He writes to her agonizingly, begging her to be less lovely, less gracious, less good--apparently in order that he may love her less madly: but she is never to be jealous, and, above all, never to weep: for her tears burn his blood: and he concludes by sending millions of kisses, and also to her dog! And this mad effusion came from the man whom the outside world took to be of steel-like coldness: yet his nature had this fevered, passionate side, just as the moon, where she faces the outer void, is compact of ice, but turns a front of molten granite to her blinding, all-compelling luminary.
Undoubtedly this blazing passion helped to spur on the lover to that terrific energy which makes the Italian campaign unique even amidst the Napoleonic wars.

Beaulieu, Wuermser, and Alvintzy were not rivals in war; they were tiresome hindrances to his unsated love.

On the eve of one of his greatest triumphs he penned to her the following rhapsody: "I am far from you, I seem to be surrounded by the blackest night: I need the lurid light of the thunder-bolts which we are about to hurl on our enemies to dispel the darkness into which your absence has plunged me.

Josephine, you wept when we parted: you wept! At that thought all my being trembles.

But be consoled! Wuermser shall pay dearly for the tears which I have seen you shed." What infatuation! to appease a woman's fancied grief, he will pile high the plains of Mincio with corpses, recking not of the thousand homes where bitter tears will flow.