ALFRED.

Embrace your parents, all our family, for me.

* * * * *

_24 August, 1896._

Dear Lucie:

I replied at the beginning of the month in a few lines only to your dear

letters of May and June. The impression they made upon me after I had

waited so long for them was such that I could not write at length. I

read and re-read them each day, and it seems to me that thus for a few

moments I am near you, that I feel the beating of your heart close to

mine; and when I look at this bit of paper on which I write to you, I

wish that I could put in it all my soul, all my heart contains for you,

for our children, for you all; I wish that I might imprint upon it all

the ardor of my soul, all my courage, all my determination.

Believe, dear Lucie, that I have never had a moment of discouragement as

to the end to be attained. But yet what impatience devours me to see the

end of our atrocious torture!

There are for those who have hearts sorrows so bitter that the pen is

powerless to express them. And this grief, equally poignant for us all,

I hide it in my breast day and night, and not one complaint escapes from

my lips. I accept everything, stifling my heart, my whole being, seeing

only our goal.

I wrote to you in the first days of July a letter which must have

troubled you, my dear Lucie; I was then a prey to fever; I had not

received your letter. Everything came together! And then the human beast

in me awakened, and I cried out in my distress and anguish, as if you

were not suffering enough already. But I reacted against my own lower

nature, I overcame everything, I surmounted my physical as well as my

moral being. Since then I have learned that your letters arrived at

Cayenne without delay; in consequence of a mistake made in forwarding

them, I received them only with your letters of June.

I can only repeat my words, dear Lucie, for you must, as we all must,

fix our eager, unswerving gaze upon the supreme object; we must not

indulge in one moment of lassitude until the end shall have been

attained! The whole truth must be revealed over all France, all the

honor of our name, the patrimony of our children.

Embrace the S----s and their dear children for me. Be sure to tell

Mathieu that if I do not write to him oftener, it is because I know him

too well; I know that his determination will remain as inflexible as

ever, until the day when the light shall burst forth. Thanks for the

good news of the dear, little ones; thank your dear parents and all the

members of our families for their good letters. As for you, my dear

Lucie, strong in your conscience, be invincibly energetic and brave. May

my profound love, our children, and your duty sustain and reanimate you.

Again I embrace you as I love you, with all my strength, as I embrace

also our dear children. Now I am waiting for your good letters of July.

Your devoted

ALFRED.

* * * * *

_3 September, 1896._

Dear Lucie:

They brought me, just now, the mail for July. I found in it only one

poor, little letter from you, that of the 14th of July, although you

ought to have written oftener and more at length; but no matter.

What a cry of suffering escapes from all your letters and echoes in my

own! Yes, dear Lucie, never have human beings suffered as have you, as

have I, and every one of us. The sweat starts from my forehead when I

think of it. I have lived only by straining every nerve, by the most

powerful effort of the will, by gripping, compressing all my being in a

supreme struggle; but emotions break us down; they make every fibre of

the being quiver. My hands are wrung with grief for you, for our

children, for us all; an immense cry rises to my throat and stifles me.

Ah, why am I not alone in the world! What happiness it would be could I

lie down in my grave, to think no more, to see no more, to suffer no

more! But the moment of weakness, of the derangement of all my being, of

awful anguish, has passed, and now I come to tell you, dear Lucie, that

above all deaths--for what agony do not I know, as well that of the soul

as that of the body, of the brain?--there is honor; that this honor,

which is our right, must be restored to us ... only, human strength has

its limits for us all.

So when you receive this letter, if the situation is not at last shown

in its proper light, act as I already told you last year; go yourself,

take, if need be, a child by each hand, those two beloved and innocent

beings, and take steps to appeal to those who direct the affairs of our

country. Speak simply, from your heart, and I am sure that you will find

generous souls who will understand how appalling is this martyrdom of a

wife, of a mother, and who will put all the means in their power to work

to aid you in this noble and holy work, the discovery of the truth, the

discovery of the author of this infamous crime. Oh, dear Lucie, listen

to me well, and follow my counsels! Remember that you must see but one

thing, our object, and strive to attain it; for, oh! I long with all my

heart to see, before I succumb to this weight of suffering, honor

restored to the name that our dear, adored ones bear. I long to see you

again happy, our children, enjoying the happiness that you so merit, my

poor and dear Lucie! And as this paper seems to me cold, because I

cannot put on it all that my heart contains for you, for our children, I

would that I might write to you with my blood; perhaps then I might

express myself better....

And although I cannot tell you anything new I continue to talk with you,

for the long night is coming, traversed by horrible nightmares, in which

I shall see you, our children, my dear brothers and sisters, all those

whom we love. You see, dear Lucie, that I tell you everything, that I

pour out to you all my sufferings, that I tell you all my thoughts;

indeed, in this hour I am incapable of doing otherwise.

And my thought night and day is always the same; my lips breathe forth

the same cry; oh, all my blood, drop by drop, for the truth of this

appalling mystery!

