Dangerous Liaisons quotes

You see, my dear friend, I keep my word, and that dress does not totally take up all my time; I shall ever have some left for you.

In this single day I have seen more finery of attire, than in the four years we have spent together;

and I believe the haughty Tanville will be more mortified at my first visit, when I shall certainly desire to see her, than she used to be every time she came to see us in fiochi. Mamma advises with me in everything;

I instantly started up and shrieked, just as on the day of the great thunder. Mamma burst out laughing, saying, “Well, what’s the matter? Sit down, and give Mr. ⸻ your foot.”

Thus, my dear friend, Mr. ⸻ turns out to be my shoemaker.

You can’t conceive how much I was ashamed; happily, there was no one but Mamma present. I am, however, resolved when I am married he shall not be my shoemaker. Well! am I not now much the wiser? Farewell!

Return, my dear Viscount, return! How can you think of idling your days with an old aunt, whose fortune is already settled on you!

Set out the moment you receive this letter, for I want you much. A most enchanting idea has just struck me, and I wish to confide the execution of it to you.

I don’t know whether I was the object of it; but I believe I was. Mamma gave me leave to retire, which pleased me much. Only think, it was then past eleven! Adieu, my dear Sophy! continue to love thy Cecilia,

I assure you the world is not so pleasing as we used to think it.

for permit me to say, without putting you out of temper, my beautiful Marchioness! you follow me with a pretty equal pace; and since, for the happiness of the world, we have separated to preach the faith,

I am inclined to think, that in this mission of love, you have made more proselytes than I.

I am well convinced of your zeal and fervour; and if the God of Love judged us according to our works, you would be the patron saint of some great city, whilst your friend would be at most a common village saint.

but I’ll tell you what you don’t know, that solitude adds immensely to the ardour of desire. I have but one idea; I cherish it by day, and dream on’t by night.

I must possess this woman, lest I should be so ridiculous as to be in love; for whither may we not be led by frustrated desire?

Oh, delicious enjoyment! I implore thee for my happiness, and, above all, for my repose. How happy it is for us, that the women make so weak a defence! Were it otherwise, we should be but their cowardly slaves.

I am certain that if I had sense enough to break off with him now, he would be a prey to the most violent despair; yet nothing diverts me more than an enraged lover.

He, perhaps, would call me perfidious, and that word has ever pleased me; it is, after the epithet cruel, the sweetest to a woman’s ear, and the least painful to deserve.

I will seriously ruminate on this rupture. You are the cause of all this—I shall leave it on your conscience. Adieu! recommend me to your Presidente in her prayers.

You are already a timid slave; you may as well be in love at once. You renounce your happy acts of temerity on many occasions; and thus, without any principle to direct you, give yourself up to caprice, or rather chance.

Do you know, that love is like physic, only the art of assisting nature?

You see I fight you on your own ground, but it shall not excite any vanity in me; for there is no great honour in engaging a vanquished enemy. She must give herself up, you tell me;

But you, you who are no longer yourself, you proceed as if you dreaded success. And pray how long is it since you have fallen into the method of travelling so gently, and in such bye-roads?

Believe me, when one has a mind to arrive, post-horses and the high road is the only method.

But let us drop this subject; it the more puts me out of temper, as it deprives me of the pleasure of seeing you. At least, write me oftener than you do, and acquaint me with your progress.

Come then, come speedily, and bring the pledge of your triumph; like our valiant knights of old, who deposited, at their ladies’ feet, the trophies of their victories.

I am really curious to know what a prude can say after such an adventure; what covering she can give her words after having uncovered her person.

You are to judge whether I rate myself too high; but I must assure you beforehand, I will abate nothing. Till then, my dear Viscount, you must not be angry that I should be constant to my Chevalier;

I am bewitched with this little girl: it is a real passion. I am much mistaken, or she will be one day or other one of our most fashionable women.

I can see her little heart expanding; and it is a most ravishing sight!

—She already loves her Danceny to distraction, yet knows nothing of it; and he, though deeply smitten, has that youthful timidity, that frightens him from declaring his passion. They are both in a state of mutual adoration before me:

Adieu, Viscount—good night, and good success; but, for God’s sake, dispatch.

Remember, if you let this woman slip, the others will blush at having been unconnected with you.

My purpose is, that she should yield, yet combat; that without having sufficient force to conquer, she should have enough to make a resistance; let her feel her weakness, and be compelled to own her defeat.

The sorry poacher takes aim at the game he has surprised⁠—the true huntsman runs it fairly down.

