Chapter III: Part 3

Thursday evening, toward ten o’clock, they came to wake me to bring me here, where I arrived only last night. I do not want to speak of my journey, it would break your heart. Know only that I have heard the legitimate cries of a brave and generous people against him whom they believe to be a traitor, the lowest of wretches. I am no longer sure if I have a heart.

Oh, what a sacrifice I made the day of my condemnation, when I promised you that I should not kill myself! What a sacrifice I made to the name of my poor, dear, little children, in bearing what I am undergoing! If there is a divine justice, we must hope that I shall be recompensed for this long and fearful torture, for this suffering of every minute and every instant. The other day your father told me that he would have preferred death. And I--I would rather, a hundred thousand times rather, be dead. But this right to die belongs to none of us; the more I suffer the more must it impel your courage and your resolution to find the truth. Look on for the truth, do not waver, do not rest. Let your efforts be in proportion to the sufferings which I have imposed upon myself.

Will you please ask, or have some one ask, at the Ministry for the following authorizations; the Minister alone can accord them:

1. The right to write to all the members of my family--father, mother, brothers, and sisters.

2. The right to write and to work in my cell. At present I have neither _paper_, nor _pen_, nor _ink_. I am given only the sheet of paper on which I write to you; then they take away my pen and ink.

3. Permission to smoke.

I beg you not to come before you are completely cured.

The climate here is very rigorous, and you need all your health, first for our dear children, then for the end for which you are working. _As to my régime here, I am forbidden to speak to you of it._

And now I must remind you that before you come here you must provide yourself with _all_ the authorizations necessary _to see me_; do not forget to ask permission _to kiss me_, etc., etc.

When shall we be reunited, my darling? I live in the hope of that, and in the still greater hope of my restoration to honor. But oh, how my soul suffers! Tell all our family that they must work on without weakening, without resting; for all that comes to us now is appalling, tragic. Write to me soon. I embrace you as I love you.

ALFRED.

* * * * *

_Tuesday, 21 January, 1895, 9 o’clock in the morning._

How you must suffer!... The tragedy of which we are the victims is certainly the most terrible of the century. To have everything--happiness, the future, a charming home--and then, all at once, to be accused and condemned for a crime so monstrous!

Ah, the monster who has cast dishonor in our family might better have killed me; at least there would then have been only me to suffer! This is what tortures me the most; it is the thought of the infamy that is coupled with my name. If I had only physical sufferings to bear, it would be nothing. Sufferings borne for a noble cause are elevating; but to suffer because I am condemned for an infamous crime--ah, no! Cannot you see that it is too much, even for energy like mine?

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.

ALFRED.

Do not come until you are completely recovered and in excellent health. Our children have need of you.

* * * * *

_23 January, 1895._

My Darling:

I receive your letters every day. As yet they have given me none from any member of the family, and, on my side, I have not yet received the authorization to write to them. I have written to you every day since Saturday. I hope that you have received all my letters.

You must not be astonished, my darling, at the scene of La Rochelle. I find it perfectly natural. What astonishes me is that no one has yet been found to come forward and tell what our families really are--families whose names are synonymous with loyalty and honor. Ah, human cowardice, I have measured its length and breadth in these sad, dark days!

When I think of what I was but a few months ago, and when I compare it with my miserable situation to-day, I confess that my heart faints, that I give way to ferocious outbreaks against the injustice of my lot. Truly I am the victim of the most hideous error of our century. At times my reason refuses to believe it; it seems to me that I am the dupe of a terrible hallucination, that it will all vanish; ... but, alas! the reality is all around me.

Why did not we all die before the beginning of this tragedy? Truly it would have been preferable. And now we have not the right to die, not one of us has that right. We must live to cleanse our name of the stain with which it has been sullied. My conviction is absolute; I am sure that sooner or later the light will shine out. It is impossible in an age like ours that search shall not result in the discovery of the one who is really guilty; but what shall I be, mentally and physically, at that time? I believe that life will have no more attraction for me, and if I cling to it, it will be for your sake, my dear heart, whose devotion has been heroic through all these terrible hours--for you and for my dear children, to whom I wish to restore their honorable name.

But whatever may come, I am sure that history will place things in their true position. There will be in our dear country of France, so easily excited, but so generous to innocent sufferers, some man honest and courageous enough to try to find the truth.

