“Celui qui me vole ma bourse,[C] Me vole une bagatelle C’est quelque chose, mais ce n’est rien. Elle était a moi, elle est à lui et, A était I’esclave de mille autres. Mais celui qui me vole ma bonne renommée, Me vole une chose qui ni l’enrichit pas, Et qui me rend vraiment pauvre.” Ah, yes! he has rendered me “_vraiment pauvre_, “the wretch who has stolen my honor! He has made us more miserable than the meanest of human creatures. But to each one his hour. Courage, then, dear Lucie; preserve the unconquerable will that you have shown until now; draw from your children the superhuman energy that triumphs over everything. Indeed, I have no doubt whatever that you will succeed, and I hope that this sinister tragedy is soon to end and that my innocence is at last to be recognized. What more can I tell you, my dear Lucie--what can I say that I have not told you in each one of my letters? My profound admiration for the courage, the heart, the character, that you have shown in such tragic circumstances; the absolute necessity, which supersedes everything, all interests, even our lives, of proving my innocence in such a way that not a doubt can remain in the mind of any one--the necessity of doing everything noiselessly, but with a determination that nothing can check. I hope that you receive my letters; this is the ninth that I have written to you. Embrace all the family; embrace our dear children for me, and receive for yourself the fondest kisses of your devoted ALFRED. As you see, my dear Lucie, I hope that when you receive these last letters the truth shall not be far from being known and that we shall enjoy again the happiness that was our lot until now. * * * * * _11 June, 1895._ My dear Lucie: Yesterday I received all your letters up to the 7th of March--that is to say the first which you addressed to me here--also the letter of your mother and the letters of your brothers and sisters, dating from the same time. I wish to answer you while I am still under the spell of them. First of all I must speak to you of the immense joy I felt in reading the words written by your hand. It was something of yourself, a part of you, which had sought me out; it was your good, noble heart come to warm and revive mine. I saw also in your letters what I had already felt--how you all have suffered in this horrible tragedy which has come upon us, surprising us in our happiness and tearing from us our honor. This one word tells everything, it sums up all our tortures--mine and yours. I know that from the day when I promised you to live, to wait for the truth to be revealed, for justice to be done me, I ought not to have faltered. I ought to have silenced the voice of my heart; I ought to have waited patiently, but how could I? I had not the strength of soul.