with my body, . . . you know that I do not care a straw for that; . . . but let them give me back my honor.
Will no one hear this cry of despair, this cry of an innocent wretch who begs only for justice—only justice?
Each day I hope that the hour is at hand, that men are now to recognize what I have been, what I am—a loyal soldier, worthy to lead the soldiers of France under fire. Then the night comes, and nothing, still nothing.
Add to this that I received no letter from you; that I am absolutely alone with my torture of soul, and you can judge of my condition. But be reassured, I am strong again. I have called myself a coward; I have told myself all that you yourself could have told me were you at my side; an innocent man has never the right to despair. Then, though I have no news of you, I feel that all your hearts, all your souls, are throbbing in unison with my heart and with my soul; that you suffer with me the infamy that covers my name and that you are endeavoring to wipe it out. When can you come to pass some hours with me? How happy I should be could I but draw new strength from your heart!
Shall I have a letter from you to-day? I dare not hope too much, since each day my hope is deferred, and at each disappointment the suffering is too great.
Well, my darling, what can I tell you? I live by hope. Night and day I see before me, like a brilliant star, the moment when all shall be forgotten, when my honor shall be given back to me.
Kiss my darlings tenderly, most tenderly, for me.
I send kisses for all the members of our families.
As for you, I embrace you, as I love you, with all my strength.
Alfred.
