r had arisen which would hold
dominion over them.

And yet this young and terrible conqueror, who judiciously dominated
every will in the process of his achievements, he who defiantly told
his masters that he would not suffer his "feet to be entangled" by
their amateurish absurdities, was entangled for a time by a rapturous
infatuation and allowed a giddy woman with seductive habits and a
silken voice to cajole, dominate, ridicule, and ignore him. His
imploring theatrical appeals to her to come to him are piteously
pathetic. The rational parts of his letters are without example in
neat concise phrase, and portray a man possessed of great human
virtues. It is when the love-storm attacks him that he flies into
extravagances, such as when he writes that "she has more than robbed
him of his soul," and that "she is devouring his blood." He writes to
his brother Joseph that he loves her to madness, and to Carnot even he
does the same thing. Perhaps the most extravagant outburst of all is
when he begs that she is to let him see some of her faults, and to be
less kind, gracious, and beautiful. "Your tears drive away my reason
and scorch my blood." "You set my poor heart ablaze." He complains of
her letters being "cold as friendship," and adds, "But oh! how I am
infatuated."

Josephine has never been addressed in such consuming language before.
She is flattered, and her little head becomes swollen with the idea
of greatness. The ridiculous endearments amuse her. She must not
allow such opportunities of creating envy to pass, so she shows the
letters as they come along to her most intimate friends, amongst whom
Barras still continues high on the list, and with an air of dizzy
pride she playfully says Bonaparte is "very droll." And really,
Josephine was right. Some of his letters are "droll," but they are
genuine, and this highly honoured woman, launched into prominence and
position, and reaping the laurels of his work disgraced her womanhood
by showing his letters, and doubly disgraced herself by ridiculing
them.

It was not until Murat, Junot, and Joseph Bonaparte were sent by
Napoleon to Paris from the seat of war with important dispatches, and
also with letters to her, that it dawned upon her that she had carried
her unwillingness to join her husband far enough. Doubtless the
gallant commissioners had given her a hint that further refusal meant
inevitable reprisals. It is quite feasible that the rollicking Junot,
who was