Chapter VII: Part 7

I have lived so long in the deluding expectation of a better day to come, wrestling, not against the weaknesses of the flesh--they leave me indifferent; it may be because I am haunted by other preoccupations--but against the weaknesses of the brain, against the weaknesses of the heart. And then in these moments of horrible distress, of almost insupportable pain, so much greater because it is compressed, contained--I can give absolutely no vent to it--I long to cry to you across the space, “Ah, dear Lucie, hurry to those who direct the affairs of our country, to those whose mission is to defend us, that they may bring to you their active, ardent help, with all the means at their disposal, so that at last light may be thrown upon this sad tragedy, that we may know the truth, the whole truth, the only thing that we ask for.”

This, then, in a few words, is what I wish, what I have wished always, and I cannot believe that they will not give it to you. It is the co-operation of all the forces of which the government can dispose, to bring about the discovery of the truth; to cause justice to be rendered to a soldier who suffers a martyrdom that is shared by his dear ones; to put an end as soon as possible to a situation as atrocious as it is intolerable--a situation that no creature with a human heart, a human brain, could support indefinitely.

Therefore, I can only hope, for us all, that this union of efforts, of good will, may bring about its result, and repeat to you always unchangingly, Courage and Faith!

And now I have already stopped talking with you, and it is a tearing of my heart to end my letter. But of what can I speak to you? Of our lives, of our children? Does not the future of a whole family depend upon this one thought that reigns in our hearts? Could there, as you have said so truly, be any remedy for our ills other than full and entire rehabilitation?

But if this object is to be pursued without one minute of weakness, of weariness, until it shall have been attained, oh, dear Lucie! I wish, too, with all my soul, that they may realize all the suffering, all the sorrow, accumulated upon so many human beings, who ask only one thing--the discovery of the truth--and now I must end my letter, but be sure that in every minute of the day or the night my thought, my very heart, is with you, with our dear children, to cry to you, Courage! to cry to you again and always, Courage!

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

Your devoted ALFRED.

Kisses to all.

* * * * *

_20 January, 1897._

My dear and good Lucie:

I wrote to you at length on the arrival of your letters. When a man has borne such suffering and for so long there are times when all that boils within him must escape, as the steam lifts the safety-valve in an over-heated boiler.

I have told you that I had an equal confidence in the efforts of one and all. I will not go back to that.

But I have told you, too, that even if my heart never felt one moment of discouragement any more than should yours, or the hearts of any of our family, yet the energies of the heart, of the brain, have their limits in a situation as atrocious as it is incredible; the hours become heavier and heavier, and the very minutes no longer pass by.

I know what you are suffering, too, what you are all suffering, and the thought is horrible.

Truly, you know all this, but if I tell it to you again it is because we must now arise to face the situation; because we must face it bravely, frankly. For on the one hand there can be but one end to our atrocious tortures--the discovery of the truth, all the truth, full and entire rehabilitation. And, then, it is precisely because the task is a laudable one, because we all are suffering from the most cruel pangs that have ever tortured human beings, because, also, in this horrible affair there is a double interest at stake--our personal interest and the interest of our country--it is just because of this, dear Lucie, that it is your duty to appeal to all the forces that the Government has at its command to put an end as soon as possible to this appalling martyrdom. It is a martyrdom that no creature having a human heart, a human brain, could resist indefinitely.

I should like to sum up my thoughts in a few words, ... but, alas! all that I have borne so long in the vain hope, ever renewed, of a better to-morrow, is at last passing the bounds of human strength.

And then what you have to ask--what they ought certainly to understand--is this, that because human strength has limits, and because the only thing that I ask of my country is the discovery of the truth, the full light, to see, for the sake of my little ones, the day when honor is given back to them, they must set everything in motion, to hasten the moment when the end shall be attained. I am absolutely convinced that they will listen to you, that their hearts will be moved by our immense grief, by this prayer of a Frenchman, a father.

Whatever may become of me, let me repeat to you with all the forces of my soul, Courage and Faith! Let me say again that my thoughts do not leave you for a single moment; that it is the thought of you, of our children, that gives me strength to live through these long and atrocious days; that I embrace you with all my heart, with all my strength, as I love you, as I embrace also our dear and adored children, while I wait for your dear letters, the only ray of happiness that comes to warm my crushed and broken heart.

Your devoted ALFRED.

