Kindly pass into my study, there ought still to be a
fire burning there. I will join you directly."
Then M. Daburon slowly got out of bed, put on a dressing gown, and
seated himself, or rather fell, into an armchair. His face, to which
in the exercise of his austere functions he had managed to give the
immobility of marble, reflected the most cruel agitation; while his
eyes betrayed the inward agony of his soul. The name of Commarin,
so unexpectedly pronounced, awakened in him the most sorrowful
recollections, and tore open a wound but badly healed. This name
recalled to him an event which had rudely extinguished his youth and
spoilt his life. Involuntarily, he carried his thoughts back to this
epoch, so as to taste again all its bitterness. An hour ago, it had
seemed to him far removed, and already hidden in the mists of the past;
one word had sufficed to recall it, clear and distinct. It seemed to him
now that this event, in which the name of Albert de Commarin was mixed
up, dated from yesterday. In reality nearly two years elapsed since.
Pierre-Marie Daburon belonged to one of the oldest families of Poitou.
Three or four of his ancestors had filled successively the most
important positions in the province.
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