Chapter IV: Part 4

How are the children? Give me news of them. I cannot think of you and of them without throbs of pain through my whole being. I would breathe into your soul all the fire that is in my own, to march forward to the assault that is to liberate the truth. I would convince you of the absolute necessity of unmasking the one who is guilty by every means, whatever it may be, and above all without delay.

Send me a few books.

* * * * *

_27 April, 1895._

My dear Lucie:

A few more lines so that you may know that I am still living, and to send you the echo of my immense affection.

However great may be our grief, your grief and mine, I can only tell you always to surmount it in order to pursue the rehabilitation with indomitable perseverance.

Preserve at all times the calmness and the dignity which befit our misfortune, so great and so undeserved; but keep on working to restore to me my honor, the honor of the name which my dear children bear.

Let no setback rebuff you or discourage you; search out, if you think it useful, the members of the government, move their hearts, as fathers and as Frenchmen. Tell them that you ask for me no mercy, no pity, but only that the investigations may be absolutely thorough.

In spite of a combination of sufferings, physical as well as mental, which are at times terrible, I feel that my duty to you, to our dear children, is to resist to the limit of my strength and to protest my innocence with my last breath.

But if there is such a thing as justice in this world, it seems impossible to me, my reason refuses to believe, that we shall not recover the happiness which ought never to have been torn from us.

Truly, under the influence of extreme nervous excitement, or of a great physical depression, at times I write you feverish, excited letters; but who would not yield sometimes to such attacks of mental aberration, such revolts of the heart and soul, in a situation as tragic, as narrowing as ours? And if I urge you to hasten, it is because I long to be with you on that day of triumph when my innocence shall be recognized; and then when I am always alone, in solitude, given over to my sad thoughts, without news for more than two months of you, of the children, of all those who are dear to me, to whom should I confide the sufferings of my heart if not to you, the confidant of all my thoughts?

I suffer not for myself only, but yet more deeply for you, for our dear children. It is from them, my darling, that you must draw the moral strength, the superhuman energy which you need to succeed in making our honor appear again to every one, no matter at what price, what it has always been, pure and spotless.

But I know you. I know the greatness of your soul. I have confidence in you.

I am still without letters from you; as for me, this is the fifth letter that I have written. Kiss every one for me. A thousand fond kisses for you, for our dear children.

Tell me all about them.

ALFRED.

* * * * *

_Wednesday, 8 May, 1895._

My dear Lucie:

Though I cannot send this letter before the 18th, I begin it to-day, so much do I feel the unconquerable need of talking with you.

It seems to me when I write to you that the distance is lessened. I see before me your beloved face and I feel that you are near me. It is a weakness. I know it; for in spite of myself the echo of my sufferings shows itself sometimes in my letters, and your sufferings are great enough without my continuing to tell you of mine. But I should like to see in my place the philosophers and psychologists who sit tranquilly in their chimney corners, offering their opinions upon the calmness and the serenity which should be shown by an innocent man.

A profound silence reigns around me, interrupted only by the roaring of the sea; and my thoughts, crossing the distance which separates us, carry me to your midst, among all those who are dear to me, whose thoughts must of a truth be often turned toward me. Often I ask at such an hour, “What is my dear Lucie doing?” and I send you by my thoughts the echo of my immense affection. Then I close my eyes, and it seems to me that I see your face and the faces of my dear children. I am still without letters from you, with the exception of those of the 16th and 17th of February, still addressed to the Ile de Ré. For three months now I have been without news of you, of the children, of our families.

I believe that I have already told you that I advised you to ask permission to leave your letters at the Ministry eight or ten days before the departure of the mails; perhaps in that way I shall receive them sooner. But, my good darling, forget all my sufferings, overcome your own, and think of our children. Say to yourself that you have a sacred mission to fulfill, that of having my honor given back to me, the honor of the name borne by our dear little ones. Moreover, I recall to my mind what you told me before my departure. I know, as you repeated to me in your letter of the 17th of February, what the words of your mouth are worth. I have an absolute confidence in you.

Then do not weep any more, my good darling; I will struggle until the last minute for you, for our dear children.

The body may give way under such a burden of grief, but the soul should remain firm and valiant, to protest against a lot that we have not deserved. When my honor is given back to me, then only, my good darling, we shall have the right to withdraw from the field. We will live for each other, far from the noise of the world; we will take refuge in our mutual affection, in our love, grown still stronger in these tragical events. We will sustain each other, that we may bind up the wounds of our hearts; we will live in our children, to whom we will consecrate the remainder of our days. We will try to make them good, simple beings, strong in body and mind. We will elevate their souls so that they may always find in them a refuge from the realities of life.

