Les Liaisons dangereuses: The More Cultivated a Person, the More Adept They May Be at Destroying Others

In recent years the news has been full of emotional manipulation, of PUA — the art of making someone doubt their own judgment, of bringing a person to the point where, after being hurt, they apologise for it. The whole apparatus sounds very modern. It was written through, in full, more than two hundred years ago.

The French writer Choderlos de Laclos published Les Liaisons dangereuses in 1782. His subjects were not today’s urban men and women but the aristocracy on the eve of the French Revolution. The scale was larger, the scandal greater; for a time the courts banned it.

At its centre are two people: the Marquise de Merteuil and the Vicomte de Valmont. Once lovers, now equals in a partnership, and the two people who understand each other best — which is to say, the most dangerous opponents. Merteuil, abandoned by a former lover and nursing a grudge, directs Valmont to seduce that man’s fiancée, the fifteen-year-old Cécile de Volanges, so that the marriage will become a joke. Valmont has plans of his own: he has his eye on Madame de Tourvel, a devout and faithful wife whose reputation is without a crack.

The novel advances along these two lines, crossing and recrossing: seduction, adultery, deceit, betrayal — a complete erotic chronicle of eighteenth-century French high society.

But eroticism is never Laclos’s purpose; it is his instrument. Through these scenes of interlocking desire, the novel wants you to see how one person systematically manipulates another’s feelings, how they coax a person toward ruin, how love, morality, reputation, the body and dignity are all converted into chips in a game of power.

A Campaign Written in Letters

Laclos himself is fascinating. He was not a professional writer but an artillery officer. Born in 1741, he entered the army young and spent long years garrisoned in the provinces — a flat life, a career that never quite prospered. Yet this soldier wrote poetry and plays between his duties, and eventually produced a novel that shook the whole of society.

Perhaps because of the military background, the novel has the precision of a campaign or a hand of cards. It is built from 175 letters that answer one another, advancing layer by layer, each position fortified before the next move. And the letter form is inherently private: a letter is always addressed to one particular person. Reading them, you feel you have slipped behind the curtain to overhear someone’s inner life. You read on, and before long you are inside the game, whether you meant to be or not.

At the time it was widely acknowledged as a dangerous book. Some argued that no young woman should read it, lest it corrupt public morals. In the nineteenth century the courts banned it more than once. The bans did nothing; they only sharpened curiosity. The first printing of two thousand copies sold out quickly, and a dozen pirated editions appeared almost at once. All Paris was talking about it.

Two Hunters: One Onstage, One Behind the Curtain

To understand the book you must first understand how different these two are, and how alike.

The Marquise de Merteuil wants control. Her pleasure comes from design and arrangement — from watching other people walk, step by step, into the abyss according to her script, while she remains outside the board, the impassive hand moving the pieces. Her weapon is language. Her letters are like a blade honed to a bright edge: elegant, sharp, and carried off with a kind of condescending calm.

The Vicomte de Valmont is another creature entirely. He loves performance; what he savours is the charge — going in himself, pressing the advantage, until the other person’s emotional defences collapse. His letters are full of self-congratulation, displaying his latest conquest, boasting of how he breached a woman’s psychological walls.

They are allies and rivals at once; they admire each other and probe each other; they are a practised team and two old opponents who know each other’s hidden cards and are always ready to turn.

Their attitude toward prey is identical: they do not care who the other person is, or what it will cost her. The only thing that matters is whether they will be the last one standing.

Cécile: How a Blank Page Is Blackened

The first thread belongs to fifteen-year-old Cécile.

Her letters are artless and sincere. She tells her friend Sophie, earnestly, why she blushed at dinner, why she finds society “not so amusing as we imagined.” Through these lines you see a girl who knows nothing of the world — who does not understand the ambiguous push and pull between men and women, let alone the malice in people.

Her mother, Madame de Volanges, is set on marrying her to the Comte de Gercourt. It is the standard trajectory for a young woman of her class: a girlhood in a convent, then entry into a suitable marriage with a good name and a shy glance.

