Chapter VI: Part 6

My dear Lucie:

A few moments before I received your dear letters I was subjected to an outrage--only a mean, shabby trick--but such things hurt one whose heart has been already so deeply wounded. I have not, alas! the soul of a martyr. To tell you that there are not times when I would be glad to die and end this atrocious life would be to lie. Do not see in this any trace of discouragement. The goal is immutable, it must be attained, and it shall be. But I am a human being as well, undergoing the most appalling of martyrdoms for a man of heart and a sense of honor, bearing it only for you and for our children.

Each time they turn the knife in the wound my heart cries with grief. I wept after this last outrage ... but enough of that. As I was saying, I have just received your dear letters of March, the letters of all the family, and with all the joy of reading the words you have written, I have always as well that sense of bitter disappointment, which you can well realize, that comes from not yet seeing the end of our tortures. How you must suffer, Lucie! how you all must suffer when you cannot hasten the moment our honor will be restored to us, when the wretches who committed the infamous crime shall be unmasked! I wish that this moment may be near and that it may not be too late.

Thanks for the good news that you give me of the children. It is from the thought of them, from the thought of you, that I draw the strength to resist. You must expect that sufferings, the climate, the situation, have done their work. I have left only my skin, my bones, and my moral energy. I hope that this last will carry me through to the end of our trials. You spoke to me of some supplies that I might ask you for. You know that my material life has always been indifferent to me, to-day more so than ever. I have only asked for books, and unhappily I have still only those you sent me in November.

Please do not send me any more provisions. The sentiment which inspires me to beg this favor may be puerile, but everything you send me is, by regulations, subjected to a most minute examination, and it seems to me each time that they give you a slap in the face, ... and my heart bleeds and I tremble with pain of it.

No; let us accept the atrocious situation that has been made for us. Do not let us try to alleviate it by any care for the material order, but let us repeat to ourselves that we must find the guilty wretch, that we must get back our honor! March on, then, toward this goal; march on, moved by one common, unchangeable will; try to attain it as quickly as possible and give no care to anything else. I, for my part, shall resist as long as I can, for I want to be there, present on that day of supreme happiness when our honor is given back to us.

Say to yourself, that while the head may bow before some misfortunes, that while commonplace condolences may be received in some situations, when it is a question of honor there can be no consolations, but only a goal to be struggled for so long as we can keep up to have that honor restored to us.

Then, for you, as for all of us, I can only cry from the depths of my soul, _Lift up your hearts_! There must be no recrimination, no complaint, nothing but the unswerving march onward to our end--the wretch or the wretches who are really guilty--and we must attain our end as soon as possible.

As I have already told you, there must not remain one single Frenchman who can doubt our honor.

Kiss our dear children with all your heart for me, and yourself a thousand kisses the most tender, the most affectionate kisses of your devoted

ALFRED.

Embrace your dear parents, all our family and friends for me. In the mail which I have just received I have not found letters from any of my sisters except Henriette. I hope that these dear sisters are not sick from these terrible and continued trials.

* * * * *

_22 May, 1896._

My dear Lucie:

Your good and most affectionate letters of March have been the dear and sweet companions of my solitude. I have read them and re-read them to recall to me my duty each time that the situation was crushing me with its weight. I have suffered with you, with you all; all the frightful anguish through which you have passed has echoed in my own.

You ask me to write to you, to come and tell you all that is in my crushed and bleeding heart whenever my bitterness is too great for me to bear. Ah, my poor Lucie! If I should do as you bid, I should be writing very often, for I have not one moment of respite. But why should I thus tear your heart? I already do this too often, and after I have thus poured out my woes I always regret it bitterly, for you have already suffered enough, far too much for me. But what would you? It is impossible to break away absolutely from one’s _ego_, to stifle always the revolts of one’s heart, to be always master of one’s sick nerves. My only moment when the tension is relaxed is when I write to you, and then all the accumulated grief of the long month at times goes out into what I write.... And then I feel so profoundly in the very depths of my being all the horror of our situation, as well for you and me as for your dear parents, for all our family, that bursts of anger, quivers of indignation, escape in spite of my efforts; then I cry out in my impatience to see the end of this abominable suffering for us all. I suffer because I am powerless to lighten your atrocious sorrow, because I can only sustain you with all the power of my love, with all the ardor of my soul. Ah, truly yes, dear Lucie, I feel all your anguish when each mail day arrives, and after a long month of waiting, of suffering, and of agony, you cannot yet announce to me the discovery of the guilty wretches, the end of our tortures! And if then I cry out, if at times I roar aloud, if the blood boils in my veins with all this agony, so long drawn out, so undeserved, oh, it is as much for you as for me! For if I had had only myself to think of in my sufferings, long ago I should have put an end to it all, leaving it to the future to be the final judge of everything.

