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.