Part 11

You tell me that you have good reasons for believing that this atrocious situation is not to be of long duration. Ah, I wish with all my soul that this time your hope may not be deceived, that you may soon announce to me something certain, positive; for truly this is suffering too hard to bear!

What can I add, dear Lucie? The hours are all alike in their atrocity for me; I live only by the thought of you, of our children, in the expectation of a _dénouement_, an escape from a situation which has lasted but too long.

I embrace you with all my heart, as I love you; also our dear children, and I am waiting now until I shall have the happiness of receiving your dear letters, always so impatiently expected.

Your devoted ALFRED.

Kisses to all.

* * * * *

_May 7, 1896._

My dear Lucie:

A few moments before I received your dear letters I was subjected to an outrage--only a mean, shabby trick--but such things hurt one whose heart has been already so deeply wounded. I have not, alas! the soul of a martyr. To tell you that there are not times when I would be glad to die and end this atrocious life would be to lie. Do not see in this any trace of discouragement. The goal is immutable, it must be attained, and it shall be. But I am a human being as well, undergoing the most appalling of martyrdoms for a man of heart and a sense of honor, bearing it only for you and for our children.

Each time they turn the knife in the wound my heart cries with grief. I wept after this last outrage ... but enough of that. As I was saying, I have just received your dear letters of March, the letters of all the family, and with all the joy of reading the words you have written, I have always as well that sense of bitter disappointment, which you can well realize, that comes from not yet seeing the end of our tortures. How you must suffer, Lucie! how you all must suffer when you cannot hasten the moment our honor will be restored to us, when the wretches who committed the infamous crime shall be unmasked! I wish that this moment may be near and that it may not be too late.

Thanks for the good news that you give me of the children. It is from the thought of them, from the thought of you, that I draw the strength to resist. You must expect that sufferings, the climate, the situation, have done their work. I have left only my skin, my bones, and my moral energy. I hope that this last will carry me through to the end of our trials. You spoke to me of some supplies that I might ask you for. You know that my material life has always been indifferent to me, to-day more so than ever. I have only asked for books, and unhappily I have still only those you sent me in November.

Please do not send me any more provisions. The sentiment which inspires me to beg this favor may be puerile, but everything you send me is, by regulations, subjected to a most minute examination, and it seems to me each time that they give you a slap in the face, ... and my heart bleeds and I tremble with pain of it.

No; let us accept the atrocious situation that has been made for us. Do not let us try to alleviate it by any care for the material order, but let us repeat to ourselves that we must find the guilty wretch, that we must get back our honor! March on, then, toward this goal; march on, moved by one common, unchangeable will; try to attain it as quickly as possible and give no care to anything else. I, for my part, shall resist as long as I can, for I want to be there, present on that day of supreme happiness when our honor is given back to us.

Say to yourself, that while the head may bow before some misfortunes, that while commonplace condolences may be received in some situations, when it is a question of honor there can be no consolations, but only a goal to be struggled for so long as we can keep up to have that honor restored to us.

Then, for you, as for all of us, I can only cry from the depths of my soul, _Lift up your hearts_! There must be no recrimination, no complaint, nothing but the unswerving march onward to our end--the wretch or the wretches who are really guilty--and we must attain our end as soon as possible.

As I have already told you, there must not remain one single Frenchman who can doubt our honor.

Kiss our dear children with all your heart for me, and yourself a thousand kisses the most tender, the most affectionate kisses of your devoted

ALFRED.

Embrace your dear parents, all our family and friends for me. In the mail which I have just received I have not found letters from any of my sisters except Henriette. I hope that these dear sisters are not sick from these terrible and continued trials.

* * * * *

_22 May, 1896._

My dear Lucie:

Your good and most affectionate letters of March have been the dear and sweet companions of my solitude. I have read them and re-read them to recall to me my duty each time that the situation was crushing me with its weight. I have suffered with you, with you all; all the frightful anguish through which you have passed has echoed in my own.

You ask me to write to you, to come and tell you all that is in my crushed and bleeding heart whenever my bitterness is too great for me to bear. Ah, my poor Lucie! If I should do as you bid, I should be writing very often, for I have not one moment of respite. But why should I thus tear your heart? I already do this too often, and after I have thus poured out my woes I always regret it bitterly, for you have already suffered enough, far too much for me. But what would you? It is impossible to break away absolutely from one’s _ego_, to stifle always the revolts of one’s heart, to be always master of one’s sick nerves. My only moment when the tension is relaxed is when I write to you, and then all the accumulated grief of the long month at times goes out into what I write.... And then I feel so profoundly in the very depths of my being all the horror of our situation, as well for you and me as for your dear parents, for all our family, that bursts of anger, quivers of indignation, escape in spite of my efforts; then I cry out in my impatience to see the end of this abominable suffering for us all. I suffer because I am powerless to lighten your atrocious sorrow, because I can only sustain you with all the power of my love, with all the ardor of my soul. Ah, truly yes, dear Lucie, I feel all your anguish when each mail day arrives, and after a long month of waiting, of suffering, and of agony, you cannot yet announce to me the discovery of the guilty wretches, the end of our tortures! And if then I cry out, if at times I roar aloud, if the blood boils in my veins with all this agony, so long drawn out, so undeserved, oh, it is as much for you as for me! For if I had had only myself to think of in my sufferings, long ago I should have put an end to it all, leaving it to the future to be the final judge of everything.

