Prosper, a novel;

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UNITED STATES OF AMERICA.

Chapter I

It was about ten o’clock when Didier de Peyrols left the Theatre Royal of Berlin. The night was cold but clear. For a long time he walked under the Lindens. On that evening Hamlet had been played. The performance went off well. Hamlet had distinguished himself, Ophelia was most graceful in her madness, the great final slaughter had been accomplished without any awkward casualty. Of all the masterpieces of dramatic art, Hamlet seemed to Didier the best — not that he found in this play more art or more genius than in the Cid or in Britannicus, but it spoke more than any other both to his heart and to his intellect. He was never weary of re-reading it, ever drawing new emotions from this unfailing spring. For years he had dreamed of seeing represented the masterpiece which he knew by heart. His dream was at last realized, and the hope long cherished had fulfilled all its promise.

Didier was quite as capable as any one of admiring fine verse ; he possessed a cultivated mind, a practised taste, a true and delicate ear. Neverthe-

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less, what he sought in poetry was less art itself, than the inspired delineation of life and men ; it was for him less a recreation for the mind than a superior wisdom, a species of revelation.

While reading the poets, he aspired to arrive at a better knowledge of himself ; he looked for himself in their fictions, and if Hamlet was the object of his preference, it was because he had it in him, — how shall I express it ? — something of the stuff of which Hamlets are made. It is true Didier had not been born amid the mists of the North, nor was he the son of a Danish king. No tragedy to be found in his history; he might have paced at midnight the terrace of Elsinor without meeting a menacing shade that intrusted to him the avengers’ duty. He had come into the world under soft skies, on the confines of Dauphiny and Provence, afar from the Fir trees, and under the shadow of the Olive.

His father was a worthy country gentleman, and also a capitalist, who had passed his life in making money for himself and happiness for others. Thus Didier had not to fear being devoted to dark adventures by any wish of his father. Nothing sinister in his past, nothing alarming in his future. No Ophelia, either, in his path; he had known pleasure, but his heart had remained free. Impossible to find in his life material for a drama, not even the theme for a short tale — misfortune seemed to say to him, “ If you wish to know me, come and look for me.” Perhaps in the bottom of his heart Didier was curious to make this new acquaintance ; but he was indolent, and remained at home.

“ Indolent as Hamlet ! ” I think he would willingly have adopted this motto, and however ambitious it may appear, he would have found no difficulty in justifying it. The young Danish prince has remained the immortal type of those men w hose

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generosity of character and loftiness of mind render them unfit for action. To play a part on the stage of the world one must not fear to commit one’s self with fortune ; and whoever will take the trouble to reflect, will not be long in finding out that she shows little delicacy in her choice of friendships, that she often bestows her favors unworthily, that petty means and petty passions easily find grace in her sight, and that if success is always applauded, those who bow down and burn incense before it soon grow niggardly of their esteem. At the University of Wittemberg, Hamlet had learned to despise public opinion and its toys. He concluded that things have no value beyond what vanity bestows upon them, that there is no aim worthy of effort, that to pass judgment on life is better than to live it. His cynical indifference protected him from all ambition, he cared for nothing but his thoughts.

“Good God,” exclaimed he, “I might be shut up in a nut-shell, and feel like a king ruling over infinite space, if I had no dreams.” Didier had not studied at the University of Wittemberg ; but he, too, was born with the fatal gift of reflection. From an early age he had observed the ways of the world, and like his royal model, he had said more than once,

“ Man delights not me — no, nor woman neither.”

He had seen so many mediocrities flourish and expand under the sun of renown, so many follies wafted by prosperous gales, so many quacks get the better of simpletons, so many dishonest men bespatter with the insolence of their triumphs silent and confounded virtue, that at the age of illusions he had already given up living : it was enough for him to look on and see how others lived. He laid

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claim to nothing, had never undertaken or desired anything ; he remained shut up in his shell, though in danger of sometimes having bad dreams.