It is from the thought of you, the thought of our dear children, from my determined resolve to sustain you, to live to see the day when our honor shall be given back to us, that I draw all my strength. When I sink under the united burden of all my woes, when my brain reels, when my heart can bear no more, when I lose all hope, then to myself I murmur three names--yours, those of our dear children--and I nerve myself again against my agony, and not a sound passes my silent lips. To tell the truth, I am physically very weak; it could not be otherwise. But everything is effaced from my mind, hallucinating memories, sufferings, the atrocities of my daily life, before so exalted, so absolute a preoccupation, the thought of our honor, the patrimony of our children. So I come again, as always, to cry to you with all my strength, with all my soul, “Courage, and still courage, to march steadfastly onward to your goal--the unclouded honor of our name”--and to wish for both our sakes that this goal may soon be reached. The dear little letters written by the children always move me deeply, cause me extreme emotion; I often wet them with my tears, but I draw from them also my strength. In all my letters I read that you are raising these dear little children admirably. If I have never spoken of this to you it has been because I knew it, because I knew you.

To speak of my love for you, the love that unites us all, would be useless, would it not? Still, let me tell you again that my thought never leaves you for an instant day or night, that my heart is always near to you, to our children, to you all, ready to sustain you, to animate you with my unconquerable will.

I embrace you with all my strength, with all my heart, and also the dear children, while I wait to receive your good letters, the only rays of sunshine that come to warm my cruelly wounded heart.

Your devoted ALFRED.

Kisses to your dear parents, to all.

* * * * *

_5 June, 1896._

My dear Lucie:

I have not yet received your good letters of April, so I have been forced to content myself by re-reading, as I do each day, often many times a day, your good and affectionate letters of March, and from them I have drawn a little calm. I cannot, however, let the English mail leave without coming to gossip a little with you, without drawing near to you.

Oh, I can see you very well in thought from here, my dear and good Lucie, for you do not leave me for a single moment. I know the moments of your crises, when, after some one has given you hope, that hope is again disappointed; when, after a moment of relaxation, of peace, you fall back into a violent despair, asking yourself with anguish when we shall wake from this abominable nightmare in which we have lived so long. And then you write to me, and you find in your splendid soul, in your loving and devoted heart, the strength to hide from me the atrocious tortures, the appalling anguish through which you are passing.

And then I, who feel, who divine all that--I, whose heart is crushed and wounded in its purest sentiments, in its tenderest love, with the blood boiling in my veins, because I feel all the torture heaped upon us, upon our two families--with my very reason in revolt I go and put into my letters the cries of anguish and of impatience that are in my soul; then I suffer through a long month thinking of the emotion you will feel, and I am still more unhappy.

Instead of bringing you, you who are wounded with me in your honor as a wife and a mother, the moral support, the steadfast, energetic, ardent support which you need in the noble mission you must fulfill, I come, at times, to lament, to occupy you with my little sufferings, my petty tortures, with I know not what, to augment your poignant grief. Forgive my weakness--human weakness, alas! all too natural. Words, indeed, are powerless to depict a martyrdom like ours. But it can have but one termination--the discovery of the guilty wretches, absolute, complete rehabilitation, all the honor of our name, the name of our dear children.

So I am again, as always, adding to this letter, which will carry to you the echo of my deep love, the ardent cry of my soul, Courage, still more courage, dear Lucie, to march on to your goal, with a fierce, resolute, unfailing will; and let us hope, for both our sakes, for the sake of our children, that the end may soon be accomplished.

Embrace our dear little ones tenderly for me. I live only in them, in you, and from that source I draw my strength. Kiss your dear parents for me; give my love to all our friends; thank them for their good and most affectionate letters.

I end this letter with regret, and I embrace you hard, “as hard as I can,” as our dear little Pierre says.

Your devoted ALFRED.

_Evening._

I have just received at last the things you sent me, and the books for the months of December, January and February, and I assure you that I had need of them. Yet more fond and ardent kisses for you, for our dear children, for your dear parents, for all our friends; and I end my letter by this ardent cry of my soul: Courage, always and still more courage, my dear and good Lucie.

* * * * *

_24 July, 1896._

My dear Lucie:

I have not received your letters of May; the last news I have of you dates back three months. You see that sledge-hammer blows are not spared me. I do not want to augment your grief by depicting my own. Besides it is of no importance. Whatever may be our suffering, however appalling may be our martyrdom, our object is unchanging, my dear Lucie--the light, the honor of our name.