May this day come soon, for we have all paid our tribute of sufferings upon this earth! Courage, then, my darling; be strong and valiant; carry on your work without weakness, with dignity, but with the conviction of your rights. I am going to lie down, to close my eyes and think of you. Good night and a thousand kisses.

* * * * *

_12 May, 1895._

I continue this letter, for I wish to share with you all my thoughts as fast as they come into my mind. In my solitude I have the time to reflect deeply.

Indeed, the mothers who watch at the bedside of their sick children, for whom with ferocious energy they wrestle with death, have not so much need of a brave heart as have you; for it is more than the life of your children which you have to defend, it is their honor. But I know that you are fitted for this noble task.

So, my dear Lucie, I ask you to forgive me if at times I have added to your grief by my complainings, by showing a feverish impatience to see at last the light shining in upon this mystery, against which my reason battles in vain. But you know my nervous temperament, my hasty, passionate disposition. It seemed to me that all must be immediately discovered, that it was impossible that the truth should not be at once fully revealed. Each morning I arose with that hope and each night I went to my bed again a victim of the same deception. I thought only of my own tortures, and I forgot that you must suffer as much as I.

And this awful crime of some unknown wretch strikes not only at me, but it strikes also, and more than all, our two dear children. This is why we must conquer all our sufferings. It is not enough to give our children life; we must dower them with honor, without which life is not possible. I know your sentiments; I know that you think as I do. Courage, then, dear wife. I will struggle as you are struggling and sustain you with all my energy, because in the face of such an absolute necessity all else should be forgotten. We must, for the sake of our dear little Pierre, for the sake of our dear little Jeanne.

I know how marvellous you have been in your devotion, your grandeur of soul, in the tragic events just past.

Fight on, then, my dear Lucie. My confidence in you is absolute. My deep affection will recompense you some day for all the pains you are enduring so nobly.

* * * * *

_18 May, 1895._

I am ending to-day this letter which will carry you a part of myself and the expression of the thoughts over which I have pondered deeply in the sepulchral silence that surrounds me.

I have thought too often of myself; not enough of you, of the children. Your suffering, that of our families, is as great as mine. Our hearts must be lifted high above it all, so that we shall see only the end which we must attain--our honor!

I will stand upright as long as my strength permits, to sustain you with all my ardor, with all the depth of my love.

Courage, then, dear Lucie--courage and perseverance. We have our little ones to defend.

Embrace our brothers and sisters for me; tell them that I have received the letters addressed to the Ile de Ré, and that I shall write to them soon.

For you my fondest kisses.

ALFRED.

I forgot to tell you that I received yesterday the two reviews of March 15, but nothing else.

* * * * *

Dear little Pierre:

Papa sends good big kisses to you, also to little Jeanne. Papa thinks often of both of you. You must show little Jeanne how to make beautiful towers with the wooden blocks, very high, such as I made for you, and which toppled down so well. Be very good. Give good caresses to your mamma when she is sorrowful. Be very gentle and kind also to grandmother and grandfather. Set good, little traps for your aunts. When papa comes back from his journey you will come to the railway station to meet him, with little Jeanne, with mamma, with every one.

More good big kisses for you and for Jeanne. Your

PAPA.

* * * * *

_27 May, 1895._

My dear Lucie:

I profit by each mail to Cayenne to write to you, because I want to give you news of me as often as possible. During the month I wrote you a long letter. I sent it on the 18th.

Although I have not heard from you since my departure--all the letters having been dated earlier than our last interview--I am hoping that by the time that you receive this letter the denouement of our tragic story will be at hand.

However that may be, I cry to you always with all the strength of my soul: Courage and perseverance!

My nerves often get the better of me, but my moral energy remains unshaken; it is to-day greater than ever.

Let us, then, arm our hearts against every feeling of anxiety or grief; let us conquer our sufferings and our miseries, so that we may see nothing before us but the supreme object--our honor, the honor of our children! Everything should be effaced by that.

Then, still, courage, my dear Lucie. I will sustain you with all my energy, with all the strength that my innocence gives me, with all the longing that I have, to see the light shine out, full, perfect, absolute, as it must shine, for our sakes, for that of our children, of our two families.

Good kisses for the dear little ones.

I embrace you as I love you.

ALFRED.

* * * * *

_3 June, 1895._

My dear Lucie:

Still no letters from you, nor from any one. Since my departure I have had no tidings of you, of our children, nor of any of the family.

You may have seen by my letters the successive crises through which I have passed. But for the moment let us forget the past. We will speak of our sufferings when we are happy again.

