“No, general, you despise me; you do not love me!”
“No, no!” he shouted, wildly stamping his foot. “If you go on in this manner, I shall drop dead at your feet. Do not torment me so dreadfully. Remember what I have often told you: Nature has given to me a strong, decided soul, but it has made you of gauze and lace. You say I do not love. Hear it, then, for the last time. Since you have been away from me, I have not passed a single day without loving you, not a single night without mentally pressing you to my heart. I have not taken a single cup of tea without cursing the glory and ambition separating me from the soul of my life. [Footnote: “Correspondance,” etc., p. 532.] Amidst my absorbing occupations—at the head of my troops, on the march and in the field—my heavenly Josephine ever was foremost in my heart. She occupied my mind; she absorbed my thoughts. If I left you with the impetuosity of the Rhone, I only did so in order to return the sooner to your side. If I ran from my bed at night and continued working, I did so for the purpose of accelerating the moment of our reunion. The most beautiful women surrounded me, smiled upon me, gave me hopes of their favor, and tried to please me, but none of them resembled you; none had the gentle and melodious features so deeply imprinted on my heart. I only saw you, only thought of you, and that rendered all of them intolerable to me. I left the most beautiful women in order to throw myself on my couch and sigh, ‘When will my adored wife be again with me?’ [Footnote: Ibid., p. 349.] And if I just now gave way to an ebullition of anger, I only did so because I love you so boundlessly as to be jealous of every glance, of every smile. Forgive me, therefore, Josephine, forgive me for the sake of my infinite love! Tell me that you will think no more of it, and that you will forget and forgive every thing.”
He looked at her anxiously and inquiringly, but Josephine did not reply to his glances. She averted her eyes and remained silent.
“Josephine.” he exclaimed, perfectly beside himself, “make an end of it. Just touch my forehead; it is covered with cold perspiration, and my heart is trembling as it never trembled in battle. Make an end of it; I am utterly exhausted. Oh, Josephine, my dear Josephine, open your arms to me.”
“Well, come then, you dear, cruel husband,” she said, bursting into tears and extending her arms to him.
Bonaparte uttered a joyful cry, pressed her to his heart, and covered her with kisses.
“Now I am sure you have forgiven every thing,” he said, encircling her all the time with his arms. “You forgive my madness, my abominable jealousy?”
“I forgive every thing, Bonaparte, if you will promise not to be jealous again,” she said, with a charming smile.
“I promise never to be jealous again, but to think, whenever you give a rendezvous to another man, that you only do so for my sake, and for the purpose of conspiring for me. Ah, my excellent wife, you have worked bravely for me, and henceforth I know that I can intrust to your keeping my glory and my honor with implicit confidence. Yea, even the helm of the state I would fearlessly intrust to your hands. Pray, therefore, Josephine, pray that your husband may reach the pinnacle of distinction, for in that case I should give you a seat in my council of state and make you mistress of every thing except one point—” [Footnote: Le Normand, vol. i. p. 341.]
“And what is that?” asked Josephine, eagerly.