“Then,” said Zilah, “the question of bread comes up everywhere, even in insanity.”
“And money is perhaps happiness, since it allows of the purchase of happiness.”
“Oh!” said the Prince, “for me, happiness would be—”
“What?”
“Forgetfulness.”
And he followed with his eyes Vivian’s lover, who now had his ear glued to the trunk of the tree, and was listening to the voice which spoke only to him.
“That man yonder,” said Dr. Sims, indicating a man, still young, who was coming toward them, “is a talented writer whose novels you have doubtless read, and who has lost all idea of his own personality. Once a great reader, he now holds all literature in intense disgust; from having written so much, he has grown to have a perfect horror of words and letters, and he never opens either a book or a newspaper. He drinks in the fresh air, cultivates flowers, and watches the trains pass at the foot of the garden.”
“Is he happy?” asked Andras.
“Very happy.”
“Yes, he has drunk of the waters of Lethe,” rejoined the Prince.