But my heart must be silent. I gain each time new strength, new patience, from your dear eyes.
Do not think any longer of my sufferings. You can comfort me only in doing as you have done—in searching for the guilty one, without a thought of truce—without an hour of rest.
I have read Pierrot's few lines in Marie's letter. Thank them both, particularly the hand that directed the hand of Pierrot.
Make of our dear children vigorous and healthy beings.
I embrace you as I love you.
Tuesday, 15 January, 1895, 9 o'clock in the morning.
I was thinking a great deal last night of what you said yesterday when you urged me to be patient; when you explained to me that nothing is done in a day. Alas! I know it well; but I suffer precisely because of my good qualities, which are defects situated as we are now. I am an active man, and I am impatient to have it deciphered—this enigma that is torturing my brain.
But you understand, my darling, since you know me so well. It is useless for me to tell each day of the fevers of impatience which at times overcome me; the paroxysms of crazy anger which at times carry me away. . . .
Yesterday I received good news. They told me that I am to see your mother to-day. I am rejoicing over it in advance.