His eagerness, his feverish activity, earned him the reputation of an
ambitious man, who would go far; but he cared for nothing in the world.
At length, he found, not rest, but that painless benumbing which
commonly follows a great catastrophe. The convalescence of oblivion was
commencing.
These were the events, recalled to M. Daburon's mind when old Tabaret
pronounced the name of Commarin. He believed them buried under the ashes
of time; and behold they reappeared, just the same as those characters
traced in sympathetic ink when held before a fire. In an instant they
unrolled themselves before his memory, with the instantaneousness of a
dream annihilating time and space.
During some minutes, he assisted at the representation of his own life.
At once actor and spectator, he was there seated in his arm-chair,
and at the same time he appeared on the stage. He acted, and he judged
himself.
His first thought, it must be confessed, was one of hate, followed by
a detestable feeling of satisfaction. Chance had, so to say, delivered
into his hands this man preferred by Claire, this man, now no longer a
haughty nobleman, illustrious by his fortune and his ancestors, but the
illegitimate offspring of a courtesan.
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