I hope, indeed, that what I have said to you during so many long months is being translated by you all into strong and vigorous action, and that I shall hear soon that the sufferings of us both are to have an end.
I embrace you as I love you, and also our dear children, with all my heart, with all my soul, while I wait for tidings from you all.
Alfred.26 February, 1896.
My dear Lucie:
I received the 12th of this month your dear letters of December; also all those from the family. It is needless for me to try to describe to you the deep emotion which they gave me. I could weep—that tells it all. As you yourself feel, in spite of yourself, the brain does not stop working, the head and the heart still suffer, and these tortures will only cease after the truth is brought to light, when this awful drama is finished, explained.
I have spoken too much of myself and of my sufferings; forgive me this weakness.
Whatever my sufferings may be, ah, however terrible our martyrdom is, there is an object that must be attained—that you will attain, I am sure of it—the light, full and entire, such as is necessary for us all, for our name, for our dear children. I hope ardently, for you as for myself, to hear soon that this object is at last attained.
I have no counsels to give you, either. I can but approve absolutely what you are doing to accomplish the complete demonstration of my innocence. That is the end to be attained, and we must see nothing else.
I have received Mathieu’s few words; tell him that I am always with him, heart and soul. The 22d of February was the anniversary of the birth of our dear little Jeanne. How often I thought of her! I will not say more about it, for my heart will break and I have need of all my strength. Write me long letters. Speak to me of yourself and of our dear children.
I read and re-read each day all that you have written me; then it seems to me that I hear your beloved voice, and that helps me to live.
I will not write more, for I can only tell you of the horrible length of the hours, of the sadness of all things; and complaining is very useless.
Kiss your dear parents for me. Thank them always for their good, affectionate letters.
A thousand kisses to our dear children, and for you the best, the tenderest kisses of your devoted
Alfred.
I have not yet received the things you spoke of in your letters of the 25th of November and the 25th of December. I cannot tell why the things you send me are so long in coming. Perhaps the books you are going to send me soon by mail will reach me with less delay. I hope so, for reading, the only thing that is possible for me to do, may calm a little the pains in my brain, and unhappily even that is often lacking.
5 March, 1896.
My dear Lucie:
I have not yet received your dear letters of January. A few lines only to send you the echo of my immense affection. Write to you at length? I cannot. My days, my hours, slip by monotonously, in this agonizing, enervating waiting for the discovery of the truth, the discovery of the wretch who committed this infamous crime. Speak to you of myself? What good can that do us? My sufferings, you know them, you share them. They, like yours, like those of all who love us, can only have an end when the broad, full light shall appear, when honor is returned to us.
It is toward this end that all your energy, all yourforces, all your means, should be directed. I hope to learn that this end is almost attained, that this appalling martyrdom of a whole family is nearly over. My body, my health? All that is indifferent to me. My being is animated only by one thought, by one desire, which keeps me alive—that of seeing with you and with our children the day when my honor shall be returned to me. It is in my thoughts of you, in the thought of our adored children, that I rest my brain, overtried at times by this continual tension, by this fever of impatience, by this terrible inactivity, without one moment of distraction.
If, then, we cannot keep ourselves from suffering—for never were human beings, who hold honor above all, struck in such a manner—still I cry always to you, “Courage, courage!” to march on to your goal, your head high, your heart firm, with unshaken will, never discouraged. Your children tell you your duty, just as they give me my strength.
Let us hope, then, as your mother has said, that soon, in each other’s arms, we can try to forget this fearful martyrdom, these months, so sad and so delusive, and live again by consecrating ourselves to our children.
I embrace you, as I love you, with all my strength, and also our dear children.
Your devoted
Alfred.
Kisses to all.
26 March, 1896.
My dear Lucie:
I received the 12th of this month your good letters of January, so impatiently expected every month, also all the letters from the family.
I have seen with happiness that your health and the health of all resist this frightful condition of things, this horrible nightmare, in which we have lived so long. What a trial for you, my good darling, as horrible as it is undeserved—for you who deserve to be so happy! Yes, I have horrible moments, when the heart can bear no longer the blows which open the wound already so deep, when my brain gives way under the weight of thoughts so sad and so deceptive. When, after I have waited for my letters in an agony of anxiety, the mail arrives, and still I do not receive the announcement of the discovery of the truth, or of the author of that infamous and cowardly crime, oh, I have at first a feeling of deep, bitter disappointment. My heart is torn, is broken, under so many sufferings, so long and so undeserved!