* * * * *

_21 January, 1897._

Dear Lucie:

I wrote to you at length last night. I come again to talk to you. I repeat myself always, alas! I say always the same things; but when one suffers thus, without respite, he must needs open his heart, in spite of himself, to one in whose affection he trusts. And, then, this tension of the brain becomes too excessive, and I ask myself each day how I resist it. When I read over my letters I can see how powerless I am to express our common sorrow and all the sentiments that are in my heart. And, then, because excessive suffering, far from breaking down the soul that is energetic, urges it onward to energetic resolution, because when one has done nothing to deserve it one cannot permit himself to yield, to break down, or to die under even so frightful a fate--because of all this, dear Lucie, I have told you in all my letters, as I told you last night, “Gather around you, around you all, every assistance of every kind heart, so that you may at last see the truth of this sad tragedy, in which we have suffered so appallingly, and for so long a time.” It is this that I would repeat to you at every instant in every hour of the day and night.

In a situation so pitiful, so tragic, which human beings cannot support indefinitely, we must rise above all pettiness of mind, above all bitterness of heart, and run straight onward to the end.

I can, then, only repeat to you always, you must appeal to all devoted and generous spirits; and I have an intimate conviction that you will find such and that they will listen to this cry for help of a Frenchman, of a father, who asks of his country nothing but justice, the discovery of the truth, the honor of his name, the life of his children.

It is this that I tell you in all my letters; it is this that I repeated to you last evening; it is this that I now repeat to you more vehemently then ever. The more the physical forces decrease, the more ought the energies to increase, the will to press on. I can, then, dear Lucie, but wish for you and for me, for all of us, that this united effort may bring about its result.

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

Your devoted ALFRED.

* * * * *

_5 February, 1897._

Dear and good Lucie:

It is always with the same poignant, profound emotion that I receive your dear letters. Your letters of December have just been given to me.

To tell you of my sufferings--what good would it do?

You must fully realize what they are, accumulated thus without one moment of truce or rest in which I might renew my strength and brace up my heart and my worn-out, disordered brain.

I have told you that I have equal confidence in the efforts of one and all; that, on one hand, I have an absolute conviction that the appeal I again made has been heard, and that, knowing you all as I do, you will not fail in your duty.

What I wish to add is this: We must not bring into this horrible affair either bitterness or acrimony against individuals. To-day I shall repeat it to you as on the first day, above all human passions is our country.

Under the worst sufferings, under the most atrocious abuse and insult, when the human beast awakes ferocious, making reason vacillate under the torrents of blood that burn the eyes, the temples, the whole being, I have thought of death, I have longed for it, often I called to it with all my spirit; but my lips are ever hermetically sealed, because I want to die not only an innocent man, but a good and loyal Frenchman, who never for one single instant has forgotten his duty to his country. Then, as I told you, I think, in my last letters, precisely because the task is laudable; because your means, all your means, are limited by interests other than our own; finally because I may not be long able to resist a situation so atrocious, and when the only thing I ask of my country is the discovery of the truth, that I may see for my dear little ones the day when honor shall be given back to us--it is for all this, dear Lucie, that you must appeal to all the forces that a country, a government, has power over, to seek to put an end as soon as possible to this fearful martyrdom; for be assured my nervous and cerebral exhaustion is great, and it is more than time that I should hear at last a human word that is a kind word. Well, I hope for us all that all these efforts are soon to throw light upon this dark drama and that I am soon to learn something certain, positive; so that at last I may sleep, may rest a little.

But whatever may become of me, I wish to repeat to you with all my soul, Courage and Faith!

I embrace you as I love you, with all the strength of my soul, and our dear little ones.

Your devoted ALFRED.

Kisses to your dear parents, to all our family.

* * * * *

_20 February, 1897._

My dear Lucie:

I have written you numerous letters during these last months, and I repeat myself always. But what I would say is that, if sufferings increase, if the revolt against it all becomes almost unendurable, the sentiments that reign in my soul, that should reign in yours, all your souls, are unvarying.

But I shall not write long. Ah, it is not that my thought is not with you, with our children, night and day, since that thought alone makes me live! There is not an instant when, mentally, I do not speak to you; but in the presence of the tragic horror of a situation so appalling, and so long borne, in the presence of the atrocious sufferings of us all, words lose their meaning; there is nothing more to say. There is left only one duty for you to fulfill--a duty that is unvarying, immutable.

Moreover, I have given you all the advice that my heart can suggest.

I can wish only to hear soon a human word, a word that will put a soothing balm upon so deep a wound, that will give new strength to the heart and rest the worn-out brain.

But whatever may come of it, again I repeat to you always, with all the strength of my soul, Courage! Courage! Our children, your duty, are for you supports that no human suffering should weaken.

I wish, then, simply to send you, while I wait for your dear letters, the echo of my profound love, to embrace you with all my heart, as I love you, and also our dear, adored children.

