as I have told you, under the influence of a profound emotion, not even trying to assemble my ideas, feeling that I would be incapable of doing it, telling myself with dread that I must pass all of one long month having for my reading only your few poor lines, where you speak to me of the children, where you do not speak to me of yourself, where I shall have nothing to read that speaks of you.
But I am going to try to collect my thoughts. My sufferings are great, like yours, like ours; the hours, the minutes, are atrocious, and they will continue to be so until light, full and entire, shall shine upon the truth. And as I have told you, I am convinced that if you act in person, if you speak from your heart, they will set every means to work to shorten, if possible, the time, for if time is nothing, as far as the object we must reach, which is more important than everything, is concerned, it counts, alas! for us all, for one cannot live and endure such sufferings.
I regret to realize that I must end this letter in which I feel how powerless I am to express the affection that I feel for you, for our children, for all; what I suffer from our atrocious tortures; to make you feel all that is in my heart; the horror of this situation, of this life, a horror that surpasses all that can be imagined, all that the human brain can dream; and, on the other hand, the duty which commands me imperiously, for your sake and for our children's, to go on as far as I shall be able. Think that it will be a month now before I can get one word from you, the only human word that comes to me!
But I must end this prattling, although it eases my pain, for I feel your presence near me in these lines that you are to read, and in ending my letter I cry to you,
