But the doors were not to be opened on any of the following nights for the jealous one!  The events of war were to keep him away a long time from his Josephine.  The Austrian Generals Wurmser and Alvinzi, with their two armies, demanded all the energy and activity of Bonaparte.  Meanwhile, as he was preparing for the great battles which were to decide the fate of Italy, his thoughts were always turned to his Josephine; his deep longings grew day by day, still he had no longer cause to complain that Josephine did not write, that she had forgotten him!  Contrariwise, Josephine did write; she had, while he was writing her angry letters about her silence, written several times, for Bonaparte in the following letter says that he has received many letters from her, which, probably on account of the difficulties of communication, had been delayed.  He had received them with the highest delight, and pressed them to his lips and heart.  But no sooner had he rejoiced over them, than he complains that they are cold, reserved, and old.  No word, no expression, satisfies his ardent love.  He complains that her letters are cold, and then, when she dips her pen in the fire of tender love, he complains again that her glowing letters “turn his blood into fire, and stir up his whole being.”  Love, with all its wantonness and all its pains, holds him captive in its hands, and the general has no means of appeasing the lover.

The letter which complains of Josephine’s coldness is dated

“Modena, 26th Vendemiaire of the Year V.” (October 17, 1796),

“I was yesterday the whole day on the field.  To-day I have kept my bed.  Fever and a violent headache have debarred me from writing to my adored one; but I have received her letters, I pressed them to my lips and to my heart, and the anguish of a separation of hundreds of miles disappeared.  At this moment I see you at my side, neither capricious nor angry, but soft, tender, and wrapped in that goodness which is exclusively the attribute of my Josephine.  It was a dream—­ judge if it could drive the fever away.  Your letters are as cold as if you were fifty years old; they seem to have been composed after a marriage of fifteen years.  One can see in them the friendship and sentiments of the winter of life.  Pshaw!  Josephine, ... that is very naughty, very abominable, very treasonable on your part.  What more remains to make me worthy of pity?  All is already done!  To love me no more!  To hate me!  Well, then, let it be so!  Every thing humiliates but hatred, and indifference with its marmoreal pulse, its staring eyes, and its measured steps.  A thousand thousand kisses as tender as my heart!  I am somewhat better.  I leave to-morrow.  The English are cruising on the Mediterranean.  Corsica is ours.  Good news for France and for the army.

“Bonaparte.”