ALFRED.

My best kisses to your parents, to all our friends. I need not write to them; all our hearts beat in unison.

* * * * *

_5 March, 1897._

My dear and good Lucie:

I wrote you a few lines the 20th of February while I was waiting for your dear letters, which have not yet reached me. I have just learned that, in consequence of an accident to the machinery, the steamer has not yet arrived at Guiana.

As I told you in my last letter, we know too well, each one of us, the horrible acuteness of our sufferings, to give us any reason to speak of it.

But I would, if it were possible, impregnate this cold and commonplace paper with all that my heart contains for you, for our children. At every instant of the day and of the night you tell yourself that my thought is with them; and that when my heart can bear no more, when the too-full cup overflows, it is in murmuring these three names that are so dear to me, it is in telling myself always, that for their sakes I must live to see the day when honor shall be given back to the name of my children, that I find, at last, the strength to overcome the atrocious nausea, that I find the strength to live.

As to the counsel that I would give you, it never changes.

I have told you everything at length in my numerous letters of January, and it may be summed up in a few words, the co-operation of all the forces of Government to hasten the moment when the truth shall be discovered; to put an end as soon as possible to such a martyrdom.

But whatever may come of it, I want to repeat to you always, that high above all our sufferings, above all our lives, there is a name that must be re-established in all its integrity in the eyes of all France. This sentiment should reign in your soul, in the souls of us all.

I wish only for you, my poor darling, as for me, as for us all, that all hearts may realize with us all the tragic horror of a situation so appalling and borne so long, this terrible torture of human souls, whose hearts are suffering, as under the blows of a hammer, night and day, without truce or rest. I wish for us all that by a powerful union of determined wills the only thing that we have so long asked for may be brought to pass--the whole truth in regard to this sad tragedy, and that I may hear soon one human word coming to put a soothing balm upon so deep a wound.

I embrace you as I love you, with all the force of my affection.

Kiss the dear little ones for me.

Your devoted ALFRED.

My fondest kisses to your dear parents, to all the family.

* * * * *

_28 March, 1897._

Dear Lucie:

After a long and anxious waiting I have just received a copy of two letters from you written in January. You complain that I do not write more at length. I wrote you numerous letters toward the end of January; perhaps by this time they have reached you.

And then, the sentiments that are in our hearts, and that rule our souls, we know them. Moreover, we have, both of us, drained the cup of all suffering.

You ask me again, dear Lucie, to speak to you at length about my own self. Alas! I cannot. When one suffers so atrociously, when one has to bear such misery of soul, it is impossible to know at night where one will be on the morrow.

You will forgive me if I have not always been a stoic; if often I have made you share my bitter grief, you who had already so much to bear. But sometimes it was too much; and I was absolutely alone.

But to-day, darling, as yesterday, let us put behind us all complaints, all recriminations. Life is nothing! You must triumph over all griefs, whatever they may be, over all sufferings, like a pure, exalted human soul that has a sacred duty to fulfill.

Be invincibly strong and valiant; keep your eyes fixed straight before you, looking to the end--looking neither to the right nor to the left.

Ah, I know well that you, too, are only a human being, ... but when grief becomes too great, when the trials that the future has in store for you are too hard to bear, then look into the faces of our children, and say to yourself that you must live, that you must be there, to sustain them until the day when our country shall recognize what I have been, what I am.

Moreover, as I have told you, I have bequeathed to those who condemned me a duty in which they will not fail; I am absolutely sure of it.

To speak of the education of the children is needless, isn’t it? We have too often, in our long conversations, gone thoroughly over this subject, and our hearts, our feelings, everything, are bound so close together that naturally we agree as to what that education should be; it may be summed up in a word: to make them strong, physically and morally.

I will not dwell too long upon all this, for these thoughts are too sad, and I do not want to be weighed down by them.

But what I wish to repeat to you with all the force of my soul, with a voice that you should always hear, is “Courage, courage!” Your patience, your resolution, that of all of us, should never tire until the truth, full and absolute, shall have been revealed and recognized.

I cannot fill my letters full enough of all the love that my heart contains for you, for you all.

If I have been able to resist until now so much agony of soul, all mental misery and trial, it is because I have drawn strength from the thought of you and of the children.

I am now hoping that your letters of April may reach me soon, and that I shall not have to suffer so long a delay before receiving them.

I will end this letter by taking you in my arms and pressing you to my heart.

I embrace you with all the strength of my love, and I repeat to you always and still again: “Courage, courage!”

A thousand kisses to our dear children.

Your devoted ALFRED.

