Part 15

I have just at this moment received your letters. Words, my good darling, are powerless to express what poignant emotions the sight of your dear writing awakes in my heart; and, indeed, it is these sentiments of powerful affection that this emotion awakens in me that give me the strength to wait until the supreme day when the truth shall be made clear concerning this sad and terrible drama.

Your letters breathe such a sentiment of confidence that they have brought serenity to my heart, that is suffering so much for you, for our dear children.

You tell me, poor darling, not to think, not to try to understand. Oh, try to understand! I have never done that; it is impossible for me. But how can I stop my thoughts? All that I can do is, as I have told you, to try to wait for the supreme day of truth.

During the last months I wrote you long letters, in which I poured out my over-burdened heart. What would you? For three years I have seen myself the toy of events to which I am a stranger, having never deviated from the absolute rule of conduct that I had imposed upon myself, that my conscience as a loyal soldier devoted to his country had imposed upon me. Even in spite of yourself the bitterness mounts from the heart to the lips; anger sometimes takes you by the throat and you cry out in pain.

Formerly I swore never to speak of myself, to close my eyes to everything, because for me, as for you, for us all, there can be but one supreme consolation--that of truth, of unshrouded light.

But while my too long sufferings, the appalling situation, the climate, which by its own power alone makes the brain burn--while all this combined has not made me forget a single one of my duties, it has ended by leaving me in a state of cerebral and nervous erethismus that is terrible. I understand thoroughly, too, my good darling, that you cannot give me details. In affairs like this, where grave interests are at stake, silence is necessary, obligatory.

I chatter on to you, though I have nothing to tell you; but all this does me good, it rests my heart and relaxes the tension of my nerves. Truly, my heart often is shrivelled with poignant grief when I think of you, of our children; and then I ask myself what I can have committed upon this earth that those whom I love the most, those for whom I would give my blood, drop by drop, should be tried by such awful agony. But even when the too full cup overflows, it is from the dear thought of you, from the thought of the children--the thought that makes all my being vibrate and tremble, that exalts it to its greatest heights--from this thought that I draw the power to rise from the depths of despair, to send out the thrilling cry of a man who has begged for so long for himself, for those he loves, only for justice and truth--nothing but truth.

I have summed up my resolution clearly, and I know that that determination is your own, that of all of you, and that nothing has ever been able to overcome it.

It is this feeling, associated with all my duties, that has made me live; it is this feeling also that has made me ask once more for you, for you all, every co-operation, a more powerful effort than ever on the part of all in a simple work of justice and of reparation, by rising above all question of individuals, above all passions.

May I still tell you of all my affection? It is needless, is it not? for you know it; but what I wish to tell you again is this, that the other day I re-read all your letters in order that I might pass some of the too long minutes near a loving heart, and an immense sentiment of wonder arose in me for your dignity and your courage. If the trial found in great misfortunes is the touchstone of noble souls, then, oh, my darling, yours is one of the most beautiful and the most noble souls of which it is possible to dream.

You must thank M---- for his few words; all that I can tell him is in your heart as it is in mine.

Then, my darling, always and again, Courage! As I told you before my departure from France a long time ago, alas! a very long time, our own selves should be entirely secondary; our children are the future; there must remain no spot upon their name; no cloud must hover, not even the very smallest, over their dear heads. This thought should dominate all else.

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

Your devoted ALFRED.

* * * * *

_24 November, 1897._

Dear Lucie:

All these months I have written you many long letters, in which my oppressed heart has unburdened itself of all our too long-endured common sorrow. It is impossible to disengage the mind from its _ego_ at all times; to rise above the sufferings of every instant. It is impossible that all my being should not quiver, should not cry aloud with anguish at the thought of all you suffer, at the thought of our dear children; and if when I fall I again and again raise myself up, it is to send forth the thrilling appeal for you, for them.

Though my body, my brain, my heart, everything, is worn out, my soul remains intangible, ever ardent, its determination unshaken and strong in the right of every human being to have justice and truth for himself, for those who belong to him.

And the duty of every one is to co-operate in every effort, by every means, toward this single object--justice and reparation; to put an end at last to this appalling and too long-continued martyrdom of so many human creatures.

I wish, therefore, my good darling, that our terrible tortures may soon be ended.

I have received during the month letters from your dear parents from all our family. I have answered them.

My best kisses to all.

And for you, for our children, all the tenderness of my heart, all my love, all my thoughts, that never leave you for one single instant.

A thousand kisses more.

ALFRED.

