5 April, 1896.
My dear Lucie:
I have just received your dear letters of February, also those of the family. In your turn, my dear wife, you have been subjected to the atrocious anguish of waiting for tidings!. . . I have known this anguish; I have known many others; I have seen things that are deceiving to the human consciousness. . . . Well, I say again, what matters it? Your children are there, they live. We have given them life, we must restore their honor to them. It is necessary to go straight forward to the end, our eyes fixed upon one single object—to go forward with an unconquerable will, with the courage given by the knowledge of an absolute necessity. I told you in one of my letters that each day brings with it its anguish. It is true. When the evening comes, after a struggle of every instant against the turmoil of my brain, against the overthrow of my reason, against the revolts of my heart, then I have a cerebral and nervous depression, and I long to close my eyes to see no more, to think no more, to suffer no more. Then I have to make a violent effort of the will to drive away the ideas that drag me down, to bring back the thought of you, the thought of our adored children, and to say to myself again, "However horrible your martyrdom may be, you must be able to die in peace, knowing that you leave to your children a proud and honored name." If I recall this to you, it is simply to tell you again what effort of my will I put forth in a single day because it concerns the honor of our name, the name of our children; that this same determination should animate you all. I want to tell you also what I suffer from your torture, from that of you all, what I suffer for our children, and that
