very well, Monsieur, speak. I am listening. Plunge the dagger by slow degrees into my heart. It is only just that he who has tried to torment others should in his turn be oppressed." "I shall be brief as regards myself, Monsieur," Clervil said. "After several months of the frightful detention to which you subjected me, I was fortunate enough to move my guard to pity. I strongly advised him meticulously to conceal the injustice which you committed regarding me. He will not reveal it, my dear Franval, he will never reveal that secret." "Oh, Monsieur..." "Hear me out. I repeat that I have much to tell you. Upon my return to Paris I learned of your sorry adventure... your departure.... I shared Madame de Farneille's tears, which were more sincere than you ever believed. Together with this worthy lady, I conspired to persuade Madame de Franval to bring Eugenie back to us, her presence being more necessary in Paris than in Alsace.... You had forbidden her to leave Valmor.... she obeyed you. She apprised us of these orders and of her reluctance to contradict them. She hesitated as long as she could. You were found guilty, Franval, and the sentence still stands. You have been sentenced to death as guilty of a highway murder. Neither Madame de Farneille's entreaties nor the efforts of your family and friends could alter the decision of justice: you have been worsted... dishonoured forever... you are ruined... all your goods and estates have been seized...." (And in response to a second, violent movement on Franval's part:) "Listen to me, Monsieur, hear me out, I say, I demand this of you in expiation of your crimes; I demand it too in the name of Heaven, which may still be moved to forgiveness by your repentance. At this time we wrote to Madame de Franval to apprise her of all this: her mother informed her that, as her presence had become absolutely indispensable, she was sending me to Valmor to persuade her once and for all to return to Paris. I set off immediately after the letter was posted, but unfortunately it reached Valmor before me. When I arrived, it was already too late; your horrible plot had succeeded only too well; I found Madame de Franval dying.... Oh, Monsieur, what base, what foul villainy!... But I am touched by your abject state, I shall refrain from reproaching you any further for your crimes. Let me tell you everything. Eugenie was unable to bear the sight, and when I arrived her repentance was already expressed by a flood of tears and bitter sobs.... Oh, Monsieur, how can I describe to you the cruel effect of this varied scene. Your wife, disfigured by convulsions of pain, was dying.... Eugenie, having been reclaimed by Nature, was uttering frightful cries, confessing her guilt, invoking death, wanting to kill herself, in turn falling at the feet of those whom she was imploring and fastening herself to the breast of her mother, trying desperately to revive her with her own breath, to warm her with her tears, to move her by the spectacle of her remorse; such, Monsieur, was the sinister scene that struck my eyes when I arrived at Valmor. "When I entered the house, Madame de Franval recognized me. She pressed my hands in hers, wet them with her tears, and uttered a few words which I had great difficulty hearing, for they could scarcely escape from her chest which was constricted from the effects of the poison. She forgave you.... She implored Heaven's forgiveness for you, and above all she asked for her daughter's forgiveness.... See then, barbarous man, that the final thoughts, the final prayers of this woman whose heart you broke and whose virtue you vilified were yet for your happiness. "I gave her every care I could, and revived the flagging spirits of the servants to do the same, I called upon the most celebrated practitioners of medicine available... and I employed all my resources to console your Eugenie. Touched by the terrible state she was in, I felt I had no right to refuse her my consolations. But nothing succeeded. Your poor wife gave up the ghost amid such convulsions and torments as are impossible to describe. At that fatal moment, Monsieur, I witnessed one of the sudden effects of remorse which till then had been unknown to me. Eugenie threw herself on her mother and died at the same moment as she. We all thought she had merely fainted.... No, all her faculties were extinguished. The situation had produced such a shock to her vital organs that they had all ceased simultaneously to function, and she actually died from the violent impact of remorse, grief, and despair.... Yes, Monsieur, both are lost to you. And the bells which you yet hear pealing are celebrating simultaneously two creatures, both of whom were born to make you happy, whom your hideous crimes have made the victims of their attachment to you, and whose bloody images will pursue you to your grave. "Oh, my dear Franval, was I wrong then in times past to try and save you from the abyss into which your passions were plunging you? Will you still condemn, still cover with ridicule the votaries of virtue? And are virtue's disciples wrong to burn incense at its altars when they see crime so surrounded by troubles and scourges ?" Clervil fell silent. He glanced at Franval and saw that he was petrified with sorrow. His eyes were fixed and from them tears were flowing, but no expression managed to cross his lips. Clervil asked him why he had found him in this half-naked state. In two words, Franval related to him what had happened. "Ah, Monsieur," cried the generous Clervil, "how happy I am, even in the midst of all the horrors which surround me, to be able at least to ease your situation. I was on my way to Basel in search of you, I was going to acquaint you with all that had happened, I was going to offer you the little I possess.... Take