Tell me everything that concerns you all, because yours are the only letters I receive. Tell me of our dear children, of your own health.
I embrace you as I love you.
Alfred.
Friday, 25 January, 1895.
My dear Lucie:
Your letter of yesterday wrung my heart. The sorrow transpierced every word.
Never, surely, have two unfortunate creatures suffered as we suffer. If I had not faith in the future, if my conscience, clean and pure, did not tell me that such an error cannot exist eternally, I should, of a truth, give way to the darkest thoughts. I should despair. Once, as you know, I determined to kill myself; I yielded to your remonstrances; I have promised you to live, for you have made me realize that I have not the right to desert my post; because I am innocent I must live. But alas! if you could know how, sometimes, it is more difficult to live than to die!
But be tranquil, my darling; no matter how I am tortured I shall not belie your generous efforts. I will live . . . as long as my physical strength and, above all, my moral strength hold out.
All night long I thought of you, my darling; I suffered with you. I have written to you every day since last Saturday. I hope that by this time you have received all my letters.
I do not know either on whom or on what to fix my ideas. When I look back to the past anger rises to my brain, so impossible it seems to me that everything