And then Cécile meets the Chevalier Danceny. Two young people of similar age take to each other at once. Danceny writes her a love letter; Cécile is delighted and frightened, and does not know whom to ask for help — so she thinks of a most amiable older woman: Madame de Merteuil.

What does Merteuil do? She encourages Cécile to confide in her, and asks to see every letter. She tells Cécile that love is natural, that writing is sweet, that seeing a young man in secret is nothing to make a fuss about. She adds only one instruction — never mention it to your mother.

Cécile writes to Sophie in a transport of gratitude: a woman to whom I am scarcely related cares for me more than my own mother — surely this is extraordinary.

Why does Cécile trust her so easily? The answer is simple: she is very young and very lonely. She has just come out of the convent; she does not understand her own desires, and cannot tell whether another person’s kindness has an ulterior motive. Her mother is rigid and severe, concerned only with making her a proper, respectable girl; there has never been real conversation between them. Merteuil slips into that gap, effortlessly playing the warm, sympathetic older sister, quietly steering her toward transgression.

Then Valmont joins in. He does not seduce Cécile himself; he becomes Danceny’s strategist in love. When Cécile’s mother discovers the letters and sets her mind on separating the pair, the two young people naturally turn to the two adults they trust most. Merteuil and Valmont appear to help — carrying messages, passing letters, urging them to love boldly. In fact they watch Cécile and Danceny the way one watches two white mice: they raise the temperature of the affair and keep the secret firmly in their own hands.

Cécile and Danceny believe they are fighting for love. But every letter they write has been opened and read; every step they take is observed. They never grasp the brutal fact: once your secret is in someone else’s hands, you have handed them the knife.

And this is the moment Valmont moves in. He writes to Merteuil without the least concealment:

The child has just written me a letter saying she wishes to be my friend. Wait and see: I mean to make her sacrifice and devote herself to me utterly; I mean to see her utterly fallen and corrupted; I mean her to be tortured by conscience and morality; I mean her to be unable to conceal or suppress her desires any longer — and then I shall walk slowly toward her and let her have the happiness of embracing me.

Those lines expose Valmont completely. What he wants is not the girl’s love, freely given, but the total destruction of her dignity and personhood. The more she struggles, the more frightened and ashamed she is, the more excited he becomes.

So he wins Cécile’s trust, and the key to her bedroom. One night he slips into her room and, against her resistance, forces himself on her.

The most heartbreaking passage is Cécile’s letter to Merteuil afterwards:

But what I blame myself for most is something else — I am afraid that I did not resist with all my strength. I do not know what came over me. I do not love Monsieur de Valmont, and yet at moments I think I… do love him. I say I do not love him, but my behaviour does not agree with my words. … When he left, I even think I was a little sorry, and I agreed that he should come again tonight. That troubles me more than everything else.

This is plainly a sexual assault in the night. Yet Cécile, the victim, keeps examining herself: Did I not fight hard enough? Did I feel something for him? Is it all my fault? Under the blow, her feelings fall into confusion; shame and self-blame swallow her whole.

Merteuil’s reply is the coldest passage in the book:

Oh dear! This Monsieur de Valmont is a wicked man, is he not? … But … how beautiful it all is! Set your mind at ease: the shame that love causes is felt only once, like the pain it brings. You say your heart is in turmoil, and that you were almost sorry when Valmont left. Tell me, was that shame, or was it pleasure?

In a few light words she repackages an assault as passionate love. She tells Cécile: the pain is temporary, the pleasure is real; you say no with your mouth, but perhaps your heart does not agree. If you are wise, stop being so prim, and go make it up with Valmont.

Between Merteuil’s manipulation and Valmont’s violence, Cécile’s life is ruined. She cannot tell love from harm, desire from coercion, pleasure from shame. A young woman, caught between language and power, loses altogether the ability to judge herself.

Near the end of the novel, Madame de Volanges writes:

I saw my daughter at the convent. She came out staggering, trembling in every limb, tears streaming from her eyes. When I asked her what was wrong, she said only one thing: that she could be happy only in a convent.

