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“Excuse my interrupting you to explain that I did send the photograph,” said Swann. “I can’t understand how it hasn’t reached you.”

“It doesn’t altogether surprise me,” said the Duchess, “my servants tell me only what they think fit. They probably don’t approve of the Order of St John.” And she rang the bell.

“You know, Oriane, that when I used to go to Chantilly it was without much enthusiasm.”

“Without much enthusiasm, but with a nightshirt in case the Prince asked you to stay the night, which in fact he very rarely did, being a perfect boor like all the Orléans lot . . . Do you know who else we’re dining with at Mme de Saint-Euverte’s?” Mme de Guermantes asked her husband.

“Besides the people you know already, she’s asked King Theodosius’s brother at the last moment.”

At these tidings the Duchess’s features exuded contentment and her speech boredom: “Oh, God, more princes!”

“But that one is amiable and intelligent,” Swann remarked.

“Not altogether, though,” replied the Duchess, apparently seeking for words that would give more novelty to her thought. “Have you ever noticed with princes that the nicest of them are never entirely nice? They must always have an opinion about everything. And as they have no opinions of their own, they spend the first half of their lives asking us ours and the second half serving them up to us again. They positively must be able to say that this has been well played and that not so well. When there’s no difference. Do you know, this little Theodosius junior (I forget his name) asked me once what an orchestral motif was called. I answered” (the Duchess’s eyes sparkled and a laugh exploded from her beautiful red lips) “‘It’s called an orchestral motif.’ I don’t think he was any too well pleased, really. Oh, my dear Charles,” she went on with a languishing air, “what a bore it can be, dining out. There are evenings when one would sooner die! It’s true that dying may be perhaps just as great a bore, because we don’t know what it’s like.”

A servant appeared. It was the young lover who had had a quarrel with the concierge, until the Duchess, out of the kindness of her heart, had brought about an apparent peace between them.

“Am I to go round this evening to inquire after M. le Marquis d’Osmond?” he asked.

“Most certainly not, nothing before tomorrow morning. In fact I don’t want you to remain in the house tonight. His footman, whom you know, might very well come and bring you the latest report and send you out after us. Be off with you, go anywhere you like, have a spree, sleep out, but I don’t want to see you here before tomorrow morning.”

The footman’s face glowed with happiness. At last he would be able to spend long hours with his betrothed, whom he had practically ceased to see ever since, after a final scene with the concierge, the Duchess had considerately explained to him that it would be better, to avoid further conflicts, if he did not go out at all. He floated, at the thought of having an evening free at last, on a tide of happiness which the Duchess saw and the reason for which she guessed. She felt a sort of pang and as it were an itching in all her limbs at the thought of this happiness being snatched behind her back, unbeknown to her, and it made her irritated and jealous.

“No, Basin, he must stay here; he’s not to stir out of the house.”

“But Oriane, that’s absurd, the house is crammed with servants, and you have the costumier’s people coming as well at twelve to dress us for our ball. There’s absolutely nothing for him to do, and he’s the only one who’s a friend of Mama’s footman; I’d much sooner get him right away from the house.”

“Listen, Basin, let me do what I want. I shall have a message for him during the evening, as it happens—I’m not yet sure at what time. In any case you’re not to budge from here for a single instant, do you hear?” she said to the despairing footman.

If there were continual quarrels, and if servants did not stay long with the Duchess, the person to whose charge this