It is from the thought of you, the thought of our dear children, from my determined resolve to sustain you, to live to see the day when our honor shall be given back to us, that I draw all my strength. When I sink under the united burden of all my woes, when my brain reels, when my heart can bear no more, when I lose all hope, then to myself I murmur three names--yours, those of our dear children--and I nerve myself again against my agony, and not a sound passes my silent lips. To tell the truth, I am physically very weak; it could not be otherwise. But everything is effaced from my mind, hallucinating memories, sufferings, the atrocities of my daily life, before so exalted, so absolute a preoccupation, the thought of our honor, the patrimony of our children. So I come again, as always, to cry to you with all my strength, with all my soul, “Courage, and still courage, to march steadfastly onward to your goal--the unclouded honor of our name”--and to wish for both our sakes that this goal may soon be reached. The dear little letters written by the children always move me deeply, cause me extreme emotion; I often wet them with my tears, but I draw from them also my strength. In all my letters I read that you are raising these dear little children admirably. If I have never spoken of this to you it has been because I knew it, because I knew you.

To speak of my love for you, the love that unites us all, would be useless, would it not? Still, let me tell you again that my thought never leaves you for an instant day or night, that my heart is always near to you, to our children, to you all, ready to sustain you, to animate you with my unconquerable will.

I embrace you with all my strength, with all my heart, and also the dear children, while I wait to receive your good letters, the only rays of sunshine that come to warm my cruelly wounded heart.

Your devoted ALFRED.

Kisses to your dear parents, to all.

* * * * *

_5 June, 1896._

My dear Lucie:

I have not yet received your good letters of April, so I have been forced to content myself by re-reading, as I do each day, often many times a day, your good and affectionate letters of March, and from them I have drawn a little calm. I cannot, however, let the English mail leave without coming to gossip a little with you, without drawing near to you.

Oh, I can see you very well in thought from here, my dear and good Lucie, for you do not leave me for a single moment. I know the moments of your crises, when, after some one has given you hope, that hope is again disappointed; when, after a moment of relaxation, of peace, you fall back into a violent despair, asking yourself with anguish when we shall wake from this abominable nightmare in which we have lived so long. And then you write to me, and you find in your splendid soul, in your loving and devoted heart, the strength to hide from me the atrocious tortures, the appalling anguish through which you are passing.

And then I, who feel, who divine all that--I, whose heart is crushed and wounded in its purest sentiments, in its tenderest love, with the blood boiling in my veins, because I feel all the torture heaped upon us, upon our two families--with my very reason in revolt I go and put into my letters the cries of anguish and of impatience that are in my soul; then I suffer through a long month thinking of the emotion you will feel, and I am still more unhappy.

Instead of bringing you, you who are wounded with me in your honor as a wife and a mother, the moral support, the steadfast, energetic, ardent support which you need in the noble mission you must fulfill, I come, at times, to lament, to occupy you with my little sufferings, my petty tortures, with I know not what, to augment your poignant grief. Forgive my weakness--human weakness, alas! all too natural. Words, indeed, are powerless to depict a martyrdom like ours. But it can have but one termination--the discovery of the guilty wretches, absolute, complete rehabilitation, all the honor of our name, the name of our dear children.

So I am again, as always, adding to this letter, which will carry to you the echo of my deep love, the ardent cry of my soul, Courage, still more courage, dear Lucie, to march on to your goal, with a fierce, resolute, unfailing will; and let us hope, for both our sakes, for the sake of our children, that the end may soon be accomplished.

Embrace our dear little ones tenderly for me. I live only in them, in you, and from that source I draw my strength. Kiss your dear parents for me; give my love to all our friends; thank them for their good and most affectionate letters.

I end this letter with regret, and I embrace you hard, “as hard as I can,” as our dear little Pierre says.

Your devoted ALFRED.

_Evening._

I have just received at last the things you sent me, and the books for the months of December, January and February, and I assure you that I had need of them. Yet more fond and ardent kisses for you, for our dear children, for your dear parents, for all our friends; and I end my letter by this ardent cry of my soul: Courage, always and still more courage, my dear and good Lucie.

