I have not yet received the things you spoke of in your letters of the
25th of November and the 25th of December. I cannot tell why the things
you send me are so long in coming. Perhaps the books you are going to
send me soon by mail will reach me with less delay. I hope so, for
reading, the only thing that is possible for me to do, may calm a little
the pains in my brain, and unhappily even that is often lacking.
* * * * *
_5 March, 1896._
My dear Lucie:
I have not yet received your dear letters of January. A few lines only
to send you the echo of my immense affection. Write to you at length? I
cannot. My days, my hours, slip by monotonously, in this agonizing,
enervating waiting for the discovery of the truth, the discovery of the
wretch who committed this infamous crime. Speak to you of myself? What
good can that do us? My sufferings, you know them, you share them. They,
like yours, like those of all who love us, can only have an end when the
broad, full light shall appear, when honor is returned to us.
It is toward this end that all your energy, all your forces, all your
means, should be directed. I hope to learn that this end is almost
attained, that this appalling martyrdom of a whole family is nearly
over. My body, my health? All that is indifferent to me. My being is
animated only by one thought, by one desire, which keeps me alive--that
of seeing with you and with our children the day when my honor shall be
returned to me. It is in my thoughts of you, in the thought of our
adored children, that I rest my brain, overtried at times by this
continual tension, by this fever of impatience, by this terrible
inactivity, without one moment of distraction.
If, then, we cannot keep ourselves from suffering--for never were human
beings, who hold honor above all, struck in such a manner--still I cry
always to you, “Courage, courage!” to march on to your goal, your head
high, your heart firm, with unshaken will, never discouraged. Your
children tell you your duty, just as they give me my strength.
Let us hope, then, as your mother has said, that soon, in each other’s
arms, we can try to forget this fearful martyrdom, these months, so sad
and so delusive, and live again by consecrating ourselves to our
children.
I embrace you, as I love you, with all my strength, and also our dear
children.
Your devoted
ALFRED.
Kisses to all.
* * * * *
_26 March, 1896._
My dear Lucie:
I received the 12th of this month your good letters of January, so
impatiently expected every month, also all the letters from the family.
I have seen with happiness that your health and the health of all resist
this frightful condition of things, this horrible nightmare, in which we
have lived so long. What a trial for you, my good darling, as horrible
as it is undeserved--for you who deserve to be so happy! Yes, I have
horrible moments, when the heart can bear no longer the blows which open
the wound already so deep, when my brain gives way under the weight of
thoughts so sad and so deceptive. When, after I have waited for my
letters in an agony of anxiety, the mail arrives, and still I do not
receive the announcement of the discovery of the truth, or of the author
of that infamous and cowardly crime, oh, I have at first a feeling of
deep, bitter disappointment. My heart is torn, is broken, under so many
sufferings, so long and so undeserved!
I am a little like a sick man who lingers on his bed of torment,
suffering anguish, but who lives because his duty demands it, and who
keeps asking his doctor, “When will my tortures end?” And as the doctor
answers, “Soon, soon,” the sick man ends by asking himself, “But when
will this ‘soon’ come?” and he longs to see it come.
It was a long time ago that you announced it to me ... but be
discouraged? Oh, that never! However terrible may be my sufferings, the
desire for our honor is far above them!
Neither you, nor any one, will ever have the right to one moment of
fatigue, one second of weakness, as long as the goal has not been
reached--the absolute honor of our name. As for me, when I feel that I
am falling under the united weight of all our suffering, when I feel
that my reason is leaving me, then I think of you, of our dear
children, of the undeserved dishonor cast upon our name, and I recover
my balance by a violent effort of my whole being, and I cry to myself,
“No, you shall not bend before the tempest! Your heart may be in bits,
your brain may be crushed, but you shall not succumb until you have seen
the day when honor shall be given back to your dear children!”
This is why, dear Lucie, I come to cry to you always, to you, as to all,
“Courage!” and more than courage--for will to accomplish!... Oh,
silently, very silently--for words do not help--but boldly, audaciously
to march straight onward to the end--the entire truth, the light upon
this awful drama, in one word, all the honor of our name! Means? They
must all be employed, of whatever nature they may be--anything that the
mind can suggest to obtain the solution of this enigma.
The object is everything; that alone is immutable. I wish our children
to enter upon life with heads proudly erect. I wish to animate you with
my supreme desire. I wish to see you succeed, and it will be full time,
I swear to you!
I hope that you may soon be able to tell me something certain, something
positive, oh, for both of us, my dear Lucie! I cannot write to you at
greater length, nor speak to you of anything else except my great and
deep affection for you. My head is too tired by this bitter discipline,
the most terrible, the most cruel that human brain can endure.
Our dear little Pierre asks me to write to him. Ah, I am not strong
enough! Each word wrings a sob from my throat and I am obliged to resist
with all my strength in order to be with him on the day when they give
us back our honor.
Take him in your arms for me, as well as our dear little Jeanne.
Oh, my precious children!... Draw from them your invincible courage.