I wait with feverish impatience for news of you. I feel sure that it will soon arrive. I will even say that nearly every day I expect good news. I hope at last to hear something certain, positive, that the light has broken, or, at least, is soon to break, upon this bitterly sad story. Let me tell you to-day simply that the thought of you, of our dear children, alone gives me the force to live through these long days, these interminable nights. I embrace you with all my strength, as I love you, and our dear, adored children. Your devoted ALFRED. Kisses to your dear parents, to all our family. Again for long months I have received neither books nor reviews. Those that you told me of in your letter of August have not yet arrived. I cannot understand it. I thought that you would have continued to send me regularly each month the reviews and a few packages of books, by mail. I am all day long, and I may add, nearly all night long, without a minute of forgetfulness, looking at the four walls of my cabin--well, it is of little importance, but it would be well to inquire what has become of these books. * * * * * _31 December, 1895._ My dear Lucie: I wrote to you some days ago to tell you that I had not yet received your letters of October. At last, after a long and terrible time of waiting, I have just received your letters of October, and at the same time those of November. How must I sometimes cause you pain by my letters, my poor darling, and you suffer so much without that! But at times it is stronger than I am, so eager am I to see the end of this horrible drama, for I would willingly give my blood, drop by drop, to learn at last that my innocence is recognized, that the guilty ones, doubly criminal as they are, are unmasked. But when I suffer too much, when I faint before this life of deluding memories, of restraint of all my intellectual and physical forces, I murmur to myself the three names that are my talisman, that make me live on--yours, those of our dear little Pierre, and Jeanne. Let us hope that we shall soon see the end of this awful drama. I cannot write much to you, for what can I tell you that is not already common to us? I live in the thought of you, and my soul is with you from morning till night, and from night till morning. All my faculties are straining toward the end that must be attained, that you will attain--all my honor as a soldier, all the honor of our children.