Part 13

And when I come in this way to chat with you for a few moments--oh, such fleeting instants!--in regard to that thought which never leaves me night or day, it seems to me that I live for one short moment with you, that I feel that your heart is groaning with mine, and then I long to press you in my arms, to take your two hands in mine, and to say to you again, “Yes, all this is atrocious; but never should a moment of discouragement enter into your soul any more than it ever enters into mine. Just as I am a Frenchman and a father, so must you be a Frenchwoman and a mother. The name that our dear children bear must be washed free of this horrible stain; there must not remain one single Frenchman who has one doubt of our honor.” That is our object, always the same. But, alas! if one can be a stoic in the presence of death, it is difficult to be one before this anguish of every day, confronted by this harrowing thought, the question, when is this horrible nightmare to end, in which we have lived so long--if it can be called living to suffer without respite.

I have lived so long in the deluding expectation of a better day to come, wrestling, not against the weaknesses of the flesh--they leave me indifferent; it may be because I am haunted by other preoccupations--but against the weaknesses of the brain, against the weaknesses of the heart. And then in these moments of horrible distress, of almost insupportable pain, so much greater because it is compressed, contained--I can give absolutely no vent to it--I long to cry to you across the space, “Ah, dear Lucie, hurry to those who direct the affairs of our country, to those whose mission is to defend us, that they may bring to you their active, ardent help, with all the means at their disposal, so that at last light may be thrown upon this sad tragedy, that we may know the truth, the whole truth, the only thing that we ask for.”

This, then, in a few words, is what I wish, what I have wished always, and I cannot believe that they will not give it to you. It is the co-operation of all the forces of which the government can dispose, to bring about the discovery of the truth; to cause justice to be rendered to a soldier who suffers a martyrdom that is shared by his dear ones; to put an end as soon as possible to a situation as atrocious as it is intolerable--a situation that no creature with a human heart, a human brain, could support indefinitely.

Therefore, I can only hope, for us all, that this union of efforts, of good will, may bring about its result, and repeat to you always unchangingly, Courage and Faith!

And now I have already stopped talking with you, and it is a tearing of my heart to end my letter. But of what can I speak to you? Of our lives, of our children? Does not the future of a whole family depend upon this one thought that reigns in our hearts? Could there, as you have said so truly, be any remedy for our ills other than full and entire rehabilitation?

But if this object is to be pursued without one minute of weakness, of weariness, until it shall have been attained, oh, dear Lucie! I wish, too, with all my soul, that they may realize all the suffering, all the sorrow, accumulated upon so many human beings, who ask only one thing--the discovery of the truth--and now I must end my letter, but be sure that in every minute of the day or the night my thought, my very heart, is with you, with our dear children, to cry to you, Courage! to cry to you again and always, Courage!

I embrace you as I love you, with all the power of my love, as I embrace also our dear children.

Your devoted ALFRED.

Kisses to all.

* * * * *

_20 January, 1897._

My dear and good Lucie:

I wrote to you at length on the arrival of your letters. When a man has borne such suffering and for so long there are times when all that boils within him must escape, as the steam lifts the safety-valve in an over-heated boiler.

I have told you that I had an equal confidence in the efforts of one and all. I will not go back to that.

But I have told you, too, that even if my heart never felt one moment of discouragement any more than should yours, or the hearts of any of our family, yet the energies of the heart, of the brain, have their limits in a situation as atrocious as it is incredible; the hours become heavier and heavier, and the very minutes no longer pass by.

I know what you are suffering, too, what you are all suffering, and the thought is horrible.

Truly, you know all this, but if I tell it to you again it is because we must now arise to face the situation; because we must face it bravely, frankly. For on the one hand there can be but one end to our atrocious tortures--the discovery of the truth, all the truth, full and entire rehabilitation. And, then, it is precisely because the task is a laudable one, because we all are suffering from the most cruel pangs that have ever tortured human beings, because, also, in this horrible affair there is a double interest at stake--our personal interest and the interest of our country--it is just because of this, dear Lucie, that it is your duty to appeal to all the forces that the Government has at its command to put an end as soon as possible to this appalling martyrdom. It is a martyrdom that no creature having a human heart, a human brain, could resist indefinitely.

I should like to sum up my thoughts in a few words, ... but, alas! all that I have borne so long in the vain hope, ever renewed, of a better to-morrow, is at last passing the bounds of human strength.

