Lettres d'un Innocent - The Letters of Captain Dreyfus to His Wife

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Title: Lettres d'un Innocent - The Letters of Captain Dreyfus to His Wife
Author: Dreyfus, Alfred
Language: English
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*** Start of this LibraryBlog Digital Book "Lettres d'un Innocent - The Letters of Captain Dreyfus to His Wife" ***

[Illustration: CAPTAIN ALFRED DREYFUS]

_Lettres d’un Innocent_

THE LETTERS

CAPTAIN DREYFUS

TO HIS WIFE

TRANSLATED

BY L. G. MOREAU

WITH PORTRAITS

[Illustration]

NEW YORK AND LONDON
HARPER & BROTHERS PUBLISHERS
1899

_All rights reserved._

CONTENTS

PAGE

INTRODUCTION, BY WALTER LITTLEFIELD vii

LETTERS OF CAPTAIN ALFRED DREYFUS:

I. FROM THE PRISON DU CHERCHE-MIDI 1

II. FROM THE PRISON OF LA SANTÉ 30

III. FROM SAINT-MARTIN DE RÉ 56

IV. FROM ÎLES DU SALUT 79

APPENDIX:

I. LATER LETTERS FROM CAPTAIN ALFRED DREYFUS TO HIS FAMILY 227

II. A LETTER TO HIS COUNSEL 232

ILLUSTRATIONS

CAPTAIN ALFRED DREYFUS _Frontispiece_

CAPTAIN ALFRED DREYFUS _Facing p._ 48
From a photograph taken on the occasion of his degradation

MADAME ALFRED DREYFUS AND HER CHILDREN ” 176

DREYFUS, THE MAN

BY WALTER LITTLEFIELD

Author of “The Truth About Dreyfus”

In cases of high treason no less than in violations of the criminal code
the personal character of the accused has always had great weight with
French judges. In attempting to prove that Captain Alfred Dreyfus
carried on treasonable negotiations with a foreign power, M.
d’Ormescheville, in his Acte d’Accusation or indictment, laid great
stress on the information collected from the municipal police tending to
show that the prisoner was an habitual wrong-doer. The supposition that
as an Alsatian he might have entered the French army and remained there
with the patriotic and unselfish desire to serve Germany is treated with
secondary importance. It was the intention of the officer who served as
Juge d’Instruction to show that Dreyfus was criminally corrupt, and
hence was quite capable of being a traitor. Not only did the
semi-official press of Paris, in the winter of 1894-95, dwell upon those
acts that seemed intimately connected with the alleged treason, but they
delved into his domestic life. With diabolical frankness and in a
network of specious details they branded him profligate as well as
traitor. The Acte d’Accusation charges him with being a gambler and
libertine, unmindful of the well-being of his family, faithless to his
wife.

For many weeks this most infamous campaign was kept up in the columns of
_L’Echo de Paris_, _Le Petit Journal_, _Le Gaulois_, _La Libre Parole_,
and _L’Intransigeant_. So varied in character and so ingenious in
conception were these libellous tales, that it became impossible for the
friends of the condemned man to make an adequate defense. Dreyfus’s
counsel, Maître Demange, heard the stories, and could do nothing. The
verdict of the court-martial closed the door to legal redress. The
devoted wife of Dreyfus at first attempted to reply to them in _Le
Figaro_. Parisians laughed at her _naïveté_. She was not the only
deceived wife in the world, they said. At length, wearied of the unequal
combat--one woman against a horde of anti-Semitic vilifiers--she gave to
the world a volume of letters written by her husband to herself. It was
her desire simply to show him as he was, to rehabilitate the prisoner as
a husband and a father in the eyes of Frenchmen. But “Les Lettres d’un
Innocent” have done more than this. To the women of France, at least,
they have established the innocence of the man. No one can read these
letters without being struck by the absolute sincerity of the writer; by
his love for his wife and his family, and for his country; by his
devotion to duty and to the traditions of the army whose heads had so
remorselessly sacrificed him; by the utter hopelessness of his position.
When, in the papers of January 6, 1895, the story of his dramatic
degradation was published to the world, the French people pretended to
see in his proud, fearless demeanor, as his uniform was stripped of
insignia and his sword broken before him, a criminal stoicism that would
have been impossible in an innocent man. Many English and American
readers recognized simply the final desperate appeal of an entirely
innocent man. The sentiment that was then aroused outside of France will
be emphasized by “Les Lettres d’un Innocent.” Although not destined to
have the judicial and logical weight of the testimony before the Cour de
Cassation, they have a sympathetic and persuasive significance that is
eminently human. The evidence before the Court proves that Dreyfus did
not write the _bordereau_. The letters convince one that he was
incapable of treason.

The reader who expects to find in the epistles before us arguments
tending to prove the innocence of the writer will be disappointed. Even
if the prisoner actually attempted defense it was not allowed to pass
the censor. Only a persistent declaration of innocence will be found
here--a declaration that is repeated with awful and tragic monotony
until it smites the ear like the wail of an innocent soul in Dante’s
“Inferno.”

As has been said, the conditions under which these letters were written
forbade the author to indulge in details concerning the circumstances of
his awful fate. Hence, for a fuller appreciation and a better
understanding of the emotions that moved the writer at given periods,
the following data must constantly be borne in mind: Dreyfus was
arrested October 15, 1894; his trial by court-martial began December 19
of the same year and ended December 23. The condemned man was publicly
degraded January 5, 1895, and on the 9th day of the following February
the Chamber passed a law decreeing his place of confinement to be French
Guiana, in South America; in March he was transported thither.

The prisoner wrote regularly to his wife until the spring of 1898, when
he became a victim of the conditions of his solitary position. In
September, 1898, he bade a final adieu to his wife and children and
declared that he would write no more.[A] He was beset with unconquerable
sadness. He complained to his physician, Dr. Veugnon, of Cayenne, of
mental exhaustion and insomnia. He was haunted by the “fixed idea” to
exculpate himself from the charge of treason. Yet he could only deny and
deny.

He knew nothing of what was passing in Paris and in the world at large.

On November 15, 1898, M. Darius, the Procureur Général of Cayenne,
entered the room occupied by the prisoner on the Ile du Diable and said
to him, “Dreyfus, the Cour de Cassation has decided to revise your case.
What have you to say?” Dreyfus seemed like one dazed. The day for which
he had so fervently prayed had come at last. Yet, according to his
inquisitor, this is what he replied: “I shall say nothing until I am
confronted by my accusers in Paris.” No further facts were revealed to
him, but, under the direction of the authorities in Paris, he was
interrogated at given periods. In the mean time he was left a prey to
strange conjectures concerning his ultimate fate. On July 3, 1899, he
was told that he was to be taken immediately to France to stand trial
before a new court-martial at Rennes. He had been a prisoner on the Ile
du Diable for more than fifty months.

Alfred Dreyfus, captain in the 14th Artillery, was appointed to the
General Staff of the French Army in 1893. He was the first Jew to be so
honored. His record at the Chaptal College, at Sainte-Barbe, at the
Ecole Polytechnique, at the Ecole d’Application, at the Ecole de Guerre,
no less than his service in the 31st Regiment of Artillery, in the 4th
Mounted Battery, and in the 21st Regiment of Artillery, shows that he
deserved the distinction. The words of praise that his chiefs then wrote
of him are in strange contrast with their later reflections.

For years the Dreyfus family had been identified with large
manufacturing interests in Mulhouse, in Alsace. Alfred was one of four
brothers. When Germany took possession of the province as one of the
results of the Franco-Prussian War, the three younger brothers declared
for France, and were obliged to quit German territory; the eldest, who
had passed the age of military service, remained behind to look after
the business from which the brothers derived their income. It was
natural that they should have wished to remain Frenchmen. Had not France
emancipated the Jews forty years before they had the privileges of
Gentiles under the English law? Since disgrace has fallen upon their
family their enduring and emphasized patriotism is somewhat remarkable.

It must not be supposed, on the one hand, that a long period of
suspicion was attached to Dreyfus before his melodramatic arrest in the
office of du Paty de Clam, or, on the other, that the unfortunate man
was the victim of an anti-Semitic plot created for the purpose of
ruining him. He was the victim of mistake before he became the martyr of
crime. The facts are simply these:

In August, 1894, Commandant Comte Walsin-Esterhazy, who was carrying on
treasonable negotiations with the German Embassy in Paris, sent to
Lieutenant-Colonel von Schwarzkoppen some notes of information together
with a memorandum. This memorandum, or _bordereau_, fell into the hands
of a French spy. It was taken to the Secret Intelligence Department.
Its importance as revealing the presence of a traitor who had access to
the secrets of the War Office was at once recognized. General Mercier,
then Minister of War, placed the investigation in the hands of
Commandant du Paty de Clam. Owing to the similarity between the
handwriting in the _bordereau_ and that of Dreyfus, this officer was
suspected of being its author. He was arrested and taken to the military
prison of Cherche Midi. In the mean time, du Paty de Clam exhausted
every resource to find confirmatory evidence. In this he signally
failed. Nevertheless the indictment was drawn up.

Commandant Forzinetti was in charge of Cherche Midi. His first
impression of the prisoner as deposed before the Cour de Cassation was
as follows:

“I went to Captain Dreyfus. He was terribly excited. I had before me a
man bereft of reason, with bloodshot eyes. He had upset everything in
his room. I succeeded, after some trouble, in quieting him. I had an
intuition that this officer was innocent. He begged me to allow him
writing materials, so that he might ask the Minister of War to be heard
by him or by one of the general officers of the Ministry. He described
to me the details of his arrest, which were neither dignified nor
soldierly.”

On October 24 Mercier asked Forzinetti what he thought of the prisoner’s
guilt. This was the reply: “They are evidently on a false scent. This
officer is not guilty.”

Nearly every day du Paty de Clam visited Dreyfus and tried in every way
to force a confession from him.[B]

This was the position of Minister of War Mercier: For months a campaign
had been carried on against him in the radical press. One fortunate act
would vindicate him--the conviction of a traitor. It is impossible that
he could have long entertained a belief in the guilt of the prisoner.
Yet, having in the first flush of seeming success publicly accused him,
he dare not draw back. Already his enemies of the radical and clerical
press were accusing him of selling himself to the Jews. “To-morrow,”
wrote Drumont in _La Libre Parole_, “no doubt they will applaud the
Minister of War, when he comes and boasts of the measures which he has
taken to save Dreyfus.”

Thus the reputation of Mercier, and very possibly the existence of the
Cabinet, became staked on the conviction of Dreyfus. Dreyfus was
convicted. Space will not permit me to state the exact circumstances by
which this most stupendous miscarriage of justice was brought about.
Suffice to say, that during a secret deliberation of the court-martial
forged evidence was introduced unknown to the prisoner or to his
counsel. The criminal code as well as article 101 of the Code de Justice
Militaire was grossly violated. It was to cover this illegality and to
perpetuate its result that the conspiracy in the General Staff gradually
grew into being.

The victim was publicly degraded in the courtyard of the Ecole
Militaire, in Paris. The morning was clear and cold. The sunlight
shimmered from the gaudy trappings of the Garde Républicaine. “On the
stroke of nine from the clock of the Ecole Militaire,” wrote a reporter
of _L’Autorité_, “General Darras draws his sword and commands, ‘Shoulder
arms!’ The order is repeated before each company. The troops execute the
order. Silence follows.

“Hearts cease to beat; all eyes are fixed upon the right-hand corner of
the square, where Dreyfus is imprisoned in a low building on the
terrace.

“In a moment a small group is seen; it is Alfred Dreyfus in the midst of
four artillerymen, accompanied by a lieutenant of the Garde Républicaine
and by the commander of the escort....

“Dreyfus walks with a quiet, firm step.”

The reporter continues to describe the march across the square to the
point in front of the troops where the degradation is to take place.
Dreyfus listens in silence while a clerk reads the sentence. General
Darras then says, “Dreyfus, you are unworthy to bear arms. In the name
of the French people we degrade you.”

“Then,” continues _L’Autorité_, “Dreyfus is seen to raise both arms,
and, head erect, he cries out in a strong voice, in which no tremor is
noticed:

“‘I am innocent, I swear that I am innocent. Vive la France!’

“And the vast crowd outside answers with a cry of, ‘Death to him!’”

The adjutant then begins his work. First cutting from the condemned
man’s uniform his galloons, cuffs, buttons, all insignia of rank, ending
by breaking the sword. During the ceremony Dreyfus several times raises
his voice:

“On the heads of my wife and children I swear that I am innocent. I
swear it. Vive la France!”

The reporter of _L’Autorité_ seems deeply moved, for he adds:

“It is over at last, but the seconds have been as centuries. We had
never before felt pangs of anguish so keen. And afresh, clear, and
without any touch of emotion, is heard the voice of the condemned man
in a loud tone, crying:

“‘You degrade an innocent man!’”

The prisoner is then obliged to pass before the line of soldiers. As he
approaches the railing the civilian crowd gets a better view of him and
yells, “Death to him!”

When he arrives before a group of reporters he pauses and says, “Tell
the people of France that I am innocent.”

They mock him, however, crying, “Dastard! Traitor! Judas! Vile Jew!”

He passes on and comes to a group of officers of the General Staff, his
late colleagues. Here again he pauses, and says, “Gentlemen, you know I
am innocent.”

But they yell at him as did the reporters. He surveys them closely
through his pincenez and says calmly, “You’re a set of cowards.” There
is utter contempt in his voice. At length the direful march is ended.
Dreyfus enters a van and is driven to the Prison de la Santé.

* * * * *

For nearly four years the world was a blank to him. Of the efforts made
to rehabilitate him he knew nothing. He knew not that the real traitor
had been discovered. He knew nothing of the heroic Picquart’s unselfish
martyrdom in the cause of truth and justice. He knew nothing of Zola’s
melodramatic entrance upon the scene. He knew nothing of the crimes that
were committed in the name of _l’honneur de l’armée_. Was it to be
wondered at that he should have been overwhelmed when these things were
told him at Rennes?

The story of the indignities that he endured, the tortures that he
suffered at the Ile du Diable, has been given to the world by his
counsels, Maîtres Labori and Demange. It is like a chapter from the dark
ages. Once, when it was reported that an attempt would be made to rescue
him, this man, consumed with fever and almost bereft of reason, was, by
the order of M. Lebon, Minister of the Colonies, chained to his couch,
while the lamp that was kept burning over his head attracted hordes of
tropical insects. He was told that his wife sought to forget him and
desired to marry again. In his despair his jailers thought he might say
something that would incriminate him. They were mistaken. He made no
confession. There was none to make. He could only yell in their ears, “I
am innocent! I am innocent!” When, in early autumn of 1898, he was
believed to be dying this message was cabled from Paris to Cayenne:
“Embalm him if he dies, and send us his corpse.”

But he lived. And he may still live to see in his appalling experience
the cause of social revolution in France--a revolution that shall make
the rights of the individual paramount to the traditions of the army, to
the subtle cravings of the clericals, to the fantastic schemers of the
Faubourg St. Germain.

THE LETTERS

LETTERS

AN INNOCENT MAN

* * * * *

PRISON OF CHERCHE-MIDI

_Tuesday, 5 December, 1894._

My dear Lucie:

At last I can write a word to you; they have just told me that my trial
is set for the 19th of this month. I am refused the right to see you.

I will not tell you all that I have suffered; there are not in the world
words strong enough to express it. Do you remember when I used to tell
you how happy we were? Everything in life smiled on us. Then all at once
a fearful thunderbolt; my brain still is reeling with the shock. For me
to be accused of the most monstrous crime that a soldier can commit!
Even to-day I feel that I must be the victim of an awful nightmare.

But I hope in God and in justice. In the end the truth must come to
light. My conscience is calm and tranquil. It reproaches me with
nothing. I have done my duty, never have I turned from it. I have been
crushed to the earth, buried in my dark prison; alone with my reeling
brain. There have been moments when I have been nearly crazed,
ferocious, beside myself, but even in those moments my conscience was on
guard--“Hold up thy head!” it said to me. “Look the world in the face!
Strong in thy conscience go straight onward! Rise! The trial is bitter,
but it must be undergone!”

I cannot write any longer, for I want this letter to leave to-night.

I embrace you a thousand times, as I love you, as I adore you, my
darling Lucie.

A thousand kisses to the children. I dare not say more to you; the tears
come to my eyes when I think of them. Write to me soon.

ALFRED.

Give my love to all the family. Tell them that I am to-day what I was
yesterday, having but one care, to do my duty.

The Commissary of the Government has informed me that Me. Demange will
defend me. I think that I shall see him to-morrow. Write to me to the
prison. Your letters, like mine, will pass through the hands of the
government commissioner.

* * * * *

_Thursday morning, 7 December, 1894._

I am waiting with impatience for a letter from you. You are my hope; you
are my consolation; were it not for you life would be a burden. At the
bare thought that they could accuse me of a crime so frightful, so
monstrous, my whole being trembles; my body revolts against it. To have
worked all my life for one thing alone, to avenge my country, to
struggle for her against the infamous ravisher who has snatched from us
our dear Alsace, and then to be accused of treason against that
country--no, my loved one, my mind refuses to comprehend it! Do you
remember my telling you how, when I was in Mulhouse, ten years ago, in
September, I heard a German band under our windows celebrating the
anniversary of Sedan? My grief was such that I wept; I bit the sheets of
my bed with rage, and I swore an oath to consecrate all my strength, all
my intelligence, to the service of my country against those who thus
offered insult to the grief of Alsace.

No, no. I will not speak of it, for I shall go mad, and I must preserve
all my reason. Moreover my life has henceforth but one aim: to find the
wretch who has betrayed his country; to find the traitor for whom no
punishment could be too severe. Oh, dear France, thou that I love with
all my soul, with all my heart! thou to whom I have consecrated all my
strength, all my intelligence, how couldst thou accuse me of a crime so
horrible! I will not write upon this subject, my darling; for spasms
take me by the throat. No man has ever borne the martyrdom that I
endure. No physical suffering can be compared to the mental agony that I
feel when my thoughts turn to this accusation. If I had not my honor to
defend, I assure you that I should prefer death; at least, death would
be forgetfulness. Write to me soon. My love to all.

* * * * *

_December, 1894._

My good Darling:

Thanks for your long letter of yesterday. I have never doubted your
adorable devotion, your great heart. It is most of all of you that I
think in these dark days; I think of your sadness, the grief that you
must feel; and in this thought lies my only weakness.

As for me, fear nothing. If I have suffered deeply I have never wavered
nor bowed my head. The moments of my deepest anguish have been those in
which I have thought of you, my good darling, of all our family. I
realised your sorrow when you were without news of me. I had time to
think of you all, in the long days, in the sleepless nights, alone with
my own thoughts. In those hours I had nothing to read; no way to write!
I turned like a lion in its cage, trying to work out an enigma that
escaped me. But everything in this world is conquered by perseverance
and by energy. I swear to you that I shall discover the wretch who
committed the act of infamy. Keep up your courage, my good darling, and
look the world in the face. You have the right to do so.

Thank every one for the admirable devotion shown in my cause. Embrace
our dear children and all the family for me.

A thousand kisses for your own self, from your devoted

ALFRED.

* * * * *

_December, 1894._

My good Darling:

Your letter, which I had impatiently awaited, gave me great consolation
and at the same time it made me weep, for it brought me the vivid memory
of you, my darling.

I am not perfect; what man can boast of perfection? But I can assure you
truthfully that I have always gone straight forward in the way marked
out by duty and by honor.

There has been no compromise between me and my conscience. If I have
suffered deeply, if I have undergone the most horrible agony that can be
imagined, I have at all times been sustained in this awful struggle by
my conscience, which stands on guard, rigid, upright, inflexible. My
natural reserve, perhaps a haughty reserve, the freedom of my speech and
judgment to-day militate against me. I am not supple, nor a trimmer, nor
a flatterer. We never visited the people of the world who might be
useful to us now; we shut ourselves up in our own home, we were
contented to be happy in ourselves.

And to-day I am accused of the most monstrous crime a soldier can
commit!

Oh, if I could but hold the wretch who not only has betrayed his
country, but who, besides, has tried to make me bear the burden of his
infamy, I do not know what suffering I could not invent to make him
expiate the agony which he has forced me to undergo! But we must not
despair--they must at last find the guilty one. Without that hope we
should have to believe that there is no justice in the world.

Bend all your efforts to reveal the truth; and bring to bear upon them
all your intellect, if need be all my fortune.

Money is nothing. Our Honor is All! Tell M[_athieu Dreyfus_] that I
count upon him for this work. It is not beyond his power. He must find
the wretch who has dishonored us, even though he should move Heaven and
Earth. I embrace you a thousand times, as I love you.

Your devoted
ALFRED.

A thousand kisses for the children.

All my love to all the members of our families; thank them for their
devotion to the cause of an innocent man.

* * * * *

_Monday, 11 December._

My good Darling:

I have received your letter of yesterday; also the letters from your
sister and from Henri. Let us hope that soon justice will be done me and
that I shall once more be with you all. With you and with our dear
children I shall find the calm that now I need so much.

My heart is deeply wounded; you know that it must be so. To have
consecrated all my strength, all my intelligence, to the service of my
country, and then to be accused of the most monstrous crime that a
soldier can commit--it is fearful!

At the very thought of it my whole being revolts; I tremble with
indignation. I ask myself by what miracle I have been kept from going
mad. How has my brain resisted such a shock!

I supplicate you, my darling, do not go to my trial. It can do no good
for you to impose new sufferings upon yourself; those that you have
already borne, with a grandeur of soul and with a heroism of which I am
proud, are more than sufficient. Save your strength for our children. We
shall need all our united strength to care for each other, to help each
other to forget this terrible trial--the most terrible that human
strength can bear. Kiss all our good, dear ones for me, until the time
comes when I can embrace them for myself. Remember me fondly to all.

I embrace you as I love you.

Your devoted
ALFRED.

* * * * *

_Tuesday, 12 December, 1894._

My dear Lucie:

Will you be my interpreter to all the members of our two families, to
all who have been thoughtful of me at this time? Will you tell them how
much I have been touched by their good letters and by the sympathy they
have shown me?

I cannot answer them; for what could I tell them? My sufferings? They
understand them, and I do not like to complain. Besides that, my brain
reels, and my thoughts are at times confused. My soul alone remains
unshaken, as steadfast as on that awful day before the monstrous
accusation was thrown in my face. My whole being still revolts at the
thought of it.

But in the end the truth must be known in spite of everything. We are
not living in a century when the light can be hidden. It must be that
the whole truth will be known, that my voice will be heard throughout
the length and breadth of our dear France--just as my accusation has
been heard. It is not only my own honor which I have to defend; it is
the honor of all the corps of officers of which I am a part, and a
worthy part.

I have received the clothes that you sent me. If you should have a
chance, please send me my tippet. I do not need the pelisse. My tippet
is in the wardrobe in the antechamber.

Embrace our darlings tenderly for me. I wept over the good letter
written by our dear Pierrot. How long the time seems to me until I can
embrace him and you all once more!

A thousand kisses for yourself.

Your devoted
ALFRED.

* * * * *

_Thursday, 14 December, 1894._

My dear Lucie:

I have received your good letter; also new letters from the family.
Thank them all for me. All these proofs of affection and esteem touch me
more than I know how to tell you. As for me, I am always the same. When
a man’s conscience is pure and calm he can bear everything. I am
convinced that eventually the truth will be known; that the assurance of
my innocence will finally be borne in upon all minds.

At my trial I shall be judged by soldiers as loyal and as honest as
myself. They will recognize--I am sure of it--the error that has been
committed.

Error, unhappily, is a human thing. Who can say that he never has been
deceived?

I am happy over the good news you give me regarding the children. You
were right to begin to give P[ierrot] cod-liver oil; the time is
propitious. Kiss the little fellow for me. How I long to hold the dear
children in my arms!

I hope, with you, that they will end by letting me once more embrace
you. It will be one of the happiest days of my life; it will be a
consolation for all the pain I have endured.

ALFRED.

* * * * *

_Friday, 15 December, 1894._

My dear Lucie:

I have received your good letter, also mamma’s. I am grateful for the
sentiment she expresses--sentiments I never have doubted, and which, I
can say it proudly, I have merited always.

At last the day of my appearance before justice draws near. I am to come
to the end of all this moral torture. My confidence is absolute; when
the conscience is pure and tranquil then can we present ourselves
everywhere, our heads high. I shall be tried by soldiers who will listen
to me and understand me. The certainty that I am innocent will enter
their hearts as it has always entered the hearts of my friends, of those
who have known me intimately.

My whole life has been the best guarantee of my innocence. I will not
speak of the infamous and anonymous calumnies that have been circulated
against me. They have not touched me; I scorn them. Kiss all our
darlings for me and receive for yourself the tender kisses of your
devoted husband,

ALFRED.

* * * * *

_Sunday, 17 December, 1894._

My dear Lucie:

I do not know that this letter will reach you to-day, for the
post-offices are closed, but I will not let the day pass without
writing you one word. I am happy to know that you are surrounded by all
the family; your grief must be less great, for nothing is more
sustaining than such love as is being shown to you.

As to me, my darling, do not give way to any feeling of anxiety.

I am ready to appear before my judges; my mind is tranquil. I am ready
to face them as I shall one day stand before God, my head high, my
conscience pure.

