Strong in my innocence, march straight onward to your goal; silently, quietly, but openly and energetically, even if you are forced to carry your cause before the highest heads. No human heart can remain insensible to the supplications of a wife who comes with her little children to ask that the guilty be unmasked, that justice be done to the miserable, wretched victims. Do not look back over the past, but speak from your heart, from your whole heart; this tragedy of which we are the victims is poignant enough even in its simplicity. Act, then, as I advised you in my letters of the 7th and 27th of September, frankly, resolutely, with the spirit of a woman who has to defend the honor--that is to say, the life--of her husband, of her children. Do not give way to grief, my dear and good Lucie; that will not help us. Pass from words to acts, and become great and worthy by those acts. Embrace your dear parents and all our family for me. Thank them for their good, affectionate letters; thank also your dear aunt for the touching lines she has written to me. I do not write to them directly, though my heart night and day is with them all; for I could only go on repeating myself. Courage, then, dear Lucie; we must see the end of this tragedy. I embrace you with all my strength, with all my soul, and also our dear children. Your devoted ALFRED. The books you have sent me have been announced, but I have not yet received them. I thank you; I had great need of them, for reading is the only thing which can distract my thoughts a little. _5 October, 1895._ My dear Lucie: I had already written to you yesterday, but after I had read and re-read all the letters from this last mail there arose from them such a cry of agony that all my being was profoundly shaken. You suffer for me, and I suffer for you. No, it is not possible, it cannot be that an entire family can be subjected to such martyrdom. Merely from the agony of waiting, we shall all be brought to the ground. It must not be; there are our children; they must be thought of before all else. I have just written again directly to the President of the Republic. I can act only by my pen--it is very little--I can only sustain you by all the ardor of my soul. You must, on your side, act energetically, resolutely. When a man is innocent, when he asks for nothing but justice, the clearing up of this terrible mystery, he is strong, invincible. Lay, if need be, our dear children at the feet of the President, and demand justice for them, for their father. Be heroic in your deeds, dear Lucie; it is on you that this duty falls. Yet once more I must say it; it is not noise nor gnashing of teeth that is necessary, but an indomitable will, that nothing can rebuff. I sustain you, from here, across all the distance, with all the living force of my being, with my soul of a Frenchman, of an honest man, of a father who demands his honor--the honor of his children. I embrace you from the depths of my heart.