And I, my darling, what can I say to you? That my heart is broken; at least they will have accomplished that. But be tranquil; until my last breath I shall stand firm. I will not weaken, nor bow my head.

My honor is equal to that of any man on the earth. I demand justice; you also must demand it. This is all the mercy that I beg for. I ask for nothing but the truth--the whole truth.

And this truth, if we pursue it steadfastly, we shall have at last; it is impossible that such an error can rest unexposed.

When I look back, my sufferings are so appalling that I am seized by terrible nervous shocks. I look forward always with the hope that soon all will be made clear and that they will give me back my honor--the thing I hold dearest in this world.

May God and justice grant that it may be soon! Truly I have suffered enough. We all have suffered enough.

I hope that you always take good care of your health. You need, my darling, all your physical strength to be able to bear the moral tortures that are inflicted upon you.

How are all the members of our two families? Give me news of them, since I cannot hear directly from them.

Kiss our two darlings for me--my love to all the family.

I embrace you with all my strength.

ALFRED.

* * * * *

_24 January, 1895._

My dear Lucie:

I see by your letter dated Tuesday, that as yet you have not heard from me. How you must suffer, my poor darling! What horrible martyrdom for us both! Are we unfortunate enough? Oh, what have we done that we must bear such misfortune! It is this that makes it so appalling that we must ask ourselves of what crime we have been culpable, what sin we are expiating.

Ah, the monster who has cast shame and dishonor into the midst of an honorable family! Such a one deserves absolutely no mercy. His crime is so terrible that reason refuses to comprehend such infamy joined to such cowardice. To me it seems impossible that such machinations shall not soon or late be discovered, that such a crime can rest unpunished.

Last night there was a moment when the reality of my position seemed to me a dream, horrible, strange, supernatural, from which I tried to arouse myself, to awake. But, alas! it was not a dream. I tried to escape from this awful nightmare, to find myself again in my own real life, such as it ought to be, among you all, in your arms, my darling, with my dear children by our side.

Ah, when shall this blessed day arrive? To that end spare neither time nor effort nor money. Even if I am ruined as far as my fortune goes, I do not care for that; but I want my honor; it is for that that I bear these cruel tortures. Alas! I bear them as best I can. There are times when I have moments of crushing despondency; when it seems to me that death would be a thousand times preferable to the torture of soul that I endure; but by a violent effort of the will I regain possession of myself. What would you? I must at times give my grief free course; I can bear it with more firmness afterward.

After all, let us hope that this horrible agony may end--that is my only reason for living, that is my only hope.

The days and the nights are long. My brain is always searching for the answer to this appalling riddle that it cannot solve.

Oh, if only I might, with the sharp blade of my sword, tear aside the impenetrable veil that surrounds my tragic fate! It is impossible that in the end this shall not be done.

Tell me everything that concerns you all, because yours are the only letters I receive. Tell me of our dear children, of your own health.

I embrace you as I love you.

ALFRED.

* * * * *

_Friday, 25 January, 1895._

My dear Lucie:

Your letter of yesterday wrung my heart. The sorrow transpierced every word.

Never, surely, have two unfortunate creatures suffered as we suffer. If I had not faith in the future, if my conscience, clean and pure, did not tell me that such an error cannot exist eternally, I should, of a truth, give way to the darkest thoughts. I should despair. Once, as you know, I determined to kill myself; I yielded to your remonstrances; I have promised you to live, for you have made me realize that I have not the right to desert my post; because I am innocent I must live. But alas! if you could know how, sometimes, it is more difficult to live than to die!

But be tranquil, my darling; no matter how I am tortured I shall not belie your generous efforts. I will live ... as long as my physical strength and, above all, my moral strength hold out.

All night long I thought of you, my darling; I suffered with you. I have written to you every day since last Saturday. I hope that by this time you have received all my letters.

I do not know either on whom or on what to fix my ideas. When I look back to the past anger rises to my brain, so impossible it seems to me that everything has been thus wrested from me. When I look to the present, my plight is so wretched that my thoughts turn toward death, in which I might forget all my misery. It is only when I look forward to the future that I have a moment of consolation, for, as I have just told you, hope is all that gives me life.

Just now I gazed for several minutes at the pictures of our dear children; but I could not bear to look at them longer; my sobs strangled me. Yes, my darling, I must live. I must bear my martyrdom to the end, for the name borne by these dear little ones. Some day they must learn that this name is worthy to be honored, to be respected; they must be sure that if I hold the honor of many men below my own, there is none that I hold above it.