I am happy to know that you are all well; the children also.

Continue to take good care of yourself, my darling; and keep all your
courage. It is true that the trial is great, but my courage is not less
great.

If I have had moments of horrible depression, if I have borne the weight
of the frightful mental torture, of the suspicion which they have cast
upon me, my head has never bent beneath it. To-day, as yesterday, I can
look the world in the face; I am worthy to command my soldiers. Embrace
the dear ones for me; affectionate kisses from your devoted

ALFRED.

* * * * *

_Monday, 18 December, 1894._

My dear Lucie:

I received to-day only your good letter of Saturday. I could not send my
letter yesterday; the offices were closed and my letter could not have
passed out.

How you must suffer, my poor darling! I can imagine it by comparing your
suffering to my own, because I cannot see you. But we must know how to
bear up, to hold our own against suffering; we must be resigned; we
must preserve all dignity of conduct.

Let us show that we are worthy of one another; that trials, even the
most cruel, even the most undeserved, cannot beat us down.

When the conscience is clear we can, as you say so truly, bear
everything; suffer everything. It is my conscience alone that has
enabled me to resist; had it not been for that I should have died of
sorrow, or I should be shut up in a mad-house.

Even now I cannot look back to those first days without a shiver of
horror. My brain was like a boiling cauldron; at each instant I feared
that my reason would leave me.

Do not be worried by the irregularity of my letters; you know that I
cannot write as I would like to; but be strong and brave; be careful of
your health.

Thanks for all the news you give me of our friends. Tell them that I
have often thought of them; of the grief they must feel. It must bind us
in a union that nothing can ever break. Our pure, honorable life, all
the past of all our kindred, our devotion to France, are the best
guarantees of what we are.

I have received two good letters from J. and R.; they have given me
great pleasure.

I thank you also for the news you give me of the children. Ah, the poor
darlings! What joy it will be to me to be able to embrace them and you,
my good darling! But I will not allow myself to think of it; for then
everything seems to melt within me.

The bitterness of my heart rises to my lips--and I must preserve all my
strength.

Thank M. and my brothers and my sisters and all the family for what
they have done for me. Embrace them for me.

I will stop, for every memory of the happiness I have known among you
all revives my grief.

To have sacrificed everything for my Country, to have served her with
entire devotion, with all my strength, with all my intelligence, and
then to be accused of such a frightful crime--no, no!

Write to me often; write long letters. My best moments are those when I
receive news of you all.

A thousand kisses for you and for the children.

Your devoted

ALFRED.

* * * * *

_Tuesday, 18 December, 1894._

My good, dear one:

At last I am coming to the end of my sufferings, to the end of my agony.
To-morrow I shall appear before my judges, my head high, my soul
tranquil. The trial I have undergone, terrible as it has been, has
purified my soul. I shall return to you better than I was before. I want
to consecrate to you, to my children, to our dear families, all the time
I have yet to live.

As I have told you, I have passed through awful crises. I have had
moments of furious, actual madness at the thought of being accused of a
crime so monstrous.

I am ready to appear before the soldiers as a soldier who has nothing
for which to reproach himself. They will see it in my face; they will
read my soul; they will know that I am innocent; as all will who know
me.

Devoted to my country, to whom I have consecrated all my strength, all
my intellect, I have nothing to fear.

Sleep tranquilly then, my darling, and do not give way to any care;
think only of our joy when we are once more in each other’s arms--to
forget so quickly these sad, dark days!

Until we meet--soon, my darling! soon shall I have the joy of embracing
you and our good, dear ones.

A thousand kisses while I wait for that happy moment.

ALFRED.

* * * * *

_23 December, 1894._

My Darling:

I suffer much, but I pity you still more than myself. I know how much
you love me. Your heart must bleed. On my side, my adored one, my
thought has always been of you night and day.

To be innocent, to have lived a life without a stain, and to be
condemned for the most monstrous crime that a soldier can commit! What
could be more terrible? It seems to me at times that I am the victim of
an awful nightmare.

It is for you alone that I have resisted until to-day; it is for you
alone, my adored one, that I have borne my long agony. Will my strength
hold out to the end? I cannot tell. No one but you can give me courage.
It is only from your love that I can draw it.

At times I hope that God, who has not abandoned me thus far, will end
this martyrdom of an innocent man; that He will bring to light the
Guilty One.

But shall I be strong enough to hold out until that time?

I have signed my appeal for a revision. I dare not speak to you of the
children; their memory rends my heart. Speak to them of me. May they be
your consolation.

My bitterness is such, my heart is so bruised, that I should, already
have got rid of this sad life if memory of you had not hindered me; if
the fear of augmenting your grief had not stayed my arm.

To have had to hear all they said to me, when I knew in my soul and
conscience that I had never failed, never committed even the most
trivial imprudence, that was the most horrible of mental torture.

I shall try to live for your sake, but I have need of your aid.

Above all else, no matter what may become of me, search for the truth;
move Earth and Heaven to discover it; sink in the effort, if need be,
all our fortune, to rehabilitate my name, which now is dragged through
the mud. No matter what may be the cost, we must wash out the unmerited
stain.

I have not the courage to write more. Embrace our dear relations, our
children, everyone, for me.

A thousand, thousand kisses.

ALFRED.

Try to obtain permission to see me. It seems to me that they cannot
refuse it now.

* * * * *

_Monday evening, 24 December, 1894._

My Darling:

It is still to you that I write, for you are the only cord that binds me
to life. I know well that all my family, all your family, love me and
esteem me; but, after all, if I were to disappear, their grief, however
great, would fade with the years.

It is for you alone, my poor darling, that I gather strength to
struggle. It is the thought of you that stays my arm. How I feel in this
hour my love for you! Never has it been so great--so all absorbing. And
then a feeble hope sustains me yet a little; it is that we shall be able
some day to have my good name restored to me. But, above all, believe
me, if I should have strength to struggle to the end of this calvary, it
will be for your sake alone, my poor darling; it will be to avoid adding
a new chagrin to all those you have already borne. Do all that is
humanly possible to get to see me.

I embrace you a thousand times, as I love you.

ALFRED.

* * * * *

_In the night between Monday and Tuesday, 24 December,
1894._

My dear Adored one:

I have just received your letter; I hope that you have received mine.
Poor darling, how you must suffer, how I pity you! I have wept many
tears over your letter. I cannot accept your sacrifice. You must stay
there; you must live for the children. Think of them first, before you
think of me; it is the poor, little ones who absolutely need you.

My thoughts always lead me back to you.

Me. Demange, who has just been here, has told me how wonderful you are.
He has spoken words in your praise to which my heart gave back the echo.

Yes, my darling, you are sublime in your courage and devotion. You are
worth more than I. I loved you before with all my heart and soul;
to-day I do more--I marvel at you. You are truly one of the noblest
women upon the earth. My admiration for you is so great that if I live
to drink my cup to the dregs it will be because I have aspired to be
worthy of your heroism.

But it will be terrible to submit to that shameful humiliation! I should
rather stand before an execution squad. I do not fear death, but the
thought of contempt is terrible.

However it may be, I pray you tell them all to life their heads as I
lift mine; to look the world in the face without flinching. Never bow
your heads--proclaim my innocence aloud.

Now, my darling, I am going anew to lay my head upon my pillow to think
of you.

I kiss you; I press you to my heart.

ALFRED.

Embrace the little ones tenderly for me.

Will you please deposit two hundred francs with the clerk of the prison?

* * * * *

_25 December, 1894._

My Darling:

I cannot date this letter, for I do not even know what day it is. Is it
Tuesday? Is it Wednesday? I do not know. It is always night. As sleep
flies my eyelids I arise to write to you.

Sometimes it seems to me that all this has not happened; that I have
never left you.

In my hallucinations all that has happened to us seems to me a bad
nightmare; but the awakening is terrible.

I cannot believe in anything but your love and the affection of all of
ours.

We must continually search for the guilty one. All means are good.
Chance alone will not suffice.

Perhaps I shall succeed in surmounting the horrible terror with which
the infamous sentence I am going to bear inspires me. To be an honorable
man, to be innocent, and to see my honor torn from me and trampled under
foot--oh, it is fearful! it is the worst of sufferings! worse than
death!

Oh, if I go to the end it will be for your sake, my dear, adored one,
for you are the only thread that binds me to life!

How we loved each other!

To-day more than ever before I know what place you hold in my heart.
But, above all, be careful of your own self; think of your health. _You
must, at all costs_, for the sake of my children, who have need of you.

Then search in Paris as you did down there for the guilty one. We must
try everything; we must leave nothing undone. There are people surely,
there must be people, who know the name of the guilty man.

I embrace you.

ALFRED.

* * * * *

_Wednesday, 2 P. M., 26 December, 1894._

My Darling:

I have just received your two letters and Marie’s.

You are sublime, my adored one, and I am amazed at your courage and
your heroism. I loved you before. To-day I kneel before you, for you are
a sublime woman. But do not allow yourself to be beaten down, I
supplicate you. Think of our children, who have need of you.

It may be that in my desire to be worthy of you, to reach the heights on
which you stand, I shall be able to hold out to the end. It is not
physical suffering that I fear--that has never been strong enough to
break me down; its blows glance off--but the torture of soul, the
knowledge that my name is dragged in the mire, the name of a man who is
innocent, the name of a man of honor. Cry it aloud, my darling; cry to
every one that I am innocent--the victim of terrible fatality.

Shall we ever succeed in discovering the real guilty one? Let us hope
it; to lose that hope would be to despair of everything.

I hope to see you soon, and that is my consolation. All the day, all the
night, my thoughts fly to you--to you all. I think of the happiness we
enjoyed, and I ask myself, even now, by what inexplicable fatality that
happiness was broken.

It is the most awful tragedy that it has ever been given me to read, and
instead of reading it, I must live it out, alas! Finally, be careful of
your own self, my darling. You need all your health, all your physical
vigor, if you are to bring to a successful end the task you have so
nobly undertaken.

I embrace you and our poor darlings, of whom I dare not think.

A thousand kisses.

ALFRED.

* * * * *

_Wednesday, 4 o’clock, 26 December, 1894._

My Darling:

You ask me what I do all day long.

I think of you; I think of you all. If this consoling thought did not
sustain me, if I could not feel through the thick walls of my prison the
strengthening breath of your sympathy, I believe that I should lose my
hold on reason and that despair would enter my soul. It is your love, it
is the affection of you all, that gives me the courage to live on.

Me. Demange has just been here. He stayed some minutes with me. His
faith in me is absolute; that also gives me courage.

It is not physical suffering that affrights me--I am able to bear
that--but this continual torture of soul, this contempt that is to
pursue me everywhere. I, so proud, so sure of my honor, it is that that
I find so terrible; that that I shrink from.

Well, my darling, I will not torture your heart any longer; your grief
is already great enough.

I embrace you fondly.

ALFRED.

* * * * *

_Wednesday, 10 P. M._

I do not sleep, and it is to you that I return. Am I then marked by a
fatal seal, that I must drink this cup of bitterness! At this moment I
am calm. My soul is strong, and it rises in the silence of the night.
How happy we were, my darling! Life smiled on us; fortune, love,
adorable children, a united family--Everything! Then came this
thunderbolt, fearful, terrible. Buy, I pray of you, playthings for the
children, for their New Year’s day; tell them that their father sends
them. It must not be that these poor souls, just entering upon life,
should suffer through our pain.

Oh, my darling, had not I you how gladly would I die! Your love holds me
back; it is your love only that makes me strong enough to bear the
hatred of a nation.

And the people are right to hate me: they have been told that I am a
traitor. Ah, traitor, the horrible word! It breaks my heart.

I ... traitor! Is it possible that they could accuse me and condemn me
for a crime so monstrous!

Cry aloud my innocence; cry it with all the strength of your lungs; cry
it upon the house-tops, till the very walls fall.

And hunt out the guilty one. It is he whom we must find.

I embrace you as I love you.

ALFRED.

* * * * *

_Thursday, 10 o’clock in the evening, 27 December, 1894._

My dear Lucie:

Your heroism has conquered me. Strong in your love, strong in my
conscience and in the immovable support I find in our two families, I
feel my courage born again.

I shall struggle therefore to my last breath. I shall struggle to my
last drop of blood.

It is not possible that light shall not be some day let in upon this
crime. With the feeling that your heart is beating close to mine I
shall bear all the martyrdoms, all the humiliations, without bowing my
head. The thought of you, my darling, will give me the strength needful.
My dear, adored one, women certainly are superior to us; and among women
you are of the most beautiful and the most noble!

I always loved you deeply; you know it. To-day I do more--I marvel at
and venerate you. You are a holy, a noble, woman. I am proud of you, and
I will try to be worthy of you.

Yes, it would be cowardice to desert life. It would be to taint my
name--the name of my dear children--to sully that name forever. I
realize that to-day; but how could it be otherwise? The blow was cruel;
it broke down my courage; it is you who have lifted me up.

Your soul makes mine tremble.

So, leaning one on the other, proud of one another, we shall succeed, by
force of will, in clearing our name from dishonor. We shall remove the
stain from that honor that has never failed us.

I embrace you as I love you.

ALFRED.

* * * * *

_Thursday, 11 o’clock in the evening._

I almost hoped to receive one more word from you this evening. If you
could only know with what happiness I receive your letters, with what
intoxication I read and re-read them all day long!

Good-night; sleep well, my darling. We will live still for each other.

_Friday, 10 o’clock in the morning, 28 December, 1894._

My dear Lucie:

I have received your good letter dated yesterday at noon. You are right.
I must live. I must live for you--for our dear children, whose name I
must restore to honor. Whatever may be the terrible tortures of soul I
endure, I must resist. I have no right to desert my post.

If I were alone, I should not hesitate; but your name, the name of my
family--everything, all we have, is attacked. We must arm with all our
courage for the struggle. By the force of our energy, our will, we shall
triumph. In the end they shall speak out. Supported, sustained by your
unfailing courage, we shall conquer.

Write to me often. You must relieve each other in writing; write to me
in turn. Each one of your letters soothes me. It seems to me that I hear
you speak--that I hear your dear parents speak.

I embrace you and all your dear family.

A thousand tender kisses to the children.

ALFRED.

* * * * *

_Friday, noon._

I received your letter dated Thursday evening, also the good words from
Pierrot. Embrace the darling tenderly for me. Give Jeanne a kiss for me.
Yes, I must live. I must summon all my energy to wash out the stain
which sullies the name of my children. I should be cowardly should I
desert my post. I will live; I will!

I embrace you.

ALFRED.

_Monday, 31 December, 1894._

My dear Lucie:

I thought a long time last night of my father, of all my family. I do
not hide from you that I wept long. But the tears comforted me. Our
consolation is the deep affection that unites us all; it is the
affection which I find in your family as in my own.

It is impossible, when we are so bound together, when we are upheld by
the wonderful devotion shown us by Me. Demange, that we shall not sooner
or later discover the truth. I was wrong to wish to desert life. I had
not the right to. I will struggle as long as I have a breath of life. In
these long days, in these sad nights, my soul is purified and
strengthened. My duty is clearly traced. I must leave my children a name
pure and stainless.

Let us strive for that, my darling, without a truce, without rest. Let
us not be rebuffed by the difficulty of any step, of any attempt. We
must try everything.

The books of M. Bayles, which you sent me, are enough for the moment;
later I shall need a work with exercises, with corrections on the
opposite page; so that I can work by myself.

For the moment I must gather all my strength to meet the horrible
humiliation that awaits me. But do not relax a single instant. You may,
perhaps, enter upon a course of which I have spoken to Me. Demange this
evening. Nothing must be neglected; everything must be tried.

I embrace you as I love you.

ALFRED.

Good kisses to the darlings. I dare not wish you “A Happy New Year;”
this feast does not accord with our present sorrow.

I have even forgotten to wish your mother a happy birthday. I pray you
to repair this forgetfulness; it is excusable under the sad
circumstances.

I suppose you have given the children the toys from their father. We
must not let these young souls suffer through our sorrows.

I have received the inkstand. I thank you for it.

* * * * *

_5 o’clock in the evening._

The appeal is rejected, as I might have expected it would be. They have
just told me. Ask immediately for permission to see me.

Send me what I asked you for; that is to say, my sabre, my belt, and the
valise with my belongings. The cruel and horrible anguish is
approaching; I am going to meet it with the dignity of a pure and
tranquil conscience. To tell you that I do not suffer would be to lie;
but I shall not weaken. I shall be strong. Keep on, for your part,
without truce, without rest.

* * * * *

_1 January, 1895._

My Darling:

It is no longer Sunday. It is the beginning of Monday. The stroke of
midnight has just sounded at this moment, as I lighted my candle. I
cannot sleep. I would rather rise than toss upon my bed, and what more
delicious occupation than to talk with you! When I write it seems that
you are near me, as it used to be in those good evenings of my happy
memories, when, as I sat at my desk, you would work by my side.

Let us hope--let us hope that happiness shall shine again for us. It is
impossible that some day the light of truth shall not make all clear. I
know the energetic character of Mathieu; I have learned to appreciate
your energy, your profound devotion, I will say your heroism; and I do
not doubt the success of your investigations.

You are right to act with calmness, with method. Your progress will be
surer.

But I hope that soon I can speak of all this face to face with you.

From this hour the agony is to become still more bitter. First, the
humiliating ceremony, then the sufferings which will follow it. I shall
bear them calmly, with dignity--be sure of it.

To say that I have not at times moments of violent revolt would be to
lie. The injustice is by far too cruel; but I have faith in the future;
and I hope to have my recompense.

So I try to think that the time will come when my only care will be to
ensure my happiness--the happiness of our dear children.

I have received a charming letter from Marie, which I shall answer one
of these days.

Be of good courage always, my darling. Take good care of your health,
for you will have need of all your strength; your courage must not
betray you in the crucial moment. Good-night and good rest.

I embrace you as I love you.

ALFRED.

_Tuesday, 1 January, 1895._

I have not received a letter from you this morning. I miss it. I have
received several others, it is true; but dare I tell you that it is not
the same thing? Yesterday, when he left me, Me. Demange hoped to come
back and pass some hours with me to-day; but alas! not long after his
departure they told me that my appeal had been rejected; this closes my
prison door to him; he will not be permitted to visit me any more. He
must have been warned this morning. So I shall pass my day alone. What a
sad New Year, my darling! But do not let us dwell upon this subject. It
will do us no good to weep and groan; that will not open the doors of my
prison. On the contrary, we must guard all our physical strength and all
our mental energy; we must not relax our struggle for one instant. Let
nothing beat you down; do not lose hope. Throw your nets out on all
sides; the guilty one will be caught in them at last.

Have you received an answer to your application? I am waiting now with
impatience for the moment when I shall hold you in my arms.

Have you bought the toys for the children? Were they pleased? I am
thinking always of you and of them. I live only in the thought that some
day this frightful nightmare will vanish. It seems impossible that it
can be otherwise. We will help overcome it, I promise it to you. I
embrace you as I love you.

ALFRED.

* * * * *

_Monday, 2 January, 1895, 11 o’clock in the evening._

My Darling:

A new year is beginning. What has it in store for us? Let us hope that
it will be better than the year that is just ended. Should it be
otherwise, death would be preferable. In this calm, deep night which
surrounds me, I think of you all, of you, of our dear children. What a
fearful stroke of fate, undeserved and cruel!

Let me give way a little, weep without restraint in your arms. Do not
believe because I weep that my courage weakens. I have promised you to
live; I shall keep my word. But I must always feel your heart beating
close to mine. I must be sustained by your love.

We must have courage. We must have an almost superhuman energy. As for
me, I can only summon my whole strength to bear all the tortures which
await me.

Good-night and kisses.

ALFRED.

* * * * *

_Thursday, noon._

My Darling:

They have informed me that the supreme humiliation is set for the day
after to-morrow. I expected it; I was prepared for it; but in spite of
that the blow was terrible. I shall stand fast, as I promised you I
would. I shall draw the force I still need for that awful day from the
deep well of your love, from the affection of you all; from the memory
of our dear children; from the supreme hope that some day the truth will
come to light; but on every side I must feel the warmth of the affection
that you all bear me. I must feel that you are struggling with me.
Search always; let there be no truce, no rest.

I hope to see you soon, to gather strength from your loving eyes. Let us
sustain each other through everything and against everything.

Your love is necessary to my life; without it the mainspring of my being
would be broken.

When I am gone persuade them all that they must not stop their efforts.

Take measures at once, so that you may be able to come to see me on
Saturday and the following days at the prison of la Santé. It is there,
above all, that I must feel that I am sustained.

Find out also what I asked you yesterday--when I am to leave, how I am
to go, etc.

We must be prepared for everything; we must not let ourselves be
surprised.

Until the blessed moment, soon to come, when I shall see you, I embrace
you.

ALFRED.

* * * * *

_4:15 P. M._

Since four o’clock my heart has been beating to bursting. You are not
yet here, my darling. The seconds seem hours to me. My ear is
listening--perhaps they come to call me. I cannot hear; I am waiting.

* * * * *

_5 o’clock._

I am more calm; the sight of you has helped me. The rapture of having
held you in my arms has done me immense good. I could not wait for the
moment. I thank you for the joy that you have given me. How I love you,
my good darling! Let us hope that some time all this sorrow is to end.

I must husband all my energy.

A thousand kisses more, my darling.

ALFRED.

_Thursday, 11 o’clock in the evening._

My Darling:

The nights are long; it is to you that I turn again and again; it is in
your eyes that I look for all my strength. It is in your profound love
that I find the courage to live. Not that the struggle makes me afraid,
but truly fate is too cruel to me. Could one imagine a situation more
awful, more tragic, for an innocent man? Could there be a martyrdom more
fraught with sorrow?

Happy is it for me that I have the deep affection with which both our
families surround me--that above everything I have your love, which pays
me for all my sufferings.

Forgive me if sometimes I complain; do not think that my soul is less
valiant because a groan escapes my lips; these cries relieve my heart;
and to whom could I cry if not to you, my dear wife?

A thousand kisses for you and for the little ones.

ALFRED.

* * * * *

_Wednesday, 5 o’clock._

My Darling:

I wish to write these few words more, so that you may find them
to-morrow morning when you awake. Our conversation, even through the
bars of the prison, has done me good. My limbs trembled under me when I
went down to met you, but I gathered all my strength, so that I should
not fall from my emotion. Even now my hand is still trembling; our
interview has violently shaken me. If I did not insist that you should
stay still longer it was because I was at the end of my strength. I had
to hide myself, so that I might weep a little; do not believe because I
weep that my soul is less brave or less strong; but my body is somewhat
weakened by three months of the prison, without a breath of the outer
air. I must have had a robust constitution to have been able to resist
all these tortures.

What has done me the most good is that I felt that you were so brave, so
valiant, so full of love for me. Let us, my dear wife, continue to
command the respect of the world by our attitude and by our courage. As
for me, you must have felt that I am decided to face everything. I want
my honor, and I shall have it. No obstacle shall stop me.

Kiss the babies for me. A thousand kisses.

ALFRED.

The parlor is to be occupied to-morrow, Thursday, from 1 until 4
o’clock. So you must come either in the morning between 10 and 11
o’clock, or in the afternoon at 4 o’clock. This takes place only
Thursdays and Sundays.

* * * * *

IN THE PRISON OF LA SANTE.

_5 January, 1895._

I will not tell you what I have suffered to-day. Your grief is great
enough already. I will not augment it.

In promising you to live, in promising you to resist until my name is
rehabilitated, I have made the greatest sacrifice that a man of deep
feeling of heart, an upright man, from whom his honor has been taken,
can make. My God, let not my physical strength abandon me! My spirit is
unshaken; a conscience that has nothing with which to reproach me
upholds me, but I am coming to the end of patience and of my physical
strength. After having consecrated all my life to honor, never having
deserved reproach, to be here, to have borne the most wounding affront
that can be inflicted upon a soldier!

Oh, my darling, do everything in the world to find the guilty one; do
not relax your efforts for one instant. That is my only hope in the
terrible misfortune which pursues me.

If only I may soon be with you there, and if we may soon be united, you
will give me back my strength and my courage. I have need of both. This
day’s emotions have broken my heart; my cell offers me no consolation.

Picture a little room all bare--four yards and a half long,
perhaps--closed by a grated garret window; a pallet standing against the
wall--no, I will not tear your heart, my poor darling.

I will tell you later, when we are happy again, what I have suffered
to-day, in all my wanderings, surrounded by men who are truly guilty,
how my heart has bled. I have asked myself why I was there; what I was
doing there. I seemed the victim of an hallucination; but alas! my
garments, torn, sullied, brought me back roughly to the truth. The looks
of scorn they cast on me told me too well why I was there. Oh, why could
not my heart have been opened by a surgeon’s knife, so that they might
have read the truth! All the brave, good people along my way could have
read it: “_This is a man of honor!_” But how easy it is to understand
them! In their place I could not have contained my contempt for an
officer who I had been told was a traitor. But alas! there is the
tragedy. There is a traitor, but it is not I!

Write to me soon; do everything in your power so that I may see you, for
my strength is giving way. I need to be upheld; come, so that we may be
together once again, that I may find in your heart all the strength I
need in this awful hour.

I embrace you as I love you.

_Saturday afternoon._

ALFRED.

