"Courage, yet more courage!" for before all things is the honor of the name that our dear children bear. I tell you that this object for which you are striving is immutable. Therefore act as I have said; for the co-*operation of generous hearts that you will find—I am sure of it—will realize more speedily the supreme wish that I still cry out, the light of truth upon this sad tragedy, that I may be with our little ones on the day when honor is restored to us! And I add for your own self, for all of us, this ardent and supreme cry of my soul, that rises in the darkness of the night: everything for honor. Let this be our only thought; your sole preoccupation. There must not be one minute of ease.
4 September, 1896.
Dear and good Lucie:
I wrote you a letter last night under an impression caused by the mail, the sufferings that we all endure, the pain of having only a few lines from you, for after a long, agonized silence of a whole month, there is now, inevitably, a strong nervous tension. I am as if crazed by grief. I take my head in my two hands, and I ask by what miserable destiny so many human beings are called upon to suffer so.
I feel, too, the need of coming again to talk with you. Perhaps this letter may yet catch the English mail and go with the other.
If I am tired, worn out, if I should tell you the contrary you would not believe me; for to suffer so without respite through all hours of the day and night; to feel intuitively the sufferings of those we love; to see our children, those dear little creatures, for whom I would
