* * * * *
_Sunday, 3 February, 1895._
My Darling:
I have passed an atrocious week. I have been without a word from you
since last Sunday--that is to say, for eight days. I thought that you
must be sick, then that one of the children was sick, then, in my
reeling brain, I conjured up all kinds of suppositions--I imagined
everything.
You can realize, my darling, all that I have suffered, all that I still
suffer. In my horrible solitude, in the tragic situation in which events
as unnatural as they are incomprehensible have placed me, I had at least
one consolation; it was to feel that you were near me, your heart
beating in unison with mine and sharing all my tortures.
The night between Thursday and Friday, above all, was appalling. I will
not tell you about it; it would rend your heart. All that I can tell you
is that my mind kept going over and over the accusation they had brought
against me. I told myself that the thing was impossible.... Then I
aroused myself, and I realized the sad truth of it all.
Oh, why cannot they open my heart and read there as one reads in an open
book; there, at least, they would see the sentiments which I have always
professed and which I still hold. No, no, it seems to me impossible that
all this is to endure eternally. Some day the truth must come to light.
By an unheard-of effort of the will I regained my self-control; I told
myself that I could neither go down into my grave nor go mad with a
dishonored name. I must live then, whatever may be the torture of soul
to which I am a prey.
Oh, this opprobrium, this infamy covering my name! When will they be
taken away?
May it come, the blessed day when my innocence is recognized! when they
give me back that honor that never failed me! I am tired of suffering.
Let them take my blood, let them do what they will with my body, ...
you know that I do not care a straw for that; ... but let them give me
back my honor.
Will no one hear this cry of despair, this cry of an innocent wretch who
begs only for justice--only justice?
Each day I hope that the hour is at hand, that men are now to recognize
what I have been, what I am--a loyal soldier, worthy to lead the
soldiers of France under fire. Then the night comes, and nothing, still
nothing.
Add to this that I received no letter from you; that I am absolutely
alone with my torture of soul, and you can judge of my condition. But be
reassured, I am strong again. I have called myself a coward; I have told
myself all that you yourself could have told me were you at my side; an
innocent man has never the right to despair. Then, though I have no news
of you, I feel that all your hearts, all your souls, are throbbing in
unison with my heart and with my soul; that you suffer with me the
infamy that covers my name and that you are endeavoring to wipe it out.
When can you come to pass some hours with me? How happy I should be
could I but draw new strength from your heart!
Shall I have a letter from you to-day? I dare not hope too much, since
each day my hope is deferred, and at each disappointment the suffering
is too great.
Well, my darling, what can I tell you? I live by hope. Night and day I
see before me, like a brilliant star, the moment when all shall be
forgotten, when my honor shall be given back to me.
Kiss my darlings tenderly, most tenderly, for me.