Ah, surely it is full time that this horrible suffering to which we are all subjected should end! I dare not think of it. Everything within me swells my heart to bursting.

I embrace you a thousand, thousand times, and our good darlings.

ALFRED.

* * * * *

_Friday, 4 o’clock._

They have given me your letter of Friday, in which you tell me that you have received my last letter. You are asked to abstain from making any reflections upon the measures taken in regard to us. Henceforth I shall no longer have the right to write to you more than twice a week. You can write to me every day. Do it, my darling, for that is the only thing that gives me courage to live. If I could not feel your warm affection, the love of all of ours, struggling with me for my honor, I should not have the courage to pursue this almost superhuman task. They still give me no letters from any of the family, and I am not permitted to write to them. The Minister is the only one who can modify this state of things.

You cannot imagine, my poor child, how unhappy I am. Night and day I think of the horrible word that is coupled with my name; there are times when my brain refuses to admit such a thing. I ask myself, in my agitated nights, if I am awake or if I sleep. Added to everything else I have no occupation by which to distract my sombre thoughts.

I kiss you a thousand times, and also all the others.

ALFRED.

* * * * *

_28 January, 1895._

My dear Lucie:

This is one of the happy days of my sad existence, because I can come to pass half an hour with you, talking to you and telling you of my life. You know that I am permitted to write to you but twice a week. I have received your two letters, of Friday and Saturday. Each time that they bring me a letter from you a ray of joy pierces to my wounded heart. What you told me in your letter of Saturday is perfectly true. Like you, I have the absolute conviction that all will be discovered, but when? You know that in the end everything is blunted, even the most heroic courage. And, then, between the courage that makes a man confront danger--no matter what danger it may be--and the courage that enables him to bear, without fainting, the worst of outrages, scorn and shame, there is a great difference. I have never lowered my head, believe it; my conscience forbade that. I have a right to look all the world in the face. But, alas! all the world cannot look into my soul, into my conscience. The fact is there, brutal and terrible. That is why each time that I receive one of your dear letters I have a ray of hope; I hope at last to hear some good news. If the Léons have come back to Paris, their impatience not letting them wait, only think how it is with me. I know that you all suffer as I do, that you partake of my anguish and my tortures, but you have your activity to distract you, a little, from this awful sorrow; while I am here, impatient, shut up alone night and day with my thoughts.

I ask myself even now how my brain has been strong enough to resist so many and so oft-repeated blows; how is it that I have not gone mad.

It is certain, my darling, that it is only your profound love which can make me still hold on to life. To have consecrated all my strength, all my intelligence, to the service of my country, and then suddenly to be accused of the greatest, the most monstrous, crime a soldier can commit--condemned for it--that is enough to disgust one with life! When my honor is given back to me--oh, may that day come soon!--then I will consecrate myself entirely to you and to our dear children.

And then think of the terrible way I have still to traverse before I shall arrive at the end of my journey--crossing the seas for sixty or eighty days under conditions so appalling. I do not speak--you know it--of the material conditions of the passage; you know that my body has never worried me much; but the moral conditions! To be during all that time before sailors, the officers of the navy--that is, before honest and loyal soldiers--who will see in me a traitor, the most abject of criminals! At the bare thought of it my heart shrinks.

I think that no innocent man in this world has ever endured the mental torments that I have already borne, that I have still to bear. So you can think that in each of your letters I search for that word of hope, so long waited for, so ardently desired.

Write to me, each day, long letters. Give me news of all the members of the family, since I do not hear from them and cannot write to them. Your letters give me, as I have already said, my only moments of happiness. You only, you alone, bind me to life.

Look backward I cannot. The tears blind me when I think of our lost happiness. I can look forward only in the supreme hope that soon the day will break, illumined with the light of truth.

Kiss them all for me; kiss our dear children. A thousand kisses for you.

ALFRED.

* * * * *

_Thursday, 31 January, 1895._

My dear Lucie:

At last the happy day is here! I can write to you. I count them, alas! my happy days.

I have not, indeed, received any letters from you since the one they gave me last Sunday. What terrible suffering! Until now I have had each day a moment of happiness in receiving your letter. It was an echo from you all--an echo of the sympathy of you all, that warmed my poor frozen heart. I used to read and re-read your letters. I absorbed each word. Little by little the written words were transformed and given a voice--it seemed to me that I could hear you speaking; that you were by my side. Oh, the delicious music that whispered to my soul! Now, for four days nothing but my dreary sorrow, the appalling solitude.

