speak to you of the children; their memory rends my heart. Speak to them of me. May they be your consolation.
My bitterness is such, my heart is so bruised, that I should, already have got rid of this sad life if memory of you had not hindered me; if the fear of augmenting your grief had not stayed my arm.
To have had to hear all they said to me, when I knew in my soul and conscience that I had never failed, never committed even the most trivial imprudence, that was the most horrible of mental torture.
I shall try to live for your sake, but I have need of your aid.
Above all else, no matter what may become of me, search for the truth; move Earth and Heaven to discover it; sink in the effort, if need be, all our fortune, to rehabilitate my name, which now is dragged through the mud. No matter what may be the cost, we must wash out the unmerited stain.
I have not the courage to write more. Embrace our dear relations, our children, everyone, for me.
A thousand, thousand kisses.
Alfred.
Try to obtain permission to see me. It seems to me that they cannot refuse it now.
Monday evening, 24 December, 1894.
My Darling:
It is still to you that I write, for you are the only cord that binds me to life. I know well that all my family, all your family, love me and esteem me; but,