* * * * *

_24 July, 1896._

My dear Lucie:

I have not received your letters of May; the last news I have of you dates back three months. You see that sledge-hammer blows are not spared me. I do not want to augment your grief by depicting my own. Besides it is of no importance. Whatever may be our suffering, however appalling may be our martyrdom, our object is unchanging, my dear Lucie--the light, the honor of our name.

I can do no more than repeat to you this cry of my soul: Courage! Courage! Courage! until the end is attained.

As for me, I retain with all my energy whatever strength remains to me. I repress my brain and my heart night and day, for I want to live to see the end of this drama. I hope, for both of us, that the moment is not far distant.

When you receive these few lines your birthday will have passed. I will not dwell upon thoughts so cruel for both of us, but my thoughts could be with you no more that day than on all others.

I embrace you with all my heart, with all my strength, you and our children.

Your devoted ALFRED.

* * * * *

_4 August, 1896._

My dear Lucie:

I have received your letters of May and June all together, with those of the family. I will not tell you of my emotion, after I had waited so long; for we must not give way to such poignant feelings.

I found but two letters from you in the mail for May. I was happy to see that you were settled in the country with the children; perhaps there you may find a little rest, if there can be any rest for us when our honor has not been given back to us.

Yes, dear Lucie, sufferings such as ours, sufferings so undeserved, leave the mind bewildered. But let us speak no more of it; it is one of those things that provoke irresistible indignation.

If I am nervously impatient to see the end of all our tortures; if, under the influence of the revolts of my heart, my letters are pressing, do not doubt that my confidence, like my faith, is absolute. Tell yourself that I have never said “Hope!” I have said, “We must have the whole truth; if not to-day it will be to-morrow or the day after, but this end will be attained--it must be!” Let us shut our eyes to our tortures; let us compress our brains and steel our hearts. Courage, be valiant, dear Lucie; there must not be one minute of weakness or of lassitude. For us, for our children, for our families, we must have light, the honor of our name. I come now, as always, to cry to you, to cry to all, “Lift up your heart! be strong in your determination!”

I wish with all my heart, for both our sakes, for all of us, to learn that this suffering is to have an end.

Embrace our children for me, and for yourself the fondest kisses of your devoted

ALFRED.

Embrace your parents, all our family, for me.

* * * * *

_24 August, 1896._

Dear Lucie:

I replied at the beginning of the month in a few lines only to your dear letters of May and June. The impression they made upon me after I had waited so long for them was such that I could not write at length. I read and re-read them each day, and it seems to me that thus for a few moments I am near you, that I feel the beating of your heart close to mine; and when I look at this bit of paper on which I write to you, I wish that I could put in it all my soul, all my heart contains for you, for our children, for you all; I wish that I might imprint upon it all the ardor of my soul, all my courage, all my determination.

Believe, dear Lucie, that I have never had a moment of discouragement as to the end to be attained. But yet what impatience devours me to see the end of our atrocious torture!

There are for those who have hearts sorrows so bitter that the pen is powerless to express them. And this grief, equally poignant for us all, I hide it in my breast day and night, and not one complaint escapes from my lips. I accept everything, stifling my heart, my whole being, seeing only our goal.

I wrote to you in the first days of July a letter which must have troubled you, my dear Lucie; I was then a prey to fever; I had not received your letter. Everything came together! And then the human beast in me awakened, and I cried out in my distress and anguish, as if you were not suffering enough already. But I reacted against my own lower nature, I overcame everything, I surmounted my physical as well as my moral being. Since then I have learned that your letters arrived at Cayenne without delay; in consequence of a mistake made in forwarding them, I received them only with your letters of June.

I can only repeat my words, dear Lucie, for you must, as we all must, fix our eager, unswerving gaze upon the supreme object; we must not indulge in one moment of lassitude until the end shall have been attained! The whole truth must be revealed over all France, all the honor of our name, the patrimony of our children.

Embrace the S----s and their dear children for me. Be sure to tell Mathieu that if I do not write to him oftener, it is because I know him too well; I know that his determination will remain as inflexible as ever, until the day when the light shall burst forth. Thanks for the good news of the dear, little ones; thank your dear parents and all the members of our families for their good letters. As for you, my dear Lucie, strong in your conscience, be invincibly energetic and brave. May my profound love, our children, and your duty sustain and reanimate you.

Again I embrace you as I love you, with all my strength, as I embrace also our dear children. Now I am waiting for your good letters of July.

Your devoted ALFRED.

