* * * * *
_20 October, 1896._
My dear Lucie:
I have written numerous letters to you during these last days, and in
them I have once more opened my heart.
What can I add to them? I can hope but one thing; it is that at last
they will take pity upon such a martyr, and that I shall learn soon that
by the efforts of one or of another light has been let in on this
terrible tragedy, in which we have suffered so appallingly and so long.
Ah, yes, dear and good Lucie, for your sake, as for mine, I would that I
might hear one good word, a word of peace and consolation, coming to
place a little balm upon our hearts, that are so crushed, so tortured.
But what I cannot tell you often enough, my good darling, is how I am
suffering for you, for our dear children, for all our family. I had not
believed that it was possible to live in such sorrow. Well, I will not
linger upon this subject. I can only, as I have told you, wish with you,
that by the discovery of the truth we may find ourselves at last in that
atmosphere of happiness which we used to enjoy so much; that we may find
forgetfulness in our mutual love and in the love of our children.
Waiting for your good letters, I embrace you as I love you, with all my
strength; and so, also, I embrace our dear children.
Your devoted
ALFRED.
Kisses to all.
* * * * *
_22 November, 1896._
My dear and good Lucie:
I did not write to you at the beginning of the month by the English
mail, for I expected each day your letters of September; I have not yet
received them. As I told you in my last letter, which dates back, alas!
a whole month, I hope that other hearts will feel with us the atrocious
sufferings of our long months of martyrdom; this incessant,
inexpressible torture of every hour, of every minute--in a word, all the
horror of such a crushing moral situation. I hope that other hearts are
bringing to your aid an ardent, generous co-operation in the work of
laying bare the truth; and I can but hope for both our sakes, my poor
darling, and for us all, that I shall soon hear a human word that will
be a kind word, a word that will put a soothing balm upon our stinging
wounds, make our hearts a little firmer, calm the surges of our brains,
so shaken by all these emotions, by all these appalling shocks. I can
only, therefore, while I wait for your dear letters, send you the echo
of my immense affection, embrace you with all my heart, with all my
strength, as I love you, as I embrace also our dear and adored children.
Your devoted
ALFRED.
Kisses to your dear parents, to all our brothers and sisters, to all our
family.
* * * * *
_22 December, 1896._
My dear Lucie:
Only a few lines while I wait for your dear letters, to send you the
echo of my deep love, to repeat to you always, with all my soul,
“Courage and faith,” and to embrace you with all my heart, with all my
strength, as I love you, as I embrace also our dear children.
Your devoted
ALFRED.
Kisses to all.
* * * * *
_24 December, 1896._
My dear and good Lucie:
I wrote you a few lines only a few days ago. But my thought is always
with you, with our children, night and day! I know also all that you
suffer, all that you all suffer, and I long to come and talk to you
before the arrival of your letters, each month so impatiently awaited.
I also know how it calms the heart only to see the writing of those we
love, all of whose sorrows we partake; I know also that in this way it
seems that we have with us a part of their very selves, of their hearts,
feeling them tremble and throb at our sides. And then I wish that I
might render better--not my sufferings, you know them. My heart, like
yours, is only a bleeding wound; but what I suffer for you, for our
children, how my life is wrapped up in you all! And if I still stand
erect, despite the agonies that rend my being--for every impression,
even the commonplace, the exterior impressions, produce upon me the
effect of a deep wound--it is because you are there, you and our
children. I have re-read, as I have always done each month, all the
letters that I have from you; they are the companions of my profound
solitude, all these letters of you all; and it seems to me as I read
them that you have not entirely seized my thought, which is perforce
somewhat confused by being scattered among all the letters I have
written to you.
I have often told you dreams that could never be carried into effect in
real life, crushed by the blows that have rained upon me for more than
two years without my ever having understood why they fell, my brain,
distraught, searching in vain for the meaning of the horrible dream
which has held us all enthralled for so long.