And for all of you, whatever may come, whatever may become of me, this earnest cry, the invincible cry of my soul: “_Lift up your hearts!_ Life is nothing, honor is all!” And for you, all the tenderness of my heart.

* * * * *

_24 April, 1897._

Dear Lucie:

I want to talk with you while I wait for your dear letters, not to speak of myself, but to tell you always the same words, which ought to sustain your unalterable courage; and then, too, it is a human weakness, that is excusable enough, to get a little warmth for my tortured heart near yours, alas! not less sad than mine.

I have read over your letters of February in which you are astonished, in which you almost make excuses because at times cries of grief, of revolt, escape from your heart. Do not make excuses for them; they are only too legitimate. In this long agony of thought to which I am subjected, be sure that I know them, those very griefs.

Yes, truly, all this is appalling. No human word can express such sorrows, and sometimes I have wanted to shriek out, so inexpressible is such anguish. I also have terrible moments, atrocious moments, the more appalling because they are restrained, because never a complaint escapes my silent lips, when reason is submerged, and all that is in me is agonized, cries out in revolt. I have told you that for a long time in my dreams I have often thought, “Ah, yes, to hold one of those miserable accomplices of the author of that crime between my hands for a few minutes--and were I compelled to tear his skin from him shred by shred, I should make him confess this vile machination against our country;” but all that, sorrows and thoughts, they are only sentiments, they are only dreams, and it is the reality that we must see. And the reality is this, always the same: it is that in this horrible affair there is a double interest at stake--that of the country, our own--and one is as sacred as the other.

It is for this reason that I will not try to understand, I will not try to know, why they have made me thus fall under the weight of all these tortures. My life belongs to my country, to-day as yesterday it is hers, let her take it; but if my life belongs to her, her imprescriptible duty is to see to it that the light, full and entire, shall shine upon this horrible drama, for my honor does not belong to the country, it is the patrimony of our children, of our families.

So now, dear Lucie, I shall repeat always, to you and to all, stifle your hearts, compress your brains; as for you, you must be heroically, invincibly, at once a mother and a Frenchwoman.

Now, darling, I cannot speak to you of myself any more. If you could know all that I have been subjected to, all that I have borne, your soul would shiver with horror, and yet I am a human being who has a heart, a heart swollen to bursting, and I need, I thirst for rest. Oh, think how many appalling minutes are contained in one day of twenty-four hours, in the most complete, the most absolute idleness, with nothing to do but twirl my thumbs--alone with my thoughts!

If I have been able to resist so many torments until now it is because I have often called up the thought of you, of the children, of you all, and then I realized what you suffer, what you all suffer.

Then, darling, accept everything, whatever may come; bear it, suffer in silence, like a true human soul, exalted and very proud--the soul of a mother who is resolved to see the name she bears, the name her children bear, cleansed from this horrible stain. Then to you, as to you all, again and always, “Courage, courage!”

You must kiss the dear children for me and tell them how dearly I love them.

And you must also kiss your dear brothers and sisters, and all my family for me.

And for yourself, for our dear children, all that my heart contains of unfailing love.

ALFRED.

* * * * *

_4 May, 1897._

Dear and good Lucie:

I have just received your letters of March, with those of the family, and it is always with the same poignant emotion, with the same sorrow that I read your words, that I read the letters from you all, so deeply wounded are all our hearts, so torn by all our sufferings.

I have already written to you, some days ago, when I was waiting for your dear letters, and I told you that I did not wish to know or to understand why I had been thus crushed, under every punishment.

But if, in the strength of my conscience, in the consciousness of my duty, I have been enabled to raise myself above everything, ever and always to stifle my heart, to choke down every revolt of my being, it does not follow that my heart has not deeply suffered, that it is not, alas! torn to shreds. But I told you, too, that never has the temptation to yield to discouragement entered my soul, nor should it ever again enter into yours, nor into the soul of any one of you. Yes, it is atrocious to suffer thus; yes, all this is appalling, and it is enough to shake every belief in all that makes life noble and beautiful; ... but to-day there can be no consolation for any one of us other than the discovery of the truth, the full light.

Whatever, then, may be your pain, however bitter the grief of every one of you, tell yourself that you have a sacred duty to accomplish, and that nothing must turn you from it; and this duty is to re-establish a name, in all its integrity, in the eyes of all France.

Now, to tell you all that my heart contains for you, for our children, for you all, is unnecessary, isn’t it?

In happiness we do not begin to perceive all the depth, all the powerful tenderness that the deep recesses of the heart hold for the beloved. We need misfortune, the sense of the sufferings endured by those for whom we would give our last drop of blood, to understand its force, to grasp the tremendous power of it. If you knew how often in the moments of my anguish I have called to my assistance the thought of you, of our children, to force me to live on, to accept what I should never have accepted but for the thought of duty.

