* * * * *
_22 August, 1895._
My dear Lucie:
I wrote you two long letters at the beginning of the month, on the 2d
and the 5th of August; I hope that both of them were in time to go by
the English boat. It is a long time since I have had a talk with you. It
was not the wish that I lacked. My whole heart is with you. How many
times have I taken up my pen only to throw it aside! What does it profit
us for me always to be stirring up these sorrows? Aside from your
health, from the health of the children, that of all the family, I have
only one thought--and that forces me to live--the thought of our honor.
You will forgive me if at times I have presented my ideas in a somewhat
exaggerated form. But after all, if I do my duty, my whole duty, without
flinching, it is not because my heart does not tremble and bleed in a
situation so infamous and so undeserved, and its sorrow comes not only
from my own situation, but from yours, from that of all whom I love.
And then remember that I am obliged to control myself night and day
without one moment of respite, that I never open my mouth; that there is
never a moment when my nerves are relaxed, so that when I write to you
with my whole heart, everything that cries out in me for justice and
truth runs, despite my will, under my pen.
But what I shall tell you always, as long as my heart shall beat, is
that above all our sorrows, oh, however terrible they may be, before
life itself, is honor, and that that honor, which belongs to us, must
remain with us; it is the patrimony of our children. Then always and
still again courage, Lucie, until we have seen the end of this horrible
tragedy; but let us hope for all our sakes that it may come soon.
Kiss your dear parents, all of our family, for me. Tell them of my
profound affection, and how often I think of them. As for you, my dear
Lucie, I have no consolation to give you; there is none, either for you
or for me, in such misfortune. But your conscience, the sense of the
great duties which you have to fulfill, should give you invincible
strength.
And then, when the day of justice dawns for us, we will find our
consolation in our profound love.
A thousand kisses for you and for our dear children.
Your devoted
ALFRED.
* * * * *
_27 August, 1895._
I add a few words before mailing this letter to send you again the echo
of my profound affection, to tell you how much I thought of you on your
birthday--hardly more, it is true, than on other days, that is not
possible--and to kiss you with all my heart and to say to you, “Courage
and always courage!”
Ah, suffering, under all its forms, I know what it is, I swear to you.
From the time that this trouble began my heart has been nothing but a
wound which bleeds each day and every hour--a wound that will be healed
only when I learn at last that my innocence is recognized. In truth, the
mind stands at times bewildered and perplexed by the thought that such
errors can be in a century like ours and can last so long without the
light being let in upon them. But fear nothing; if I suffer beyond all
expression, as you suffer, as you all suffer, indeed, my soul is still
valiant, and it will do its duty to the end, for your sake, for the sake
of our children. Ah, but let us hope that this appalling, this
unbelievable situation may soon end, and that we may at last come out of
the horrible nightmare in which we have been living for more than ten
months!
Embrace our dear little ones tenderly for me.
* * * * *
_7 September, 1895._
My dear Lucie:
I receive only to-day your letters of July, as well as those of all the
family. I often do as you do. At certain moments when my full heart
brims over, I re-read all your dear letters and I weep with you, for I
do not believe that two beings who place honor above everything, and
with them their families, have ever undergone a martyrdom like ours. I
suffer, and, like you, like you all, I am not ashamed of it. My heart,
night and day, demands its honor, yours, the honor of our children.
Such a situation is tragic, the anguish becomes too great for us all to
bear.
Should it last much longer either one or the other will give way under
it. Well, my dear Lucie, that must not be! We must before all else get
back our honor, the honor of our children. We must not allow ourselves
to be overcome by a fate so infamous when it is so unmerited. However
natural, however legitimate, may be the cries of pain of souls who
suffer far beyond all imaginable suffering, to groan, my dear Lucie,
will do no good. If, when you receive this letter, the mystery has not
been made clear, then, I think, it will be time, with the courage, the
energy which duty gives, with the invincible force which innocence
gives, for you to take personal steps, so that at last light may be
thrown upon this tragic story. You have neither mercy nor favor to ask
for, but only a determined search for the truth, a search for the wretch
who wrote that infamous letter, and, in one word, justice for us all!
And you will find in your own heart words more eloquent than any that
could be contained in a mere letter. We must, in a word, find at last
the key to this mystery. Whatever may be the means, your position as a
wife and a mother gives you every right and should give you every
courage.
From what I myself feel from the state of my own heart, I know but too
well how it must be with you all, and in my long nights I see you
suffering, agonizing with me.
It must end. Men cannot in a century like ours leave two families in
agony without clearing up a mystery like this. The truth can be made
known, if only they are willing to have it so. Then, my dear Lucie,
while you continue to preserve the dignity which must never abandon
you, be strong, courageous, energetic! Whether great or humble, we are
all equal before justice, and that honor which I have never forfeited,
and which is the patrimony of our children, must be given back to us. I
want to be with you and with our children when that day comes.
Kisses to all. I embrace you with all my strength, also our dear
children.