children, toward your dear parents, toward all those whom I love, while I wish with all the strength of my soul that a future may be near which will bring to you all a rest of the mind, a calmness, a tranquillity, all the happiness you yourself so well deserve, that you all so well deserve.
Then, dear and good Lucie, always, and still always, Courage!
I embrace you as I love you, as I embrace also our dear and adored children, your dear parents, all our family. Your devoted
Alfred.
22 July, 1897.
My dear Lucie:
A few lines only, while I await your dear letters.
I suffer too much for you, for our children, for you all. I know too well what are your tortures for me to be able to tell you of myself.
Poor love, did you, too, deserve to bear a martyrdom like this? My heart breaks; my brain bursts its bounds as I think of all the sorrow heaped upon you all—sorrow so unending, so unmerited!
I have again made passionate appeals for you, for our children. I am sure that the co-operation which will be given you will be more active, more ardent, than ever. In my long nights of suffering, when my thought comes back constantly to you, to our children, I often join my hands in a silent prayer into which I put my whole heart, that the appalling suffering of so many innocent victims may soon be ended.
However it may be, dear Lucie, I want to repeat to