I can do no more than repeat to you this cry of my soul: Courage! Courage! Courage! until the end is attained.

As for me, I retain with all my energy whatever strength remains to me. I repress my brain and my heart night and day, for I want to live to see the end of this drama. I hope, for both of us, that the moment is not far distant.

When you receive these few lines your birthday will have passed. I will not dwell upon thoughts so cruel for both of us, but my thoughts could be with you no more that day than on all others.

I embrace you with all my heart, with all my strength, you and our children.

Your devoted ALFRED.

* * * * *

_4 August, 1896._

My dear Lucie:

I have received your letters of May and June all together, with those of the family. I will not tell you of my emotion, after I had waited so long; for we must not give way to such poignant feelings.

I found but two letters from you in the mail for May. I was happy to see that you were settled in the country with the children; perhaps there you may find a little rest, if there can be any rest for us when our honor has not been given back to us.

Yes, dear Lucie, sufferings such as ours, sufferings so undeserved, leave the mind bewildered. But let us speak no more of it; it is one of those things that provoke irresistible indignation.

If I am nervously impatient to see the end of all our tortures; if, under the influence of the revolts of my heart, my letters are pressing, do not doubt that my confidence, like my faith, is absolute. Tell yourself that I have never said “Hope!” I have said, “We must have the whole truth; if not to-day it will be to-morrow or the day after, but this end will be attained--it must be!” Let us shut our eyes to our tortures; let us compress our brains and steel our hearts. Courage, be valiant, dear Lucie; there must not be one minute of weakness or of lassitude. For us, for our children, for our families, we must have light, the honor of our name. I come now, as always, to cry to you, to cry to all, “Lift up your heart! be strong in your determination!”

I wish with all my heart, for both our sakes, for all of us, to learn that this suffering is to have an end.

Embrace our children for me, and for yourself the fondest kisses of your devoted

ALFRED.

Embrace your parents, all our family, for me.

* * * * *

_24 August, 1896._

Dear Lucie:

I replied at the beginning of the month in a few lines only to your dear letters of May and June. The impression they made upon me after I had waited so long for them was such that I could not write at length. I read and re-read them each day, and it seems to me that thus for a few moments I am near you, that I feel the beating of your heart close to mine; and when I look at this bit of paper on which I write to you, I wish that I could put in it all my soul, all my heart contains for you, for our children, for you all; I wish that I might imprint upon it all the ardor of my soul, all my courage, all my determination.

Believe, dear Lucie, that I have never had a moment of discouragement as to the end to be attained. But yet what impatience devours me to see the end of our atrocious torture!

There are for those who have hearts sorrows so bitter that the pen is powerless to express them. And this grief, equally poignant for us all, I hide it in my breast day and night, and not one complaint escapes from my lips. I accept everything, stifling my heart, my whole being, seeing only our goal.

I wrote to you in the first days of July a letter which must have troubled you, my dear Lucie; I was then a prey to fever; I had not received your letter. Everything came together! And then the human beast in me awakened, and I cried out in my distress and anguish, as if you were not suffering enough already. But I reacted against my own lower nature, I overcame everything, I surmounted my physical as well as my moral being. Since then I have learned that your letters arrived at Cayenne without delay; in consequence of a mistake made in forwarding them, I received them only with your letters of June.

I can only repeat my words, dear Lucie, for you must, as we all must, fix our eager, unswerving gaze upon the supreme object; we must not indulge in one moment of lassitude until the end shall have been attained! The whole truth must be revealed over all France, all the honor of our name, the patrimony of our children.

Embrace the S----s and their dear children for me. Be sure to tell Mathieu that if I do not write to him oftener, it is because I know him too well; I know that his determination will remain as inflexible as ever, until the day when the light shall burst forth. Thanks for the good news of the dear, little ones; thank your dear parents and all the members of our families for their good letters. As for you, my dear Lucie, strong in your conscience, be invincibly energetic and brave. May my profound love, our children, and your duty sustain and reanimate you.

Again I embrace you as I love you, with all my strength, as I embrace also our dear children. Now I am waiting for your good letters of July.

Your devoted ALFRED.

* * * * *

_3 September, 1896._

Dear Lucie:

They brought me, just now, the mail for July. I found in it only one poor, little letter from you, that of the 14th of July, although you ought to have written oftener and more at length; but no matter.