* * * * *

_6 December, 1897._

My dear and good Lucie:

I cannot let the mail leave without writing to you, to repeat to you always, it is true, the same words.

As I have told you, for long months I have lived only by an incredible tension of the nerves, of the will; and it is when I fall under the weight of my sufferings that the thought of you, that of the children, lifts me up quivering with grief, with determination, before that which we hold most precious in this world--our honor, the honor of our children, of us all. And then I send out again the thrilling cries for help, the cries of a man who from the first day of this sad tragedy has begged for nothing but the truth.

Here, then, is a work of justice far above all passions, a duty that devolves upon all, and it must be accomplished. I wish, indeed, for both our sakes, my good darling, that it may be accomplished at last; that our terrible and too long torment may soon be ended.

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

Your devoted ALFRED.

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

* * * * *

_25 December, 1897._

My dear Lucie:

More often than ever I have terrible moments, when my reason totters; this is why I am come to talk to you now, not to speak of myself, but to give you still, as always, counsels as to what I believe you ought to do.

In a situation as tragic as ours, when the question in point is the honor of a family, the life of our children, you must always, my good darling, rise still higher above all; you must put aside from the question all thought of individuals, all irritating subjects, and you must call to your side every aid, every kind heart.

I know better than any one that at times this will be difficult; it is impossible not to feel our wounds; but we must do it. It is not a question of humiliating ourselves nor abasing ourselves; but, on the other hand, we must not throw away our energy in useless outcries; cries are not reasons.

We must simply stand fast, and will it that our right shall be yielded to us, the right of innocence. You must assert your will, energetically, without weakness, with dignity; you must act from your heart of a wife and mother, a heart horribly torn and wounded.

I have suffered too much. I have too often been stunned, felled by their sledge-hammers, to have been able to act in this way myself, although it is the only sane and reasonable line of conduct. And it is just because often I do not know where I am, because the hours weigh so heavily upon me, that I long to pour out my heart to you.

All through this month I have again made numerous and passionate appeals for you, for our children. I want to wish that this appalling martyrdom may have an end; I want to wish that we may come out of this terrible nightmare, in which we have lived so long; but that which I cannot doubt, that which I have not the right to doubt, is that all co-operation is to be given you; that this work of justice and of reparation is to be pursued and accomplished. And now to sum it all up, my darling, what I would tell you in a supreme effort, by which I set my own self totally aside, is that you must sustain your rights energetically, for it is appalling to see so many human beings suffer thus; for we must think of our unhappy children, who are growing up; but we must not bring any passion, we must not allow any irritating questions to enter in, any question of individuals.

I will not speak to you again of my love, when your dear image, that of our children, rises before my eyes, and perhaps there is not a single minute when this vision is not with me; then I feel my heart beat as if to burst, as if it were full of tears repressed.

And a supreme cry rises from my heart in all the minutes of my long days, of my long, sleepless nights; if it is a supreme cry that will be lifted in my last hour, it is also an appeal to all to make one great effort for justice and for truth; that all this ardent and devoted aid may be given you, this aid that all men of heart and honor owe to you.

This appeal, as I have told you, I recently made again, and I cannot doubt that it will be heard, so I will say again to you, Courage!

In these last lines I would now put all my heart, all that it enfolds of love for you, for our children, for all; I would tell you that in my worst moments of anguish it is these thoughts that have saved me, that have made me escape from the tomb for which I had longed, that have made me try once more to do my duty.

I embrace you with all my heart. I want to press you in my arms, as I love you, to ask you to embrace most tenderly our dear and adored children, in a long embrace, and your dear parents, all my dear brothers and sisters.

A thousand kisses more.

ALFRED.

* * * * *

_6 January, 1898._

Dear Lucie:

I have not yet received your letters of October nor your letters of November. The last news I had of you dates back, therefore, to September.

I shall speak to you less than ever of myself, less than ever of our sufferings. No human word can lessen them. I wrote to you some days ago; I was in such a state that I do not remember one word that I said to you.

But if I am totally worn out, body and mind, my soul is always ardent, and I want to come into your presence to speak words that ought to sustain your steadfast courage. I have put our fate, the fate of our children, the fate of innocent creatures who, for more than three years, have been struggling with unbelievable trials, into the hands of the President of the Republic, into the hands of the Minister of War, asking for an end at last to our appalling martyrdom; I have put the defence of our rights into the hands of the Minister of War, whose duty it is to have repaired, at last, this long-enduring and appalling error.

I am waiting impatiently. I want to wish that I may yet have a minute of happiness upon this earth; but what I have no right to doubt for one instant is that justice will be done, that justice will be done you and our children, that you will have your day of supreme happiness.

I repeat to you, then, with all the strength of my soul, “Courage, courage!” I embrace you as I love you, with all my strength, with all the power of my affection, as I embrace our dear and adored children.

ALFRED.

A thousand kisses to your dear parents, to all I love.

* * * * *

_9 January, 1898._

After long and terrible waiting I have just received, altogether, the mails of October and November.

I need not tell you what indescribable emotion seizes me when I read the letters of those whom I love so much, of those for whom I would give my blood, drop by drop; of those for whose sake I live.

Had I thought, darling, of myself alone, long ago should I have been in my grave; it is the thought of you, the thought of our children, that sustains me, that lifts me up when I am bowed under the weight of so much suffering. I told you in my last letters all that I have done, of all the appeals that I have again made for you and for our children.

If the light that we have awaited for more than three years is not shown now, it will shine forth in a future that we know not.

As I told you in one of my letters, our children are growing; their situation, that of us all, is terrible; the situation I am supporting only by supreme effort is becoming absolutely impossible to bear. That is why I have placed our lot, our children’s lot, in the hands of the Minister of War, asking that at last an end may be made of our appalling martyrdom. That is why I have again asked the Minister of War to restore to us our honor.

I await his answer with the greatest impatience, and I am hoping that this appalling torment may have at last an end.

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

Your devoted ALFRED.

A thousand kisses to your dear parents, to all our family.

* * * * *

_25 January, 1898._

My dear and good Lucie:

I shall not write to you at length to-day; I suffer too deeply for you and for our children; I feel too keenly all your appalling anguish, your frightful martyrdom. At the very thought of it my heart beats heavily, as if weighed down by unshed tears. No human word could lessen the horror of your anguish.

I told you in my last letters what I had done; during the last few days I have renewed my appeals; the light we have so long waited for is not yet seen; it will be seen only in a future that no one can foretell. The situation is terrible, terrible for you, for the children, for all. As for me, it is needless for me to tell you what it is.

I have asked the President of the Republic, the Minister of War, and General de Boisdeffre for my rehabilitation, for a new trial. I have put the fate of so many innocent victims, the fate of our children, into their hands; I have entrusted the future of our children to General de Boisdeffre. I await their answer with feverish impatience, with all that remains to me of my strength.

I want to hope that there may yet be one minute of happiness for me upon this earth; but what I have not the right to doubt is that justice shall be done, that justice shall be done to you at least--to you, to our children. I say to you, then, “Courage and Confidence!”

I embrace you as I love you, with all that my heart contains of deep affection for you, for our adored children, for your dear parents, for all our friends.

A thousand kisses more from your devoted

ALFRED.

* * * * *

_26 January, 1898._

My dear Lucie:

In the last letters that I wrote to you I told you what I had done; to whom I had entrusted our fate, the fate of our children; what appeals I had sent forth. It is needless to tell you with what anxiety I am awaiting an answer; how heavy the moments have become to me. But my thoughts, day and night, yearn so toward you, toward our children, that I want to write to you again to give you the counsels which I ought to give you.

I have read and re-read all of your letters, and the letters from home, and I believe that for a long time we have been living in a misconception of facts; this misunderstanding comes from different causes (your letters were often enigmas to me)--the absolute secrecy in which I live, the state of my brain, the blows that have been struck me without my understanding them, acts of stupidity that may also have been committed.

But this is the situation as I understand it, and I think that I am not far from the truth. I believe that General de Boisdeffre has never been averse to rendering us justice. We, deeply wounded, ask him to give us light upon this mystery. It has been no more in his power to give us light than it was in ours to procure it for ourselves; it will shine out in a future that no one can foresee.

Some minds have probably been soured; it may be that awkwardnesses have been committed, I cannot tell; all this has envenomed a situation already so atrocious. We must go back to the beginning, and raise ourselves above all our sufferings in order that we may look clearly into our situation.

Well, I, who have been for more than three years the greatest victim, the victim of everything and of every one; I who am here, almost dying of agony, I have just given you the counsels of prudence, of calmness, that I think I ought to give you, oh, without abandoning any of my rights, without weakness, but also without boasting.

As I have told you, it has not been in the power of General de Boisdeffre any more than it has been in your power to throw light upon this mystery; it will shine in a future that no one can foresee.

Therefore I have simply asked General de Boisdeffre for my rehabilitation; to put an end to our appalling martyrdom, for it is inadmissible that you should undergo such torture, that our children should grow up dishonored by a crime that I could never have committed.

I await the answer to my letters with all the strength that is left to me. I count the hours, I almost count the minutes.

I do not know if his answer will reach me soon; I know still less how I keep alive, so extreme is my cerebral and nervous exhaustion; but if I should succumb before that time comes, if I should faint under the atrocious burden that I have borne so long, I leave it to you, as your absolute duty, to go yourself to General de Boisdeffre, and, after the letters which I wrote to him, the desire which, I am sure of it, is in the bottom of his heart to grant us rehabilitation, when you (_sic_) will have realized that the discovery of the truth is a task that will take a long time, that it is impossible to foresee when it will be accomplished, I have no doubt that he will grant you, immediately, a new trial; that he will at once put an end to a situation as atrocious for you as it is for our children. I hope, too, that over my grave he will bear witness not only to the loyalty of my past conduct, but to the absolute loyalty of my conduct for the last three years, when, under all my sufferings, under all my tortures, I have never forgotten what I have been--a soldier, loyal and devoted to his country. I have accepted all, I have undergone all with closed lips. I do not boast of it, for I have done only my duty, nothing but my duty.

I leave you with regret, for my thoughts are with you, with our children, night and day; for this thought of you is all that keeps me yet alive, and I should like to come and talk like this at every instant of my long days and my long, sleepless nights.

I can only repeat this wish: it is that all this sorrow may have at last an end, that this infernal torture of all the minutes may soon be over; but if you do as I have told you, as it is your duty to do, since I command it, I have no doubt that you shall come to see the end of your appalling martyrdom, the martyrdom of our children.

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

Your devoted ALFRED.

Kisses to your dear parents, to all.

* * * * *

_4 February, 1898._

Dear Lucie:

I have nothing to add to the numerous letters that I have written to you during the past two months; all this medley of confusion may be summed up in a few words: I have appealed to the high justice of the President of the Republic, to that of the Government, in asking for a new trial, for the life of our children, for the end of this appalling martyrdom.

I have made an appeal to the loyalty of the men who caused me to be condemned, to bring about this new trial. I am waiting feverishly, but with confidence, to learn that at last our terrible suffering is to have an end.

I embrace you as I love you, as I embrace our dear children.

Your devoted ALFRED.

A thousand kisses to your dear parents, to all our friends.

* * * * *

_7 February, 1898._

Dear Lucie:

I have just received your dear letters of December, and my heart is breaking; it is rent by the consciousness of so much unmerited suffering. I have told you that the thought of you, of the children, always raises me up, quivering with anguish, with a supreme determination, from the thought of all that we hold most precious in the world--our honor, that of our children--to utter this cry of appeal, that grows more and more thrilling--the cry of a man who asks nothing but justice for himself and those he loves, and who has the right to ask it.

For the last three months, in fever and in delirium, suffering martyrdom night and day for you, for our children, I have addressed appeal on appeal to the Chief of the State, to the Government, to those who caused me to be condemned, to the end that I may obtain justice after all my torment, an end to our terrible martyrdom; and I have not been answered.

To-day I am reiterating my former appeals to the Chief of the State and to the Government, with still more energy, if that could be; for you must be no longer subjected to such a martyrdom; our children must not grow up dishonored; I can no longer agonize in a black hole for an abominable crime that I did not commit. And now I am waiting; I expect each day to hear that the light of truth is to shine for us at last.

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

Your devoted ALFRED.

A thousand, thousand kisses to your dear parents, to all our family.

* * * * *

_25 February, 1898._

Dear Lucie:

Our thoughts are in harmony; my thought does not leave you for one single instant day or night; and should I listen only to my heart I should write to you each moment, every hour.

If you are the echo of my sufferings, I am the echo of yours, of the sufferings of you all. I doubt that human beings have ever suffered more. The thought of you, of the children, and my longing always outstretched toward you, toward them, still always give me the strength to compress my bursting brain, to restrain my heart.

I have written you numerous letters in these last months; to add anything to these letters would be superfluous. I have told you all the appeals I have addressed since November last--appeals in which I ask for my rehabilitation, for justice for so many innocent victims.

In one of my last letters I told you that I had just addressed a last appeal to the Government, an appeal more earnest, more energetic than any that I had made before. So I am waiting, expecting day by day to learn that this rehabilitation has taken place, that our tortures, as appalling as they were unmerited, are to end; that the light of justice shines at last. I wish, therefore, to-day only to embrace you with all my strength, with all my heart, as I love you; so, also, I embrace our dear children.

Your devoted ALFRED.

A thousand, thousand kisses to your dear parents, to all our dear relations, to all our dear brothers and sisters.