No. 7.
To Josephine, at Milan.
Brescia, August 30, 1796.
Arriving, my beloved, my first thought is to write to you. Your health, your sweet face and form have not been absent a moment from my thoughts the whole day. I shall be comfortable only when I have got letters from you. I await them impatiently. You cannot possibly imagine my uneasiness. I left you vexed, annoyed, and not well. If the deepest and sincerest affection can make you happy, you ought to be. … I am worked to death.
Adieu, my kind Josephine: love me, keep well, and often, often think of me.
Bonaparte.
No. 8.
To Josephine, at Milan.
Brescia, August 31, 1796.
I start at once for Verona. I had hoped to get a letter from you; and I am terribly uneasy about you. You were rather ill when I left; I beg you not to leave me in such uneasiness. You promised me to be more regular; and, at the time, your tongue was in harmony with your heart. You, to whom nature has given a kind, genial, and wholly charming disposition, how can you forget the man who loves you with so much fervour? No letters from you for three days; and yet I have written to you several times. To be parted is dreadful, the nights are long, stupid, and wearisome; the day's work is monotonous.
This evening, alone with my thoughts, work and correspondence, with men and their stupid schemes, I have not even one letter from you which I might press to my heart.
The Staff has gone; I set off in an hour. To-night I get an express from Paris; there was for you only the enclosed letter, which will please you.
Think of me, live for me, be often with your well-beloved, and be sure that there is only one misfortune that he is afraid of—that of being no longer loved by his Josephine. A thousand kisses, very sweet, very affectionate, very exclusive.
Send M. Monclas at once to Verona; I will find him a place. He must get there before September 4th.
Bonaparte.
September 1st.—Bonaparte leaves Verona and directs his troops on Trent. Wurmser, reinforced by 20,000 men, leaves his right wing at Roveredo, and marches viâ the Brenta Gorge on Verona.
No. 9.
To Josephine, at Milan.
Ala, September 3, 1796.
We are in the thick of the fight, my beloved; we have driven in the enemy's outposts; we have taken eight or ten of their horses with a like number of riders. My troops are good-humoured and in excellent spirits. I hope that we shall do great things, and get into Trent by the fifth.
No letters from you, which really makes me uneasy; yet they tell me you are well, and have even had an excursion to Lake Como. Every day I wait impatiently for the post which will bring me news of you—you are well aware how I prize it. Far from you I cannot live, the happiness of my life is near my gentle Josephine. Think of me! Write me often, very often: in absence it is the only remedy: it is cruel, but, I hope, will be only temporary.
Bonaparte.
September 4th.—Austrian right wing defeated at Roveredo.
September 5th.—Bonaparte enters Trent, cutting off Wurmser from his base. Defeats Davidowich on the Lavis and leaves Vaubois to contain this general while he follows Wurmser.
September 6th.—Wurmser continues his advance, his outposts occupy Vicenza and Montebello.
September 7th.—Combat of Primolano: Austrians defeated. Austrian vanguard attack Verona, but are repulsed by General Kilmaine.
September 8th.—Battle of Bassano: Wurmser completely routed, and retires on Legnago.
No. 10.
To Josephine, at Milan.
Montebello, Noon, September 10, 1796.
My Dear—The enemy has lost 18,000 men prisoners; the rest killed or wounded. Wurmser, with a column of 1500 cavalry, and 500 infantry, has no resource but to throw himself into Mantua.
Never have we had successes so unvarying and so great. Italy, Friuli, the Tyrol, are assured to the Republic. The Emperor will have to create a second army: artillery, pontoons, baggage, everything is taken.
In a few days we shall meet; it is the sweetest reward for my labours and anxieties.
A thousand fervent and very affectionate kisses.
Bonaparte.
September 11th.—Skirmish at Cerea: Austrians successful. Bonaparte arrives alone, and is nearly captured.
No. 11.
To Josephine, at Milan.
Ronco, September 12, 1796, 10 A.M.
My dear Josephine—I have been here two days, badly lodged, badly fed, and very cross at being so far from you.
Wurmser is hemmed in, he has with him 3000 cavalry and 5000 infantry. He is at Porto-Legnago; he is trying to get back into Mantua, but for him that has now become impossible. The moment this matter shall be finished I will be in your arms.
I embrace you a million times.
Bonaparte.
September 13th.—Wurmser, brushing aside the few French who oppose him, gains the suburbs of Mantua.
September 14th.—Massena attempts a surprise, but is repulsed.
September 15th.—Wurmser makes a sortie from St. Georges, but is driven back.
September 16th.—And at La Favorite, with like result.
No. 12.
To Josephine, at Milan.
Verona, September 17, 1796.
My Dear—I write very often and you seldom. You are naughty, and undutiful; very undutiful, as well as thoughtless. It is disloyal to deceive a poor husband, an affectionate lover. Ought he to lose his rights because he is far away, up to the neck in business, worries and anxiety. Without his Josephine, without the assurance of her love, what in the wide world remains for him. What will he do?
Yesterday we had a very sanguinary conflict; the enemy has lost heavily, and been completely beaten. We have taken from him the suburbs of Mantua.
Adieu, charming Josephine; one of these nights the door will be burst open with a bang, as if by a jealous husband, and in a moment I shall be in your arms.
A thousand affectionate kisses.
Bonaparte.
October 2nd.—(Moreau defeats Latour at Biberach, but then continues his retreat.)
October 8th.—Spain declares war against England.
October 10th.—Peace with Naples signed.
No. 13.
To Josephine, at Milan.
Modena, October 17, 1796, 9 P.M.
The day before yesterday I was out the whole day. Yesterday I kept my bed. Fever and a racking headache both prevented me writing to my beloved; but I got your letters. I have pressed them to my heart and lips, and the grief of a hundred miles of separation has disappeared. At the present moment I can see you by my side, not capricious and out of humour, but gentle, affectionate, with that mellifluent kindness of which my Josephine is the sole proprietor. It was a dream, judge if it has cured my fever. Your letters are as cold as if you were fifty; we might have been married fifteen years. One finds in them the friendship and feelings of that winter of life. Fie! Josephine. It is very naughty, very unkind, very undutiful of you. What more can you do to make me indeed an