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PRISON OF CHERCHE-MIDI

Tuesday, 5 December, 1894.

My dear Lucie:

At last I can write a word to you; they have just told me that my trial is set for the 19th of this month. I am refused the right to see you.

I will not tell you all that I have suffered; there are not in the world words strong enough to express it. Do you remember when I used to tell you how happy we were? Everything in life smiled on us. Then all at once a fearful thunderbolt; my brain still is reeling with the shock. For me to be accused of the most monstrous crime that a soldier can commit! Even to-day I feel that I must be the victim of an awful nightmare.

But I hope in God and in justice. In the end the truth must come to light. My conscience is calm and tranquil. It reproaches me with nothing. I have done my duty, never have I turned from it. I have been crushed to the earth, buried in my dark prison; alone with my reeling brain. There have been moments when I have been nearly crazed, ferocious, beside myself, but even in those moments my conscience was on guard—“Hold up thy head!” it said to me. “Look the world in the face! Strong in thy conscience go straight onward! Rise! The trial is bitter, but it must be undergone!”

I cannot write any longer, for I want this letter to leave to-night.

I embrace you a thousand times, as I love you, as I adore you, my darling Lucie.

A thousand kisses to the children. I dare not say more to you; the tears come to my eyes when I think of them. Write to me soon.

Alfred.

Give my love to all the family. Tell them that I am to-day what I was yesterday, having but one care, to do my duty.

The Commissary of the Government has informed me that Me. Demange will defend me. I think that I shall see him to-morrow. Write to me to the prison. Your letters, like mine, will pass through the hands of the government commissioner.

Thursday morning, 7 December, 1894.

I am waiting with impatience for a letter from you. You are my hope; you are my consolation; were it not for you life would be a burden. At the bare thought that they could accuse me of a crime so frightful, so monstrous, my whole being trembles; my body revolts against it. To have worked all my life for one thing alone, to avenge my country, to struggle for her against the infamous ravisher who has snatched from us our dear Alsace, and then to be accused of treason against that country—no, my loved one, my mind refuses to comprehend it! Do you remember my telling you how, when I was in Mulhouse, ten years ago, in September, I heard a German band under our windows celebrating the anniversary of Sedan? My grief was such that I wept; I bit the sheets of my bed with rage, and I swore an oath to consecrate all my strength, all my intelligence, to the service of my country against those who thus offered insult to the grief of Alsace.

No, no. I will not speak of it, for I shall go mad, and I must preserve all my reason. Moreover my life has henceforth but one aim: to find the wretch who has betrayed his country; to find the traitor for whom no punishment could be too severe. Oh, dear France, thou that I love with all my soul, with all my heart! thou to whom I have consecrated all my strength, all my intelligence, how couldst thou accuse me of a crime so horrible! I will not write upon this subject, my darling; for spasms take me by the throat. No man has ever borne the martyrdom that I endure. No physical suffering can be compared to the mental agony that I feel when my thoughts turn to this accusation. If I had not my honor to defend, I assure you that I should prefer death; at least, death would be forgetfulness. Write to me soon. My love to all.

December, 1894.

My good Darling:

Thanks for your long letter of yesterday. I have never doubted your adorable devotion, your great heart. It is most of all of you that I think in these dark days; I think of your sadness, the grief that you must feel; and in this thought lies my only weakness.

As for me, fear nothing. If I have suffered deeply I have never wavered nor bowed my head. The moments of my deepest anguish have been those in which I have thought of you, my good darling, of all our family. I realised your sorrow when you were without news of me. I had time to think of you all, in the long days, in the sleepless nights, alone with my own thoughts. In those hours I had nothing to read; no way to write! I turned like a lion in its cage, trying to work out an enigma that escaped me. But everything in this world is conquered by perseverance and by energy. I swear to you that I shall discover the wretch who committed the act of infamy. Keep up your courage, my good darling, and look the world in the face. You have the right to do so.

Thank every one for the admirable devotion shown in my cause. Embrace our dear children and all the family for me.

A thousand kisses for your own self, from your devoted

Alfred.

December, 1894.

My good Darling:

Your letter, which I had impatiently awaited, gave me great consolation and at the same time it made me weep, for it brought me the vivid memory of you, my darling.

I am not perfect; what man can boast of perfection? But I can assure you truthfully that I have always gone straight forward in the way marked out by duty and by honor.

