* * * * *
_3 June, 1895._
My dear Lucie:
Still no letters from you, nor from any one. Since my departure I have
had no tidings of you, of our children, nor of any of the family.
You may have seen by my letters the successive crises through which I
have passed. But for the moment let us forget the past. We will speak of
our sufferings when we are happy again.
I do not know anything of what is passing around me, I live as in a
tomb. I am incapable of deciphering in my brain this appalling enigma.
All that I can do, then, and I shall not fail in this duty, is to
sustain you to my last breath--is to continue to fan in your heart the
flame which glows in mine, so that you may march straight forward to the
conquest of the truth, so that you may get me back my honor, the honor
of my children. You remember those lines of Shakespeare, in Othello. I
found them again not long since among my English books. I send them to
you translated (you will know why!).
“Celui qui me vole ma bourse,[C]
Me vole une bagatelle
C’est quelque chose, mais ce n’est rien.
Elle était a moi, elle est à lui et,
A était I’esclave de mille autres.
Mais celui qui me vole ma bonne renommée,
Me vole une chose qui ni l’enrichit pas,
Et qui me rend vraiment pauvre.”
Ah, yes! he has rendered me “_vraiment pauvre_, “the wretch who has
stolen my honor! He has made us more miserable than the meanest of human
creatures. But to each one his hour. Courage, then, dear Lucie; preserve
the unconquerable will that you have shown until now; draw from your
children the superhuman energy that triumphs over everything. Indeed, I
have no doubt whatever that you will succeed, and I hope that this
sinister tragedy is soon to end and that my innocence is at last to be
recognized. What more can I tell you, my dear Lucie--what can I say that
I have not told you in each one of my letters? My profound admiration
for the courage, the heart, the character, that you have shown in such
tragic circumstances; the absolute necessity, which supersedes
everything, all interests, even our lives, of proving my innocence in
such a way that not a doubt can remain in the mind of any one--the
necessity of doing everything noiselessly, but with a determination that
nothing can check.
I hope that you receive my letters; this is the ninth that I have
written to you.
Embrace all the family; embrace our dear children for me, and receive
for yourself the fondest kisses of your devoted