disappointment in his career, to a certain point he may indulge in weakness; he may say, "Well, my children will straighten all that out; perhaps it will be better for them than if they should have had nothing to do but be amiable idlers!" But in our case it is our honor which is at stake—their honor. To give way to weakness would be, for us, an unpardonable crime. We must, therefore, my dear and good Lucie, accept all our sufferings and overcome them, until the day when my innocence shall be recognized. On that day only we shall have the right to give free course to our tears, to unburden our hearts.
I am hoping, always, that that day may come soon. Each morning I awake with a new hope, and each night I lie down with a new disappointment.
I do not need to tell you that we can speak freely to each other of our grief—the fullest heart must sometimes overflow, but we must keep our outbursts to ourselves. I know, indeed, that you are sincere and single-hearted, without art of any kind. The fine qualities of your nature, those qualities which I, so to speak, only caught a fleeting glimpse of through our happiness, now stand out clear and distinct in the light of our adversity.
26 June, 1895.
I will to-day bring this long talk to an end, so that I may send off my letter. I should like to talk to you in this way morning and evening; but were I to write volumes, the same ideas would flow from my pen. Naturally active, in my solitude I am reduced to the necessity of coming constantly back to the same subject. The form alone might vary, according to the feeling of
