A thousand kisses more.
Alfred.
4 November, 1897.
My dear and good Lucie:
I have just at this moment received your letters. Words, my good darling, are powerless to express what poignant emotions the sight of your dear writing awakes in my heart; and, indeed, it is these sentiments of powerful affection that this emotion awakens in me that give me the strength to wait until the supreme day when the truth shall be made clear concerning this sad and terrible drama.
Your letters breathe such a sentiment of confidence that they have brought serenity to my heart, that is suffering so much for you, for our dear children.
You tell me, poor darling, not to think, not to try to understand. Oh, try to understand! I have never done that; it is impossible for me. But how can I stop my thoughts? All that I can do is, as I have told you, to try to wait for the supreme day of truth.
During the last months I wrote you long letters, in which I poured out my over-burdened heart. What would you? For three years I have seen myself the toy of events to which I am a stranger, having never deviated from the absolute rule of conduct that I had imposed upon myself, that my conscience as a loyal soldier devoted to his country had imposed upon me. Even in spite of yourself the bitterness mounts from the heart to the lips; anger sometimes takes you by the throat and you cry out in pain.
Formerly I swore never to speak of myself, to close my eyes to everything, because for me, as for you, for us all, there can be but one supreme consolation—that of truth, of unshrouded light.