Pardon the incoherence of this letter. I write to you, as I have told

you, under the influence of a profound emotion, not even trying to

assemble my ideas, feeling that I would be incapable of doing it,

telling myself with dread that I must pass all of one long month having

for my reading only your few poor lines, where you speak to me of the

children, where you do not speak to me of yourself, where I shall have

nothing to read that speaks of you.

But I am going to try to collect my thoughts. My sufferings are great,

like yours, like ours; the hours, the minutes, are atrocious, and they

will continue to be so until light, full and entire, shall shine upon

the truth. And as I have told you, I am convinced that if you act in

person, if you speak from your heart, they will set every means to work

to shorten, if possible, the time, for if time is nothing, as far as the

object we must reach, which is more important than everything, is

concerned, it counts, alas! for us all, for one cannot live and endure

such sufferings.

I regret to realize that I must end this letter in which I feel how

powerless I am to express the affection that I feel for you, for our

children, for all; what I suffer from our atrocious tortures; to make

you feel all that is in my heart; the horror of this situation, of this

life, a horror that surpasses all that can be imagined, all that the

human brain can dream; and, on the other hand, the duty which commands

me imperiously, for your sake and for our children’s, to go on as far as

I shall be able. Think that it will be a month now before I can get one

word from you, the only human word that comes to me!

But I must end this prattling, although it eases my pain, for I feel

your presence near me in these lines that you are to read, and in ending

my letter I cry to you, “Courage, yet more courage!” for before all

things is the honor of the name that our dear children bear. I tell you

that this object for which you are striving is immutable. Therefore act

as I have said; for the co-operation of generous hearts that you will

find--I am sure of it--will realize more speedily the supreme wish that

I still cry out, the light of truth upon this sad tragedy, that I may be

with our little ones on the day when honor is restored to us! And I add

for your own self, for all of us, this ardent and supreme cry of my

soul, that rises in the darkness of the night: everything for honor. Let

this be our only thought; your sole preoccupation. There must not be one

minute of ease.

* * * * *

_4 September, 1896._

Dear and good Lucie:

I wrote you a letter last night under an impression caused by the mail,

the sufferings that we all endure, the pain of having only a few lines

from you, for after a long, agonized silence of a whole month, there is

now, inevitably, a strong nervous tension. I am as if crazed by grief. I

take my head in my two hands, and I ask by what miserable destiny so

many human beings are called upon to suffer so.

I feel, too, the need of coming again to talk with you. Perhaps this

letter may yet catch the English mail and go with the other.

If I am tired, worn out, if I should tell you the contrary you would not

believe me; for to suffer so without respite through all hours of the

day and night; to feel intuitively the sufferings of those we love; to

see our children, those dear little creatures, for whom I would give,

for whom we would give, every drop of blood in our veins, struck

down--all that is sometimes too atrocious and the pain is too great to

bear. But I am, dear Lucie, neither discouraged nor broken down, believe

it well. The more the nerves are strained by all these sufferings, the

more the will should become vigorous in its determination to bring the

trial to an end. And the only way to end our tortures, the tortures of

all of us, is to bring about the discovery of the truth. If I live in a

struggle against my body, against my heart, against my brain, fighting

against all with a ferocious energy, it is because I wish to be able to

die tranquilly, knowing that I leave to my children a pure and honored

name; knowing that you are happy. What it is necessary for you to tell

yourself, for us all to tell ourselves, is that there can be but one

termination for our situation--the light--and then, starting forward

with this one word, which outweighs everything, we must smother all that

groans in our hearts; we must see only our object and stretch every

nerve to attain it; and that soon, for the hours now weigh like lead. We

must appeal, as I told you yesterday evening, to all who can help us, to

every aid, to all kind hearts, who can help let in the light. I am sure

that you will find many, and in the presence of this immense sorrow, the

appalling sorrow of a wife and mother, who asks only for the truth, the

honor of the name that her children bear, all will be silent that they

may see only the supreme object of this work, as noble as it is exalted.

Then, dear Lucie, to moan, to lament, to tell each other how we suffer,

all that will advance nothing.

Be calm, collected, but gather all your strength, surround yourself with

all the advice that can help you to pursue and to attain the object,

and let us hope, for your sake, that the time may not be too long in

coming. Embrace your parents, our brothers and sisters, and all your

family for me.

I embrace you as I love you, more passionately than I ever have done

before--with all the strength of my affection, and kiss for me our dear

and adored children.

Your devoted

ALFRED.

* * * * *

_5 o’clock in the morning._

Before I send this letter I must come once more to embrace you with all

my soul, with all my strength; to repeat to you that your conscience,

your duty, our children, ought to be for you irresistible levers too

strong for any human grief to bend.

* * * * *

_September, 1896._

Dear and good Lucie:

I wrote to you upon the receipt of the July mail. The nervous strain has

been too strong, too violent. I have an irresistible longing to come to

talk to you, after this long, agonized silence of a whole month.

