Part 10

I need not tell you the thrill of happiness they give. And for yourself the best, the tenderest kisses of your devoted

ALFRED.

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_5 February, 1896._

My dear Lucie:

The mail has arrived, and it has brought me no letter. I need not tell you what bitter disappointment. I could tell you what deep grief I feel when this only consolation, your dear beloved words, do not come to me. But, as I have said before, of what importance are sufferings--I dare even call them tortures--however atrocious, however horrible they may be, for the object which you are now pursuing dominates everything, it is above all else, and beyond all else--the honor of our name, the honor of our dear, adored children.

As for me, dear Lucie, you are my strength, my invincible strength, so high are you in my love, in my tenderness. Like my children, you dictate to me my duty. Say to yourself that if often the violence of feelings, that are at times atrocious, wrings a groan from my heart and makes my brain reel; if at times the unending hours and the climate exceed my strength of forbearance, and my very flesh cry out, my determination remains unshaken.

But you must realize all that I suffer on account of your martyrdom, from the unmerited dishonor cast upon our children, upon all our family. You must feel all that I suffer from such a condition of soul, striving here against many elements united; what a determination, what a power I feel within me to see the light--oh, no matter at what price, no matter by what means! Often in this solitude the tempest rages in my brain; oftener yet the blood boils in my veins with impatience to see the end of this incredible martyrdom. The more atrocious my sufferings the more they increase as the days roll by, the less willing we should be to give way to grief or to rebuffs, the less inclined we should be to give ourselves over to fate. And since our tortures are to cease only after the light dawns full and entire, and since we must have it through and against everything for ourselves, for our children, for us all, our wills should strengthen as difficulties and obstacles increase. Therefore, dear and good Lucie, courage, and more than courage; a strong will, a daring will that knows how to be determined and to succeed, a will strong enough to attain its object, no matter how, an object as praiseworthy as it is elevated--the truth. This has lasted too long, too many sufferings are crushing down innocent beings.

Kiss the dear children often and fondly for me. Ah, indeed, dear Lucie, there is nothing that can be called an obstacle where our children are concerned. Remind yourself that there are no obstacles; that there cannot be any; that the truth must be known; that a mother has all rights, as she ought to have all courage when she is called upon to defend that by which alone her children can live--their honor.

And each time when I write to you I cannot bring myself to close my letter, so brief is this moment when I come to talk to you; so wholly is all my being with you; so entirely all I say fails to express the feelings that agitate me and fill my soul; so inadequate to express this desire, stronger than all else, which is in me--a desire for the truth and for our honor and the honor of our children, or to express my deep love for you, my love increased by unbounded reverence.

I hope, indeed, that what I have said to you during so many long months is being translated by you all into strong and vigorous action, and that I shall hear soon that the sufferings of us both are to have an end.

I embrace you as I love you, and also our dear children, with all my heart, with all my soul, while I wait for tidings from you all.

ALFRED.

_26 February, 1896._

My dear Lucie:

I received the 12th of this month your dear letters of December; also all those from the family. It is needless for me to try to describe to you the deep emotion which they gave me. I could weep--that tells it all. As you yourself feel, in spite of yourself, the brain does not stop working, the head and the heart still suffer, and these tortures will only cease after the truth is brought to light, when this awful drama is finished, explained.

I have spoken too much of myself and of my sufferings; forgive me this weakness.

Whatever my sufferings may be, ah, however terrible our martyrdom is, there is an object that must be attained--that you will attain, I am sure of it--the light, full and entire, such as is necessary for us all, for our name, for our dear children. I hope ardently, for you as for myself, to hear soon that this object is at last attained.

I have no counsels to give you, either. I can but approve absolutely what you are doing to accomplish the complete demonstration of my innocence. That is the end to be attained, and we must see nothing else.

I have received Mathieu’s few words; tell him that I am always with him, heart and soul. The 22d of February was the anniversary of the birth of our dear little Jeanne. How often I thought of her! I will not say more about it, for my heart will break and I have need of all my strength. Write me long letters. Speak to me of yourself and of our dear children.

I read and re-read each day all that you have written me; then it seems to me that I hear your beloved voice, and that helps me to live.

I will not write more, for I can only tell you of the horrible length of the hours, of the sadness of all things; and complaining is very useless.

Kiss your dear parents for me. Thank them always for their good, affectionate letters.

A thousand kisses to our dear children, and for you the best, the tenderest kisses of your devoted

ALFRED.

I have not yet received the things you spoke of in your letters of the 25th of November and the 25th of December. I cannot tell why the things you send me are so long in coming. Perhaps the books you are going to send me soon by mail will reach me with less delay. I hope so, for reading, the only thing that is possible for me to do, may calm a little the pains in my brain, and unhappily even that is often lacking.

