* * * * *
_Wednesday, 8 May, 1895._
My dear Lucie:
Though I cannot send this letter before the 18th, I begin it to-day, so
much do I feel the unconquerable need of talking with you.
It seems to me when I write to you that the distance is lessened. I see
before me your beloved face and I feel that you are near me. It is a
weakness. I know it; for in spite of myself the echo of my sufferings
shows itself sometimes in my letters, and your sufferings are great
enough without my continuing to tell you of mine. But I should like to
see in my place the philosophers and psychologists who sit tranquilly in
their chimney corners, offering their opinions upon the calmness and the
serenity which should be shown by an innocent man.
A profound silence reigns around me, interrupted only by the roaring of
the sea; and my thoughts, crossing the distance which separates us,
carry me to your midst, among all those who are dear to me, whose
thoughts must of a truth be often turned toward me. Often I ask at such
an hour, “What is my dear Lucie doing?” and I send you by my thoughts
the echo of my immense affection. Then I close my eyes, and it seems to
me that I see your face and the faces of my dear children. I am still
without letters from you, with the exception of those of the 16th and
17th of February, still addressed to the Ile de Ré. For three months now
I have been without news of you, of the children, of our families.
I believe that I have already told you that I advised you to ask
permission to leave your letters at the Ministry eight or ten days
before the departure of the mails; perhaps in that way I shall receive
them sooner. But, my good darling, forget all my sufferings, overcome
your own, and think of our children. Say to yourself that you have a
sacred mission to fulfill, that of having my honor given back to me, the
honor of the name borne by our dear little ones. Moreover, I recall to
my mind what you told me before my departure. I know, as you repeated to
me in your letter of the 17th of February, what the words of your mouth
are worth. I have an absolute confidence in you.
Then do not weep any more, my good darling; I will struggle until the
last minute for you, for our dear children.
The body may give way under such a burden of grief, but the soul should
remain firm and valiant, to protest against a lot that we have not
deserved. When my honor is given back to me, then only, my good darling,
we shall have the right to withdraw from the field. We will live for
each other, far from the noise of the world; we will take refuge in our
mutual affection, in our love, grown still stronger in these tragical
events. We will sustain each other, that we may bind up the wounds of
our hearts; we will live in our children, to whom we will consecrate the
remainder of our days. We will try to make them good, simple beings,
strong in body and mind. We will elevate their souls so that they may
always find in them a refuge from the realities of life.
May this day come soon, for we have all paid our tribute of sufferings
upon this earth! Courage, then, my darling; be strong and valiant; carry
on your work without weakness, with dignity, but with the conviction of
your rights. I am going to lie down, to close my eyes and think of you.
Good night and a thousand kisses.
* * * * *
_12 May, 1895._
I continue this letter, for I wish to share with you all my thoughts as
fast as they come into my mind. In my solitude I have the time to
reflect deeply.
Indeed, the mothers who watch at the bedside of their sick children, for
whom with ferocious energy they wrestle with death, have not so much
need of a brave heart as have you; for it is more than the life of your
children which you have to defend, it is their honor. But I know that
you are fitted for this noble task.
So, my dear Lucie, I ask you to forgive me if at times I have added to
your grief by my complainings, by showing a feverish impatience to see
at last the light shining in upon this mystery, against which my reason
battles in vain. But you know my nervous temperament, my hasty,
passionate disposition. It seemed to me that all must be immediately
discovered, that it was impossible that the truth should not be at once
fully revealed. Each morning I arose with that hope and each night I
went to my bed again a victim of the same deception. I thought only of
my own tortures, and I forgot that you must suffer as much as I.
And this awful crime of some unknown wretch strikes not only at me, but
it strikes also, and more than all, our two dear children. This is why
we must conquer all our sufferings. It is not enough to give our
children life; we must dower them with honor, without which life is not
possible. I know your sentiments; I know that you think as I do.
Courage, then, dear wife. I will struggle as you are struggling and
sustain you with all my energy, because in the face of such an absolute
necessity all else should be forgotten. We must, for the sake of our
dear little Pierre, for the sake of our dear little Jeanne.
I know how marvellous you have been in your devotion, your grandeur of
soul, in the tragic events just past.
Fight on, then, my dear Lucie. My confidence in you is absolute. My deep
affection will recompense you some day for all the pains you are
enduring so nobly.
* * * * *
_18 May, 1895._
I am ending to-day this letter which will carry you a part of myself and
the expression of the thoughts over which I have pondered deeply in the
sepulchral silence that surrounds me.
I have thought too often of myself; not enough of you, of the children.
Your suffering, that of our families, is as great as mine. Our hearts
must be lifted high above it all, so that we shall see only the end
which we must attain--our honor!
I will stand upright as long as my strength permits, to sustain you with
all my ardor, with all the depth of my love.
Courage, then, dear Lucie--courage and perseverance. We have our little
ones to defend.
Embrace our brothers and sisters for me; tell them that I have received
the letters addressed to the Ile de Ré, and that I shall write to them
soon.
For you my fondest kisses.