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_15 July, 1895._
My dear Lucie:
I wrote you so many and such long letters during the months when I did
not hear from you that I have many times told and retold you all my
thoughts, all my sorrows. Let me not return again to this last subject.
As for my thoughts, they are very clear to-day; they do not change; you
know them.
My energy is occupied in stilling the beatings of my heart, in
containing my impatience, to learn at last that my innocence is
recognized everywhere and by every one. But if my energy is altogether
passive, yours ought, on the contrary, to be all active and animated by
the ardent spirit which gives strength to my own.
If it were merely a question of suffering it would be nothing. But it is
a question of the honor of a name, of the life of our children, and I do
not wish, you understand, that our children should ever have to lower
their heads. Light, full, complete, must be let in upon this tragic
story. Nothing, therefore, should rebuff or tire you. All doors open,
all hearts beat for a mother who begs only for the truth, so that her
children may live.
It is almost from the tomb--my situation here is comparable to that,
with the added grief that my heart still beats--that I write these words
to you. Thank your dear parents, our brothers and sisters, as well as
Lucie and Henri, for their good and affectionate letters. Tell them all
the pleasure which I take in reading them, and tell them that if I do
not answer directly it is because I could do nothing but keep on
repeating what I have already said. Kiss your dear parents for me; tell
them all my affection. Long, tender kisses for the children. As for you,
my dear and good Lucie, your letters are my daily reading. Continue to
write me long letters; with them I come nearer to living with you, with
our dear children, than I could by my thought alone, which, indeed,
never leaves you for an instant.