Yes, sometimes my pen falls from my hands, and I ask myself what I gain

by writing so much. I am dazed by all my suffering, my poor and dear

Lucie.

Yes, often, also, I ask myself what I have done that you, whom I love so

much, that my poor children, that all of us, should be called to suffer

thus; and, truly, I have moments of ferocious despair, of anger also,

for I am not a saint. But then I call up, as I have always called up,

the thought of you, of the poor little ones, and I evoke that feeling

with which I have wished to inspire you, to inspire you all, since the

beginning of this sad tragedy--that is, that there is above all our

anguish something higher, more exalted. My letter is like a howl of

pain, for we are like sorely wounded men whose minds are so worn out

with pain, whose bodies are so maddened by long suffering, that the

least thing causes their cups, full, too full, of sorrow, to overflow.

But, dear Lucie, to speak forever of our grief is not a remedy for it,

it only exasperates it. We must look at things as they are, and we all

are horribly unhappy.

Truly the end dominates everything--sufferings, life. I have told you

this often and often, for it concerns the honor of our name, the life of

our children. This object must be pursued without weakness until it is

attained. But the human spirit is formed in such a way that it lives in

the impressions of each day, and each day is composed of too many

appalling minutes; we have been waiting for so long a time for a happier

to-morrow.

It is not with anger, it is not with lamentations, that you must hasten

the moment when the truth shall be revealed. Concentrate your

courage--and it ought to be great--strong in your conscience, strong in

the duty you have to fulfill; look only to your object; look only into

your heart of a wife, of a mother, the heart that for so many months has

been so horribly crushed and ground.

Oh, dear Lucie, listen to me well, for I have suffered so much, I have

borne so many things, that life is profoundly indifferent to me, and I

speak to you as from the tomb, from the deep, eternal silence which

raises man above all the anxieties of earth. I speak to you as a father,

in the name of the duty to your children that you must fulfill. Go to

the President of the Republic, to the Ministers, even to those who had

me condemned; for if passions, excitements, at times lead astray the

most upright minds, the hearts remain always generous and are ready to

forget what carried them away before the appalling grief of a wife, of a

mother, who wants but one thing--the only thing we ask--the discovery of

the truth, the honor of our dear little ones. Speak simply, forget all

the little miseries--of what importance are they when compared with the

object to be attained?--and I am sure that you will find an army of

generous, ardent souls, who will help you to escape from a situation so

atrocious, and borne so long that I am yet asking myself how our brains

have been able to resist its attacks.

I am speaking to you in perfect calmness in this deep silence, a painful

silence, it is true, but it lifts the soul above it all.... Act as I beg

you to....

See but one thing, my dear and good Lucie, the end which we must

attain--the truth--and appeal to all who are just and devoted.... Oh,

for that! I wish it with all the fibres of my being--to see the day when

honor shall be again restored to us!

Courage, then, dear Lucie; I ask it of you with all my heart, with all

my soul.

I embrace you as I love you, with all the power of my love, and also our

dear, adored children.

Your devoted

ALFRED.

* * * * *

_3 October, 1896._

My dear Lucie:

I have not yet received the mail of August. Notwithstanding, I wish to

write you a few words by the English mail, and to send you the echo of

my immense love.

I wrote to you last month, and I opened my whole heart to you, told all

my thoughts; there is nothing that I can add. I hope that the combined

aid that you have the right to ask for will be given you, and I can only

hope one thing--that I am soon to learn that light has been let in upon

this horrible affair. What I would again say to you is this: that we

must not let the terrible acuteness of our sufferings harden our hearts.

It is necessary that our name, that we ourselves, should come out of

this horrible situation such as we were when they made us go into it.

But in the face of such sufferings our courage should be strong, not to

recriminate nor to complain, but to ask, to demand, indeed, light on

this horrible drama, that he or they whose victims we are be unmasked.

But I have spoken to you at length of all this in my last letter; I will

not repeat myself.

If I write to you often, and at such length, it is because there is

something that I would express better than I do express it. It is that,

strong in our consciences, we must lift ourselves high above all this,

without moaning, without complaining, like sensitive, honorable people,

who are suffering a martyrdom to which they may succumb. We must simply

do our duty. If my part of this duty is to stand fast as long as I can,

your part of it, the part of you all, is to demand that the light may

shine in upon this lugubrious drama, to appeal to all who can aid in

bringing about the truth; for truly I doubt that human beings have ever

suffered more than we are suffering. I ask myself each day how we have

been able to keep alive.

I end this prattle with regret. This moment so short, so fugitive, when

I come to chat to you, when I pretend to myself that I am talking with

you, that I am telling you all that is in my heart. But alas! I feel too

keenly that I eternally repeat myself; for there is only one thought in

the bottom of my heart; there is only one cry in my soul: to know the

truth of this frightful drama, to see the day when our honor shall be

returned to us!

I embrace you as I love you, from the depths of my heart, as I embrace

my dear and adored children.