* * * * *

_Saturday, 6 o’clock, January, 1895._

In my dark cell, in the tortures of my soul, which refuses to understand
why I suffer so, why God so punishes me, it is always to you that I
turn, my dear wife, who, in these sad and terrible moments, have shown
for me a devotion without boundaries, a love illimitable.

You have been and you are sublime; in my moments of weakness I have been
ashamed not to be at the height of your heroism. But this grief must
gnaw the best disciplined soul; the grief of seeing so many efforts, so
many years of honor, of devotion to one’s country, lost because of a
machination that seems to belong to the realms of the grotesque, rather
than to real life. Sometimes I cannot believe it; but these moments,
alas! are rare here, for subjected to the strictest discipline of the
prison cell, everything reminds me of the dark reality. Continue to
sustain me with your profound love, my darling; aid me in this awful
struggle for my honor; let me feel your beautiful soul throbbing close
to mine.

When can I see you?

I need affection and consolation in my sorrow.

Alas! I may have the courage of a soldier, but I ask myself have I the
heroic soul of the martyr!

A thousand good kisses for you, for our darlings. May these children be
your consolation.

A. DREYFUS.

Write to me often and at length. Think that I am here alone from morning
until evening, and from evening until morning. Not one sympathetic soul
comes to lighten my dark sorrow. I long to be there with you, where I
can wait in peace and tranquillity, until they rehabilitate me--until
they give me back my honor.

* * * * *

_7 o’clock, evening, 5 January, 1895._

I have just had a moment of terrible weakness; of tears mingled with
sobs; all my body shaken by the fever. It was the reaction from the
awful tortures of the day. It had to be--I knew it. But alas! instead of
being allowed to sob in your arms, to lean my head upon your breast, my
sobs have resounded in the emptiness of my prison. It is finished. Be
lifted up, my heart; I concentrate all my energy. Strong in my
conscience, pure and unstained, I owe myself to my family, I owe myself
to my name. I have not the right to desert. While there remains in me a
breath of life I will struggle, hoping that light soon may be let in
upon the truth. And do you continue your searches. As for me, the only
thing that I ask is to leave here as soon as possible; to find you
there; to settle down to our life there, while our friends, our
families, are busy here searching for the guilty one, so that we may
come back to our dear country, martyrs who have borne the most terrible,
the most harrowing, of trials.

_Saturday, 7:30 P. M._

It is the hour when we are obliged to go to bed. What will become of me?
What am I going to do when I am in my bed, a straw mattress supported on
iron rods. Physical sufferings are nothing--you know that I do not fear
them--but my moral tortures are far from being ended. Oh, my darling,
what did I do the day I promised you to live! I thought then that my
soul was stronger. It is easy to talk of being resigned because the
heart is innocent, but it is hard to be so.

Write to me soon, my darling; try to see me. I need to draw new strength
from your dear eyes.

A thousand kisses.

ALFRED.

* * * * *

_Sunday, 5 o’clock, 6 January, 1895._

Forgive me, my adored one, if in my letters yesterday I poured out my
grief and made a parade of my torture. I must confide them to some one.
What heart is better prepared than yours to receive the overflowing
grief of mine? It is your love that gives me courage to live; I must
feel the thrill of your love close to my heart. Let us show that we are
worthy of each other; that you are a noble, a sublime wife.

Courage, then, my darling. Do not think too much of me; you have other
duties to fulfil. You owe yourself to our dear children, to our name,
which must be restored to honor. Think, then, of all the noble duties
incumbent upon you. They are heavy, but I know that you will be capable
of undertaking, of accomplishing them all, if you do not let yourself be
beaten down--if you preserve your strength.

You must struggle, therefore, against yourself. Summon all your energy;
think only of your duties.

As to me, my darling, your know that I suffered yesterday even more than
you can imagine. I shall tell you how much some day, when we are once
more happy and united. For the present I hope but one thing. Since I am
useless to you here, and since, on the other hand, the search for the
guilty man will, I fear, be a long one, I hope to be sent down there
soon, and under the best conditions possible to wait there with you
until the combined efforts of all our relations shall have been
successful. The life of the prison cell is wearing me out, and I ask but
one thing, to be sent down there as soon as possible. I was heart-broken
this morning because I did not get any letters. Happily, at 2 o’clock,
the director of the prison brought me a package of good letters, which
gave me much pleasure. They have been the one ray of joy in my wretched
cell. Will you please send me my travelling rug, for it is very cold in
our cells.

Try to obtain permission to see me as soon as possible.

I embrace you a thousand times.

ALFRED.

Good kisses to the poor darlings.

* * * * *

_7 o’clock in the evening._

My God, how sorrowful is my soul! What in all my life have I done that I
should be thus punished? The wretch who has committed the crime of
betraying me, the wretch through whom I am lost, deserves, if there is a
God, a terrible chastisement. He deserves to be punished through all he
loves. In the name of my poor children I curse him.

_Monday, 5 P. M., 7 January, 1895._

My Darling:

I have borne for your sake, my adored one, for the name which my dear
children bear, the most agonizing, the most appalling, of calvaries for
a heart that is pure and honorable. I ask myself how I am yet alive.
That which sustained me is, above all else, the hope that I shall soon
be united to you down there. Then, though innocent as I am, but
sustained as I shall be by your profound love, I shall have the patience
to await in exile the vindication of my name. There, too, I shall work,
I shall be busy. I shall impose silence upon my heart and my brain by
force of physical fatigue. But in my prison it would be difficult to
live, for my thought always brings me fatally back to my condition.

They have not given me any letter from you to-day; do not be anxious, my
darling, if my letters do not reach you regularly. I will write to you
every day as long as I am permitted to.

I have been told that I can see you Monday and Friday. Alas! Monday has
passed, and I am obliged to wait until Friday. I wait with extreme joy
for the moment when I can kiss you; when I can throw myself into your
arms. It is in your eyes, in your noble heart, that I find the strength
needful to enable me to bear my fearful tortures of soul. I should
almost like it better had I some sin upon my conscience; then I should,
at least, have something to expiate. But alas! you know, my darling, how
honest, how upright, my life has always been.

I will do all I can to live. I will do all I can to resist until the
supreme moment when they give back to me the honor of my name.

But I shall bear the waiting better when you are there, in exile, with
me. So, together, proud and worthy of one another, we will, in exile,
give proof of the calm of two pure, honest hearts; of two hearts whose
thoughts have always all been given to our dear country--France.

Good kisses to our poor darlings. Kisses to all our friends.

I embrace you as I love you.

ALFRED.

* * * * *

_8 January, 1895._

My Darling:

They have given to me to-day your letters of Sunday, also those sent to
me by R., H. and A.

Thank them all. Give them news of me. Pray them to write to me, but tell
them that it is impossible for me to answer them all. Not that the time
is lacking, alas! but I cannot abuse the time and the kindness of the
director of the prison, who is obliged to read all my letters. I am
relatively strong in this sense: that I live by hope. But I feel that
this situation cannot be prolonged. I have, and this is easy to
understand, moments of violent revolt against the injustice of my fate.
It is truly terrible to suffer as I have suffered through these long
months for a crime of which I am innocent. My brain, after all these
shocks, has moments of wandering.

I hope to see Me. Demange this evening and to beg of him to take steps
with those who have the power to grant my prayer, so that they will,
under conditions which I shall indicate, arrange to have me sent into
exile with you, to wait until light is let in upon this crime. As to
this last, I have great hope. My efforts must eventually have their
reward. But I must have air, hard physical work, your dear society, to
steady my brain, which has been shaken by so many shocks. Great God, how
little I expected them!

Pray Me. Demange, who has obtained permission to see me, to come as soon
as he can, so that I may explain to him the favor asked by an innocent
man waiting until complete justice shall be done him.

You ask me also, my darling, what I do from morning until night. I do
not want to tell you all my sad reflections. Your grief is great enough,
and it is useless to add to it. What I have said above will tell you
what at this moment I desire, exile with you in the free air, while I
await my vindication.

As to the rest I will tell it all to you by and by, when we are together
again and happy.

I will confide one thing to you, however--in the moments of my deepest
sadness, in my moments of violent crisis, a star shines all at once,
lighting up my brain and beaming upon me. It is your image, my darling,
it is your adored image that I hope soon to behold face to face. And
with that before me I can wait patiently until they give me back that
which I hold dearest in this world--my honor, my honor that has never
failed me.

Embrace them all for me. Kisses to the darlings.

I embrace you a thousand times.

ALFRED.

How impatiently I wait for Friday! What a pity that you came to-day at
the hour of the director’s luncheon; had you come at some other time
perhaps they might have permitted you to embrace me.

_Tuesday, 7 o’clock in the evening._

They have just given me a whole package of letters--from Jeanmaire, from
your father, from Louise, and from you. Thank them all for writing to
me. The letters have made me weep, but they have eased my wounded soul.
Answer every one for me.

* * * * *

_9 January, 1895, Wednesday, 5 o’clock._

My good Darling:

I, also, receive my letters only after a long delay. They have only now
given me your letter of Tuesday morning. With it were numerous letters
from all the family. What can we do, my darling? We must bow our heads,
we must suffer without complaining. Truly, even now, when I think it
over, I wonder how I could have had the courage to promise you to live
on after my condemnation. That day, that Saturday, is burned into my
mind in letters of fire. I have the courage of the soldier who goes
forward gladly to meet death face to face: but alas! shall I have the
soul of the martyr?

But be tranquil, my darling. I shall force myself to live and to resist
until the day of my vindication. I have borne without flinching the
anguish of the most wounding affront that can be imposed upon a man of
heart who is innocent, whose conscience is pure. My heart has bled; it
bleeds still. I live only by the hope that they will give me back my
place in the army, the place I won by gallant and meritorious
conduct--the _galons_ that no act of mine had ever sullied!

And moreover, whatever sufferings may still await me, my heart commands
me to live. I must resist; I must resist for the name that is borne by
my dear children, for the name of all the family.

But duty is sometimes hard to follow. You speak of my life in this
prison--what good can it do to increase your sadness, my darling? Your
grief is great enough without my augmenting it by my complaining.

I live by hope, my good darling. I live, because I believe that it is
impossible that the truth shall not some day be made clear, because it
cannot be that my innocence shall not be some day recognised and
proclaimed by this dear France--my country, to whom I have always
brought my intelligence and my strength--to whom I would have
consecrated all the blood that is in my veins.

I must have patience; I must draw it from the deep well of your love,
from the affection of all those who love us, and from the conviction
that I shall ultimately be rehabilitated.

A thousand kisses to the darlings.

I embrace you as I love you.

ALFRED.

* * * * *

Your letter tells me that they have refused to permit Me. Demange to see
me; I hope, notwithstanding this, that they will soon accord him the
permission.

I count the hours until Friday, when I shall see you. Thanks for the
good letters I receive from all. Thank them all for me and tell them
that one of the best hours in my day is that which I pass in reading my
letters. But I am incapable of answering all of them. I can say nothing
except that I am resigned and that I expect that the truth will be
discovered.

_10 January, 1895, 9 A. M._

Since two o’clock this morning I could not sleep for thinking that
to-day I should see you. It seems that even now I hear your sweet voice
speaking to me of my dear children, of our dear families, and if I weep
I am not ashamed of it, for the martyrdom that I endure is truly cruel
for a man who is innocent.

Who is the monster who has thrown the brand of evil, of dishonor, into a
brave and honorable family?

If there is such a thing as justice on this earth, there is no
punishment too great to be reserved for him, no torture that should not
some day be inflicted on him.

But my courage is not weakening. I have painful moments, when my eyes
are veiled by the mournful darkness of the present; but I comfort myself
by looking forward to the future.

Your devotion is so heroic--you are all making such powerful efforts, it
is impossible that the truth shall be forever hidden. Besides that, the
truth must be made plain, _it must be_; the will is a powerful lever.

Now, at once, my darling, I am to have the joy of embracing you, of
clasping you in my arms. I count the seconds which separate me from that
happy moment.

_Half-past 3 o’clock, P. M., 10 January, 1895._

The moment is passed, my darling; so quick, so short, that it seems to
me I have not told you the twentieth part of what I had to say. How
heroic you are, my adored one! How sublime is your self-forgetfulness,
your devotion! I can do nothing but wonder at you.

Under the combined influence of your loving sympathy and of your heroic
efforts I have not the right to hesitate.

I will suffer, then, I will not murmur, but let me when my heart
overflows weep out my anguish on your breast.

The cruelest of all is this--I cannot repeat it too often--it is not the
physical suffering that I endure; it is this atmosphere of contempt
which surrounds my name--your name, my adored Lucie. You know that I
have always been proud, dignified. You know that I have held duty above
all else. You can therefore appreciate all that I suffer now. And that
is why I wish to live; that is why I cry my innocence to all the world.
I will cry it each day until my last breath, while in my body there is
one drop of blood.

I shall find in your dear eyes the courage needful for my martyrdom. I
shall draw from the memory of my children the strength to resist to the
end of my agony.

Bring me your portrait, too. I will place it between the pictures of our
darlings, and contemplating those faces, I shall each day, each instant,
read my duty.

Embrace all for me.

ALFRED DREYFUS.

Thank your sister Alice for her excellent letter, which has given me a
great deal of pleasure. Also give me news of all the members of the
family, to whom I cannot write. Tell them that their letters are always
welcome.

I embrace you tenderly.

ALFRED.

* * * * *

_Half-past 7 in the evening._

I have to-day received no letter from you--no letter from any one. Have
they been stopped on the way? However that may be, I have to-day been
deprived of the only ray of sunlight which can lighten the darkness of
my prison.

P. S. Just now, as I was about to go to bed, they brought me a package
of letters, which I am going to devour with delight.

* * * * *

_Thursday, 5 o’clock in the evening, 11 January,
1895._

My Darling:

I thank you for your two last letters (one written Tuesday and the other
written, I think, Wednesday morning). They have just given them to me.
Write to me morning and evening. Although I receive the two letters at
the same time, nevertheless I can follow you in my thoughts. I see you
in all you do. It seems to me that I am living near to you.

I occupy my time in reading and in writing; in that way I try to calm
the fever of my brain; to think no more of my situation, so sad, so
undeserved.

Forgive me, my darling, if sometimes I complain. What would you, at
times memory is so bitter! I need to throw myself upon your breast,
there to pour out my overburdened heart. We have always understood each
other’s thoughts so well, my darling, that I am sure that your strong
and generous heart beats with the indignation of my own.

We were so happy--everything in life smiled upon us. Do you remember
when I told you that we had nothing for which to envy any one; that all
was ours? Position, fortune, the love we bore each other, our adorable
little children--we had everything.

There was not a cloud on the horizon; then came the awful thunderbolt,
so unexpected, so unbelievable! Even now it seems sometimes that I must
be the victim of a horrible nightmare.

I do not complain of physical sufferings, you know that I despise them;
but to know that an accusation of infamy stains my name, when I am
innocent--oh, no! no! This is why I have borne all my torment, all the
anguish, all the insults. I am convinced that soon or late the truth
will come to light, and then they will do me justice.

I can easily excuse this anger, this rage of all the people--the noble
people, who have been taught to believe that there is a traitor; but I
want to live so that they may know that the traitor is not I.

Upheld by your love, by the boundless love of all of ours, I shall
overcome fatality. I do not say that I shall not still have moments of
despondency, even of despair. Truly not to complain of an error so
monstrous would require a grandeur of soul to which I cannot pretend.
But my heart will remain strong and valiant.

Then courage and energy, my darling. We must all be brave and strong.
Let us lift up our heads all of us, carry them high and proudly. We are
martyrs. I will live, my adored one, because I will that you shall bear
my name, as you have borne it until now, with honor, with joy, and with
love; and because I will to transmit it to our children without a stain.

Therefore do not allow yourselves to be beaten down by
adversity--neither you nor the others. Search for the truth without
parleying, without a truce.

As to me, I shall wait with the strength born of a pure and tranquil
conscience until this mysterious and tragical affair is dragged into the
light.

You know, moreover, my darling, that the only mercy I have ever asked
for is the truth; I hope that my countrymen will not fail in the duty
which they owe to a fellow-man, who asks one right only--that the search
for the truth may be kept up.

And when the light shines in on my vindication; when they give me back
my _galons_ that I won, and that I am as worthy to wear now as when I
won them by my own might; when I am once more in my own place, at the
head of my troopers, oh, then, my darling, I shall forget
everything--the sufferings, the torture, the insults, the bleeding
wounds.

May God and human justice grant that the day break soon!

Until to-morrow, my adored Lucie! Then shall I have the pleasure of
embracing you again. Now I am counting the hours; to-morrow I shall
count the minutes.

I embrace you fondly.

ALFRED.

Good, long kisses to our two darlings. I dare not think of them. Talk to
them about me. Let not these young souls suffer from our sadness.
Embrace every one at home for me.

* * * * *

_12 January, 1895, Saturday, 4 o’clock._

How short was that half hour yesterday! I arrange in my mind in advance
just how I shall employ every minute, so that I may not forget what I
want to say. Then the time goes by as in a dream; and all at once the
interview is over, and again I have said almost nothing.

How can two beings like you and me be so cruelly tried?

Do you remember the charming plans that we had sketched out for this
very winter? We ought to profit a little by our liberty when we are
together to go back to those days when, two young lovers, we wandered
together in the land of the sun. Ah, it cannot be possible! All this
anguish, all that is passing now, is inhuman. If there is a God, if
there is any justice in this world, we must believe that the truth must
declare itself soon; that we shall be recompensed for all that we have
suffered.

I have put the children’s photographs before me on the little table of
my cell. When I look at them the tears rush to my eyes, my heart
bursts--but at the same time it does me good, it strengthens my courage.
Bring me your photograph, too. Your three faces before my eyes will be
the companions of my mournful solitude.

Ah, my darling wife, you have a noble mission to fulfil, and for it you
need all your energy. That is why I am always begging of you to care for
your health. Your physical strength is more necessary than ever before.
You owe yourself to your children first, then to the name they bear. It
must be proven to the whole world that that name is pure and stainless.

Oh, for light upon my tragic situation! How I long for it! How I wait
for it! How I would buy it if I could, not only with all my
fortune--that would be nothing--but with my very blood!

If only I could put my brain to sleep! If I could prevent it from
thinking always of this unexplainable mystery! I long to pierce the
shadows; I long to tear up the earth that the daylight may burst
through.

You will answer, and with justice, that I must be patient; that time is
necessary to discover the truth. Alas! I know it. But what would you?
The minutes to me seem hours. It always seems to me that some one will
come to me in another minute and say:

“Forgive us, we were deceived; the mistake has been discovered.”

Now I am waiting for Monday. Henceforth the weeks for me are composed
but of the two days when you come to visit me. You cannot know how I
marvel at your self-sacrifice, your heroism, how I draw courage from
your love, so profound, so devoted.

Thank your sister Alice for her excellent letter, which has given me
great pleasure. Give news of me to all the members of the family to whom
I cannot write. Tell them that their letters are always most welcome.

I embrace you tenderly, fondly.

ALFRED.

* * * * *

_14 January, 1895, Monday, 9 o’clock in the morning._

At last the happy day has come again when I can have the happiness of
seeing you, of kissing you, of receiving news by word of mouth of you
all. I have so many things to tell you; but when I see you shall not I
again, in the emotion which will seize me, forget everything? Last night
again I could not sleep until two o’clock. I was thinking of you, of you
all, of this fearful enigma which I long to decipher. I have turned over
in my mind a thousand ways, each more violent, more extravagant than the
other, by which to rend the veil which shields the monster.

How can I help it, my darling? Night and day I think only of that. My
mind is always straining to reach that end, and I cannot help you in any
way. It is the feeling of my utter helplessness which hurts me most.

I try hard to read, but while my eyes follow the lines my thoughts
wander.

And now, immediately, my darling, I am to have the joy of seeing you!

Waiting for that moment, I pace my cell like a lion in its cage.

* * * * *

_14 January, 1895, 1 o’clock._

The time drags slowly; the minutes are hours. How can I use up my
energy! How can I restrain my heart! Sometimes I lose my patience. It is
not the courage, the energy that I lack--you know it well--and my
conscience gives me superhuman force, but it is this terrible idleness,
this longing to be able to help you to pursue the only object of my
life, to discover the wretch who has stolen my honor; this is what burns
in my blood. Ah, I would rather mount alone to the assault of ten
redoubts than be here powerless, inactive, waiting passively for the
truth to be revealed! I envy the man who breaks stones on the highway,
absorbed in his mechanical labor. But, my darling, I shall soon see you
now, and you will give me back my patience.

* * * * *

_3 o’clock._

Already the time has passed as in a dream, ... and I had so many things
to tell you, ... and then when I am

[Illustration: CAPTAIN ALFRED DREYFUS

This portrait is enlarged from a photograph taken on the occasion of his
degradation.]

in your presence I look at you, I no longer can remember anything. All
that happens to me then appears a dream; it seems to me that never again
shall we be separated--that I am awaking from my horrible nightmare. But
alas! then comes reality--our parting.

Ah, the wretch who committed the crime--who stole our honor! It is no
ordinary punishment that he deserves. When the day comes and his guilt
is known I hope that public opinion may nail his name to the pillory of
history, that his punishment may be beyond all that we can imagine.

I ask you to forgive me for my weakness, for my impatience. But think,
my darling, what these long hours are to me--these long days.

But I am calmer after each interview. I draw new strength, a new store
of patience from your looks, from your love.

Ah, the truth! We must reveal it, it must shine forth clear and
luminous. I live only for that; I live only by that hope.

And this truth, as you have so truly said, must be entire,
absolute--there must be left no doubt in the mind of any one. My
innocence must burst forth. Everybody--all must recognize it--they must
know that my honor stands as high as that of any man on the earth.

And it is to this end that I must be patient.... I realize it as you do,
... but the heart has reasons that reason knows not! If I could only put
my brain to sleep until the day when they find the guilty one I should
bear physical torments valiantly, I should not waver. And then think of
the atmosphere that is to envelop me on the path I have yet to follow!

But my heart must be silent. I gain each time new strength, new
patience, from your dear eyes.

Do not think any longer of my sufferings. You can comfort me only in
doing as you have done--in searching for the guilty one, without a
thought of truce--without an hour of rest.

I have read Pierrot’s few lines in Marie’s letter. Thank them both,
particularly the hand that directed the hand of Pierrot.

Make of our dear children vigorous and healthy beings.

I embrace you as I love you.

ALFRED.

* * * * *

_Tuesday, 15 January, 1895, 9 o’clock in the morning._

My Darling:

I was thinking a great deal last night of what you said yesterday when
you urged me to be patient; when you explained to me that nothing is
done in a day. Alas! I know it well; but I suffer precisely because of
my good qualities, which are defects situated as we are now. I am an
active man, and I am impatient to have it deciphered--this enigma that
is torturing my brain.

But you understand, my darling, since you know me so well. It is useless
for me to tell each day of the fevers of impatience which at times
overcome me; the paroxysms of crazy anger which at times carry me
away....

Yesterday I received good news. They told me that I am to see your
mother to-day. I am rejoicing over it in advance.

_Half-past 5 o’clock._

I have seen Me. Demange for a few minutes; afterward I had the pleasure
of seeing your mother.

I was so enervated to-day that I almost fainted before her. I could not
help it. Sometimes I become again a man, with all man’s weakness, with
all man’s passions. You must admit that there is in my situation enough
to break down the strongest.

Ah, believe that were it not for you--for our dear children--it would be
far easier for me to die! But I must bear up and face my sorrow. I must
tell myself that I will bear all the agony, all the martyrdom, until the
time when my innocence shall burst forth in the light of day.

It is impossible that it can be otherwise.

I shall hold out to the end, be sure of it; but at times I will give way
to cries of wrath--to cries of anguish.

Embrace them all, our darlings, for me.

Your devoted

ALFRED.

* * * * *

_7 o’clock._

My moment of weakness is past. I see and I live in the future. Courage,
then, all of us. Sooner or later innocence will triumph.

Go forward without flinching on the path you have marked out, as I shall
go forward without weakening on my dolorous journey.

_Wednesday, 16 January, 1895,
10 o’clock in the morning._

My Darling:

I have succeeded in conquering my nerves. I have silenced the tumult of
my soul. It does no good to be impatient, since I am resolved to live to
see my innocence proclaimed.

I know that it will require time--yes, a long time--but I shall wait, as
I promised you that I would, with calmness and with dignity until the
truth is known. My conscience will give me the necessary strength.

I will prepare my soul to bear without a murmur the suffering which yet
awaits me. I will stifle the sobs of my bleeding heart.

Yesterday I lost for some minutes the sense of my existence; remember
that it is now three months that I have been shut up in this room, a
prey to the most appalling mental tortures that can be inflicted upon a
man of heart; but by a violent effort of my whole being I regained
possession of myself.

It is, above all, my nerves that are weak; my spirit is what it was in
the beginning.

But you all are united in will, in intelligence, and in devotion;
therefore I have the conviction that soon or late the day will dawn. I
shall not belie your efforts.

Let us speak no more of it.

What shall I tell you? My daily life? You know it! I have described it
to you in its smallest details. My thoughts? They are all of you, of our
dear children, of our dear families. Still two more days to wait before
I can see you and embrace you. How long the interval is that separates
our interviews, and how short the time of our meetings! I would make the
time run by when you are far from me. I would make it an eternity when
you are with me.