* * * * *

_3 September, 1896._

Dear Lucie:

They brought me, just now, the mail for July. I found in it only one poor, little letter from you, that of the 14th of July, although you ought to have written oftener and more at length; but no matter.

What a cry of suffering escapes from all your letters and echoes in my own! Yes, dear Lucie, never have human beings suffered as have you, as have I, and every one of us. The sweat starts from my forehead when I think of it. I have lived only by straining every nerve, by the most powerful effort of the will, by gripping, compressing all my being in a supreme struggle; but emotions break us down; they make every fibre of the being quiver. My hands are wrung with grief for you, for our children, for us all; an immense cry rises to my throat and stifles me. Ah, why am I not alone in the world! What happiness it would be could I lie down in my grave, to think no more, to see no more, to suffer no more! But the moment of weakness, of the derangement of all my being, of awful anguish, has passed, and now I come to tell you, dear Lucie, that above all deaths--for what agony do not I know, as well that of the soul as that of the body, of the brain?--there is honor; that this honor, which is our right, must be restored to us ... only, human strength has its limits for us all.

So when you receive this letter, if the situation is not at last shown in its proper light, act as I already told you last year; go yourself, take, if need be, a child by each hand, those two beloved and innocent beings, and take steps to appeal to those who direct the affairs of our country. Speak simply, from your heart, and I am sure that you will find generous souls who will understand how appalling is this martyrdom of a wife, of a mother, and who will put all the means in their power to work to aid you in this noble and holy work, the discovery of the truth, the discovery of the author of this infamous crime. Oh, dear Lucie, listen to me well, and follow my counsels! Remember that you must see but one thing, our object, and strive to attain it; for, oh! I long with all my heart to see, before I succumb to this weight of suffering, honor restored to the name that our dear, adored ones bear. I long to see you again happy, our children, enjoying the happiness that you so merit, my poor and dear Lucie! And as this paper seems to me cold, because I cannot put on it all that my heart contains for you, for our children, I would that I might write to you with my blood; perhaps then I might express myself better....

And although I cannot tell you anything new I continue to talk with you, for the long night is coming, traversed by horrible nightmares, in which I shall see you, our children, my dear brothers and sisters, all those whom we love. You see, dear Lucie, that I tell you everything, that I pour out to you all my sufferings, that I tell you all my thoughts; indeed, in this hour I am incapable of doing otherwise.

And my thought night and day is always the same; my lips breathe forth the same cry; oh, all my blood, drop by drop, for the truth of this appalling mystery!

Pardon the incoherence of this letter. I write to you, as I have told you, under the influence of a profound emotion, not even trying to assemble my ideas, feeling that I would be incapable of doing it, telling myself with dread that I must pass all of one long month having for my reading only your few poor lines, where you speak to me of the children, where you do not speak to me of yourself, where I shall have nothing to read that speaks of you.

But I am going to try to collect my thoughts. My sufferings are great, like yours, like ours; the hours, the minutes, are atrocious, and they will continue to be so until light, full and entire, shall shine upon the truth. And as I have told you, I am convinced that if you act in person, if you speak from your heart, they will set every means to work to shorten, if possible, the time, for if time is nothing, as far as the object we must reach, which is more important than everything, is concerned, it counts, alas! for us all, for one cannot live and endure such sufferings.

I regret to realize that I must end this letter in which I feel how powerless I am to express the affection that I feel for you, for our children, for all; what I suffer from our atrocious tortures; to make you feel all that is in my heart; the horror of this situation, of this life, a horror that surpasses all that can be imagined, all that the human brain can dream; and, on the other hand, the duty which commands me imperiously, for your sake and for our children’s, to go on as far as I shall be able. Think that it will be a month now before I can get one word from you, the only human word that comes to me!

But I must end this prattling, although it eases my pain, for I feel your presence near me in these lines that you are to read, and in ending my letter I cry to you, “Courage, yet more courage!” for before all things is the honor of the name that our dear children bear. I tell you that this object for which you are striving is immutable. Therefore act as I have said; for the co-operation of generous hearts that you will find--I am sure of it--will realize more speedily the supreme wish that I still cry out, the light of truth upon this sad tragedy, that I may be with our little ones on the day when honor is restored to us! And I add for your own self, for all of us, this ardent and supreme cry of my soul, that rises in the darkness of the night: everything for honor. Let this be our only thought; your sole preoccupation. There must not be one minute of ease.

* * * * *

_4 September, 1896._

Dear and good Lucie:

I wrote you a letter last night under an impression caused by the mail, the sufferings that we all endure, the pain of having only a few lines from you, for after a long, agonized silence of a whole month, there is now, inevitably, a strong nervous tension. I am as if crazed by grief. I take my head in my two hands, and I ask by what miserable destiny so many human beings are called upon to suffer so.