In Search of Lost Time, Volume V_ The Captive, the Fugitive - Marcel Proust [168]
“She asked the Duc de Doudeauville,” M. de Charlus told me, “speaking of the three sisters, ‘Which of the sisters do you prefer?’ And when Doudeauville said: ‘Mme de Villeparisis,’ the Duchesse de—replied ‘Pig!’ For the Duchess was extremely witty” said M. de Charlus, giving the word the importance and the special emphasis that was customary among the Guermantes. That he should find the expression so “witty” did not moreover surprise me, for I had on many other occasions remarked the centrifugal, objective tendency which leads men to abjure, when they are relishing the wit of others, the severity with which they would judge their own, and to observe and treasure what they would have scorned to create.
“But what on earth is he doing? That’s my overcoat he’s bringing,” he said, on seeing that Brichot had made so long a search to no better effect. “I would have done better to go myself. However, you can put it over your shoulders. Are you aware that it’s highly compromising, my dear boy, it’s like drinking out of the same glass: I shall be able to read your thoughts. No, not like that, come, let me do it,” and arranging his overcoat round me, he smoothed it over my shoulders, fastened it round my throat, and brushed my chin with his hand apologetically. “At his age, he doesn’t know how to put on a coat, one has to cosset him. I’ve missed my vocation, Brichot, I was born to be a nanny.”
I wanted to leave, but M. de Charlus having expressed his intention of going in search of Morel, Brichot detained us both. Moreover, the certainty that when I went home I should find Albertine there, a certainty as absolute as that which I had felt in the afternoon that she would return home from the Trocadéro, made me at this moment as little impatient to see her as I had been then, while sitting at the piano after Françoise had telephoned me. And it was this sense of security that enabled me, whenever, in the course of this conversation, I attempted to rise, to obey the injunctions of Brichot who was afraid that my departure might prevent Charlus from remaining until Mme Verdurin came to fetch us.
“Come,” he said to the Baron, “stay with us a little longer, you shall give him the accolade presently.” Brichot focused upon me as he spoke his almost sightless eyes, to which the many operations that he had undergone had restored some degree of life, but which no longer had the mobility necessary to the sidelong expression of malice.
“The accolade, how absurd!” cried the Baron, in a shrill and rapturous tone. “I tell you, dear boy, he always imagines he’s at a prize-giving, he day-dreams about his young pupils. I often wonder whether he doesn’t sleep with them.”
“You wish to meet Mlle Vinteuil,” said Brichot, who had overheard the last words of our conversation. “I promise to let you know if she comes. I shall hear of it from Mme Verdurin.” For he doubtless foresaw that the Baron was in grave danger of imminent expulsion from the little clan.
“I see, so you think that I have less claim than yourself upon Mme Verdurin,” said M. de Charlus, “to be informed of the arrival of these terribly disreputable persons. They’re quite notorious, you know. Mme Verdurin is wrong to allow them to come here, they’re only fit for low company. They’re friends with a terrible gang, and they must meet in the most appalling places.”
At each of these words, my anguish was augmented by a new anguish, and its aspect constantly changed. And, suddenly remembering certain gestures of impatience which Albertine instantly repressed, I was terrified that she had already conceived a plan to leave