There has been no compromise between me and my conscience. If I have suffered deeply, if I have undergone the most horrible agony that can be imagined, I have at all times been sustained in this awful struggle by my conscience, which stands on guard, rigid, upright, inflexible. My natural reserve, perhaps a haughty reserve, the freedom of my speech and judgment to-day militate against me. I am not supple, nor a trimmer, nor a flatterer. We never visited the people of the world who might be useful to us now; we shut ourselves up in our own home, we were contented to be happy in ourselves.

And to-day I am accused of the most monstrous crime a soldier can commit!

Oh, if I could but hold the wretch who not only has betrayed his country, but who, besides, has tried to make me bear the burden of his infamy, I do not know what suffering I could not invent to make him expiate the agony which he has forced me to undergo! But we must not despair—they must at last find the guilty one. Without that hope we should have to believe that there is no justice in the world.

Bend all your efforts to reveal the truth; and bring to bear upon them all your intellect, if need be all my fortune.

Money is nothing. Our Honor is All! Tell M[athieu Dreyfus] that I count upon him for this work. It is not beyond his power. He must find the wretch who has dishonored us, even though he should move Heaven and Earth. I embrace you a thousand times, as I love you.

Your devoted

Alfred.

A thousand kisses for the children.

All my love to all the members of our families; thank them for their devotion to the cause of an innocent man.

Monday, 11 December.

My good Darling:

I have received your letter of yesterday; also the letters from your sister and from Henri. Let us hope that soon justice will be done me and that I shall once more be with you all. With you and with our dear children I shall find the calm that now I need so much.

My heart is deeply wounded; you know that it must be so. To have consecrated all my strength, all my intelligence, to the service of my country, and then to be accused of the most monstrous crime that a soldier can commit—it is fearful!

At the very thought of it my whole being revolts; I tremble with indignation. I ask myself by what miracle I have been kept from going mad. How has my brain resisted such a shock!

I supplicate you, my darling, do not go to my trial. It can do no good for you to impose new sufferings upon yourself; those that you have already borne, with a grandeur of soul and with a heroism of which I am proud, are more than sufficient. Save your strength for our children. We shall need all our united strength to care for each other, to help each other to forget this terrible trial—the most terrible that human strength can bear. Kiss all our good, dear ones for me, until the time comes when I can embrace them for myself. Remember me fondly to all.

I embrace you as I love you.

Your devoted

Alfred.

Tuesday, 12 December, 1894.

My dear Lucie:

Will you be my interpreter to all the members of our two families, to all who have been thoughtful of me at this time? Will you tell them how much I have been touched by their good letters and by the sympathy they have shown me?

I cannot answer them; for what could I tell them? My sufferings? They understand them, and I do not like to complain. Besides that, my brain reels, and my thoughts are at times confused. My soul alone remains unshaken, as steadfast as on that awful day before the monstrous accusation was thrown in my face. My whole being still revolts at the thought of it.

But in the end the truth must be known in spite of everything. We are not living in a century when the light can be hidden. It must be that the whole truth will be known, that my voice will be heard throughout the length and breadth of our dear France—just as my accusation has been heard. It is not only my own honor which I have to defend; it is the honor of all the corps of officers of which I am a part, and a worthy part.

I have received the clothes that you sent me. If you should have a chance, please send me my tippet. I do not need the pelisse. My tippet is in the wardrobe in the antechamber.

Embrace our darlings tenderly for me. I wept over the good letter written by our dear Pierrot. How long the time seems to me until I can embrace him and you all once more!

A thousand kisses for yourself.

Your devoted

Alfred.

Thursday, 14 December, 1894.

My dear Lucie:

I have received your good letter; also new letters from the family. Thank them all for me. All these proofs of affection and esteem touch me more than I know how to tell you. As for me, I am always the same. When a man’s conscience is pure and calm he can bear everything. I am convinced that eventually the truth will be known; that the assurance of my innocence will finally be borne in upon all minds.

At my trial I shall be judged by soldiers as loyal and as honest as myself. They will recognize—I am sure of it—the error that has been committed.

Error, unhappily, is a human thing. Who can say that he never has been deceived?

I am happy over the good news you give me regarding the children. You were right to begin to give P[ierrot] cod-liver oil; the time is propitious. Kiss the little fellow for me. How I long to hold the dear children in my arms!

I hope, with you, that they will end by letting me once more embrace you. It will be one of the happiest days of my life; it will be a consolation for all the pain I have endured.