I am a little like a sick man who lingers on his bed of torment, suffering anguish, but who lives because his duty demands it, and who keeps asking his doctor, “When will my tortures end?” And as the doctor answers, “Soon, soon,” the sick man ends by asking himself, “But when will this ‘soon’ come?” and he longs to see it come.
It was a long time ago that you announced it to me ... but be discouraged? Oh, that never! However terrible may be my sufferings, the desire for our honor is far above them!
Neither you, nor any one, will ever have the right to one moment of fatigue, one second of weakness, as long as the goal has not been reached—the absolute honor of our name. As for me, when I feel that I am falling under the united weight of all our suffering, when I feel that my reason is leaving me, then I think of you, ofour dear children, of the undeserved dishonor cast upon our name, and I recover my balance by a violent effort of my whole being, and I cry to myself, “No, you shall not bend before the tempest! Your heart may be in bits, your brain may be crushed, but you shall not succumb until you have seen the day when honor shall be given back to your dear children!”
This is why, dear Lucie, I come to cry to you always, to you, as to all, “Courage!” and more than courage—for will to accomplish!... Oh, silently, very silently—for words do not help—but boldly, audaciously to march straight onward to the end—the entire truth, the light upon this awful drama, in one word, all the honor of our name! Means? They must all be employed, of whatever nature they may be—anything that the mind can suggest to obtain the solution of this enigma.
The object is everything; that alone is immutable. I wish our children to enter upon life with heads proudly erect. I wish to animate you with my supreme desire. I wish to see you succeed, and it will be full time, I swear to you!
I hope that you may soon be able to tell me something certain, something positive, oh, for both of us, my dear Lucie! I cannot write to you at greater length, nor speak to you of anything else except my great and deep affection for you. My head is too tired by this bitter discipline, the most terrible, the most cruel that human brain can endure.
Our dear little Pierre asks me to write to him. Ah, I am not strong enough! Each word wrings a sob from my throat and I am obliged to resist with all my strength in order to be with him on the day when they give us back our honor.
Take him in your arms for me, as well as our dear little Jeanne.
Oh, my precious children!... Draw from them your invincible courage.
I embrace you with all the forces of my being, as I love you.
Alfred.
Embrace your dear parents, all the family for me; my health is good.
I received from you at the beginning of the month a dozen packages of provisions and some cardigans. I thank you for your touching care for me. I have not yet received any of the reviews and the books you announced in your letters of September, December, and January; not one of them has yet arrived at Cayenne. Please send the things so that they may come by parcels post. Either address them to me directly, care of the Director of the Penitentiary Service at Cayenne, or else have them addressed to me from the Ministry, at your own expense.
26 March, 1896, evening.
Dear Lucie:
Before sending you the letter that I had written, I re-read, perhaps for the hundredth time, your dear letters, for you can imagine what my long days and nights are like, when, my arms crossed, I am alone with my thoughts, without anything to read, sustaining myself only by the force of duty, so that I may uphold you so that I may see, at last, the day when our honor is givenback to us. You ask me to await calmly the day when you can announce to me the discovery of the truth.
Ask me to wait as long as I have the strength; but with calmness? Oh, no! When they have torn, all-living, the heart from my breast, when I feel myself struck in my most precious possession, in you and my children, when my heart groans with agony night and day, without one hour of rest, when for eighteen months I have lived in a frightful nightmare!
But, then, that which I desire with a ferocious determination, that which has made me bear everything, that which has made me live, is not that you should protest my innocence by your words, but that you should march, that you all should march, straight forward, no matter by what means, to the conquest of the truth, to the laying bare in the full light of day this dark story ... in a word, to the recovery of our whole honor.
These are the words I spoke to you before my departure—already more than a year ago ... and, alas! it is not that I would reproach you; but it seems to me that you are very long on this supreme mission, for it is not living to live without honor.