And then what you have to ask--what they ought certainly to understand--is this, that because human strength has limits, and because the only thing that I ask of my country is the discovery of the truth, the full light, to see, for the sake of my little ones, the day when honor is given back to them, they must set everything in motion, to hasten the moment when the end shall be attained. I am absolutely convinced that they will listen to you, that their hearts will be moved by our immense grief, by this prayer of a Frenchman, a father.

Whatever may become of me, let me repeat to you with all the forces of my soul, Courage and Faith! Let me say again that my thoughts do not leave you for a single moment; that it is the thought of you, of our children, that gives me strength to live through these long and atrocious days; that I embrace you with all my heart, with all my strength, as I love you, as I embrace also our dear and adored children, while I wait for your dear letters, the only ray of happiness that comes to warm my crushed and broken heart.

Your devoted ALFRED.

* * * * *

_21 January, 1897._

Dear Lucie:

I wrote to you at length last night. I come again to talk to you. I repeat myself always, alas! I say always the same things; but when one suffers thus, without respite, he must needs open his heart, in spite of himself, to one in whose affection he trusts. And, then, this tension of the brain becomes too excessive, and I ask myself each day how I resist it. When I read over my letters I can see how powerless I am to express our common sorrow and all the sentiments that are in my heart. And, then, because excessive suffering, far from breaking down the soul that is energetic, urges it onward to energetic resolution, because when one has done nothing to deserve it one cannot permit himself to yield, to break down, or to die under even so frightful a fate--because of all this, dear Lucie, I have told you in all my letters, as I told you last night, “Gather around you, around you all, every assistance of every kind heart, so that you may at last see the truth of this sad tragedy, in which we have suffered so appallingly, and for so long a time.” It is this that I would repeat to you at every instant in every hour of the day and night.

In a situation so pitiful, so tragic, which human beings cannot support indefinitely, we must rise above all pettiness of mind, above all bitterness of heart, and run straight onward to the end.

I can, then, only repeat to you always, you must appeal to all devoted and generous spirits; and I have an intimate conviction that you will find such and that they will listen to this cry for help of a Frenchman, of a father, who asks of his country nothing but justice, the discovery of the truth, the honor of his name, the life of his children.

It is this that I tell you in all my letters; it is this that I repeated to you last evening; it is this that I now repeat to you more vehemently then ever. The more the physical forces decrease, the more ought the energies to increase, the will to press on. I can, then, dear Lucie, but wish for you and for me, for all of us, that this united effort may bring about its result.

I embrace you with all the power of my love, and our dear and good children.

Your devoted ALFRED.

* * * * *

_5 February, 1897._

Dear and good Lucie:

It is always with the same poignant, profound emotion that I receive your dear letters. Your letters of December have just been given to me.

To tell you of my sufferings--what good would it do?

You must fully realize what they are, accumulated thus without one moment of truce or rest in which I might renew my strength and brace up my heart and my worn-out, disordered brain.

I have told you that I have equal confidence in the efforts of one and all; that, on one hand, I have an absolute conviction that the appeal I again made has been heard, and that, knowing you all as I do, you will not fail in your duty.

What I wish to add is this: We must not bring into this horrible affair either bitterness or acrimony against individuals. To-day I shall repeat it to you as on the first day, above all human passions is our country.

Under the worst sufferings, under the most atrocious abuse and insult, when the human beast awakes ferocious, making reason vacillate under the torrents of blood that burn the eyes, the temples, the whole being, I have thought of death, I have longed for it, often I called to it with all my spirit; but my lips are ever hermetically sealed, because I want to die not only an innocent man, but a good and loyal Frenchman, who never for one single instant has forgotten his duty to his country. Then, as I told you, I think, in my last letters, precisely because the task is laudable; because your means, all your means, are limited by interests other than our own; finally because I may not be long able to resist a situation so atrocious, and when the only thing I ask of my country is the discovery of the truth, that I may see for my dear little ones the day when honor shall be given back to us--it is for all this, dear Lucie, that you must appeal to all the forces that a country, a government, has power over, to seek to put an end as soon as possible to this fearful martyrdom; for be assured my nervous and cerebral exhaustion is great, and it is more than time that I should hear at last a human word that is a kind word. Well, I hope for us all that all these efforts are soon to throw light upon this dark drama and that I am soon to learn something certain, positive; so that at last I may sleep, may rest a little.

