Forzinetti, who was in charge of Dreyfus’s prison, also believed him innocent, and said he had never seen a man suffer as he did.  He kept repeating, “My only crime is having been born a Jew.”  He has been confined ever since on the Ile du Diable under the strictest surveillance.  His jailer was not allowed to speak to him.  When airing himself in the little inclosure, exposed to the awful heat, there was always a gun pointed at him.  Sometimes he was chained to his bed with irons, and a loaded pistol was always placed by his side in case he became weary of life.  Colonel Picquard said: 

“It can only be the strong desire to prove his innocence that keeps his courage up.”  Colonel Schwartkopfen (the German military attache in Paris) declares solemnly to any one who will listen that the German Embassy has never had anything to do with Dreyfus, and the bordereau is unknown there.

We are very anxious about the news we get from Denmark.  The dear Queen is very ill, and there is little hope of her recovery.

PARIS, 29th September.

Dear ——­,—­The Queen died last night.

Every one in Paris has come to us to express his sympathy.  As is the custom in Europe, people write their names in a book placed in the antechamber.  There are several hundred signatures.  In Denmark there is mourning ordered for six months.  As there is no Danish church in Paris, a memorial service for the Queen was celebrated in the Greek chapel.  It was most solemn and beautiful.  I love to hear the mournful chants of the white-robed, solemn priests.

It was very sad to hear of the assassination of the beautiful Empress of Austria.  She was in Geneva and about to take the little boat to go up the lake.  The assassin met her and, apparently running against her accidentally, stabbed her.  She did not feel the thrust and continued to walk on.  When she stepped on the boat they noticed the blood on her dress, and soon after, on being taken to the hotel, she died.

The French military attache in Copenhagen was in Paris some days and invited us to dinner at his mother’s, who has a charming home.  We met a great many agreeable people, among whom was the poet Rostand (he is the brother-in-law of the attache).  Rostand was very talkative, and I enjoyed, more than words can tell, my conversation with him.  He was most amusing when he told of his efforts “to be alone with his thoughts.”  He said that when he was writing L’Aiglon he was almost crazy.

“My head seemed bursting with ideas.  I could not sleep, and my days were one prolonged irritation, and I became so nervous que j’etais devenu impossible.  The slightest interruption sent me into spasms of delire.  Do you know what I did?” he asked me.

“I suppose,” I answered, “you went on writing, all the same.”

“No.  You could never guess,” he laughed.  “I sat in a bath-tub all day.  In this way no one could come and disturb me, and I was left alone.”