* * * * *

_5 March, 1896._

My dear Lucie:

I have not yet received your dear letters of January. A few lines only to send you the echo of my immense affection. Write to you at length? I cannot. My days, my hours, slip by monotonously, in this agonizing, enervating waiting for the discovery of the truth, the discovery of the wretch who committed this infamous crime. Speak to you of myself? What good can that do us? My sufferings, you know them, you share them. They, like yours, like those of all who love us, can only have an end when the broad, full light shall appear, when honor is returned to us.

It is toward this end that all your energy, all your forces, all your means, should be directed. I hope to learn that this end is almost attained, that this appalling martyrdom of a whole family is nearly over. My body, my health? All that is indifferent to me. My being is animated only by one thought, by one desire, which keeps me alive--that of seeing with you and with our children the day when my honor shall be returned to me. It is in my thoughts of you, in the thought of our adored children, that I rest my brain, overtried at times by this continual tension, by this fever of impatience, by this terrible inactivity, without one moment of distraction.

If, then, we cannot keep ourselves from suffering--for never were human beings, who hold honor above all, struck in such a manner--still I cry always to you, “Courage, courage!” to march on to your goal, your head high, your heart firm, with unshaken will, never discouraged. Your children tell you your duty, just as they give me my strength.

Let us hope, then, as your mother has said, that soon, in each other’s arms, we can try to forget this fearful martyrdom, these months, so sad and so delusive, and live again by consecrating ourselves to our children.

I embrace you, as I love you, with all my strength, and also our dear children.

Your devoted ALFRED.

Kisses to all.

* * * * *

_26 March, 1896._

My dear Lucie:

I received the 12th of this month your good letters of January, so impatiently expected every month, also all the letters from the family.

I have seen with happiness that your health and the health of all resist this frightful condition of things, this horrible nightmare, in which we have lived so long. What a trial for you, my good darling, as horrible as it is undeserved--for you who deserve to be so happy! Yes, I have horrible moments, when the heart can bear no longer the blows which open the wound already so deep, when my brain gives way under the weight of thoughts so sad and so deceptive. When, after I have waited for my letters in an agony of anxiety, the mail arrives, and still I do not receive the announcement of the discovery of the truth, or of the author of that infamous and cowardly crime, oh, I have at first a feeling of deep, bitter disappointment. My heart is torn, is broken, under so many sufferings, so long and so undeserved!

I am a little like a sick man who lingers on his bed of torment, suffering anguish, but who lives because his duty demands it, and who keeps asking his doctor, “When will my tortures end?” And as the doctor answers, “Soon, soon,” the sick man ends by asking himself, “But when will this ‘soon’ come?” and he longs to see it come.

It was a long time ago that you announced it to me ... but be discouraged? Oh, that never! However terrible may be my sufferings, the desire for our honor is far above them!

Neither you, nor any one, will ever have the right to one moment of fatigue, one second of weakness, as long as the goal has not been reached--the absolute honor of our name. As for me, when I feel that I am falling under the united weight of all our suffering, when I feel that my reason is leaving me, then I think of you, of our dear children, of the undeserved dishonor cast upon our name, and I recover my balance by a violent effort of my whole being, and I cry to myself, “No, you shall not bend before the tempest! Your heart may be in bits, your brain may be crushed, but you shall not succumb until you have seen the day when honor shall be given back to your dear children!”

This is why, dear Lucie, I come to cry to you always, to you, as to all, “Courage!” and more than courage--for will to accomplish!... Oh, silently, very silently--for words do not help--but boldly, audaciously to march straight onward to the end--the entire truth, the light upon this awful drama, in one word, all the honor of our name! Means? They must all be employed, of whatever nature they may be--anything that the mind can suggest to obtain the solution of this enigma.

The object is everything; that alone is immutable. I wish our children to enter upon life with heads proudly erect. I wish to animate you with my supreme desire. I wish to see you succeed, and it will be full time, I swear to you!

I hope that you may soon be able to tell me something certain, something positive, oh, for both of us, my dear Lucie! I cannot write to you at greater length, nor speak to you of anything else except my great and deep affection for you. My head is too tired by this bitter discipline, the most terrible, the most cruel that human brain can endure.

Our dear little Pierre asks me to write to him. Ah, I am not strong enough! Each word wrings a sob from my throat and I am obliged to resist with all my strength in order to be with him on the day when they give us back our honor.

Take him in your arms for me, as well as our dear little Jeanne.

Oh, my precious children!... Draw from them your invincible courage.

I embrace you with all the forces of my being, as I love you.

