The Ladies' Garland

NAPOLEON'S LOVE LETTER

TO JOSEPHINE.

"By what art is it you have been able to captivate all my faculties, and to concentrate in yourself my moral existence? It is a magic, my sweet love, which will finish only with my life. To live for Josephine—there is the history of my life.—I am trying to reach you—I am dying to be near you. Fool that I am, I do not perceive that I increase the distance between us! What lands, what countries separate us! What a time before you read these weak expressions of a troubled soul, in which you reign! Ah! my adorable wife, I know not what fate awaits me, but if it keeps me much longer from you, it will be insupportable—my courage will not go so far. There was a time when I was proud of my courage; and sometimes, when contemplating on the ills that man could do me, on the fate which destiny could reserve for me, I fixed my eyes steadfastly on the most unheard-of misfortunes without a frown—without alarm; but now the idea that my Josephine may be unwell—the idea that she may be ill—and, above all, the cruel, the fatal thought, that she may love me less, withers my soul, stops my blood, renders me sad, cast down, and leaves me not even the courage of fury and despair. Formerly, I used to say to myself, men could not hurt him who could die without regret; but now, to die without being loved by thee, to die without that certainty, is the torment of hell—it is the lively and striking image of absolute annihilation: I feel as if I were stifled. My incomparable companion, thou whom fate has destined to make along with me the painful journey of life, the day on which I shall cease to possess thy heart will be the day on which parched nature will be to me without warmth and vegetation:

"I stop my sweet love; my soul is sad—my body is fatigued—my head is giddy—men disgust me —I ought to hate them—they separate me from my beloved.

"I am at Port Maurice, near Oneglia; to-morrow I shall be at Albenga; the two armies are in motion. We are endeavoring to deceive each other; victory to the most skilful. I am pretty well satisfied with Beaulieu. If he alarms me much, he is a better man than his predecessor. I shall beat him, I hope, in good style. Do not be uneasy—love me as your eyes; but that is not enough—as yourself, more than yourself, than your thought—your mind—your sight—your all. Sweet love, forgive me—I am sinking. Nature is weak for him who feels strongly, for him whom you love!"