Moreover, as I have told you, I have bequeathed to those who condemned me a duty in which they will not fail; I am absolutely sure of it. To speak of the education of the children is needless, isn’t it? We have too often, in our long conversations, gone thoroughly over this subject, and our hearts, our feelings, everything, are bound so close together that naturally we agree as to what that education should be; it may be summed up in a word: to make them strong, physically and morally. I will not dwell too long upon all this, for these thoughts are too sad, and I do not want to be weighed down by them. But what I wish to repeat to you with all the force of my soul, with a voice that you should always hear, is “Courage, courage!” Your patience, your resolution, that of all of us, should never tire until the truth, full and absolute, shall have been revealed and recognized. I cannot fill my letters full enough of all the love that my heart contains for you, for you all. If I have been able to resist until now so much agony of soul, all mental misery and trial, it is because I have drawn strength from the thought of you and of the children. I am now hoping that your letters of April may reach me soon, and that I shall not have to suffer so long a delay before receiving them. I will end this letter by taking you in my arms and pressing you to my heart. I embrace you with all the strength of my love, and I repeat to you always and still again: “Courage, courage!” A thousand kisses to our dear children. Your devoted ALFRED. And for all of you, whatever may come, whatever may become of me, this earnest cry, the invincible cry of my soul: “_Lift up your hearts!_ Life is nothing, honor is all!” And for you, all the tenderness of my heart. * * * * * _24 April, 1897._ Dear Lucie: I want to talk with you while I wait for your dear letters, not to speak of myself, but to tell you always the same words, which ought to sustain your unalterable courage; and then, too, it is a human weakness, that is excusable enough, to get a little warmth for my tortured heart near yours, alas! not less sad than mine. I have read over your letters of February in which you are astonished, in which you almost make excuses because at times cries of grief, of revolt, escape from your heart. Do not make excuses for them; they are only too legitimate. In this long agony of thought to which I am subjected, be sure that I know them, those very griefs.