Spring 1797, Cisalpine Republic, Northern Italy
To Joséphine,
I love you no longer; on the contrary, I detest you. You are a wretch, truly perverse, foolish Cinderella. You never write me; you do not love your husband; you know what pleasures your letters give him yet you cannot even manage to write him half a dozen lines, dashed off in a moment! What then do you do all day, Madame? What business is so vital that it robs you of the time to write to your devoted lover? What affection stifles and pushes aside the love, the tender constant love you promised him? Who can this wonderful new lover be who takes up your every moment, rules your days and prevents your giving any attention to your husband?
Beware, Josephine; one fine night the doors will be broken down and there I will be. In truth, I am worried, my love, at receiving no news of you; write me quickly four pages, pages of those delightful words that will fill my heart with emotion and joy. I hope to hold you in my arms before long, and cover you with a million kisses, burning as the equatorial sun.
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