“Read it, general,” said Josephine.
“I do not want to read it; I believe all you tell me!” he exclaimed, impetuously.
“I shall read it to you,” she said, “for the contents will interest you. Listen therefore: ‘Adored Citoyenne Josephine.—We have reached the goal—we have conquered! The Directory have at length listened to wise remonstrances. They have perceived that they stand in need of a strong and powerful arm to support them, and of a pillar to lean against. They will recall Bonaparte in order that he may become their pillar and arm. In a few days a courier will reach Bonaparte at Rastadt and recall him to Paris.—BOTOT.’ That is all there is in the letter, General; it contains nothing about love, but only speaks of you.”
“I see that I am the happiest of mortals,” exclaimed Bonaparte, joyfully; “for I shall return to Paris, and my beautiful, noble, and adored Josephine will accompany me.”
“No, general,” she said, solemnly, “I shall return to Italy; I shall bury myself in some convent in order to weep there over the short dream of my happiness, and to pray for you. Now I have told you every thing I had to say to you. I have replied to your reproaches. You see that I have meanly profited by the love of these poor men, that I have made a disgraceful use of the most sacred feeling in order to promote your interests. I did so secretly, for I told you already, general, your valorous hand knows better how to wield the sword than to carry on intrigues. A strong grasp of this hand might have easily destroyed the whole artificial web of my plans, and for this reason I was silent. But I counted on your confidence, on your esteem. I perceive now, however, that I do not possess them, and this separates us forever. Unreserved confidence is not only the nourishment that imparts life to friendship, but without it love also pines away and dies. [Footnote: Josephine’s own words.—Vide Le Normand, vol. i., p. 248.] Farewell, then, general; I forgive your distrust, but I cannot expose myself any longer to your anger. Farewell!”
She bowed and turned to the door. But Bonaparte followed her, and keeping her back with both hands, he said, in a voice trembling with emotion: “Where are you going, Josephine?”
“I told you already,” she sighed, painfully; “I am going to a convent to weep and pray for you.”
“That means that you want to kill me!” he exclaimed, with flaming eyes. “For you know I cannot live without you. If I had to lose you, your love, your charming person, I would lose every thing rendering life pleasant and desirable for me. Josephine, you are to me a world that is incomprehensible to me, and every day I love you more passionately. Even when I do not see you, my love for you is constantly growing; for absence only destroys small passions; it increases great passions. [Footnote: Bonaparte’s words.—Vide “Memoires d’une Contemporaine,” vol. ii., p. 363.] My heart never felt any of the former. It proudly refused to fall in love, but you have filled it with a boundless passion, with an intoxication that seems to be almost degrading. You were always the predominant idea of my soul; your whims even were sacred laws for me. To see you is my highest bliss; you are beautiful and enchanting; your gentle, angelic soul is depicted in your features. Oh, I adore you just as you are; if you had been younger, I should have loved you less intensely. Every thing you do seems virtuous to me; every thing you like seems honorable to me. Glory is only valuable to me inasmuch as it is agreeable to you and flatters your vanity. Your portrait always rests on my heart, and whenever I am far from you, not an hour passes without my looking at it and covering it with kisses. [Footnote: Vide “Correspondance inedite avec Josephine,” Lettre v.] The glass broke the other day when I pressed it too violently against my breast. My despair knew no bounds, for love is superstitious, and every thing seems ominous to it. I took it for an announcement of your death, and my eyes knew no sleep, my heart knew no rest, till the courier whom I immediately dispatched to you, had brought me the news that you were well, and that no accident had befallen you. [Footnote: “Memoires sur Napoleon, par Constant,” vol. i.. p. 809.] See, woman, woman, such is my love! Will you now tell me again that you wish to leave me?”
“I must, general,” she said, firmly. “Love cannot be lasting without esteem, and you do not esteem me. Your suspicion has dishonored me, and a dishonored and insulted woman cannot be your wife any longer. Farewell!”
She wanted to disengage herself from his hands, but he held her only the more firmly. “Josephine,” he said, in a hollow voice, “listen to me, do not drive me to despair, for it would kill me to lose you. No duty, no title would attach me any longer to earth. Men are so contemptible, life is so wretched—you alone extinguish the ignominy of mankind in my eyes. [Footnote: “Correspondance inedite avec Josephine,” p. 875] Without you there is no hope, no happiness. I love you boundlessly.”