Part 14

Whatever, then, may be your pain, however bitter the grief of every one of you, tell yourself that you have a sacred duty to accomplish, and that nothing must turn you from it; and this duty is to re-establish a name, in all its integrity, in the eyes of all France.

Now, to tell you all that my heart contains for you, for our children, for you all, is unnecessary, isn’t it?

In happiness we do not begin to perceive all the depth, all the powerful tenderness that the deep recesses of the heart hold for the beloved. We need misfortune, the sense of the sufferings endured by those for whom we would give our last drop of blood, to understand its force, to grasp the tremendous power of it. If you knew how often in the moments of my anguish I have called to my assistance the thought of you, of our children, to force me to live on, to accept what I should never have accepted but for the thought of duty.

And this always brings me back to it, my darling; do your duty, heroically, invincibly, as a human soul, exalted and very proud, as a mother who is determined that the name she bears, the name her children bear, shall be cleansed of this horrible stain.

Say to yourself, then, as to every one, always and again, “Courage, courage!” I cannot tell you of myself; I gave you my reasons in my former letter. I want only to end these few lines by embracing you with all my heart, with all my strength, as I embrace also our dear children.

Your devoted ALFRED.

Thank your dear parents, all our family, for their letters, so full of profound tenderness and with grief not less profound.

Why should I write to them? To speak of myself, of our sufferings? We all know each other too well not to know both the intense love that unites us and the deep grief that fills our souls. But for all, unchangingly, unalterable, steadfast courage! As ---- has said so truly: there is an object to attain, and in the thought of that object we must forget all present griefs, whatsoever they be!

* * * * *

_20 May, 1897._

My dear Lucie:

Very often I have taken my pen to talk with you--to unburden my bruised and bleeding heart, as in the presence of yours--but each time I did so the cries of our common sorrow burst out in spite of me.

And of what good is it to cry out? In the presence of such martyrdom, in the presence of such sufferings, I must be silent. So what I will repeat to you is simply this: it is the invariable, the ever-ardent, persistent cry of my soul, “Courage, courage!” When you consider the end we are to attain you should count neither time nor sufferings. We must wait with confidence until it shall be attained.

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

Your devoted ALFRED.

My best kisses to your dear parents, to all of our family.

* * * * *

_5 July, 1897._

My dear and good Lucie:

I have just received your letters of April with those of May, and with all the letters of the family; with all the strength of my soul I add mine to your most hearty good wishes for Marie’s happiness. Kiss her for me and tell her, too, that I found some tears--I who no longer know how to weep--in thinking of her joy that is mingled with so much suffering.

I wish with all the strength of my soul, for you, my poor darling, that the end of this terrible martyrdom may be near, and if one who has suffered so deeply can still pray, I join my hands in one last prayer that I address to all those to whom I have appealed, that they may bring you a co-operation more ardent, more generous than ever in the work of discovering the truth. Moreover, I am certain that you have this co-operation, have it fully, ungrudgingly, ... and I hope with all that my heart contains of tenderness for you, of affection for our children, that all these efforts may soon bring about their result.

As for me, dear and good Lucie, I who for you would have given with all my heart, with all my soul, every drop of my blood to relieve one pain, to spare you one sorrow,... I have been able to do nothing but remain alive for so long and through so many tortures. I have done it for you, for our children.

But I must repeat to you always, “Courage, courage!” Our children are the future; it is their life that we must assure. And I wish to end these few lines by expressing once more the two sentiments that reign in my heart. First, I want to send you all my tenderness, all my deep love, for you, for our children, for your dear parents, for my dear brothers and sisters. I want to take you in my arms again, to press you again to my heart with all the strength that remains to me, with all the power of my love. And then the second sentiment is this: to repeat to you always to be grand, to be strong, whatever may happen, whatever may be the trials that the future may still have in store for you, to think ever and again of our dear children, who are the future, the children of whom you must be the unfailing guard and stay, until the day when the truth shall be revealed.

And then I want to tell you once again the last prayer of a man who has been subjected to the most terrible of martyrdoms, a man who had always and in all places done his duty; it is that they may give you a kind word, a helping hand, an energetic and powerful aid, that nothing can weary in the discovery of the truth.

All my being, all my thoughts, my very heart, spring forward in a supreme effort toward you, toward our dear children, toward your dear parents, toward all those whom I love, while I wish with all the strength of my soul that a future may be near which will bring to you all a rest of the mind, a calmness, a tranquillity, all the happiness you yourself so well deserve, that you all so well deserve.

Then, dear and good Lucie, always, and still always, Courage!

I embrace you as I love you, as I embrace also our dear and adored children, your dear parents, all our family.

