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_3 January, 1896._
My dear Lucie:
I read and re-read with eagerness your dear letters of October and
November, and although I have written to you already, on the 31st of
December, I want to come again and talk with you.
Your letters could not increase my affection, but they inspire in me an
admiration, each day increasing, of your character, your great heart,
and I am ashamed of myself for not knowing better how to suffer, for
sometimes writing you such nervous, such disquieting letters. As to our
purpose I have never wavered. I am innocent, and my innocence must shine
out. Our name must again become what it deserves to be. But you must
understand that my torments are at times so sharp, the revolt of my
heart is at times so violent, that I cry out in spite of myself; it
seems that, no matter at what cost, I must learn the secret of this
infamy, must make the truth break forth, make justice triumph.
I have never been discouraged, I have never doubted that a will strong
in its innocence and in the duty it has to accomplish could fail to
attain its object. I have had, perhaps may again have, attacks of
febrile impatience, the revolts of an ardent spirit, that has for so
long been crushed under foot, weighed down by this sepulchral silence,
this enervating climate, the frequent absence of news, nothing to do,
and often nothing to read. But if the tension of my nervous system was
extreme during the last three months of 1895--that was the hottest
season, the worst season in Guiana--my courage never weakened, for it
was it that held me up, that permitted me to double the dangerous cape
without flinching. Do not lay any stress upon this nervousness which
breaks out at times. Tell yourself that I am determined to be with you,
at your side, on the day when honor shall be given back to us.
Your will, the will of you all, must continue to be what it has always
been, as great, as unconquerable as it is calm and thoughtful.
My health is good; my body, indifferent to everything, animated by but
one thought, common to us all, common, as your dear mother has said, to
this whole sheaf of hearts, quivering with pain, lives for the honor so
unjustly wrested from us.
And remember that if I at times have moments of personal weakness, under
the repeated shocks of this trying hour, I have also a talisman, to
reanimate me, to give me strength, the thought of you, of my
children--in a word, my duty.
The lines in which you speak to me of the dear children give me great
pleasure; they permit me to see the children in my thoughts.
Embrace the darlings tenderly for me.
So, my dear and good Lucie, courage always. Hold your head proudly high
until the day comes when, side by side, we can forget this horrible
drama.
Let us hope for all our sakes that that hour may be at hand.