Truly I ask myself how I live. Night and day my sole companion is my brain. I have nothing to do except to weep over our misfortunes.

Last night when I thought of all my past life, of all my labor, of all that I have done in order to acquire an honorable position, ... then when I compared that with my present lot, sobs seized my throat; it seemed that my heart was being torn asunder; and, so that my guards should not hear me--I was so ashamed of my weakness--I stifled my sobs with the coverings of my bed.

Oh, it is too cruel!

How I prove to-day by my own experience that it is sometimes harder to live than to die!

To die would be to pass a moment of suffering; but it would be to forget all my woes, all my tortures.

On the other hand, to carry each day the weight of suffering, to feel the heart bleed, and to endure this torment in every nerve, to feel every fibre of my being tremble, to suffer the undying martyrdom of the heart, this is terrible.

But I have not the right to die. We have none of us that right. We shall have it only after the truth shall have been brought to light; only when my honor shall have been given back to me. Until then we must live. I bend every effort to this task, to live. I try to annihilate in me all my intellectual part, all that is sensible of suffering, so that I may live, like a beast, preoccupied with the satisfying of its material needs.

When shall this martyrdom come to an end? When will men recognize the truth?

How are our poor darlings? When I think of them it is a torrent of tears. And you, I hope that you are well. You must take care of your health, my darling. The children first of all, and then the mission which you have to fulfill, impose upon you duties which you cannot neglect.

Forgive the disconnected and wandering style of my writing. I no longer know how to write; the words will not come to me, my brain is shattered. There is but one fixed idea in my mind--the hope of some day knowing the truth, of seeing my innocence recognized and proclaimed. That is what I mutter night and day, in my dreams as in my waking hours.

When shall I be able to embrace you and recover in your deep love the strength I need to carry me to the end of my calvary?

Embrace every one for me.

Kisses for the darlings.

I embrace you as I love you.

ALFRED.

* * * * *

_Sunday, 3 February, 1895._

My Darling:

I have passed an atrocious week. I have been without a word from you since last Sunday--that is to say, for eight days. I thought that you must be sick, then that one of the children was sick, then, in my reeling brain, I conjured up all kinds of suppositions--I imagined everything.

You can realize, my darling, all that I have suffered, all that I still suffer. In my horrible solitude, in the tragic situation in which events as unnatural as they are incomprehensible have placed me, I had at least one consolation; it was to feel that you were near me, your heart beating in unison with mine and sharing all my tortures.

The night between Thursday and Friday, above all, was appalling. I will not tell you about it; it would rend your heart. All that I can tell you is that my mind kept going over and over the accusation they had brought against me. I told myself that the thing was impossible.... Then I aroused myself, and I realized the sad truth of it all.

Oh, why cannot they open my heart and read there as one reads in an open book; there, at least, they would see the sentiments which I have always professed and which I still hold. No, no, it seems to me impossible that all this is to endure eternally. Some day the truth must come to light. By an unheard-of effort of the will I regained my self-control; I told myself that I could neither go down into my grave nor go mad with a dishonored name. I must live then, whatever may be the torture of soul to which I am a prey.

Oh, this opprobrium, this infamy covering my name! When will they be taken away?

May it come, the blessed day when my innocence is recognized! when they give me back that honor that never failed me! I am tired of suffering.

Let them take my blood, let them do what they will with my body, ... you know that I do not care a straw for that; ... but let them give me back my honor.

Will no one hear this cry of despair, this cry of an innocent wretch who begs only for justice--only justice?

Each day I hope that the hour is at hand, that men are now to recognize what I have been, what I am--a loyal soldier, worthy to lead the soldiers of France under fire. Then the night comes, and nothing, still nothing.

Add to this that I received no letter from you; that I am absolutely alone with my torture of soul, and you can judge of my condition. But be reassured, I am strong again. I have called myself a coward; I have told myself all that you yourself could have told me were you at my side; an innocent man has never the right to despair. Then, though I have no news of you, I feel that all your hearts, all your souls, are throbbing in unison with my heart and with my soul; that you suffer with me the infamy that covers my name and that you are endeavoring to wipe it out. When can you come to pass some hours with me? How happy I should be could I but draw new strength from your heart!