To this contempt for success, which paralyzed his will, must be added an incurable timidity which he did not like to avow. Our defects spring from our good qualities. Didier had a heart naturally kind and sympathetic, and could enter with great facility into the feelings of others. Seeing men greatly occupied with themselves, he disliked to occupy them with himself. He had neither the ability nor the desire to impose himself on any one ; and to explain or discuss, was to him a species of torture. He had more than once tried to do it, but had been quickly disgusted. A frown, a look which betrayed anxiety, the slightest token of impatience or absence of mind, had been enough to chill his impulse. “ What use is it,” he would say, “ to annoy others with my foolish demands — people who care so much about themselves when I care so little for myself?” He who has received from Heaven neither a taste for argument nor the boldness to conspire, will do well to abjure all ambition; and this Didier had almost done. I know not whether Hamlet was timid or not : this is a weakness which any one would keep secret, and which self-love knows how to disguise. However that may be, Didier had decided that, despite the distance which separates the heroes of tragedy from common martyrs, Hamlet resembled himself at all points. J ust now in the theatre he had recognized himself, not without a thrill of joy ; his indolence had appeared before him on the boards, ennobled, glorified, adorned with a fragment of royal purple, and this vision had charmed his pride.

Lost in these reflections, he walked to and fro between the statue of Frederick the Great and the gate of Brandeburg, without perceiving that the

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weather was stingingly cold. He put himself in the place of his hero. Charged, like him, with avenging the murder of his father, he would have felt all his uncertainties and perplexities ; like him, he would have let the sun go down fifty times upon his wrath ; like him, he would have felt his resolution escaping, and dishonor at the crime committed turning into a listless and apathetic melancholy ; like him, he would have been indignant at his own want of indignation, and after having drawn the sword from the scabbard, he would have seen his hand, when just ready to strike, fall again at his side as if benumbed by an invisible torpedo. “ What a happy man was Laertes ! ” thought he, reflecting on the contrast which Shakespeare has intended to establish between the son of Polonius and the lov^r of Ophelia. “Nothing stops him, he feels no doubt about anything. Why should one reflect or dream ? He wills and acts. Hardly has he learned that his father is dead, when he hastens away, intoxicated with the desire of vengeance. He arrives, presents himself to the people, rouses them to rebellion, penetrates into the palace sword in hand. Polonius shall be avenged, or Laertes will reign — and, nevertheless,” thought he again, “wdiat Hamlet would consent to become a Laertes?” And he concluded that there are two species of men: those who think and those who will; that mediocrity of sentiment is favorable to energy of character, that superior natures are out of their element here, that commonplace men are much surer of success, and that life was invented for them.

These reflections, as may be supposed, were not by any means mortifying to his self-love, and he was still enjoying them when a clock striking midnight aroused him from his revery. He took leave of his phantoms, and went home to his lodging.

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As his door was closed, he called to the porter to open it for him, and on entering his room perceived on his table a paper, the appearance of which was ominous. His presentiment did not deceive him : the notary of Nyons, an old friend of his family, had telegraphed him that M. de Peyrols was seriously ill, that he was growing visibly worse, and that Didier must come without delay. Who knows ? Perhaps he might arrive too late.

Chapter II

Didier arrived too late : he had only the sad satisfaction of being able to pay the last duties to the deceased.

M. de Peyrols had always occupied a large place in the life of his son. Our Hamlet on a small scale (whose mother, a commonplace woman, indolent of heart and devoid of imagination, had died very young,) had been brought up by his father.

It must not be supposed that M. de Peyrols had consecrated himself entirely to his son’s education, nor even that he had occupied himself with it seriously or continuously. He was too busy a man for that — active, stirring, well-informed on many subjects, his head ever full of projects, he had interested himself in several industrial enterprises which had prospered through his counsels and by the assistance of his strong will. Incessantly moving about, now at Paris, now at Marseilles, liking to bestir himself, and stir up others, he strode through life with his seven-league boots ; but from time to time, he made a halt at his country-seat in Nyons, merely to take breath again, and his son then became suddenly the object of his most an-

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xious concern. This was an affair which for some days made him forget every other. Then it was that he perceived how very little this young man resembled him, how he was as little interested by work as by pleasure, how he never grew animated over anything, that he had an indolent disposition like his mother, and large gray eyes which seemed satisfied with watching the movements of flies. This discovery grieved him ; he took the alarm ; laying aside everything else, he called Didier into his study, spent hours in teasing him with questions and reproaches, trying hard to strike fire, and complaining that the tinder was damp, after which he held learned conferences with the preceptor he had given him, and of whom he had little reason to be proud, developed the finest theories of education, went into discussions in which he lost himself, uttered many aphorisms such as these : “ Only fools find themselves bored ; nothing has ever been invented more interesting than this world ; everything in it is material for experiment.” “ Life is a battle to be won : you must open fire early.” “ Everything should be done with ardor, even the most trifling game. Let my son learn to be feverish,.” “ To will is a pleasure for gods. The man

who is a dreamer approaches the vegetable.” “ I fear Didier will pass his time in looking for, but never finding himself. I knew what I was good for when I had reached the age of twelve.” “ If you read Livy with him, try to make him take part resolutely with Hannibal or with the Romans. I want him to get excited over it. I have a holy horror of mental people.”