And this always brings me back to it, my darling; do your duty, heroically, invincibly, as a human soul, exalted and very proud, as a mother who is determined that the name she bears, the name her children bear, shall be cleansed of this horrible stain.

Say to yourself, then, as to every one, always and again, “Courage, courage!” I cannot tell you of myself; I gave you my reasons in my former letter. I want only to end these few lines by embracing you with all my heart, with all my strength, as I embrace also our dear children.

Your devoted ALFRED.

Thank your dear parents, all our family, for their letters, so full of profound tenderness and with grief not less profound.

Why should I write to them? To speak of myself, of our sufferings? We all know each other too well not to know both the intense love that unites us and the deep grief that fills our souls. But for all, unchangingly, unalterable, steadfast courage! As ---- has said so truly: there is an object to attain, and in the thought of that object we must forget all present griefs, whatsoever they be!

* * * * *

_20 May, 1897._

My dear Lucie:

Very often I have taken my pen to talk with you--to unburden my bruised and bleeding heart, as in the presence of yours--but each time I did so the cries of our common sorrow burst out in spite of me.

And of what good is it to cry out? In the presence of such martyrdom, in the presence of such sufferings, I must be silent. So what I will repeat to you is simply this: it is the invariable, the ever-ardent, persistent cry of my soul, “Courage, courage!” When you consider the end we are to attain you should count neither time nor sufferings. We must wait with confidence until it shall be attained.

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

Your devoted ALFRED.

My best kisses to your dear parents, to all of our family.

* * * * *

_5 July, 1897._

My dear and good Lucie:

I have just received your letters of April with those of May, and with all the letters of the family; with all the strength of my soul I add mine to your most hearty good wishes for Marie’s happiness. Kiss her for me and tell her, too, that I found some tears--I who no longer know how to weep--in thinking of her joy that is mingled with so much suffering.

I wish with all the strength of my soul, for you, my poor darling, that the end of this terrible martyrdom may be near, and if one who has suffered so deeply can still pray, I join my hands in one last prayer that I address to all those to whom I have appealed, that they may bring you a co-operation more ardent, more generous than ever in the work of discovering the truth. Moreover, I am certain that you have this co-operation, have it fully, ungrudgingly, ... and I hope with all that my heart contains of tenderness for you, of affection for our children, that all these efforts may soon bring about their result.

As for me, dear and good Lucie, I who for you would have given with all my heart, with all my soul, every drop of my blood to relieve one pain, to spare you one sorrow,... I have been able to do nothing but remain alive for so long and through so many tortures. I have done it for you, for our children.

But I must repeat to you always, “Courage, courage!” Our children are the future; it is their life that we must assure. And I wish to end these few lines by expressing once more the two sentiments that reign in my heart. First, I want to send you all my tenderness, all my deep love, for you, for our children, for your dear parents, for my dear brothers and sisters. I want to take you in my arms again, to press you again to my heart with all the strength that remains to me, with all the power of my love. And then the second sentiment is this: to repeat to you always to be grand, to be strong, whatever may happen, whatever may be the trials that the future may still have in store for you, to think ever and again of our dear children, who are the future, the children of whom you must be the unfailing guard and stay, until the day when the truth shall be revealed.

And then I want to tell you once again the last prayer of a man who has been subjected to the most terrible of martyrdoms, a man who had always and in all places done his duty; it is that they may give you a kind word, a helping hand, an energetic and powerful aid, that nothing can weary in the discovery of the truth.

All my being, all my thoughts, my very heart, spring forward in a supreme effort toward you, toward our dear children, toward your dear parents, toward all those whom I love, while I wish with all the strength of my soul that a future may be near which will bring to you all a rest of the mind, a calmness, a tranquillity, all the happiness you yourself so well deserve, that you all so well deserve.

Then, dear and good Lucie, always, and still always, Courage!

I embrace you as I love you, as I embrace also our dear and adored children, your dear parents, all our family.

Your devoted ALFRED.

* * * * *

_22 July, 1897._

My dear Lucie:

A few lines only, while I await your dear letters.

I suffer too much for you, for our children, for you all. I know too well what are your tortures for me to be able to tell you of myself.

Poor love, did you, too, deserve to bear a martyrdom like this? My heart breaks; my brain bursts its bounds as I think of all the sorrow heaped upon you all--sorrow so unending, so unmerited!

I have again made passionate appeals for you, for our children. I am sure that the co-operation which will be given you will be more active, more ardent, than ever. In my long nights of suffering, when my thought comes back constantly to you, to our children, I often join my hands in a silent prayer into which I put my whole heart, that the appalling suffering of so many innocent victims may soon be ended.