I do not know anything of what is passing around me, I live as in a tomb. I am incapable of deciphering in my brain this appalling enigma. All that I can do, then, and I shall not fail in this duty, is to sustain you to my last breath--is to continue to fan in your heart the flame which glows in mine, so that you may march straight forward to the conquest of the truth, so that you may get me back my honor, the honor of my children. You remember those lines of Shakespeare, in Othello. I found them again not long since among my English books. I send them to you translated (you will know why!).

“Celui qui me vole ma bourse,[C]
Me vole une bagatelle
C’est quelque chose, mais ce n’est rien.
Elle était a moi, elle est à lui et,
A était I’esclave de mille autres.
Mais celui qui me vole ma bonne renommée,
Me vole une chose qui ni l’enrichit pas,
Et qui me rend vraiment pauvre.”

Ah, yes! he has rendered me “_vraiment pauvre_, “the wretch who has stolen my honor! He has made us more miserable than the meanest of human creatures. But to each one his hour. Courage, then, dear Lucie; preserve the unconquerable will that you have shown until now; draw from your children the superhuman energy that triumphs over everything. Indeed, I have no doubt whatever that you will succeed, and I hope that this sinister tragedy is soon to end and that my innocence is at last to be recognized. What more can I tell you, my dear Lucie--what can I say that I have not told you in each one of my letters? My profound admiration for the courage, the heart, the character, that you have shown in such tragic circumstances; the absolute necessity, which supersedes everything, all interests, even our lives, of proving my innocence in such a way that not a doubt can remain in the mind of any one--the necessity of doing everything noiselessly, but with a determination that nothing can check.

I hope that you receive my letters; this is the ninth that I have written to you.

Embrace all the family; embrace our dear children for me, and receive for yourself the fondest kisses of your devoted

ALFRED.

As you see, my dear Lucie, I hope that when you receive these last letters the truth shall not be far from being known and that we shall enjoy again the happiness that was our lot until now.

* * * * *

_11 June, 1895._

My dear Lucie:

Yesterday I received all your letters up to the 7th of March--that is to say the first which you addressed to me here--also the letter of your mother and the letters of your brothers and sisters, dating from the same time.

I wish to answer you while I am still under the spell of them. First of all I must speak to you of the immense joy I felt in reading the words written by your hand. It was something of yourself, a part of you, which had sought me out; it was your good, noble heart come to warm and revive mine.

I saw also in your letters what I had already felt--how you all have suffered in this horrible tragedy which has come upon us, surprising us in our happiness and tearing from us our honor. This one word tells everything, it sums up all our tortures--mine and yours.

I know that from the day when I promised you to live, to wait for the truth to be revealed, for justice to be done me, I ought not to have faltered. I ought to have silenced the voice of my heart; I ought to have waited patiently, but how could I? I had not the strength of soul.

The blow was too heavy. All within me revolted at the thought of the odious crime for which I had been condemned. My heart will bleed as long as this mantle of infamy weighs upon my shoulders.

But I ask you to forgive me if I have sometimes written you excited or complaining letters, that must have augmented your immense grief. Your heart and mine beat as one.

Be sure, then, my dear and good Lucie, that I shall resist with all my strength, so that I may reach the day when my happiness shall be given back to me. I hope that that day may come soon; until then we must look straight before us.

The news, too, you give me of our dear children has given me pleasure. Make them spend a great deal of time in the open air. Just now you must think only of giving them health and strength.

Courage then, still, dear Lucie; be strong and valiant. May my profound love sustain and guide you. My thoughts do not leave you for an instant, night or day.

Give news of me to all the family; thank them all for their good and affectionate letters. I have not the courage to answer them, and of what could I speak to them? I have but one thought, always the same--that of seeing the day when my honor shall be given back to me. I am always hoping that that day is near.

Embrace all your dear relations, the children, all our family, for me.

As for you, I embrace you with all the strength of my heart.

ALFRED.

It is useless to send me anything in the way either of linen or of food. I received some preserves from Cayenne yesterday and I also asked for some linen which I need. They have given me the _Revue des Deux Mondes_, the _Revue de Paris_, and the _Revue Rose_. Continue to send them to me; you may also send a few light novels.

* * * * *

_15 June, 1895, Saturday evening._

My dear Lucie:

I have already written to you, some days ago, on the receipt of your letters of the beginning of March, and my intention had been to send you, by this mail, only a few words of deep affection, for what can I tell you that I have not already told you again and again in all my letters? But in reading your dear letters, in re-reading them every day, I have felt each time I read them, for a moment, a lightening of my load of sorrow. It seemed to me that you were all near me and that I felt your hearts beating in sympathy with mine.

