“To Josephine:  My life is a ceaseless Alpine burden.  An oppressive foreboding prevents me from breathing.  I live no more, I have lost more than life, more than happiness, more than rest!  I am without hope.  I send you a courier.  He will remain only four hours in Paris, and return with your answer.  Write me only ten lines; they will be some comfort to me. ...  You are sick, you love me, I have troubled you; you are pregnant, and I cannot see you.  This thought bewilders me.  I have done you so much wrong, that I know not how to make amends for it.  I found fault because you remained in Paris, and you were sick!  Forgive me, my beloved.  The passion you have inspired in me has taken my reason away; I cannot find it again.  One is never cured of this evil.  My contemplations are so horrible, that it would be a satisfaction to see you; to press you for two hours to my heart, and then, to die together!  Who takes care of you?  I imagine that you have sent for Hortense.  I love this child a thousand times more, when I think she can comfort you somewhat.  As regards myself, there will be no solace, no rest, no hope, before the courier whom I have sent to you has returned, and you have told me in a long letter the cause of your illness, and how serious it is.  I tell you beforehand that if it is dangerous I will at once go to Paris.  My presence would be called for by your sickness.  I have always been fortunate.  Never has Fate stood against my wishes, and to-day it strikes me where only wounds are possible.  Josephine, how can you delay so long in writing to me?  Your last laconic note is dated the 3d of this month, and this adds to my sorrow.  Yet I have it always in my pocket.  Your portrait and your letters are always under my eyes.

“I am nothing without you.  I can scarcely understand how I have lived without knowing you.  Ah, Josephine, if you know my heart, could you remain without writing from the 29th of May to the 16th of June, and not travel hither?  Have you lent an ear to faithless friends, who wish to keep you away from me?  I am angry with the whole world; I accuse every one round about you.  I had calculated that you would leave on the 5th, and be at Milan on the 15th.

“Josephine, if you love me, if you believe that all depends on the recovery of your health, take good care of yourself.  I dare not tell you not to undertake so long a journey—­not to travel in the heat, if you possibly can move.  Make small journeys; write to me at every stopping-place, and send me each time your letters by a courier. ...  Your sickness troubles me by night and by day.  Without appetite or sleep, without regard for friendship, reputation, or country!—­you and you alone!  The rest of the world exists no more for me than if it were sunk into oblivion.  I still cling to honor, for you hold to it; to fame, for it is a joy to you; if it were not for this, I would have abandoned every thing to hasten to your feet.