Alfred.

Friday, 15 December, 1894.

My dear Lucie:

I have received your good letter, also mamma’s. I am grateful for the sentiment she expresses—sentiments I never have doubted, and which, I can say it proudly, I have merited always.

At last the day of my appearance before justice draws near. I am to come to the end of all this moral torture. My confidence is absolute; when the conscience is pure and tranquil then can we present ourselves everywhere, our heads high. I shall be tried by soldiers who will listen to me and understand me. The certainty that I am innocent will enter their hearts as it has always entered the hearts of my friends, of those who have known me intimately.

My whole life has been the best guarantee of my innocence. I will not speak of the infamous and anonymous calumnies that have been circulated against me. They have not touched me; I scorn them. Kiss all our darlings for me and receive for yourself the tender kisses of your devoted husband,

Alfred.

Sunday, 17 December, 1894.

My dear Lucie:

I do not know that this letter will reach you to-day, for the post-offices are closed, but I will not let the day pass without writing you one word. I am happy to know that you are surrounded by all the family; your grief must be less great, for nothing is more sustaining than such love as is being shown to you.

As to me, my darling, do not give way to any feeling of anxiety.

I am ready to appear before my judges; my mind is tranquil. I am ready to face them as I shall one day stand before God, my head high, my conscience pure.

I am happy to know that you are all well; the children also.

Continue to take good care of yourself, my darling; and keep all your courage. It is true that the trial is great, but my courage is not less great.

If I have had moments of horrible depression, if I have borne the weight of the frightful mental torture, of the suspicion which they have cast upon me, my head has never bent beneath it. To-day, as yesterday, I can look the world in the face; I am worthy to command my soldiers. Embrace the dear ones for me; affectionate kisses from your devoted

Alfred.

Monday, 18 December, 1894.

My dear Lucie:

I received to-day only your good letter of Saturday. I could not send my letter yesterday; the offices were closed and my letter could not have passed out.

How you must suffer, my poor darling! I can imagine it by comparing your suffering to my own, because I cannot see you. But we must know how to bear up, to hold our own against suffering; we must be resigned; we must preserve all dignity of conduct.

Let us show that we are worthy of one another; that trials, even the most cruel, even the most undeserved, cannot beat us down.

When the conscience is clear we can, as you say so truly, bear everything; suffer everything. It is my conscience alone that has enabled me to resist; had it not been for that I should have died of sorrow, or I should be shut up in a mad-house.

Even now I cannot look back to those first days without a shiver of horror. My brain was like a boiling cauldron; at each instant I feared that my reason would leave me.

Do not be worried by the irregularity of my letters; you know that I cannot write as I would like to; but be strong and brave; be careful of your health.

Thanks for all the news you give me of our friends. Tell them that I have often thought of them; of the grief they must feel. It must bind us in a union that nothing can ever break. Our pure, honorable life, all the past of all our kindred, our devotion to France, are the best guarantees of what we are.

I have received two good letters from J. and R.; they have given me great pleasure.

I thank you also for the news you give me of the children. Ah, the poor darlings! What joy it will be to me to be able to embrace them and you, my good darling! But I will not allow myself to think of it; for then everything seems to melt within me.

The bitterness of my heart rises to my lips—and I must preserve all my strength.

Thank M. and my brothers and my sisters and all the family for what they have done for me. Embrace them for me.

I will stop, for every memory of the happiness I have known among you all revives my grief.

To have sacrificed everything for my Country, to have served her with entire devotion, with all my strength, with all my intelligence, and then to be accused of such a frightful crime—no, no!

Write to me often; write long letters. My best moments are those when I receive news of you all.

A thousand kisses for you and for the children.

Your devoted

Alfred.

Tuesday, 18 December, 1894.

My good, dear one:

At last I am coming to the end of my sufferings, to the end of my agony. To-morrow I shall appear before my judges, my head high, my soul tranquil. The trial I have undergone, terrible as it has been, has purified my soul. I shall return to you better than I was before. I want to consecrate to you, to my children, to our dear families, all the time I have yet to live.

As I have told you, I have passed through awful crises. I have had moments of furious, actual madness at the thought of being accused of a crime so monstrous.

I am ready to appear before the soldiers as a soldier who has nothing for which to reproach himself. They will see it in my face; they will read my soul; they will know that I am innocent; as all will who know me.

