send regularly to her daughter, it was Mme. de La Trémouaille, kept
well-informed through all her grand connections, who supplied the for-
eign politics."
"Oh dear, no. I'm quite sure they aren't the same family," said Mme.
Verdurin desperately.
Saniette who, ever since he had surrendered his untouched plate to the
butler, had been plunged once more in silent meditation, emerged finally
to tell them, with a nervous laugh, a story of how he had once dined
with the Duc de La Trémoïlle, the point of which was that the Duke did
not know that George Sand was the pseudonym of a woman. Swann,
who really liked Saniette, felt bound to supply him with a few facts illus-
trative of the Duke's culture, which would prove that such ignorance on
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his part was literally impossible; but suddenly he stopped short; he had
realised, as he was speaking, that Saniette needed no proof, but knew
already that the story was untrue for the simple reason that he had at
that moment invented it. The worthy man suffered acutely from the Ver-
durins' always finding him so dull; and as he was conscious of having
been more than ordinarily morose this evening, he had made up his
mind that he would succeed in being amusing, at least once, before the
end of dinner. He surrendered so quickly, looked so wretched at the
sight of his castle in ruins, and replied in so craven a tone to Swann, ap-
pealing to him not to persist in a refutation which was already superflu-
ous, "All right; all right; anyhow, even if I have made a mistake that's not a crime, I hope," that Swann longed to be able to console him by insisting that the story was indubitably true and exquisitely funny. The Doctor,
who had been listening, had an idea that it was the right moment to in-
terject " Se non è vero," but he was not quite certain of the words, and was afraid of being caught out.
After dinner, Forcheville went up to the Doctor. "She can't have been
at all bad looking, Mme. Verdurin; anyhow, she's a woman you can
really talk to; that's all I want. Of course she's getting a bit broad in the
beam. But Mme. de Crécy! There's a little woman who knows what's
what, all right. Upon my word and soul, you can see at a glance she's got
the American eye, that girl has. We are speaking of Mme. de Crécy," he
explained, as M. Verdurin joined them, his pipe in his mouth. "I should
say that, as a specimen of the female form—"
"I'd rather have it in my bed than a clap of thunder!" the words came tumbling from Cottard, who had for some time been waiting in vain until Forcheville should pause for breath, so that he might get in his hoary
old joke, a chance for which might not, he feared, come again, if the con-
versation should take a different turn; and he produced it now with that
excessive spontaneity and confidence which may often be noticed at-
tempting to cover up the coldness, and the slight flutter of emotion, in-
separable from a prepared recitation. Forcheville knew and saw the joke,
and was thoroughly amused. As for M. Verdurin, he was unsparing of
his merriment, having recently discovered a way of expressing it by a
symbol, different from his wife's, but equally simple and obvious.
Scarcely had he begun the movement of head and shoulders of a man
who was 'shaking with laughter' than he would begin also to cough, as
though, in laughing too violently, he had swallowed a mouthful of
smoke from his pipe. And by keeping the pipe firmly in his mouth he
could prolong indefinitely the dumb-show of suffocation and hilarity. So
250
he and Mme. Verdurin (who, at the other side of the room, where the
painter was telling her a story, was shutting her eyes preparatory to
flinging her face into her hands) resembled two masks in a theatre, each
representing Comedy, but in a different way.
M. Verdurin had been wiser than he knew in not taking his pipe out of
his mouth, for Cottard, having occasion to leave the room for a moment,
murmured a witty euphemism which he had recently acquired and re-
peated now whenever he had to go to the place in question: "I must just
go and see the Duc d'Aumale for a minute," so drolly, that M. Verdurin's
cough began all over again.
"Now, then, take your pipe out of your mouth; can't you see, you'll
choke if you try to bottle up your laughter like that," counselled Mme.
Verdurin, as she came round with a tray of liqueurs.
"What a delightful man your husband is; he has the wit of a dozen!"
declared Forcheville to Mme. Cottard. "Thank you, thank you, an old sol-
dier like me can never say 'No' to a drink."
"M. de Forcheville thinks Odette charming," M. Verdurin told his wife.
