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_2 July, 1895._
My dear Lucie:
When this letter reaches you your birthday will be at hand. The only
hope that I can form, and which is in your heart as it is in mine, is
that I shall soon be told that our honor is given back to us and with it
our former happiness.
My conscience and my reason give me faith; the supernatural is not of
this world. In the end everything is made clear. But the hours of
waiting are long and cruel when the situation is so appalling as well
for us as for our families.
Your dear letters of the beginning of March--you see how they are
delayed--are my daily reading. I succeed thus, though far from you, in
talking with you. My thoughts, indeed, never leave you, nor our dear
children.
I await tidings of your health and that of our children with impatience.
I am also anxious to know what date your letters will bear. My health is
good. My heart beats with your own, and envelops you with all its
tenderness. I have written you two long letters during the last half of
June; I could only keep on repeating myself. Let me end this letter by
embracing you with all the strength of our souls, and our dear children
also.