What a cry of suffering escapes from all your letters and echoes in my own! Yes, dear Lucie, never have human beings suffered as have you, as have I, and every one of us. The sweat starts from my forehead when I think of it. I have lived only by straining every nerve, by the most powerful effort of the will, by gripping, compressing all my being in a supreme struggle; but emotions break us down; they make every fibre of the being quiver. My hands are wrung with grief for you, for our children, for us all; an immense cry rises to my throat and stifles me. Ah, why am I not alone in the world! What happiness it would be could I lie down in my grave, to think no more, to see no more, to suffer no more! But the moment of weakness, of the derangement of all my being, of awful anguish, has passed, and now I come to tell you, dear Lucie, that above all deaths--for what agony do not I know, as well that of the soul as that of the body, of the brain?--there is honor; that this honor, which is our right, must be restored to us ... only, human strength has its limits for us all.

So when you receive this letter, if the situation is not at last shown in its proper light, act as I already told you last year; go yourself, take, if need be, a child by each hand, those two beloved and innocent beings, and take steps to appeal to those who direct the affairs of our country. Speak simply, from your heart, and I am sure that you will find generous souls who will understand how appalling is this martyrdom of a wife, of a mother, and who will put all the means in their power to work to aid you in this noble and holy work, the discovery of the truth, the discovery of the author of this infamous crime. Oh, dear Lucie, listen to me well, and follow my counsels! Remember that you must see but one thing, our object, and strive to attain it; for, oh! I long with all my heart to see, before I succumb to this weight of suffering, honor restored to the name that our dear, adored ones bear. I long to see you again happy, our children, enjoying the happiness that you so merit, my poor and dear Lucie! And as this paper seems to me cold, because I cannot put on it all that my heart contains for you, for our children, I would that I might write to you with my blood; perhaps then I might express myself better....

And although I cannot tell you anything new I continue to talk with you, for the long night is coming, traversed by horrible nightmares, in which I shall see you, our children, my dear brothers and sisters, all those whom we love. You see, dear Lucie, that I tell you everything, that I pour out to you all my sufferings, that I tell you all my thoughts; indeed, in this hour I am incapable of doing otherwise.

And my thought night and day is always the same; my lips breathe forth the same cry; oh, all my blood, drop by drop, for the truth of this appalling mystery!

Pardon the incoherence of this letter. I write to you, as I have told you, under the influence of a profound emotion, not even trying to assemble my ideas, feeling that I would be incapable of doing it, telling myself with dread that I must pass all of one long month having for my reading only your few poor lines, where you speak to me of the children, where you do not speak to me of yourself, where I shall have nothing to read that speaks of you.

But I am going to try to collect my thoughts. My sufferings are great, like yours, like ours; the hours, the minutes, are atrocious, and they will continue to be so until light, full and entire, shall shine upon the truth. And as I have told you, I am convinced that if you act in person, if you speak from your heart, they will set every means to work to shorten, if possible, the time, for if time is nothing, as far as the object we must reach, which is more important than everything, is concerned, it counts, alas! for us all, for one cannot live and endure such sufferings.

I regret to realize that I must end this letter in which I feel how powerless I am to express the affection that I feel for you, for our children, for all; what I suffer from our atrocious tortures; to make you feel all that is in my heart; the horror of this situation, of this life, a horror that surpasses all that can be imagined, all that the human brain can dream; and, on the other hand, the duty which commands me imperiously, for your sake and for our children’s, to go on as far as I shall be able. Think that it will be a month now before I can get one word from you, the only human word that comes to me!

But I must end this prattling, although it eases my pain, for I feel your presence near me in these lines that you are to read, and in ending my letter I cry to you, “Courage, yet more courage!” for before all things is the honor of the name that our dear children bear. I tell you that this object for which you are striving is immutable. Therefore act as I have said; for the co-operation of generous hearts that you will find--I am sure of it--will realize more speedily the supreme wish that I still cry out, the light of truth upon this sad tragedy, that I may be with our little ones on the day when honor is restored to us! And I add for your own self, for all of us, this ardent and supreme cry of my soul, that rises in the darkness of the night: everything for honor. Let this be our only thought; your sole preoccupation. There must not be one minute of ease.

* * * * *

_4 September, 1896._

Dear and good Lucie:

I wrote you a letter last night under an impression caused by the mail, the sufferings that we all endure, the pain of having only a few lines from you, for after a long, agonized silence of a whole month, there is now, inevitably, a strong nervous tension. I am as if crazed by grief. I take my head in my two hands, and I ask by what miserable destiny so many human beings are called upon to suffer so.

I feel, too, the need of coming again to talk with you. Perhaps this letter may yet catch the English mail and go with the other.