ALFRED.

Embrace your dear parents, all the family for me; my health is good.

I received from you at the beginning of the month a dozen packages of provisions and some cardigans. I thank you for your touching care for me. I have not yet received any of the reviews and the books you announced in your letters of September, December, and January; not one of them has yet arrived at Cayenne. Please send the things so that they may come by parcels post. Either address them to me directly, care of the Director of the Penitentiary Service at Cayenne, or else have them addressed to me from the Ministry, at your own expense.

* * * * *

_26 March, 1896, evening._

Dear Lucie:

Before sending you the letter that I had written, I re-read, perhaps for the hundredth time, your dear letters, for you can imagine what my long days and nights are like, when, my arms crossed, I am alone with my thoughts, without anything to read, sustaining myself only by the force of duty, so that I may uphold you so that I may see, at last, the day when our honor is given back to us. You ask me to await calmly the day when you can announce to me the discovery of the truth.

Ask me to wait as long as I have the strength; but with calmness? Oh, no! When they have torn, all-living, the heart from my breast, when I feel myself struck in my most precious possession, in you and my children, when my heart groans with agony night and day, without one hour of rest, when for eighteen months I have lived in a frightful nightmare!

But, then, that which I desire with a ferocious determination, that which has made me bear everything, that which has made me live, is not that you should protest my innocence by your words, but that you should march, that you all should march, straight forward, no matter by what means, to the conquest of the truth, to the laying bare in the full light of day this dark story ... in a word, to the recovery of our whole honor.

These are the words I spoke to you before my departure--already more than a year ago ... and, alas! it is not that I would reproach you; but it seems to me that you are very long on this supreme mission, for it is not living to live without honor.

And in my long nights of torture, suffering this martyrdom, how often have I told myself, “Ah, how I should have solved the enigma of this horrible drama--by any means, no matter what, even had I been forced to put the knife to the throats of the wretched accomplices, however well hidden they might have been, of the vile criminal!” And more often still have I cried to myself, “Will there be no one, then, with enough heart and soul or clever enough to tear the truth from them, and to bring to an end this fearful martyrdom of a man and of two families?” Ah, I know that these are only the dreams of one who suffers horribly! But what would you? All that is too horrible, too atrocious! It leads astray my reason, my faith in loyalty and rectitude, for there is a moral law that is above all things, above passion and hatred; it is the law that demands the truth always and in all things. And then when my thoughts turn back upon my past, upon my whole life, and then to see myself where I am now! Oh, then it is horrible! black night closes in upon my soul, and I long to shut my eyes, to think no more. It is in my thought of you, of our dear children, in my wish to see the end of this horrible drama that I find again the energy to live, to hold myself erect. These are my thoughts, these are my dreams, my dear and good Lucie, and it is in answer to your question that I have thus laid bare my soul. Know, then, that I suffer with you, that I live in your life, that our mental and moral tortures are the same, that they can have but one end--full light upon this sinister affair. Let us press on, then, toward this supreme end, active in every day, in every hour, with ferocious and unconquerable will, the conviction that overturns all obstacles. It is our honor that has been torn from us, and we must regain it. And now I am going to bed to try to rest my brain a little, or rather to try to dream of you and of our dear children. The 5th of April Pierre will be five years old. Be sure that on that day all my heart, all my thoughts, my tears, alas! also will have been of him, of you. And I close in wishing that you may soon announce to me the end of this infernal torture, and by embracing you with all my strength, as I love you.

Your devoted ALFRED.

* * * * *

_5 April, 1896._

My dear Lucie:

I have just received your dear letters of February, also those of the family. In your turn, my dear wife, you have been subjected to the atrocious anguish of waiting for tidings!... I have known this anguish; I have known many others; I have seen things that are deceiving to the human consciousness.... Well, I say again, what matters it? Your children are there, they live. We have given them life, we must restore their honor to them. It is necessary to go straight forward to the end, our eyes fixed upon one single object--to go forward with an unconquerable will, with the courage given by the knowledge of an absolute necessity. I told you in one of my letters that each day brings with it its anguish. It is true. When the evening comes, after a struggle of every instant against the turmoil of my brain, against the overthrow of my reason, against the revolts of my heart, then I have a cerebral and nervous depression, and I long to close my eyes to see no more, to think no more, to suffer no more. Then I have to make a violent effort of the will to drive away the ideas that drag me down, to bring back the thought of you, the thought of our adored children, and to say to myself again, “However horrible your martyrdom may be, you must be able to die in peace, knowing that you leave to your children a proud and honored name.” If I recall this to you, it is simply to tell you again what effort of my will I put forth in a single day because it concerns the honor of our name, the name of our children; that this same determination should animate you all. I want to tell you also what I suffer from your torture, from that of you all, what I suffer for our children, and that then at all hours of the day and night I cry to you and to all of you, in the agony of my grief, “March on to the conquest of the truth, boldly, like honest and valiant people, to whom honor is everything.”