But whatever may become of me, I wish to repeat to you with all my soul, Courage and Faith!

I embrace you as I love you, with all the strength of my soul, and our dear little ones.

Your devoted ALFRED.

Kisses to your dear parents, to all our family.

* * * * *

_20 February, 1897._

My dear Lucie:

I have written you numerous letters during these last months, and I repeat myself always. But what I would say is that, if sufferings increase, if the revolt against it all becomes almost unendurable, the sentiments that reign in my soul, that should reign in yours, all your souls, are unvarying.

But I shall not write long. Ah, it is not that my thought is not with you, with our children, night and day, since that thought alone makes me live! There is not an instant when, mentally, I do not speak to you; but in the presence of the tragic horror of a situation so appalling, and so long borne, in the presence of the atrocious sufferings of us all, words lose their meaning; there is nothing more to say. There is left only one duty for you to fulfill--a duty that is unvarying, immutable.

Moreover, I have given you all the advice that my heart can suggest.

I can wish only to hear soon a human word, a word that will put a soothing balm upon so deep a wound, that will give new strength to the heart and rest the worn-out brain.

But whatever may come of it, again I repeat to you always, with all the strength of my soul, Courage! Courage! Our children, your duty, are for you supports that no human suffering should weaken.

I wish, then, simply to send you, while I wait for your dear letters, the echo of my profound love, to embrace you with all my heart, as I love you, and also our dear, adored children.

ALFRED.

My best kisses to your parents, to all our friends. I need not write to them; all our hearts beat in unison.

* * * * *

_5 March, 1897._

My dear and good Lucie:

I wrote you a few lines the 20th of February while I was waiting for your dear letters, which have not yet reached me. I have just learned that, in consequence of an accident to the machinery, the steamer has not yet arrived at Guiana.

As I told you in my last letter, we know too well, each one of us, the horrible acuteness of our sufferings, to give us any reason to speak of it.

But I would, if it were possible, impregnate this cold and commonplace paper with all that my heart contains for you, for our children. At every instant of the day and of the night you tell yourself that my thought is with them; and that when my heart can bear no more, when the too-full cup overflows, it is in murmuring these three names that are so dear to me, it is in telling myself always, that for their sakes I must live to see the day when honor shall be given back to the name of my children, that I find, at last, the strength to overcome the atrocious nausea, that I find the strength to live.

As to the counsel that I would give you, it never changes.

I have told you everything at length in my numerous letters of January, and it may be summed up in a few words, the co-operation of all the forces of Government to hasten the moment when the truth shall be discovered; to put an end as soon as possible to such a martyrdom.

But whatever may come of it, I want to repeat to you always, that high above all our sufferings, above all our lives, there is a name that must be re-established in all its integrity in the eyes of all France. This sentiment should reign in your soul, in the souls of us all.

I wish only for you, my poor darling, as for me, as for us all, that all hearts may realize with us all the tragic horror of a situation so appalling and borne so long, this terrible torture of human souls, whose hearts are suffering, as under the blows of a hammer, night and day, without truce or rest. I wish for us all that by a powerful union of determined wills the only thing that we have so long asked for may be brought to pass--the whole truth in regard to this sad tragedy, and that I may hear soon one human word coming to put a soothing balm upon so deep a wound.

I embrace you as I love you, with all the force of my affection.

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.

ALFRED.

* * * * *

_4 May, 1897._

Dear and good Lucie:

I have just received your letters of March, with those of the family, and it is always with the same poignant emotion, with the same sorrow that I read your words, that I read the letters from you all, so deeply wounded are all our hearts, so torn by all our sufferings.

I have already written to you, some days ago, when I was waiting for your dear letters, and I told you that I did not wish to know or to understand why I had been thus crushed, under every punishment.

But if, in the strength of my conscience, in the consciousness of my duty, I have been enabled to raise myself above everything, ever and always to stifle my heart, to choke down every revolt of my being, it does not follow that my heart has not deeply suffered, that it is not, alas! torn to shreds. But I told you, too, that never has the temptation to yield to discouragement entered my soul, nor should it ever again enter into yours, nor into the soul of any one of you. Yes, it is atrocious to suffer thus; yes, all this is appalling, and it is enough to shake every belief in all that makes life noble and beautiful; ... but to-day there can be no consolation for any one of us other than the discovery of the truth, the full light.