IN April, 1873, Henry Vane was sitting on the _perron_ of a small
summer house in Brittany, poking the pebbles in the driveway with his
cane. He had been there for half an hour, and there was nothing in his
appearance and attitude to indicate that he would not be there for half
an hour more. There was one red pebble, in particular, which he had an
especial desire to prod out from among the others, which were gray.
But it was round and slippery, and slid about the ferruled end of his
cane. After poking it some time, he desisted and held the cane in his
hands in front of his knees, which, as the next step of the porch was
not much lower, were as high as his chin. "C'en est fait de moi," he
muttered.
Henry Vane, though a New Yorker, had been brought up in France, and in
the French language his thoughts came most readily. He had just seen,
for the last time, an old friend of his--a girl, whom he had known in
infancy, in childhood, in maidenhood; and whom it seemed incredible,
impossible, intolerable, that he should know no more. It was upon the
piazza of her uncle's house that he was sitting; and she was to leave
the next day for Switzerland.
He was of age that day, and was "his own man now." "And hers," he
thought, bitterly. She did not love him, however; and, at his request,
had just told him so.
"Décidément, c'en est fait de moi," he muttered again, and gave the
pebble a vicious dig, which sent it flying into an acacia bush that
stood in a green tub by the side of the driveway.
He was twenty-one that day, and had come into his fortune. His fortune
was not much--four thousand a year, left him by his grandmother and
invested in government bonds. Still, twenty thousand francs made him
distinctly a _rentier_; and twenty thousand francs seemed a good deal,
shared with the girl he loved. But it seemed very little for him alone;
genteel poverty in fact. He certainly could neither yacht nor race.
Travelling--except _en étudiant_--was equally out of the question.
Vane was a flippant young fellow, with a French education; fond of the
world, of which, as he then thought, he knew much. Yet the _Figaro_ and
the Bois de Boulogne and the _Palais-Royal_, or even the _Français_,
did not seem to satisfy him, that day. And all for a little "Mees
Anglaise!" How his friends would laugh at him! He was very young--they
would say; very young for a _grande passion_. And then they would laugh
again. But Vane felt sure that he should never get over it.
What the deuce did fellows do in his position? He felt a wild desire
for adventure and excitement; but excitement and adventure were
expensive; unless there happened to be a war, and you went officially.
But he had not many illusions of romance in war. He knew men who had
been at Woerth and Gravelotte. Then there was travel. But this, also,
was expensive. Old Prunier, the Professor, had made an expedition
through Soudan the year before, and it had cost him eight hundred
thousand francs. Moreover, you had to be up on rocks and beetles and
things, to make your trip of any use to the world. And Vane had not yet
given up all idea of being of use in the world. Besides, even Prunier's
expedition had not ended in much, except a row with the Portuguese
missionaries on the subject of the slave trade. These Christian slavers
had met Prunier's remonstrances with the plausible argument that it was
better for the negroes to be slaves in a Christian country, and save
their souls, than free on earth and damned when they died. Prunier had
consequently reported a crying need for a better article of missionary
in Central Africa. But Vane could not go as a missionary. He felt that
his confidence in Providence, at that moment, was not hardy enough to
bear transplanting into the native South African mind, through the
medium of a Turanian dialect.
He might seek the land of his nativity, and make his four thousand a
year, eight thousand. His father's business, for the moment, lay in
Bellefontaine. He did not in the least know where Bellefontaine was,
but the name had a civilized sound. And she was going to Switzerland.
Vane must have clenched his hands at this point; for he felt a decided
pricking in his left forefinger. And he observed several thorns on the
stem of the rose she had given him. For she had given him a rose. That
much favor had been shown him. He got into his mother's little phaeton
and drove home--with his rose. So far, his investments in life had not
been successful. The account with fortune might read somewhat like
this--Debtor, an English girl: to ten years' love and an indefinite
amount of devotion and sentiment. Creditor, by the English girl: one
rose (with thorns). That is, if he had put the Dr. and Cr. sides right.
He never could remember which was which. At all events, the returns
on his investment were not large. And he, with his uncertainty about
debtor and creditor, to think of competing with the practical Yankee
of Bellefontaine! No; he would leave his four thousand a year where
it was--a somewhat insignificant part of the national debt. Meantime,
what would become of him? What should he do? He felt an idle outsider's
curiosity to know what the deuce he _would_ do.
Of one thing he felt certain, his orbit in life would be highly
eccentric. He had no _raison d'être_; and it is difficult to predict
the direction taken by a body without _raison d'être_. The curve
of such a comet has no equation. He could no longer view life with
gravity; and it is quite impossible to calculate the orbit of a body
without gravity. He might bring up anywhere from Orion to the Great
Bear. Only one thing was certain--he could not, for the present, bring
up in Switzerland; and yet, oddly enough, that seemed to be the only
part of any possible terrestrial orbit that had an attraction. But
attraction decreases as the square of the distance. Assuming, for
the sake of argument, that he was now two miles from her, and loved
her with his whole heart; if he were twelve thousand miles away, he
would love her only one divided by the square of six thousand--only
one thirty-six-millionth part as much. In other words, he would have
thirty-five million nine hundred and ninety-nine thousand nine hundred
and ninety-nine thirty-six millionths of his heart left--left to bestow
upon the dusky beauties of the Pacific. Damn the dusky beauties of the
Pacific. He would see his sister Mary. After all, she was dearer to him
than the dusky beauties of the Pacific could possibly be.
When the boy arrived home, he drove to the stable, and alighting,
threw the reins to a groom. He was perfectly sure that his life was
broken; but a groom is a necessary adjunct of any life at all. He
rolled a cigarette and strolled toward the house, still holding the
rose, by the stem, between the first and second fingers of his left
hand. Momentarily his thoughts had wandered from the English girl; he
was still entirely busied in constructing a proper _dénouement_ for
himself. The romance of his life, he felt, was gone; but he desired
that his career should be consistent with his tragic part in life. She
had left him enough self-esteem for that.
So he entered the house.