If I am tired, worn out, if I should tell you the contrary you would not believe me; for to suffer so without respite through all hours of the day and night; to feel intuitively the sufferings of those we love; to see our children, those dear little creatures, for whom I would give, for whom we would give, every drop of blood in our veins, struck down--all that is sometimes too atrocious and the pain is too great to bear. But I am, dear Lucie, neither discouraged nor broken down, believe it well. The more the nerves are strained by all these sufferings, the more the will should become vigorous in its determination to bring the trial to an end. And the only way to end our tortures, the tortures of all of us, is to bring about the discovery of the truth. If I live in a struggle against my body, against my heart, against my brain, fighting against all with a ferocious energy, it is because I wish to be able to die tranquilly, knowing that I leave to my children a pure and honored name; knowing that you are happy. What it is necessary for you to tell yourself, for us all to tell ourselves, is that there can be but one termination for our situation--the light--and then, starting forward with this one word, which outweighs everything, we must smother all that groans in our hearts; we must see only our object and stretch every nerve to attain it; and that soon, for the hours now weigh like lead. We must appeal, as I told you yesterday evening, to all who can help us, to every aid, to all kind hearts, who can help let in the light. I am sure that you will find many, and in the presence of this immense sorrow, the appalling sorrow of a wife and mother, who asks only for the truth, the honor of the name that her children bear, all will be silent that they may see only the supreme object of this work, as noble as it is exalted. Then, dear Lucie, to moan, to lament, to tell each other how we suffer, all that will advance nothing.

Be calm, collected, but gather all your strength, surround yourself with all the advice that can help you to pursue and to attain the object, and let us hope, for your sake, that the time may not be too long in coming. Embrace your parents, our brothers and sisters, and all your family for me.

I embrace you as I love you, more passionately than I ever have done before--with all the strength of my affection, and kiss for me our dear and adored children.

Your devoted ALFRED.

* * * * *

_5 o’clock in the morning._

Before I send this letter I must come once more to embrace you with all my soul, with all my strength; to repeat to you that your conscience, your duty, our children, ought to be for you irresistible levers too strong for any human grief to bend.

* * * * *

_September, 1896._

Dear and good Lucie:

I wrote to you upon the receipt of the July mail. The nervous strain has been too strong, too violent. I have an irresistible longing to come to talk to you, after this long, agonized silence of a whole month.

Yes, sometimes my pen falls from my hands, and I ask myself what I gain by writing so much. I am dazed by all my suffering, my poor and dear Lucie.

Yes, often, also, I ask myself what I have done that you, whom I love so much, that my poor children, that all of us, should be called to suffer thus; and, truly, I have moments of ferocious despair, of anger also, for I am not a saint. But then I call up, as I have always called up, the thought of you, of the poor little ones, and I evoke that feeling with which I have wished to inspire you, to inspire you all, since the beginning of this sad tragedy--that is, that there is above all our anguish something higher, more exalted. My letter is like a howl of pain, for we are like sorely wounded men whose minds are so worn out with pain, whose bodies are so maddened by long suffering, that the least thing causes their cups, full, too full, of sorrow, to overflow.

But, dear Lucie, to speak forever of our grief is not a remedy for it, it only exasperates it. We must look at things as they are, and we all are horribly unhappy.

Truly the end dominates everything--sufferings, life. I have told you this often and often, for it concerns the honor of our name, the life of our children. This object must be pursued without weakness until it is attained. But the human spirit is formed in such a way that it lives in the impressions of each day, and each day is composed of too many appalling minutes; we have been waiting for so long a time for a happier to-morrow.

It is not with anger, it is not with lamentations, that you must hasten the moment when the truth shall be revealed. Concentrate your courage--and it ought to be great--strong in your conscience, strong in the duty you have to fulfill; look only to your object; look only into your heart of a wife, of a mother, the heart that for so many months has been so horribly crushed and ground.

Oh, dear Lucie, listen to me well, for I have suffered so much, I have borne so many things, that life is profoundly indifferent to me, and I speak to you as from the tomb, from the deep, eternal silence which raises man above all the anxieties of earth. I speak to you as a father, in the name of the duty to your children that you must fulfill. Go to the President of the Republic, to the Ministers, even to those who had me condemned; for if passions, excitements, at times lead astray the most upright minds, the hearts remain always generous and are ready to forget what carried them away before the appalling grief of a wife, of a mother, who wants but one thing--the only thing we ask--the discovery of the truth, the honor of our dear little ones. Speak simply, forget all the little miseries--of what importance are they when compared with the object to be attained?--and I am sure that you will find an army of generous, ardent souls, who will help you to escape from a situation so atrocious, and borne so long that I am yet asking myself how our brains have been able to resist its attacks.

