And then I, who feel, who divine all that--I, whose heart is crushed and wounded in its purest sentiments, in its tenderest love, with the blood boiling in my veins, because I feel all the torture heaped upon us, upon our two families--with my very reason in revolt I go and put into my letters the cries of anguish and of impatience that are in my soul; then I suffer through a long month thinking of the emotion you will feel, and I am still more unhappy. Instead of bringing you, you who are wounded with me in your honor as a wife and a mother, the moral support, the steadfast, energetic, ardent support which you need in the noble mission you must fulfill, I come, at times, to lament, to occupy you with my little sufferings, my petty tortures, with I know not what, to augment your poignant grief. Forgive my weakness--human weakness, alas! all too natural. Words, indeed, are powerless to depict a martyrdom like ours. But it can have but one termination--the discovery of the guilty wretches, absolute, complete rehabilitation, all the honor of our name, the name of our dear children. So I am again, as always, adding to this letter, which will carry to you the echo of my deep love, the ardent cry of my soul, Courage, still more courage, dear Lucie, to march on to your goal, with a fierce, resolute, unfailing will; and let us hope, for both our sakes, for the sake of our children, that the end may soon be accomplished. Embrace our dear little ones tenderly for me. I live only in them, in you, and from that source I draw my strength. Kiss your dear parents for me; give my love to all our friends; thank them for their good and most affectionate letters. I end this letter with regret, and I embrace you hard, “as hard as I can,” as our dear little Pierre says. Your devoted ALFRED. _Evening._ I have just received at last the things you sent me, and the books for the months of December, January and February, and I assure you that I had need of them. Yet more fond and ardent kisses for you, for our dear children, for your dear parents, for all our friends; and I end my letter by this ardent cry of my soul: Courage, always and still more courage, my dear and good Lucie. * * * * * _24 July, 1896._ My dear Lucie: I have not received your letters of May; the last news I have of you dates back three months. You see that sledge-hammer blows are not spared me. I do not want to augment your grief by depicting my own. Besides it is of no importance. Whatever may be our suffering, however appalling may be our martyrdom, our object is unchanging, my dear Lucie--the light, the honor of our name. I can do no more than repeat to you this cry of my soul: Courage! Courage! Courage! until the end is attained.