What courage you give me to live, my darling; what patience I draw from
the deep well of your eyes, from the memories you recall to me, from my
duty to our darlings.

* * * * *

_1 o’clock._

I have just received your two dear letters of Tuesday. You are right to
speak to me of our dear ones. Though every thought of them rends my
heart, their chatter, which you repeat to me, awakes in me happy and
touching memories, and faith comes back to me--a faith in better days.

I agree absolutely with you as to the work in which you are engaged.
Calmness, time, and perseverance are needful if we would go on to the
end. I know it well; I should do just as you are doing were I in your
place, preferring to advance slowly but surely rather than lose all by
thoughtless haste. But I, alas! I am shut up between four walls, idle,
my blood on fire and my point of view is necessarily different from
yours.

They have just told me that my two sisters will come to see me at two
o’clock. What a happiness it is to see those who belong to one!

* * * * *

_5 o’clock._

I have seen Louise and Rachel. I have felt that their hearts beat with
mine, that they share my sufferings. Their faith in the future is
absolute. I hope as they do.

What devotion I meet in our wonderful families, in our friends! It
consoles me, moreover, for the weakness of humanity. Truly we can judge
of people only when we are in trouble.

I embrace you a thousand times, as I love you.

Your devoted

ALFRED.

Dear Jeanne must be changing in her appearance. Is she becoming as
handsome as a girl as her brother is handsome as a boy?

* * * * *

_Thursday, 17 January, 1895, 9 o’clock._

What a part these accursed nerves play in human life! Why cannot we
entirely disengage our material being from our moral personality, so
that one shall not influence the other?

My moral personality is always salient, always strong, as ever resolved
to go on to the end; it is determined to face all. I must get back my
honor that they tore from me, although I had never faltered. But my
material personality is subjected to rude shocks. My nerves, which have
been too tensely strung during nearly three months, make me suffer
horribly at times, and I have not even the resource of violent physical
exercise by which to subdue them. I am to be given some medicine to-day
to relax their tension.

Ah, when I think of those who have accused me and caused my
condemnation! May remorse pursue them and make them bear the anguish
that I am bearing. But let us talk of other things.

How are you, my darling? How are the children? I hope that you all may
continue to be well. Be careful of yourself; you have not the right to
allow yourself to be broken down. You have need of all your courage and
of all your energy; and therefore you need all your physical strength.

At last the time has come. To-morrow will be Friday. How long that day
is in coming! Happily the time seemed a little less long this week; for
yesterday and the day before I heard of you from those who came to see
me.

After all, why should not I, too, have confidence, when I feel around me
all this friendship, all this affection, all this devotion!

But that which I must have above all things is patience.

* * * * *

_2 o’clock._

They have given me your letter of yesterday. I find that I moan enough
of my own accord without encouragement from you to do so still more. Ah,
how terrible this helplessness is, when I long to cry aloud my
innocence, proclaim it, prove it! Well, all this will do no good. It is
necessary, as I cannot reiterate too often, as every one must have told
you for me--it is necessary to search on without truce, without rest.

The will is a lever which pries up and breaks in pieces all obstacles.

Yesterday I received a good letter from your sister; to-day one from
your mother. I have, alas! nothing in particular to tell them. My life,
you know it hour by hour. You can describe it to them as completely as I
could. Tell your mother that she must not fear anything. I have nervous
weakness, which is easily explained, but my mind remains strong. My soul
needs the truth, it demands its honor, and it shall have it. I shall
not belie your efforts.

Sooner or later, my darling, our happiness will return to us. I have the
firm conviction of this. The hardest of all is to have the patience that
is absolutely necessary. Happy is it for you that you have a powerful
diversion--action.

Until to-morrow, my darling, when I shall have the pleasure of seeing
you, of talking with you, of kissing you!

A thousand kisses.

Your devoted husband,

ALFRED.

Good kisses to the dear ones.

* * * * *

JANUARY AND FEBRUARY, 1895.

THE PRISON OF SAINT-MARTIN DE RE.

_19 January, 1895._

My Darling:

Thursday evening, toward ten o’clock, they came to wake me to bring me
here, where I arrived only last night. I do not want to speak of my
journey, it would break your heart. Know only that I have heard the
legitimate cries of a brave and generous people against him whom they
believe to be a traitor, the lowest of wretches. I am no longer sure if
I have a heart.

Oh, what a sacrifice I made the day of my condemnation, when I promised
you that I should not kill myself! What a sacrifice I made to the name
of my poor, dear, little children, in bearing what I am undergoing! If
there is a divine justice, we must hope that I shall be recompensed for
this long and fearful torture, for this suffering of every minute and
every instant. The other day your father told me that he would have
preferred death. And I--I would rather, a hundred thousand times rather,
be dead. But this right to die belongs to none of us; the more I suffer
the more must it impel your courage and your resolution to find the
truth. Look on for the truth, do not waver, do not rest. Let your
efforts be in proportion to the sufferings which I have imposed upon
myself.

Will you please ask, or have some one ask, at the Ministry for the
following authorizations; the Minister alone can accord them:

1. The right to write to all the members of my family--father, mother,
brothers, and sisters.

2. The right to write and to work in my cell. At present I have neither
_paper_, nor _pen_, nor _ink_. I am given only the sheet of paper on
which I write to you; then they take away my pen and ink.

3. Permission to smoke.

I beg you not to come before you are completely cured.

The climate here is very rigorous, and you need all your health, first
for our dear children, then for the end for which you are working. _As
to my régime here, I am forbidden to speak to you of it._

And now I must remind you that before you come here you must provide
yourself with _all_ the authorizations necessary _to see me_; do not
forget to ask permission _to kiss me_, etc., etc.

When shall we be reunited, my darling? I live in the hope of that, and
in the still greater hope of my restoration to honor. But oh, how my
soul suffers! Tell all our family that they must work on without
weakening, without resting; for all that comes to us now is appalling,
tragic. Write to me soon. I embrace you as I love you.

ALFRED.

* * * * *

_Tuesday, 21 January, 1895, 9 o’clock in the morning._

How you must suffer!... The tragedy of which we are the
victims is certainly the most terrible of the century. To have
everything--happiness, the future, a charming home--and then, all at
once, to be accused and condemned for a crime so monstrous!

Ah, the monster who has cast dishonor in our family might better have
killed me; at least there would then have been only me to suffer! This
is what tortures me the most; it is the thought of the infamy that is
coupled with my name. If I had only physical sufferings to bear, it
would be nothing. Sufferings borne for a noble cause are elevating; but
to suffer because I am condemned for an infamous crime--ah, no! Cannot
you see that it is too much, even for energy like mine?

Oh, why am I not dead? I have not even the right to leave this life of
my own will; it would be an act of cowardice. I have not the right to
die, to look for oblivion, until I shall have regained my honor. The
other day when they insulted me at La Rochelle, I wished that I might
escape from the hands of my guards and present myself with naked breast
to those to whom I was a just object of indignation and say to them: “Do
not insult me; my heart that you cannot know is pure and free from all
defilement; but if you believe me guilty, here, take my body; I give it
up to you without regret.”

At least then, when under the sharp sting of physical suffering, I
should still have cried, “_Vive la France!_” Perhaps then they would
have believed in my innocence.

After all, what do I beg for night and day? Justice, justice! Are we in
the nineteenth century, or must we turn back for centuries? Is it
possible that innocence can be unrecognized in a century of light and
truth? They must search for the truth. I do not ask for mercy, but I
demand the justice due to every human creature. They must search. Let
those who possess powerful means of investigation use them to this end;
it is a sacred duty which they owe to humanity and justice. It is
impossible that light shall not be thrown upon my mysterious and tragic
fate.

O God! who will give me back my honor that has been stolen from me,
basely stolen from me? Oh, what a dark drama, my poor darling! As you
have so truly said, it surpasses anything that can be imagined.

I have but two happy moments in my days, but so short. The first is when
they bring me this sheet of paper so that I can write to you--I pass a
few moments in talking with you. The second is when they bring me your
daily letter. The rest of the time I am alone with my thoughts; and God
knows that they are sad and dark.

When is this horrible drama to end? When will the truth at last be
known? Oh, my fortune, all of it, to the one who is adroit, able enough,
to solve this sad enigma!

Tell me about all our friends.

Embrace them all for me.

I dare not speak of our darlings. When I look at their photographs, when
I see their eyes so good, so sweet, the sobs rise from my heart to my
lips. When we suffer for some thing or for some one it is easy to
understand.... But why and, above all, for whom am I suffering this
odious martyrdom?

I press you to my heart.

ALFRED.

Do not come until you are completely recovered and in excellent health.
Our children have need of you.

* * * * *

_23 January, 1895._

My Darling:

I receive your letters every day. As yet they have given me none from
any member of the family, and, on my side, I have not yet received the
authorization to write to them. I have written to you every day since
Saturday. I hope that you have received all my letters.

You must not be astonished, my darling, at the scene of La Rochelle. I
find it perfectly natural. What astonishes me is that no one has yet
been found to come forward and tell what our families really
are--families whose names are synonymous with loyalty and honor. Ah,
human cowardice, I have measured its length and breadth in these sad,
dark days!

When I think of what I was but a few months ago, and when I compare it
with my miserable situation to-day, I confess that my heart faints, that
I give way to ferocious outbreaks against the injustice of my lot. Truly
I am the victim of the most hideous error of our century. At times my
reason refuses to believe it; it seems to me that I am the dupe of a
terrible hallucination, that it will all vanish; ... but, alas! the
reality is all around me.

Why did not we all die before the beginning of this tragedy? Truly it
would have been preferable. And now we have not the right to die, not
one of us has that right. We must live to cleanse our name of the stain
with which it has been sullied. My conviction is absolute; I am sure
that sooner or later the light will shine out. It is impossible in an
age like ours that search shall not result in the discovery of the one
who is really guilty; but what shall I be, mentally and physically, at
that time? I believe that life will have no more attraction for me, and
if I cling to it, it will be for your sake, my dear heart, whose
devotion has been heroic through all these terrible hours--for you and
for my dear children, to whom I wish to restore their honorable name.

But whatever may come, I am sure that history will place things in their
true position. There will be in our dear country of France, so easily
excited, but so generous to innocent sufferers, some man honest and
courageous enough to try to find the truth.

And I, my darling, what can I say to you? That my heart is broken; at
least they will have accomplished that. But be tranquil; until my last
breath I shall stand firm. I will not weaken, nor bow my head.

My honor is equal to that of any man on the earth. I demand justice; you
also must demand it. This is all the mercy that I beg for. I ask for
nothing but the truth--the whole truth.

And this truth, if we pursue it steadfastly, we shall have at last; it
is impossible that such an error can rest unexposed.

When I look back, my sufferings are so appalling that I am seized by
terrible nervous shocks. I look forward always with the hope that soon
all will be made clear and that they will give me back my honor--the
thing I hold dearest in this world.

May God and justice grant that it may be soon! Truly I have suffered
enough. We all have suffered enough.

I hope that you always take good care of your health. You need, my
darling, all your physical strength to be able to bear the moral
tortures that are inflicted upon you.

How are all the members of our two families? Give me news of them, since
I cannot hear directly from them.

Kiss our two darlings for me--my love to all the family.

I embrace you with all my strength.

ALFRED.

* * * * *

_24 January, 1895._

My dear Lucie:

I see by your letter dated Tuesday, that as yet you have not heard from
me. How you must suffer, my poor darling! What horrible martyrdom for us
both! Are we unfortunate enough? Oh, what have we done that we must bear
such misfortune! It is this that makes it so appalling that we must ask
ourselves of what crime we have been culpable, what sin we are
expiating.

Ah, the monster who has cast shame and dishonor into the midst of an
honorable family! Such a one deserves absolutely no mercy. His crime is
so terrible that reason refuses to comprehend such infamy joined to
such cowardice. To me it seems impossible that such machinations shall
not soon or late be discovered, that such a crime can rest unpunished.

Last night there was a moment when the reality of my position seemed to
me a dream, horrible, strange, supernatural, from which I tried to
arouse myself, to awake. But, alas! it was not a dream. I tried to
escape from this awful nightmare, to find myself again in my own real
life, such as it ought to be, among you all, in your arms, my darling,
with my dear children by our side.

Ah, when shall this blessed day arrive? To that end spare neither time
nor effort nor money. Even if I am ruined as far as my fortune goes, I
do not care for that; but I want my honor; it is for that that I bear
these cruel tortures. Alas! I bear them as best I can. There are times
when I have moments of crushing despondency; when it seems to me that
death would be a thousand times preferable to the torture of soul that I
endure; but by a violent effort of the will I regain possession of
myself. What would you? I must at times give my grief free course; I can
bear it with more firmness afterward.

After all, let us hope that this horrible agony may end--that is my only
reason for living, that is my only hope.

The days and the nights are long. My brain is always searching for the
answer to this appalling riddle that it cannot solve.

Oh, if only I might, with the sharp blade of my sword, tear aside the
impenetrable veil that surrounds my tragic fate! It is impossible that
in the end this shall not be done.

Tell me everything that concerns you all, because yours are the only
letters I receive. Tell me of our dear children, of your own health.

I embrace you as I love you.

ALFRED.

* * * * *

_Friday, 25 January, 1895._

My dear Lucie:

Your letter of yesterday wrung my heart. The sorrow transpierced every
word.

Never, surely, have two unfortunate creatures suffered as we suffer. If
I had not faith in the future, if my conscience, clean and pure, did not
tell me that such an error cannot exist eternally, I should, of a truth,
give way to the darkest thoughts. I should despair. Once, as you know, I
determined to kill myself; I yielded to your remonstrances; I have
promised you to live, for you have made me realize that I have not the
right to desert my post; because I am innocent I must live. But alas! if
you could know how, sometimes, it is more difficult to live than to die!

But be tranquil, my darling; no matter how I am tortured I shall not
belie your generous efforts. I will live ... as long as my physical
strength and, above all, my moral strength hold out.

All night long I thought of you, my darling; I suffered with you. I have
written to you every day since last Saturday. I hope that by this time
you have received all my letters.

I do not know either on whom or on what to fix my ideas. When I look
back to the past anger rises to my brain, so impossible it seems to me
that everything has been thus wrested from me. When I look to the
present, my plight is so wretched that my thoughts turn toward death, in
which I might forget all my misery. It is only when I look forward to
the future that I have a moment of consolation, for, as I have just told
you, hope is all that gives me life.

Just now I gazed for several minutes at the pictures of our dear
children; but I could not bear to look at them longer; my sobs strangled
me. Yes, my darling, I must live. I must bear my martyrdom to the end,
for the name borne by these dear little ones. Some day they must learn
that this name is worthy to be honored, to be respected; they must be
sure that if I hold the honor of many men below my own, there is none
that I hold above it.

Ah, surely it is full time that this horrible suffering to which we are
all subjected should end! I dare not think of it. Everything within me
swells my heart to bursting.

I embrace you a thousand, thousand times, and our good darlings.

ALFRED.

* * * * *

_Friday, 4 o’clock._

They have given me your letter of Friday, in which you tell me that you
have received my last letter. You are asked to abstain from making any
reflections upon the measures taken in regard to us. Henceforth I shall
no longer have the right to write to you more than twice a week. You can
write to me every day. Do it, my darling, for that is the only thing
that gives me courage to live. If I could not feel your warm affection,
the love of all of ours, struggling with me for my honor, I should not
have the courage to pursue this almost superhuman task. They still give
me no letters from any of the family, and I am not permitted to write to
them. The Minister is the only one who can modify this state of things.

You cannot imagine, my poor child, how unhappy I am. Night and day I
think of the horrible word that is coupled with my name; there are times
when my brain refuses to admit such a thing. I ask myself, in my
agitated nights, if I am awake or if I sleep. Added to everything else I
have no occupation by which to distract my sombre thoughts.

I kiss you a thousand times, and also all the others.

ALFRED.

* * * * *

_28 January, 1895._

My dear Lucie:

This is one of the happy days of my sad existence, because I can come to
pass half an hour with you, talking to you and telling you of my life.
You know that I am permitted to write to you but twice a week. I have
received your two letters, of Friday and Saturday. Each time that they
bring me a letter from you a ray of joy pierces to my wounded heart.
What you told me in your letter of Saturday is perfectly true. Like you,
I have the absolute conviction that all will be discovered, but when?
You know that in the end everything is blunted, even the most heroic
courage. And, then, between the courage that makes a man confront
danger--no matter what danger it may be--and the courage that enables
him to bear, without fainting, the worst of outrages, scorn and shame,
there is a great difference. I have never lowered my head, believe it;
my conscience forbade that. I have a right to look all the world in the
face. But, alas! all the world cannot look into my soul, into my
conscience. The fact is there, brutal and terrible. That is why each
time that I receive one of your dear letters I have a ray of hope; I
hope at last to hear some good news. If the Léons have come back to
Paris, their impatience not letting them wait, only think how it is with
me. I know that you all suffer as I do, that you partake of my anguish
and my tortures, but you have your activity to distract you, a little,
from this awful sorrow; while I am here, impatient, shut up alone night
and day with my thoughts.

I ask myself even now how my brain has been strong enough to resist so
many and so oft-repeated blows; how is it that I have not gone mad.

It is certain, my darling, that it is only your profound love which can
make me still hold on to life. To have consecrated all my strength, all
my intelligence, to the service of my country, and then suddenly to be
accused of the greatest, the most monstrous, crime a soldier can
commit--condemned for it--that is enough to disgust one with life! When
my honor is given back to me--oh, may that day come soon!--then I will
consecrate myself entirely to you and to our dear children.

And then think of the terrible way I have still to traverse before I
shall arrive at the end of my journey--crossing the seas for sixty or
eighty days under conditions so appalling. I do not speak--you know
it--of the material conditions of the passage; you know that my body has
never worried me much; but the moral conditions! To be during all that
time before sailors, the officers of the navy--that is, before honest
and loyal soldiers--who will see in me a traitor, the most abject of
criminals! At the bare thought of it my heart shrinks.

I think that no innocent man in this world has ever endured the mental
torments that I have already borne, that I have still to bear. So you
can think that in each of your letters I search for that word of hope,
so long waited for, so ardently desired.

Write to me, each day, long letters. Give me news of all the members of
the family, since I do not hear from them and cannot write to them. Your
letters give me, as I have already said, my only moments of happiness.
You only, you alone, bind me to life.

Look backward I cannot. The tears blind me when I think of our lost
happiness. I can look forward only in the supreme hope that soon the day
will break, illumined with the light of truth.

Kiss them all for me; kiss our dear children. A thousand kisses for you.

ALFRED.

* * * * *

_Thursday, 31 January, 1895._

My dear Lucie:

At last the happy day is here! I can write to you. I count them, alas!
my happy days.

I have not, indeed, received any letters from you since the one they
gave me last Sunday. What terrible suffering! Until now I have had each
day a moment of happiness in receiving your letter. It was an echo from
you all--an echo of the sympathy of you all, that warmed my poor frozen
heart. I used to read and re-read your letters. I absorbed each word.
Little by little the written words were transformed and given a
voice--it seemed to me that I could hear you speaking; that you were by
my side. Oh, the delicious music that whispered to my soul! Now, for
four days nothing but my dreary sorrow, the appalling solitude.

Truly I ask myself how I live. Night and day my sole companion is my
brain. I have nothing to do except to weep over our misfortunes.

Last night when I thought of all my past life, of all my labor, of all
that I have done in order to acquire an honorable position, ... then
when I compared that with my present lot, sobs seized my throat; it
seemed that my heart was being torn asunder; and, so that my guards
should not hear me--I was so ashamed of my weakness--I stifled my sobs
with the coverings of my bed.

Oh, it is too cruel!

How I prove to-day by my own experience that it is sometimes harder to
live than to die!

To die would be to pass a moment of suffering; but it would be to forget
all my woes, all my tortures.

On the other hand, to carry each day the weight of suffering, to feel
the heart bleed, and to endure this torment in every nerve, to feel
every fibre of my being tremble, to suffer the undying martyrdom of the
heart, this is terrible.

But I have not the right to die. We have none of us that right. We shall
have it only after the truth shall have been brought to light; only when
my honor shall have been given back to me. Until then we must live. I
bend every effort to this task, to live. I try to annihilate in me all
my intellectual part, all that is sensible of suffering, so that I may
live, like a beast, preoccupied with the satisfying of its material
needs.

When shall this martyrdom come to an end? When will men recognize the
truth?

How are our poor darlings? When I think of them it is a torrent of
tears. And you, I hope that you are well. You must take care of your
health, my darling. The children first of all, and then the mission
which you have to fulfill, impose upon you duties which you cannot
neglect.

Forgive the disconnected and wandering style of my writing. I no longer
know how to write; the words will not come to me, my brain is shattered.
There is but one fixed idea in my mind--the hope of some day knowing the
truth, of seeing my innocence recognized and proclaimed. That is what I
mutter night and day, in my dreams as in my waking hours.

When shall I be able to embrace you and recover in your deep love the
strength I need to carry me to the end of my calvary?

Embrace every one for me.

Kisses for the darlings.

I embrace you as I love you.

ALFRED.

* * * * *

_Sunday, 3 February, 1895._

My Darling:

I have passed an atrocious week. I have been without a word from you
since last Sunday--that is to say, for eight days. I thought that you
must be sick, then that one of the children was sick, then, in my
reeling brain, I conjured up all kinds of suppositions--I imagined
everything.

You can realize, my darling, all that I have suffered, all that I still
suffer. In my horrible solitude, in the tragic situation in which events
as unnatural as they are incomprehensible have placed me, I had at least
one consolation; it was to feel that you were near me, your heart
beating in unison with mine and sharing all my tortures.

The night between Thursday and Friday, above all, was appalling. I will
not tell you about it; it would rend your heart. All that I can tell you
is that my mind kept going over and over the accusation they had brought
against me. I told myself that the thing was impossible.... Then I
aroused myself, and I realized the sad truth of it all.

Oh, why cannot they open my heart and read there as one reads in an open
book; there, at least, they would see the sentiments which I have always
professed and which I still hold. No, no, it seems to me impossible that
all this is to endure eternally. Some day the truth must come to light.
By an unheard-of effort of the will I regained my self-control; I told
myself that I could neither go down into my grave nor go mad with a
dishonored name. I must live then, whatever may be the torture of soul
to which I am a prey.

Oh, this opprobrium, this infamy covering my name! When will they be
taken away?

May it come, the blessed day when my innocence is recognized! when they
give me back that honor that never failed me! I am tired of suffering.

Let them take my blood, let them do what they will with my body, ...
you know that I do not care a straw for that; ... but let them give me
back my honor.

Will no one hear this cry of despair, this cry of an innocent wretch who
begs only for justice--only justice?

Each day I hope that the hour is at hand, that men are now to recognize
what I have been, what I am--a loyal soldier, worthy to lead the
soldiers of France under fire. Then the night comes, and nothing, still
nothing.

Add to this that I received no letter from you; that I am absolutely
alone with my torture of soul, and you can judge of my condition. But be
reassured, I am strong again. I have called myself a coward; I have told
myself all that you yourself could have told me were you at my side; an
innocent man has never the right to despair. Then, though I have no news
of you, I feel that all your hearts, all your souls, are throbbing in
unison with my heart and with my soul; that you suffer with me the
infamy that covers my name and that you are endeavoring to wipe it out.
When can you come to pass some hours with me? How happy I should be
could I but draw new strength from your heart!

Shall I have a letter from you to-day? I dare not hope too much, since
each day my hope is deferred, and at each disappointment the suffering
is too great.

Well, my darling, what can I tell you? I live by hope. Night and day I
see before me, like a brilliant star, the moment when all shall be
forgotten, when my honor shall be given back to me.

Kiss my darlings tenderly, most tenderly, for me.

I send kisses for all the members of our families.

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

ALFRED.

* * * * *

_Thursday, 7 February, 1895._

My good Lucie:

On Sunday I received a package of fifteen letters all dated before
Sunday, January 27. Thank all the members of the family for their warm
affection, which I have never doubted. I am still without news of you
for more than ten days. To tell you my tortures is impossible.

To find myself thus confronted by soldiers whom yesterday I was so proud
to command, whom I am as worthy to command to-day, and who see in me the
lowest of wretches--oh, it is appalling! At the very thought my heart
stops its beating.

My story is too horrible, my brain can bear no more.

I have been able to resist thus far because my heart, honest and pure,
told me that it was my duty; that my innocence, so complete and so
absolute, must soon be made manifest; but this long-continued outrage is
heart-breaking.

I would rather have stood before the execution squad; at least then
there could have been no possible discussion, and you could afterward
have rehabilitated my memory.

But do not fear that I shall ever attempt to take my life. I have
promised you never to do it, and you know that I have but one word.
Therefore do not be anxious in regard to that. But how far will my
strength carry me, how long will my heart continue to beat in this
atmosphere of scorn, I, so proud of my stainless honor, I, so haughty,
that is what I cannot tell!

Ah, if there were nothing worse than bodily torture to be borne, if it
were only that I must suffer, waiting for the truth, I should be strong
enough to bear this appalling martyrdom. But to bear scorn, ... and for
so long, ... it is horrible!