"Why, do you know, she wants so much to meet you again some day
at luncheon. We must arrange it, but don't on any account let Swann
hear about it. He spoils everything, don't you know. I don't mean to say
that you're not to come to dinner too, of course; we hope to see you very
often. Now that the warm weather's coming, we're going to have dinner
out of doors whenever we can. That won't bore you, will it, a quiet little
dinner, now and then, in the Bois? Splendid, splendid, that will be quite
delightful… .
"Aren't you going to do any work this evening, I say?" she screamed
suddenly to the little pianist, seeing an opportunity for displaying, be-
fore a 'newcomer' of Forcheville's importance, at once her unfailing wit
and her despotic power over the 'faithful.'
"M. de Forcheville was just going to say something dreadful about
you," Mme. Cottard warned her husband as he reappeared in the room.
And he, still following up the idea of Forcheville's noble birth, which had
obsessed him all through dinner, began again with: "I am treating a
Baroness just now, Baroness Putbus; weren't there some Putbuses in the
Crusades? Anyhow they've got a lake in Pomerania that's ten times the
size of the Place de la Concorde. I am treating her for dry arthritis; she's a
charming woman. Mme. Verdurin knows her too, I believe."
Which enabled Forcheville, a moment later, finding himself alone with
Mme. Cottard, to complete his favourable verdict on her husband with:
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"He's an interesting man, too; you can see that he knows some good
people. Gad! but they get to know a lot of things, those doctors."
"D'you want me to play the phrase from the sonata for M. Swann?"
asked the pianist.
"What the devil's that? Not the sonata-snake, I hope!" shouted M. de
Forcheville, hoping to create an effect. But Dr. Cottard, who had never
heard this pun, missed the point of it, and imagined that M. de Forchev-
ille had made a mistake. He dashed in boldly to correct it: "No, no. The
word isn't serpent-à-sonates, it's serpent-à-sonnettes!" he explained in a tone at once zealous, impatient, and triumphant.
Forcheville explained the joke to him. The Doctor blushed.
"You'll admit it's not bad, eh, Doctor?"
"Oh! I've known it for ages."
Then they were silenced; heralded by the waving tremolo of the violin-
part, which formed a bristling bodyguard of sound two octaves above
it—and as in a mountainous country, against the seeming immobility of
a vertically falling torrent, one may distinguish, two hundred feet below,
the tiny form of a woman walking in the valley—the little phrase had
just appeared, distant but graceful, protected by the long, gradual un-
furling of its transparent, incessant and sonorous curtain. And Swann, in
his heart of hearts, turned to it, spoke to it as to a confidant in the secret
of his love, as to a friend of Odette who would assure him that he need
pay no attention to this Forcheville.
"Ah! you've come too late!" Mme. Verdurin greeted one of the
'faithful,' whose invitation had been only 'to look in after dinner,' "we've been having a simply incomparable Brichot! You never heard such elo-quence! But he's gone. Isn't that so, M. Swann? I believe it's the first time
you've met him," she went on, to emphasize the fact that it was to her
that Swann owed the introduction. "Isn't that so; wasn't he delicious, our Brichot?"
Swann bowed politely.
"No? You weren't interested?" she asked dryly.
"Oh, but I assure you, I was quite enthralled. He is perhaps a little too
peremptory, a little too jovial for my taste. I should like to see him a little less confident at times, a little more tolerant, but one feels that he knows
a great deal, and on the whole he seems a very sound fellow."
The party broke up very late. Cottard's first words to his wife were: "I
have rarely seen Mme. Verdurin in such form as she was to-night."
"What exactly is your Mme. Verdurin? A bit of a bad hat, eh?" said
Forcheville to the painter, to whom he had offered a 'lift.' Odette
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watched his departure with regret; she dared not refuse to let Swann
take her home, but she was moody and irritable in the carriage, and,
when he asked whether he might come in, replied, "I suppose so," with an impatient shrug of her shoulders. When they had all gone, Mme. Verdurin said to her husband: "Did you notice the way Swann laughed, such
an idiotic laugh, when we spoke about Mme. La Trémoïlle?"