I am speaking to you in perfect calmness in this deep silence, a painful silence, it is true, but it lifts the soul above it all.... Act as I beg you to....

See but one thing, my dear and good Lucie, the end which we must attain--the truth--and appeal to all who are just and devoted.... Oh, for that! I wish it with all the fibres of my being--to see the day when honor shall be again restored to us!

Courage, then, dear Lucie; I ask it of you with all my heart, with all my soul.

I embrace you as I love you, with all the power of my love, and also our dear, adored children.

Your devoted ALFRED.

* * * * *

_3 October, 1896._

My dear Lucie:

I have not yet received the mail of August. Notwithstanding, I wish to write you a few words by the English mail, and to send you the echo of my immense love.

I wrote to you last month, and I opened my whole heart to you, told all my thoughts; there is nothing that I can add. I hope that the combined aid that you have the right to ask for will be given you, and I can only hope one thing--that I am soon to learn that light has been let in upon this horrible affair. What I would again say to you is this: that we must not let the terrible acuteness of our sufferings harden our hearts. It is necessary that our name, that we ourselves, should come out of this horrible situation such as we were when they made us go into it.

But in the face of such sufferings our courage should be strong, not to recriminate nor to complain, but to ask, to demand, indeed, light on this horrible drama, that he or they whose victims we are be unmasked. But I have spoken to you at length of all this in my last letter; I will not repeat myself.

If I write to you often, and at such length, it is because there is something that I would express better than I do express it. It is that, strong in our consciences, we must lift ourselves high above all this, without moaning, without complaining, like sensitive, honorable people, who are suffering a martyrdom to which they may succumb. We must simply do our duty. If my part of this duty is to stand fast as long as I can, your part of it, the part of you all, is to demand that the light may shine in upon this lugubrious drama, to appeal to all who can aid in bringing about the truth; for truly I doubt that human beings have ever suffered more than we are suffering. I ask myself each day how we have been able to keep alive.

I end this prattle with regret. This moment so short, so fugitive, when I come to chat to you, when I pretend to myself that I am talking with you, that I am telling you all that is in my heart. But alas! I feel too keenly that I eternally repeat myself; for there is only one thought in the bottom of my heart; there is only one cry in my soul: to know the truth of this frightful drama, to see the day when our honor shall be returned to us!

I embrace you as I love you, from the depths of my heart, as I embrace my dear and adored children.

ALFRED.

* * * * *

_5 October, 1896._

Dear and good Lucie:

I have just received you dear letters of August, as well as letters from all the family, and it is under the profound impression not only of all the sufferings that we all endure, but of the pain that I have caused you by my letter of the 6th of July, that I write to you.

Ah, dear Lucie, how weak the human being is, how he is at times cowardly and egotistical! When I wrote as I did, I was, as I think I told you, at that time a prey to fevers that burned me, body and brain--I whose spirit was already so beaten down, whose tortures were already so great. And then in the profound distress of all my being, when I had need of a friendly hand, of a gentle face, delirious from the fever and from pain, when I did not receive your letter, I had to cry out to you in my misery, for I could cry to no one else.

Afterward I regained possession of myself, and I became again what I had been, what I shall remain to my last breath.

As I told you in my letter of the day before yesterday, strong in our consciences, we must raise ourselves above everything; but with that firm, inflexible determination which will make my innocence shine out before the eyes of all France. Our name must come out of this horrible adventure what it was when they made us enter into it. Our children must enter upon life with heads proudly raised.

As for the advice that I can give you, that I have developed in my preceding letters; you must understand that the only counsels I can give you are those that are suggested by my heart. You are, you all are, better placed, you have better advisers, and you must know better than I could tell you what you have to do.

I wish with you that it may not be long before this atrocious situation is elucidated, that our sufferings, the sufferings of us all, may soon be ended. However that may be, we must have the faith that diminishes all sufferings, surmounts all sorrows, so that in the end we may render to our children a stainless name, a name that is respected.

I embrace you as I love you, with all my strength, with all my heart, and also our dear and adored children.

ALFRED.

* * * * *

_20 October, 1896._

My dear Lucie:

I have written numerous letters to you during these last days, and in them I have once more opened my heart.

What can I add to them? I can hope but one thing; it is that at last they will take pity upon such a martyr, and that I shall learn soon that by the efforts of one or of another light has been let in on this terrible tragedy, in which we have suffered so appallingly and so long.

Ah, yes, dear and good Lucie, for your sake, as for mine, I would that I might hear one good word, a word of peace and consolation, coming to place a little balm upon our hearts, that are so crushed, so tortured.