Madame de Tourvel: When Virtue Becomes a Weakness

The second thread is Valmont’s true prey.

To Valmont, Cécile is too young, too easily handled — no trophy worth boasting about. There is only one woman he truly wants to conquer: Madame de Tourvel, that embodiment of virtue and moral principle.

And here lies the book’s finest device: Valmont wears a different mask for each woman. With a naïve girl like Cécile he is the forceful, practised seducer; with a dignified young wife like Tourvel he puts on another face entirely — a libertine in repentance, longing to reform.

Tourvel’s first letters to Madame de Volanges are still composed:

I had long heard his reputation but had never met him. Because of those reports I had no wish to make his acquaintance. Now that I have met him, I find him much better than his reputation. He was very frank with me, said a good deal that was true, and acknowledged his faults.

Madame de Volanges answers at once with a warning:

You do not know him! … He is a man of corrupt morals; there is no telling how many women he has seduced and ruined. … Consider: why would such a rake bury himself in the country? He must be plotting some wickedness!

The warning strikes the mark: how could a man of notorious reputation suddenly reform? He is not lingering near you by accident. He has a purpose.

Unfortunately Tourvel will not hear it. She even cites Valmont’s respect for Merteuil as evidence, praises the pure friendship between them, and feels guilty for having suspected him. The reader knows, of course, that the two are not friends at all. They are a pair of hunters working in concert.

This is where her tragedy begins. If Cécile’s weakness is innocence and ignorance, Tourvel’s weakness is precisely her morality and her sympathy. She trusts her own clear-sightedness and decency; she believes she can reform Valmont through the example of a superior virtue.

Valmont’s plan is clear: first make her believe he has already reformed. Words of repentance are not enough; he needs evidence. So he stages a good deed — he has someone find a poor family ruined by taxes, then happens to pass by and, in front of witnesses, pays their fifty-six livres and adds the ten louis d’or left in his pocket. The family kneels at his feet in thanks.

Then he writes to Merteuil: the story will reach that woman’s ears soon enough. She is worth the trouble; and one day I shall have her, and dispose of her as I please.

Sure enough, Tourvel takes the bait. Valmont immediately mounts a fierce emotional offensive: he kneels before her, takes her hand, humbly begs for pity. At that moment Tourvel weeps — and does not send him away. She knows Valmont is dangerous, knows that to continue will destroy her reputation and her marriage, and yet she cannot deny that she has been moved. She can only pray, and appeal to God.

And Valmont writes to Merteuil a sentence of extraordinary coldness:

To what god could she pray for protection? What god has strength enough to resist love? … Her fate is in my hands.

The war of attrition that follows is cruel. On one side, Valmont’s assault grows fiercer — complaints, confessions, his tears and suffering used to hold her compassion hostage. On the other, Tourvel’s defences fall back line by line — she insists again and again on the value of her marriage, on the duty of a virtuous woman. The more she resists, the more excited he becomes; the more she suffers, the more certain he is of victory.

In the end he takes her with a feint of retreat: he puts on an injured air and says, “Since your mind is made up, very well, let us part,” and turns to go. Tourvel catches at him — and falls into his arms, unconscious.

By now she is utterly lost. The more devoutly she once believed in God and morality, the more boundlessly she now gives herself away. She understands love as a sacrifice, and she can no longer escape it.

What she does not know is that, in Valmont’s mind, this is merely a trophy that took three months to win. He admits to himself that he is captivated by her — she is sincere, candid, full of feeling; perhaps he will never meet anyone better. But however much he admires her, he will not change: he remains the old campaigner who treats love as a game of conquest. He says so plainly in a letter:

I do not deny that I place a high value on this affair, but it will not prevent me from seeking other adventures.

Three Endings

What truly destroys Madame de Tourvel is the public humiliation.

That afternoon, when Valmont came to see her, he was tender and attentive. That evening, outside the opera, she sees his carriage — and another woman in it, a well-known courtesan, leaning against the door with a light laugh, surveying her with contempt.

