inspire in me an admiration, each day increasing, of your character, your great heart, and I am ashamed of myself for not knowing better how to suffer, for sometimes writing you such nervous, such disquieting letters. As to our purpose I have never wavered. I am innocent, and my innocence must shine out. Our name must again become what it deserves to be. But you must understand that my torments are at times so sharp, the revolt of my heart is at times so violent, that I cry out in spite of myself; it seems that, no matter at what cost, I must learn the secret of this infamy, must make the truth break forth, make justice triumph.
I have never been discouraged, I have never doubted that a will strong in its innocence and in the duty it has to accomplish could fail to attain its object. I have had, perhaps may again have, attacks of febrile impatience, the revolts of an ardent spirit, that has for so long been crushed under foot, weighed down by this sepulchral silence, this enervating climate, the frequent absence of news, nothing to do, and often nothing to read. But if the tension of my nervous system was extreme during the last three months of 1895—that was the hottest season, the worst season in Guiana—my courage never weakened, for it was it that held me up, that permitted me to double the dangerous cape without flinching. Do not lay any stress upon this nervousness which breaks out at times. Tell yourself that I am determined to be with you, at your side, on the day when honor shall be given back to us.
Your will, the will of you all, must continue to be what it has always been, as great, as unconquerable as it is calm and thoughtful.
My health is good; my body, indifferent to every-