She had remarked, more than once, how Swann and Forcheville sup-
pressed the particle 'de' before that lady's name. Never doubting that it
was done on purpose, to shew that they were not afraid of a title, she
had made up her mind to imitate their arrogance, but had not quite
grasped what grammatical form it ought to take. Moreover, the natural
corruptness of her speech overcoming her implacable republicanism, she
still said instinctively "the de La Trémoïlles," or, rather (by an abbreviation sanctified by the usage of music-hall singers and the writers of the
'captions' beneath caricatures, who elide the 'de'), "the d'La Trémoïlles,"
but she corrected herself at once to "Madame La Trémoïlle.—The
Duchess, as Swann calls her," she added ironically, with a smile which proved that she was merely quoting, and would not, herself, accept the
least responsibility for a classification so puerile and absurd.
"I don't mind saying that I thought him extremely stupid."
M. Verdurin took it up. "He's not sincere. He's a crafty customer, al-
ways hovering between one side and the other. He's always trying to run
with the hare and hunt with the hounds. What a difference between him
and Forcheville. There, at least, you have a man who tells you straight
out what he thinks. Either you agree with him or you don't. Not like the
other fellow, who's never definitely fish or fowl. Did you notice, by the
way, that Odette seemed all out for Forcheville, and I don't blame her,
either. And then, after all, if Swann tries to come the man of fashion over
us, the champion of distressed Duchesses, at any rate the other man has
got a title; he's always Comte de Forcheville!" he let the words slip delicately from his lips, as though, familiar with every page of the history of
that dignity, he were making a scrupulously exact estimate of its value,
in relation to others of the sort.
"I don't mind saying," Mme. Verdurin went on, "that he saw fit to utter some most venomous, and quite absurd insinuations against Brichot.
Naturally, once he saw that Brichot was popular in this house, it was a
way of hitting back at us, of spoiling our party. I know his sort, the dear,
good friend of the family, who pulls you all to pieces on the stairs as he's
going away."
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"Didn't I say so?" retorted her husband. "He's simply a failure; a poor little wretch who goes through life mad with jealousy of anything that's
at all big."
Had the truth been known, there was not one of the 'faithful' who was
not infinitely more malicious than Swann; but the others would all take
the precaution of tempering their malice with obvious pleasantries, with
little sparks of emotion and cordiality; while the least indication of re-
serve on Swann's part, undraped in any such conventional formula as
"Of course, I don't want to say anything—" to which he would have
scorned to descend, appeared to them a deliberate act of treachery. There
are certain original and distinguished authors in whom the least
'freedom of speech' is thought revolting because they have not begun by
flattering the public taste, and serving up to it the commonplace expres-
sions to which it is used; it was by the same process that Swann infuri-
ated M. Verdurin. In his case as in theirs it was the novelty of his lan-
guage which led his audience to suspect the blackness of his designs.
Swann was still unconscious of the disgrace that threatened him at the
Verdurins', and continued to regard all their absurdities in the most rosy
light, through the admiring eyes of love.
As a rule he made no appointments with Odette except for the even-
ings; he was afraid of her growing tired of him if he visited her during
the day as well; at the same time he was reluctant to forfeit, even for an
hour, the place that he held in her thoughts, and so was constantly look-
ing out for an opportunity of claiming her attention, in any way that
would not be displeasing to her. If, in a florist's or a jeweller's window, a
plant or an ornament caught his eye, he would at once think of sending
them to Odette, imagining that the pleasure which the casual sight of
them had given him would instinctively be felt, also, by her, and would
increase her affection for himself; and he would order them to be taken
at once to the Rue La pérouse, so as to accelerate the moment in which,
as she received an offering from him, he might feel himself, in a sense,
transported into her presence. He was particularly anxious, always, that
she should receive these presents before she went out for the evening, so
that her sense of gratitude towards him might give additional tenderness
to her welcome when he arrived at the Verdurins', might even—for all he
knew—if the shopkeeper made haste, bring him a letter from her before
dinner, or herself, in person, upon his doorstep, come on a little ex-
traordinary visit of thanks. As in an earlier phase, when he had experi-
mented with the reflex action of anger and contempt upon her character,
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he sought now by that of gratification to elicit from her fresh particles of
her intimate feelings, which she had never yet revealed.
