then at all hours of the day and night I cry to you and to all of you, in the agony of my grief, "March on to the conquest of the truth, boldly, like honest and valiant people, to whom honor is everything."
Ah, the means! Little do I care for means. They must be found, when one knows what one wants, and when it is one's right and one's duty to want it.
This voice you should hear at every moment, across all space; it should animate your souls.
I repeat myself ever, dear Lucie; it is because but one thought, one will gives me strength to endure everything.
I am neither patient nor resigned, be sure of that. I long for the light, the truth, our honor throughout all France, with all the fibres of my being; and this supreme desire ought to inspire in you—in you, as in all the others—all courage, all daring, so that at last we may escape from a situation as infamous as it is undeserved.
You have no mercy and no favor to ask of any one. You wish the light, and that you must obtain.
The more the physical strength decreases—for the nerves end by becoming absolutely shattered by so many appalling shocks—the more the energies should increase.
Never, never, never—and this is the cry from the depths of my soul—can a man resign himself to dishonor when he has not deserved it.
To-day our dear little Pierre is five years old. All my heart, all my thoughts go out to him, to you, to our dear children. All my being quivers with sorrow.
What can I add, my dear Lucie? My affection for you, for our children, you know it. It has kept me alive; it