illustrious personage, that she had accepted the offer which
Mme. Bontemps had made of driving her home behind her cockaded coachman. “I must say that I am always specially grateful to the friends who are so kind as to take me with them in their vehicles. It is a regular godsend to me, who have no Automedon.” “Especially,” broke in the “Mistress,” who felt that she must say something, since she knew
Mme. Bontemps slightly and had just invited her to her Wednesdays, “as at
Mme. de Crécy’s house you’re not very near home. Oh, good gracious, I shall never get into the way of saying
Mme. Swann!” It was a recognised pleasantry in the little clan, among those who were not over endowed with wit, to pretend that they could never grow used to saying “
Mme. Swann.” “I have been so accustomed to saying
Mme. de Crécy that I nearly went wrong again!” Only
Mme. Verdurin, when she spoke to Odette, was not content with the nearly, but went wrong on purpose. “Don’t you feel afraid, Odette, living out in the wilds like this? I’m sure I shouldn’t feel at all comfortable, coming home after dark. Besides, it’s so damp. It can’t be at all good for your husband’s eczema. You haven’t rats in the house, I hope!” “Oh, dear no. What a horrid idea!” “That’s a good thing; I was told you had. I’m glad to know it’s not true, because I have a perfect horror of the creatures, and I should never have come to see you again. Goodbye, my dear child, we shall meet again soon; you know what a pleasure it is to me to see you. You don’t know how to put your chrysanthemums in water,” she went on, as she prepared to leave the room,
Mme. Swann having risen to escort her. “They are Japanese flowers; you must arrange them the same way as the Japanese.” “I do not agree with
Mme. Verdurin, although she is the Law and the Prophets to me in all things! There’s no one like you, Odette, for finding such lovely chrysanthemums, or chrysanthema rather, for it seems that’s what we ought to call them now,” declared
Mme. Cottard as soon as the “Mistress” had shut the door behind her. “Dear
Mme. Verdurin is not always very kind about other people’s flowers,” said Odette sweetly. “Whom do you go to, Odette,” asked
Mme. Cottard, to forestall any further criticism of the “Mistress.” “Lemaître? I must confess, the other day in Lemaître’s window I saw a huge, great pink bush which made me do something quite mad.” But modesty forbade her to give any more precise details as to the price of the bush, and she said merely that the Professor, “and you know, he’s not at all a quick-tempered man,” had “waved his sword in the air” and told her that she “didn’t know what money meant.” “No, no, I’ve no regular florist except Debac.” “Nor have I,” said
Mme. Cottard, “but I confess that I am unfaithful to him now and then with Lachaume.” “Oh, you forsake him for Lachaume, do you; I must tell Debac that,” retorted Odette, always anxious to show her wit, and to lead the conversation in her own house, where she felt more at her ease than in the little clan. “Besides, Lachaume is really becoming too dear; his prices are quite excessive, don’t you know; I find his prices impossible!” she added, laughing.
Meanwhile Mme. Bontemps, who had been heard a hundred times to declare that nothing would induce her to go to the Verdurins’, delighted at being asked to the famous Wednesdays, was planning in her own mind how she could manage to attend as many of them as possible. She was not aware that Mme. Verdurin liked people not to miss a single one; also she was one of those people whose company is but little sought, who, when a hostess invites them to a series of parties, do not accept and go to them without more ado, like those who know that if is always a pleasure to see them, whenever they have a moment to spare and feel inclined to go out; people of her type deny themselves it may be the first evening and the third, imagining that their absence will be noticed, and save themselves up for the second and fourth, unless it should happen that, having heard from a trustworthy source that the third is to be a particularly brilliant party, they reverse the original order, assuring their hostess that “most unfortunately, we had another engagement last week.” So Mme. Bontemps was calculating how many Wednesdays there could still be left before Easter, and by what means she might manage to secure one extra, and yet not appear to be thrusting herself upon her hostess. She relied upon Mme. Cottard, whom she would have with her in the carriage going home, to give her a few hints. “Oh, Mme. Bontemps, I see you getting up to go; it is very bad of you to give the signal for flight like that! You owe me some compensation for not turning up last Thursday. … Come, sit down again, just for a minute. You can’t possibly be going anywhere else before dinner. Really, you won’t let yourself be tempted?” went on Mme. Swann, and, as she held out a plate of cakes, “You know, they’re not at all bad, these little horrors. They don’t look nice, but just taste one, I know you’ll like it.” “On the contrary, they look quite delicious,” broke in Mme. Cottard. “In your house, Odette, one is never short of victuals. I have no need to ask to see the trademark; I know you get everything from Rebattet. I must say that I am more eclectic. For sweet biscuits and everything of that sort I repair, as often as not, to Bourbonneux. But I agree that they simply don’t know what an ice