However it may be, dear Lucie, I want to repeat to you always, as long as I shall have a breath of life, “Courage, courage!” Our children, your duty, are for you safeguards that nothing should displace, that no human grief should weaken.

I want, in ending, to impregnate as well as I can these few lines with all that my heart contains for you, for our dear children, for your dear parents, for you all, to tell you still that night and day my thoughts, all my very being, springs forward toward them, toward you, and it is due to that alone that I live. I want to take you in my arms and hold you to my heart with all the power of my love, to embrace thus also our dear children, as I love you.

Your devoted ALFRED.

A thousand kisses to your dear parents; again my most profound wishes of happiness for our dear Marie, and many kisses for my brothers and sisters; and to all, without exception, whatever may be their suffering, whatever may be their fearful grief, always courage!

* * * * *

_10 August, 1897._

Dear Lucie:

I have just at this instant received your three letters of the month of June and all the letters from the family, and it is under the impression, always keen, always poignant, that so many sweet souvenirs evoke in me, so many appalling sufferings also, that I will answer.

I will tell you once more, first all my profound affection, all my immense tenderness, all my admiration, for your noble character; then I will open all my soul to you, and I will tell you your duty, your right, that right that you should renounce only with your life. And this right, this duty, that is equally imprescriptible for my country as for you, is to will it that the light shall shine full and entire upon this horrible drama; it is to will without weakening, without boasting, but with indomitable energy, that our name, the name that our dear children bear, shall be washed free from this horrible stain.

And this object, this end, you, Lucie, you all should attain it, like good and valiant French men and women who are suffering martyrdom, but not one of whom, no matter what bitter outrages he has suffered, has ever forgotten his duty to his country for one single instant. And the day when the light shall shine, when the whole truth shall be revealed--as it must be, for neither time, patience, nor effort of the will should be counted in working for such an end--ah, well! if I am no longer with you, it will be for you to wash my name from this new outrage, so undeserved, that nothing has ever justified; and I repeat it, whatever may have been my sufferings, however atrocious may have been the tortures inflicted upon me--tortures that I cannot forget, tortures that can be excused only by the passions that sometimes lead men astray--I have never forgotten that far above men, far above their passions, far above their errors, is our country. It is she that will be my final judge.

To be an honest man does not wholly consist in being incapable of stealing a hundred sous from the pocket of a neighbor; to be an honest man, I say, is to be able always to see one’s reflection in that mirror that forgets nothing, that sees everything, that knows everything; to be able to see one’s self, in a word, in one’s conscience with the certitude of having always and everywhere done one’s duty. That certitude I have.

Then, dear and good Lucie, do your duty bravely, pitilessly, as a good and valiant Frenchwoman who is suffering martyrdom, but who is resolved that the name she bears, the name that her children bear, shall be cleansed from this horrible stain. The light must break out, it must shine in all its brilliancy. The limitations of time should no longer be anything to you.

Indeed, I know too well that the sentiments that animate me are cherished by you all; they are common to all of us, to your dear family as to my own.

I cannot speak to you of the children; besides, I know you too well to doubt for one single instant the manner in which you will bring them up. Never leave them; be with them always, heart and soul; listen to them always, however importunate may be their questions.

As I have often told you, to educate children is not merely to assure their material life, nor even their intellectual life, but it is also to assure to them the support that they should find in their parents, the confidence with which the latter should inspire them, the certainty that they should always have that there is one place where they can unburden their hearts, where they can forget their pains, their sorrows, no matter how little, how trivial they may sometimes appear.

In these last lines I would put once more all my deep love for you, for our dear children, for your dear parents, for you all, all those whom I love from the bottom of my heart, for all the friends whose thoughts for me I divine, whose unalterable devotion I know; and I would say to you again and again, Courage, courage! I would tell you that nothing should shake your will; that high above my life hovers the one supreme care--the honor of my name, of the name you bear, the name our children bear.

I would embrace you with the ardent fire that animates my soul, the fire that is to be extinguished only with my life.

I embrace you from the depths of my heart, with all my strength, and so also I embrace my dear, my adored children.

Your devoted ALFRED.

A thousand kisses for the dear children now and always. All my wishes of happiness for Marie and her dear husband; and as many kisses for all my dear brothers and sisters, for Lucie and Henri.

* * * * *

_4 September, 1897._

Dear Lucie:

I have just received your letters of July. You tell me again that you have the certainty that the full light of day is soon to shine; this certainty is in my soul; it is inspired by the right that every man has to demand it, to will that he shall have it when he demands but one thing--the truth.

