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.