“I love you no longer; on the contrary, I detest you. you are a wretch,
truly perverse, truly stupid, a real Cinderella. You never write to me
at all, you do not love your husband; you know the pleasure that your
letters give him yet you cannot even manage to write him half a dozen
lines, dashed off in a moment! What then do you do all day, Madame? What
business is so vital that it robs you of the time to write to your
faithful lover? What attachment can be stifling and pushing aside the
love, the tender and constant love which you promised him? Who can this
wonderful new lover be who takes up your every moment, rules your days
and prevents you from devoting your attention to your husband?
Beware, Josephine; one fine night the doors will be broken down and
there I shall be. In truth, I am worried, my love, to have no news from
you; write me a four page letter instantly made up from those delightful
words which fill my heart with emotion and joy. I hope to hold you in
my arms before long, when I shall lavish upon you a million kisses,
burning as the equatorial sun.”
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