Ah, the means! Little do I care for means. They must be found, when one knows what one wants, and when it is one’s right and one’s duty to want it.

This voice you should hear at every moment, across all space; it should animate your souls.

I repeat myself ever, dear Lucie; it is because but one thought, one will gives me strength to endure everything.

I am neither patient nor resigned, be sure of that. I long for the light, the truth, our honor throughout all France, with all the fibres of my being; and this supreme desire ought to inspire in you--in you, as in all the others--all courage, all daring, so that at last we may escape from a situation as infamous as it is undeserved.

You have no mercy and no favor to ask of any one. You wish the light, and that you must obtain.

The more the physical strength decreases--for the nerves end by becoming absolutely shattered by so many appalling shocks--the more the energies should increase.

Never, never, never--and this is the cry from the depths of my soul--can a man resign himself to dishonor when he has not deserved it.

To-day our dear little Pierre is five years old. All my heart, all my thoughts go out to him, to you, to our dear children. All my being quivers with sorrow.

What can I add, my dear Lucie? My affection for you, for our children, you know it. It has kept me alive; it has made me endure what otherwise I should never have accepted; it gives me the force still to endure all.

You say that we are approaching the end of our sufferings. I wish it with all my strength; for never have human beings suffered like this. I wrote you a long letter, ten days ago, by the French mail.

I embrace you, as I love you, with all my strength, and also our children.

Your devoted ALFRED.

I received some days ago the reviews and books that you sent in November. Their tardy arrival may be traced to the fact that they were sent by freight--that is to say, by sailing vessels. I find a little solace in them. But my brain is so shaken, so fatigued, by all these appalling shocks that I cannot fix my mind upon anything. The other parcels you have sent will reach me some day.

Embrace your dear parents, and all of our family for me. I wrote to them by the French mail.

* * * * *

_26 April, 1896._

My dear Lucie:

In the long and atrocious days of which all these months are made, I have read and re-read your dear letters of February. My heart has bled with the anguish to which you have been subjected during these long months, and of which each word in your letters bears the trace. I could feel how you restrained the shivers of your being, how you held back the overflowing volume of your grief, and in an effort of your loving and devoted heart you found the strength to cry again to me, “Oh, I am strong!”

Yes, be strong, for strength is needed.

One of these nights I dreamed of you, of our children, of our torture, compared with which death would be sweet, and in my agony I cried out in my sleep.

My suffering is at times so strong that I would tear my skin from my flesh, to forget in physical pain this too violent torture of soul. I arise in the morning with the dread of the long hours of the day, alone, for so long, with the horrors of my brain; I lie down at night with the fear of the sleepless hours. You ask me to speak to you at length of myself, of my health. You must realize that after the tortures to which I have been subjected, supporting the atrocious life of the present, a life that never leaves me a moment of rest, day or night, my health cannot be brilliant. My body is broken, my nerves are sick, my brain is crushed, say, simply, that I still hold myself erect in the absolute sense of the word only because I resolved to, so as to see with you and our children the day when honor shall be returned to us.

You ask yourself sometimes, in your hours of calmness, why we have been thus tried.... I ask it of myself at every instant, and I find no answer.

We deceived each other mutually, dear Lucie, by alternately recommending each other to be calm and to be patient. Our love tries in vain to hide from each other the thoughts that agitate our hearts.

My anguish when I write to you, the heart quivering with pain and fever, tells me too clearly what you feel when you write to me.

No, let us tell each other simply that if we still live with torn and panting hearts, with our souls shivering with anguish, it is because there is a supreme object to be attained, cost what it may--the full honor of our name, that of our children--and that right speedily, for sensitive people cannot live in a situation whose every moment is a torture.

Very often I have wished to speak to you at length of our children--I cannot. A dull, bitter anger floods my heart at the thought of these dear little creatures, struck through their father, who is innocent of a crime so abominable.... My throat contracts, my sobs choke me, my hands are wrung with grief at not being able to do anything for them, for you ... to struggle to keep from dying in such a situation, and for so long.

So I can only repeat to you, dear Lucie, “Courage, and determination, and action, also, for human strength has a limit.”

I wrote you long letters by the last mail; I wrote also to your dear parents, to my brothers and sisters. I hope that these letters will still more embolden your courage, the courage of every one of you, that they will animate your souls with the fire that consumes my own soul--the fire that gives me the strength to still stand erect.