Shall I have a letter from you to-day? I dare not hope too much, since each day my hope is deferred, and at each disappointment the suffering is too great.

Well, my darling, what can I tell you? I live by hope. Night and day I see before me, like a brilliant star, the moment when all shall be forgotten, when my honor shall be given back to me.

Kiss my darlings tenderly, most tenderly, for me.

I send kisses for all the members of our families.

As for you, I embrace you, as I love you, with all my strength.

ALFRED.

* * * * *

_Thursday, 7 February, 1895._

My good Lucie:

On Sunday I received a package of fifteen letters all dated before Sunday, January 27. Thank all the members of the family for their warm affection, which I have never doubted. I am still without news of you for more than ten days. To tell you my tortures is impossible.

To find myself thus confronted by soldiers whom yesterday I was so proud to command, whom I am as worthy to command to-day, and who see in me the lowest of wretches--oh, it is appalling! At the very thought my heart stops its beating.

My story is too horrible, my brain can bear no more.

I have been able to resist thus far because my heart, honest and pure, told me that it was my duty; that my innocence, so complete and so absolute, must soon be made manifest; but this long-continued outrage is heart-breaking.

I would rather have stood before the execution squad; at least then there could have been no possible discussion, and you could afterward have rehabilitated my memory.

But do not fear that I shall ever attempt to take my life. I have promised you never to do it, and you know that I have but one word. Therefore do not be anxious in regard to that. But how far will my strength carry me, how long will my heart continue to beat in this atmosphere of scorn, I, so proud of my stainless honor, I, so haughty, that is what I cannot tell!

Ah, if there were nothing worse than bodily torture to be borne, if it were only that I must suffer, waiting for the truth, I should be strong enough to bear this appalling martyrdom. But to bear scorn, ... and for so long, ... it is horrible!

I do not believe that there has ever been an innocent man who has endured tortures to be compared to mine.

As for you, my poor and well-beloved wife, you must keep all your courage and all your energy. It is in the name of our profound love that I beg you to do this, for you must be there to wash away from my name the stain with which it has been sullied. You must be there to bring up our children to be brave and honorable. You must be there to tell them, one day, what their father was--a brave and loyal soldier, crushed by an appalling fatality.

Shall I have news of you to-day? When shall I be told that I may have the pleasure and the joy of embracing you? Each day I hope it, and nothing comes to lighten the burden of my horrible agony.

Courage, my darling, you need so much of it--so much! You all need it, all of our two families. You have not the right to let yourself break down, for you have a great mission to fulfill, no matter what may become of me. Give them all my love; embrace our two poor darlings tenderly for me, and receive for yourself the tenderest kisses of him who loves you so dearly.

ALFRED.

* * * * *

_Sunday, 10 February, 1895._

My dear Lucie:

I received, Friday evening, your letters up to and including that of the 2d of February. I saw with pleasure that you are all well. I hope that you have received my letters. I shall not speak to you of myself; you must understand the slow agony of my heart. But it will serve no purpose to complain. What you need, what you must all have, is steadfast courage. You must not allow yourself to be beaten down by adversity, however terrible it may be.

You must succeed in proving throughout the length and breadth of France that I was a worthy and a loyal soldier, who loved his country above everything, who served it with devotion always.

That is the principal, the essential object, far above my own being, my personal fate. There is a name that must be washed free from the stain with which it has been sullied, a name, until now pure and spotless, that must shine again as pure as in former days. It is the name that our dear children bear, and that in itself should give you all the necessary courage.

I thank you for all the news you give me of our friends. I, too, regret that I cannot write to them. You know how dearly I love them all. Kiss my relations tenderly for me, your dear family and mine. Tell them what I think, what I would convince you of; it is that I personally am only the secondary consideration, that there is a name to be cleansed from dishonor.

No one must falter until this supreme task has been accomplished. To speak to you of the condition I am in is useless. As I said above, your heart tells you far better than my pen could tell. I will go on as long as my heart still beats, having before me night and day the supreme hope that the place that I deserve will be restored to me.

You see, darling, a man of honor cannot live without his honor. It does no good to tell himself that he is innocent; it is an unceasing gnawing of the heart. In solitude the hours are long, and my mind cannot comprehend all that has come upon me. Never could a romancer, however rich his imagination, have written a story more tragic.