Devoted to my country, to whom I have consecrated all my strength, all my intellect, I have nothing to fear.

Sleep tranquilly then, my darling, and do not give way to any care; think only of our joy when we are once more in each other’s arms—to forget so quickly these sad, dark days!

Until we meet—soon, my darling! soon shall I have the joy of embracing you and our good, dear ones.

A thousand kisses while I wait for that happy moment.

Alfred.

23 December, 1894.

My Darling:

I suffer much, but I pity you still more than myself. I know how much you love me. Your heart must bleed. On my side, my adored one, my thought has always been of you night and day.

To be innocent, to have lived a life without a stain, and to be condemned for the most monstrous crime that a soldier can commit! What could be more terrible? It seems to me at times that I am the victim of an awful nightmare.

It is for you alone that I have resisted until to-day; it is for you alone, my adored one, that I have borne my long agony. Will my strength hold out to the end? I cannot tell. No one but you can give me courage. It is only from your love that I can draw it.

At times I hope that God, who has not abandoned me thus far, will end this martyrdom of an innocent man; that He will bring to light the Guilty One.

But shall I be strong enough to hold out until that time?

I have signed my appeal for a revision. I dare not speak to you of the children; their memory rends my heart. Speak to them of me. May they be your consolation.

My bitterness is such, my heart is so bruised, that I should, already have got rid of this sad life if memory of you had not hindered me; if the fear of augmenting your grief had not stayed my arm.

To have had to hear all they said to me, when I knew in my soul and conscience that I had never failed, never committed even the most trivial imprudence, that was the most horrible of mental torture.

I shall try to live for your sake, but I have need of your aid.

Above all else, no matter what may become of me, search for the truth; move Earth and Heaven to discover it; sink in the effort, if need be, all our fortune, to rehabilitate my name, which now is dragged through the mud. No matter what may be the cost, we must wash out the unmerited stain.

I have not the courage to write more. Embrace our dear relations, our children, everyone, for me.

A thousand, thousand kisses.

Alfred.

Try to obtain permission to see me. It seems to me that they cannot refuse it now.

Monday evening, 24 December, 1894.

My Darling:

It is still to you that I write, for you are the only cord that binds me to life. I know well that all my family, all your family, love me and esteem me; but, after all, if I were to disappear, their grief, however great, would fade with the years.

It is for you alone, my poor darling, that I gather strength to struggle. It is the thought of you that stays my arm. How I feel in this hour my love for you! Never has it been so great—so all absorbing. And then a feeble hope sustains me yet a little; it is that we shall be able some day to have my good name restored to me. But, above all, believe me, if I should have strength to struggle to the end of this calvary, it will be for your sake alone, my poor darling; it will be to avoid adding a new chagrin to all those you have already borne. Do all that is humanly possible to get to see me.

I embrace you a thousand times, as I love you.

Alfred.

In the night between Monday and Tuesday, 24 December, 1894.

My dear Adored one:

I have just received your letter; I hope that you have received mine. Poor darling, how you must suffer, how I pity you! I have wept many tears over your letter. I cannot accept your sacrifice. You must stay there; you must live for the children. Think of them first, before you think of me; it is the poor, little ones who absolutely need you.

My thoughts always lead me back to you.

Me. Demange, who has just been here, has told me how wonderful you are. He has spoken words in your praise to which my heart gave back the echo.

Yes, my darling, you are sublime in your courage and devotion. You are worth more than I. I loved you before with all my heart and soul; to-day I do more—I marvel at you. You are truly one of the noblest women upon the earth. My admiration for you is so great that if I live to drink my cup to the dregs it will be because I have aspired to be worthy of your heroism.

But it will be terrible to submit to that shameful humiliation! I should rather stand before an execution squad. I do not fear death, but the thought of contempt is terrible.

However it may be, I pray you tell them all to life their heads as I lift mine; to look the world in the face without flinching. Never bow your heads—proclaim my innocence aloud.

Now, my darling, I am going anew to lay my head upon my pillow to think of you.

I kiss you; I press you to my heart.

Alfred.

Embrace the little ones tenderly for me.

Will you please deposit two hundred francs with the clerk of the prison?

25 December, 1894.

My Darling:

I cannot date this letter, for I do not even know what day it is. Is it Tuesday? Is it Wednesday? I do not know. It is always night. As sleep flies my eyelids I arise to write to you.

Sometimes it seems to me that all this has not happened; that I have never left you.

