It is true, Bonaparte also had to suffer, and his anxieties for the success of his plans did not alone hang heavily on his heart, while with his army he besieged the impregnable Acre.  At this very time his heart received a deep wound from his friend and confidant Junot, who drove the sting of jealousy into his sensitive heart.  It is the privilege of friendship to pass by in silence nothing which calumny or ill-will may imagine or circulate, but truly to make known to our friend every thing which the public says of him, without regard to the sufferings which such communications may entail upon his heart.  Junot made full use of this privilege.  Bourrienne in his memoirs relates as follows: 

“While we were in the vicinity of the springs of Messoudiah, I saw one day Bonaparte, with his friend Junot, pacing to and fro, as he often did.  I was not very far from them, and I know not why during this conversation my eyes were fixed on him.  The face of the general was paler than usual, though I knew not the cause.  There was a strange nervousness; his eyes seemed bewildered, and he often struck his head with his hand.

“After a quarter of an hour, he left Junot and came toward me.  I had noticed his angry, thoughtful expression.  I went to meet him, and as I stood before him, Bonaparte, with a harsh and severe tone, exclaimed:  ’You have no affection for me.  The women! ...  Josephine! ...  Had you any affection for me, you would long ago have given me the information which Junot has now told me:  he is a true friend!  Josephine! ... and I am six hundred miles away! ...  You ought to have told me! ...  Josephine! ... so to deceive me! ...  You! ...  “Woe to you all!  I will uproot that detestable race of seducers and blondins!  As regards her—­separation!—­yes:  divorce, public separation before the eyes of all! ...  I must write!  I know every thing! ...  It is her fault, Bourrienne!  You ought to have told me.’

“These vehement, broken utterances, the strange expression on his face, and his excited tone of voice, revealed only too clearly what had been the subject of the conversation he had had with Junot.  I saw that Junot had been drawn into a fatal indiscretion, and that if he had really believed that charges could be made against Madame Bonaparte, he had exaggerated them in an unpardonable manner.  My situation was one of extreme delicacy:  I had, however, the good fortune to remain cool, and as soon as his first excitement had subsided, I began to tell him that I knew nothing about what Junot had told him; that if even such rumors, which often were circulated only by slander, had reached me, and if I had thought it my duty to communicate them to him, I should certainly not have chosen the moment when he was six hundred miles away from France to do so.  I did not hesitate to tell him how blameworthy Junot’s conduct appeared to me, and how ungenerous it was to accuse a woman thoughtlessly, when she was not present to