As long as I shall have the strength to live in a situation as inhuman as it is undeserved, I shall continue to write to you, to inspire you by my indomitable will.

Indeed, the last letters I wrote to you are my moral will and testament. I spoke to you in them first of all of our love. I confessed to you also my physical and cerebral breaking down, but I spoke to you not less energetically of your duty, the duty of you all.

This grandeur of soul that you all have shown equally--let there be no illusion about this--this grandeur of soul should be accompanied neither by weakness nor by boasting. On the contrary, it should ally itself to a determination each day more resolute, a determination that strengthens with each hour of the day, to march on toward the goal--the discovery of the truth, the whole truth, for all France.

Truly, this wound sometimes bleeds too hard, and the heart rises in revolt. Truly, worn out as I am, I often fall under the blows of the sledge-hammer, and then I am no more than a poor human being, full of agony and suffering; but my indomitable soul lifts me up quivering with pain, with energy, with implacable desire for that that is most precious in this world--our honor, the honor of our children, the honor of us all. And then I brace myself anew to cry out to all men the thrilling appeal of a man who asks, who wants, only justice. And then I come to illume in you all the ardent fire that burns in my soul, that shall be extinguished only with my life.

As for me, I live only by my fever; for a long time I have lived on from day to day, proud when I have been able to hold out through a long day of twenty-four hours. I am subjected to the stupid and useless lot of the man in the iron mask, because there is always that same afterthought lingering in the mind, I told you so, frankly, in one of my last letters.

As for you, you must not pay any attention either to what any one says or to what any one thinks. You have your duty to do unflinchingly, and it is incumbent upon you, and to resolve not less unflinchingly, to have your right, the right of justice and of truth. Yes, the light must shine out. I put my thought in a few words; but if there are in this horrible affair other interests than ours--interests that we have never misunderstood--there are also the imprescriptible rights of justice and of truth; there is for us both, for all, the duty, while we respect all these interests, of bringing to an end a situation so atrocious, so unmerited.

I can then but hope for both of us, for all, that our martyrdom is to have an end.

Now what can I say further to express this profound, this immense love for you, for our children, to express my affection for your dear parents, for all our brothers and sisters, for all who suffer this appalling, this long drawn-out martyrdom?

To speak at length of myself, of all my little affairs, is useless. I do it sometimes in spite of myself, for the heart has irresistible revolts; bitterness, do what I will, mounts from my heart to my lips when I see that everything is misunderstood, everything that goes to make life noble and beautiful; and, truly, were it a question of my own self only, long ago would I have gone to search in the peace of the tomb for forgetfulness of all that I have seen, of all that I have heard, of all that I see each day.

I have lived in order to sustain you, to sustain you all, with my indomitable will; for it is no longer a question of my life, it is a question of my honor, of the honor of us all, of the life of our children.

I have borne everything without flinching, without lowering my head; I have stifled my heart; I curb each day the revolts of my being, urging you all again and again to demand the truth, without lassitude as without boasting.

But I hope for us both, my poor beloved, for us all, that the efforts, either of one or of another, may soon bring about their result; that the day of justice may at last dawn for us all, who have waited for it so long.

Each time I write to you I hardly can lay down my pen, not that I have anything to tell you, ... but because I am again about to leave you for long days, living only in my thoughts of you, of the children, of you all.

So I will end by embracing you and my dear children, your dear parents, all of our dear brothers and sisters, in pressing you in my arms with all my strength, and repeating with an energy that nothing can weaken, so long as the breath of life is in my body, “Courage, courage and determination!”

A thousand kisses more.

Your devoted ALFRED.

And for you all, dear parents, and dear brothers and sisters, courage and indomitable will that nothing should shake, that nothing should weaken.

* * * * *

_2 October, 1897._

My dear Lucie:

I have just received your dear letters of August, also a few from the family.

I wish with you, for you, for us all, that the light of justice may shine at last and that we may at last perceive the end of our martyrdom, that has been as long drawn out as it has been appalling.

Indeed, I have already told you in long letters that neither my faith nor my courage had been nor shall ever be shaken, for, on one hand, I know that you will all energetically fulfill your duty, and that you will not less inflexibly be resolved to gain your right--the right of justice and of truth; and, on the other hand, I know that if there is any imprescriptible duty devolving upon my country, it is to bring the full light of truth to bear upon this tragic story, to repair this terrible error.

In fact, very often, in so far as my human weakness has permitted me--for if one can be a stoic in the face of death--and I have often called on death from the bottom of my heart--it is difficult to be one through all the minutes of an agony that is as long drawn out as it is undeserved--I have hidden my horrible distress under such tortures to sustain you, to keep you from fainting, from bending in your turn under all the weight of such suffering.

