I do not know anything of what is passing around me, I live as in a tomb. I am incapable of deciphering in my brain this appalling enigma. All that I can do, then, and I shall not fail in this duty, is to sustain you to my last breath—is to continue to fan in your heart the flame which glows in mine, so that you may march straight forward to the conquest of the truth, so that you may get me back my honor, the honor of my children. You remember those lines of Shakespeare, in Othello. I found them again not long since among my English books. I send them to you translated (you will know why!).
"Celui qui me vole ma bourse,<ref><poem>
"Who steals my purse steals trash; 'tis something, nothing;
'Twas mine, 'tis his, and has been slave to thousands!
But he that filches from me my good name
Robs me of that which not enriches him,
And makes me poor indeed."
</ref> Me vole une bagatelle C'est quelque chose, mais ce n'est rien. Elle était a moi, elle est à lui et,
A était I'esclave de mille autres.
Mais celui qui me vole ma bonne renommée, Me vole une chose qui ni l'enrichit pas,
Et qui me rend vraiment pauvre."
Ah, yes! he has rendered me "vraiment pauvre,"the wretch who has stolen my honor! He has made us more miserable than the meanest of human creatures. But to each one his hour. Courage, then, dear Lucie; preserve the unconquerable will that you have shown until now; draw from your children the superhuman energy that triumphs over everything. Indeed, I have no doubt whatever that you will succeed, and I hope that this