Embrace your dear parents, all our family and friends for me. In the
mail which I have just received I have not found letters from any of my
sisters except Henriette. I hope that these dear sisters are not sick
from these terrible and continued trials.
* * * * *
_22 May, 1896._
My dear Lucie:
Your good and most affectionate letters of March have been the dear and
sweet companions of my solitude. I have read them and re-read them to
recall to me my duty each time that the situation was crushing me with
its weight. I have suffered with you, with you all; all the frightful
anguish through which you have passed has echoed in my own.
You ask me to write to you, to come and tell you all that is in my
crushed and bleeding heart whenever my bitterness is too great for me
to bear. Ah, my poor Lucie! If I should do as you bid, I should be
writing very often, for I have not one moment of respite. But why should
I thus tear your heart? I already do this too often, and after I have
thus poured out my woes I always regret it bitterly, for you have
already suffered enough, far too much for me. But what would you? It is
impossible to break away absolutely from one’s _ego_, to stifle always
the revolts of one’s heart, to be always master of one’s sick nerves. My
only moment when the tension is relaxed is when I write to you, and then
all the accumulated grief of the long month at times goes out into what
I write.... And then I feel so profoundly in the very depths of my being
all the horror of our situation, as well for you and me as for your dear
parents, for all our family, that bursts of anger, quivers of
indignation, escape in spite of my efforts; then I cry out in my
impatience to see the end of this abominable suffering for us all. I
suffer because I am powerless to lighten your atrocious sorrow, because
I can only sustain you with all the power of my love, with all the ardor
of my soul. Ah, truly yes, dear Lucie, I feel all your anguish when each
mail day arrives, and after a long month of waiting, of suffering, and
of agony, you cannot yet announce to me the discovery of the guilty
wretches, the end of our tortures! And if then I cry out, if at times I
roar aloud, if the blood boils in my veins with all this agony, so long
drawn out, so undeserved, oh, it is as much for you as for me! For if I
had had only myself to think of in my sufferings, long ago I should have
put an end to it all, leaving it to the future to be the final judge of
everything.
It is from the thought of you, the thought of our dear children, from
my determined resolve to sustain you, to live to see the day when our
honor shall be given back to us, that I draw all my strength. When I
sink under the united burden of all my woes, when my brain reels, when
my heart can bear no more, when I lose all hope, then to myself I murmur
three names--yours, those of our dear children--and I nerve myself again
against my agony, and not a sound passes my silent lips. To tell the
truth, I am physically very weak; it could not be otherwise. But
everything is effaced from my mind, hallucinating memories, sufferings,
the atrocities of my daily life, before so exalted, so absolute a
preoccupation, the thought of our honor, the patrimony of our children.
So I come again, as always, to cry to you with all my strength, with all
my soul, “Courage, and still courage, to march steadfastly onward to
your goal--the unclouded honor of our name”--and to wish for both our
sakes that this goal may soon be reached. The dear little letters
written by the children always move me deeply, cause me extreme emotion;
I often wet them with my tears, but I draw from them also my strength.
In all my letters I read that you are raising these dear little children
admirably. If I have never spoken of this to you it has been because I
knew it, because I knew you.
To speak of my love for you, the love that unites us all, would be
useless, would it not? Still, let me tell you again that my thought
never leaves you for an instant day or night, that my heart is always
near to you, to our children, to you all, ready to sustain you, to
animate you with my unconquerable will.
I embrace you with all my strength, with all my heart, and also the dear
children, while I wait to receive your good letters, the only rays of
sunshine that come to warm my cruelly wounded heart.
Your devoted
ALFRED.
Kisses to your dear parents, to all.
* * * * *
_5 June, 1896._
My dear Lucie:
I have not yet received your good letters of April, so I have been
forced to content myself by re-reading, as I do each day, often many
times a day, your good and affectionate letters of March, and from them
I have drawn a little calm. I cannot, however, let the English mail
leave without coming to gossip a little with you, without drawing near
to you.
Oh, I can see you very well in thought from here, my dear and good
Lucie, for you do not leave me for a single moment. I know the moments
of your crises, when, after some one has given you hope, that hope is
again disappointed; when, after a moment of relaxation, of peace, you
fall back into a violent despair, asking yourself with anguish when we
shall wake from this abominable nightmare in which we have lived so
long. And then you write to me, and you find in your splendid soul, in
your loving and devoted heart, the strength to hide from me the
atrocious tortures, the appalling anguish through which you are passing.