Your devoted ALFRED.

* * * * *

_22 July, 1897._

My dear Lucie:

A few lines only, while I await your dear letters.

I suffer too much for you, for our children, for you all. I know too well what are your tortures for me to be able to tell you of myself.

Poor love, did you, too, deserve to bear a martyrdom like this? My heart breaks; my brain bursts its bounds as I think of all the sorrow heaped upon you all--sorrow so unending, so unmerited!

I have again made passionate appeals for you, for our children. I am sure that the co-operation which will be given you will be more active, more ardent, than ever. In my long nights of suffering, when my thought comes back constantly to you, to our children, I often join my hands in a silent prayer into which I put my whole heart, that the appalling suffering of so many innocent victims may soon be ended.

However it may be, dear Lucie, I want to repeat to you always, as long as I shall have a breath of life, “Courage, courage!” Our children, your duty, are for you safeguards that nothing should displace, that no human grief should weaken.

I want, in ending, to impregnate as well as I can these few lines with all that my heart contains for you, for our dear children, for your dear parents, for you all, to tell you still that night and day my thoughts, all my very being, springs forward toward them, toward you, and it is due to that alone that I live. I want to take you in my arms and hold you to my heart with all the power of my love, to embrace thus also our dear children, as I love you.

Your devoted ALFRED.

A thousand kisses to your dear parents; again my most profound wishes of happiness for our dear Marie, and many kisses for my brothers and sisters; and to all, without exception, whatever may be their suffering, whatever may be their fearful grief, always courage!

* * * * *

_10 August, 1897._

Dear Lucie:

I have just at this instant received your three letters of the month of June and all the letters from the family, and it is under the impression, always keen, always poignant, that so many sweet souvenirs evoke in me, so many appalling sufferings also, that I will answer.

I will tell you once more, first all my profound affection, all my immense tenderness, all my admiration, for your noble character; then I will open all my soul to you, and I will tell you your duty, your right, that right that you should renounce only with your life. And this right, this duty, that is equally imprescriptible for my country as for you, is to will it that the light shall shine full and entire upon this horrible drama; it is to will without weakening, without boasting, but with indomitable energy, that our name, the name that our dear children bear, shall be washed free from this horrible stain.

And this object, this end, you, Lucie, you all should attain it, like good and valiant French men and women who are suffering martyrdom, but not one of whom, no matter what bitter outrages he has suffered, has ever forgotten his duty to his country for one single instant. And the day when the light shall shine, when the whole truth shall be revealed--as it must be, for neither time, patience, nor effort of the will should be counted in working for such an end--ah, well! if I am no longer with you, it will be for you to wash my name from this new outrage, so undeserved, that nothing has ever justified; and I repeat it, whatever may have been my sufferings, however atrocious may have been the tortures inflicted upon me--tortures that I cannot forget, tortures that can be excused only by the passions that sometimes lead men astray--I have never forgotten that far above men, far above their passions, far above their errors, is our country. It is she that will be my final judge.

To be an honest man does not wholly consist in being incapable of stealing a hundred sous from the pocket of a neighbor; to be an honest man, I say, is to be able always to see one’s reflection in that mirror that forgets nothing, that sees everything, that knows everything; to be able to see one’s self, in a word, in one’s conscience with the certitude of having always and everywhere done one’s duty. That certitude I have.

Then, dear and good Lucie, do your duty bravely, pitilessly, as a good and valiant Frenchwoman who is suffering martyrdom, but who is resolved that the name she bears, the name that her children bear, shall be cleansed from this horrible stain. The light must break out, it must shine in all its brilliancy. The limitations of time should no longer be anything to you.

Indeed, I know too well that the sentiments that animate me are cherished by you all; they are common to all of us, to your dear family as to my own.

I cannot speak to you of the children; besides, I know you too well to doubt for one single instant the manner in which you will bring them up. Never leave them; be with them always, heart and soul; listen to them always, however importunate may be their questions.

As I have often told you, to educate children is not merely to assure their material life, nor even their intellectual life, but it is also to assure to them the support that they should find in their parents, the confidence with which the latter should inspire them, the certainty that they should always have that there is one place where they can unburden their hearts, where they can forget their pains, their sorrows, no matter how little, how trivial they may sometimes appear.

In these last lines I would put once more all my deep love for you, for our dear children, for your dear parents, for you all, all those whom I love from the bottom of my heart, for all the friends whose thoughts for me I divine, whose unalterable devotion I know; and I would say to you again and again, Courage, courage! I would tell you that nothing should shake your will; that high above my life hovers the one supreme care--the honor of my name, of the name you bear, the name our children bear.

