Oh, dear Lucie, listen to me well, for I have suffered so much, I have borne so many things, that life is profoundly indifferent to me, and I speak to you as from the tomb, from the deep, eternal silence which raises man above all the anxieties of earth. I speak to you as a father, in the name of the duty to your children that you must fulfill. Go to the President of the Republic, to the Ministers, even to those who had me condemned; for if passions, excitements, at times lead astray the most upright minds, the hearts remain always generous and are ready to forget what carried them away before the appalling grief of a wife, of a mother, who wants but one thing--the only thing we ask--the discovery of the truth, the honor of our dear little ones. Speak simply, forget all the little miseries--of what importance are they when compared with the object to be attained?--and I am sure that you will find an army of generous, ardent souls, who will help you to escape from a situation so atrocious, and borne so long that I am yet asking myself how our brains have been able to resist its attacks. I am speaking to you in perfect calmness in this deep silence, a painful silence, it is true, but it lifts the soul above it all.... Act as I beg you to.... See but one thing, my dear and good Lucie, the end which we must attain--the truth--and appeal to all who are just and devoted.... Oh, for that! I wish it with all the fibres of my being--to see the day when honor shall be again restored to us! Courage, then, dear Lucie; I ask it of you with all my heart, with all my soul. I embrace you as I love you, with all the power of my love, and also our dear, adored children. Your devoted ALFRED. * * * * * _3 October, 1896._ My dear Lucie: I have not yet received the mail of August. Notwithstanding, I wish to write you a few words by the English mail, and to send you the echo of my immense love. I wrote to you last month, and I opened my whole heart to you, told all my thoughts; there is nothing that I can add. I hope that the combined aid that you have the right to ask for will be given you, and I can only hope one thing--that I am soon to learn that light has been let in upon this horrible affair. What I would again say to you is this: that we must not let the terrible acuteness of our sufferings harden our hearts. It is necessary that our name, that we ourselves, should come out of this horrible situation such as we were when they made us go into it. But in the face of such sufferings our courage should be strong, not to recriminate nor to complain, but to ask, to demand, indeed, light on this horrible drama, that he or they whose victims we are be unmasked. But I have spoken to you at length of all this in my last letter; I will not repeat myself.