Often she was embarrassed by lack of money, and under pressure
from a creditor would come to him for assistance. He enjoyed this, as he
enjoyed everything which could impress Odette with his love for herself,
or merely with his influence, with the extent of the use that she might
make of him. Probably if anyone had said to him, at the beginning, "It's
your position that attracts her," or at this stage, "It's your money that she's really in love with," he would not have believed the suggestion, nor would he have been greatly distressed by the thought that people supposed her to be attached to him, that people felt them, to be united by
any ties so binding as those of snobbishness or wealth. But even if he had
accepted the possibility, it might not have caused him any suffering to
discover that Odette's love for him was based on a foundation more last-
ing than mere affection, or any attractive qualities which she might have
found in him; on a sound, commercial interest; an interest which would
postpone for ever the fatal day on which she might be tempted to bring
their relations to an end. For the moment, while he lavished presents
upon her, and performed all manner of services, he could rely on ad-
vantages not contained in his person, or in his intellect, could forego the
endless, killing effort to make himself attractive. And this delight in be-
ing a lover, in living by love alone, of the reality of which he was in-
clined to be doubtful, the price which, in the long run, he must pay for it,
as a dilettante in immaterial sensations, enhanced its value in his
eyes—as one sees people who are doubtful whether the sight of the sea
and the sound of its waves are really enjoyable, become convinced that
they are, as also of the rare quality and absolute detachment of their own
taste, when they have agreed to pay several pounds a day for a room in
an hotel, from which that sight and that sound may be enjoyed.
One day, when reflections of this order had brought him once again to
the memory of the time when some one had spoken to him of Odette as
of a 'kept' woman, and when, once again, he had amused himself with
contrasting that strange personification, the 'kept' woman—an iridescent
mixture of unknown and demoniacal qualities, embroidered, as in some
fantasy of Gustave Moreau, with poison-dripping flowers, interwoven
with precious jewels—with that Odette upon whose face he had watched
the passage of the same expressions of pity for a sufferer, resentment of
an act of injustice, gratitude for an act of kindness, which he had seen, in
earlier days, on his own mother's face, and on the faces of friends; that
Odette, whose conversation had so frequently turned on the things that
255
he himself knew better than anyone, his collections, his room, his old ser-
vant, his banker, who kept all his title-deeds and bonds;—the thought of
the banker reminded him that he must call on him shortly, to draw some
money. And indeed, if, during the current month, he were to come less
liberally to the aid of Odette in her financial difficulties than in the
month before, when he had given her five thousand francs, if he re-
frained from offering her a diamond necklace for which she longed, he
would be allowing her admiration for his generosity to decline, that grat-
itude which had made him so happy, and would even be running the
risk of her imagining that his love for her (as she saw its visible manifest-
ations grow fewer) had itself diminished. And then, suddenly, he asked
himself whether that was not precisely what was implied by 'keeping' a
woman (as if, in fact, that idea of 'keeping' could be derived from ele-
ments not at all mysterious nor perverse, but belonging to the intimate
routine of his daily life, such as that thousand-franc note, a familiar and
domestic object, torn in places and mended with gummed paper, which
his valet, after paying the household accounts and the rent, had locked
up hi a drawer in the old writing-desk whence he had extracted it to
send it, with four others, to Odette) and whether it was not possible to
apply to Odette, since he had known her (for he never imagined for a
moment that she could ever have taken a penny from anyone else, be-
fore), that title, which he had believed so wholly inapplicable to her, of
'kept' woman. He could not explore the idea further, for a sudden access
of that mental lethargy which was, with him, congenital, intermittent
and providential, happened, at that moment, to extinguish every particle
of light in his brain, as instantaneously as, at a later period, when electric
lighting had been everywhere installed, it became possible, merely by
fingering a switch, to cut off all the supply of light from a house. His
mind fumbled, for a moment, in the darkness, he took off his spectacles,
wiped the glasses, passed his hands over his eyes, but saw no light until
he found himself face to face with a wholly different idea, the realisation
that he must endeavour, in the coming month, to send Odette six or
seven thousand-franc notes instead of five, simply as a surprise for her
and to give her pleasure.
