you do not love your husband. You know what pleasure your letters give him, and you never write him even six miserable lines."
And still Napoleon goes on protesting the vehemence of his love:
"I hope soon to be in your arms. I love you to distraction. All is well. Wurmser has been defeated at Mantua. Nothing is wanting to your husband's happiness save the love of Josephine."
And three days after this letter, when he comes to Milan to join his wife, his love gets a shock greater than her silence and the coldness of her letters. The Palazzo where he had expected to find her is empty, Josephine has gone to Genoa; and then Napoleon, unable to control his grief, disappointment, the wound inflicted on his love and self-love, pours forth his feelings in two letters eloquent in their grief. The first is written immediately after his arrival:
"I reach Milan, I rush to your room; I have quitted all to see you, to press you in my arms. You were not there; you are travelling about in search of amusement; you put distance between us as soon as I arrive; you care nothing for your Napoleon. A caprice made you love him, inconstancy renders him indifferent to you."
And on the next day there comes another letter equally agonised in tone:
"To love you only, to render you happy, to do nothing that can annoy you, that is my destiny,
