Letter to Joséphine - March 30th, 1796

From the correspondence of Napoleon

Nice, 10 Germinal Year IV

I haven't spent a day without loving you; I haven't spent a night without clasping you in my arms; I haven't had a cup of tea without cursing the glory and ambition that keep me away from the soul of my life.

In the midst of business, at the head of the troops, scouring the camps, my adorable Joséphine is alone in my heart, occupying my mind, absorbing my thoughts. If I move away from you with the speed of the Rhone torrent, it's to see you again more quickly. If, in the middle of the night, I get up to work again, it's because it can bring forward by a few days the arrival of my sweet friend, and yet, in your letter of the 23rd, of the 26th of Ventôse, you call me you¹. You yourself.

How could you write such a cold letter? And then from the 23rd to the 26th are four days; what have you done, since you haven't written to your husband?... Ah! my friend, this you and these four days make me regret my ancient indifference. Woe betide the man who caused it! May he, for pain and torment, experience what the conviction and evidence that served your friend, would make me experience! Hell has no torment, and neither do the furies of the snake!... You! You! Ah! what will it be in a fortnight?... My soul is sad; my heart is a slave, and my imagination frightens me... You loved me less, you will be consoled. One day you won't love me anymore; tell me, I'll at least know how to deserve unhappiness...

Farewell, woman, torment, happiness, hope and soul of my life, whom I love, whom I fear, who inspires tender feelings that call me to nature, to tempestuous movements as volcanic as thunder. I'm not asking you for eternal love or fidelity, only... truth, boundless candor. The day you tell me: I love you less, will be either the last of my love or the last of my life. If my heart were vile enough to love without return, I'd chop it off with my teeth. Josephine! Josephine! Remember what I told you a few times: nature made my soul strong and determined; she built you out of lace and gauze. Have you stopped loving me! Forgive me, soul of my life, my soul is tender on vast combinations. My heart, entirely occupied by you, has fears that make me unhappy. I'm bored not to call you by your name. I'm waiting for you to write it to me.

Adieu! Ah! if you loved me less, you would never have loved me. Then I'd be very much to be pitied.

Bonaparte

P.S. This year's war is no longer recognizable. I have had meat, bread, and fodder given out; my armed cavalry will soon march; my soldiers show me a confidence that cannot be expressed: you alone grieve me, you alone, the pleasure and torment of my life. A kiss to your children, of whom you say nothing. Of course! That would cut your letters in half; visitors at ten in the morning wouldn't have the pleasure of seeing you. Woman!!!

1. The formal second person pronoun “vous” instead of the informal "tu". Napoleon underlines this word twice.