Is not this an exalted idea? But perhaps by this time I should have only had the regret of not having followed it, if chance had not seconded my prudence.

read and give your opinion; observe with what egregious falsity she protests she is not in love, when I am certain of the contrary; and she’ll complain, if I deceive her afterwards, and yet is not afraid to deceive me beforehand!—

My lovely friend, the most artful man is barely on a level with the most inexperienced woman.

I must, however, give in to all this nonsense, and fatigue myself to death with despair, because Madam is pleased to play a severe character.—How is it possible not to resolve to avenge such indignities—but patience! Adieu, I have still a great deal to write.

You even threaten me with your hatred. Where is the man who would not complain to be so treated? But I submit, and suffer all without murmuring.

You strike, and I adore!

The inconceivable ascendant you have obtained over me, has rendered you sole mistress of my sentiments; and if my love alone disobeys, if you cannot destroy it, it is because it is your own work, not mine.

it is not only that you should understand me better, but that you should have less reason to find fault; but also that you should be happier, or, rather, that you should begin to taste of happiness.

Our amusements, our trifles, and all that, is folly; but in love, a word, a look only, is the summit of happiness.

When I see Danceny, I wish for nothing more: when he is from me, I wish for nothing but him. I cannot account for it: but I imagine that everything that pleases me, bears a resemblance to him.

I am happy; I ought to be so. If there are more lively pleasures existing, I wish them not; I will not be acquainted with them.

Can any be so pleasing as to be at peace with oneself, to enjoy days of serenity, to sleep without disturbance, and to awake without remorse?

What you call happiness, is the tumult of the senses, the storm of passions, the aspect of which is dreadful, even viewing it from the shore; and who then would encounter such storms?

If there are more lively pleasures existing, I wish them not; I will not be acquainted with them. Can any be so pleasing as to be at peace with oneself, to enjoy days of serenity, to sleep without disturbance, and to awake without remorse?

What you call happiness, is the tumult of the senses, the storm of passions, the aspect of which is dreadful, even viewing it from the shore; and who then would encounter such storms?

Who would dare embark upon a sea spread with thousands and thousands of wrecks, and with whom? No, Sir, I will remain upon land; I cherish the links with which I am attached; I would not break them if I could;

What you call happiness, is the tumult of the senses, the storm of passions, the aspect of which is dreadful, even viewing it from the shore; and who then would encounter such storms?

Who would dare embark upon a sea spread with thousands and thousands of wrecks, and with whom?

No, Sir, I will remain upon land; I cherish the links with which I am attached; I would not break them if I could; and if even I was not bound, I would speedily wear them.

and could not help laughing to find in both literally this phrase—“It is from you alone I expect any consolation.” And indeed it is pleasant enough to console for and against, and to be the sole agent of two interests so directly opposite.

Thus I am like the Divinity, receiving the opposite vows of blind mortals, without altering my immutable decrees.

However, I have quitted this grand roll, to take on me that of the consoling angel; and I went, according to the precept, to visit my two friends in their affliction.

I finished mine by a soothing sentence; that is another consequence of my profound observations. After a woman’s heart has been some time kept in exercise, it wants rest: and

I have often remarked, that a flattery is, for all of them, the softest pillow we can offer.

Adieu, my lovely friend. I set out tomorrow. If you have any orders to give me for the Countess de ⸻, I shall stop with her to dinner. I am sorry to set out without seeing you.

Adieu!

I love you notwithstanding, as much as if you was rational.

How your fears raise my compassion! How much they convince me of my superiority over you!

So you want to teach me how to conduct myself! Ah, my poor Valmont! what a distance there is still between you and me! No; all the pride of your sex would not be sufficient to fill up the interval that is between us.

So you want to teach me how to conduct myself! Ah, my poor Valmont! what a distance there is still between you and me! No; all the pride of your sex would not be sufficient to fill up the interval that is between us.

Because you are not able to execute my schemes, you look upon them as impossible.

It well becomes you, who are both proud and weak, to attempt to decide on my measures, and give your opinion of my resources. Upon my word, Viscount, your advice has put me out of temper. I cannot conceal it.

Believe me, Viscount, one seldom acquires the qualities one thinks unnecessary. As you engage without danger, you should act without precaution.

As for you men, your defeats are only a success the less.

In this unequal struggle, our good fortune is not to be losers; and your misfortune, not to be gainers.

they are the proofs of my profound reflections; I have given them existence, and I can call them my own work.

Introduced into the world whilst yet a girl, I was devoted by my situation to silence and inaction; this time I made use of for reflection and observation.

Looked upon as thoughtless and heedless, paying little attention to the discourses that were held out to me, I carefully laid up those that were meant to be concealed from me.

and tried my temper, by seeming to express a satisfaction; laboured with the same care and trouble to repress the sudden tumult of unexpected joy. It is thus that I gained that ascendancy over my countenance which has so often astonished you.