I profit by a moment when my brain is less fatigued to try to lucidly
explain my thoughts, the scattered convictions expressed in my different
letters. The end, you know it, the light, full and unshrouded, that end
shall be attained.
Tell yourself, then, that my confidence and my faith are complete; for,
on one hand, I am absolutely certain that this last appeal that I made
recently to the Ministry has been heard; that in that quarter everything
is to be set in motion to discover the truth. And, on the other hand, I
see that you all are wrestling for the honor of our name--that is to
say, our very lives--and I see that nothing can turn you from your
purpose.
Let me add that the point in question is not the bringing into this
horrible affair of either acrimony or bitterness against individuals. We
must aim higher.
If at times I have cried out in my grief, it has been because the wounds
of the heart are at times too cruel, too burning, for human strength.
But if I have made of myself the patient man that I am not, that I never
shall be, it is because above all our sufferings there is the one, only
object--the honor of our name, the life of our children. This object
ought to be your very soul, let come what may. You must be, heroically,
invincibly, at the same time a mother and a Frenchwoman.
I repeat it then, my dear Lucie, my confidence and my faith are
absolutely alike in the efforts of one and all. I am absolutely certain
that light shall be let in, and that is the essential thing--but it will
be in a future that we know not.
For, alas! the energies of the heart, the forces of the brain, have
their limits in a situation as atrocious as mine. I know, too, what you
suffer, and it is appalling.
This is why, often, in the moments of my anguish--for it is not possible
to suffer so slowly without cries of agony, having but one wish to
express, to be with you and with our children on the day when honor
shall be given back to us--I have asked you to take steps to appeal to
the Government, to those persons who possess sure, decisive means of
investigation--means that they only have the right to employ.
Whatever may come of it, and I think I have clearly expressed my
thought, my conviction, I can but repeat to you with all my soul,
Confidence and Faith! and wish for you, as for me, as for us all, that
the efforts of one or of another may soon be crowned with success and
may put an end to this appalling martyrdom of the soul.
I embrace you as I love you, as I embrace also our dear children, from
the depths of my heart.
Your devoted
ALFRED.
Kisses to all.
* * * * *
_4 January, 1897._
My dear Lucie:
I have just received your letters of November, also those of
the family. The profound emotion that they cause me is always the
same--indescribable.
Your thoughts are mine, my dear Lucie; my thought never leaves you,
never leaves our dear children, you all; and when my heart can bear no
more, when I am at the end of my strength to resist this martyrdom, that
crushes my heart incessantly as the grain is crushed in a mill, that
tears all that is most pure, most noble, and most elevated within me,
that dries up all the springs of my soul, then I cry to myself, always
the same words: “However atrocious may be your suffering, march on
still, so that you may be able to die at peace, knowing that you leave
to your children an honored name, a respected name!”
My heart, you know it, it has not changed. It is the heart of a soldier,
indifferent to all physical suffering, who holds honor before, above all
else; who has lived, who has resisted this fearful, this incredible,
uprooting of everything that makes the Frenchman, the man, of all that
makes it possible to live; who has borne it all because he is a father
and because he must see to it that honor is restored to the name that
his children bear.
I have already written to you at length. I have tried to sum it all up
to you, to explain to you why my confidence and my faith are absolute;
that my confidence in the efforts of one and all is fully fixed; for
believe it, be absolutely certain of it, the appeal that I again made in
the name of our children, has revealed to those to whom I appealed a
duty which men of heart will never attempt to evade. On the other hand,
I know well all the sentiments that animate you all. I know them too
well to ever think that there can be one moment of enervation in any one
of you as long as the truth remains in darkness.
Then all hearts, all energies, will converge toward the supreme object,
running toward it with blind, irresistible force. Cheer up until the
beast is run to earth, the author or the authors of this infamous crime.
But, alas! as I have already told you, if my confidence is absolute, the
energies of the heart, of the brain, have limits when the situation is
so appalling, when it has been borne so long. I know, also, what you
suffer, and it is horrible.
[Illustration: MADAME ALFRED DREYFUS AND HER CHILDREN