If for several months I have no longer hidden anything from you, it has been because I think that you ought always to be prepared for everything, drawing from the duties which as a mother you must perform heroically, invincibly, the force to bear everything with a firm and valiant heart, with the unshakable determination to wash the infamous stain from the name you bear, that our children bear.

Now, we have had enough of all this, haven’t we, darling? Leave their fears, their suspicions, with those who have them. If my soul is always valiant and will remain so to my last breath, everything within me is worn out; my heart swells to bursting not only for past tortures, but to see that you misunderstand me on this point. My brain reels and totters, at the mercy of the least shock, the most petty of events. Besides, as I have told you already, my long letters are too clearly the equally intimate and heartfelt expression of my sentiments and of my immutable will for it to be necessary for me to return to it. They are my moral will and testament.

Therefore, my dear Lucie, for your own sake, for us all, you must always do your duty, be resolved to gain your right--the right of justice and of truth--until the full light shines out; until all France is convinced--and she must be--whether I should live or die; for, like Banquo’s ghost, I should come out of my tomb to cry to you all with all my soul, always and again, “Courage, courage!” to remind my country, who thus tortures me, who sacrifices me--I dare to say it, for no human brain could resist so long such an appalling situation, and it is only by a miracle that I have been able to resist until now--to remind my country that she has a duty to fulfill, and that that duty is to throw a refulgent light upon this sad tragedy, to repair this frightful error that has endured for so long.

Therefore, darling, be sure of it, you are to have your day of refulgent glory, of supreme joy; be it by your own efforts, be it by the efforts of our country, who will fulfill all her duty; and if I am not to be there, what would you have, darling? There are victims of state--and truly the situation is too hard to bear--by far too heavy for the length of time that I have borne it--and, well, Pierre will represent me!

I shall not speak of the children; indeed, I already did so at length in my letters of August; and then I know you too well to have any anxiety in regard to them. You will embrace them with all my strength, with all my soul. I must leave you, although it always is a great grief to me to tear away from your presence, so short, so fleeting, is this moment that I pass with you.

I embrace you as I love you, with all my strength, with all the power of my love, as I embrace our dear children, while I repeat to you always, Courage, courage! and while I wish that all this suffering may have at last an end.

Your devoted ALFRED.

My best kisses to your dear parents, to all of our family; my wishes of condolence to Arthur and to Lucie; I do not feel that I have the courage to write to them.

* * * * *

_22 October, 1897._

My dear and good Lucie:

Should I listen only to my heart I should write to you at every instant, at every hour in the day; for my thoughts cannot detach themselves from you, from our dear children, from all; but it would be only to repeat the expressions of our common grief, and there are no more words to describe this martyrdom--so long!

In the letters that I have written to you I have expressed my thoughts, my determination, that determination that I know to be your own, that of every one of you, independent of my sufferings, of my life; there have been also in my letters, it is true, cries of sorrow, for when I suffer night and day, even more for you and for our children than for myself, my brain takes fire; and as if there were not enough in my own tortures, the climate at this time of year is sufficient in itself alone. And, indeed, the heart has need to give vent to its anguish, the human being to cry out its distress, its weakness.

But do not let us dwell upon all that. What I wish to tell you is this: you must demand light on this tragic story; you must have the will to pursue inflexibly, without boasting, without passion, but with the unshakable conviction of your rights; with your heart of a wife, of a mother, horribly mutilated and wounded, with an energy and a will increasing each day in proportion to your sufferings.

So, to-day, while I await your dear letters I wish only to embrace you with all my heart, with all my strength, as I love you, as I embrace also our dear children, to hope, as always, that our terrible martyrdom may at last have an end; yes, and to repeat to you always, a thousand and a thousand times, Courage!

A thousand kisses more.

ALFRED.

* * * * *

_4 November, 1897._

My dear and good Lucie:

I have just at this moment received your letters. Words, my good darling, are powerless to express what poignant emotions the sight of your dear writing awakes in my heart; and, indeed, it is these sentiments of powerful affection that this emotion awakens in me that give me the strength to wait until the supreme day when the truth shall be made clear concerning this sad and terrible drama.

Your letters breathe such a sentiment of confidence that they have brought serenity to my heart, that is suffering so much for you, for our dear children.

You tell me, poor darling, not to think, not to try to understand. Oh, try to understand! I have never done that; it is impossible for me. But how can I stop my thoughts? All that I can do is, as I have told you, to try to wait for the supreme day of truth.