In the evening, when he did not stay at home until it was time to meet
Odette at the Verdurins', or rather at one of the open-air restaurants
which they liked to frequent in the Bois and especially at Saint-Cloud, he
would go to dine in one of those fashionable houses in which, at one
time, he had been a constant guest. He did not wish to lose touch with
people who, for all that he knew, might be of use, some day, to Odette,
256
and thanks to whom he was often, in the meantime, able to procure for
her some privilege or pleasure. Besides, he had been used for so long to
the refinement and comfort of good society that, side by side with his
contempt, there had grown up also a desperate need for it, with the res-
ult that, when he had reached the point after which the humblest
lodgings appeared to him as precisely on a par with the most princely
mansions, his senses were so thoroughly accustomed to the latter that he
could not enter the former without a feeling of acute discomfort. He had
the same regard—to a degree of identity which they would never have
suspected—for the little families with small incomes who asked him to
dances in their flats ("straight upstairs to the fifth floor, and the door on the left") as for the Princesse de Parme, who gave the most splendid
parties in Paris; but he had not the feeling of being actually 'at the ball'
when he found himself herded with the fathers of families in the bed-
room of the lady of the house, while the spectacle of wash-hand-stands
covered over with towels, and of beds converted into cloak-rooms, with
a mass of hats and great-coats sprawling over their counterpanes, gave
him the same stifling sensation that, nowadays, people who have been
used for half a lifetime to electric light derive from a smoking lamp or a
candle that needs to be snuffed. If he were dining out, he would order
his carriage for half-past seven; while he changed his clothes, he would
be wondering, all the time, about Odette, and in this way was never
alone, for the constant thought of Odette gave to the moments in which
he was separated from her the same peculiar charm as to those in which
she was at his side. He would get into his carriage and drive off, but he
knew that this thought had jumped in after him and had settled down
upon his knee, like a pet animal which he might take everywhere, and
would keep with him at the dinner-table, unobserved by his fellow-
guests. He would stroke and fondle it, warm himself with it, and, as a
feeling of languor swept over him, would give way to a slight shudder-
ing movement which contracted his throat and nostrils—a new experi-
ence, this,—as he fastened the bunch of columbines in his buttonhole. He
had for some time been feeling neither well nor happy, especially since
Odette had brought Forcheville to the Verdurins', and he would have
liked to go away for a while to rest in the country. But he could never
summon up courage to leave Paris, even for a day, while Odette was
there. The weather was warm; it was the finest part of the spring. And
for all that he was driving through a city of stone to immure himself in a
house without grass or garden, what was incessantly before his eyes was
a park which he owned, near Combray, where, at four in the afternoon,
257
before coming to the asparagus-bed, thanks to the breeze that was waf-
ted across the fields from Méséglise, he could enjoy the fragrant coolness
of the air as well beneath an arbour of hornbeams in the garden as by the
bank of the pond, fringed with forget-me-not and iris; and where, when
he sat down to dinner, trained and twined by the gardener's skilful hand,
there ran all about his table currant-bush and rose.
After dinner, if he had an early appointment in the Bois or at Saint-
Cloud, he would rise from table and leave the house so ab-
ruptly—especially if it threatened to rain, and so to scatter the 'faithful'
before their normal time—that on one occasion the Princesse des Laumes
(at whose house dinner had been so late that Swann had left before the
coffee came in, to join the Verdurins on the Island in the Bois) observed:
"Really, if Swann were thirty years older, and had diabetes, there
might be some excuse for his running away like that. He seems to look
upon us all as a joke."
He persuaded himself that the spring-time charm, which he could not
go down to Combray to enjoy, he would find at least on the He des
Cygnes or at Saint-Cloud. But as he could think only of Odette, he would
return home not knowing even if he had tasted the fragrance of the
young leaves, or if the moon had been shining. He would be welcomed
by the little phrase from the sonata, played in the garden on the restaur-
ant piano. If there was none in the garden, the Verdurins would have
taken immense pains to have a piano brought out either from a private
room or from the restaurant itself; not because Swa