But what I cannot tell you often enough, my good darling, is how I am suffering for you, for our dear children, for all our family. I had not believed that it was possible to live in such sorrow. Well, I will not linger upon this subject. I can only, as I have told you, wish with you, that by the discovery of the truth we may find ourselves at last in that atmosphere of happiness which we used to enjoy so much; that we may find forgetfulness in our mutual love and in the love of our children.

Waiting for your good letters, I embrace you as I love you, with all my strength; and so, also, I embrace our dear children.

Your devoted ALFRED.

Kisses to all.

* * * * *

_22 November, 1896._

My dear and good Lucie:

I did not write to you at the beginning of the month by the English mail, for I expected each day your letters of September; I have not yet received them. As I told you in my last letter, which dates back, alas! a whole month, I hope that other hearts will feel with us the atrocious sufferings of our long months of martyrdom; this incessant, inexpressible torture of every hour, of every minute--in a word, all the horror of such a crushing moral situation. I hope that other hearts are bringing to your aid an ardent, generous co-operation in the work of laying bare the truth; and I can but hope for both our sakes, my poor darling, and for us all, that I shall soon hear a human word that will be a kind word, a word that will put a soothing balm upon our stinging wounds, make our hearts a little firmer, calm the surges of our brains, so shaken by all these emotions, by all these appalling shocks. I can only, therefore, while I wait for your dear letters, send you the echo of my immense affection, embrace you with all my heart, with all my strength, as I love you, as I embrace also our dear and adored children.

Your devoted ALFRED.

Kisses to your dear parents, to all our brothers and sisters, to all our family.

* * * * *

_22 December, 1896._

My dear Lucie:

Only a few lines while I wait for your dear letters, to send you the echo of my deep love, to repeat to you always, with all my soul, “Courage and faith,” and to embrace you with all my heart, with all my strength, as I love you, as I embrace also our dear children.

Your devoted ALFRED.

Kisses to all.

* * * * *

_24 December, 1896._

My dear and good Lucie:

I wrote you a few lines only a few days ago. But my thought is always with you, with our children, night and day! I know also all that you suffer, all that you all suffer, and I long to come and talk to you before the arrival of your letters, each month so impatiently awaited.

I also know how it calms the heart only to see the writing of those we love, all of whose sorrows we partake; I know also that in this way it seems that we have with us a part of their very selves, of their hearts, feeling them tremble and throb at our sides. And then I wish that I might render better--not my sufferings, you know them. My heart, like yours, is only a bleeding wound; but what I suffer for you, for our children, how my life is wrapped up in you all! And if I still stand erect, despite the agonies that rend my being--for every impression, even the commonplace, the exterior impressions, produce upon me the effect of a deep wound--it is because you are there, you and our children. I have re-read, as I have always done each month, all the letters that I have from you; they are the companions of my profound solitude, all these letters of you all; and it seems to me as I read them that you have not entirely seized my thought, which is perforce somewhat confused by being scattered among all the letters I have written to you.

I have often told you dreams that could never be carried into effect in real life, crushed by the blows that have rained upon me for more than two years without my ever having understood why they fell, my brain, distraught, searching in vain for the meaning of the horrible dream which has held us all enthralled for so long.

I profit by a moment when my brain is less fatigued to try to lucidly explain my thoughts, the scattered convictions expressed in my different letters. The end, you know it, the light, full and unshrouded, that end shall be attained.

Tell yourself, then, that my confidence and my faith are complete; for, on one hand, I am absolutely certain that this last appeal that I made recently to the Ministry has been heard; that in that quarter everything is to be set in motion to discover the truth. And, on the other hand, I see that you all are wrestling for the honor of our name--that is to say, our very lives--and I see that nothing can turn you from your purpose.

Let me add that the point in question is not the bringing into this horrible affair of either acrimony or bitterness against individuals. We must aim higher.

If at times I have cried out in my grief, it has been because the wounds of the heart are at times too cruel, too burning, for human strength. But if I have made of myself the patient man that I am not, that I never shall be, it is because above all our sufferings there is the one, only object--the honor of our name, the life of our children. This object ought to be your very soul, let come what may. You must be, heroically, invincibly, at the same time a mother and a Frenchwoman.

I repeat it then, my dear Lucie, my confidence and my faith are absolutely alike in the efforts of one and all. I am absolutely certain that light shall be let in, and that is the essential thing--but it will be in a future that we know not.

For, alas! the energies of the heart, the forces of the brain, have their limits in a situation as atrocious as mine. I know, too, what you suffer, and it is appalling.

