He sought for pleasure, and found disgust, but not forgetfulness.

Often he went so far as the threshold of debauchery; but the pure figure of Claire, dressed in white garments, always barred the doors against him.
Then he took refuge in work, as in a sanctuary; condemned himself to the most incessant labour, and forbade himself to think of Claire, as the consumptive forbids himself to meditate upon his malady.
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.