* * * * *
_6 December, 1897._
My dear and good Lucie:
I cannot let the mail leave without writing to you, to repeat to you
always, it is true, the same words.
As I have told you, for long months I have lived only by an incredible
tension of the nerves, of the will; and it is when I fall under the
weight of my sufferings that the thought of you, that of the children,
lifts me up quivering with grief, with determination, before that which
we hold most precious in this world--our honor, the honor of our
children, of us all. And then I send out again the thrilling cries for
help, the cries of a man who from the first day of this sad tragedy has
begged for nothing but the truth.
Here, then, is a work of justice far above all passions, a duty that
devolves upon all, and it must be accomplished. I wish, indeed, for both
our sakes, my good darling, that it may be accomplished at last; that
our terrible and too long torment may soon be ended.
I embrace you, as I love you, with all the power of my affection, and
our dear, our adored children.
Your devoted
ALFRED.
My best kisses to your dear parents, to all our family.
* * * * *
_25 December, 1897._
My dear Lucie:
More often than ever I have terrible moments, when my reason totters;
this is why I am come to talk to you now, not to speak of myself, but to
give you still, as always, counsels as to what I believe you ought to
do.
In a situation as tragic as ours, when the question in point is the
honor of a family, the life of our children, you must always, my good
darling, rise still higher above all; you must put aside from the
question all thought of individuals, all irritating subjects, and you
must call to your side every aid, every kind heart.
I know better than any one that at times this will be difficult; it is
impossible not to feel our wounds; but we must do it. It is not a
question of humiliating ourselves nor abasing ourselves; but, on the
other hand, we must not throw away our energy in useless outcries; cries
are not reasons.
We must simply stand fast, and will it that our right shall be yielded
to us, the right of innocence. You must assert your will, energetically,
without weakness, with dignity; you must act from your heart of a wife
and mother, a heart horribly torn and wounded.
I have suffered too much. I have too often been stunned, felled by their
sledge-hammers, to have been able to act in this way myself, although
it is the only sane and reasonable line of conduct. And it is just
because often I do not know where I am, because the hours weigh so
heavily upon me, that I long to pour out my heart to you.
All through this month I have again made numerous and passionate appeals
for you, for our children. I want to wish that this appalling martyrdom
may have an end; I want to wish that we may come out of this terrible
nightmare, in which we have lived so long; but that which I cannot
doubt, that which I have not the right to doubt, is that all
co-operation is to be given you; that this work of justice and of
reparation is to be pursued and accomplished. And now to sum it all up,
my darling, what I would tell you in a supreme effort, by which I set my
own self totally aside, is that you must sustain your rights
energetically, for it is appalling to see so many human beings suffer
thus; for we must think of our unhappy children, who are growing up; but
we must not bring any passion, we must not allow any irritating
questions to enter in, any question of individuals.
I will not speak to you again of my love, when your dear image, that of
our children, rises before my eyes, and perhaps there is not a single
minute when this vision is not with me; then I feel my heart beat as if
to burst, as if it were full of tears repressed.
And a supreme cry rises from my heart in all the minutes of my long
days, of my long, sleepless nights; if it is a supreme cry that will be
lifted in my last hour, it is also an appeal to all to make one great
effort for justice and for truth; that all this ardent and devoted aid
may be given you, this aid that all men of heart and honor owe to you.
This appeal, as I have told you, I recently made again, and I cannot
doubt that it will be heard, so I will say again to you, Courage!
In these last lines I would now put all my heart, all that it enfolds of
love for you, for our children, for all; I would tell you that in my
worst moments of anguish it is these thoughts that have saved me, that
have made me escape from the tomb for which I had longed, that have made
me try once more to do my duty.
I embrace you with all my heart. I want to press you in my arms, as I
love you, to ask you to embrace most tenderly our dear and adored
children, in a long embrace, and your dear parents, all my dear brothers
and sisters.
A thousand kisses more.