“We must learn to eat dirt with a good grace ; no one can become a man in any other way, and it is always better than to chew on nothing. If I were condemned to do nothing, I would pray to God to send me some good trouble which would

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give me occupation.” “ Didier is good, loyal, generous ; his heart is in the right place. All that is nothing. An inoffensive man is the last of men. I should be miserable to have a son unworthy of making enemies.”

All these grand maxims, repeated by the preceptor to his pupil, produced but slight effect. In vain did Didier, actuated by filial deference, try to imbue himself with them ; his nature resisted ; he did not succeed in getting feverish, he had still less success in making enemies, and if he considered that Hannibal was in some degree right, he also thought the Romans not entirely in the wrong. Then, after having indoctrinated him for three or four days, M. de Peyrols would receive some business letter, which operated a diversion on his sudden gust of paternity ; one fine morning he would put on his big hoots and set out on his journey, leaving Didier alone with his preceptor, who repeated to him, as a matter of duty, and in a drawling nasal tone, “ To will is a pleasure for gods — try to be feverishly interested.” “I am what I am. You cannot make me over again,” the young man would answer, emboldened by the absence of his father. Whatever good will he might employ, the carolling of a lark seemed to him more full of meaning than all the paternal sayings.

When Didier reached the age for choosing a profession, M. de Peyrols, who, although a nobleman and rich, had no idea of an idler for his son, devoted fifteen whole days at least to feeling his pulse, to auscultating him, in order to find out what might be his tastes, and whether he had not some secret vocation. He passed in review before him every profession, showing him the best side of each, and trying to discover in him some preference. To whatever he proposed, Didier replied neither yes nor no ; no pronounced tastes, no de-

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cided antipathies. “ Half fig, half grape,” sighed the father, shaking his head. To tell the truth, Didier possessed naturally the happiest gifts, together with great breadth of mind ; to acquire knowledge was mere child’s play to him, and in a certain measure he took interest in everything ; he had an equal aptitude for botany and jurisprudence, for the arts, and chemistry. He was somewhat of a musician, drew with taste, understood how to construct a plan, could use a quadrant as well as a practised surveyor, and cut his way without very great difficulty through a thorny problem in mathematics. He read fluently Leibnitz and Poisson ; but he took real pleasure only in general ideas, pure theory, all that addressed itself to the imagination and reflection, and he had discovered that in every art, in each science, there was something mechanical which disgusted him. It is certain that to be either a learned man or an artist, it does not suffice to possess only the sense of the beautiful and the true, or even the genius of invention,— it is necessary to have patiently studied processes, to create a method, in one word, to know one’s trade. Even in Raphael there existed a sublime workman, and the most impassioned or inspired of men will fail to persuade a crowd or a jury, unless he has with unremitting labor made himself master of the mechanical part of his profession. Now everything purely technical inspired Didier with insurmountable repugnance. Thus did he find himself condemned to be nothing more than a dilettante in all things.

However, to please his father, he consented to discover in himself a marked vocation for law, and went off bravely to go through his studies in Paris, lie passed his first examinations in the most brilliant manner. M. de Peyrols, whose imagination never stopped half-way, was already dreaming of 1*

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the highest honors of the bar for his son ; but the third year, in the midst of winter, Didier suddenly reappeared at Nyons, with wan complexion and hollow cheeks and eyes, devoured by a sort of indescribable fever, which lie attributed to his increasing distaste for his studies, and the horror he felt beforehand for pettifogging and chicanery. M. de Peyrols frowned, shrugged his shoulders, but did not send his escaped student back to Paris. He resolved to keep him at home and occupy him with the care of his estate. Didier acquitted himself excellently in this new position, - except that, as his father said of him, he scattered money by the handful, remitting their rents to all embarrassed tenants, and bestowing largesses on all the workmen, who repaid him with adoration. “ It is very lucky,” said M. de Peyrols, “ that I understand making money; my son seems to have a famous talent for spending it. It would be all right were it for himself, but this fellow will never know pleasure in this world except by deputy.” And from time to time he sent him away to travel for months together, in the hope that some encounter, some unexpected adventure might arouse his torpid will and lethargic heart. It was in this way that Didier had gone by his father’s orders to make a tour through Germany. He had nothing to complain of, as he had found Hamlet at Berlin.