Sure that you have this same feeling, I yield to the impulse of my heart, which longs to do everything to bring some relief to your horrible sorrow. It is contrary to reason; I know it, for reason tells me to be calm and patient, that the light of truth will shine out, that it is impossible that it should be otherwise in the age in which we live; but yet when I write to you it is my heart that speaks, and then in spite of myself everything within me revolts against the appalling accusation so opposed to every feeling of our hearts, for to us honor is everything. I feel within me such a fever of combat, such power of energy to rend the impenetrable mantle that weighs me down, that still envelops this whole affair, that I am always longing to instill them into your souls, although I realize that the sentiments of you all are the same as my own. It is a useless outbreak, and I know it; but you know equally well that all my feelings are violent and deep. My heart bleeds for all that it holds most dear; it bleeds for you and it bleeds for our dear children, and that is to reiterate to you, my dear Lucie, that it is the longing I have to see the name you bear, that our dear children bear, once more as it has always been, pure, without a stain--it is this longing that gives me the strength to overcome all.

I live absorbed in myself. I neither see nor hear what passes around me. My brain alone still lives and all my thoughts are concentrated on you, on our dear children, on waiting until my honor is given back to me.

Then still hold to your splendid courage, my dear Lucie. I hope that we shall soon find the happiness which we used to enjoy and which we shall enjoy even more after this appalling trial, the most awful that a man can bear.

I embrace you with all my strength.

ALFRED.

* * * * *

_16 June, 1895, Sunday._

I continue my letter, always to the same end. Then, too, it is a happy moment for me when I come to talk with you; not that I have anything of interest to tell you, since I am living alone with my thoughts, but because, then, I feel that I am near to you. I can only tell you my thoughts just as they present themselves to me.

To-day a more peculiarly intimate sadness invades my soul, because on this day, Sunday, we used to be together all day and we used to end it with your dear parents. But my heart, my conscience, and my reason, too, tell me that these happy days will return to us. I cannot admit that an innocent man can be left to expiate indefinitely, for a guilty wretch, a crime as abominable as it is odious; and then, to sum it up in one word, what must give you, as it gives me, unconquerable energy, is the thought of our children, as I have already told you before, for ideas which emanate from such a subject must, from their nature, repeat themselves. We must have our honor, and we have not the right to be weak; without it, it would be better to see our children die.

As for our sufferings, we all suffer alike. Do you think that I do not feel what you suffer--you, who are struck doubly, in your honor and in your love? Do you believe that I do not feel how your parents suffer, your brothers and your sisters, for whom honor is not an empty word? But I hope that our anguish is to have an end, and that that end is near. Until that day we must guard all our courage, all our energy.

Thank Mathieu for those few words he wrote to me. How the poor boy must suffer; he who is honor incarnate! But tell him that I am with him in thought--that our two hearts suffer together. There are moments when I think that I am the plaything of a horrible nightmare; that all this is unreal; that it is only a bad dream; but it is, alas! the truth. But for the moment we ought to put aside every weakening thought. We ought to fix our eyes upon one single object: our honor. When that is returned to me, and when I know the meaning of what is now for me an unsolvable problem, perhaps I shall understand this enigma which baffles my reason, which leaves my brain panting.

I will wait, then, for that moment, sure that it will come. I wish for us all that it may come soon; I even _hope_ it, so immovable is my faith in justice. Mystery has no place in our century. Everything is brought to light, and must be brought to light.

My Sunday has seemed less long to me, my dear Lucie, because in this way I have been able to talk with you. As for our children, I have no advice to give you. I know you; our ideas on this subject are alike, both in regard to their bringing up and in regard to their education. Courage always, dear Lucie, and a thousand kisses. Do not forget that I am answering letters dated three months ago, and that my replies may therefore seem out of date to you.

ALFRED.

* * * * *

_Friday, 21 June. 1895._

Dear Lucie:

I will continue our conversation, since it is now the only ray of happiness that we can enjoy. It is probable, and I hope it, that these reflections have nothing in common with the present state of affairs. Between the time when you will receive this letter and the date on which you wrote yours, there will be an interval of more than five months; in such a length of time the truth might well make great strides.

Like you, like you all, I am, I have been always, convinced that in time all will be discovered.

If I have wavered at times, it has been under the burden of atrocious moral suffering while anxiously waiting to know, at last, the solution of the riddle which absolutely baffles me.

You must understand through the feeling of reserve that keeps me from speaking to you on any aspect of my life here. Moreover, the only thoughts that agitate me are those that I tell to you; for the rest I live like a machine, unconscious of its movement.

