But I must repeat to you always, “Courage, courage!” Our children are the future; it is their life that we must assure. And I wish to end these few lines by expressing once more the two sentiments that reign in my heart. First, I want to send you all my tenderness, all my deep love, for you, for our children, for your dear parents, for my dear brothers and sisters. I want to take you in my arms again, to press you again to my heart with all the strength that remains to me, with all the power of my love. And then the second sentiment is this: to repeat to you always to be grand, to be strong, whatever may happen, whatever may be the trials that the future may still have in store for you, to think ever and again of our dear children, who are the future, the children of whom you must be the unfailing guard and stay, until the day when the truth shall be revealed. And then I want to tell you once again the last prayer of a man who has been subjected to the most terrible of martyrdoms, a man who had always and in all places done his duty; it is that they may give you a kind word, a helping hand, an energetic and powerful aid, that nothing can weary in the discovery of the truth. All my being, all my thoughts, my very heart, spring forward in a supreme effort toward you, toward our dear children, toward your dear parents, toward all those whom I love, while I wish with all the strength of my soul that a future may be near which will bring to you all a rest of the mind, a calmness, a tranquillity, all the happiness you yourself so well deserve, that you all so well deserve. Then, dear and good Lucie, always, and still always, Courage! I embrace you as I love you, as I embrace also our dear and adored children, your dear parents, all our family. Your devoted ALFRED. * * * * * _22 July, 1897._ My dear Lucie: A few lines only, while I await your dear letters. I suffer too much for you, for our children, for you all. I know too well what are your tortures for me to be able to tell you of myself. Poor love, did you, too, deserve to bear a martyrdom like this? My heart breaks; my brain bursts its bounds as I think of all the sorrow heaped upon you all--sorrow so unending, so unmerited! I have again made passionate appeals for you, for our children. I am sure that the co-operation which will be given you will be more active, more ardent, than ever. In my long nights of suffering, when my thought comes back constantly to you, to our children, I often join my hands in a silent prayer into which I put my whole heart, that the appalling suffering of so many innocent victims may soon be ended. However it may be, dear Lucie, I want to repeat to you always, as long as I shall have a breath of life, “Courage, courage!” Our children, your duty, are for you safeguards that nothing should displace, that no human grief should weaken.