In my hallucinations all that has happened to us seems to me a bad nightmare; but the awakening is terrible.

I cannot believe in anything but your love and the affection of all of ours.

We must continually search for the guilty one. All means are good. Chance alone will not suffice.

Perhaps I shall succeed in surmounting the horrible terror with which the infamous sentence I am going to bear inspires me. To be an honorable man, to be innocent, and to see my honor torn from me and trampled under foot—oh, it is fearful! it is the worst of sufferings! worse than death!

Oh, if I go to the end it will be for your sake, my dear, adored one, for you are the only thread that binds me to life!

How we loved each other!

To-day more than ever before I know what place you hold in my heart. But, above all, be careful of your own self; think of your health. You must, at all costs, for the sake of my children, who have need of you.

Then search in Paris as you did down there for the guilty one. We must try everything; we must leave nothing undone. There are people surely, there must be people, who know the name of the guilty man.

I embrace you.

Alfred.

Wednesday, 2 P. M., 26 December, 1894.

My Darling:

I have just received your two letters and Marie’s.

You are sublime, my adored one, and I am amazed at your courage and your heroism. I loved you before. To-day I kneel before you, for you are a sublime woman. But do not allow yourself to be beaten down, I supplicate you. Think of our children, who have need of you.

It may be that in my desire to be worthy of you, to reach the heights on which you stand, I shall be able to hold out to the end. It is not physical suffering that I fear—that has never been strong enough to break me down; its blows glance off—but the torture of soul, the knowledge that my name is dragged in the mire, the name of a man who is innocent, the name of a man of honor. Cry it aloud, my darling; cry to every one that I am innocent—the victim of terrible fatality.

Shall we ever succeed in discovering the real guilty one? Let us hope it; to lose that hope would be to despair of everything.

I hope to see you soon, and that is my consolation. All the day, all the night, my thoughts fly to you—to you all. I think of the happiness we enjoyed, and I ask myself, even now, by what inexplicable fatality that happiness was broken.

It is the most awful tragedy that it has ever been given me to read, and instead of reading it, I must live it out, alas! Finally, be careful of your own self, my darling. You need all your health, all your physical vigor, if you are to bring to a successful end the task you have so nobly undertaken.

I embrace you and our poor darlings, of whom I dare not think.

A thousand kisses.

Alfred.

Wednesday, 4 o’clock, 26 December, 1894.

My Darling:

You ask me what I do all day long.

I think of you; I think of you all. If this consoling thought did not sustain me, if I could not feel through the thick walls of my prison the strengthening breath of your sympathy, I believe that I should lose my hold on reason and that despair would enter my soul. It is your love, it is the affection of you all, that gives me the courage to live on.

Me. Demange has just been here. He stayed some minutes with me. His faith in me is absolute; that also gives me courage.

It is not physical suffering that affrights me—I am able to bear that—but this continual torture of soul, this contempt that is to pursue me everywhere. I, so proud, so sure of my honor, it is that that I find so terrible; that that I shrink from.

Well, my darling, I will not torture your heart any longer; your grief is already great enough.

I embrace you fondly.

Alfred.

Wednesday, 10 P. M.

I do not sleep, and it is to you that I return. Am I then marked by a fatal seal, that I must drink this cup of bitterness! At this moment I am calm. My soul is strong, and it rises in the silence of the night. How happy we were, my darling! Life smiled on us; fortune, love, adorable children, a united family—Everything! Then came this thunderbolt, fearful, terrible. Buy, I pray of you, playthings for the children, for their New Year’s day; tell them that their father sends them. It must not be that these poor souls, just entering upon life, should suffer through our pain.

Oh, my darling, had not I you how gladly would I die! Your love holds me back; it is your love only that makes me strong enough to bear the hatred of a nation.

And the people are right to hate me: they have been told that I am a traitor. Ah, traitor, the horrible word! It breaks my heart.

I ... traitor! Is it possible that they could accuse me and condemn me for a crime so monstrous!

Cry aloud my innocence; cry it with all the strength of your lungs; cry it upon the house-tops, till the very walls fall.

And hunt out the guilty one. It is he whom we must find.

I embrace you as I love you.

Alfred.

Thursday, 10 o’clock in the evening, 27 December, 1894.

My dear Lucie:

Your heroism has conquered me. Strong in your love, strong in my conscience and in the immovable support I find in our two families, I feel my courage born again.