It happens to me at times--and you, too, must feel this--when I am wide awake, and in spite of all that surrounds me, I stand bewildered, repeating to myself: “No, all that did not happen; it cannot be possible; it is a fiction; it is not reality!” I cannot explain to myself this passing inertia of the brain in any way other than by the impassable distance that lies between the innocence in my conscience and my present life. Nor can you picture to yourself what relief this long conversation with you brings to me. I dare not even read over my letter, so afraid am I to find in it repeatedly the same ideas expressed perhaps in exactly the same way; but for you, as for me, true pleasure consists in reading what the other has written.

When my heart is overburdened, when I am seized by the deep horror of it all, I draw new energy from your eyes, from the faces of our dear children. Your portrait, the portraits of the children here on my table, are always before my eyes. And then, you see, when a man has lost his fortune, when he has been subjected to some disappointment in his career, to a certain point he may indulge in weakness; he may say, “Well, my children will straighten all that out; perhaps it will be better for them than if they should have had nothing to do but be amiable idlers!” But in our case it is our honor which is at stake--their honor. To give way to weakness would be, for us, an unpardonable crime. We must, therefore, my dear and good Lucie, accept all our sufferings and overcome them, until the day when my innocence shall be recognized. On that day only we shall have the right to give free course to our tears, to unburden our hearts.

I am hoping, always, that that day may come soon. Each morning I awake with a new hope, and each night I lie down with a new disappointment.

I do not need to tell you that we can speak freely to each other of our grief--the fullest heart must sometimes overflow, but we must keep our outbursts to ourselves. I know, indeed, that you are sincere and single-hearted, without art of any kind. The fine qualities of your nature, those qualities which I, so to speak, only caught a fleeting glimpse of through our happiness, now stand out clear and distinct in the light of our adversity.

* * * * *

_26 June, 1895._

I will to-day bring this long talk to an end, so that I may send off my letter. I should like to talk to you in this way morning and evening; but were I to write volumes, the same ideas would flow from my pen. Naturally active, in my solitude I am reduced to the necessity of coming constantly back to the same subject. The form alone might vary, according to the feeling of the moment, but the idea would remain the same because it dominates everything.

Give our dear children a fond embrace for me. I suppose that you will not keep them in Paris during the hot season. Let them take the initiative in a great part of their life; let them develop themselves freely and without constraint. In that way you will make virile beings of them. Finally, draw from them at the same time both consolation and strength.

Now I have only to tell you that I wish, that I am hoping always, that this sad drama is soon to end. That would be such a blessing for all, for us, as for our dear families.

Your poor, dear mother, even now so delicate; your dear father--they both will need rest and calm, after such appalling, such unimaginable tortures. We may well call them that.

Often and often I ask myself how you all are, when news of you is so rare, and comes from so far.

And how often I scan the horizon, my eyes turned toward France, hoping that this may be the day on which my country is to call me back to her. While we wait for that day let us stand firm, dear Lucie; let us draw from our consciences and from our duty, the fresh stores of the strength we need so much.

Embrace all our family for me, and for yourself the tenderest kisses of your devoted husband.

ALFRED.

* * * * *

_2 July, 1895._

My dear Lucie:

When this letter reaches you your birthday will be at hand. The only hope that I can form, and which is in your heart as it is in mine, is that I shall soon be told that our honor is given back to us and with it our former happiness.

My conscience and my reason give me faith; the supernatural is not of this world. In the end everything is made clear. But the hours of waiting are long and cruel when the situation is so appalling as well for us as for our families.

Your dear letters of the beginning of March--you see how they are delayed--are my daily reading. I succeed thus, though far from you, in talking with you. My thoughts, indeed, never leave you, nor our dear children.

I await tidings of your health and that of our children with impatience. I am also anxious to know what date your letters will bear. My health is good. My heart beats with your own, and envelops you with all its tenderness. I have written you two long letters during the last half of June; I could only keep on repeating myself. Let me end this letter by embracing you with all the strength of our souls, and our dear children also.

Your devoted

ALFRED.

Kisses to all our family.

* * * * *

_2 July, 11 o’clock in the evening._

My dear Lucie:

I had been without news of you since the seventh of March. This evening I received your letters of March and of the beginning of April; they, probably, had returned to France; then, later, those which you sent directly to the Ministry. I had already written a few words to you this morning, but I make haste to answer your letters by the same post.

Forgive me again if, by my first letters, I caused you pain. I ought to have hidden my atrocious sufferings from you. But my excuse is that there is no human grief comparable to that which we suffer.

I hope that you have received since then my many long letters; they must have reassured you as to my physical and mental condition. My conviction has never varied; it is founded in my conscience, and in my reason, which tells me that all will be found out. But I lacked patience.

