difficulties and obstacles increase. Therefore, dear and good Lucie, courage, and more than courage; a strong will, a daring will that knows how to be determined and to succeed, a will strong enough to attain its object, no matter how, an object as praiseworthy as it is elevated—the truth. This has lasted too long, too many sufferings are crushing down innocent beings.
Kiss the dear children often and fondly for me. Ah, indeed, dear Lucie, there is nothing that can be called an obstacle where our children are concerned. Remind yourself that there are no obstacles; that there cannot be any; that the truth must be known; that a mother has all rights, as she ought to have all courage when she is called upon to defend that by which alone her children can live—their honor.
And each time when I write to you I cannot bring myself to close my letter, so brief is this moment when I come to talk to you; so wholly is all my being with you; so entirely all I say fails to express the feelings that agitate me and fill my soul; so inadequate to express this desire, stronger than all else, which is in me—a desire for the truth and for our honor and the honor of our children, or to express my deep love for you, my love increased by unbounded reverence.
I hope, indeed, that what I have said to you during so many long months is being translated by you all into strong and vigorous action, and that I shall hear soon that the sufferings of us both are to have an end.
I embrace you as I love you, and also our dear children, with all my heart, with all my soul, while I wait for tidings from you all.
Alfred.