I am convinced, as you are, that sooner or later the truth will come to light. The just cause always triumphs; but when that day comes what shall my condition be? It is that that I cannot tell.... There is always my aching heart, which from morning till night, and from night till morning, beats as if to burst.

I hope that they will let me kiss you at least before I set out upon my journey.

I thank you for all you tell me about the children. You must bring them up seriously and give them a thorough education; be as careful of their bodies as you are of their minds and hearts. I know what you are; I have no uneasiness on this score. Indeed, I know that you will bring them up to be generous and noble souls, eager for all that is good and beautiful, marching forward always in the way of duty.

Kiss the good darlings for me a thousand, thousand times.

I pray you give every one my love. Receive the most ardent kisses of your husband, who loves you, who lives only in the thought of you.

ALFRED.

* * * * *

_14 February, 1895._

My dear Lucie:

The few minutes that I passed with you were very sweet to me, although it was impossible for me to tell you all that I had within my heart.

My time passed while I looked at you, trying to impress your image upon my very being, asking myself by what inconceivable fatality I was separated from you.

Some day when they will tell my story it will seem unbelievable. But what we must tell ourselves now is that I must be rehabilitated. My name must shine anew with all the lustre it should never have lost. I would rather see my children dead than think that the name which they bear is a dishonored one.

This is a vital question for us all. It is not possible to live without honor. I cannot tell you this often enough.

I shall soon come to a new station on my dolorous way.

I do not fear bodily suffering; but oh, my God, that I might be spared the torture of my soul! I am tired of feeling that my name is scorned--I, so proud, so uplifted, just because my name was above reproach; I, who had the right to look the whole world in the face. I live only in the hope of seeing my name soon cleansed from this horrible stain. You have again given me back my courage. Your noble abnegation, your heroic devotion, give me renewed strength to bear my terrible martyrdom.

I shall not tell you that I love you yet more; you know how profound my love is for you. It is that love that enables me to bear my tortures of mind. It is the love of all of you for me.

Embrace them all tenderly for me, the members of our two families, your dear parents, our children, and, for yourself, receive the best, the tenderest kisses of your devoted husband.

ALFRED.

* * * * *

_21 February, 1895._

My dear Lucie:

When I see you the time is so short, I am so distracted at seeing the hour slipping away with a rapidity that I cannot realize--the hours at other times seem so horribly long to me--that I forget to tell you half of all that I had prepared in my imagination.

I wanted to ask you if the journey had not fatigued you, if the sea had been kind to you. I wanted to tell you all the admiration I feel for your noble character, for your incomparable devotion. More than one woman must have lost her mind amidst the repeated shocks of a lot so cruel, so undeserved.

I wanted to speak to you a long time of our children, of their health, their daily life. I wanted also to beg of you to thank all our families for their devotion to my cause--the cause of an innocent man--to ask you about their health. It would take a long day to exhaust all these subjects, and our minutes are numbered. Well, we must hope that the happy days are coming back to us, for it is impossible, it is contrary to human reason, to believe that they will not in the end put their hands upon the one who is really guilty.

As I have told you, I will do all in my power to conquer the beating of my sick heart, to bear this horrible and long martyrdom, so that I may live to see with you the happy light of the day of rehabilitation.

I will bear without a groan the natural scorn rightly inspired by the sight of the creature I represent. I will suppress the convulsions of my being against a lot so terrible, so appalling.

Oh, this scorn that shrouds my name, how it tortures me! My pen cannot express such suffering.

I ask myself how a man who has really forfeited his honor can continue to live. But I live only because my conscience is clear, because I hope that soon all is to be discovered; that the true criminal will be punished for his odious crime, that they will at last give me back my honor.

When I am gone write me long letters. I am thinking of the moment when you all can write to me and when I shall receive news from all the members of our families.

The first time you are sending me anything, will you please send me the Ollendorf method which I have had a chance to try here, and which I think preferable to that of your teacher? Send with it the corrected exercises, which form a separate volume, and which will also be my teacher.

Embrace our darlings tenderly for me, your parents, all whom you see, and receive the affectionate kisses of your devoted

ALFRED.

* * * * *

1895--1896--1897--1898.

ILES DU SALUT.

_Tuesday, 12 March, 1895._

My dear Lucie:

Thursday, the 21st of February, some hours after your departure, I was taken to Rochefort and put on shipboard.