I do not believe that there has ever been an innocent man who has
endured tortures to be compared to mine.

As for you, my poor and well-beloved wife, you must keep all your
courage and all your energy. It is in the name of our profound love that
I beg you to do this, for you must be there to wash away from my name
the stain with which it has been sullied. You must be there to bring up
our children to be brave and honorable. You must be there to tell them,
one day, what their father was--a brave and loyal soldier, crushed by an
appalling fatality.

Shall I have news of you to-day? When shall I be told that I may have
the pleasure and the joy of embracing you? Each day I hope it, and
nothing comes to lighten the burden of my horrible agony.

Courage, my darling, you need so much of it--so much! You all need it,
all of our two families. You have not the right to let yourself break
down, for you have a great mission to fulfill, no matter what may become
of me. Give them all my love; embrace our two poor darlings tenderly for
me, and receive for yourself the tenderest kisses of him who loves you
so dearly.

ALFRED.

* * * * *

_Sunday, 10 February, 1895._

My dear Lucie:

I received, Friday evening, your letters up to and including that of the
2d of February. I saw with pleasure that you are all well. I hope that
you have received my letters. I shall not speak to you of myself; you
must understand the slow agony of my heart. But it will serve no purpose
to complain. What you need, what you must all have, is steadfast
courage. You must not allow yourself to be beaten down by adversity,
however terrible it may be.

You must succeed in proving throughout the length and breadth of France
that I was a worthy and a loyal soldier, who loved his country above
everything, who served it with devotion always.

That is the principal, the essential object, far above my own being, my
personal fate. There is a name that must be washed free from the stain
with which it has been sullied, a name, until now pure and spotless,
that must shine again as pure as in former days. It is the name that our
dear children bear, and that in itself should give you all the necessary
courage.

I thank you for all the news you give me of our friends. I, too, regret
that I cannot write to them. You know how dearly I love them all. Kiss
my relations tenderly for me, your dear family and mine. Tell them what
I think, what I would convince you of; it is that I personally am only
the secondary consideration, that there is a name to be cleansed from
dishonor.

No one must falter until this supreme task has been accomplished. To
speak to you of the condition I am in is useless. As I said above, your
heart tells you far better than my pen could tell. I will go on as long
as my heart still beats, having before me night and day the supreme hope
that the place that I deserve will be restored to me.

You see, darling, a man of honor cannot live without his honor. It does
no good to tell himself that he is innocent; it is an unceasing gnawing
of the heart. In solitude the hours are long, and my mind cannot
comprehend all that has come upon me. Never could a romancer, however
rich his imagination, have written a story more tragic.

I am convinced, as you are, that sooner or later the truth will come to
light. The just cause always triumphs; but when that day comes what
shall my condition be? It is that that I cannot tell.... There is always
my aching heart, which from morning till night, and from night till
morning, beats as if to burst.

I hope that they will let me kiss you at least before I set out upon my
journey.

I thank you for all you tell me about the children. You must bring them
up seriously and give them a thorough education; be as careful of their
bodies as you are of their minds and hearts. I know what you are; I have
no uneasiness on this score. Indeed, I know that you will bring them up
to be generous and noble souls, eager for all that is good and
beautiful, marching forward always in the way of duty.

Kiss the good darlings for me a thousand, thousand times.

I pray you give every one my love. Receive the most ardent kisses of
your husband, who loves you, who lives only in the thought of you.

ALFRED.

* * * * *

_14 February, 1895._

My dear Lucie:

The few minutes that I passed with you were very sweet to me, although
it was impossible for me to tell you all that I had within my heart.

My time passed while I looked at you, trying to impress your image upon
my very being, asking myself by what inconceivable fatality I was
separated from you.

Some day when they will tell my story it will seem unbelievable. But
what we must tell ourselves now is that I must be rehabilitated. My name
must shine anew with all the lustre it should never have lost. I would
rather see my children dead than think that the name which they bear is
a dishonored one.

This is a vital question for us all. It is not possible to live without
honor. I cannot tell you this often enough.

I shall soon come to a new station on my dolorous way.

I do not fear bodily suffering; but oh, my God, that I might be spared
the torture of my soul! I am tired of feeling that my name is
scorned--I, so proud, so uplifted, just because my name was above
reproach; I, who had the right to look the whole world in the face. I
live only in the hope of seeing my name soon cleansed from this horrible
stain. You have again given me back my courage. Your noble abnegation,
your heroic devotion, give me renewed strength to bear my terrible
martyrdom.

I shall not tell you that I love you yet more; you know how profound my
love is for you. It is that love that enables me to bear my tortures of
mind. It is the love of all of you for me.

Embrace them all tenderly for me, the members of our two families, your
dear parents, our children, and, for yourself, receive the best, the
tenderest kisses of your devoted husband.

ALFRED.

* * * * *

_21 February, 1895._

My dear Lucie:

When I see you the time is so short, I am so distracted at seeing the
hour slipping away with a rapidity that I cannot realize--the hours at
other times seem so horribly long to me--that I forget to tell you half
of all that I had prepared in my imagination.

I wanted to ask you if the journey had not fatigued you, if the sea had
been kind to you. I wanted to tell you all the admiration I feel for
your noble character, for your incomparable devotion. More than one
woman must have lost her mind amidst the repeated shocks of a lot so
cruel, so undeserved.

I wanted to speak to you a long time of our children, of their health,
their daily life. I wanted also to beg of you to thank all our families
for their devotion to my cause--the cause of an innocent man--to ask you
about their health. It would take a long day to exhaust all these
subjects, and our minutes are numbered. Well, we must hope that the
happy days are coming back to us, for it is impossible, it is contrary
to human reason, to believe that they will not in the end put their
hands upon the one who is really guilty.

As I have told you, I will do all in my power to conquer the beating of
my sick heart, to bear this horrible and long martyrdom, so that I may
live to see with you the happy light of the day of rehabilitation.

I will bear without a groan the natural scorn rightly inspired by the
sight of the creature I represent. I will suppress the convulsions of my
being against a lot so terrible, so appalling.

Oh, this scorn that shrouds my name, how it tortures me! My pen cannot
express such suffering.

I ask myself how a man who has really forfeited his honor can continue
to live. But I live only because my conscience is clear, because I hope
that soon all is to be discovered; that the true criminal will be
punished for his odious crime, that they will at last give me back my
honor.

When I am gone write me long letters. I am thinking of the moment when
you all can write to me and when I shall receive news from all the
members of our families.

The first time you are sending me anything, will you please send me the
Ollendorf method which I have had a chance to try here, and which I
think preferable to that of your teacher? Send with it the corrected
exercises, which form a separate volume, and which will also be my
teacher.

Embrace our darlings tenderly for me, your parents, all whom you see,
and receive the affectionate kisses of your devoted

ALFRED.

* * * * *

1895--1896--1897--1898.

ILES DU SALUT.

_Tuesday, 12 March, 1895._

My dear Lucie:

Thursday, the 21st of February, some hours after your departure, I was
taken to Rochefort and put on shipboard.

I shall not speak to you of my voyage; I was transported in the manner
in which the vile scoundrel whom I represent deserved to be transported.
It was only just. They could not accord any pity to a traitor, the
lowest of blackguards; and as long as I represent this wretch I can only
approve their conduct.

My life here must drag itself out under the same conditions.

But your heart can tell you all that I have suffered--all that I suffer.
I live only through the hope in my soul of soon seeing the triumphant
light of my rehabilitation. That is the only thing that gives me
strength to live. Without honor a man is not worthy of life.

On the day of my departure you assured me that the truth would surely
come soon to light. I have lived during that awful voyage, I am living
now, only on that word of yours--remember it well. I have been
disembarked but a few minutes, and I have obtained permission to send
you a cablegram.

I write in haste these few words, which will leave on the 15th by the
English mail. It solaces me to have a talk with you, whom I love so
profoundly. There are two mails a month for France--the 15th the
English, and the 3d the French mail.

And in the same way there are two mails a month for the Isles--the
English mail and the French mail. Find out the days of their departure
and write to me by both of them.

All that I can tell you more is that if you want me to live have my
honor given back to me. Convictions, whatever they may be, do nothing
for me; they do not change my lot. What is necessary is a decision which
will reinstate me.

I made for your sake the greatest sacrifice a man can make in resigning
myself to live after my tragic fate was decided. I did this because you
had inculcated in me the conviction that the truth must always come to
light. In your turn, my darling, do all that is humanly possible to
discover the truth. A wife and a mother yourself, try to move the hearts
of wives and mothers, so that they may give up to you the key of this
dreadful mystery. I must have my honor if you want me to live. I must
have it for our dear children. Do not reason with your heart; that does
no good. I have been convicted. Nothing can be changed in our tragic
situation until the decision shall have been reversed. Reflect, then,
and pursue the solution of this enigma. That will be worth more than
coming here to share my horrible life. It will be the best, the only
means of saving my life. Say to yourself that it is a question of life
or death for me, for our children.

I am incapable of writing to you all. My brain will bear no more; my
despair is too great. My nervous system is in a deplorable condition,
and it is full time that this horrible tragedy should end.

Now my spirit alone is above water.

Oh, for God’s sake, hurry, work with all your might!

Tell them all to write to me.

Embrace them all for me; our poor darlings, too.

And for you a thousand tender kisses from your devoted husband,

ALFRED.

When you have some good news to announce to me send me a dispatch. I am
waiting for it day by day as for the Messiah.

* * * * *

_15 March, 1895._

My Darling:

As I cannot send this letter until to-day I hasten to talk to you a
little longer. I shall not speak of my appalling tortures; you know
them and you share them with me.

My situation here is what it was before; be sure that I shall not be
able to endure it long; it seems impracticable for you to come to join
me. Moreover, as I told you yesterday, if you wish to save my life there
is something better for you to do; have my honor given back to me--the
honor of my name, the honor of the name of our poor children.

In my horrible distress I pass my time in mentally repeating the words
you spoke the day of my departure--your absolute certainty of arriving
at the truth. Otherwise it would be death for me, and that soon; for
without my honor I could not live. I have surmounted everything only
because of my conscience alone, and because of the hope you have given
me that the truth will be discovered. Were this hope dead I, too, should
die.

Say to yourself, therefore, my darling, that you must succeed, and that
as soon as possible, in giving me back my honor. I cannot bear much
longer this atmosphere of scorn, legitimate enough, which is all around
me.

Upon your efforts depends my honor, and that is to say my life--the
honor of our poor children, too. You must then attempt everything, try
everything, to reach the truth, whether I live or die, for your mission
has a higher object than my fate.

I embrace you as I love you.

ALFRED.

* * * * *

_20 March, 1895._

My dear Lucie:

My letter will be short, for I do not wish to rend your soul; moreover,
my sufferings are yours.

I cannot do more than repeat what I said in the letter that I wrote to
you the 13th of this month. The more you hasten my rehabilitation the
more you will abridge my martyrdom.

I have done for you more than the deepest love can inspire. I have
endured the worst tortures to which a man of spirit can be subjected.
Now it is your turn to do the impossible, to restore to me my honor, if
you wish me to live.

My condition here is not yet definite; I am still in close confinement.

I will not speak to you of my material life, that is indifferent to me;
physical miseries are nothing, whatever they may be. I wish for but one
thing, and of that I dream night and day; with that my brain is always
haunted; it is that they shall give me back the honor that never failed
me.

As yet they have not given me the books that I brought; they are
awaiting orders.

Always send me the reviews by the first post. Then, my darling, if you
want me to live, have my honor given back to me as soon as possible; my
martyrdom cannot be borne indefinitely. I think that I ought to tell you
the truth rather than to calm you with deceitful illusions. We must look
the situation in the face. I have been persuaded to live only because
you have inculcated in my mind the conviction that innocence always
makes itself known. My innocence must be made manifest not only for my
sake, but for the children’s, for you all.

Embrace the darlings, embrace every one for me, and a thousand kisses
for yourself.

ALFRED.

As letters will be very long in reaching me, send me a dispatch when you
have good news to announce to me. My life hangs upon this expectation.
Think of all that I am suffering.

* * * * *

_28 March, 1895._

I was hoping to receive news of you at about this time; as yet I have
heard nothing. I have already written you two letters.

I know nothing as yet beyond the four walls of my chamber. As for my
health, it could not be very brilliant. Aside from my physical miseries,
of which I speak only to cite them, the cause of this condition of my
health lies chiefly in the disorder of my nervous system, produced by an
uninterrupted succession of moral shocks.

You know that no matter how severe they might be at times, physical
sufferings never wrung a groan from me, and that I could look death
coolly in the face if only my mental sufferings did not darken my
thoughts.

My mind cannot extricate itself for an instant from the horrible drama
of which I am the victim, a tragedy which has struck a blow not only at
my life--that is the least of evils, and truly it would have been better
had the wretch who committed the crime killed me instead of wounding me
as he has--but at my honor, the honor of my children, the honor of you
all.

This piercing thought of my honor torn from me leaves me no rest either
by day or by night. My nights, alas! you can imagine what they are!
Formerly it was only sleeplessness, now the greater part of the night is
passed in such a state of hallucination and of fever that I ask myself
each morning how my brain still resists. This is one of the most cruel
of all my sufferings. Add to this the long hours of the day passed in
solitary communion with my thoughts, in the most absolute isolation.

Is it possible to rise above such preoccupation of the mind? Is it
possible to force the mind to turn aside to other subjects of thought? I
do not believe it; at least I cannot. When one is in this, the most
agitating, the most tragic, plight that can possibly be conceived for a
man whose honor has never failed him, nothing can turn the mind from the
idea which dominates it.

Then when I think of you, of our dear children, my grief is unutterable;
for the weight of the crime which some wretch has committed weighs
heavily upon you also. You must, therefore, for our children’s sake,
pursue without truce, without rest, the work you have undertaken, and
you must make my innocence burst forth in such a way that no doubt can
be left in the mind of any human being. Whoever may be the persons who
are convinced of my innocence, tell yourself that they will change
nothing in our position; we often pay ourselves in words and nourish
ourselves on illusions; nothing but my rehabilitation can save us.

You see, then, what I cannot cease reiterating to you, that it is a
matter of life or of death, not only for me, but for our children. For
myself I never will accept life without my honor. To say that an
innocent man ought to live, that he always can live, is a commonplace
whose triteness drives me to despair.

I used to say it and I used to believe it. Now that I have suffered all
this myself, I declare that if a man has any spirit he cannot live under
such circumstances. Life is admissible only when he can lift his head
and look the world in the face; otherwise, there is nothing left for him
but to die. To live for the sake of living is simply low and cowardly.

I am sure that in this you think as I do; any other opinion would be
unworthy of us.

The situation, already so tragic, becomes each day more tense. You have
not to weep, not to groan, but to face it with all your energy and with
all your soul. To make clear this situation, we must not wait for a
happy chance, but we must display all-absorbing activity. Knock at all
doors. We must employ all means to make the light burst forth. All forms
of investigation must be tried; the object we have in view is my life,
the life of every one of us.

Here is a very clear bulletin of my state, moral and physical. I will
sum it up:

A pitiable nervous and cervical condition, but extreme moral energy,
outstretched toward the one object, which, no matter what the price, no
matter by what means, we must attain--vindication. I will leave you to
judge from this what struggles I am each day forced to make to keep
myself from choosing death rather than this slow agony in every fibre of
my being, rather than this torture of every instinct, in which physical
suffering is added to agony of soul. You see that I am holding to my
promise that I made you to struggle to live until the day of my
rehabilitation. It remains for you to do the rest if you would have me
reach that day.

Then away with weakness. Tell yourself that I am suffering martyrdom,
that each day my brain is growing weaker; tell yourself that it is a
question of my honor--that is to say, of my life, of the honor of your
children. Let these thoughts inspire you, and then act accordingly.

Embrace every one, the children, for me.

A thousand kisses from your husband, who loves you.

ALFRED.

How are the children? Give me news of them. I cannot think of you and of
them without throbs of pain through my whole being. I would breathe into
your soul all the fire that is in my own, to march forward to the
assault that is to liberate the truth. I would convince you of the
absolute necessity of unmasking the one who is guilty by every means,
whatever it may be, and above all without delay.

Send me a few books.

* * * * *

_27 April, 1895._

My dear Lucie:

A few more lines so that you may know that I am still living, and to
send you the echo of my immense affection.

However great may be our grief, your grief and mine, I can only tell you
always to surmount it in order to pursue the rehabilitation with
indomitable perseverance.

Preserve at all times the calmness and the dignity which befit our
misfortune, so great and so undeserved; but keep on working to restore
to me my honor, the honor of the name which my dear children bear.

Let no setback rebuff you or discourage you; search out, if you think it
useful, the members of the government, move their hearts, as fathers and
as Frenchmen. Tell them that you ask for me no mercy, no pity, but only
that the investigations may be absolutely thorough.

In spite of a combination of sufferings, physical as well as mental,
which are at times terrible, I feel that my duty to you, to our dear
children, is to resist to the limit of my strength and to protest my
innocence with my last breath.

But if there is such a thing as justice in this world, it seems
impossible to me, my reason refuses to believe, that we shall not
recover the happiness which ought never to have been torn from us.

Truly, under the influence of extreme nervous excitement, or of a great
physical depression, at times I write you feverish, excited letters; but
who would not yield sometimes to such attacks of mental aberration, such
revolts of the heart and soul, in a situation as tragic, as narrowing as
ours? And if I urge you to hasten, it is because I long to be with you
on that day of triumph when my innocence shall be recognized; and then
when I am always alone, in solitude, given over to my sad thoughts,
without news for more than two months of you, of the children, of all
those who are dear to me, to whom should I confide the sufferings of my
heart if not to you, the confidant of all my thoughts?

I suffer not for myself only, but yet more deeply for you, for our dear
children. It is from them, my darling, that you must draw the moral
strength, the superhuman energy which you need to succeed in making our
honor appear again to every one, no matter at what price, what it has
always been, pure and spotless.

But I know you. I know the greatness of your soul. I have confidence in
you.

I am still without letters from you; as for me, this is the fifth letter
that I have written. Kiss every one for me. A thousand fond kisses for
you, for our dear children.

Tell me all about them.

ALFRED.

* * * * *

_Wednesday, 8 May, 1895._

My dear Lucie:

Though I cannot send this letter before the 18th, I begin it to-day, so
much do I feel the unconquerable need of talking with you.

It seems to me when I write to you that the distance is lessened. I see
before me your beloved face and I feel that you are near me. It is a
weakness. I know it; for in spite of myself the echo of my sufferings
shows itself sometimes in my letters, and your sufferings are great
enough without my continuing to tell you of mine. But I should like to
see in my place the philosophers and psychologists who sit tranquilly in
their chimney corners, offering their opinions upon the calmness and the
serenity which should be shown by an innocent man.

A profound silence reigns around me, interrupted only by the roaring of
the sea; and my thoughts, crossing the distance which separates us,
carry me to your midst, among all those who are dear to me, whose
thoughts must of a truth be often turned toward me. Often I ask at such
an hour, “What is my dear Lucie doing?” and I send you by my thoughts
the echo of my immense affection. Then I close my eyes, and it seems to
me that I see your face and the faces of my dear children. I am still
without letters from you, with the exception of those of the 16th and
17th of February, still addressed to the Ile de Ré. For three months now
I have been without news of you, of the children, of our families.

I believe that I have already told you that I advised you to ask
permission to leave your letters at the Ministry eight or ten days
before the departure of the mails; perhaps in that way I shall receive
them sooner. But, my good darling, forget all my sufferings, overcome
your own, and think of our children. Say to yourself that you have a
sacred mission to fulfill, that of having my honor given back to me, the
honor of the name borne by our dear little ones. Moreover, I recall to
my mind what you told me before my departure. I know, as you repeated to
me in your letter of the 17th of February, what the words of your mouth
are worth. I have an absolute confidence in you.

Then do not weep any more, my good darling; I will struggle until the
last minute for you, for our dear children.

The body may give way under such a burden of grief, but the soul should
remain firm and valiant, to protest against a lot that we have not
deserved. When my honor is given back to me, then only, my good darling,
we shall have the right to withdraw from the field. We will live for
each other, far from the noise of the world; we will take refuge in our
mutual affection, in our love, grown still stronger in these tragical
events. We will sustain each other, that we may bind up the wounds of
our hearts; we will live in our children, to whom we will consecrate the
remainder of our days. We will try to make them good, simple beings,
strong in body and mind. We will elevate their souls so that they may
always find in them a refuge from the realities of life.

May this day come soon, for we have all paid our tribute of sufferings
upon this earth! Courage, then, my darling; be strong and valiant; carry
on your work without weakness, with dignity, but with the conviction of
your rights. I am going to lie down, to close my eyes and think of you.
Good night and a thousand kisses.

* * * * *

_12 May, 1895._

I continue this letter, for I wish to share with you all my thoughts as
fast as they come into my mind. In my solitude I have the time to
reflect deeply.

Indeed, the mothers who watch at the bedside of their sick children, for
whom with ferocious energy they wrestle with death, have not so much
need of a brave heart as have you; for it is more than the life of your
children which you have to defend, it is their honor. But I know that
you are fitted for this noble task.

So, my dear Lucie, I ask you to forgive me if at times I have added to
your grief by my complainings, by showing a feverish impatience to see
at last the light shining in upon this mystery, against which my reason
battles in vain. But you know my nervous temperament, my hasty,
passionate disposition. It seemed to me that all must be immediately
discovered, that it was impossible that the truth should not be at once
fully revealed. Each morning I arose with that hope and each night I
went to my bed again a victim of the same deception. I thought only of
my own tortures, and I forgot that you must suffer as much as I.

And this awful crime of some unknown wretch strikes not only at me, but
it strikes also, and more than all, our two dear children. This is why
we must conquer all our sufferings. It is not enough to give our
children life; we must dower them with honor, without which life is not
possible. I know your sentiments; I know that you think as I do.
Courage, then, dear wife. I will struggle as you are struggling and
sustain you with all my energy, because in the face of such an absolute
necessity all else should be forgotten. We must, for the sake of our
dear little Pierre, for the sake of our dear little Jeanne.

I know how marvellous you have been in your devotion, your grandeur of
soul, in the tragic events just past.

Fight on, then, my dear Lucie. My confidence in you is absolute. My deep
affection will recompense you some day for all the pains you are
enduring so nobly.

* * * * *

_18 May, 1895._

I am ending to-day this letter which will carry you a part of myself and
the expression of the thoughts over which I have pondered deeply in the
sepulchral silence that surrounds me.

I have thought too often of myself; not enough of you, of the children.
Your suffering, that of our families, is as great as mine. Our hearts
must be lifted high above it all, so that we shall see only the end
which we must attain--our honor!

I will stand upright as long as my strength permits, to sustain you with
all my ardor, with all the depth of my love.

Courage, then, dear Lucie--courage and perseverance. We have our little
ones to defend.

Embrace our brothers and sisters for me; tell them that I have received
the letters addressed to the Ile de Ré, and that I shall write to them
soon.

For you my fondest kisses.

ALFRED.

I forgot to tell you that I received yesterday the two reviews of March
15, but nothing else.

* * * * *

Dear little Pierre:

Papa sends good big kisses to you, also to little Jeanne. Papa thinks
often of both of you. You must show little Jeanne how to make beautiful
towers with the wooden blocks, very high, such as I made for you, and
which toppled down so well. Be very good. Give good caresses to your
mamma when she is sorrowful. Be very gentle and kind also to grandmother
and grandfather. Set good, little traps for your aunts. When papa comes
back from his journey you will come to the railway station to meet him,
with little Jeanne, with mamma, with every one.

More good big kisses for you and for Jeanne. Your

PAPA.

* * * * *

_27 May, 1895._

My dear Lucie:

I profit by each mail to Cayenne to write to you, because I want to give
you news of me as often as possible. During the month I wrote you a long
letter. I sent it on the 18th.

Although I have not heard from you since my departure--all the letters
having been dated earlier than our last interview--I am hoping that by
the time that you receive this letter the denouement of our tragic story
will be at hand.

However that may be, I cry to you always with all the strength of my
soul: Courage and perseverance!

My nerves often get the better of me, but my moral energy remains
unshaken; it is to-day greater than ever.

Let us, then, arm our hearts against every feeling of anxiety or grief;
let us conquer our sufferings and our miseries, so that we may see
nothing before us but the supreme object--our honor, the honor of our
children! Everything should be effaced by that.

Then, still, courage, my dear Lucie. I will sustain you with all my
energy, with all the strength that my innocence gives me, with all the
longing that I have, to see the light shine out, full, perfect,
absolute, as it must shine, for our sakes, for that of our children, of
our two families.

Good kisses for the dear little ones.

I embrace you as I love you.

ALFRED.

* * * * *

_3 June, 1895._

My dear Lucie:

Still no letters from you, nor from any one. Since my departure I have
had no tidings of you, of our children, nor of any of the family.

You may have seen by my letters the successive crises through which I
have passed. But for the moment let us forget the past. We will speak of
our sufferings when we are happy again.

I do not know anything of what is passing around me, I live as in a
tomb. I am incapable of deciphering in my brain this appalling enigma.
All that I can do, then, and I shall not fail in this duty, is to
sustain you to my last breath--is to continue to fan in your heart the
flame which glows in mine, so that you may march straight forward to the
conquest of the truth, so that you may get me back my honor, the honor
of my children. You remember those lines of Shakespeare, in Othello. I
found them again not long since among my English books. I send them to
you translated (you will know why!).

