Swann's Way - Marcel Proust [146]
He climbed after her into the carriage which she had kept waiting, and ordered his own to follow.
She was holding in her hand a bunch of cattleyas, and Swann could see, beneath the film of lace that covered her head, more of the same flowers fastened to a swansdown plume. She was dressed, beneath her cloak, in a flowing gown of black velvet, caught up on one side to reveal a large triangle of white silk skirt, and with a yoke, also of white silk, in the cleft of the low-necked bodice, in which were fastened a few more cattleyas. She had scarcely recovered from the shock which the sight of Swann had given her, when some obstacle made the horse start to one side. They were thrown forward in their seats; she uttered a cry, and fell back quivering and breathless.
“It’s all right,” he assured her, “don’t be frightened.” And he slipped his arm round her shoulder, supporting her body against his own. Then he went on: “Whatever you do, don’t utter a word; just make a sign, yes or no, or you’ll be out of breath again. You won’t mind if I straighten the flowers on your bodice? The jolt has disarranged them. I’m afraid of their dropping out, so I’d just like to fasten them a little more securely.”
She was not used to being made so much fuss of by men, and she smiled as she answered: “No, not at all; I don’t mind in the least.”
But he, daunted a little by her answer, and also, perhaps, to bear out the pretence that he had been sincere in adopting the stratagem, or even because he was already beginning to believe that he had been, exclaimed, “No, no, you mustn’t speak. You’ll get out of breath again. You can easily answer in signs; I shall understand. Really and truly now, you don’t mind my doing this? Look, there’s a little—I think it must be pollen, spilt over your dress. Do you mind if I brush it off with my hand? That’s not too hard? I’m not hurting you, am I? Perhaps I’m tickling you a bit? I don’t want to touch the velvet in case I crease it. But you see, I really had to fasten the flowers; they would have fallen out if I hadn’t. Like that, now; if I just tuck them a little further down … Seriously, I’m not annoying you, am I? And if I just sniff them to see whether they’ve really got no scent? I don’t believe I ever smelt any before. May I? Tell the truth, now.”
Still smiling, she shrugged her shoulders ever so slightly, as who should say, “You’re quite mad; you know very well that I like it.”
He ran his other hand upwards along Odette’s cheek; she gazed at him fixedly, with that languishing and solemn air which marks the women of the Florentine master in whose faces he had found a resemblance with hers; swimming at the brink of the eyelids, her brilliant eyes, wide and slender like theirs, seemed on the verge of welling out like two great tears. She bent her neck, as all their necks may be seen to bend, in the pagan scenes as well as in the religious pictures. And in an attitude that was doubtless habitual to her, one which she knew to be appropriate to such moments and was careful not to forget to assume, she seemed to need all her strength to hold her face back, as though some invisible force were drawing it towards Swann’s. And it was Swann who, before she allowed it, as though in spite of herself, to fall upon his lips, held it back for a moment longer, at a little distance, between his hands. He had wanted to leave time for his mind to catch up with