I embrace you as I love you, with all the strength of my soul, and our dear little ones. Your devoted ALFRED. Kisses to your dear parents, to all our family. * * * * * _20 February, 1897._ My dear Lucie: I have written you numerous letters during these last months, and I repeat myself always. But what I would say is that, if sufferings increase, if the revolt against it all becomes almost unendurable, the sentiments that reign in my soul, that should reign in yours, all your souls, are unvarying. But I shall not write long. Ah, it is not that my thought is not with you, with our children, night and day, since that thought alone makes me live! There is not an instant when, mentally, I do not speak to you; but in the presence of the tragic horror of a situation so appalling, and so long borne, in the presence of the atrocious sufferings of us all, words lose their meaning; there is nothing more to say. There is left only one duty for you to fulfill--a duty that is unvarying, immutable. Moreover, I have given you all the advice that my heart can suggest. I can wish only to hear soon a human word, a word that will put a soothing balm upon so deep a wound, that will give new strength to the heart and rest the worn-out brain. But whatever may come of it, again I repeat to you always, with all the strength of my soul, Courage! Courage! Our children, your duty, are for you supports that no human suffering should weaken. I wish, then, simply to send you, while I wait for your dear letters, the echo of my profound love, to embrace you with all my heart, as I love you, and also our dear, adored children. ALFRED. My best kisses to your parents, to all our friends. I need not write to them; all our hearts beat in unison. * * * * * _5 March, 1897._ My dear and good Lucie: I wrote you a few lines the 20th of February while I was waiting for your dear letters, which have not yet reached me. I have just learned that, in consequence of an accident to the machinery, the steamer has not yet arrived at Guiana. As I told you in my last letter, we know too well, each one of us, the horrible acuteness of our sufferings, to give us any reason to speak of it. But I would, if it were possible, impregnate this cold and commonplace paper with all that my heart contains for you, for our children. At every instant of the day and of the night you tell yourself that my thought is with them; and that when my heart can bear no more, when the too-full cup overflows, it is in murmuring these three names that are so dear to me, it is in telling myself always, that for their sakes I must live to see the day when honor shall be given back to the name of my children, that I find, at last, the strength to overcome the atrocious nausea, that I find the strength to live. As to the counsel that I would give you, it never changes.