Let us say no more of our sufferings. Let us simply do our duty, which is to restore to our children the honor of a father who is innocent of so abominable a crime.

I have received also letters bearing the same date from your dear parents, and from different members of our families. Embrace them for me and thank them. Tell Mathieu that my moral energy is as exalted as his own.

I embrace you with all my heart; also our dear children.

Your devoted

ALFRED.

* * * * *

_15 July, 1895._

My dear Lucie:

I wrote you so many and such long letters during the months when I did not hear from you that I have many times told and retold you all my thoughts, all my sorrows. Let me not return again to this last subject.

As for my thoughts, they are very clear to-day; they do not change; you know them.

My energy is occupied in stilling the beatings of my heart, in containing my impatience, to learn at last that my innocence is recognized everywhere and by every one. But if my energy is altogether passive, yours ought, on the contrary, to be all active and animated by the ardent spirit which gives strength to my own.

If it were merely a question of suffering it would be nothing. But it is a question of the honor of a name, of the life of our children, and I do not wish, you understand, that our children should ever have to lower their heads. Light, full, complete, must be let in upon this tragic story. Nothing, therefore, should rebuff or tire you. All doors open, all hearts beat for a mother who begs only for the truth, so that her children may live.

It is almost from the tomb--my situation here is comparable to that, with the added grief that my heart still beats--that I write these words to you. Thank your dear parents, our brothers and sisters, as well as Lucie and Henri, for their good and affectionate letters. Tell them all the pleasure which I take in reading them, and tell them that if I do not answer directly it is because I could do nothing but keep on repeating what I have already said. Kiss your dear parents for me; tell them all my affection. Long, tender kisses for the children. As for you, my dear and good Lucie, your letters are my daily reading. Continue to write me long letters; with them I come nearer to living with you, with our dear children, than I could by my thought alone, which, indeed, never leaves you for an instant.

I embrace you with all the strength of my soul.

Your devoted

ALFRED.

I have not received the things which you told me you were sending--that is to say, a sponge and some Kola-Chocolate. But do not give a thought to my material life; that is generously provided for by the preserves which are sent me from Cayenne.

* * * * *

_27 July, 1895._

My dear Lucie:

I have already written to you on the 15th of the month. I can to-day give you tidings of myself, and cry to you as always, although I have no knowledge of the present state of affairs, “Courage and Faith!”

My health is good. The spirit dominates the body, as it does everything else. Never will I admit the idea that it would be possible for our children to enter upon life with a dishonored name. It is from the inspiration of this thought, common to us both, that you ought to draw new life for your indomitable will.

I have never feared the future, but there are moral situations which are of such a character that if a man has not deserved them, he must of necessity escape from them as much for our own sake as for the sake of our children, of our families.

When a man asks, when he desires, nothing but the search for the truth, a search for the wretches who have committed the base and cowardly crime, he has a right to present himself everywhere with head erect. And this truth, it must be found, and you must find it. My innocence must be recognized by every one.

I want to be with you and with the children when that day comes.

Kiss the dear little ones.

I live in them and in you.

I embrace you with all my heart.

Your devoted

ALFRED.

I hope to receive news of you before many days.

* * * * *

_2 August, 1895._

My dear Lucie:

The mail from Cayenne arrived yesterday. I hoped to receive your letters as I did last month. This hope has been deferred. What shall I tell you, my dear and good Lucie, that I have not already said and repeated many times? If I have undergone the most shocking tortures, if I have borne up to this day a moral situation in which every instant is for me a wound, it has been because, innocent of that horrible treachery, I long for my honor--the honor of the name borne by our dear children.

Had I been alone in the world, probably, unable to have regained my honor for myself, I should have acted in another way.

Oh, in that case, I swear to you that I should have had the secret of this infernal machination. I should have left to the future the care of rehabilitating my memory. However incomprehensible to me this drama, in the end all would have been discovered--discovered naturally.

But there you were, there were our children, who bear my name, there was my family. I had to live to reclaim my honor, to sustain you by my presence, by all the ardor of my soul, for--and this thought is before all else--our children must enter life with heads erect. This patience of soul which is not mine, which I never can possess, I impose it upon myself, for it is my duty.

It is true, indeed, that I have had moments of horrible despair. All this mask of infamy that I wear for the wretch who is guilty burns my face, it crushes my heart; everything, in truth, all my being, revolts against a moral situation so absolutely opposed to what I am.

I do not know, my dear Lucie, what is the situation at the present hour, since your last letters were written more than two months ago; but no matter how the case now stands, say to yourself that a woman has all rights--sacred rights, if any are sacred, when she has to fulfill the highest mission which misfortune can force upon a wife and a mother.

