“I am now in Port Maurice, near to Oneglia; to-morrow I go to Albenga.  Both armies are moving forward; we are endeavoring to deceive each other.  Victory belongs to the swiftest.  I am well satisfied with General Beaulieu, he manoeuvres well; he is a stronger man than his predecessor.  I trust to beat him soundly.  Be without care; love me as your eyes; but no, that is not enough, as yourself, more than yourself, as your thoughts, as your spirit, your life, your all!  Sweet friend, pardon me; I am beyond myself; nature is too weak for him who feels with passion, for him whom you love.

“To Barras, Sucy, Madame Tallien, my heart-felt friendship; to Madame Chateau Renaud, kindest regards; for Eugene and Hortense, my true love.  N. B.”

II.

“Albenga, the 18th Germinal (April 7), 1796 [Footnote:  The three following letters have never been published until recently, and are not to be found in any collection of letters from Napoleon and Josephine, not even among those published by Queen Hortense:  “Lettres de Napoleon a Josephine, et de Josephine a Napoleon.”  They are published for the first time in the “Histoire de l’Imperatrice Josephine,” by Aubenas, and were communicated to this author in Napoleon’s manuscript by the well-known and famous gatherer of autographs, Feuillet de Couches.]

“I have just now received your letter, which you break off, as you say, to go to the country; and then, you assume a tone as if you were envious of me, who am here nearly overwhelmed by affairs and by exertion!  Ah, my dear friend, ... it is true, I am wrong.  In the spring it is so pleasant in the country; and then the beloved one of eighteen years will be so happy there; how would it be possible to lose one moment for the sake of writing to him who is three hundred miles away from you, who lives, breathes, exists only in remembering you, who reads your letters as a man, after hunting for six hours, devours a meal he is fond of.

“I am satisfied.  Your last letter is cold, like friendship.  I have not found in it the fire which glows in your eyes, the fire which I have at least imagined to be there.  So far runs my fancy.  I found that your first letters oppressed my soul too much; the revolution which they created in me disturbed my peace and bewildered my senses.  I wanted letters more cold, and now they bring on me the chill of death.  The fear of being no more loved by Josephine—­the thought of having her inconstant—­of seeing her ...  But I martyrize myself with anguish!  There is enough in the reality, without imagining any more!  You cannot have inspired me with this immeasurable love without sharing it; and with such a soul, such thoughts, such an understanding as you possess, it is impossible that, as a reward for the most glowing attachment and devotion, you should return a mortal blow. ...

“You say nothing of your bodily sufferings; they have my regret.  Farewell till to-morrow, mio dolce amor.  From my own wife a thought--and from fate a victory; these are all my wishes:  one sole, undivided thought from you, worthy of him who every moment thinks of you.