Oh, why am I not dead? I have not even the right to leave this life of my own will; it would be an act of cowardice. I have not the right to die, to look for oblivion, until I shall have regained my honor. The other day when they insulted me at La Rochelle, I wished that I might escape from the hands of my guards and present myself with naked breast to those to whom I was a just object of indignation and say to them: “Do not insult me; my heart that you cannot know is pure and free from all defilement; but if you believe me guilty, here, take my body; I give it up to you without regret.”

At least then, when under the sharp sting of physical suffering, I should still have cried, “Vive la France!” Perhaps then they would have believed in my innocence.

After all, what do I beg for night and day? Justice, justice! Are we in the nineteenth century, or must we turn back for centuries? Is it possible that innocence can be unrecognized in a century of light and truth? They must search for the truth. I do not ask for mercy, but I demand the justice due to every human creature. They must search. Let those who possess powerful means of investigation use them to this end; it is a sacred duty which they owe to humanity and justice. It is impossible that light shall not be thrown upon my mysterious and tragic fate.

O God! who will give me back my honor that has been stolen from me, basely stolen from me? Oh, what a dark drama, my poor darling! As you have so truly said, it surpasses anything that can be imagined.

I have but two happy moments in my days, but so short. The first is when they bring me this sheet of paper so that I can write to you—I pass a few moments in talking with you. The second is when they bring me your daily letter. The rest of the time I am alone with my thoughts; and God knows that they are sad and dark.

When is this horrible drama to end? When will the truth at last be known? Oh, my fortune, all of it, to the one who is adroit, able enough, to solve this sad enigma!

Tell me about all our friends.

Embrace them all for me.

I dare not speak of our darlings. When I look at their photographs, when I see their eyes so good, so sweet, the sobs rise from my heart to my lips. When we suffer for some thing or for some one it is easy to understand.... But why and, above all, for whom am I suffering this odious martyrdom?

I press you to my heart.