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.