my poor darling, and you suffer so much without that! But at times it is stronger than I am, so eager am I to see the end of this horrible drama, for I would willingly give my blood, drop by drop, to learn at last that my innocence is recognized, that the guilty ones, doubly criminal as they are, are unmasked.
But when I suffer too much, when I faint before this life of deluding memories, of restraint of all my intellectual and physical forces, I murmur to myself the three names that are my talisman, that make me live on—yours, those of our dear little Pierre, and Jeanne.
Let us hope that we shall soon see the end of this awful drama. I cannot write much to you, for what can I tell you that is not already common to us? I live in the thought of you, and my soul is with you from morning till night, and from night till morning. All my faculties are straining toward the end that must be attained, that you will attain—all my honor as a soldier, all the honor of our children.
Perhaps I give you extravagant advice at times, the issue of the dreams of a lonely exile who is suffering martyrdom, a martyrdom whose tortures are made up not only of his own anguish, but of yours, of the anguish you all suffer . . . and nevertheless I know perfectly well that you can judge far better than I can of the means to attain my complete, my absolute, rehabilitation. I am going to pass a good part of the night, of the long, long days in reading and re-reading your dear letters, in living with you, in sustaining you in my thoughts with all my strength, with all my ardor, with all the force of my will.
My health is good; do not be anxious on that score. Moreover, to reassure you, I have asked permission to