This is why, often, in the moments of my anguish--for it is not possible to suffer so slowly without cries of agony, having but one wish to express, to be with you and with our children on the day when honor shall be given back to us--I have asked you to take steps to appeal to the Government, to those persons who possess sure, decisive means of investigation--means that they only have the right to employ.

Whatever may come of it, and I think I have clearly expressed my thought, my conviction, I can but repeat to you with all my soul, Confidence and Faith! and wish for you, as for me, as for us all, that the efforts of one or of another may soon be crowned with success and may put an end to this appalling martyrdom of the soul.

I embrace you as I love you, as I embrace also our dear children, from the depths of my heart.

Your devoted ALFRED.

Kisses to all.

* * * * *

_4 January, 1897._

My dear Lucie:

I have just received your letters of November, also those of the family. The profound emotion that they cause me is always the same--indescribable.

Your thoughts are mine, my dear Lucie; my thought never leaves you, never leaves our dear children, you all; and when my heart can bear no more, when I am at the end of my strength to resist this martyrdom, that crushes my heart incessantly as the grain is crushed in a mill, that tears all that is most pure, most noble, and most elevated within me, that dries up all the springs of my soul, then I cry to myself, always the same words: “However atrocious may be your suffering, march on still, so that you may be able to die at peace, knowing that you leave to your children an honored name, a respected name!”

My heart, you know it, it has not changed. It is the heart of a soldier, indifferent to all physical suffering, who holds honor before, above all else; who has lived, who has resisted this fearful, this incredible, uprooting of everything that makes the Frenchman, the man, of all that makes it possible to live; who has borne it all because he is a father and because he must see to it that honor is restored to the name that his children bear.

I have already written to you at length. I have tried to sum it all up to you, to explain to you why my confidence and my faith are absolute; that my confidence in the efforts of one and all is fully fixed; for believe it, be absolutely certain of it, the appeal that I again made in the name of our children, has revealed to those to whom I appealed a duty which men of heart will never attempt to evade. On the other hand, I know well all the sentiments that animate you all. I know them too well to ever think that there can be one moment of enervation in any one of you as long as the truth remains in darkness.

Then all hearts, all energies, will converge toward the supreme object, running toward it with blind, irresistible force. Cheer up until the beast is run to earth, the author or the authors of this infamous crime. But, alas! as I have already told you, if my confidence is absolute, the energies of the heart, of the brain, have limits when the situation is so appalling, when it has been borne so long. I know, also, what you suffer, and it is horrible.

Drawn from life by Paul Renouard]

Now, it is not in your power to abridge my martyrdom, our martyrdom. The Government alone possesses means of investigation powerful enough, decisive enough, to do it if it does not wish to see a Frenchman--who asks from his country nothing but justice, the full light, the whole truth of the sad tragedy, who has but one thing more to ask of life--that he may yet see for his dear little ones the day when their honor is restored to them--succumb under the weight of so crushing a fate for an abominable crime that he did not commit.

I am hoping, then, that the Government will lend you its co-operation. Whatever may become of me, I can only repeat to you with all the strength of my soul to have confidence, to be always brave and strong, and embrace you with all my strength, as I love you, as I embrace also our dear, our adored children.

Your devoted ALFRED.

* * * * *

_6 January, 1897._

My dear Lucie:

Again I feel the need of coming to talk with you, of letting my pen run on a little. The unstable equilibrium that with great difficulty I maintain through a whole month of unheard-of sufferings is broken when I receive your dear letters, always so impatiently awaited; they awake in me a world of sensations, of feelings, that I had kept under during thirty long days, and I ask myself vainly what is the meaning of life when so many human beings are called to suffer thus. And then I have suffered so much in the last months that have just passed, that it is only when I am near you that I can warm my freezing heart. I know, too, my darling, as well as you, that I repeat myself always since the very first day of this sad tragedy; for my thought is like your own, like the thought of you all, like the will that must sustain and inspire us.

And when I come in this way to chat with you for a few moments--oh, such fleeting instants!--in regard to that thought which never leaves me night or day, it seems to me that I live for one short moment with you, that I feel that your heart is groaning with mine, and then I long to press you in my arms, to take your two hands in mine, and to say to you again, “Yes, all this is atrocious; but never should a moment of discouragement enter into your soul any more than it ever enters into mine. Just as I am a Frenchman and a father, so must you be a Frenchwoman and a mother. The name that our dear children bear must be washed free of this horrible stain; there must not remain one single Frenchman who has one doubt of our honor.” That is our object, always the same. But, alas! if one can be a stoic in the presence of death, it is difficult to be one before this anguish of every day, confronted by this harrowing thought, the question, when is this horrible nightmare to end, in which we have lived so long--if it can be called living to suffer without respite.