being, when I had need of a friendly hand, of a gentle face, delirious from the fever and from pain, when I did not receive your letter, I had to cry out to you in my misery, for I could cry to no one else.
Afterward I regained possession of myself, and I became again what I had been, what I shall remain to my last breath.
As I told you in my letter of the day before yesterday, strong in our consciences, we must raise ourselves above everything; but with that firm, inflexible determination which will make my innocence shine out before the eyes of all France. Our name must come out of this horrible adventure what it was when they made us enter into it. Our children must enter upon life with heads proudly raised.
As for the advice that I can give you, that I have developed in my preceding letters; you must understand that the only counsels I can give you are those that are suggested by my heart. You are, you all are, better placed, you have better advisers, and you must know better than I could tell you what you have to do.
I wish with you that it may not be long before this atrocious situation is elucidated, that our sufferings, the sufferings of us all, may soon be ended. However that may be, we must have the faith that diminishes all sufferings, surmounts all sorrows, so that in the end we may render to our children a stainless name, a name that is respected.
I embrace you as I love you, with all my strength, with all my heart, and also our dear and adored children.
Alfred.
