When we see with what infrangible conditions nature surrounds us, is it not best to accept them? At least, I have made up my mind upon an essential point, my work. That is something. I have promised myself to fret no more over vain ambitions. I will be a mediocre painter; that is all. In that case why should I deny myself the pleasure of writing, a thing which formerly discipline forbade? As it is certain that the name of M. Vincent la Croix will never shine in the sky of glory with the names of Gustave Moreau, of Puvis de Chavannes, and of Burne-Jones, why should M. Vincent la Croix deprive himself of this compensation: wasting his time after his own fashion, like the rich amateur, the dilettante and the critic he is? That is the reason why, when about to live over again in thought the episodes of a real little romance, into which chance introduced me, I have prepared paper, a pen, and ink. Here is a fresh proof that I shall always lack spontaneous and gushing geniality; I have gone out of my way to explain my motives at the beginning of this story, instead of starting it simply and boldly. I can see its most minute details before me, so what need have I of excusing in my own eyes a work which tempts me? I shall be at liberty to destroy it if I am too ashamed of it when it is finished. Many a time have I painted out a canvas which I considered bad! This time two logs in the fireplace and a match will suffice. That is one of the unspeakable superiorities of literature over painting. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ CHAPTER I The reason I can clearly recollect the exact date of the beginning of the adventure I am about to relate, is that it was my thirty-sixth birthday. That is twenty-nine months ago. That anniversary found me more melancholy than usual. The reason of it was still the same: the feeling that my faculties were at the same time unemployed and limited, and that the boundary of my talent was continually being reached. The pretext? I smile at the pretext. But what imaginative man has not had in his youth childish and heroic determinations? What artist has not fixed beforehand the stages in his glorious career, comparing himself to some illustrious person? Caesar, who was as good as most people, said: “At my age Alexander had conquered the world.” That is an heroic cry when the pride of a still unknown power palpitates in it, but it is harrowing when the conviction of definitive impuissance utters this useless sigh towards triumph. I am not Caesar, but all my diaries—and I have many—abound in dates which were rendezvous given by me to Fame, but which she failed to keep.