Why does Valmont do it? Because Merteuil keeps mocking him for falling in love with Tourvel. To prove he is not besotted, he arranges to meet the courtesan and flirts with her deliberately within Tourvel’s line of sight.

Merteuil’s reply cuts to the bone:

Yes, Vicomte, you loved Madame de Tourvel, and you still love her, madly. But because I kept laughing at you about it, you coolly threw her over. You would rather sacrifice a thousand women than be laughed at. Where will vanity lead us!

It is not that Valmont does not love her. His love is simply too shallow. Tourvel treats love as fate; Valmont treats it as a wager. Tourvel will sacrifice everything for love; Valmont will sacrifice love itself for vanity.

That night Tourvel begins to burn with fever. Her mind wanders, and at last she dies in delirium.

Valmont’s reckoning comes quickly. The Chevalier Danceny learns the truth and is seized with rage — he had trusted Valmont, believed that this experienced man was sincerely helping him and Cécile, and never imagined the whole thing was a fraud. A duel follows. Valmont dies on Danceny’s sword.

The death is full of irony: all his life he called the seduction of women a hunt and a battle, and himself the hunter and general who never lost — and in the end he loses his life in a real duel.

More ironic still, he dies before Tourvel. As she lies dying, word of his death arrives. She surfaces briefly, refuses to believe he died in a duel, and asks softly:

Why did you deceive me? Did he not die for me?

Perhaps that is the last false comfort she is allowed.

Last comes Merteuil. Before he died, Valmont handed over part of their correspondence; when the letters are made public, the reputation she spent years constructing collapses overnight.

Her greatest talent was the elegant manipulation of people — a director seated behind the curtain, letting others fall in love, make mistakes, and come to grief according to her design. And she succeeded precisely because she maintained, at all times, the persona of a society woman respected by everyone. Now the persona is in pieces. Everyone knows she is calculating, that she plays with other people’s fates.

Her social standing falls at a stroke. At the opera, no man comes to pay her compliments, and no woman will sit beside her. Before long she contracts smallpox; she survives, but her face is ruined and she loses an eye. Then she loses a lawsuit, must pay damages and all the costs, and what little property remains is drained away. Barely recovered from her illness, she flees by carriage in the night — to Holland, it is said — taking some jewels and silver and leaving behind debts of some fifty thousand livres.

Why It Is More Than an Erotic Novel

Is Merteuil’s punishment really as simple as the bad woman finally getting what she deserves?

Her success and her failure both reflect the position of women in that era. Why does Valmont, with his ruined reputation, still move freely through society, while Merteuil must hide her nature, maintain a dignified facade, and work from behind the scenes? Because this is a society brutally strict with women: a man’s affairs earn him the name of libertine at most; a woman who crosses the line is destroyed at once.

So of course she is cruel and dangerous; she has harmed countless people. But she is also the product of that code of womanhood, twisted into shape by it. She understands too well that the world will not treat women fairly — and instead of resisting the rules, she chooses to use them, becoming their coldest enforcer. Cécile, Tourvel: to her they are only pieces on the board.

Seen this way, her final humiliation in public opinion, her expulsion from society, the disease that ruins her face — these may be the rules she played turning on her at last.

Les Liaisons dangereuses was published in 1782, late in the Enlightenment and only seven years before the French Revolution. The whole society was exalting reason and civility, and Laclos chose exactly this moment to lay the absurd, secret desires of the upper classes bare before the public.

So the book shows us this: beneath the surface of civilisation, morality has another face. The smarter a person is, the more cultivated, the more fluent in the language of etiquette and courtesy, the more adept they may be at deceit and manipulation, playing others in the palm of their hand.

That is why it still reads as contemporary more than two hundred years later. The techniques of PUA change; the instrument moves from letters to phones; but the underlying logic does not change. First win trust, then take away judgment. First make someone feel understood, then make them doubt themselves. And finally, after the harm is done, make them apologise for it.

Les Liaisons dangereuses is not about love. It is about power. And its coldest implication is this — in that game, the most cultivated person is usually the most dangerous one.