And in my long nights of torture, suffering this martyrdom, how often have I told myself, “Ah, how I should have solved the enigma of this horrible drama—by any means, no matter what, even had I been forced to put the knife to the throats of the wretched accomplices, however well hidden they might have been, of the vile criminal!” And more often still have I cried to myself, “Will there be no one, then, with enough heart and soul or clever enough to tear the truth from them, and to bring to an end this fearful martyrdom of a man and of two families?” Ah, I know that these are onlythe dreams of one who suffers horribly! But what would you? All that is too horrible, too atrocious! It leads astray my reason, my faith in loyalty and rectitude, for there is a moral law that is above all things, above passion and hatred; it is the law that demands the truth always and in all things. And then when my thoughts turn back upon my past, upon my whole life, and then to see myself where I am now! Oh, then it is horrible! black night closes in upon my soul, and I long to shut my eyes, to think no more. It is in my thought of you, of our dear children, in my wish to see the end of this horrible drama that I find again the energy to live, to hold myself erect. These are my thoughts, these are my dreams, my dear and good Lucie, and it is in answer to your question that I have thus laid bare my soul. Know, then, that I suffer with you, that I live in your life, that our mental and moral tortures are the same, that they can have but one end—full light upon this sinister affair. Let us press on, then, toward this supreme end, active in every day, in every hour, with ferocious and unconquerable will, the conviction that overturns all obstacles. It is our honor that has been torn from us, and we must regain it. And now I am going to bed to try to rest my brain a little, or rather to try to dream of you and of our dear children. The 5th of April Pierre will be five years old. Be sure that on that day all my heart, all my thoughts, my tears, alas! also will have been of him, of you. And I close in wishing that you may soon announce to me the end of this infernal torture, and by embracing you with all my strength, as I love you.
Your devoted
Alfred.
5 April, 1896.
My dear Lucie:
I have just received your dear letters of February, also those of the family. In your turn, my dear wife, you have been subjected to the atrocious anguish of waiting for tidings!... I have known this anguish; I have known many others; I have seen things that are deceiving to the human consciousness.... Well, I say again, what matters it? Your children are there, they live. We have given them life, we must restore their honor to them. It is necessary to go straight forward to the end, our eyes fixed upon one single object—to go forward with an unconquerable will, with the courage given by the knowledge of an absolute necessity. I told you in one of my letters that each day brings with it its anguish. It is true. When the evening comes, after a struggle of every instant against the turmoil of my brain, against the overthrow of my reason, against the revolts of my heart, then I have a cerebral and nervous depression, and I long to close my eyes to see no more, to think no more, to suffer no more. Then I have to make a violent effort of the will to drive away the ideas that drag me down, to bring back the thought of you, the thought of our adored children, and to say to myself again, “However horrible your martyrdom may be, you must be able to die in peace, knowing that you leave to your children a proud and honored name.” If I recall this to you, it is simply to tell you again what effort of my will I put forth in a single day because it concerns the honor of our name, the name of our children; that this same determination should animate you all. I want to tell you also what I suffer from your torture, from that of you all, what I suffer for our children, and thatthen at all hours of the day and night I cry to you and to all of you, in the agony of my grief, “March on to the conquest of the truth, boldly, like honest and valiant people, to whom honor is everything.”
Ah, the means! Little do I care for means. They must be found, when one knows what one wants, and when it is one’s right and one’s duty to want it.
This voice you should hear at every moment, across all space; it should animate your souls.
I repeat myself ever, dear Lucie; it is because but one thought, one will gives me strength to endure everything.
I am neither patient nor resigned, be sure of that. I long for the light, the truth, our honor throughout all France, with all the fibres of my being; and this supreme desire ought to inspire in you—in you, as in all the others—all courage, all daring, so that at last we may escape from a situation as infamous as it is undeserved.
You have no mercy and no favor to ask of any one. You wish the light, and that you must obtain.
The more the physical strength decreases—for the nerves end by becoming absolutely shattered by so many appalling shocks—the more the energies should increase.
Never, never, never—and this is the cry from the depths of my soul—can a man resign himself to dishonor when he has not deserved it.
To-day our dear little Pierre is five years old. All my heart, all my thoughts go out to him, to you, to our dear children. All my being quivers with sorrow.