I was yet very young and unconcerned, but still reflected. My thoughts were my own, and I was exasperated to have them either surprised or drawn from me against my will.

Provided with such arms, I immediately began to try their utility. Not satisfied with the closeness of my character, I amused myself with assuming different ones. Confident of my actions, I studied my words;

I strengthened them by reading, but don’t imagine that it was all of that kind you suppose:

I studied my morals in romances, my opinions amongst the philosophers, and even sought amongst our most severe moralists, what was required of us.

—Thus I was ascertained of what one might do, how one ought to think, and the character one should assume. Thus fixed on those three objects, the last only offered some difficulties in the execution: I hoped to conquer them; I ruminated on the means.

an established truth of which antiquity seems to have been more sensible than we are, and of which, perhaps, the history of Samson may have been an ingenious emblem. Like another Delilah, I always employed my power in discovering this important secret.

Ah! how many of our modern Samsons do I not hold by the hair under my scissors!

Those I have no dread of; they are the only ones that I sometimes take a pleasure in mortifying. More pliant with others, I endeavour to render them fickle, to avoid appearing inconstant myself.

but, above all, I should dread a man so far as to find my salvation only in flight.

No, Viscount; I must conquer or perish.

As to Prevan, I must and will have him. He will tell, you say: but he shall not tell. This, in a few words, is our romance.

as, that he takes this precaution against rust for all the locks that are not constantly used; for you must be sensible it would not be very probable that you should be a witness of it without asking the reason.

Those are little details that aid probability, and probability makes lies of no consequence; as it takes away all curiosity to verify them.

After you have read this letter once, I beg you to read it again, and imprint it well in your memory; for first one must understand well what one has to do, and then, again, that you should be certain I have omitted nothing.

Permit me to tell you, I can here trace again the unfavourable impressions which have been made upon you with regard to me.

No woman trembles at the man she esteems.

No woman banishes him in a marked manner, whom she has thought worthy of some degree of friendship. It is the dangerous man who is feared and fled.

I have often experienced your friendship; I forcibly experience it now, for I am more serene since I sat down to write. I speak, at least, to one who comprehends me, not to the inanimate beings with whom I vegetate since this morning.

On my word, the more I proceed, the more I am inclined to think we are the only couple worth anything in this life.

I am sorry I had not time to take a copy of my letter, for your edification, on the austerity of my morals. You would there see how contemptible I hold those women of depraved principles who have lovers.

Nothing so commodious, as to be a rigourist in convention; it only hurts others, and gives us no uneasiness.

Moreover, I am informed the good lady has had her little foibles, as well as others, in her younger days.

Those wretched fooleries are of some consequence, according to the privations that are experienced.

They are the crumbs falling from the table of the rich man, which he despises; but which the poor one collects with avidity, and feeds on.

So the poor Presidente at present receives those crumbs; and the more she has of them, she will be less greedy for the rest.

Not that I am in the least of your opinion on the loss you think you sustain by the change of confidant; for M. de Volanges detests you, and hatred is always more ingenious and clear sighted than friendship.

Your old aunt’s virtue will never permit her to slander her dear nephew, for virtue has its foibles.

Again, your fears lead you into an error. It is not true, that the older women grow, the more morose and severe they are.

it alone assures you of my tender friendship, and the interesting things it inspires. Is it not very pleasing to have a young friend, whose inclinations lead him elsewhere? However, that is not the system of the generality of women, but it is mine.

I always thought the pleasure greater, and more satisfactory, in a sentiment where there is no apprehension.

Don’t you think I have assumed the character of confidant for you tolerably soon: but you choose your mistress so young, that, for the first time, I begin to think I grow old.

… do not imagine, my dear child, their affection is like ours—They experience the same transport often with more violence, but they are strangers to that uneasy officiousness, that delicate solicitude, that produces in us those continual tender cares, whose sole aim is the beloved object—

Man enjoys the happiness he feels, woman that she gives.

This difference, so essential, and so seldom observed, influences in a very sensible manner, the totality of their respective conduct. The pleasure of the one is to gratify desires; but that of the other is to create them.

This difference, so essential, and so seldom observed, influences in a very sensible manner, the totality of their respective conduct. The pleasure of the one is to gratify desires; but that of the other is to create them.

To know to please, is in man the means of success; and in woman it is success itself.

And do not imagine, the exceptions, be they more or less numerous, that may be quoted, can be successfully opposed to those general truths, which the voice of the public has guaranteed, with the only distinction as to men of infidelity from inconstancy;

“Take my advice, choose another lover, as I have another mistress—The advice is good; if you think otherwise, it is not my fault.