And then I, who feel, who divine all that--I, whose heart is crushed and
wounded in its purest sentiments, in its tenderest love, with the blood
boiling in my veins, because I feel all the torture heaped upon us,
upon our two families--with my very reason in revolt I go and put into
my letters the cries of anguish and of impatience that are in my soul;
then I suffer through a long month thinking of the emotion you will
feel, and I am still more unhappy.
Instead of bringing you, you who are wounded with me in your honor as a
wife and a mother, the moral support, the steadfast, energetic, ardent
support which you need in the noble mission you must fulfill, I come, at
times, to lament, to occupy you with my little sufferings, my petty
tortures, with I know not what, to augment your poignant grief. Forgive
my weakness--human weakness, alas! all too natural. Words, indeed, are
powerless to depict a martyrdom like ours. But it can have but one
termination--the discovery of the guilty wretches, absolute, complete
rehabilitation, all the honor of our name, the name of our dear
children.
So I am again, as always, adding to this letter, which will carry to you
the echo of my deep love, the ardent cry of my soul, Courage, still more
courage, dear Lucie, to march on to your goal, with a fierce, resolute,
unfailing will; and let us hope, for both our sakes, for the sake of our
children, that the end may soon be accomplished.
Embrace our dear little ones tenderly for me. I live only in them, in
you, and from that source I draw my strength. Kiss your dear parents for
me; give my love to all our friends; thank them for their good and most
affectionate letters.
I end this letter with regret, and I embrace you hard, “as hard as I
can,” as our dear little Pierre says.
Your devoted
ALFRED.
_Evening._
I have just received at last the things you sent me, and the books for
the months of December, January and February, and I assure you that I
had need of them. Yet more fond and ardent kisses for you, for our dear
children, for your dear parents, for all our friends; and I end my
letter by this ardent cry of my soul: Courage, always and still more
courage, my dear and good Lucie.
* * * * *
_24 July, 1896._
My dear Lucie:
I have not received your letters of May; the last news I have of you
dates back three months. You see that sledge-hammer blows are not spared
me. I do not want to augment your grief by depicting my own. Besides it
is of no importance. Whatever may be our suffering, however appalling
may be our martyrdom, our object is unchanging, my dear Lucie--the
light, the honor of our name.
I can do no more than repeat to you this cry of my soul: Courage!
Courage! Courage! until the end is attained.
As for me, I retain with all my energy whatever strength remains to me.
I repress my brain and my heart night and day, for I want to live to see
the end of this drama. I hope, for both of us, that the moment is not
far distant.
When you receive these few lines your birthday will have passed. I will
not dwell upon thoughts so cruel for both of us, but my thoughts could
be with you no more that day than on all others.
I embrace you with all my heart, with all my strength, you and our
children.
Your devoted
ALFRED.
* * * * *
_4 August, 1896._
My dear Lucie:
I have received your letters of May and June all together, with those of
the family. I will not tell you of my emotion, after I had waited so
long; for we must not give way to such poignant feelings.
I found but two letters from you in the mail for May. I was happy to see
that you were settled in the country with the children; perhaps there
you may find a little rest, if there can be any rest for us when our
honor has not been given back to us.
Yes, dear Lucie, sufferings such as ours, sufferings so undeserved,
leave the mind bewildered. But let us speak no more of it; it is one of
those things that provoke irresistible indignation.
If I am nervously impatient to see the end of all our tortures; if,
under the influence of the revolts of my heart, my letters are pressing,
do not doubt that my confidence, like my faith, is absolute. Tell
yourself that I have never said “Hope!” I have said, “We must have the
whole truth; if not to-day it will be to-morrow or the day after, but
this end will be attained--it must be!” Let us shut our eyes to our
tortures; let us compress our brains and steel our hearts. Courage, be
valiant, dear Lucie; there must not be one minute of weakness or of
lassitude. For us, for our children, for our families, we must have
light, the honor of our name. I come now, as always, to cry to you, to
cry to all, “Lift up your heart! be strong in your determination!”
I wish with all my heart, for both our sakes, for all of us, to learn
that this suffering is to have an end.
Embrace our children for me, and for yourself the fondest kisses of your
devoted