I shall struggle therefore to my last breath. I shall struggle to my last drop of blood.

It is not possible that light shall not be some day let in upon this crime. With the feeling that your heart is beating close to mine I shall bear all the martyrdoms, all the humiliations, without bowing my head. The thought of you, my darling, will give me the strength needful. My dear, adored one, women certainly are superior to us; and among women you are of the most beautiful and the most noble!

I always loved you deeply; you know it. To-day I do more—I marvel at and venerate you. You are a holy, a noble, woman. I am proud of you, and I will try to be worthy of you.

Yes, it would be cowardice to desert life. It would be to taint my name—the name of my dear children—to sully that name forever. I realize that to-day; but how could it be otherwise? The blow was cruel; it broke down my courage; it is you who have lifted me up.

Your soul makes mine tremble.

So, leaning one on the other, proud of one another, we shall succeed, by force of will, in clearing our name from dishonor. We shall remove the stain from that honor that has never failed us.

I embrace you as I love you.

Alfred.

Thursday, 11 o’clock in the evening.

I almost hoped to receive one more word from you this evening. If you could only know with what happiness I receive your letters, with what intoxication I read and re-read them all day long!

Good-night; sleep well, my darling. We will live still for each other.

Friday, 10 o’clock in the morning, 28 December, 1894.

My dear Lucie:

I have received your good letter dated yesterday at noon. You are right. I must live. I must live for you—for our dear children, whose name I must restore to honor. Whatever may be the terrible tortures of soul I endure, I must resist. I have no right to desert my post.

If I were alone, I should not hesitate; but your name, the name of my family—everything, all we have, is attacked. We must arm with all our courage for the struggle. By the force of our energy, our will, we shall triumph. In the end they shall speak out. Supported, sustained by your unfailing courage, we shall conquer.

Write to me often. You must relieve each other in writing; write to me in turn. Each one of your letters soothes me. It seems to me that I hear you speak—that I hear your dear parents speak.

I embrace you and all your dear family.

A thousand tender kisses to the children.

Alfred.

Friday, noon.

I received your letter dated Thursday evening, also the good words from Pierrot. Embrace the darling tenderly for me. Give Jeanne a kiss for me. Yes, I must live. I must summon all my energy to wash out the stain which sullies the name of my children. I should be cowardly should I desert my post. I will live; I will!

I embrace you.

Alfred.

Monday, 31 December, 1894.

My dear Lucie:

I thought a long time last night of my father, of all my family. I do not hide from you that I wept long. But the tears comforted me. Our consolation is the deep affection that unites us all; it is the affection which I find in your family as in my own.

It is impossible, when we are so bound together, when we are upheld by the wonderful devotion shown us by Me. Demange, that we shall not sooner or later discover the truth. I was wrong to wish to desert life. I had not the right to. I will struggle as long as I have a breath of life. In these long days, in these sad nights, my soul is purified and strengthened. My duty is clearly traced. I must leave my children a name pure and stainless.

Let us strive for that, my darling, without a truce, without rest. Let us not be rebuffed by the difficulty of any step, of any attempt. We must try everything.

The books of M. Bayles, which you sent me, are enough for the moment; later I shall need a work with exercises, with corrections on the opposite page; so that I can work by myself.

For the moment I must gather all my strength to meet the horrible humiliation that awaits me. But do not relax a single instant. You may, perhaps, enter upon a course of which I have spoken to Me. Demange this evening. Nothing must be neglected; everything must be tried.

I embrace you as I love you.

Alfred.

Good kisses to the darlings. I dare not wish you “A Happy New Year;” this feast does not accord with our present sorrow.

I have even forgotten to wish your mother a happy birthday. I pray you to repair this forgetfulness; it is excusable under the sad circumstances.

I suppose you have given the children the toys from their father. We must not let these young souls suffer through our sorrows.

I have received the inkstand. I thank you for it.

5 o’clock in the evening.

The appeal is rejected, as I might have expected it would be. They have just told me. Ask immediately for permission to see me.

Send me what I asked you for; that is to say, my sabre, my belt, and the valise with my belongings. The cruel and horrible anguish is approaching; I am going to meet it with the dignity of a pure and tranquil conscience. To tell you that I do not suffer would be to lie; but I shall not weaken. I shall be strong. Keep on, for your part, without truce, without rest.

