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.