Kiss the dear little ones for me.
Your devoted
ALFRED.
My fondest kisses to your dear parents, to all the family.
* * * * *
_28 March, 1897._
Dear Lucie:
After a long and anxious waiting I have just received a copy of two
letters from you written in January. You complain that I do not write
more at length. I wrote you numerous letters toward the end of January;
perhaps by this time they have reached you.
And then, the sentiments that are in our hearts, and that rule our
souls, we know them. Moreover, we have, both of us, drained the cup of
all suffering.
You ask me again, dear Lucie, to speak to you at length about my own
self. Alas! I cannot. When one suffers so atrociously, when one has to
bear such misery of soul, it is impossible to know at night where one
will be on the morrow.
You will forgive me if I have not always been a stoic; if often I have
made you share my bitter grief, you who had already so much to bear. But
sometimes it was too much; and I was absolutely alone.
But to-day, darling, as yesterday, let us put behind us all complaints,
all recriminations. Life is nothing! You must triumph over all griefs,
whatever they may be, over all sufferings, like a pure, exalted human
soul that has a sacred duty to fulfill.
Be invincibly strong and valiant; keep your eyes fixed straight before
you, looking to the end--looking neither to the right nor to the left.
Ah, I know well that you, too, are only a human being, ... but when
grief becomes too great, when the trials that the future has in store
for you are too hard to bear, then look into the faces of our children,
and say to yourself that you must live, that you must be there, to
sustain them until the day when our country shall recognize what I have
been, what I am.
Moreover, as I have told you, I have bequeathed to those who condemned
me a duty in which they will not fail; I am absolutely sure of it.
To speak of the education of the children is needless, isn’t it? We have
too often, in our long conversations, gone thoroughly over this subject,
and our hearts, our feelings, everything, are bound so close together
that naturally we agree as to what that education should be; it may be
summed up in a word: to make them strong, physically and morally.
I will not dwell too long upon all this, for these thoughts are too sad,
and I do not want to be weighed down by them.
But what I wish to repeat to you with all the force of my soul, with a
voice that you should always hear, is “Courage, courage!” Your patience,
your resolution, that of all of us, should never tire until the truth,
full and absolute, shall have been revealed and recognized.
I cannot fill my letters full enough of all the love that my heart
contains for you, for you all.
If I have been able to resist until now so much agony of soul, all
mental misery and trial, it is because I have drawn strength from the
thought of you and of the children.
I am now hoping that your letters of April may reach me soon, and that I
shall not have to suffer so long a delay before receiving them.
I will end this letter by taking you in my arms and pressing you to my
heart.
I embrace you with all the strength of my love, and I repeat to you
always and still again: “Courage, courage!”
A thousand kisses to our dear children.
Your devoted
ALFRED.
And for all of you, whatever may come, whatever may become of me, this
earnest cry, the invincible cry of my soul: “_Lift up your hearts!_ Life
is nothing, honor is all!” And for you, all the tenderness of my heart.
* * * * *
_24 April, 1897._
Dear Lucie:
I want to talk with you while I wait for your dear letters, not to speak
of myself, but to tell you always the same words, which ought to sustain
your unalterable courage; and then, too, it is a human weakness, that is
excusable enough, to get a little warmth for my tortured heart near
yours, alas! not less sad than mine.
I have read over your letters of February in which you are astonished,
in which you almost make excuses because at times cries of grief, of
revolt, escape from your heart. Do not make excuses for them; they are
only too legitimate. In this long agony of thought to which I am
subjected, be sure that I know them, those very griefs.
Yes, truly, all this is appalling. No human word can express such
sorrows, and sometimes I have wanted to shriek out, so inexpressible is
such anguish. I also have terrible moments, atrocious moments, the more
appalling because they are restrained, because never a complaint escapes
my silent lips, when reason is submerged, and all that is in me is
agonized, cries out in revolt. I have told you that for a long time in
my dreams I have often thought, “Ah, yes, to hold one of those miserable
accomplices of the author of that crime between my hands for a few
minutes--and were I compelled to tear his skin from him shred by shred,
I should make him confess this vile machination against our country;”
but all that, sorrows and thoughts, they are only sentiments, they are
only dreams, and it is the reality that we must see. And the reality is
this, always the same: it is that in this horrible affair there is a
double interest at stake--that of the country, our own--and one is as
sacred as the other.
It is for this reason that I will not try to understand, I will not try
to know, why they have made me thus fall under the weight of all these
tortures. My life belongs to my country, to-day as yesterday it is hers,
let her take it; but if my life belongs to her, her imprescriptible duty
is to see to it that the light, full and entire, shall shine upon this
horrible drama, for my honor does not belong to the country, it is the
patrimony of our children, of our families.
So now, dear Lucie, I shall repeat always, to you and to all, stifle
your hearts, compress your brains; as for you, you must be heroically,
invincibly, at once a mother and a Frenchwoman.
Now, darling, I cannot speak to you of myself any more. If you could
know all that I have been subjected to, all that I have borne, your soul
would shiver with horror, and yet I am a human being who has a heart, a
heart swollen to bursting, and I need, I thirst for rest. Oh, think how
many appalling minutes are contained in one day of twenty-four hours, in
the most complete, the most absolute idleness, with nothing to do but
twirl my thumbs--alone with my thoughts!
If I have been able to resist so many torments until now it is because I
have often called up the thought of you, of the children, of you all,
and then I realized what you suffer, what you all suffer.
Then, darling, accept everything, whatever may come; bear it, suffer in
silence, like a true human soul, exalted and very proud--the soul of a
mother who is resolved to see the name she bears, the name her children
bear, cleansed from this horrible stain. Then to you, as to you all,
again and always, “Courage, courage!”
You must kiss the dear children for me and tell them how dearly I love
them.
And you must also kiss your dear brothers and sisters, and all my family
for me.
And for yourself, for our dear children, all that my heart contains of
unfailing love.