Wednesday, 4 o'clock, 26 December, 1894.
My Darling:
You ask me what I do all day long.
I think of you; I think of you all. If this consoling thought did not sustain me, if I could not feel through the thick walls of my prison the strengthening breath of your sympathy, I believe that I should lose my hold on reason and that despair would enter my soul. It is your love, it is the affection of you all, that gives me the courage to live on.
Me. Demange has just been here. He stayed some minutes with me. His faith in me is absolute; that also gives me courage.
It is not physical suffering that affrights me—I am able to bear that—but this continual torture of soul, this contempt that is to pursue me everywhere. I, so proud, so sure of my honor, it is that that I find so terrible; that that I shrink from.
Well, my darling, I will not torture your heart any longer; your grief is already great enough.
I embrace you fondly.
Alfred.
Wednesday, 10 P. M.
I do not sleep, and it is to you that I return. Am I then marked by a fatal seal, that I must drink this cup of bitterness! At this moment I am calm. My soul is strong, and it rises in the silence of the night. How happy we were, my darling! Life smiled on us; fortune, love, adorable children, a united family—Everything! Then came this thunderbolt, fearful, terrible. Buy, I
