* * * * *
_4 November, 1897._
My dear and good Lucie:
I have just at this moment received your letters. Words, my good
darling, are powerless to express what poignant emotions the sight of
your dear writing awakes in my heart; and, indeed, it is these
sentiments of powerful affection that this emotion awakens in me that
give me the strength to wait until the supreme day when the truth shall
be made clear concerning this sad and terrible drama.
Your letters breathe such a sentiment of confidence that they have
brought serenity to my heart, that is suffering so much for you, for our
dear children.
You tell me, poor darling, not to think, not to try to understand. Oh,
try to understand! I have never done that; it is impossible for me. But
how can I stop my thoughts? All that I can do is, as I have told you, to
try to wait for the supreme day of truth.
During the last months I wrote you long letters, in which I poured out
my over-burdened heart. What would you? For three years I have seen
myself the toy of events to which I am a stranger, having never deviated
from the absolute rule of conduct that I had imposed upon myself, that
my conscience as a loyal soldier devoted to his country had imposed upon
me. Even in spite of yourself the bitterness mounts from the heart to
the lips; anger sometimes takes you by the throat and you cry out in
pain.
Formerly I swore never to speak of myself, to close my eyes to
everything, because for me, as for you, for us all, there can be but one
supreme consolation--that of truth, of unshrouded light.
But while my too long sufferings, the appalling situation, the climate,
which by its own power alone makes the brain burn--while all this
combined has not made me forget a single one of my duties, it has ended
by leaving me in a state of cerebral and nervous erethismus that is
terrible. I understand thoroughly, too, my good darling, that you cannot
give me details. In affairs like this, where grave interests are at
stake, silence is necessary, obligatory.
I chatter on to you, though I have nothing to tell you; but all this
does me good, it rests my heart and relaxes the tension of my nerves.
Truly, my heart often is shrivelled with poignant grief when I think of
you, of our children; and then I ask myself what I can have committed
upon this earth that those whom I love the most, those for whom I would
give my blood, drop by drop, should be tried by such awful agony. But
even when the too full cup overflows, it is from the dear thought of
you, from the thought of the children--the thought that makes all my
being vibrate and tremble, that exalts it to its greatest heights--from
this thought that I draw the power to rise from the depths of despair,
to send out the thrilling cry of a man who has begged for so long for
himself, for those he loves, only for justice and truth--nothing but
truth.
I have summed up my resolution clearly, and I know that that
determination is your own, that of all of you, and that nothing has ever
been able to overcome it.
It is this feeling, associated with all my duties, that has made me
live; it is this feeling also that has made me ask once more for you,
for you all, every co-operation, a more powerful effort than ever on the
part of all in a simple work of justice and of reparation, by rising
above all question of individuals, above all passions.
May I still tell you of all my affection? It is needless, is it not? for
you know it; but what I wish to tell you again is this, that the other
day I re-read all your letters in order that I might pass some of the
too long minutes near a loving heart, and an immense sentiment of wonder
arose in me for your dignity and your courage. If the trial found in
great misfortunes is the touchstone of noble souls, then, oh, my
darling, yours is one of the most beautiful and the most noble souls of
which it is possible to dream.
You must thank M---- for his few words; all that I can tell him is in
your heart as it is in mine.
Then, my darling, always and again, Courage! As I told you before my
departure from France a long time ago, alas! a very long time, our own
selves should be entirely secondary; our children are the future; there
must remain no spot upon their name; no cloud must hover, not even the
very smallest, over their dear heads. This thought should dominate all
else.
I embrace you, as I love you, with all my strength, as also our dear and
adored children.
Your devoted
ALFRED.
* * * * *
_24 November, 1897._
Dear Lucie:
All these months I have written you many long letters, in which my
oppressed heart has unburdened itself of all our too long-endured common
sorrow. It is impossible to disengage the mind from its _ego_ at all
times; to rise above the sufferings of every instant. It is impossible
that all my being should not quiver, should not cry aloud with anguish
at the thought of all you suffer, at the thought of our dear children;
and if when I fall I again and again raise myself up, it is to send
forth the thrilling appeal for you, for them.
Though my body, my brain, my heart, everything, is worn out, my soul
remains intangible, ever ardent, its determination unshaken and strong
in the right of every human being to have justice and truth for himself,
for those who belong to him.
And the duty of every one is to co-operate in every effort, by every
means, toward this single object--justice and reparation; to put an end
at last to this appalling and too long-continued martyrdom of so many
human creatures.
I wish, therefore, my good darling, that our terrible tortures may soon
be ended.
I have received during the month letters from your dear parents from all
our family. I have answered them.
My best kisses to all.
And for you, for our children, all the tenderness of my heart, all my
love, all my thoughts, that never leave you for one single instant.
A thousand kisses more.