happiness, more than rest . . . . Write me ten pages; that alone may console me a little. You are ill, you love me; I have afflicted you; you are enceinte. I have sinned so much against you that I know not how to palliate my crimes. I accuse you of remaining in Paris, and you are ill there. Forgive me, my dearest; the love with which you have inspired me has taken away my reason. I shall never find it again."
And so it goes on, gathering force and fire as it proceeds; tumultuous, impassioned, like the improvisation of the Italian stock from which he has come. Whatever else Napoleon is, at this period of his existence he is not cold; the volcano emits lava continuously. Here, for instance, is another passage in the same letter:
"I have always been fortunate; my fate has never resisted my will; and to-day I am struck in what touches me most closely. Without appetite, without sleep, indifferent to friends, glory, and country—you, you alone—the rest of the world no more exists for me than if it were annihilated. I care for honour because you care for it, for victory because it gives you pleasure; otherwise I should have quitted all to throw myself at your feet. My darling, mind you tell me that you are convinced that I love you more than it is possible to imagine; that you are persuaded that every moment of my time is consecrated to you; that never an hour passes without my thinking of you;
