To this he promptly sends a vigorous though respectful reply, which is intended to convey that they are to have done with such impractical foolery.  It is a world-shaking fight he has on hand.  The honour and military glory of France are at stake.  It is not for mere theoretic upholders of Liberty, Equality, and Fraternity to meddle with such things.  He says to them, “Kellerman is an excellent General, and could lead an army as well as I,” but then he goes on to plead the superiority of his army, always modestly leaving himself outside the praise he takes care to bestow on others, and adds with fervour, “The command must remain in the hands of one man.”  “I believe,” says he, “that one bad General is better than two good ones.”  “The art of war, like the art of government, is a matter of careful handling.”  Then with delicious frankness he flashes out:  “I cannot allow myself to have my feet entangled.”  “A free hand or resignation.”  That is his ultimatum.  This thunderbolt of bewildering audacity sent a flutter through the sanctuary of Fraternity, and in hot haste a message of confidence, coupled with an order that he shall be left in supreme control, was dispatched by a vigilant energetic courier.  The Directory were made to see that a great power had arisen which would hold dominion over them.

And yet this young and terrible conqueror, who judiciously dominated every will in the process of his achievements, he who defiantly told his masters that he would not suffer his “feet to be entangled” by their amateurish absurdities, was entangled for a time by a rapturous infatuation and allowed a giddy woman with seductive habits and a silken voice to cajole, dominate, ridicule, and ignore him.  His imploring theatrical appeals to her to come to him are piteously pathetic.  The rational parts of his letters are without example in neat concise phrase, and portray a man possessed of great human virtues.  It is when the love-storm attacks him that he flies into extravagances, such as when he writes that “she has more than robbed him of his soul,” and that “she is devouring his blood.”  He writes to his brother Joseph that he loves her to madness, and to Carnot even he does the same thing.  Perhaps the most extravagant outburst of all is when he begs that she is to let him see some of her faults, and to be less kind, gracious, and beautiful.  “Your tears drive away my reason and scorch my blood.”  “You set my poor heart ablaze.”  He complains of her letters being “cold as friendship,” and adds, “But oh! how I am infatuated.”

Josephine has never been addressed in such consuming language before.  She is flattered, and her little head becomes swollen with the idea of greatness.  The ridiculous endearments amuse her.  She must not allow such opportunities of creating envy to pass, so she shows the letters as they come along to her most intimate friends, amongst whom Barras still continues high on the list, and with an air of dizzy pride she playfully says Bonaparte is “very droll.”  And really, Josephine was right.  Some of his letters are “droll,” but they are genuine, and this highly honoured woman, launched into prominence and position, and reaping the laurels of his work disgraced her womanhood by showing his letters, and doubly disgraced herself by ridiculing them.