it, I beg you to. As you know, I am not rich, but here are a hundred louis, my life's savings, they are all I own. I demand that you..." "Oh noble and generous man," Franval cried, embracing the knees of that rare and honourable friend, "why me? Do I need anything, after the losses I have suffered? And from you, you whom I have treated so miserably, 'tis you who fly to my help." "Must we remember past wrongs when misfortune overwhelms him who has done them to us? When this happens, the only revenge we owe is to alleviate his suffering. And what point is there in adding to his grief when his heart is burdened with his own reproaches?... Monsieur, that is the voice of Nature. You can see that the sacred cult of a Supreme Being does not run counter to it as you had supposed, since the counsel offered by the one is naught but the holy writ of the other." "No," said Franval, getting to his feet, "no, Monsieur, I no longer have need for anything at all. Since Heaven has left me this one last possession," he went on, displaying his sword, "teach me what use I must put it to...." (Looking at the sword :) "This, my dear, my only friend, this is the same sword that my saintly wife seized one day to plunge into her breast when I was overwhelming her with horrors and calumnies.... 'Tis the very same.... Perhaps I may even discover traces of her sacred blood on it... blood which my own must efface.... Come, let us walk awhile, until we come to some cottages wherein I may inform you of my last wishes ... and then we shall take leave of each other forever...." They began walking, keeping a look out for a road that would lead them to some habitation.... Night still enveloped the forest in its darkest veils. Suddenly the sound of mournful hymns was heard, and the men saw several torches rending the dark shadows and lending the scene a tinge of horror that only sensitive souls will understand. The pealing of bells grew louder, and to these mournful accents, which were still only scarcely audible, were joined flashes of lightning, which had hitherto been absent from the sky, and the ensuing thunder which mingled with the funereal sounds they had previously heard. The lightning which flashed across the skies, occasionally eclipsing the sinister flames of the torches, seemed to be vying with the inhabitants of the earth for the right to conduct to her grave this woman whom the procession was accompanying. Everything gave rise to horror, everything betokened desolation, and it seemed that Nature herself had donned the garb of eternal mourning. "What is this ?" said Franval, who was deeply moved "Nothing, nothing," Clervil said, taking his friend's hand and leading him in another direction. "Nothing? No, you're misleading me. I want to see what it is..." He dashed forward... and saw a coffin. "Merciful Heaven," he cried. "There she is; it is she, it is she. God has given me one last occasion to see her...." At the bidding of Clervil, who saw that it was impossible to calm the poor man down, the priests departed in silence.... Completely distraught, Franval threw himself on the coffin, and from it he seized the sad remains of the woman whom he had so gravely offended. He took the body in his arms and laid it at the foot of a tree, and in a state of delirium threw himself upon it, crying in utter despair: "Oh you whose life has been snuffed out by my barbarous cruelty, oh touching creature whom I still adore, see at your feet your husband beseeching your pardon and your forgiveness. Do not imagine that I ask this in order to outlive you. No, no, 'tis in order that the Almighty, touched by your virtues, might deign to forgive me as you have done, if such be possible.... You must have blood, my sweet wife, you must have blood to be avenged... and avenged you shall be.... Ah! first see my tears and witness my repentance; I intend to follow you, beloved shade... but who will receive my tortured soul if you do not intercede for it? Rejected alike from the arms of God and from your heart, do you wish to see it condemned to the hideous tortures of Hell when it is so sincerely repentant of its crimes? Forgive, dear soul, forgive these crimes, and see how I avenge them." With these words Franval, eluding Clervil's gaze, plunged the sword he was holding twice through his body. His impure blood flowed onto his victim and seemed to sully her much more than avenge her. "Oh my friend," he said to Clervil, "I am dying, but I am dying in the bosom of remorse.... Apprise those who remain behind both of my deplorable end and of my crimes, tell them that is the way that a man who is a miserable slave of his passions must die, a man vile enough to have stifled in his heart the cry of duty and of Nature. Do not deny me half of my wretched wife's coffin; without my remorse I would not have been worthy of sharing it, but now my remorse renders me full worthy of that favour, and I demand it. Adieu." Clervil granted poor Franval's dying wish, and the procession continued on its way. An eternal refuge soon swallowed up a husband and wife born to love each other, a couple fashioned for happiness and who would have savoured it in its purest form if crime and its frightful disorders had not, beneath the guilty hand of one of the two, intervened to change their life from a garden of delight into a viper's nest. The worthy ecclesiastic soon carried back to Paris the frightful details of these different calamities. No one was distressed by the death of Franval; only his life had been a cause of grief. But his wife was mourned, bitterly mourned. And indeed what creature is more precious, more appealing in the eyes of men than the person who has cherished, respected, and cultivated the virtues of the earth and, at each step of the way, has found naught but misfortune and grief?