"Not tonight, Josephine."
In an army’s strength, therein lies the denouement. From here you’re haunting me by the Seine, so beautiful, only not to be of use — impossible.
So strange, victory. Twelve hundred spires, the only sound: Moscow burning. Empty like the Tuileries… like a dream, Vienna seems, only not to be of use — impossible.
In the last extremity: to advance or not to advance? I hear you laughing. Even still you’re calling me.
"Not tonight, not tonight, not tonight, Josephine.”