I don't love you anymore ... On the contrary, I hate you. You are a vile, stupid, ridiculous woman. You don't write me at all, you don't love your husband. You know how much joy your letters deliver to him, and you cannot even write six fluent lines.
However, what do you do all day, madam? What urgent matters take you time, prevent you from writing to your very good lover? What is hindering your tender and devoted love that you promised him? Who is this new seducer, the new lover, who pretends for all your time, not allowing you to practice your spouse? Josephine, watch out: one fine night, I will break down your doors and stand before you.
In fact, my dear friend, I am disturbed by the fact that I do not hear from you, write to me quickly four pages, and only about those pleasant things that fill my heart with joy and emotion.
I hope soon to embrace you in my arms and cover you with a million kisses, burning like the rays of the sun at the equator.
November 13, 1796
I arrived in Milan, I rushed into your apartment, I threw everything to see you, squeeze in my arms ... but you were not there. You go to the cities in which the holidays take place, you leave me when I arrive, you no longer think about your dear Napoleon. Your love for him was just a whim; impermanence makes you indifferent. Accustomed to danger, I know the cure for life's hardships and diseases. The misfortune that falls upon me is unbearable; I had the right to sympathy.
I'll be here until the evening of the ninth. Do not worry; come back after entertainment; you are created for happiness. The whole world is glad that you can enjoy, and only your husband is very, very unhappy.
November 27, 1796
There was no day for me to love you; there was no night that I would not squeeze you in my arms. I do not drink and a cup of tea, so as not to curse my pride and ambitions, which force me to stay away from you, my soul. In the midst of my service, standing at the head of the army or checking camps, I feel that my heart is occupied only by the beloved Josephine. It deprives me of my mind, fills my thoughts with it. If I am moving away from you at the speed of the flow of the Rhone, it only means that I may see you soon. If I get up in the middle of the night to get a job, it's because you can bring the moment back to you like that, my love. In your letter of 23 and 26 vantoza you refer to me to "you." "You"? Oh, shit! How could you write that? How cold it is! And then these four days between the 23rd and 26th; what did you do, why didn't you have time to write to your husband? ...
Oh, my love, this is “you”, these four days make me forget about my former carelessness. Woe to him who became this cause! Flour hell - nothing! Snake-like furies are nothing! "You"! "You"! Oh! And what will happen next week, two? ... My heart is heavy; my heart is bound with chains; my fantasies terrify me ... you love me less and less; and you will easily recover from the loss. When you stop loving me completely, at least tell me about it; then I will know what deserved this misfortune ...
Farewell, my wife, torment, joy, hope and the driving force of my life, The one I love, which I fear, which fills me with tender feelings that bring me closer to Nature, and frantic motives, stormy, like fierce peals of thunder. I do not demand from you neither eternal love, nor fidelity, I ask only ... truth, absolute honesty. The day when you say: “I have stopped loving you,” will mark the end of my love and the last day of my life. If my heart were so despicable, to love without reciprocity, I would have ordered it to be pulled out from myself. Josephine! Josephine! Do you remember what I once told you: nature rewarded me with a strong, unshakable soul. And she molded you out of lace and air. Have you stopped loving me? Forgive me, the love of my life, my soul is torn.
My heart, which belongs to you, is full of fear and longing ... It hurts me that you do not call me by name. I will wait for you to write it.
Goodbye! Ah, if you have stopped loving me, it means that you never loved me! And I will have something to regret!
P. S. The war this year is completely different. I have meat, bread, and fodder; my military cavalry will soon be on the march again. My soldiers show me unspeakable trust. You are one source of grief for me; you are one joy and the agony of my life. I send kisses to your children, about whom you do not write anything. True, then your letters would be half longer. And the early guests would lose all interest in visiting you. Woman!!!
A source: Ursula Doyle “Love Letters of Great People”
Image announcement and lead: wikipedia.org