This account of his youth will assist us to comprehend what Didier must have felt on hearing the news of his father’s death. His love for this father, whom he resembled so little and whose maxims were so opposed to his own practice, had been hitherto the sole moving spring of his actions. What should he do ? Who would now shake him out of his indolence ? Who would take the trouble to will for him? and how should he arrange the employment of his time ? It seemed to him that,

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1 1 deprived of the spring which set it in motion, his machine must stop.

Chapter III

Fortunately some unavoidable occupations prevented him from entirely giving way to grief. His father had never initiated him into the details of his affairs ; whatever it cost him, he must set himself to work. Letters to write, accounts to examine, voluminous correspondence to ransack, instruments to sign, these took up a large part of his time. This distasteful labor overwhelmed him with ennui, and he probably would never have gone through with it, if M. Patru, the notary of Nyons, had not been there to cut out his work for him, and to overcome his repugnance.

Monsieur Patru was a man such as one often meets in this part of Dauphiny — a warm heart under a rough exterior. Short of stature, broadshouldered, enthusiastic, quick-witted, sheltering behind his silver-mounted spectacles sharp little eyes, that sparkled with vivacity and humor ; he combined with abruptness of tone and manner a delicacy of feeling of which his countenance gave no promise. If, on the one hand, he cordially detested his enemies, and was a right good hater, on the other side, he showed an unswerving fidelity in his attachment; in every event he might be relied upon, and he did not wait to have his services asked, but divined and forestalled the desires of others : in the matter of self-devotion he had a number of little contrivances which more commonplace friends would never think of: but he would not be thanked, abhorred gratitude, and put it

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down without mercy. He pretended that after all he really cared for nobody, only sought to find amusement for himself ; that if he jumped into the water to save a friend, it was because he liked cold water, and wanted to show that he knew how to swim. Perhaps he spoke the truth; but selfishness is not usually so active in well-doing.

M. Patru had been from his childhood intimate with M. de Peyrols; he had held Didier on his knees, and knew him by heart. More than once he had said to M. de Peyrols : “ You go the wrong way to work with your son ; you may reason with him for twenty years without gaining any influence over him. He has his own ideas, his hobby, his weakness ; he was born with a contempt for success. His is a rare case, and I must confess, it interests me. If you think otherwise, and have sworn to convert your son to your principles, leave off long speeches, and only represent to him that if he wishes to please you, he must decide to do something; that only thus can he insure your happiness. With that word only you can make him go to the end of the world.” But M. de Peyrols disliked to employ sentimental means ; he had taken it into his head to convince Didier, and until death came, had piqued himself upon succeeding.

On his return from Berlin, Didier found M. Patru waiting for him in front of the H6tel du Louvre, on the coach-stand, and from him he learned his loss. The worthy man left him for some days to indulge his grief, then went to see him, and said : “ My dear friend, you are sincerely grieved at your father’s death ; that is right ; but the greatest mark of respect you can pay to his memory, will be to take care that his fortune runs no risk in your hands. You owe him thus much ; imagine that he is still living, and watch over his interests as he did himself. To do this, you must acquire a good deal

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of knowledge ; summon up all your courage, throw yourself desperately into his papers. While you are arranging and examining his affairs and yours, you will be occupied with him.” Didier surrendered to this reasoning. An account-book, a lawyer’s bill, had been always terrible objects to him. Figures did not displease him in a work on astronomy, but a calculation of compound interest had always made him shudder ; he liked only disinterested numbers. Nevertheless, he devoted himself to the arid studies recommended by his father’s friend. M. Patru had always been in the confidence of M. de Peyrol’s speculations and investments; he might have initiated Didier in a few days, but he took good care not to do so. He gave him only general directions, and allowed him to disentangle everything for himself. Only from time to time they held conferences together, in which the young man gave him an account of his work, and asked him to clear up some difficulty. In these interviews our melancholy friend astonished the notary by the precision of his ideas and the clearness of his mind. In a few weeks he had mastered subjects of which in his whole previous life he had never thought ; but Heaven only knows how hard it was for him to eat all that dirt. The hours which he passed in M. Patru’s office were heavy as lead to him ; by turns, with listless eye, he would survey the ceiling and the walls, or fixedly contemplate some ancient spiders’ webs with dead flies hanging from them. As soon as the sitting was over, it was with an air of deliverance that he reached the door and hastened with quick steps towards some solitary retreat where he could find pnce more his beloved idleness.

Nyons is situated in one of the most beautiful bits of country in the world. Crouched at the foot of a rock on the banks of the Aygues, this little

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town is placed just at the outlet of a narrow defile, in which the high road to Gap hides itself, and at the entrance of a smiling valley, which, spreading wide by degrees, rejoins in the distance the great valley of the Rhone. Favored with a delicious climate, mild and almost always clear, watered by running streams, this little corner of the earth possesses a marvellous fertility, and an almost perennial spring reigns there. Steep hill-sides shelter it from the north winds.

The Mistral in vain lets loose its fury on the plain of Valreas ; scarcely can it make itself felt by a few rare pulfs of wind to the inhabitants of Nyons, who, nevertheless, cry out against it. The summer heats are tempered by a peculiar local breeze, which seems to come out from the fissures of a rock ; this fresh, caressing wind, exactly like a seabreeze, has received the name of the Pontias wind, and you may believe that the Nyoncais are as proud of their Pontias as are the Marseilles people of their four ports and their Cannebiere. In its diversified soil, its rich vegetation, its abundant streams, this fortunate country resembles both Dauphiny and Switzerland ; but it is shone upon and warmed by a different sun, and the harvests show it. They are like those of Provence ; on all sides immense orchards of olive trees rush to the assault of rocky ridges, scale them victoriously, crown them with silvery foliage, and are in turn surmounted by forests of oak and pine. In short, here is a species of Provencal Switzerland, and everything seems contrived on purpose to feast and astonish the gaze.

On the left shore of the Aygues rise the hills of Garde-Grosse, which, rounded in the form of an amphitheatre, protect Nyons towards the south. In front reigns a large terrace which is like the second story of the mountain, and is called the

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plateau of the Guard. This is ascended by a tortuous path which winds between two walls of rock ; these slate cliffs, naturally slit, are relieved against the sky like battlements. The upper part of the hill is composed of a succession of terraces easy of ascent, each of which has its barn , surrounded with fields, orchards, and creeping vines. Nothing can look more smiling than this plateau of the Guard. Here you breathe the pure and strengthening air of the mountains, and here you might easily become dizzy on the edge of the precipices which defend its approaches on the river-side ; but it is a mountain tamed by the kindly sun of the south, and has laid aside all its primitive wildness. It has made friends with man, lends itself to all his whims, and to please him, has transformed itself into a garden where the pine weds with the fig tree, the peach with the cypress, the golden broom plant with the delicate pink blossoms of the almond tree. On the topmost terrace stands a chateau, half baronial, half rustic, which for two centuries, whether inhabited or not, has never ceased to belong to the family of Peyrols. The olive trees have mounted thus far, but by their shrunken and diminished aspect, it is easy to see that this is their last effort, and that at such a height life is no longer easy to them. Beyond this stretch fields of wheat and oats, bounded by a vast heap of rubbish, which is surmounted in turn by a wall of reddish chalk. The country-house is called in that part of the country Chateau of the Guard, and also the Needle fort , from a neighboring rock which bears this name, although it resembles rather a gigantic finger of stone raised towards the sky in token of invocation or menace.

As soon as he had gone through with his daily task, Didier would hasten quickly away. lie might be seen wandering with his head bent down, and

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hands behind his back, along the paths which intersect the plateau at every turn, and are bordered by little walls of stone overgrown with the wild mulberry. Most frequently he sat down on the summit of a turfy gorge shaded by aspens and walnut trees ; an invisible thread of waters flows silently through it, but one can divine its traces by the freshness of the tall grass through which it passes. At other times he would ascend some hill-top, whence might be seen towards the south the long wavy line of the V entour, its turf burnt by the sun to a light yellowish tint like the skin of a young fawn. Often, too, seated on a block of stone, he chatted with an old gardener whom his father had liked; watching him as he turned over his garden beds with the spade, he would make the honest man talk, envying him in that, having received as a gift the fatal toy called life, he had discovered how to turn it to purpose.

On one of the early days of July, Didier, going to M. Patru’s office, found the door closed. The notary had been summoned to the village of Venterol on some urgent business. Without much lamenting this accident, he crossed. the town and went to walk on the declivity *of the Mont de Yaux, which overlooks Nyons on the north. This is a fine mountain, with a wooded top, its sides streaked with whitish ravines separated by olive orchards. Didier followed a steep path, and at length halted in a cluster of young fir trees, near the dry bed of a torrent. The opposite bank was covered with big tufts of brilliantly green reeds. These great rushes of the south seem to ruminate like camels ; in the spring they lay in their provision of water, and their subsistence assured, they laugh at the droughts of summer and the infidelities of their mountain streams. At the slightest passing breeze, they wave their long distalfs and whisper mys-