“I admire the courage of the general; I am surprised at his ample knowledge, which enables him to speak fluently on every subject; at the vivacity of his genius, which enables him to guess at the thoughts of others before they are expressed; but I avow, I am frightened at the power he seems to exercise over every one who comes near him.  His searching look has something strange, which I cannot explain, but which has a controlling influence even upon our directors; judge, therefore, of his influence over a woman.  Finally, the very thing which might please—­the violence of his passion—­of which he speaks with so much energy, and which admits of no doubt, that passion is exactly what creates in me the unwillingness I have so often been ready to express.

“The first bloom of youth lies behind me.  Can I therefore hope that this passion, which in General Bonaparte resembles an attack of madness, will last long?  If after our union he should cease to love me, would he not reproach me for what he had done?  Would he not regret that he had not made another and more brilliant union?  What could I then answer?  What could I do?  I could weep.  ’A splendid remedy!’ I hear you say.  I know well that weeping is useless, but to weep has been the only resource which I could find when my poor heart, so easily wounded, has been hurt.  Write to me a long letter, and do not fear to scold me if you think that I am wrong.  You know well that everything which comes from you is agreeable to me.” [Footnote:  “Memoires sur l’Imperatrice Josephine,” par Madame Ducrest p. 362.]

While Josephine was writing this letter to her friend, General Bonaparte received one which produced upon him the deepest impression, though it consisted only of a few words.  But these words expressed the innermost thought of his soul, and revealed to him perhaps for the first time its secret wishes.

One evening as the general, returning home from a visit to the Viscountess Josephine, entered into his drawing-room, followed by some of his officers and adjutants, he observed on a large timepiece, which stood on the mantel-piece, a letter, the deep-red paper and black seal of which attracted his attention.

“Whence this letter?” asked he, with animation, of the servant-man walking before him with a silver candlestick, as he pointed to the red envelope.

But the waiter declared that he had not seen the letter, and that he knew not where it came from.

“Ask the other servants, or the porter, who brought this red letter with the black seal,” ordered Bonaparte.

The servant hurried from the room, but soon returned, with the news that no one knew any thing about the letter; no one had seen it, no one knew who had placed it there.

“Well, then, let us see what it contains,” said Bonaparte, and he was going to break the seal, when Junot suddenly seized his hand and tore the letter away from him.

“Do not read it, general,” implored Junot; “I beseech you do not open this letter.  Who knows if some of your enemies have not sent you a letter a la Catharine de Medicis?  Who knows if it is not poisoned—­that the mere touch of it may not produce death?”