* * * * *
_Tuesday, 21 January, 1895, 9 o’clock in the morning._
How you must suffer!... The tragedy of which we are the
victims is certainly the most terrible of the century. To have
everything--happiness, the future, a charming home--and then, all at
once, to be accused and condemned for a crime so monstrous!
Ah, the monster who has cast dishonor in our family might better have
killed me; at least there would then have been only me to suffer! This
is what tortures me the most; it is the thought of the infamy that is
coupled with my name. If I had only physical sufferings to bear, it
would be nothing. Sufferings borne for a noble cause are elevating; but
to suffer because I am condemned for an infamous crime--ah, no! Cannot
you see that it is too much, even for energy like mine?
Oh, why am I not dead? I have not even the right to leave this life of
my own will; it would be an act of cowardice. I have not the right to
die, to look for oblivion, until I shall have regained my honor. The
other day when they insulted me at La Rochelle, I wished that I might
escape from the hands of my guards and present myself with naked breast
to those to whom I was a just object of indignation and say to them: “Do
not insult me; my heart that you cannot know is pure and free from all
defilement; but if you believe me guilty, here, take my body; I give it
up to you without regret.”
At least then, when under the sharp sting of physical suffering, I
should still have cried, “_Vive la France!_” Perhaps then they would
have believed in my innocence.
After all, what do I beg for night and day? Justice, justice! Are we in
the nineteenth century, or must we turn back for centuries? Is it
possible that innocence can be unrecognized in a century of light and
truth? They must search for the truth. I do not ask for mercy, but I
demand the justice due to every human creature. They must search. Let
those who possess powerful means of investigation use them to this end;
it is a sacred duty which they owe to humanity and justice. It is
impossible that light shall not be thrown upon my mysterious and tragic
fate.
O God! who will give me back my honor that has been stolen from me,
basely stolen from me? Oh, what a dark drama, my poor darling! As you
have so truly said, it surpasses anything that can be imagined.
I have but two happy moments in my days, but so short. The first is when
they bring me this sheet of paper so that I can write to you--I pass a
few moments in talking with you. The second is when they bring me your
daily letter. The rest of the time I am alone with my thoughts; and God
knows that they are sad and dark.
When is this horrible drama to end? When will the truth at last be
known? Oh, my fortune, all of it, to the one who is adroit, able enough,
to solve this sad enigma!
Tell me about all our friends.
Embrace them all for me.
I dare not speak of our darlings. When I look at their photographs, when
I see their eyes so good, so sweet, the sobs rise from my heart to my
lips. When we suffer for some thing or for some one it is easy to
understand.... But why and, above all, for whom am I suffering this
odious martyrdom?