“Farewell, my angel! I took you with pleasure, I part you without regret; perhaps I shall return to you; it is the way of the world; it is not my fault.”

This is not the time to tell you, Viscount, the effect of this last effort, and its consequences; but I promise to give it you in my next letter; you will then receive also my ultimatum on renewing the treaty you propose. Until when, adieu.

Yes, Viscount, you loved Madame de Tourvel much, and you still love her; you love her to distraction: but because I made you ashamed, by way of amusement, you nobly sacrifice her.

You would have sacrificed a thousand women rather than be laughed at. To what lengths will not vanity lead us!

The wise man was right when he said it was the foe to happiness.

What! you had, then, an idea of renewing your connection, and yet you copied my letter! You must, then, have thought me awkward indeed!

Believe me, Viscount, when a woman strikes at the heart of another, she seldom misses her blow, and the wound is incurable.

When I struck this one, or rather directed the blow, I did not forget she was my rival, that you had for a moment preferred her to me, placed me beneath her. If I am deceived in my revenge, I consent to bear the blame;

your existence would nevertheless be brilliant and peaceful: for what would you have to dread? Only to be under the necessity of retiring if you had an opportunity. But could one not live in a foreign country as well as here?

And to sum up all, provided the court of France would let you be quiet in the one you choose to settle in, it would be only changing the field of your victories.

After endeavouring to bring you back to your sangfroid by these moral considerations, let us resume our own affairs.

In the first instance, your letter is wrong; in the second, ridiculous. It was well worth the trouble of writing! But you are jealous, and jealousy never debates. Well, I will argue for you.

You have a rival, or you have not. If you have a rival, you must please, to obtain the preference over him; and if you have none, you must still please, to avoid having one.

In all cases the same invariable conduct must be observed. Why, then, will you torment yourself?—And why torment me? Have you, then, lost the secret of being the most amiable? And are you no longer certain of your success?

it would not be a renewal with my former lover; it would be taking a new one, many degrees inferior to him. I have not so soon forgot the first, to be deceived.

The Valmont I loved was a charming fellow. I will even own, I never met a more amiable man.

I beg, Viscount, if you find him, to bring him to me, he will be always well received.

it would be taking a new one, many degrees inferior to him. I have not so soon forgot the first, to be deceived. The Valmont I loved was a charming fellow. I will even own, I never met a more amiable man.

I beg, Viscount, if you find him, to bring him to me, he will be always well received.

Acquaint him, however, that it cannot by any means be either today or tomorrow. His Menaechmus has done him some harm, and was I in too much haste, I should dread a deception;

leave her in expectancy; for if you venture to give a reason, she will, perhaps, be tempted to dive into the truth.

Women are curious and obstinate.

All may be discovered: I myself, you see, am now an example of this truth.

All I have to add is, I regret M. de Tourvel. I am in a state of desperation at being separated from her; and I would lay down one half my life, to devote the other to her.

Ah! believe me, there is no felicity but in love.

I do not like to have scurvy jests added to bad actions; it is not agreeable to my taste or manner. When I have cause of complaint against a person, I do not ridicule, I do better; I take revenge.

However well pleased you may be with yourself now, do not forget it is not the first time you have applauded yourself beforehand; and singular, in the hope of a triumph that would escape from you, at the instant you was congratulating yourself on it.

but do not make my torments insupportable—Leave me my sorrows, and take away the cruel remembrance of the advantages I have lost. Although thou hast ravished them from me, do not again draw the afflicting picture of them—I was happy and innocent—

I gazed on thee and lost my peace⁠—I listened to thee and was guilty⁠—Thou cause of all my crimes, who gave thee authority to punish them?

Where are now the friends to whom I was dear?

Where are now the friends to whom I was dear? My misfortunes have frightened them—No one dares come near me—I am oppressed and left without relief—

I die and no one weeps over me⁠—I am debarred of every consolation⁠—Pity stops on the brink of the abyss where the criminal plunges⁠—remorse tears my heart, and its cries are not heard.

And thou who I have injured; thou, whose esteem adds to my torment—thou who only hast a right to revenge; why art thou far from me?

Leave me, then, cruel man! What new transport inspires thee? Art thou afraid a soft sentiment should invade me? thou redoublest my torments—You will force me to hate you—

O, how painful is hatred! how it corrodes the heart from whence it is distilled!

Why will you persecute me? What can you have more to say to me? Have you not made it impossible for me either to hear or answer you. Farewell.

At first I endeavoured to persuade her she did not hear well: but all in vain; for she insisted the physician should begin the cruel tale again;—on my endeavouring to dissuade her from it, she called me to her, saying, in a low voice, “

Why will you deceive me? Was he not already dead to me?

” I then was forced to acquiesce.