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In Search of Lost Time, Volume III_ The Guermantes Way - Marcel Proust [340]

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guerrilla warfare was to be laid was indeed irremovable, but it was not the concierge. No doubt for the heavy work, for the martyrdoms it was particularly tiring to inflict, for the quarrels which ended in blows, the Duchess entrusted the blunter instruments to him; but even then he played his role without the least suspicion that he had been cast for it. Like the household servants, he was impressed by the Duchess’s kindness, and the imperceptive footmen who came back, after leaving her service, to visit Françoise used to say that the Duke’s house would have been the finest “place” in Paris if it had not been for the porter’s lodge. The Duchess made use of the lodge in the same way as at different times clericalism, freemasonry, the Jewish peril and so on have been made use of. Another footman came into the room.

“Why haven’t they brought up the package M. Swann sent here? And, by the way (you’ve heard, Charles, that Mama is seriously ill?), Jules went round to inquire for news of M. le Marquis d’Osmond: has he come back yet?”

“He’s just arrived this instant, M. le Duc. They’re expecting M. le Marquis to pass away at any moment.”

“Ah, he’s alive!” exclaimed the Duke with a sigh of relief. “They’re expecting, are they? Well, they can go on expecting. While there’s life there’s hope,” he added cheerfully for our benefit. “They’ve been talking to me about him as though he were dead and buried. In a week from now he’ll be fitter than I am.”

“It’s the doctors who said that he wouldn’t last out the evening. One of them wanted to call again during the night. The head one said it was no use. M. le Marquis would be dead by then; they’ve only kept him alive by injecting him with camphorated oil.”

“Hold your tongue, you damned fool,” cried the Duke in a paroxysm of rage. “Who the devil asked you for your opinion? You haven’t understood a word of what they told you.”

“It wasn’t me they told, it was Jules.”

“Will you hold your tongue!” roared the Duke, and, turning to Swann: “What a blessing he’s still alive! He’ll regain his strength gradually, don’t you know. Still alive, after being in such a critical state—that in itself is an excellent sign. One mustn’t expect everything at once. It can’t be at all unpleasant, a little injection of camphorated oil.” He rubbed his hands. “He’s alive; what more could anyone want? After all that he’s gone through, it’s a great step forward. Upon my word, I envy him having such a constitution. Ah! these invalids, you know, people do all sorts of little things for them that they don’t do for us. For instance, today some beggar of a chef sent me up a leg of mutton with béarnaise sauce—it was done to a turn, I must admit, but just for that very reason I took so much of it that it’s still lying on my stomach. However, that doesn’t make people come to inquire after me as they do after dear Amanien. We do too much inquiring. It only tires him. We must leave him room to breathe. They’re killing the poor fellow by sending round to him all the time.”

“Well,” said the Duchess to the footman as he was leaving the room, “I gave orders for the envelope containing a photograph which M. Swann sent me to be brought up here.”

“Madame la Duchesse, it’s so large that I didn’t know if I could get it through the door. We’ve left it in the hall. Does Madame la Duchesse wish me to bring it up?”

“Oh, in that case, no; they ought to have told me, but if it’s so big I shall see it in a moment when I come downstairs.”

“I forgot to tell Mme la Duchesse that Mme la Comtesse Molé left a card this morning for Mme la Duchesse.”

“What, this morning?” said the Duchess with an air of disapproval, feeling that so young a woman ought not to take the liberty of leaving cards in the morning.

“About ten o’clock, Madame la Duchesse.”

“Show me the cards.”

“In any case, Oriane, when you say that it was a funny idea on Marie’s part to marry Gilbert,” went on the Duke, reverting to the original topic of conversation, “it’s you who have an odd way of writing history. If either of them was a fool, it was Gilbert, for having married

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