As I have also often told you, you have to ask only for a thorough search for the truth. You ought certainly to find among those who direct the affairs of our country men of heart who will be moved by this bitter anguish of a wife and a mother, who will understand this awful martyrdom of a soldier for whom honor is everything. I cannot believe that everything will not be put in motion to help you in bringing the truth to light, to help you in unmasking the wretch, or the wretches, creatures unworthy of pity, who have committed this horrible treachery.

I can only give you the counsel which my heart suggests. You can appreciate better than I the means by which we may arrive at a prompt and complete rehabilitation.

But I may still say this, that the only thought which should now occupy your mind is this: the care of guarding the honor of the name you bear--this is to assure the life, the future of our children. This is the end necessary, and you must attain it, whatever may be the means. There must not remain one single Frenchman who doubts my honor.

Yours is a grand mission, and you are worthy to accomplish it. When honor shall be given back to us--and I hope for all our sakes it may be soon--I shall consecrate the remainder of my life to making you forget--yes, even you shall forget, my poor darling--these terrible months of pain and anguish; for, more than all others, you deserve to be happy and beloved for your great heart, for your wonderful strength of character.

Then, be always strong and valiant. May my spirit, my profound love, sustain and guide you.

My thoughts are constantly with you, with our dear little ones, with you all.

Kisses to the children--to all.

I embrace you with all my strength.

ALFRED.

* * * * *

_2 August, 1895, 8 o’clock in the evening._

I had just ended this letter, so that it might leave to-morrow for Cayenne, when they brought me your letters of the month of April and your letters of June, with the letters of all the family. I have just read through your letters rapidly. I will answer at greater length by the next mail.

I have nothing to change in what I have just written to you. No matter how appalling to me the moral situation may be in which I am placed, no matter how my heart may be bruised, I shall stand erect to my last breath, for I want my honor, your honor, that of our children. As for my friends, I have never doubted them. They know what I am. But what is necessary, what I will have, is light, so brilliant that no one in all our dear country can have any doubt of my honor. It is my honor, the absolute honor of a soldier, that I must regain. This mission I confide to you, to you all. You will accomplish it, I have no doubt of it.

I embrace you; also our dear children.

Your devoted

ALFRED.

* * * * *

_22 August, 1895._

My dear Lucie:

I wrote you two long letters at the beginning of the month, on the 2d and the 5th of August; I hope that both of them were in time to go by the English boat. It is a long time since I have had a talk with you. It was not the wish that I lacked. My whole heart is with you. How many times have I taken up my pen only to throw it aside! What does it profit us for me always to be stirring up these sorrows? Aside from your health, from the health of the children, that of all the family, I have only one thought--and that forces me to live--the thought of our honor.

You will forgive me if at times I have presented my ideas in a somewhat exaggerated form. But after all, if I do my duty, my whole duty, without flinching, it is not because my heart does not tremble and bleed in a situation so infamous and so undeserved, and its sorrow comes not only from my own situation, but from yours, from that of all whom I love.

And then remember that I am obliged to control myself night and day without one moment of respite, that I never open my mouth; that there is never a moment when my nerves are relaxed, so that when I write to you with my whole heart, everything that cries out in me for justice and truth runs, despite my will, under my pen.

But what I shall tell you always, as long as my heart shall beat, is that above all our sorrows, oh, however terrible they may be, before life itself, is honor, and that that honor, which belongs to us, must remain with us; it is the patrimony of our children. Then always and still again courage, Lucie, until we have seen the end of this horrible tragedy; but let us hope for all our sakes that it may come soon.

Kiss your dear parents, all of our family, for me. Tell them of my profound affection, and how often I think of them. As for you, my dear Lucie, I have no consolation to give you; there is none, either for you or for me, in such misfortune. But your conscience, the sense of the great duties which you have to fulfill, should give you invincible strength.

And then, when the day of justice dawns for us, we will find our consolation in our profound love.

A thousand kisses for you and for our dear children.

Your devoted ALFRED.

* * * * *

_27 August, 1895._

I add a few words before mailing this letter to send you again the echo of my profound affection, to tell you how much I thought of you on your birthday--hardly more, it is true, than on other days, that is not possible--and to kiss you with all my heart and to say to you, “Courage and always courage!”

