Dear Lucie:
I have not yet received your letters of October nor your letters of November. The last news I had of you dates back, therefore, to September.
I shall speak to you less than ever of myself, less than ever of our sufferings. No human word can lessen them. I wrote to you some days ago; I was in such a state that I do not remember one word that I said to you.
But if I am totally worn out, body and mind, my soul is always ardent, and I want to come into your presence to speak words that ought to sustain your steadfast courage. I have put our fate, the fate of our children, the fate of innocent creatures who, for more than three years, have been struggling with unbelievable trials, into the hands of the President of the Republic, into the hands of the Minister of War, asking for an end at last to our appalling martyrdom; I have put the defence of our rights into the hands of the Minister of War, whose duty it is to have repaired, at last, this long-enduring and appalling error.
I am waiting impatiently. I want to wish that I may yet have a minute of happiness upon this earth; but what I have no right to doubt for one instant is that justice will be done, that justice will be done you and our children, that you will have your day of supreme happiness.
I repeat to you, then, with all the strength of my soul, “Courage, courage!” I embrace you as I love you, with all my strength, with all the power of my affection, as I embrace our dear and adored children.
Alfred.
A thousand kisses to your dear parents, to all I love.
9 January, 1898.