I would embrace you with the ardent fire that animates my soul, the fire that is to be extinguished only with my life.

I embrace you from the depths of my heart, with all my strength, and so also I embrace my dear, my adored children.

Your devoted ALFRED.

A thousand kisses for the dear children now and always. All my wishes of happiness for Marie and her dear husband; and as many kisses for all my dear brothers and sisters, for Lucie and Henri.

* * * * *

_4 September, 1897._

Dear Lucie:

I have just received your letters of July. You tell me again that you have the certainty that the full light of day is soon to shine; this certainty is in my soul; it is inspired by the right that every man has to demand it, to will that he shall have it when he demands but one thing--the truth.

As long as I shall have the strength to live in a situation as inhuman as it is undeserved, I shall continue to write to you, to inspire you by my indomitable will.

Indeed, the last letters I wrote to you are my moral will and testament. I spoke to you in them first of all of our love. I confessed to you also my physical and cerebral breaking down, but I spoke to you not less energetically of your duty, the duty of you all.

This grandeur of soul that you all have shown equally--let there be no illusion about this--this grandeur of soul should be accompanied neither by weakness nor by boasting. On the contrary, it should ally itself to a determination each day more resolute, a determination that strengthens with each hour of the day, to march on toward the goal--the discovery of the truth, the whole truth, for all France.

Truly, this wound sometimes bleeds too hard, and the heart rises in revolt. Truly, worn out as I am, I often fall under the blows of the sledge-hammer, and then I am no more than a poor human being, full of agony and suffering; but my indomitable soul lifts me up quivering with pain, with energy, with implacable desire for that that is most precious in this world--our honor, the honor of our children, the honor of us all. And then I brace myself anew to cry out to all men the thrilling appeal of a man who asks, who wants, only justice. And then I come to illume in you all the ardent fire that burns in my soul, that shall be extinguished only with my life.

As for me, I live only by my fever; for a long time I have lived on from day to day, proud when I have been able to hold out through a long day of twenty-four hours. I am subjected to the stupid and useless lot of the man in the iron mask, because there is always that same afterthought lingering in the mind, I told you so, frankly, in one of my last letters.

As for you, you must not pay any attention either to what any one says or to what any one thinks. You have your duty to do unflinchingly, and it is incumbent upon you, and to resolve not less unflinchingly, to have your right, the right of justice and of truth. Yes, the light must shine out. I put my thought in a few words; but if there are in this horrible affair other interests than ours--interests that we have never misunderstood--there are also the imprescriptible rights of justice and of truth; there is for us both, for all, the duty, while we respect all these interests, of bringing to an end a situation so atrocious, so unmerited.

I can then but hope for both of us, for all, that our martyrdom is to have an end.

Now what can I say further to express this profound, this immense love for you, for our children, to express my affection for your dear parents, for all our brothers and sisters, for all who suffer this appalling, this long drawn-out martyrdom?

To speak at length of myself, of all my little affairs, is useless. I do it sometimes in spite of myself, for the heart has irresistible revolts; bitterness, do what I will, mounts from my heart to my lips when I see that everything is misunderstood, everything that goes to make life noble and beautiful; and, truly, were it a question of my own self only, long ago would I have gone to search in the peace of the tomb for forgetfulness of all that I have seen, of all that I have heard, of all that I see each day.

I have lived in order to sustain you, to sustain you all, with my indomitable will; for it is no longer a question of my life, it is a question of my honor, of the honor of us all, of the life of our children.

I have borne everything without flinching, without lowering my head; I have stifled my heart; I curb each day the revolts of my being, urging you all again and again to demand the truth, without lassitude as without boasting.

But I hope for us both, my poor beloved, for us all, that the efforts, either of one or of another, may soon bring about their result; that the day of justice may at last dawn for us all, who have waited for it so long.

Each time I write to you I hardly can lay down my pen, not that I have anything to tell you, ... but because I am again about to leave you for long days, living only in my thoughts of you, of the children, of you all.

So I will end by embracing you and my dear children, your dear parents, all of our dear brothers and sisters, in pressing you in my arms with all my strength, and repeating with an energy that nothing can weaken, so long as the breath of life is in my body, “Courage, courage and determination!”

A thousand kisses more.

Your devoted ALFRED.

And for you all, dear parents, and dear brothers and sisters, courage and indomitable will that nothing should shake, that nothing should weaken.

* * * * *

_2 October, 1897._

My dear Lucie:

I have just received your dear letters of August, also a few from the family.

I wish with you, for you, for us all, that the light of justice may shine at last and that we may at last perceive the end of our martyrdom, that has been as long drawn out as it has been appalling.

