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_Saturday, 6 o’clock, January, 1895._
In my dark cell, in the tortures of my soul, which refuses to understand
why I suffer so, why God so punishes me, it is always to you that I
turn, my dear wife, who, in these sad and terrible moments, have shown
for me a devotion without boundaries, a love illimitable.
You have been and you are sublime; in my moments of weakness I have been
ashamed not to be at the height of your heroism. But this grief must
gnaw the best disciplined soul; the grief of seeing so many efforts, so
many years of honor, of devotion to one’s country, lost because of a
machination that seems to belong to the realms of the grotesque, rather
than to real life. Sometimes I cannot believe it; but these moments,
alas! are rare here, for subjected to the strictest discipline of the
prison cell, everything reminds me of the dark reality. Continue to
sustain me with your profound love, my darling; aid me in this awful
struggle for my honor; let me feel your beautiful soul throbbing close
to mine.
When can I see you?