Only once again will Albert de Commarin be as near death.
On reaching the street, it seemed to M. Daburon that the ground was
receding from beneath him, that everything was turning around him. He
tried to cry out, but could not utter a sound; he struck at the air with
his hands, reeled for an instant, and then fell all of a heap on the
pavement.
The passers-by ran and assisted the police to raise him. In one of his
pockets they found his address, and carried him home. When he recovered
his senses, he was in his bed, at the foot of which he perceived his
father.
"What has happened?" he asked. With much caution they told him, that
for six weeks he had wavered between life and death. The doctors had
declared his life saved; and, now that reason was restored, all would go
well.
Five minutes' conversation exhausted him. He shut his eyes, and tried to
collect his ideas; but they whirled hither and thither wildly, as autumn
leaves in the wind. The past seemed shrouded in a dark mist; yet, in
the midst of the darkness and confusion, all that concerned Mademoiselle
d'Arlange stood out clear and luminous. All his actions from the moment
when he embraced Claire appeared before him.
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