“Celui qui me vole ma bourse,[C]
Me vole une bagatelle
C’est quelque chose, mais ce n’est rien.
Elle était a moi, elle est à lui et,
A était I’esclave de mille autres.
Mais celui qui me vole ma bonne renommée,
Me vole une chose qui ni l’enrichit pas,
Et qui me rend vraiment pauvre.”

Ah, yes! he has rendered me “_vraiment pauvre_, “the wretch who has
stolen my honor! He has made us more miserable than the meanest of human
creatures. But to each one his hour. Courage, then, dear Lucie; preserve
the unconquerable will that you have shown until now; draw from your
children the superhuman energy that triumphs over everything. Indeed, I
have no doubt whatever that you will succeed, and I hope that this
sinister tragedy is soon to end and that my innocence is at last to be
recognized. What more can I tell you, my dear Lucie--what can I say that
I have not told you in each one of my letters? My profound admiration
for the courage, the heart, the character, that you have shown in such
tragic circumstances; the absolute necessity, which supersedes
everything, all interests, even our lives, of proving my innocence in
such a way that not a doubt can remain in the mind of any one--the
necessity of doing everything noiselessly, but with a determination that
nothing can check.

I hope that you receive my letters; this is the ninth that I have
written to you.

Embrace all the family; embrace our dear children for me, and receive
for yourself the fondest kisses of your devoted

ALFRED.

As you see, my dear Lucie, I hope that when you receive these last
letters the truth shall not be far from being known and that we shall
enjoy again the happiness that was our lot until now.

* * * * *

_11 June, 1895._

My dear Lucie:

Yesterday I received all your letters up to the 7th of March--that is to
say the first which you addressed to me here--also the letter of your
mother and the letters of your brothers and sisters, dating from the
same time.

I wish to answer you while I am still under the spell of them. First of
all I must speak to you of the immense joy I felt in reading the words
written by your hand. It was something of yourself, a part of you,
which had sought me out; it was your good, noble heart come to warm and
revive mine.

I saw also in your letters what I had already felt--how you all have
suffered in this horrible tragedy which has come upon us, surprising us
in our happiness and tearing from us our honor. This one word tells
everything, it sums up all our tortures--mine and yours.

I know that from the day when I promised you to live, to wait for the
truth to be revealed, for justice to be done me, I ought not to have
faltered. I ought to have silenced the voice of my heart; I ought to
have waited patiently, but how could I? I had not the strength of soul.

The blow was too heavy. All within me revolted at the thought of the
odious crime for which I had been condemned. My heart will bleed as long
as this mantle of infamy weighs upon my shoulders.

But I ask you to forgive me if I have sometimes written you excited or
complaining letters, that must have augmented your immense grief. Your
heart and mine beat as one.

Be sure, then, my dear and good Lucie, that I shall resist with all my
strength, so that I may reach the day when my happiness shall be given
back to me. I hope that that day may come soon; until then we must look
straight before us.

The news, too, you give me of our dear children has given me pleasure.
Make them spend a great deal of time in the open air. Just now you must
think only of giving them health and strength.

Courage then, still, dear Lucie; be strong and valiant. May my profound
love sustain and guide you. My thoughts do not leave you for an instant,
night or day.

Give news of me to all the family; thank them all for their good and
affectionate letters. I have not the courage to answer them, and of what
could I speak to them? I have but one thought, always the same--that of
seeing the day when my honor shall be given back to me. I am always
hoping that that day is near.

Embrace all your dear relations, the children, all our family, for me.

As for you, I embrace you with all the strength of my heart.

ALFRED.

It is useless to send me anything in the way either of linen or of food.
I received some preserves from Cayenne yesterday and I also asked for
some linen which I need. They have given me the _Revue des Deux Mondes_,
the _Revue de Paris_, and the _Revue Rose_. Continue to send them to me;
you may also send a few light novels.

* * * * *

_15 June, 1895, Saturday evening._

My dear Lucie:

I have already written to you, some days ago, on the receipt of your
letters of the beginning of March, and my intention had been to send
you, by this mail, only a few words of deep affection, for what can I
tell you that I have not already told you again and again in all my
letters? But in reading your dear letters, in re-reading them every day,
I have felt each time I read them, for a moment, a lightening of my load
of sorrow. It seemed to me that you were all near me and that I felt
your hearts beating in sympathy with mine.

Sure that you have this same feeling, I yield to the impulse of my
heart, which longs to do everything to bring some relief to your
horrible sorrow. It is contrary to reason; I know it, for reason tells
me to be calm and patient, that the light of truth will shine out, that
it is impossible that it should be otherwise in the age in which we
live; but yet when I write to you it is my heart that speaks, and then
in spite of myself everything within me revolts against the appalling
accusation so opposed to every feeling of our hearts, for to us honor is
everything. I feel within me such a fever of combat, such power of
energy to rend the impenetrable mantle that weighs me down, that still
envelops this whole affair, that I am always longing to instill them
into your souls, although I realize that the sentiments of you all are
the same as my own. It is a useless outbreak, and I know it; but you
know equally well that all my feelings are violent and deep. My heart
bleeds for all that it holds most dear; it bleeds for you and it bleeds
for our dear children, and that is to reiterate to you, my dear Lucie,
that it is the longing I have to see the name you bear, that our dear
children bear, once more as it has always been, pure, without a
stain--it is this longing that gives me the strength to overcome all.

I live absorbed in myself. I neither see nor hear what passes around me.
My brain alone still lives and all my thoughts are concentrated on you,
on our dear children, on waiting until my honor is given back to me.

Then still hold to your splendid courage, my dear Lucie. I hope that we
shall soon find the happiness which we used to enjoy and which we shall
enjoy even more after this appalling trial, the most awful that a man
can bear.

I embrace you with all my strength.

ALFRED.

* * * * *

_16 June, 1895, Sunday._

I continue my letter, always to the same end. Then, too, it is a happy
moment for me when I come to talk with you; not that I have anything of
interest to tell you, since I am living alone with my thoughts, but
because, then, I feel that I am near to you. I can only tell you my
thoughts just as they present themselves to me.

To-day a more peculiarly intimate sadness invades my soul, because on
this day, Sunday, we used to be together all day and we used to end it
with your dear parents. But my heart, my conscience, and my reason, too,
tell me that these happy days will return to us. I cannot admit that an
innocent man can be left to expiate indefinitely, for a guilty wretch, a
crime as abominable as it is odious; and then, to sum it up in one word,
what must give you, as it gives me, unconquerable energy, is the thought
of our children, as I have already told you before, for ideas which
emanate from such a subject must, from their nature, repeat themselves.
We must have our honor, and we have not the right to be weak; without
it, it would be better to see our children die.

As for our sufferings, we all suffer alike. Do you think that I do not
feel what you suffer--you, who are struck doubly, in your honor and in
your love? Do you believe that I do not feel how your parents suffer,
your brothers and your sisters, for whom honor is not an empty word? But
I hope that our anguish is to have an end, and that that end is near.
Until that day we must guard all our courage, all our energy.

Thank Mathieu for those few words he wrote to me. How the poor boy must
suffer; he who is honor incarnate! But tell him that I am with him in
thought--that our two hearts suffer together. There are moments when I
think that I am the plaything of a horrible nightmare; that all this is
unreal; that it is only a bad dream; but it is, alas! the truth. But for
the moment we ought to put aside every weakening thought. We ought to
fix our eyes upon one single object: our honor. When that is returned to
me, and when I know the meaning of what is now for me an unsolvable
problem, perhaps I shall understand this enigma which baffles my reason,
which leaves my brain panting.

I will wait, then, for that moment, sure that it will come. I wish for
us all that it may come soon; I even _hope_ it, so immovable is my faith
in justice. Mystery has no place in our century. Everything is brought
to light, and must be brought to light.

My Sunday has seemed less long to me, my dear Lucie, because in this way
I have been able to talk with you. As for our children, I have no advice
to give you. I know you; our ideas on this subject are alike, both in
regard to their bringing up and in regard to their education. Courage
always, dear Lucie, and a thousand kisses. Do not forget that I am
answering letters dated three months ago, and that my replies may
therefore seem out of date to you.

ALFRED.

* * * * *

_Friday, 21 June. 1895._

Dear Lucie:

I will continue our conversation, since it is now the only ray of
happiness that we can enjoy. It is probable, and I hope it, that these
reflections have nothing in common with the present state of affairs.
Between the time when you will receive this letter and the date on which
you wrote yours, there will be an interval of more than five months; in
such a length of time the truth might well make great strides.

Like you, like you all, I am, I have been always, convinced that in time
all will be discovered.

If I have wavered at times, it has been under the burden of atrocious
moral suffering while anxiously waiting to know, at last, the solution
of the riddle which absolutely baffles me.

You must understand through the feeling of reserve that keeps me from
speaking to you on any aspect of my life here. Moreover, the only
thoughts that agitate me are those that I tell to you; for the rest I
live like a machine, unconscious of its movement.

It happens to me at times--and you, too, must feel this--when I am wide
awake, and in spite of all that surrounds me, I stand bewildered,
repeating to myself: “No, all that did not happen; it cannot be
possible; it is a fiction; it is not reality!” I cannot explain to
myself this passing inertia of the brain in any way other than by the
impassable distance that lies between the innocence in my conscience and
my present life. Nor can you picture to yourself what relief this long
conversation with you brings to me. I dare not even read over my letter,
so afraid am I to find in it repeatedly the same ideas expressed perhaps
in exactly the same way; but for you, as for me, true pleasure consists
in reading what the other has written.

When my heart is overburdened, when I am seized by the deep horror of it
all, I draw new energy from your eyes, from the faces of our dear
children. Your portrait, the portraits of the children here on my table,
are always before my eyes. And then, you see, when a man has lost his
fortune, when he has been subjected to some disappointment in his
career, to a certain point he may indulge in weakness; he may say,
“Well, my children will straighten all that out; perhaps it will be
better for them than if they should have had nothing to do but be
amiable idlers!” But in our case it is our honor which is at
stake--their honor. To give way to weakness would be, for us, an
unpardonable crime. We must, therefore, my dear and good Lucie, accept
all our sufferings and overcome them, until the day when my innocence
shall be recognized. On that day only we shall have the right to give
free course to our tears, to unburden our hearts.

I am hoping, always, that that day may come soon. Each morning I awake
with a new hope, and each night I lie down with a new disappointment.

I do not need to tell you that we can speak freely to each other of our
grief--the fullest heart must sometimes overflow, but we must keep our
outbursts to ourselves. I know, indeed, that you are sincere and
single-hearted, without art of any kind. The fine qualities of your
nature, those qualities which I, so to speak, only caught a fleeting
glimpse of through our happiness, now stand out clear and distinct in
the light of our adversity.

* * * * *

_26 June, 1895._

I will to-day bring this long talk to an end, so that I may send off my
letter. I should like to talk to you in this way morning and evening;
but were I to write volumes, the same ideas would flow from my pen.
Naturally active, in my solitude I am reduced to the necessity of coming
constantly back to the same subject. The form alone might vary,
according to the feeling of the moment, but the idea would remain the
same because it dominates everything.

Give our dear children a fond embrace for me. I suppose that you will
not keep them in Paris during the hot season. Let them take the
initiative in a great part of their life; let them develop themselves
freely and without constraint. In that way you will make virile beings
of them. Finally, draw from them at the same time both consolation and
strength.

Now I have only to tell you that I wish, that I am hoping always, that
this sad drama is soon to end. That would be such a blessing for all,
for us, as for our dear families.

Your poor, dear mother, even now so delicate; your dear father--they
both will need rest and calm, after such appalling, such unimaginable
tortures. We may well call them that.

Often and often I ask myself how you all are, when news of you is so
rare, and comes from so far.

And how often I scan the horizon, my eyes turned toward France, hoping
that this may be the day on which my country is to call me back to her.
While we wait for that day let us stand firm, dear Lucie; let us draw
from our consciences and from our duty, the fresh stores of the strength
we need so much.

Embrace all our family for me, and for yourself the tenderest kisses of
your devoted husband.

ALFRED.

* * * * *

_2 July, 1895._

My dear Lucie:

When this letter reaches you your birthday will be at hand. The only
hope that I can form, and which is in your heart as it is in mine, is
that I shall soon be told that our honor is given back to us and with it
our former happiness.

My conscience and my reason give me faith; the supernatural is not of
this world. In the end everything is made clear. But the hours of
waiting are long and cruel when the situation is so appalling as well
for us as for our families.

Your dear letters of the beginning of March--you see how they are
delayed--are my daily reading. I succeed thus, though far from you, in
talking with you. My thoughts, indeed, never leave you, nor our dear
children.

I await tidings of your health and that of our children with impatience.
I am also anxious to know what date your letters will bear. My health is
good. My heart beats with your own, and envelops you with all its
tenderness. I have written you two long letters during the last half of
June; I could only keep on repeating myself. Let me end this letter by
embracing you with all the strength of our souls, and our dear children
also.

Your devoted

ALFRED.

Kisses to all our family.

* * * * *

_2 July, 11 o’clock in the evening._

My dear Lucie:

I had been without news of you since the seventh of March. This evening
I received your letters of March and of the beginning of April; they,
probably, had returned to France; then, later, those which you sent
directly to the Ministry. I had already written a few words to you this
morning, but I make haste to answer your letters by the same post.

Forgive me again if, by my first letters, I caused you pain. I ought to
have hidden my atrocious sufferings from you. But my excuse is that
there is no human grief comparable to that which we suffer.

I hope that you have received since then my many long letters; they must
have reassured you as to my physical and mental condition. My conviction
has never varied; it is founded in my conscience, and in my reason,
which tells me that all will be found out. But I lacked patience.

Let us say no more of our sufferings. Let us simply do our duty, which
is to restore to our children the honor of a father who is innocent of
so abominable a crime.

I have received also letters bearing the same date from your dear
parents, and from different members of our families. Embrace them for me
and thank them. Tell Mathieu that my moral energy is as exalted as his
own.

I embrace you with all my heart; also our dear children.

Your devoted

ALFRED.

* * * * *

_15 July, 1895._

My dear Lucie:

I wrote you so many and such long letters during the months when I did
not hear from you that I have many times told and retold you all my
thoughts, all my sorrows. Let me not return again to this last subject.

As for my thoughts, they are very clear to-day; they do not change; you
know them.

My energy is occupied in stilling the beatings of my heart, in
containing my impatience, to learn at last that my innocence is
recognized everywhere and by every one. But if my energy is altogether
passive, yours ought, on the contrary, to be all active and animated by
the ardent spirit which gives strength to my own.

If it were merely a question of suffering it would be nothing. But it is
a question of the honor of a name, of the life of our children, and I do
not wish, you understand, that our children should ever have to lower
their heads. Light, full, complete, must be let in upon this tragic
story. Nothing, therefore, should rebuff or tire you. All doors open,
all hearts beat for a mother who begs only for the truth, so that her
children may live.

It is almost from the tomb--my situation here is comparable to that,
with the added grief that my heart still beats--that I write these words
to you. Thank your dear parents, our brothers and sisters, as well as
Lucie and Henri, for their good and affectionate letters. Tell them all
the pleasure which I take in reading them, and tell them that if I do
not answer directly it is because I could do nothing but keep on
repeating what I have already said. Kiss your dear parents for me; tell
them all my affection. Long, tender kisses for the children. As for you,
my dear and good Lucie, your letters are my daily reading. Continue to
write me long letters; with them I come nearer to living with you, with
our dear children, than I could by my thought alone, which, indeed,
never leaves you for an instant.

I embrace you with all the strength of my soul.

Your devoted

ALFRED.

I have not received the things which you told me you were sending--that
is to say, a sponge and some Kola-Chocolate. But do not give a thought
to my material life; that is generously provided for by the preserves
which are sent me from Cayenne.

* * * * *

_27 July, 1895._

My dear Lucie:

I have already written to you on the 15th of the month. I can to-day
give you tidings of myself, and cry to you as always, although I have no
knowledge of the present state of affairs, “Courage and Faith!”

My health is good. The spirit dominates the body, as it does everything
else. Never will I admit the idea that it would be possible for our
children to enter upon life with a dishonored name. It is from the
inspiration of this thought, common to us both, that you ought to draw
new life for your indomitable will.

I have never feared the future, but there are moral situations which are
of such a character that if a man has not deserved them, he must of
necessity escape from them as much for our own sake as for the sake of
our children, of our families.

When a man asks, when he desires, nothing but the search for the truth,
a search for the wretches who have committed the base and cowardly
crime, he has a right to present himself everywhere with head erect. And
this truth, it must be found, and you must find it. My innocence must be
recognized by every one.

I want to be with you and with the children when that day comes.

Kiss the dear little ones.

I live in them and in you.

I embrace you with all my heart.

Your devoted

ALFRED.

I hope to receive news of you before many days.

* * * * *

_2 August, 1895._

My dear Lucie:

The mail from Cayenne arrived yesterday. I hoped to receive your letters
as I did last month. This hope has been deferred. What shall I tell you,
my dear and good Lucie, that I have not already said and repeated many
times? If I have undergone the most shocking tortures, if I have borne
up to this day a moral situation in which every instant is for me a
wound, it has been because, innocent of that horrible treachery, I long
for my honor--the honor of the name borne by our dear children.

Had I been alone in the world, probably, unable to have regained my
honor for myself, I should have acted in another way.

Oh, in that case, I swear to you that I should have had the secret of
this infernal machination. I should have left to the future the care of
rehabilitating my memory. However incomprehensible to me this drama, in
the end all would have been discovered--discovered naturally.

But there you were, there were our children, who bear my name, there was
my family. I had to live to reclaim my honor, to sustain you by my
presence, by all the ardor of my soul, for--and this thought is before
all else--our children must enter life with heads erect. This patience
of soul which is not mine, which I never can possess, I impose it upon
myself, for it is my duty.

It is true, indeed, that I have had moments of horrible despair. All
this mask of infamy that I wear for the wretch who is guilty burns my
face, it crushes my heart; everything, in truth, all my being, revolts
against a moral situation so absolutely opposed to what I am.

I do not know, my dear Lucie, what is the situation at the present hour,
since your last letters were written more than two months ago; but no
matter how the case now stands, say to yourself that a woman has all
rights--sacred rights, if any are sacred, when she has to fulfill the
highest mission which misfortune can force upon a wife and a mother.

As I have also often told you, you have to ask only for a thorough
search for the truth. You ought certainly to find among those who direct
the affairs of our country men of heart who will be moved by this bitter
anguish of a wife and a mother, who will understand this awful martyrdom
of a soldier for whom honor is everything. I cannot believe that
everything will not be put in motion to help you in bringing the truth
to light, to help you in unmasking the wretch, or the wretches,
creatures unworthy of pity, who have committed this horrible treachery.

I can only give you the counsel which my heart suggests. You can
appreciate better than I the means by which we may arrive at a prompt
and complete rehabilitation.

But I may still say this, that the only thought which should now occupy
your mind is this: the care of guarding the honor of the name you
bear--this is to assure the life, the future of our children. This is
the end necessary, and you must attain it, whatever may be the means.
There must not remain one single Frenchman who doubts my honor.

Yours is a grand mission, and you are worthy to accomplish it. When
honor shall be given back to us--and I hope for all our sakes it may be
soon--I shall consecrate the remainder of my life to making you
forget--yes, even you shall forget, my poor darling--these terrible
months of pain and anguish; for, more than all others, you deserve to be
happy and beloved for your great heart, for your wonderful strength of
character.

Then, be always strong and valiant. May my spirit, my profound love,
sustain and guide you.

My thoughts are constantly with you, with our dear little ones, with you
all.

Kisses to the children--to all.

I embrace you with all my strength.

ALFRED.

* * * * *

_2 August, 1895, 8 o’clock in the evening._

I had just ended this letter, so that it might leave to-morrow for
Cayenne, when they brought me your letters of the month of April and
your letters of June, with the letters of all the family. I have just
read through your letters rapidly. I will answer at greater length by
the next mail.

I have nothing to change in what I have just written to you. No matter
how appalling to me the moral situation may be in which I am placed, no
matter how my heart may be bruised, I shall stand erect to my last
breath, for I want my honor, your honor, that of our children. As for my
friends, I have never doubted them. They know what I am. But what is
necessary, what I will have, is light, so brilliant that no one in all
our dear country can have any doubt of my honor. It is my honor, the
absolute honor of a soldier, that I must regain. This mission I confide
to you, to you all. You will accomplish it, I have no doubt of it.

I embrace you; also our dear children.

Your devoted

ALFRED.

* * * * *

_22 August, 1895._

My dear Lucie:

I wrote you two long letters at the beginning of the month, on the 2d
and the 5th of August; I hope that both of them were in time to go by
the English boat. It is a long time since I have had a talk with you. It
was not the wish that I lacked. My whole heart is with you. How many
times have I taken up my pen only to throw it aside! What does it profit
us for me always to be stirring up these sorrows? Aside from your
health, from the health of the children, that of all the family, I have
only one thought--and that forces me to live--the thought of our honor.

You will forgive me if at times I have presented my ideas in a somewhat
exaggerated form. But after all, if I do my duty, my whole duty, without
flinching, it is not because my heart does not tremble and bleed in a
situation so infamous and so undeserved, and its sorrow comes not only
from my own situation, but from yours, from that of all whom I love.

And then remember that I am obliged to control myself night and day
without one moment of respite, that I never open my mouth; that there is
never a moment when my nerves are relaxed, so that when I write to you
with my whole heart, everything that cries out in me for justice and
truth runs, despite my will, under my pen.

But what I shall tell you always, as long as my heart shall beat, is
that above all our sorrows, oh, however terrible they may be, before
life itself, is honor, and that that honor, which belongs to us, must
remain with us; it is the patrimony of our children. Then always and
still again courage, Lucie, until we have seen the end of this horrible
tragedy; but let us hope for all our sakes that it may come soon.

Kiss your dear parents, all of our family, for me. Tell them of my
profound affection, and how often I think of them. As for you, my dear
Lucie, I have no consolation to give you; there is none, either for you
or for me, in such misfortune. But your conscience, the sense of the
great duties which you have to fulfill, should give you invincible
strength.

And then, when the day of justice dawns for us, we will find our
consolation in our profound love.

A thousand kisses for you and for our dear children.

Your devoted
ALFRED.

* * * * *

_27 August, 1895._

I add a few words before mailing this letter to send you again the echo
of my profound affection, to tell you how much I thought of you on your
birthday--hardly more, it is true, than on other days, that is not
possible--and to kiss you with all my heart and to say to you, “Courage
and always courage!”

Ah, suffering, under all its forms, I know what it is, I swear to you.
From the time that this trouble began my heart has been nothing but a
wound which bleeds each day and every hour--a wound that will be healed
only when I learn at last that my innocence is recognized. In truth, the
mind stands at times bewildered and perplexed by the thought that such
errors can be in a century like ours and can last so long without the
light being let in upon them. But fear nothing; if I suffer beyond all
expression, as you suffer, as you all suffer, indeed, my soul is still
valiant, and it will do its duty to the end, for your sake, for the sake
of our children. Ah, but let us hope that this appalling, this
unbelievable situation may soon end, and that we may at last come out of
the horrible nightmare in which we have been living for more than ten
months!

Embrace our dear little ones tenderly for me.

* * * * *

_7 September, 1895._

My dear Lucie:

I receive only to-day your letters of July, as well as those of all the
family. I often do as you do. At certain moments when my full heart
brims over, I re-read all your dear letters and I weep with you, for I
do not believe that two beings who place honor above everything, and
with them their families, have ever undergone a martyrdom like ours. I
suffer, and, like you, like you all, I am not ashamed of it. My heart,
night and day, demands its honor, yours, the honor of our children.
Such a situation is tragic, the anguish becomes too great for us all to
bear.

Should it last much longer either one or the other will give way under
it. Well, my dear Lucie, that must not be! We must before all else get
back our honor, the honor of our children. We must not allow ourselves
to be overcome by a fate so infamous when it is so unmerited. However
natural, however legitimate, may be the cries of pain of souls who
suffer far beyond all imaginable suffering, to groan, my dear Lucie,
will do no good. If, when you receive this letter, the mystery has not
been made clear, then, I think, it will be time, with the courage, the
energy which duty gives, with the invincible force which innocence
gives, for you to take personal steps, so that at last light may be
thrown upon this tragic story. You have neither mercy nor favor to ask
for, but only a determined search for the truth, a search for the wretch
who wrote that infamous letter, and, in one word, justice for us all!
And you will find in your own heart words more eloquent than any that
could be contained in a mere letter. We must, in a word, find at last
the key to this mystery. Whatever may be the means, your position as a
wife and a mother gives you every right and should give you every
courage.

From what I myself feel from the state of my own heart, I know but too
well how it must be with you all, and in my long nights I see you
suffering, agonizing with me.

It must end. Men cannot in a century like ours leave two families in
agony without clearing up a mystery like this. The truth can be made
known, if only they are willing to have it so. Then, my dear Lucie,
while you continue to preserve the dignity which must never abandon
you, be strong, courageous, energetic! Whether great or humble, we are
all equal before justice, and that honor which I have never forfeited,
and which is the patrimony of our children, must be given back to us. I
want to be with you and with our children when that day comes.