What can I add, my dear Lucie? My affection for you, for our children, you know it. It has kept me alive; ithas made me endure what otherwise I should never have accepted; it gives me the force still to endure all.
You say that we are approaching the end of our sufferings. I wish it with all my strength; for never have human beings suffered like this. I wrote you a long letter, ten days ago, by the French mail.
I embrace you, as I love you, with all my strength, and also our children.
Your devoted
Alfred.
I received some days ago the reviews and books that you sent in November. Their tardy arrival may be traced to the fact that they were sent by freight—that is to say, by sailing vessels. I find a little solace in them. But my brain is so shaken, so fatigued, by all these appalling shocks that I cannot fix my mind upon anything. The other parcels you have sent will reach me some day.
Embrace your dear parents, and all of our family for me. I wrote to them by the French mail.
26 April, 1896.
My dear Lucie:
In the long and atrocious days of which all these months are made, I have read and re-read your dear letters of February. My heart has bled with the anguish to which you have been subjected during these long months, and of which each word in your letters bears the trace. I could feel how you restrained the shivers of your being, how you held back the overflowing volume of your grief, and in an effort of your loving anddevoted heart you found the strength to cry again to me, “Oh, I am strong!”
Yes, be strong, for strength is needed.
One of these nights I dreamed of you, of our children, of our torture, compared with which death would be sweet, and in my agony I cried out in my sleep.
My suffering is at times so strong that I would tear my skin from my flesh, to forget in physical pain this too violent torture of soul. I arise in the morning with the dread of the long hours of the day, alone, for so long, with the horrors of my brain; I lie down at night with the fear of the sleepless hours. You ask me to speak to you at length of myself, of my health. You must realize that after the tortures to which I have been subjected, supporting the atrocious life of the present, a life that never leaves me a moment of rest, day or night, my health cannot be brilliant. My body is broken, my nerves are sick, my brain is crushed, say, simply, that I still hold myself erect in the absolute sense of the word only because I resolved to, so as to see with you and our children the day when honor shall be returned to us.
You ask yourself sometimes, in your hours of calmness, why we have been thus tried.... I ask it of myself at every instant, and I find no answer.
We deceived each other mutually, dear Lucie, by alternately recommending each other to be calm and to be patient. Our love tries in vain to hide from each other the thoughts that agitate our hearts.
My anguish when I write to you, the heart quivering with pain and fever, tells me too clearly what you feel when you write to me.
No, let us tell each other simply that if we still live with torn and panting hearts, with our souls shiveringwith anguish, it is because there is a supreme object to be attained, cost what it may—the full honor of our name, that of our children—and that right speedily, for sensitive people cannot live in a situation whose every moment is a torture.
Very often I have wished to speak to you at length of our children—I cannot. A dull, bitter anger floods my heart at the thought of these dear little creatures, struck through their father, who is innocent of a crime so abominable.... My throat contracts, my sobs choke me, my hands are wrung with grief at not being able to do anything for them, for you ... to struggle to keep from dying in such a situation, and for so long.
So I can only repeat to you, dear Lucie, “Courage, and determination, and action, also, for human strength has a limit.”
I wrote you long letters by the last mail; I wrote also to your dear parents, to my brothers and sisters. I hope that these letters will still more embolden your courage, the courage of every one of you, that they will animate your souls with the fire that consumes my own soul—the fire that gives me the strength to still stand erect.
You tell me that you have good reasons for believing that this atrocious situation is not to be of long duration. Ah, I wish with all my soul that this time your hope may not be deceived, that you may soon announce to me something certain, positive; for truly this is suffering too hard to bear!
What can I add, dear Lucie? The hours are all alike in their atrocity for me; I live only by the thought of you, of our children, in the expectation of adénouement, an escape from a situation which has lasted but too long.
I embrace you with all my heart, as I love you; also our dear children, and I am waiting now until I shall have the happiness of receiving your dear letters, always so impatiently expected.
Your devoted
Alfred.
Kisses to all.
May 7, 1896.
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 crimeshall 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 mybitterness 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’sego, 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 ourdear 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, uponour 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 toyou, 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 mylips. 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 toldyou 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 wouldgive, 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 topursue 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, Ihave 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 toall 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 mybeing, 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 lettersof 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 asmine. 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!”