irst in
which an elaborate style, strongly imbued with mannerism, is applied to
this purpose. The _Paysan Parvenu_, the title of which suggested
Restif's novel _Le Paysan Perverti_, and which was probably not without
influence on _Joseph Andrews_, is not very different in manner from
_Marianne_, and, like it, was left unfinished after publication in parts
at long intervals.

[Sidenote: Prevost]

A third eminent writer of novels was, in point of production, a
contemporary of Lesage and Marivaux, though he was nearly thirty years
younger than the first, and fully ten years younger than the second, and
he more than either of them set the example of the modern novel. The
Abbe Prevost, sometimes called Prevost d'Exilles, was born at Hesdin, in
Picardy, in April, 1697. He was brought up by the Jesuits, and after a
curious hesitation between entering the order and becoming a soldier (he
actually served for some time) he joined the famous community of the
Benedictines of Saint Maur, the most learned monastic body in the Roman
church. When he did this he was four-and-twenty, and he continued for
some six years to give himself up to study, not without interludes of
professorial work and of preaching. He became, however, disgusted with
his order, and unfortunately left his convent before technical
permission had been given; a proceeding which kept him an exile from
France for several years. It was at this time (1728) that he threw
himself into novel-writing, taking his models, and in some cases, his
scenes and characters, from England, which he visited, and of which he
was a fervent admirer. He obtained permission to return in 1735, and
then started a paper called _Le Pour et le Contre_, something like those
of Marivaux, but more like a modern critical review. He received the
protection of several persons of position and influence, notably the
Prince de Conti and the Chancellor D'Aguesseau, and for nearly thirty
years led a laborious literary life, in the course of which he is said
to have written nearly a hundred volumes, mostly compilations. His
death, which occurred in November, 1763, was perhaps the most horrible
in literary history. He was on his way from Paris to his cottage near
Chantilly, when he was struck by apoplexy. A stupid village doctor took
him for dead, and began a post-mortem examination to discover the cause.
Prevost revived at the stroke of the knife, but was so injured by it
that he expired shortly afterward