Kisses to all. I embrace you with all my strength, also our dear
children.

Your devoted

ALFRED.

* * * * *

_7 September, evening._

Before sending this away so that it may leave by the English boat I want
to add a few words; all my heart, all my thoughts, are with you and with
our dear children.

I have just re-read your dear letters, and I need not tell you that I
shall read them often until the next mail brings me others. The days are
long when one is alone, face to face with one’s thoughts, never speaking
a word.

May my soul inspire you, my dear Lucie, for I feel that for the sake of
your dear parents, for the sake of all of us, this tragedy must end.
Even if you should have to knock at all doors, we must find the clue to
this enigma, this infernal machination, which has torn from us that
which makes life itself, and that we must have--our honor.

As for our dear children, kiss them with all your heart for me. The few
words which Pierre adds to each letter give me great pleasure. It is for
you and for them that I have found the strength to bear all, and I long
to live to see the day when honor shall be returned to us. I wish for
this with all my strength, with all my power, with all the energy of a
man who places honor above all else. May this wish soon be realized! You
must do all in your power to accomplish it.

I embrace you again, with all my heart.

Your devoted

ALFRED.

Kiss your dear parents and all our family for me.

* * * * *

_27 September, 1895._

My dear Lucie:

For nearly a year I have struggled with my conscience against the most
inexplicable fatality that can pursue a man.

There are times when I am so harassed, so disgusted, that I am like the
soldier who, worn out by long-continued fatigue, lies down in a trench,
longing to have done with life.

My soul awakes, the sense of my duty puts me on my feet again, all my
being then nerves itself for a supreme effort, for I wish to find myself
again with you and with my children on the day when my honor shall be
returned to me.

But it is truly an agony that is renewed with every day, a punishment as
horrible as it is unmerited.

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.

I need not tell you the thrill of happiness they give. And for yourself
the best, the tenderest kisses of your devoted

ALFRED.

* * * * *

_5 February, 1896._

My dear Lucie:

The mail has arrived, and it has brought me no letter. I need not tell
you what bitter disappointment. I could tell you what deep grief I feel
when this only consolation, your dear beloved words, do not come to me.
But, as I have said before, of what importance are sufferings--I dare
even call them tortures--however atrocious, however horrible they may
be, for the object which you are now pursuing dominates everything, it
is above all else, and beyond all else--the honor of our name, the honor
of our dear, adored children.

As for me, dear Lucie, you are my strength, my invincible strength, so
high are you in my love, in my tenderness. Like my children, you dictate
to me my duty. Say to yourself that if often the violence of feelings,
that are at times atrocious, wrings a groan from my heart and makes my
brain reel; if at times the unending hours and the climate exceed my
strength of forbearance, and my very flesh cry out, my determination
remains unshaken.

But you must realize all that I suffer on account of your martyrdom,
from the unmerited dishonor cast upon our children, upon all our family.
You must feel all that I suffer from such a condition of soul, striving
here against many elements united; what a determination, what a power I
feel within me to see the light--oh, no matter at what price, no matter
by what means! Often in this solitude the tempest rages in my brain;
oftener yet the blood boils in my veins with impatience to see the end
of this incredible martyrdom. The more atrocious my sufferings the more
they increase as the days roll by, the less willing we should be to give
way to grief or to rebuffs, the less inclined we should be to give
ourselves over to fate. And since our tortures are to cease only after
the light dawns full and entire, and since we must have it through and
against everything for ourselves, for our children, for us all, our
wills should strengthen as difficulties and obstacles increase.
Therefore, dear and good Lucie, courage, and more than courage; a strong
will, a daring will that knows how to be determined and to succeed, a
will strong enough to attain its object, no matter how, an object as
praiseworthy as it is elevated--the truth. This has lasted too long, too
many sufferings are crushing down innocent beings.

Kiss the dear children often and fondly for me. Ah, indeed, dear Lucie,
there is nothing that can be called an obstacle where our children are
concerned. Remind yourself that there are no obstacles; that there
cannot be any; that the truth must be known; that a mother has all
rights, as she ought to have all courage when she is called upon to
defend that by which alone her children can live--their honor.

And each time when I write to you I cannot bring myself to close my
letter, so brief is this moment when I come to talk to you; so wholly is
all my being with you; so entirely all I say fails to express the
feelings that agitate me and fill my soul; so inadequate to express this
desire, stronger than all else, which is in me--a desire for the truth
and for our honor and the honor of our children, or to express my deep
love for you, my love increased by unbounded reverence.

I hope, indeed, that what I have said to you during so many long months
is being translated by you all into strong and vigorous action, and that
I shall hear soon that the sufferings of us both are to have an end.

I embrace you as I love you, and also our dear children, with all my
heart, with all my soul, while I wait for tidings from you all.

ALFRED.

_26 February, 1896._

My dear Lucie:

I received the 12th of this month your dear letters of December; also
all those from the family. It is needless for me to try to describe to
you the deep emotion which they gave me. I could weep--that tells it
all. As you yourself feel, in spite of yourself, the brain does not stop
working, the head and the heart still suffer, and these tortures will
only cease after the truth is brought to light, when this awful drama is
finished, explained.

I have spoken too much of myself and of my sufferings; forgive me this
weakness.

Whatever my sufferings may be, ah, however terrible our martyrdom is,
there is an object that must be attained--that you will attain, I am
sure of it--the light, full and entire, such as is necessary for us all,
for our name, for our dear children. I hope ardently, for you as for
myself, to hear soon that this object is at last attained.

I have no counsels to give you, either. I can but approve absolutely
what you are doing to accomplish the complete demonstration of my
innocence. That is the end to be attained, and we must see nothing else.

I have received Mathieu’s few words; tell him that I am always with him,
heart and soul. The 22d of February was the anniversary of the birth of
our dear little Jeanne. How often I thought of her! I will not say more
about it, for my heart will break and I have need of all my strength.
Write me long letters. Speak to me of yourself and of our dear children.

I read and re-read each day all that you have written me; then it seems
to me that I hear your beloved voice, and that helps me to live.

I will not write more, for I can only tell you of the horrible length of
the hours, of the sadness of all things; and complaining is very
useless.

Kiss your dear parents for me. Thank them always for their good,
affectionate letters.

A thousand kisses to our dear children, and for you the best, the
tenderest kisses of your devoted

ALFRED.

I have not yet received the things you spoke of in your letters of the
25th of November and the 25th of December. I cannot tell why the things
you send me are so long in coming. Perhaps the books you are going to
send me soon by mail will reach me with less delay. I hope so, for
reading, the only thing that is possible for me to do, may calm a little
the pains in my brain, and unhappily even that is often lacking.

* * * * *

_5 March, 1896._

My dear Lucie:

I have not yet received your dear letters of January. A few lines only
to send you the echo of my immense affection. Write to you at length? I
cannot. My days, my hours, slip by monotonously, in this agonizing,
enervating waiting for the discovery of the truth, the discovery of the
wretch who committed this infamous crime. Speak to you of myself? What
good can that do us? My sufferings, you know them, you share them. They,
like yours, like those of all who love us, can only have an end when the
broad, full light shall appear, when honor is returned to us.

It is toward this end that all your energy, all your forces, all your
means, should be directed. I hope to learn that this end is almost
attained, that this appalling martyrdom of a whole family is nearly
over. My body, my health? All that is indifferent to me. My being is
animated only by one thought, by one desire, which keeps me alive--that
of seeing with you and with our children the day when my honor shall be
returned to me. It is in my thoughts of you, in the thought of our
adored children, that I rest my brain, overtried at times by this
continual tension, by this fever of impatience, by this terrible
inactivity, without one moment of distraction.

If, then, we cannot keep ourselves from suffering--for never were human
beings, who hold honor above all, struck in such a manner--still I cry
always to you, “Courage, courage!” to march on to your goal, your head
high, your heart firm, with unshaken will, never discouraged. Your
children tell you your duty, just as they give me my strength.

Let us hope, then, as your mother has said, that soon, in each other’s
arms, we can try to forget this fearful martyrdom, these months, so sad
and so delusive, and live again by consecrating ourselves to our
children.

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

Your devoted
ALFRED.

Kisses to all.

* * * * *

_26 March, 1896._

My dear Lucie:

I received the 12th of this month your good letters of January, so
impatiently expected every month, also all the letters from the family.

I have seen with happiness that your health and the health of all resist
this frightful condition of things, this horrible nightmare, in which we
have lived so long. What a trial for you, my good darling, as horrible
as it is undeserved--for you who deserve to be so happy! Yes, I have
horrible moments, when the heart can bear no longer the blows which open
the wound already so deep, when my brain gives way under the weight of
thoughts so sad and so deceptive. When, after I have waited for my
letters in an agony of anxiety, the mail arrives, and still I do not
receive the announcement of the discovery of the truth, or of the author
of that infamous and cowardly crime, oh, I have at first a feeling of
deep, bitter disappointment. My heart is torn, is broken, under so many
sufferings, so long and so undeserved!

I am a little like a sick man who lingers on his bed of torment,
suffering anguish, but who lives because his duty demands it, and who
keeps asking his doctor, “When will my tortures end?” And as the doctor
answers, “Soon, soon,” the sick man ends by asking himself, “But when
will this ‘soon’ come?” and he longs to see it come.

It was a long time ago that you announced it to me ... but be
discouraged? Oh, that never! However terrible may be my sufferings, the
desire for our honor is far above them!

Neither you, nor any one, will ever have the right to one moment of
fatigue, one second of weakness, as long as the goal has not been
reached--the absolute honor of our name. As for me, when I feel that I
am falling under the united weight of all our suffering, when I feel
that my reason is leaving me, then I think of you, of our dear
children, of the undeserved dishonor cast upon our name, and I recover
my balance by a violent effort of my whole being, and I cry to myself,
“No, you shall not bend before the tempest! Your heart may be in bits,
your brain may be crushed, but you shall not succumb until you have seen
the day when honor shall be given back to your dear children!”

This is why, dear Lucie, I come to cry to you always, to you, as to all,
“Courage!” and more than courage--for will to accomplish!... Oh,
silently, very silently--for words do not help--but boldly, audaciously
to march straight onward to the end--the entire truth, the light upon
this awful drama, in one word, all the honor of our name! Means? They
must all be employed, of whatever nature they may be--anything that the
mind can suggest to obtain the solution of this enigma.

The object is everything; that alone is immutable. I wish our children
to enter upon life with heads proudly erect. I wish to animate you with
my supreme desire. I wish to see you succeed, and it will be full time,
I swear to you!

I hope that you may soon be able to tell me something certain, something
positive, oh, for both of us, my dear Lucie! I cannot write to you at
greater length, nor speak to you of anything else except my great and
deep affection for you. My head is too tired by this bitter discipline,
the most terrible, the most cruel that human brain can endure.

Our dear little Pierre asks me to write to him. Ah, I am not strong
enough! Each word wrings a sob from my throat and I am obliged to resist
with all my strength in order to be with him on the day when they give
us back our honor.

Take him in your arms for me, as well as our dear little Jeanne.

Oh, my precious children!... Draw from them your invincible courage.

I embrace you with all the forces of my being, as I love you.

ALFRED.

Embrace your dear parents, all the family for me; my health is good.

I received from you at the beginning of the month a dozen packages of
provisions and some cardigans. I thank you for your touching care for
me. I have not yet received any of the reviews and the books you
announced in your letters of September, December, and January; not one
of them has yet arrived at Cayenne. Please send the things so that they
may come by parcels post. Either address them to me directly, care of
the Director of the Penitentiary Service at Cayenne, or else have them
addressed to me from the Ministry, at your own expense.

* * * * *

_26 March, 1896, evening._

Dear Lucie:

Before sending you the letter that I had written, I re-read, perhaps for
the hundredth time, your dear letters, for you can imagine what my long
days and nights are like, when, my arms crossed, I am alone with my
thoughts, without anything to read, sustaining myself only by the force
of duty, so that I may uphold you so that I may see, at last, the day
when our honor is given back to us. You ask me to await calmly the day
when you can announce to me the discovery of the truth.

Ask me to wait as long as I have the strength; but with calmness? Oh,
no! When they have torn, all-living, the heart from my breast, when I
feel myself struck in my most precious possession, in you and my
children, when my heart groans with agony night and day, without one
hour of rest, when for eighteen months I have lived in a frightful
nightmare!

But, then, that which I desire with a ferocious determination, that
which has made me bear everything, that which has made me live, is not
that you should protest my innocence by your words, but that you should
march, that you all should march, straight forward, no matter by what
means, to the conquest of the truth, to the laying bare in the full
light of day this dark story ... in a word, to the recovery of our whole
honor.

These are the words I spoke to you before my departure--already more
than a year ago ... and, alas! it is not that I would reproach you; but
it seems to me that you are very long on this supreme mission, for it is
not living to live without honor.

And in my long nights of torture, suffering this martyrdom, how often
have I told myself, “Ah, how I should have solved the enigma of this
horrible drama--by any means, no matter what, even had I been forced to
put the knife to the throats of the wretched accomplices, however well
hidden they might have been, of the vile criminal!” And more often still
have I cried to myself, “Will there be no one, then, with enough heart
and soul or clever enough to tear the truth from them, and to bring to
an end this fearful martyrdom of a man and of two families?” Ah, I know
that these are only the dreams of one who suffers horribly! But what
would you? All that is too horrible, too atrocious! It leads astray my
reason, my faith in loyalty and rectitude, for there is a moral law that
is above all things, above passion and hatred; it is the law that
demands the truth always and in all things. And then when my thoughts
turn back upon my past, upon my whole life, and then to see myself where
I am now! Oh, then it is horrible! black night closes in upon my soul,
and I long to shut my eyes, to think no more. It is in my thought of
you, of our dear children, in my wish to see the end of this horrible
drama that I find again the energy to live, to hold myself erect. These
are my thoughts, these are my dreams, my dear and good Lucie, and it is
in answer to your question that I have thus laid bare my soul. Know,
then, that I suffer with you, that I live in your life, that our mental
and moral tortures are the same, that they can have but one end--full
light upon this sinister affair. Let us press on, then, toward this
supreme end, active in every day, in every hour, with ferocious and
unconquerable will, the conviction that overturns all obstacles. It is
our honor that has been torn from us, and we must regain it. And now I
am going to bed to try to rest my brain a little, or rather to try to
dream of you and of our dear children. The 5th of April Pierre will be
five years old. Be sure that on that day all my heart, all my thoughts,
my tears, alas! also will have been of him, of you. And I close in
wishing that you may soon announce to me the end of this infernal
torture, and by embracing you with all my strength, as I love you.

Your devoted
ALFRED.

* * * * *

_5 April, 1896._

My dear Lucie:

I have just received your dear letters of February, also those of the
family. In your turn, my dear wife, you have been subjected to the
atrocious anguish of waiting for tidings!... I have known this anguish;
I have known many others; I have seen things that are deceiving to the
human consciousness.... Well, I say again, what matters it? Your
children are there, they live. We have given them life, we must restore
their honor to them. It is necessary to go straight forward to the end,
our eyes fixed upon one single object--to go forward with an
unconquerable will, with the courage given by the knowledge of an
absolute necessity. I told you in one of my letters that each day brings
with it its anguish. It is true. When the evening comes, after a
struggle of every instant against the turmoil of my brain, against the
overthrow of my reason, against the revolts of my heart, then I have a
cerebral and nervous depression, and I long to close my eyes to see no
more, to think no more, to suffer no more. Then I have to make a violent
effort of the will to drive away the ideas that drag me down, to bring
back the thought of you, the thought of our adored children, and to say
to myself again, “However horrible your martyrdom may be, you must be
able to die in peace, knowing that you leave to your children a proud
and honored name.” If I recall this to you, it is simply to tell you
again what effort of my will I put forth in a single day because it
concerns the honor of our name, the name of our children; that this same
determination should animate you all. I want to tell you also what I
suffer from your torture, from that of you all, what I suffer for our
children, and that then at all hours of the day and night I cry to you
and to all of you, in the agony of my grief, “March on to the conquest
of the truth, boldly, like honest and valiant people, to whom honor is
everything.”

Ah, the means! Little do I care for means. They must be found, when one
knows what one wants, and when it is one’s right and one’s duty to want
it.

This voice you should hear at every moment, across all space; it should
animate your souls.

I repeat myself ever, dear Lucie; it is because but one thought, one
will gives me strength to endure everything.

I am neither patient nor resigned, be sure of that. I long for the
light, the truth, our honor throughout all France, with all the fibres
of my being; and this supreme desire ought to inspire in you--in you, as
in all the others--all courage, all daring, so that at last we may
escape from a situation as infamous as it is undeserved.

You have no mercy and no favor to ask of any one. You wish the light,
and that you must obtain.

The more the physical strength decreases--for the nerves end by becoming
absolutely shattered by so many appalling shocks--the more the energies
should increase.

Never, never, never--and this is the cry from the depths of my soul--can
a man resign himself to dishonor when he has not deserved it.

To-day our dear little Pierre is five years old. All my heart, all my
thoughts go out to him, to you, to our dear children. All my being
quivers with sorrow.

What can I add, my dear Lucie? My affection for you, for our children,
you know it. It has kept me alive; it has made me endure what otherwise
I should never have accepted; it gives me the force still to endure all.

You say that we are approaching the end of our sufferings. I wish it
with all my strength; for never have human beings suffered like this. I
wrote you a long letter, ten days ago, by the French mail.

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

Your devoted
ALFRED.

I received some days ago the reviews and books that you sent in
November. Their tardy arrival may be traced to the fact that they were
sent by freight--that is to say, by sailing vessels. I find a little
solace in them. But my brain is so shaken, so fatigued, by all these
appalling shocks that I cannot fix my mind upon anything. The other
parcels you have sent will reach me some day.

Embrace your dear parents, and all of our family for me. I wrote to them
by the French mail.

* * * * *

_26 April, 1896._

My dear Lucie:

In the long and atrocious days of which all these months are made, I
have read and re-read your dear letters of February. My heart has bled
with the anguish to which you have been subjected during these long
months, and of which each word in your letters bears the trace. I could
feel how you restrained the shivers of your being, how you held back the
overflowing volume of your grief, and in an effort of your loving and
devoted heart you found the strength to cry again to me, “Oh, I am
strong!”

Yes, be strong, for strength is needed.

One of these nights I dreamed of you, of our children, of our torture,
compared with which death would be sweet, and in my agony I cried out in
my sleep.

My suffering is at times so strong that I would tear my skin from my
flesh, to forget in physical pain this too violent torture of soul. I
arise in the morning with the dread of the long hours of the day, alone,
for so long, with the horrors of my brain; I lie down at night with the
fear of the sleepless hours. You ask me to speak to you at length of
myself, of my health. You must realize that after the tortures to which
I have been subjected, supporting the atrocious life of the present, a
life that never leaves me a moment of rest, day or night, my health
cannot be brilliant. My body is broken, my nerves are sick, my brain is
crushed, say, simply, that I still hold myself erect in the absolute
sense of the word only because I resolved to, so as to see with you and
our children the day when honor shall be returned to us.

You ask yourself sometimes, in your hours of calmness, why we have been
thus tried.... I ask it of myself at every instant, and I find no
answer.

We deceived each other mutually, dear Lucie, by alternately recommending
each other to be calm and to be patient. Our love tries in vain to hide
from each other the thoughts that agitate our hearts.

My anguish when I write to you, the heart quivering with pain and fever,
tells me too clearly what you feel when you write to me.

No, let us tell each other simply that if we still live with torn and
panting hearts, with our souls shivering with anguish, it is because
there is a supreme object to be attained, cost what it may--the full
honor of our name, that of our children--and that right speedily, for
sensitive people cannot live in a situation whose every moment is a
torture.

Very often I have wished to speak to you at length of our children--I
cannot. A dull, bitter anger floods my heart at the thought of these
dear little creatures, struck through their father, who is innocent of a
crime so abominable.... My throat contracts, my sobs choke me, my hands
are wrung with grief at not being able to do anything for them, for you
... to struggle to keep from dying in such a situation, and for so long.

So I can only repeat to you, dear Lucie, “Courage, and determination,
and action, also, for human strength has a limit.”

I wrote you long letters by the last mail; I wrote also to your dear
parents, to my brothers and sisters. I hope that these letters will
still more embolden your courage, the courage of every one of you, that
they will animate your souls with the fire that consumes my own
soul--the fire that gives me the strength to still stand erect.

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

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

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

Your devoted
ALFRED.

Kisses to all.

* * * * *

_May 7, 1896._

My dear Lucie:

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

ALFRED.

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

* * * * *

_22 May, 1896._

My dear Lucie:

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

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

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

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

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

Your devoted
ALFRED.

Kisses to your dear parents, to all.

* * * * *

_5 June, 1896._

My dear Lucie:

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Your devoted
ALFRED.

_Evening._

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

* * * * *

_24 July, 1896._

My dear Lucie:

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

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

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

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

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

Your devoted
ALFRED.

* * * * *

_4 August, 1896._

My dear Lucie:

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

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

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

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

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

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

ALFRED.

Embrace your parents, all our family, for me.

* * * * *

_24 August, 1896._

Dear Lucie:

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Your devoted
ALFRED.

* * * * *

_3 September, 1896._

Dear Lucie:

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

* * * * *

_4 September, 1896._

Dear and good Lucie:

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

I feel, too, the need of coming again to talk with you. Perhaps this
letter may yet catch the English mail and go with the other.

If I am tired, worn out, if I should tell you the contrary you would not
believe me; for to suffer so without respite through all hours of the
day and night; to feel intuitively the sufferings of those we love; to
see our children, those dear little creatures, for whom I would give,
for whom we would give, every drop of blood in our veins, struck
down--all that is sometimes too atrocious and the pain is too great to
bear. But I am, dear Lucie, neither discouraged nor broken down, believe
it well. The more the nerves are strained by all these sufferings, the
more the will should become vigorous in its determination to bring the
trial to an end. And the only way to end our tortures, the tortures of
all of us, is to bring about the discovery of the truth. If I live in a
struggle against my body, against my heart, against my brain, fighting
against all with a ferocious energy, it is because I wish to be able to
die tranquilly, knowing that I leave to my children a pure and honored
name; knowing that you are happy. What it is necessary for you to tell
yourself, for us all to tell ourselves, is that there can be but one
termination for our situation--the light--and then, starting forward
with this one word, which outweighs everything, we must smother all that
groans in our hearts; we must see only our object and stretch every
nerve to attain it; and that soon, for the hours now weigh like lead. We
must appeal, as I told you yesterday evening, to all who can help us, to
every aid, to all kind hearts, who can help let in the light. I am sure
that you will find many, and in the presence of this immense sorrow, the
appalling sorrow of a wife and mother, who asks only for the truth, the
honor of the name that her children bear, all will be silent that they
may see only the supreme object of this work, as noble as it is exalted.
Then, dear Lucie, to moan, to lament, to tell each other how we suffer,
all that will advance nothing.

Be calm, collected, but gather all your strength, surround yourself with
all the advice that can help you to pursue and to attain the object,
and let us hope, for your sake, that the time may not be too long in
coming. Embrace your parents, our brothers and sisters, and all your
family for me.

I embrace you as I love you, more passionately than I ever have done
before--with all the strength of my affection, and kiss for me our dear
and adored children.

Your devoted
ALFRED.

* * * * *

_5 o’clock in the morning._

Before I send this letter I must come once more to embrace you with all
my soul, with all my strength; to repeat to you that your conscience,
your duty, our children, ought to be for you irresistible levers too
strong for any human grief to bend.

* * * * *

_September, 1896._

Dear and good Lucie:

I wrote to you upon the receipt of the July mail. The nervous strain has
been too strong, too violent. I have an irresistible longing to come to
talk to you, after this long, agonized silence of a whole month.

Yes, sometimes my pen falls from my hands, and I ask myself what I gain
by writing so much. I am dazed by all my suffering, my poor and dear
Lucie.

Yes, often, also, I ask myself what I have done that you, whom I love so
much, that my poor children, that all of us, should be called to suffer
thus; and, truly, I have moments of ferocious despair, of anger also,
for I am not a saint. But then I call up, as I have always called up,
the thought of you, of the poor little ones, and I evoke that feeling
with which I have wished to inspire you, to inspire you all, since the
beginning of this sad tragedy--that is, that there is above all our
anguish something higher, more exalted. My letter is like a howl of
pain, for we are like sorely wounded men whose minds are so worn out
with pain, whose bodies are so maddened by long suffering, that the
least thing causes their cups, full, too full, of sorrow, to overflow.

But, dear Lucie, to speak forever of our grief is not a remedy for it,
it only exasperates it. We must look at things as they are, and we all
are horribly unhappy.

Truly the end dominates everything--sufferings, life. I have told you
this often and often, for it concerns the honor of our name, the life of
our children. This object must be pursued without weakness until it is
attained. But the human spirit is formed in such a way that it lives in
the impressions of each day, and each day is composed of too many
appalling minutes; we have been waiting for so long a time for a happier
to-morrow.

It is not with anger, it is not with lamentations, that you must hasten
the moment when the truth shall be revealed. Concentrate your
courage--and it ought to be great--strong in your conscience, strong in
the duty you have to fulfill; look only to your object; look only into
your heart of a wife, of a mother, the heart that for so many months has
been so horribly crushed and ground.