Indeed, I have already told you in long letters that neither my faith nor my courage had been nor shall ever be shaken, for, on one hand, I know that you will all energetically fulfill your duty, and that you will not less inflexibly be resolved to gain your right--the right of justice and of truth; and, on the other hand, I know that if there is any imprescriptible duty devolving upon my country, it is to bring the full light of truth to bear upon this tragic story, to repair this terrible error.

In fact, very often, in so far as my human weakness has permitted me--for if one can be a stoic in the face of death--and I have often called on death from the bottom of my heart--it is difficult to be one through all the minutes of an agony that is as long drawn out as it is undeserved--I have hidden my horrible distress under such tortures to sustain you, to keep you from fainting, from bending in your turn under all the weight of such suffering.

If for several months I have no longer hidden anything from you, it has been because I think that you ought always to be prepared for everything, drawing from the duties which as a mother you must perform heroically, invincibly, the force to bear everything with a firm and valiant heart, with the unshakable determination to wash the infamous stain from the name you bear, that our children bear.

Now, we have had enough of all this, haven’t we, darling? Leave their fears, their suspicions, with those who have them. If my soul is always valiant and will remain so to my last breath, everything within me is worn out; my heart swells to bursting not only for past tortures, but to see that you misunderstand me on this point. My brain reels and totters, at the mercy of the least shock, the most petty of events. Besides, as I have told you already, my long letters are too clearly the equally intimate and heartfelt expression of my sentiments and of my immutable will for it to be necessary for me to return to it. They are my moral will and testament.

Therefore, my dear Lucie, for your own sake, for us all, you must always do your duty, be resolved to gain your right--the right of justice and of truth--until the full light shines out; until all France is convinced--and she must be--whether I should live or die; for, like Banquo’s ghost, I should come out of my tomb to cry to you all with all my soul, always and again, “Courage, courage!” to remind my country, who thus tortures me, who sacrifices me--I dare to say it, for no human brain could resist so long such an appalling situation, and it is only by a miracle that I have been able to resist until now--to remind my country that she has a duty to fulfill, and that that duty is to throw a refulgent light upon this sad tragedy, to repair this frightful error that has endured for so long.

Therefore, darling, be sure of it, you are to have your day of refulgent glory, of supreme joy; be it by your own efforts, be it by the efforts of our country, who will fulfill all her duty; and if I am not to be there, what would you have, darling? There are victims of state--and truly the situation is too hard to bear--by far too heavy for the length of time that I have borne it--and, well, Pierre will represent me!

I shall not speak of the children; indeed, I already did so at length in my letters of August; and then I know you too well to have any anxiety in regard to them. You will embrace them with all my strength, with all my soul. I must leave you, although it always is a great grief to me to tear away from your presence, so short, so fleeting, is this moment that I pass with you.

I embrace you as I love you, with all my strength, with all the power of my love, as I embrace our dear children, while I repeat to you always, Courage, courage! and while I wish that all this suffering may have at last an end.

Your devoted ALFRED.

My best kisses to your dear parents, to all of our family; my wishes of condolence to Arthur and to Lucie; I do not feel that I have the courage to write to them.

* * * * *

_22 October, 1897._

My dear and good Lucie:

Should I listen only to my heart I should write to you at every instant, at every hour in the day; for my thoughts cannot detach themselves from you, from our dear children, from all; but it would be only to repeat the expressions of our common grief, and there are no more words to describe this martyrdom--so long!

In the letters that I have written to you I have expressed my thoughts, my determination, that determination that I know to be your own, that of every one of you, independent of my sufferings, of my life; there have been also in my letters, it is true, cries of sorrow, for when I suffer night and day, even more for you and for our children than for myself, my brain takes fire; and as if there were not enough in my own tortures, the climate at this time of year is sufficient in itself alone. And, indeed, the heart has need to give vent to its anguish, the human being to cry out its distress, its weakness.

But do not let us dwell upon all that. What I wish to tell you is this: you must demand light on this tragic story; you must have the will to pursue inflexibly, without boasting, without passion, but with the unshakable conviction of your rights; with your heart of a wife, of a mother, horribly mutilated and wounded, with an energy and a will increasing each day in proportion to your sufferings.

So, to-day, while I await your dear letters I wish only to embrace you with all my heart, with all my strength, as I love you, as I embrace also our dear children, to hope, as always, that our terrible martyrdom may at last have an end; yes, and to repeat to you always, a thousand and a thousand times, Courage!

A thousand kisses more.

ALFRED.

* * * * *

_4 November, 1897._

My dear and good Lucie: