Part 9

If I tell you all this, if at times I have allowed you to catch a glimpse of how horrible is my life here, how this lot of infamy, whose effects continue day by day to harrow my being, to revolt my heart, it is not that I would complain; it is to tell you again that if I have lived, if I continue to live, it is because I desire my honor, yours, that of our children. May your spirit, your energy, rise equal to such tragic conditions, for this must come to an end.

This is why I told you in my letter of the 7th of September that if when you receive these letters the mystery is not made entirely clear, it is for you, for you personally, to go to the public authorities, so that light may at last be thrown on this tragic story.

You have the right to present yourself everywhere, with your head erect, for you have come not to beg for mercy, not to beg for favors, not even for moral convictions, however legitimate they may be. You have come to demand the search for the discovery of the wretches who have committed the infamous and cowardly crime. The Government has all the means by which this may be done.

Letters can do nothing, dear Lucie. It is you yourself who must act. What you have to say will receive from your lips a power, a force, that paper and writing cannot give.

Then, my dear Lucie, strong in your conscience, in your quality of wife and mother, go on your way, tireless until justice is done to us. And this justice, which you must demand energetically, resolutely, with all your soul, is that light may be thrown, full and unshadowed, upon this machination of which we are the wretched victims.

But you know what you have to say, and you must say it squarely, proudly.

Yes, my dear Lucie, that was what I thought from the first. I should, without making any noise about it, without any go-between except the person introducing me, have taken a child by each hand, and I should have gone to demand justice everywhere, without resting until the guilty wretches should have been unmasked. These means are “heroic,” but they are the best means, for they come from the heart, and they appeal to the heart, to that sense of justice that is innate in each one of us, unless he is carried away by passion. They proceed from the strength given by innocence, from a duty to be fulfilled; and they know no obstacle. They are means worthy of a woman who asks only for justice for her husband, for her children.

It must not be said that in our century a wretch can with impunity crush the lives of two families.

Courage, then, dear Lucie, and act with resolution. Kisses to all. I embrace you with all my strength, and our dear, adored children.

Your devoted

ALFRED.

Since the package of June last I have received neither books nor reviews. I thought that you would continue to send me books and reviews each month regularly. Think of my perpetual tête-à-tête with myself. I am more silent than a Trappist Monk, in my profound isolation, a prey to sad thoughts, upon a lonely rock, sustaining myself only by the force of duty.

* * * * *

_4 October, 1895._

My dear Lucie:

I have just received your dear letters of August, so impatiently waited for each month, and with them the letters of all the family. Always write long letters to me. I feel a childish pleasure in reading what you have written, for then it seems to me that I hear you speak, that I feel the beating of your heart close to mine.

When you suffer too much take your pen and come and talk with me.

I thank you for your good tidings of the children. Kiss them tenderly for me.

My body, dear Lucie, is indifferent to everything; it is fortified by a strength almost superhuman, by a higher power--the anxiety, desire for our honor.

It is the sacred duty which I must fulfill--my duty to you, to our children, to our families--which fills my soul and rules it, which silences my broken heart. Were it not for that the burden would be too heavy for human shoulders.

Enough of moaning, Lucie; it will not make things any better. This appalling suffering must end for us all.

Strong in my innocence, march straight onward to your goal; silently, quietly, but openly and energetically, even if you are forced to carry your cause before the highest heads. No human heart can remain insensible to the supplications of a wife who comes with her little children to ask that the guilty be unmasked, that justice be done to the miserable, wretched victims. Do not look back over the past, but speak from your heart, from your whole heart; this tragedy of which we are the victims is poignant enough even in its simplicity.

Act, then, as I advised you in my letters of the 7th and 27th of September, frankly, resolutely, with the spirit of a woman who has to defend the honor--that is to say, the life--of her husband, of her children.

Do not give way to grief, my dear and good Lucie; that will not help us. Pass from words to acts, and become great and worthy by those acts.

Embrace your dear parents and all our family for me. Thank them for their good, affectionate letters; thank also your dear aunt for the touching lines she has written to me. I do not write to them directly, though my heart night and day is with them all; for I could only go on repeating myself.

Courage, then, dear Lucie; we must see the end of this tragedy.

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

Your devoted

ALFRED.

The books you have sent me have been announced, but I have not yet received them. I thank you; I had great need of them, for reading is the only thing which can distract my thoughts a little.

_5 October, 1895._

My dear Lucie:

I had already written to you yesterday, but after I had read and re-read all the letters from this last mail there arose from them such a cry of agony that all my being was profoundly shaken.

You suffer for me, and I suffer for you.

No, it is not possible, it cannot be that an entire family can be subjected to such martyrdom.

Merely from the agony of waiting, we shall all be brought to the ground. It must not be; there are our children; they must be thought of before all else. I have just written again directly to the President of the Republic. I can act only by my pen--it is very little--I can only sustain you by all the ardor of my soul. You must, on your side, act energetically, resolutely. When a man is innocent, when he asks for nothing but justice, the clearing up of this terrible mystery, he is strong, invincible.

Lay, if need be, our dear children at the feet of the President, and demand justice for them, for their father.

Be heroic in your deeds, dear Lucie; it is on you that this duty falls.

Yet once more I must say it; it is not noise nor gnashing of teeth that is necessary, but an indomitable will, that nothing can rebuff.

I sustain you, from here, across all the distance, with all the living force of my being, with my soul of a Frenchman, of an honest man, of a father who demands his honor--the honor of his children.

I embrace you from the depths of my heart.

Your devoted

ALFRED.

_26 October, 1895._

My dear Lucie:

I can do little but confirm my letters of the 3d and the 5th of October, and that of the 27th of September. We are both wearing out our strength while we wait in a situation as terrible as it is undeserved, and it will end by failing us, for all things have their limit. But there are our children, to whom we owe ourselves, who must have their honor before anything else.

That is why, trembling with anguish, not only on account of all that we have both suffered so long, nor this martyrdom of a whole family, I have written to the President of the Republic. I have written you my last letters to tell you that you must act, carrying out your purpose unflinchingly, with the head proudly raised, as innocent people who beg neither for mercy nor for favors, but only for light and justice. Even if one may bow the head under certain misfortunes, never can a man accept dishonor when he has not merited it.

Our suffering has no place in this epoch; it has lasted long enough--too long. Energy, then, my dear Lucie, the energy of work, of action, which must triumph, for it is based on justice, for it asks nothing but light, the clear light of day, the absolute clearing up of this whole affair. We are not in the presence of an unsolvable mystery. As I have told you, not tears, not words, but acts, are necessary.

The honor of a man, of his children, of two families, is in the balance, and it outweighs all passions, all interests. Act, then, my dear Lucie, with the heroic courage of a woman who has a noble mission to accomplish, even should you have to carry the question everywhere--before the highest heads; and I hope soon to hear that this appalling agony is to come to an end.

Kisses to all.

I embrace you and our dear children with all the force of my affection.

ALFRED.

* * * * *

_26 October, 1895, evening._

Before I send this letter I want to add a few words, for thus it seems to me that I come near you and talk with you as in those happy times when we chatted together in our chimney corner. And, then, these are the only moments when I say a word, and if I were to listen only to my desire, I should talk so with you every day, and every hour in the day--but I should always say the same words.

If at times I groan, it is that being such as you know me to be--and you know that I am neither patient nor resigned--the anguish is too great, the hours weigh too heavy on my soul. I do not pretend to be stronger than I am. If I do succeed in holding out I have told you why. I do not want to return to it. But if I am reduced to mere groaning, if I must stand with folded arms before the most appalling sorrow that the honest and ardent heart of a soldier can feel when he is struck not only in himself, but in his wife, his children, in those he loves, I say to you yourself, as I say to you all, “Courage, individual energy!” When a man is subjected to a misfortune so undeserved he conquers it; and he does not conquer it by tears, or by recriminations, but by going straight forward. Our goal is our honor, and we should press forward with active, indefatigable energy, an energy that should be as great as the circumstances that exact our effort.

After all, there is a justice in this world, and it is not possible that the innocent should remain subjected to such martyrdom. Yes, I am repeating myself, and I can do nothing but repeat myself. My opinions have not changed. All this is rather that I may chat a little with you than for any other reason; to pass with you an hour of our long nights, for, as I have told you, I am now awaiting the result of your efforts and of the steps you have taken, which I think will not now be long delayed; and I am hoping that I shall soon see the day when I can breathe freer, when I can relax myself a little; it is full time, of that I assure you.

I send more fond kisses for you and for the children.

ALFRED.

* * * * *

_4 November, 1895._

My dear Lucie:

The mail coming from Cayenne has arrived, and it has not brought me any letters. I have now been without tidings of you, of the children, since the 25th of August, but I will not let the English mail leave without writing you a few words. I shall not be long, for grief makes my pen tremble in my fingers.

I think, my dear Lucie, that you are now in possession of my last letters, and that you yourself are acting with the heroic spirit of a woman; that you are demanding the truth on every side; that you are demanding justice for miserable victims; that each day is a day thus employed until that on which the light breaks, until our honor is returned to us.

I think, therefore, that I shall soon learn that this appalling agony is at last at an end. I need not remind you to ask permission to send me a dispatch when you shall have good news to tell.

The days are long, the hours are heavy, when one has suffered so, and for so long a time.

I embrace you with all my strength, and the children, too.

Your devoted ALFRED.

Kisses to all.

* * * * *

_20 November, 1895._

My dear Lucie:

On the 11th I received your dear, good letters of September, as well as letters from all the family. I need not tell you the intense joy I felt in reading words from you.

I thank you for remembering my birthday. I will not speak of it further, for we must not linger over sad memories. What we need now, as you have said so truly, is reality, the truth. After one has suffered in a manner so atrocious and for so long a time, one’s energies, one’s activity, above all, ought to grow in proportion to the sufferings which one endures. Strong in your conscience, it is your right, I will even say it is your duty, to attempt all, to dare all, in order to throw light upon this tragic story, to regain at last our honor, the honor of our children.

As I have told you, in this situation, as horrible as it is undeserved, which would soon crush us, there no longer can be any thought of waiting for some happy chance, such as we have already waited for too long.

You have now received my letters of October. You ought to act with the force given by my innocence, with the power inspired by the knowledge that you have a noble mission to fulfill.

If I have told you to ask to have this matter cleared up by every, if even by heroic means, it is because there are situations which, when they are undeserved, are too much to be endured, which we must put an end to. You know that your soul and mine are but one; they throb together; and what I have told you must certainly have made yours tremble and throb.

So I am now waiting for the end of this awful drama, and I count the days.

Thanks for the good news that you give me of the children. Kiss them fondly for me until I can embrace them for myself.

My tenderest kisses for you.

From your devoted ALFRED.

Embrace your dear parents, all our family, for me.

I do not know by what route you sent the books and the reviews that you spoke of in your letters of the 25th of August, but they certainly have not yet arrived at Guiana.

* * * * *

_27 December, 1895._

My dear Lucie:

I have not yet received your dear letters of October. Neither the French mail of November nor the English mail of December has brought them. What does it mean? What ought I to think of it? In what horrible nightmare have I lived for almost fifteen months?

As for suffering, alas! my poor darling, we both know what that is; and besides that, sufferings are of little importance, no matter what they are. What you must have is our honor, the honor of our children.

I wrote you a long letter on the 2d of December. To add anything to that letter, or, indeed, to any that preceded it, would be superfluous, would it not? Our thoughts are the same; our hearts have always beaten as one; our souls thrill together to-day, and they cry out for their honor with the burning ardor of honorable hearts struck in all that they hold most precious.

I wait with feverish impatience for news of you. I feel sure that it will soon arrive. I will even say that nearly every day I expect good news. I hope at last to hear something certain, positive, that the light has broken, or, at least, is soon to break, upon this bitterly sad story.

Let me tell you to-day simply that the thought of you, of our dear children, alone gives me the force to live through these long days, these interminable nights.

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

Your devoted ALFRED.

Kisses to your dear parents, to all our family.

Again for long months I have received neither books nor reviews. Those that you told me of in your letter of August have not yet arrived. I cannot understand it.

I thought that you would have continued to send me regularly each month the reviews and a few packages of books, by mail. I am all day long, and I may add, nearly all night long, without a minute of forgetfulness, looking at the four walls of my cabin--well, it is of little importance, but it would be well to inquire what has become of these books.

* * * * *

_31 December, 1895._

My dear Lucie:

I wrote to you some days ago to tell you that I had not yet received your letters of October. At last, after a long and terrible time of waiting, I have just received your letters of October, and at the same time those of November.

How must I sometimes cause you pain by my letters, my poor darling, and you suffer so much without that! But at times it is stronger than I am, so eager am I to see the end of this horrible drama, for I would willingly give my blood, drop by drop, to learn at last that my innocence is recognized, that the guilty ones, doubly criminal as they are, are unmasked.

But when I suffer too much, when I faint before this life of deluding memories, of restraint of all my intellectual and physical forces, I murmur to myself the three names that are my talisman, that make me live on--yours, those of our dear little Pierre, and Jeanne.

Let us hope that we shall soon see the end of this awful drama. I cannot write much to you, for what can I tell you that is not already common to us? I live in the thought of you, and my soul is with you from morning till night, and from night till morning. All my faculties are straining toward the end that must be attained, that you will attain--all my honor as a soldier, all the honor of our children.

Perhaps I give you extravagant advice at times, the issue of the dreams of a lonely exile who is suffering martyrdom, a martyrdom whose tortures are made up not only of his own anguish, but of yours, of the anguish you all suffer ... and nevertheless I know perfectly well that you can judge far better than I can of the means to attain my complete, my absolute, rehabilitation. I am going to pass a good part of the night, of the long, long days in reading and re-reading your dear letters, in living with you, in sustaining you in my thoughts with all my strength, with all my ardor, with all the force of my will.

My health is good; do not be anxious on that score. Moreover, to reassure you, I have asked permission to send you a dispatch. I trust that it will reach you. I hope that your health, that the health of you all, is also good. You must sustain yourself physically to have the force necessary to arrive at the goal.

Let us hope that soon, near to one another and with our dear children at our side, we may forget the events of this horrible tragedy. You must all tell yourselves, too, that if at times I cry out in anguish, it is because I am always as silent as the dead. I have only the paper, and these cries of grief, these cries of suffering--call them what you will--my heart is always valiant, even if it cannot always be silent. So I am waiting just as you asked me to, and I will wait until that day when the light shall at last shine out.

Long and tender kisses to our dear children. I often gaze at their portraits and I try to see them as they are to-day.

Ah, dear Lucie, remember that in my moments of distress I have these three names, that are my support, my safeguard, that raise me when I fall, for our children must enter upon life with heads erect.

I embrace you as I love you, with all my strength.

ALFRED.

* * * * *

_3 January, 1896._

My dear Lucie:

I read and re-read with eagerness your dear letters of October and November, and although I have written to you already, on the 31st of December, I want to come again and talk with you.

Your letters could not increase my affection, but they inspire in me an admiration, each day increasing, of your character, your great heart, and I am ashamed of myself for not knowing better how to suffer, for sometimes writing you such nervous, such disquieting letters. As to our purpose I have never wavered. I am innocent, and my innocence must shine out. Our name must again become what it deserves to be. But you must understand that my torments are at times so sharp, the revolt of my heart is at times so violent, that I cry out in spite of myself; it seems that, no matter at what cost, I must learn the secret of this infamy, must make the truth break forth, make justice triumph.

I have never been discouraged, I have never doubted that a will strong in its innocence and in the duty it has to accomplish could fail to attain its object. I have had, perhaps may again have, attacks of febrile impatience, the revolts of an ardent spirit, that has for so long been crushed under foot, weighed down by this sepulchral silence, this enervating climate, the frequent absence of news, nothing to do, and often nothing to read. But if the tension of my nervous system was extreme during the last three months of 1895--that was the hottest season, the worst season in Guiana--my courage never weakened, for it was it that held me up, that permitted me to double the dangerous cape without flinching. Do not lay any stress upon this nervousness which breaks out at times. Tell yourself that I am determined to be with you, at your side, on the day when honor shall be given back to us.

Your will, the will of you all, must continue to be what it has always been, as great, as unconquerable as it is calm and thoughtful.

My health is good; my body, indifferent to everything, animated by but one thought, common to us all, common, as your dear mother has said, to this whole sheaf of hearts, quivering with pain, lives for the honor so unjustly wrested from us.

And remember that if I at times have moments of personal weakness, under the repeated shocks of this trying hour, I have also a talisman, to reanimate me, to give me strength, the thought of you, of my children--in a word, my duty.

The lines in which you speak to me of the dear children give me great pleasure; they permit me to see the children in my thoughts.

Embrace the darlings tenderly for me.

So, my dear and good Lucie, courage always. Hold your head proudly high until the day comes when, side by side, we can forget this horrible drama.

Let us hope for all our sakes that that hour may be at hand.

I embrace you as I love you.

Your devoted ALFRED.

Kisses to all.

* * * * *

_26 January, 1896._

You ask me, my dear and good Lucie, to write you long letters. What can I tell you that you do not feel in your own heart better than I could tell it? My heart is always with you; it is torn when it feels you suffer pangs so unmerited, and can do nothing to help you, except to suffer equally itself. My spirit night and day is with you; it would sustain and animate you with its ardent fervor. I can only repeat what I have so often said, the end is everything; the honor of our name, the honor of our children; and that must be attained against all obstacles, in spite of everything. But the situation is so atrocious, as well for you as for me, that our activities, which should be of every kind, as they should be of every hour, far from weakening, ought, on the contrary, to grow still stronger and tax their ingenuity to the utmost in order to succeed in making the truth shine in all its brilliancy.

My health is good. I continue to struggle against everything so that I may be there with you, with our children, on the day when my honor is given back to me. I hope ardently, for your sake as for mine, that that day may not be too long delayed.

I expect to receive news of you in a few days, and as always, I am waiting for it with feverish impatience. I shall write to you more at length when I shall have received your letters.

Kiss both the children many, many times for me. Their dear little letters, like yours, like the letters from all our friends, are my daily reading.