I Don't Love You
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I don't love you, not at all; on the contrary, I detest you - You're
a naughty, gawkey, foolish Cinderella. You never write me, you don't
love your husband, you know what pleasure your letters give him, and
yet you haven't written him six lines, dashed off 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 and constant love
you promised him? Of what sort can be that marvelous being, that new
lover who absorbs every moment, tyrannizes 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
four 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 burning as though beneath the equator.
Napoleon Bonaparte to Josephine Bonaparte, Verona, November 13, 1796
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