I don't love you, not at all; on the contrary, I detest you. You're a naught, gawky, foolish Cinderella.
You never write me; you don't love your own husband; you know what pleasures your letters give him, and yet you haven't written him six lines, dashed of so casually!
What do you do all day, Madam? What is the affair so important as to leave you no time to write to your devoted lover?
What affection stifles and puts to one side the love, the tender constant love you promised him?
Of what sort can be that marvellous being, that new lover that tyrannises over your days, and prevents your giving any attention to your husband?
Josephine, take care! Some fine night, the doors will be broken open and there I'll be.
Indeed, I am very uneasy, my love, at receiving no news of you; write me quickly for pages, pages full of agreeable things which shall fill my heart with the pleasantest feelings.
I hope before long to crush you in my arms and cover you with a million kisses as though beneath the equator.
Napoleon Bonaparte
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