I shall not speak to you of my voyage; I was transported in the manner in which the vile scoundrel whom I represent deserved to be transported. It was only just. They could not accord any pity to a traitor, the lowest of blackguards; and as long as I represent this wretch I can only approve their conduct.

My life here must drag itself out under the same conditions.

But your heart can tell you all that I have suffered--all that I suffer. I live only through the hope in my soul of soon seeing the triumphant light of my rehabilitation. That is the only thing that gives me strength to live. Without honor a man is not worthy of life.

On the day of my departure you assured me that the truth would surely come soon to light. I have lived during that awful voyage, I am living now, only on that word of yours--remember it well. I have been disembarked but a few minutes, and I have obtained permission to send you a cablegram.

I write in haste these few words, which will leave on the 15th by the English mail. It solaces me to have a talk with you, whom I love so profoundly. There are two mails a month for France--the 15th the English, and the 3d the French mail.

And in the same way there are two mails a month for the Isles--the English mail and the French mail. Find out the days of their departure and write to me by both of them.

All that I can tell you more is that if you want me to live have my honor given back to me. Convictions, whatever they may be, do nothing for me; they do not change my lot. What is necessary is a decision which will reinstate me.

I made for your sake the greatest sacrifice a man can make in resigning myself to live after my tragic fate was decided. I did this because you had inculcated in me the conviction that the truth must always come to light. In your turn, my darling, do all that is humanly possible to discover the truth. A wife and a mother yourself, try to move the hearts of wives and mothers, so that they may give up to you the key of this dreadful mystery. I must have my honor if you want me to live. I must have it for our dear children. Do not reason with your heart; that does no good. I have been convicted. Nothing can be changed in our tragic situation until the decision shall have been reversed. Reflect, then, and pursue the solution of this enigma. That will be worth more than coming here to share my horrible life. It will be the best, the only means of saving my life. Say to yourself that it is a question of life or death for me, for our children.

I am incapable of writing to you all. My brain will bear no more; my despair is too great. My nervous system is in a deplorable condition, and it is full time that this horrible tragedy should end.

Now my spirit alone is above water.

Oh, for God’s sake, hurry, work with all your might!

Tell them all to write to me.

Embrace them all for me; our poor darlings, too.

And for you a thousand tender kisses from your devoted husband,

ALFRED.

When you have some good news to announce to me send me a dispatch. I am waiting for it day by day as for the Messiah.

* * * * *

_15 March, 1895._

My Darling:

As I cannot send this letter until to-day I hasten to talk to you a little longer. I shall not speak of my appalling tortures; you know them and you share them with me.

My situation here is what it was before; be sure that I shall not be able to endure it long; it seems impracticable for you to come to join me. Moreover, as I told you yesterday, if you wish to save my life there is something better for you to do; have my honor given back to me--the honor of my name, the honor of the name of our poor children.

In my horrible distress I pass my time in mentally repeating the words you spoke the day of my departure--your absolute certainty of arriving at the truth. Otherwise it would be death for me, and that soon; for without my honor I could not live. I have surmounted everything only because of my conscience alone, and because of the hope you have given me that the truth will be discovered. Were this hope dead I, too, should die.

Say to yourself, therefore, my darling, that you must succeed, and that as soon as possible, in giving me back my honor. I cannot bear much longer this atmosphere of scorn, legitimate enough, which is all around me.

Upon your efforts depends my honor, and that is to say my life--the honor of our poor children, too. You must then attempt everything, try everything, to reach the truth, whether I live or die, for your mission has a higher object than my fate.

I embrace you as I love you.

ALFRED.

* * * * *

_20 March, 1895._

My dear Lucie:

My letter will be short, for I do not wish to rend your soul; moreover, my sufferings are yours.

I cannot do more than repeat what I said in the letter that I wrote to you the 13th of this month. The more you hasten my rehabilitation the more you will abridge my martyrdom.

I have done for you more than the deepest love can inspire. I have endured the worst tortures to which a man of spirit can be subjected. Now it is your turn to do the impossible, to restore to me my honor, if you wish me to live.

My condition here is not yet definite; I am still in close confinement.

I will not speak to you of my material life, that is indifferent to me; physical miseries are nothing, whatever they may be. I wish for but one thing, and of that I dream night and day; with that my brain is always haunted; it is that they shall give me back the honor that never failed me.

As yet they have not given me the books that I brought; they are awaiting orders.

