I will not write more, for I can only tell you of the horrible length of the hours, of the sadness of all things; and complaining is very useless.
Kiss your dear parents for me. Thank them always for their good, affectionate letters.
A thousand kisses to our dear children, and for you the best, the tenderest kisses of your devoted
Alfred.
I have not yet received the things you spoke of in your letters of the 25th of November and the 25th of December. I cannot tell why the things you send me are so long in coming. Perhaps the books you are going to send me soon by mail will reach me with less delay. I hope so, for reading, the only thing that is possible for me to do, may calm a little the pains in my brain, and unhappily even that is often lacking.
5 March, 1896.
My dear Lucie:
I have not yet received your dear letters of January. A few lines only to send you the echo of my immense affection. Write to you at length? I cannot. My days, my hours, slip by monotonously, in this agonizing, enervating waiting for the discovery of the truth, the discovery of the wretch who committed this infamous crime. Speak to you of myself? What good can that do us? My sufferings, you know them, you share them. They, like yours, like those of all who love us, can only have an end when the broad, full light shall appear, when honor is returned to us.
It is toward this end that all your energy, all your
