The night reaching from the 11th of November, 1813, to the 17th of August, 1859, seemed to him even a little shorter than any of the others; for it was the only time that he had had a full sleep, without any dreaming.
A less active spirit, and a heart less warm, would, perhaps, have lapsed into a sort of melancholy.

For, in fact, one who has been asleep for forty-six years would naturally become somewhat alien to mankind in general, even in his own country.

Not a relation, not a friend, not a familiar face, on the whole face of the earth! Add to this a multitude of new words, ideas, customs, and inventions, which make him feel the need of a cicerone, and prove to him that he is a stranger.

But Fougas, on reopening his eyes, following the precept of Horace, was thrown into the very midst of action.

He had improvised for him friends, enemies, a sweetheart, and a rival.