Always send me the reviews by the first post. Then, my darling, if you want me to live, have my honor given back to me as soon as possible; my martyrdom cannot be borne indefinitely. I think that I ought to tell you the truth rather than to calm you with deceitful illusions. We must look the situation in the face. I have been persuaded to live only because you have inculcated in my mind the conviction that innocence always makes itself known. My innocence must be made manifest not only for my sake, but for the children’s, for you all.

Embrace the darlings, embrace every one for me, and a thousand kisses for yourself.

ALFRED.

As letters will be very long in reaching me, send me a dispatch when you have good news to announce to me. My life hangs upon this expectation. Think of all that I am suffering.

* * * * *

_28 March, 1895._

I was hoping to receive news of you at about this time; as yet I have heard nothing. I have already written you two letters.

I know nothing as yet beyond the four walls of my chamber. As for my health, it could not be very brilliant. Aside from my physical miseries, of which I speak only to cite them, the cause of this condition of my health lies chiefly in the disorder of my nervous system, produced by an uninterrupted succession of moral shocks.

You know that no matter how severe they might be at times, physical sufferings never wrung a groan from me, and that I could look death coolly in the face if only my mental sufferings did not darken my thoughts.

My mind cannot extricate itself for an instant from the horrible drama of which I am the victim, a tragedy which has struck a blow not only at my life--that is the least of evils, and truly it would have been better had the wretch who committed the crime killed me instead of wounding me as he has--but at my honor, the honor of my children, the honor of you all.

This piercing thought of my honor torn from me leaves me no rest either by day or by night. My nights, alas! you can imagine what they are! Formerly it was only sleeplessness, now the greater part of the night is passed in such a state of hallucination and of fever that I ask myself each morning how my brain still resists. This is one of the most cruel of all my sufferings. Add to this the long hours of the day passed in solitary communion with my thoughts, in the most absolute isolation.

Is it possible to rise above such preoccupation of the mind? Is it possible to force the mind to turn aside to other subjects of thought? I do not believe it; at least I cannot. When one is in this, the most agitating, the most tragic, plight that can possibly be conceived for a man whose honor has never failed him, nothing can turn the mind from the idea which dominates it.

Then when I think of you, of our dear children, my grief is unutterable; for the weight of the crime which some wretch has committed weighs heavily upon you also. You must, therefore, for our children’s sake, pursue without truce, without rest, the work you have undertaken, and you must make my innocence burst forth in such a way that no doubt can be left in the mind of any human being. Whoever may be the persons who are convinced of my innocence, tell yourself that they will change nothing in our position; we often pay ourselves in words and nourish ourselves on illusions; nothing but my rehabilitation can save us.

You see, then, what I cannot cease reiterating to you, that it is a matter of life or of death, not only for me, but for our children. For myself I never will accept life without my honor. To say that an innocent man ought to live, that he always can live, is a commonplace whose triteness drives me to despair.

I used to say it and I used to believe it. Now that I have suffered all this myself, I declare that if a man has any spirit he cannot live under such circumstances. Life is admissible only when he can lift his head and look the world in the face; otherwise, there is nothing left for him but to die. To live for the sake of living is simply low and cowardly.

I am sure that in this you think as I do; any other opinion would be unworthy of us.

The situation, already so tragic, becomes each day more tense. You have not to weep, not to groan, but to face it with all your energy and with all your soul. To make clear this situation, we must not wait for a happy chance, but we must display all-absorbing activity. Knock at all doors. We must employ all means to make the light burst forth. All forms of investigation must be tried; the object we have in view is my life, the life of every one of us.

Here is a very clear bulletin of my state, moral and physical. I will sum it up:

A pitiable nervous and cervical condition, but extreme moral energy, outstretched toward the one object, which, no matter what the price, no matter by what means, we must attain--vindication. I will leave you to judge from this what struggles I am each day forced to make to keep myself from choosing death rather than this slow agony in every fibre of my being, rather than this torture of every instinct, in which physical suffering is added to agony of soul. You see that I am holding to my promise that I made you to struggle to live until the day of my rehabilitation. It remains for you to do the rest if you would have me reach that day.

Then away with weakness. Tell yourself that I am suffering martyrdom, that each day my brain is growing weaker; tell yourself that it is a question of my honor--that is to say, of my life, of the honor of your children. Let these thoughts inspire you, and then act accordingly.

Embrace every one, the children, for me.

A thousand kisses from your husband, who loves you.

ALFRED.