My dearest wife Rosalie,
I am writing this letter to you now as I fear this might be my last day, making this my last letter to you.  My group of Jacobins, the men who I went away with to Paris to aid in the revolution, have grown too radical, and I fear that my doubts have been voiced to one of the leaders.  I fear my life may be in danger, especially now that our former leader, Maximilien Robespierre, was put to death just yesterday by his own comrades. 
It has been a year since I left you, our three sons, and our unborn child behind in our village.  Sometimes I wonder if you actually read these letters as I never get word back, not even now when I am certain you have had our fourth child.  I dream of the child sometimes, whether it was a girl or a boy and what he or she might look like.  I wonder what name you gifted it with, but it seems you do not wish to tell me, and it frightens me that you may not be waiting for me to return, that maybe you have grown to hate me for all I have done.  If you are reading these letters though, this one especially, please know that I love you all, whether the sentiment is returned or not, and I will fight to return to you all, even now, when my death seems inescapable.
This revolution has grown too bloody… too hypocritical.  I don’t wish for this to be the country my children learn to call home, but it seems that we have no choice but to accept it.  The end is nowhere in sight.  The Committee of Public Safety and Robespierre have become corrupt and have reached their end.  I am beginning to doubt my own opinions, new and old.  I wanted to change the way we lived when the king and queen ruled, but it seems that my way of escaping that, to kill the royals, was wrong.  We may have struggled through it back then, but life was simple and good enough, what with our little shoppe and the bread it helped us buy.  It was never as bloody as it is now.
I had hoped for and still hope for peace in our country, of freedom and prosperity.  All I have ever wanted was a quiet, enjoyable life with just our little family.  It seems that I have not done that, quite the opposite actually.  I have condoned violence that I now regret.  So many have died, twenty by my hand as I allowed the razor to fall.  I have accused so many others who I simply disliked and did not wish to associate with; they all were killed on my word.  I have become a monster not fit to be a husband, nor a father of four.  Please forgive me.
I fear that this is just the beginning of this bloodshed.  I know it is not the end.  This isn’t even the climax.  I am disappointed that I, with my dreams of peace, aided in allowing this to continue.  I fear that this may even be the end of the country I have loved for all of my 20 years.  These changes that have been made… they worry me.  They scare me.  They scare me to death and make me worry for the future of our children and their children after them.  I’m afraid that they may have to fight or die in this massacre.
Outside of my quarters, I can hear the chants of war and screams of men in horrible pain and anguish.  That might be me very soon, so in case that happens, this is my goodbye to you and to our children.  I regret that I might never see you again, or hear your voices.  I regret that I may not be able to stop this horror for you.  And I regret that I may be leaving you forever. 
This is my letter of repentance, and my letter of farewell.  My dearest wife, my beloved children… I bid you adieu.  Farewell my loves.
Your beloved husband,
Quentin Pierre Durand
July 29th, 1794