1 January, 1895.

My Darling:

It is no longer Sunday. It is the beginning of Monday. The stroke of midnight has just sounded at this moment, as I lighted my candle. I cannot sleep. I would rather rise than toss upon my bed, and what more delicious occupation than to talk with you! When I write it seems that you are near me, as it used to be in those good evenings of my happy memories, when, as I sat at my desk, you would work by my side.

Let us hope—let us hope that happiness shall shine again for us. It is impossible that some day the light of truth shall not make all clear. I know the energetic character of Mathieu; I have learned to appreciate your energy, your profound devotion, I will say your heroism; and I do not doubt the success of your investigations.

You are right to act with calmness, with method. Your progress will be surer.

But I hope that soon I can speak of all this face to face with you.

From this hour the agony is to become still more bitter. First, the humiliating ceremony, then the sufferings which will follow it. I shall bear them calmly, with dignity—be sure of it.

To say that I have not at times moments of violent revolt would be to lie. The injustice is by far too cruel; but I have faith in the future; and I hope to have my recompense.

So I try to think that the time will come when my only care will be to ensure my happiness—the happiness of our dear children.

I have received a charming letter from Marie, which I shall answer one of these days.

Be of good courage always, my darling. Take good care of your health, for you will have need of all your strength; your courage must not betray you in the crucial moment. Good-night and good rest.

I embrace you as I love you.

Alfred.

Tuesday, 1 January, 1895.

I have not received a letter from you this morning. I miss it. I have received several others, it is true; but dare I tell you that it is not the same thing? Yesterday, when he left me, Me. Demange hoped to come back and pass some hours with me to-day; but alas! not long after his departure they told me that my appeal had been rejected; this closes my prison door to him; he will not be permitted to visit me any more. He must have been warned this morning. So I shall pass my day alone. What a sad New Year, my darling! But do not let us dwell upon this subject. It will do us no good to weep and groan; that will not open the doors of my prison. On the contrary, we must guard all our physical strength and all our mental energy; we must not relax our struggle for one instant. Let nothing beat you down; do not lose hope. Throw your nets out on all sides; the guilty one will be caught in them at last.

Have you received an answer to your application? I am waiting now with impatience for the moment when I shall hold you in my arms.

Have you bought the toys for the children? Were they pleased? I am thinking always of you and of them. I live only in the thought that some day this frightful nightmare will vanish. It seems impossible that it can be otherwise. We will help overcome it, I promise it to you. I embrace you as I love you.

Alfred.

Monday, 2 January, 1895, 11 o’clock in the evening.

My Darling:

A new year is beginning. What has it in store for us? Let us hope that it will be better than the year that is just ended. Should it be otherwise, death would be preferable. In this calm, deep night which surrounds me, I think of you all, of you, of our dear children. What a fearful stroke of fate, undeserved and cruel!

Let me give way a little, weep without restraint in your arms. Do not believe because I weep that my courage weakens. I have promised you to live; I shall keep my word. But I must always feel your heart beating close to mine. I must be sustained by your love.

We must have courage. We must have an almost superhuman energy. As for me, I can only summon my whole strength to bear all the tortures which await me.

Good-night and kisses.

Alfred.

Thursday, noon.

My Darling:

They have informed me that the supreme humiliation is set for the day after to-morrow. I expected it; I was prepared for it; but in spite of that the blow was terrible. I shall stand fast, as I promised you I would. I shall draw the force I still need for that awful day from the deep well of your love, from the affection of you all; from the memory of our dear children; from the supreme hope that some day the truth will come to light; but on every side I must feel the warmth of the affection that you all bear me. I must feel that you are struggling with me. Search always; let there be no truce, no rest.

I hope to see you soon, to gather strength from your loving eyes. Let us sustain each other through everything and against everything.

Your love is necessary to my life; without it the mainspring of my being would be broken.

When I am gone persuade them all that they must not stop their efforts.

Take measures at once, so that you may be able to come to see me on Saturday and the following days at the prison of la Santé. It is there, above all, that I must feel that I am sustained.

Find out also what I asked you yesterday—when I am to leave, how I am to go, etc.

We must be prepared for everything; we must not let ourselves be surprised.

Until the blessed moment, soon to come, when I shall see you, I embrace you.

Alfred.

4:15 P. M.

Since four o’clock my heart has been beating to bursting. You are not yet here, my darling. The seconds seem hours to me. My ear is listening—perhaps they come to call me. I cannot hear; I am waiting.

5 o’clock.