Oh, dear Lucie, listen to me well, for I have suffered so much, I have
borne so many things, that life is profoundly indifferent to me, and I
speak to you as from the tomb, from the deep, eternal silence which
raises man above all the anxieties of earth. I speak to you as a father,
in the name of the duty to your children that you must fulfill. Go to
the President of the Republic, to the Ministers, even to those who had
me condemned; for if passions, excitements, at times lead astray the
most upright minds, the hearts remain always generous and are ready to
forget what carried them away before the appalling grief of a wife, of a
mother, who wants but one thing--the only thing we ask--the discovery of
the truth, the honor of our dear little ones. Speak simply, forget all
the little miseries--of what importance are they when compared with the
object to be attained?--and I am sure that you will find an army of
generous, ardent souls, who will help you to escape from a situation so
atrocious, and borne so long that I am yet asking myself how our brains
have been able to resist its attacks.

I am speaking to you in perfect calmness in this deep silence, a painful
silence, it is true, but it lifts the soul above it all.... Act as I beg
you to....

See but one thing, my dear and good Lucie, the end which we must
attain--the truth--and appeal to all who are just and devoted.... Oh,
for that! I wish it with all the fibres of my being--to see the day when
honor shall be again restored to us!

Courage, then, dear Lucie; I ask it of you with all my heart, with all
my soul.

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

Your devoted
ALFRED.

* * * * *

_3 October, 1896._

My dear Lucie:

I have not yet received the mail of August. Notwithstanding, I wish to
write you a few words by the English mail, and to send you the echo of
my immense love.

I wrote to you last month, and I opened my whole heart to you, told all
my thoughts; there is nothing that I can add. I hope that the combined
aid that you have the right to ask for will be given you, and I can only
hope one thing--that I am soon to learn that light has been let in upon
this horrible affair. What I would again say to you is this: that we
must not let the terrible acuteness of our sufferings harden our hearts.
It is necessary that our name, that we ourselves, should come out of
this horrible situation such as we were when they made us go into it.

But in the face of such sufferings our courage should be strong, not to
recriminate nor to complain, but to ask, to demand, indeed, light on
this horrible drama, that he or they whose victims we are be unmasked.
But I have spoken to you at length of all this in my last letter; I will
not repeat myself.

If I write to you often, and at such length, it is because there is
something that I would express better than I do express it. It is that,
strong in our consciences, we must lift ourselves high above all this,
without moaning, without complaining, like sensitive, honorable people,
who are suffering a martyrdom to which they may succumb. We must simply
do our duty. If my part of this duty is to stand fast as long as I can,
your part of it, the part of you all, is to demand that the light may
shine in upon this lugubrious drama, to appeal to all who can aid in
bringing about the truth; for truly I doubt that human beings have ever
suffered more than we are suffering. I ask myself each day how we have
been able to keep alive.

I end this prattle with regret. This moment so short, so fugitive, when
I come to chat to you, when I pretend to myself that I am talking with
you, that I am telling you all that is in my heart. But alas! I feel too
keenly that I eternally repeat myself; for there is only one thought in
the bottom of my heart; there is only one cry in my soul: to know the
truth of this frightful drama, to see the day when our honor shall be
returned to us!

I embrace you as I love you, from the depths of my heart, as I embrace
my dear and adored children.

ALFRED.

* * * * *

_5 October, 1896._

Dear and good Lucie:

I have just received you dear letters of August, as well as letters from
all the family, and it is under the profound impression not only of all
the sufferings that we all endure, but of the pain that I have caused
you by my letter of the 6th of July, that I write to you.

Ah, dear Lucie, how weak the human being is, how he is at times cowardly
and egotistical! When I wrote as I did, I was, as I think I told you, at
that time a prey to fevers that burned me, body and brain--I whose
spirit was already so beaten down, whose tortures were already so great.
And then in the profound distress of all my being, when I had need of a
friendly hand, of a gentle face, delirious from the fever and from pain,
when I did not receive your letter, I had to cry out to you in my
misery, for I could cry to no one else.

Afterward I regained possession of myself, and I became again what I had
been, what I shall remain to my last breath.

As I told you in my letter of the day before yesterday, strong in our
consciences, we must raise ourselves above everything; but with that
firm, inflexible determination which will make my innocence shine out
before the eyes of all France. Our name must come out of this horrible
adventure what it was when they made us enter into it. Our children must
enter upon life with heads proudly raised.

As for the advice that I can give you, that I have developed in my
preceding letters; you must understand that the only counsels I can give
you are those that are suggested by my heart. You are, you all are,
better placed, you have better advisers, and you must know better than I
could tell you what you have to do.

I wish with you that it may not be long before this atrocious situation
is elucidated, that our sufferings, the sufferings of us all, may soon
be ended. However that may be, we must have the faith that diminishes
all sufferings, surmounts all sorrows, so that in the end we may render
to our children a stainless name, a name that is respected.

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

ALFRED.

* * * * *

_20 October, 1896._

My dear Lucie:

I have written numerous letters to you during these last days, and in
them I have once more opened my heart.

What can I add to them? I can hope but one thing; it is that at last
they will take pity upon such a martyr, and that I shall learn soon that
by the efforts of one or of another light has been let in on this
terrible tragedy, in which we have suffered so appallingly and so long.

Ah, yes, dear and good Lucie, for your sake, as for mine, I would that I
might hear one good word, a word of peace and consolation, coming to
place a little balm upon our hearts, that are so crushed, so tortured.

But what I cannot tell you often enough, my good darling, is how I am
suffering for you, for our dear children, for all our family. I had not
believed that it was possible to live in such sorrow. Well, I will not
linger upon this subject. I can only, as I have told you, wish with you,
that by the discovery of the truth we may find ourselves at last in that
atmosphere of happiness which we used to enjoy so much; that we may find
forgetfulness in our mutual love and in the love of our children.

Waiting for your good letters, I embrace you as I love you, with all my
strength; and so, also, I embrace our dear children.

Your devoted
ALFRED.

Kisses to all.

* * * * *

_22 November, 1896._

My dear and good Lucie:

I did not write to you at the beginning of the month by the English
mail, for I expected each day your letters of September; I have not yet
received them. As I told you in my last letter, which dates back, alas!
a whole month, I hope that other hearts will feel with us the atrocious
sufferings of our long months of martyrdom; this incessant,
inexpressible torture of every hour, of every minute--in a word, all the
horror of such a crushing moral situation. I hope that other hearts are
bringing to your aid an ardent, generous co-operation in the work of
laying bare the truth; and I can but hope for both our sakes, my poor
darling, and for us all, that I shall soon hear a human word that will
be a kind word, a word that will put a soothing balm upon our stinging
wounds, make our hearts a little firmer, calm the surges of our brains,
so shaken by all these emotions, by all these appalling shocks. I can
only, therefore, while I wait for your dear letters, send you the echo
of my immense affection, embrace you with all my heart, with all my
strength, as I love you, as I embrace also our dear and adored children.

Your devoted
ALFRED.

Kisses to your dear parents, to all our brothers and sisters, to all our
family.

* * * * *

_22 December, 1896._

My dear Lucie:

Only a few lines while I wait for your dear letters, to send you the
echo of my deep love, to repeat to you always, with all my soul,
“Courage and faith,” and to embrace you with all my heart, with all my
strength, as I love you, as I embrace also our dear children.

Your devoted
ALFRED.

Kisses to all.

* * * * *

_24 December, 1896._

My dear and good Lucie:

I wrote you a few lines only a few days ago. But my thought is always
with you, with our children, night and day! I know also all that you
suffer, all that you all suffer, and I long to come and talk to you
before the arrival of your letters, each month so impatiently awaited.

I also know how it calms the heart only to see the writing of those we
love, all of whose sorrows we partake; I know also that in this way it
seems that we have with us a part of their very selves, of their hearts,
feeling them tremble and throb at our sides. And then I wish that I
might render better--not my sufferings, you know them. My heart, like
yours, is only a bleeding wound; but what I suffer for you, for our
children, how my life is wrapped up in you all! And if I still stand
erect, despite the agonies that rend my being--for every impression,
even the commonplace, the exterior impressions, produce upon me the
effect of a deep wound--it is because you are there, you and our
children. I have re-read, as I have always done each month, all the
letters that I have from you; they are the companions of my profound
solitude, all these letters of you all; and it seems to me as I read
them that you have not entirely seized my thought, which is perforce
somewhat confused by being scattered among all the letters I have
written to you.

I have often told you dreams that could never be carried into effect in
real life, crushed by the blows that have rained upon me for more than
two years without my ever having understood why they fell, my brain,
distraught, searching in vain for the meaning of the horrible dream
which has held us all enthralled for so long.

I profit by a moment when my brain is less fatigued to try to lucidly
explain my thoughts, the scattered convictions expressed in my different
letters. The end, you know it, the light, full and unshrouded, that end
shall be attained.

Tell yourself, then, that my confidence and my faith are complete; for,
on one hand, I am absolutely certain that this last appeal that I made
recently to the Ministry has been heard; that in that quarter everything
is to be set in motion to discover the truth. And, on the other hand, I
see that you all are wrestling for the honor of our name--that is to
say, our very lives--and I see that nothing can turn you from your
purpose.

Let me add that the point in question is not the bringing into this
horrible affair of either acrimony or bitterness against individuals. We
must aim higher.

If at times I have cried out in my grief, it has been because the wounds
of the heart are at times too cruel, too burning, for human strength.
But if I have made of myself the patient man that I am not, that I never
shall be, it is because above all our sufferings there is the one, only
object--the honor of our name, the life of our children. This object
ought to be your very soul, let come what may. You must be, heroically,
invincibly, at the same time a mother and a Frenchwoman.

I repeat it then, my dear Lucie, my confidence and my faith are
absolutely alike in the efforts of one and all. I am absolutely certain
that light shall be let in, and that is the essential thing--but it will
be in a future that we know not.

For, alas! the energies of the heart, the forces of the brain, have
their limits in a situation as atrocious as mine. I know, too, what you
suffer, and it is appalling.

This is why, often, in the moments of my anguish--for it is not possible
to suffer so slowly without cries of agony, having but one wish to
express, to be with you and with our children on the day when honor
shall be given back to us--I have asked you to take steps to appeal to
the Government, to those persons who possess sure, decisive means of
investigation--means that they only have the right to employ.

Whatever may come of it, and I think I have clearly expressed my
thought, my conviction, I can but repeat to you with all my soul,
Confidence and Faith! and wish for you, as for me, as for us all, that
the efforts of one or of another may soon be crowned with success and
may put an end to this appalling martyrdom of the soul.

I embrace you as I love you, as I embrace also our dear children, from
the depths of my heart.

Your devoted
ALFRED.

Kisses to all.

* * * * *

_4 January, 1897._

My dear Lucie:

I have just received your letters of November, also those of
the family. The profound emotion that they cause me is always the
same--indescribable.

Your thoughts are mine, my dear Lucie; my thought never leaves you,
never leaves our dear children, you all; and when my heart can bear no
more, when I am at the end of my strength to resist this martyrdom, that
crushes my heart incessantly as the grain is crushed in a mill, that
tears all that is most pure, most noble, and most elevated within me,
that dries up all the springs of my soul, then I cry to myself, always
the same words: “However atrocious may be your suffering, march on
still, so that you may be able to die at peace, knowing that you leave
to your children an honored name, a respected name!”

My heart, you know it, it has not changed. It is the heart of a soldier,
indifferent to all physical suffering, who holds honor before, above all
else; who has lived, who has resisted this fearful, this incredible,
uprooting of everything that makes the Frenchman, the man, of all that
makes it possible to live; who has borne it all because he is a father
and because he must see to it that honor is restored to the name that
his children bear.

I have already written to you at length. I have tried to sum it all up
to you, to explain to you why my confidence and my faith are absolute;
that my confidence in the efforts of one and all is fully fixed; for
believe it, be absolutely certain of it, the appeal that I again made in
the name of our children, has revealed to those to whom I appealed a
duty which men of heart will never attempt to evade. On the other hand,
I know well all the sentiments that animate you all. I know them too
well to ever think that there can be one moment of enervation in any one
of you as long as the truth remains in darkness.

Then all hearts, all energies, will converge toward the supreme object,
running toward it with blind, irresistible force. Cheer up until the
beast is run to earth, the author or the authors of this infamous crime.
But, alas! as I have already told you, if my confidence is absolute, the
energies of the heart, of the brain, have limits when the situation is
so appalling, when it has been borne so long. I know, also, what you
suffer, and it is horrible.

[Illustration: MADAME ALFRED DREYFUS AND HER CHILDREN

Drawn from life by Paul Renouard]

Now, it is not in your power to abridge my martyrdom, our martyrdom. The
Government alone possesses means of investigation powerful enough,
decisive enough, to do it if it does not wish to see a Frenchman--who
asks from his country nothing but justice, the full light, the whole
truth of the sad tragedy, who has but one thing more to ask of
life--that he may yet see for his dear little ones the day when their
honor is restored to them--succumb under the weight of so crushing a
fate for an abominable crime that he did not commit.

I am hoping, then, that the Government will lend you its co-operation.
Whatever may become of me, I can only repeat to you with all the
strength of my soul to have confidence, to be always brave and strong,
and embrace you with all my strength, as I love you, as I embrace also
our dear, our adored children.

Your devoted
ALFRED.

* * * * *

_6 January, 1897._

My dear Lucie:

Again I feel the need of coming to talk with you, of letting my pen run
on a little. The unstable equilibrium that with great difficulty I
maintain through a whole month of unheard-of sufferings is broken when I
receive your dear letters, always so impatiently awaited; they awake in
me a world of sensations, of feelings, that I had kept under during
thirty long days, and I ask myself vainly what is the meaning of life
when so many human beings are called to suffer thus. And then I have
suffered so much in the last months that have just passed, that it is
only when I am near you that I can warm my freezing heart. I know, too,
my darling, as well as you, that I repeat myself always since the very
first day of this sad tragedy; for my thought is like your own, like the
thought of you all, like the will that must sustain and inspire us.

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.

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:

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.

* * * * *

_5 March, 1898._

Dear Lucie:

I have just received your dear letters of January. Your letters are
always wonderfully equal in spirit, in feeling, and in elevation of
soul. I shall not add anything to the long letters I have written to you
during the last three months; the last were perhaps nervous, overflowing
with impatience, with pain, with suffering; but all this is too
appalling, and there have been responsibilities to establish.

I will not go over and over my thoughts indefinitely. After explaining
the details of a situation as tragic as it is undeserved, a situation
that has been so long borne by so many victims, I ask and ask again my
rehabilitation of the Government, and now I am expecting each day to
learn that the light of justice is at last to shine for us.

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

My fondest love to all our friends.

ALFRED.

APPENDIX

ADDITIONAL LETTERS

A.--1898-99

On September 24, 1898, Dreyfus addressed a piteous letter to the
Governor of French Guiana, saying that all his appeals had met with no
response. It was at this period that he lost all hope. In early November
he received a letter from his wife which, although giving not the
slightest intimation of the stirring events in Paris, was in cheerful
tone. He thought that it referred to his letter of September 24, and at
once became encouraged. After more than two months’ silence he wrote to
her again. He spoke of the good news contained in his wife’s letter,
repeated that he was waiting the answer to his petition with confidence,
and then he said:

“So when you receive this letter everything will, I think, be
finished, and your happiness will be complete. But in these days of
relief and felicity which will follow so many days of pain and
suffering, I would that my thought, my heart, all that is living in
me, which has not left you during those four terrible years, may
again reach you, to add, if possible, to your joy until we can at
least resume that happy and quiet life to which your natural
qualities entitled you, and which you now deserved more than ever
owing to the greatness of your soul, to the nobility of your
character, to all the most beautiful qualities which a woman can
display under such tragic circumstances--qualities which suffering
has only developed, and which have proved to me that there was no
ideal here below to which a woman’s soul could not rise, and which
she could not surpass. It is in our mutual affection, in that of
our dear and beloved children, in the satisfaction of our
consciences, and in the feeling that we have done our duty, that we
shall forget our long trials. I do not insist. Such emotion is
great. I tremble at it; but it is lovely, as it elevates. So until
the decisive news of my rehabilitation arrives I am going to live
more than ever in thought with you, with all, sharing your common
joy.”

* * * * *

At length Dreyfus was officially informed of the first decision of the
Court of Cassation. Writing to his wife on November 25, he said:

“My dear Lucie:

“In the middle of the month I was told that the petition for the
revision of my judgment had been declared acceptable by the Court
of Cassation, and was invited to produce my means of defence. I
took the necessary measures immediately. My requests were at once
transmitted to Paris, and you must have been informed of this some
days ago. Events must therefore be moving rapidly. In thought I am
night and day, as always, with you, with our children, with all,
sharing our joy at seeing the end of this fearful drama approaching
rapidly. Words become powerless to describe such deep emotions....
According to information which I sent you in the last mail, all
will be over in the course of December. Therefore, when these lines
reach you I shall be almost on the point of starting for France.”

Here are touching passages from his letter of December 26. After telling
his “_chère et bonne_ Lucie”--he almost invariably addresses her
thus--that, with the exception of the telegram, to which he at once
replied, he had not heard from her for two months until he got a letter
a few days ago, he went on to explain that if he had for a moment closed
his correspondence, this was because he was awaiting the reply to his
petition for the revision of his judgment, and should only have repeated
himself:

“If my voice had ceased to make itself heard, this would have been
because it had forever died away. If I have lived, it has been for
my honor, which is my property and the patrimony of our children;
it has been for my duty, which I have done everywhere and always;
and as it must ever be accomplished when a man has right and
justice on his side, without fear of anything or of anybody. When
one has behind one a past devoted to duty, a life devoted to honor,
when one has never known but one language, that of truth, one is
strong, I assure you, and atrocious though fate may have been, one
must have a soul lofty enough to dominate it until it bows before
one. Let us, therefore, await with confidence the decision of the
Supreme Court, as we await with confidence the decision of the new
judges before whom this decision will send me. At the same time as
your letter I have received a copy of the petition for revision,
and of the decree of the Court of Cassation, declaring it
acceptable. I read with wonderful emotion the terms of your
petition, in which you expressed admirably, as I had already done
in mine, the feelings by which I am animated in asking that an end
shall be put to the punishment of an innocent man--I may add to
that, of a noble woman, of her children, of two families, of an
innocent man who had always been a loyal soldier, who has not
ceased, even in the midst of the horrible sufferings of unmerited
chastisement, to declare his love for his native land.”

* * * * *

Always confident in the eventual result, Dreyfus wrote on February 8,
1899:

“Although I think, as I told you, that the end of our horrible
martyrdom is nigh, what does it matter if there is a little delay?
The object is everything, and until the day when I can clasp you in
my arms I would have you know my thoughts, which never leave you,
which have watched night and day over you and our children.
Besides, the letter which I wrote to you on December 26 or 27 was
too deep, too adequate an expression of my thoughts, of my
invincible will, and of my feelings, for me to add a single word to
it.”

* * * * *

Pending the receipt of the news of his rehabilitation, he sends his love
to all their relatives. The latest letter, dated February 25, runs thus:

“My dear and good Lucie:

“A few lines, as I can only repeat myself, that you may still hear
the same words of firmness and dignity until the day when I am
informed of the end of this terrible judicial drama. I can well
imagine, as you tell me so yourself, what joy you feel in reading
my letters. I am sure that it is equal to my pleasure in perusing
yours. It is a bit of one which reaches the other, pending the
blessed moment when we are at last reunited. My thoughts, which
have never left you a moment, which have watched night and day over
you and our children, are always with you. I very often speak
mentally to you, but they are always the same ideas and feelings of
which I also find the echo in your letters, as all this is common
to us since these same thoughts and sentiments are the common
property, the innate basis of all loyal souls and of all honest
characters. It is with a reassured and confident mind that I must
leave to the high authority of the Court the care of the
accomplishment of its noble work of supreme justice. Pending the
news of my rehabilitation, I embrace you with all my strength, with
all my soul, as I love you and our dear and adored children.

Your devoted
“ALFRED.”

* * * * *

It was soon after this he wrote the following letter to his little son:

“My dear Pierre:

“I have received your nice little letter. You wish me to write to
you. I shall soon do better; I shall soon press you in my arms.
Pending this good and sweet moment you will embrace your mamma for
me, as well as grandpapa, grandma, little Jeanne, the uncles and
aunts, all, in fact. Hearty kisses to you and little Jeanne, from
your affectionate father.

ALFRED.”

This letter, quite exceptionally, does not bear the stamp of the penal
administration.

B.--HIS OWN STATEMENT OF THE CASE

Here is a letter that was received by Maître Demange, the counsel of
Dreyfus, from his client, December 31, 1894. It was first made public
when sent to M. Sarrien, Minister of Justice, July 11, 1898. In the
published copy it was deemed necessary to suppress certain words and
phrases:

“Commandant du Paty came to-day, Monday, December 31, 1894, at 5.30
P.M., after the rejection of my appeal, to ask me, on behalf of the
Minister, whether I had not, perhaps, been the victim of my
imprudence, whether I had not meant merely to lay a bait ... and
had then found myself caught fatally in the trap. I replied that I
had never had relations with any agent or attaché, ... that I had
undertaken no such process as baiting, and that I was innocent. He
then said to me on his own responsibility that he was himself
convinced of my guilt, first from an examination of the handwriting
of the document brought up against me, and from the nature of the
documents enumerated therein; secondly, from information according
to which the disappearance of documents corresponded with my
presence on the General Staff; that, finally, a secret agent had
declared that a Dreyfus was a spy, ... without, however, affirming
that that Dreyfus was an officer. I asked Commandant du Paty to be
confronted with this agent. He replied that it was impossible.
Commandant du Paty acknowledged that I had never been suspected
before the reception of the incriminating document.

“I then asked him why there had been no surveillance exercised over
the officers from the month of February, since Commandant Henry
had affirmed at the court-martial that he had been warned at that
date that there was a traitor among the officers. Commandant du
Paty replied that he knew nothing about that business, that it was
not his affair, but Commandant Henry’s; that it was difficult to
watch all the officers of the General Staff.... Then, perceiving
that he had said too much, he added: ‘We are talking between four
walls. If I am questioned on all that I shall deny everything.’ I
preserved entire calmness, for I wished to know his whole idea. To
sum up, he said that I had been condemned because there was a clue
indicating that the culprit was an officer and the seized letter
came to give precision to that clue. He added, also, that since my
arrest the leakage at the Ministry had ceased; that, perhaps, ...
had left the letter about expressly to sacrifice me, in order not
to satisfy my demands.

“He then spoke to me of the remarkable expert testimony of M.
Bertillon, according to which I had traced my own handwriting and
that of my brother in order to be able in case I should be arrested
with the letter on me to protest that it was a conspiracy against
me. He further intimated that my wife and family were my
accomplices--in short, the whole theory of M. Bertillon. At this
point, knowing what I wanted to discover, and not wishing to allow
him to insult my family as well, I stopped him, saying, ‘Enough; I
have only one word to say, namely, that I am innocent, and that
your duty is to continue your inquiries.’ ‘If you are really
innocent,’ he exclaimed, ‘you are undergoing the most monstrous
martyrdom of all time.’ ‘I am that martyr,’ I replied, ‘and I hope
the future will prove it to you.’

“To sum up, it results from this conversation: 1. That there have
been leakages at the Ministry. 2. That ... must have heard, and
must have repeated to Commandant Henry, that there was an officer
who was a traitor. I do not think he would have invented it of his
own accord. 3. That the incriminating letter was taken at.... From
all this I draw the following conclusions, the first certain, the
two others possible: First, a spy really exists ... at the French
Ministry, for documents have disappeared. Secondly, perhaps that
spy slipped in in an officer’s uniform, imitating his handwriting
in order to divert suspicion. Thirdly (here four lines and a half
are blank). This hypothesis does not exclude the fact No. 1, which
seems certain. But the tenor of the letter does not render this
third hypothesis very probable. It would be connected rather with
the first fact and the second hypothesis--that is to say, the
presence of a spy at the Ministry and imitation of my handwriting
by that spy, or simply resemblance of handwriting.

“However this may be, it seems to me that if your agent is clever
he should be able to unravel this web by laying his nets as well on
the ... side as on the ... side. This will not prevent the
employment of all the other methods I have indicated, for the truth
must be discovered. After the departure of Commandant du Paty I
wrote the following letter to the Minister: ‘I received, by order,
the visit of Commandant du Paty, to whom I once more declared that
I was innocent, and that I had never even committed an imprudence.
I am condemned. I have no favor to ask. But in the name of my
honor, which I hope will one day be restored to me, it is my duty
to beg you to continue your investigations. When I am gone let the
search be kept up; it is the only favor that I solicit.’”

FOOTNOTES:

[A] See Appendix A.

[B] See Appendix B.

[C]

“Who steals my purse steals trash; ’tis something, nothing;
’Twas mine, ’tis his, and has been slave to thousands!
But he that filches from me my good name
Robs me of that which not enriches him,
And makes me poor indeed.”

*** End of this LibraryBlog Digital Book "Lettres d'un Innocent - The Letters of Captain Dreyfus to His Wife" ***

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