I have just received your dear letters of August, also a few from the family.
I wish with you, for you, for us all, that the light of justice may shine at last and that we may at last perceive the end of our martyrdom, that has been as long drawn out as it has been appalling.
Indeed, I have already told you in long letters that neither my faith nor my courage had been nor shall ever be shaken, for, on one hand, I know that you will all energetically fulfill your duty, and that you will not less inflexibly be resolved to gain your right—the right of justice and of truth; and, on the other hand, I know that if there is any imprescriptible duty devolving upon my country, it is to bring the full light of truth to bear upon this tragic story, to repair this terrible error.
In fact, very often, in so far as my human weakness has permitted me—for if one can be a stoic in the face of death—and I have often called on death from the bottom of my heart—it is difficult to be one through all the minutes of an agony that is as long drawn out as it is undeserved—I have hidden my horrible distress under such tortures to sustain you, to keep you from fainting, from bending in your turn under all the weight of such suffering.
If for several months I have no longer hidden anything from you, it has been because I think that you ought always to be prepared for everything, drawing from the duties which as a mother you must perform heroically, invincibly, the force to bear everything with a firm and valiant heart, with the unshakable determination to wash the infamous stain from the name you bear, that our children bear.
Now, we have had enough of all this, haven’t we, darling? Leave their fears, their suspicions, with those who have them. If my soul is always valiant and will remain so to my last breath, everything within me is worn out; my heart swells to bursting not only for past tortures, but to see that you misunderstand me on this point. My brain reels and totters, at the mercy of the least shock, the most petty of events. Besides, as I have told you already, my long letters are too clearly the equally intimate and heartfelt expression of my sentiments and of my immutable will for it to be necessary for me to return to it. They are my moral will and testament.
Therefore, my dear Lucie, for your own sake, for us all, you must always do your duty, be resolved to gain your right—the right of justice and of truth—until the full light shines out; until all France is convinced—and she must be—whether I should live or die; for, like Banquo’s ghost, I should come out of my tomb to cry to you all with all my soul, always and again, “Courage, courage!” to remind my country, who thus tortures me, who sacrifices me—I dare to say it, for no human brain could resist so long such an appalling situation, and it is only by a miracle that I have been able to resist until now—to remind my country that she has a duty to fulfill, and that that duty is to throw a refulgent light upon this sad tragedy, to repair this frightful error that has endured for so long.
Therefore, darling, be sure of it, you are to have your day of refulgent glory, of supreme joy; be it by your own efforts, be it by the efforts of our country, who will fulfill all her duty; and if I am not to be there, what would you have, darling? There are victims of state—and truly the situation is too hard to bear—by far too heavy for the length of time that I have borne it—and, well, Pierre will represent me!
I shall not speak of the children; indeed, I already did so at length in my letters of August; and then I know you too well to have any anxiety in regard to them. You will embrace them with all my strength, with all my soul. I must leave you, although it always is a great grief to me to tear away from your presence, so short, so fleeting, is this moment that I pass with you.
I embrace you as I love you, with all my strength, with all the power of my love, as I embrace our dear children, while I repeat to you always, Courage, courage! and while I wish that all this suffering may have at last an end.