* * * * *
_Friday, 21 June. 1895._
Dear Lucie:
I will continue our conversation, since it is now the only ray of
happiness that we can enjoy. It is probable, and I hope it, that these
reflections have nothing in common with the present state of affairs.
Between the time when you will receive this letter and the date on which
you wrote yours, there will be an interval of more than five months; in
such a length of time the truth might well make great strides.
Like you, like you all, I am, I have been always, convinced that in time
all will be discovered.
If I have wavered at times, it has been under the burden of atrocious
moral suffering while anxiously waiting to know, at last, the solution
of the riddle which absolutely baffles me.
You must understand through the feeling of reserve that keeps me from
speaking to you on any aspect of my life here. Moreover, the only
thoughts that agitate me are those that I tell to you; for the rest I
live like a machine, unconscious of its movement.
It happens to me at times--and you, too, must feel this--when I am wide
awake, and in spite of all that surrounds me, I stand bewildered,
repeating to myself: “No, all that did not happen; it cannot be
possible; it is a fiction; it is not reality!” I cannot explain to
myself this passing inertia of the brain in any way other than by the
impassable distance that lies between the innocence in my conscience and
my present life. Nor can you picture to yourself what relief this long
conversation with you brings to me. I dare not even read over my letter,
so afraid am I to find in it repeatedly the same ideas expressed perhaps
in exactly the same way; but for you, as for me, true pleasure consists
in reading what the other has written.
When my heart is overburdened, when I am seized by the deep horror of it
all, I draw new energy from your eyes, from the faces of our dear
children. Your portrait, the portraits of the children here on my table,
are always before my eyes. And then, you see, when a man has lost his
fortune, when he has been subjected to some disappointment in his
career, to a certain point he may indulge in weakness; he may say,
“Well, my children will straighten all that out; perhaps it will be
better for them than if they should have had nothing to do but be
amiable idlers!” But in our case it is our honor which is at
stake--their honor. To give way to weakness would be, for us, an
unpardonable crime. We must, therefore, my dear and good Lucie, accept
all our sufferings and overcome them, until the day when my innocence
shall be recognized. On that day only we shall have the right to give
free course to our tears, to unburden our hearts.
I am hoping, always, that that day may come soon. Each morning I awake
with a new hope, and each night I lie down with a new disappointment.
I do not need to tell you that we can speak freely to each other of our
grief--the fullest heart must sometimes overflow, but we must keep our
outbursts to ourselves. I know, indeed, that you are sincere and
single-hearted, without art of any kind. The fine qualities of your
nature, those qualities which I, so to speak, only caught a fleeting
glimpse of through our happiness, now stand out clear and distinct in
the light of our adversity.
* * * * *
_26 June, 1895._
I will to-day bring this long talk to an end, so that I may send off my
letter. I should like to talk to you in this way morning and evening;
but were I to write volumes, the same ideas would flow from my pen.
Naturally active, in my solitude I am reduced to the necessity of coming
constantly back to the same subject. The form alone might vary,
according to the feeling of the moment, but the idea would remain the
same because it dominates everything.
Give our dear children a fond embrace for me. I suppose that you will
not keep them in Paris during the hot season. Let them take the
initiative in a great part of their life; let them develop themselves
freely and without constraint. In that way you will make virile beings
of them. Finally, draw from them at the same time both consolation and
strength.
Now I have only to tell you that I wish, that I am hoping always, that
this sad drama is soon to end. That would be such a blessing for all,
for us, as for our dear families.
Your poor, dear mother, even now so delicate; your dear father--they
both will need rest and calm, after such appalling, such unimaginable
tortures. We may well call them that.
Often and often I ask myself how you all are, when news of you is so
rare, and comes from so far.
And how often I scan the horizon, my eyes turned toward France, hoping
that this may be the day on which my country is to call me back to her.
While we wait for that day let us stand firm, dear Lucie; let us draw
from our consciences and from our duty, the fresh stores of the strength
we need so much.
Embrace all our family for me, and for yourself the tenderest kisses of
your devoted husband.