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.