Ah, suffering, under all its forms, I know what it is, I swear to you. From the time that this trouble began my heart has been nothing but a wound which bleeds each day and every hour--a wound that will be healed only when I learn at last that my innocence is recognized. In truth, the mind stands at times bewildered and perplexed by the thought that such errors can be in a century like ours and can last so long without the light being let in upon them. But fear nothing; if I suffer beyond all expression, as you suffer, as you all suffer, indeed, my soul is still valiant, and it will do its duty to the end, for your sake, for the sake of our children. Ah, but let us hope that this appalling, this unbelievable situation may soon end, and that we may at last come out of the horrible nightmare in which we have been living for more than ten months!

Embrace our dear little ones tenderly for me.

* * * * *

_7 September, 1895._

My dear Lucie:

I receive only to-day your letters of July, as well as those of all the family. I often do as you do. At certain moments when my full heart brims over, I re-read all your dear letters and I weep with you, for I do not believe that two beings who place honor above everything, and with them their families, have ever undergone a martyrdom like ours. I suffer, and, like you, like you all, I am not ashamed of it. My heart, night and day, demands its honor, yours, the honor of our children. Such a situation is tragic, the anguish becomes too great for us all to bear.

Should it last much longer either one or the other will give way under it. Well, my dear Lucie, that must not be! We must before all else get back our honor, the honor of our children. We must not allow ourselves to be overcome by a fate so infamous when it is so unmerited. However natural, however legitimate, may be the cries of pain of souls who suffer far beyond all imaginable suffering, to groan, my dear Lucie, will do no good. If, when you receive this letter, the mystery has not been made clear, then, I think, it will be time, with the courage, the energy which duty gives, with the invincible force which innocence gives, for you to take personal steps, so that at last light may be thrown upon this tragic story. You have neither mercy nor favor to ask for, but only a determined search for the truth, a search for the wretch who wrote that infamous letter, and, in one word, justice for us all! And you will find in your own heart words more eloquent than any that could be contained in a mere letter. We must, in a word, find at last the key to this mystery. Whatever may be the means, your position as a wife and a mother gives you every right and should give you every courage.

From what I myself feel from the state of my own heart, I know but too well how it must be with you all, and in my long nights I see you suffering, agonizing with me.

It must end. Men cannot in a century like ours leave two families in agony without clearing up a mystery like this. The truth can be made known, if only they are willing to have it so. Then, my dear Lucie, while you continue to preserve the dignity which must never abandon you, be strong, courageous, energetic! Whether great or humble, we are all equal before justice, and that honor which I have never forfeited, and which is the patrimony of our children, must be given back to us. I want to be with you and with our children when that day comes.

Kisses to all. I embrace you with all my strength, also our dear children.

Your devoted

ALFRED.

* * * * *

_7 September, evening._

Before sending this away so that it may leave by the English boat I want to add a few words; all my heart, all my thoughts, are with you and with our dear children.

I have just re-read your dear letters, and I need not tell you that I shall read them often until the next mail brings me others. The days are long when one is alone, face to face with one’s thoughts, never speaking a word.

May my soul inspire you, my dear Lucie, for I feel that for the sake of your dear parents, for the sake of all of us, this tragedy must end. Even if you should have to knock at all doors, we must find the clue to this enigma, this infernal machination, which has torn from us that which makes life itself, and that we must have--our honor.

As for our dear children, kiss them with all your heart for me. The few words which Pierre adds to each letter give me great pleasure. It is for you and for them that I have found the strength to bear all, and I long to live to see the day when honor shall be returned to us. I wish for this with all my strength, with all my power, with all the energy of a man who places honor above all else. May this wish soon be realized! You must do all in your power to accomplish it.

I embrace you again, with all my heart.

Your devoted

ALFRED.

Kiss your dear parents and all our family for me.

* * * * *

_27 September, 1895._

My dear Lucie:

For nearly a year I have struggled with my conscience against the most inexplicable fatality that can pursue a man.

There are times when I am so harassed, so disgusted, that I am like the soldier who, worn out by long-continued fatigue, lies down in a trench, longing to have done with life.

My soul awakes, the sense of my duty puts me on my feet again, all my being then nerves itself for a supreme effort, for I wish to find myself again with you and with my children on the day when my honor shall be returned to me.

But it is truly an agony that is renewed with every day, a punishment as horrible as it is unmerited.

If I tell you all this, if at times I have allowed you to catch a glimpse of how horrible is my life here, how this lot of infamy, whose effects continue day by day to harrow my being, to revolt my heart, it is not that I would complain; it is to tell you again that if I have lived, if I continue to live, it is because I desire my honor, yours, that of our children. May your spirit, your energy, rise equal to such tragic conditions, for this must come to an end.

This is why I told you in my letter of the 7th of September that if when you receive these letters the mystery is not made entirely clear, it is for you, for you personally, to go to the public authorities, so that light may at last be thrown on this tragic story.