While T. was playing a final waltz, at a certain phrase Jean felt deep within himself something that gave him a start. It was probably some forgotten melody that contained the same phrase, perhaps simply the same harmony which, startled at hearing its own voice, was struggling at the edge of forgetfulness, was endeavouring to come back to life, to be felt and recognized. He had still not recognized it and he was already feeling a sadness inside. T. continued to play, but Jean was trying to recapture that phrase that all of a sudden had struck something within him, to repeat it to himself, so that by striking him again several times it would finally awaken his consciousness, within those slumbering depths. He was not able to hold onto the phrase again. But all this while whatever it was that struck him inside raised itself up into full consciousness. It was not a phrase that he knew, but a sonority And this sonority, ah yes! there it is, he listened to it, and he recognized it, it was that of the harsh-sounding old piano at M. Sandré's house. By chance, by catching it a little, T.'s fingers had drawn from this good piano a sound just as harsh as that produced by M. Sandré's piano. Had it not been for that no doubt Jean would never have thought about it again, because he had never thought about it since. Yet he had tried to play it quite often. Every evening when he dined at his grandfather's house, he tried his hand at playing it while, placed on the desk and catching the candlelight, his cup of coffee went cold. And the photographic image of all this had taken its place in the archives of his memory, archives so vast that in the most part he never went to look, unless chance made them open up again, just as this pianist had breached them that evening...