In Search of Lost Time

the climb was to la Raspelière, even if you took the zigzag path, behind Féterne, which was half-an-hour longer; she was afraid that those of her guests who kept to themselves might not find carriages to take them, or even, having in reality stayed away, might plead the excuse that they had not found a carriage at Douville-Féterne, and had not felt strong enough to make so stiff a climb on foot. To this invitation M. de Charlus responded with a silent bow. “He’s not the sort of person you can talk to any day of the week, he seems a tough customer,” the doctor whispered to Ski, for having remained quite simple, notwithstanding a surface-dressing of pride, he made no attempt to conceal the fact that Charlus had snubbed him. “He is doubtless unaware that at all the watering-places, and even in Paris in the wards, the physicians, who naturally regard me as their ‘chief,’ make it a point of honour to introduce me to all the noblemen present, not that they need to be asked twice. It makes my stay at the spas quite enjoyable,” he added carelessly. “Indeed at Doncières the medical officer of the regiment, who is the doctor who attends the Colonel, invited me to luncheon to meet him, saying that I was fully entitled to dine with the General. And that General is a Monsieur de something. I don’t know whether his title-deeds are more or less ancient than those of this Baron.” “Don’t you worry about him, his is a very humble coronet,” replied Ski in an undertone, and added some vague statement including a word of which I caught only the last syllable, -ast, being engaged in listening to what Brichot was saying to M. de Charlus. “No, as for that, I am sorry to say, you have probably one tree only, for if Saint-Martin-du-Chêne is obviously Sanctus Martinus juxta quercum, on the other hand, the word if may be simply the root ave, eve, which means moist, as in Aveyron, Lodève, Yvette, and which you see survive in our kitchen-sinks (éviers). It is the word eau which in Breton is represented by ster, Stermaria, Sterlaer, Sterbouest, Ster-en-Dreuchen.” I heard no more, for whatever the pleasure I might feel on hearing again the name Stermaria, I could not help listening to Cottard, next to whom I was seated, as he murmured to Ski: “Indeed! I was not aware of it. So he is a gentleman who has learned to look behind! He is one of the happy band, is he? He hasn’t got rings of fat round his eyes, all the same. I shall have to keep my feet well under me, or he may start squeezing them. But I’m not at all surprised. I am used to seeing noblemen in the bath, in their birthday suits, they are all more or less degenerates. I don’t talk to them, because after all I am in an official position and it might do me harm. But they know quite well who I am.” Saniette, whom Brichot’s appeal had frightened, was beginning to breathe again, like a man who is afraid of the storm when he finds that the lightning has not been followed by any sound of thunder, when he heard M. Verdurin interrogate him, fastening upon him a stare which did not spare the wretch until he had finished speaking, so as to put him at once out of countenance and prevent him from recovering his composure. “But you never told us that you went to those matinées at the Odéon, Saniette?” Trembling like a recruit before a bullying serjeant, Saniette replied, making his speech as diminutive as possible, so that it might have a better chance of escaping the blow: “Only once, to the Chercheuse.” “What’s that he says?” shouted M. Verdurin, with an air of disgust and fury combined, knitting his brows as though it was all he could do to grasp something unintelligible. “It is impossible to understand what you say, what have you got in your mouth?” inquired M. Verdurin, growing more and more furious, and alluding to Saniette’s defective speech. “Poor Saniette, I won’t have him made unhappy,” said Mme. Verdurin in a tone of false pity, so as to leave no one in doubt as to her husband’s insolent intention. “I was at the Ch⁠ ⁠… Che⁠ ⁠…” “Che, che, try to speak distinctly,” said M. Verdurin, “I can’t understand a word you say.” Almost without exception, the faithful burst out laughing and they suggested a band of cannibals in whom the sight of a wound on a white man’s skin has aroused the thirst for blood. For the instinct of imitation and absence of courage govern society and the mob alike. And we all of us laugh at a person whom we see being made fun of, which does not prevent us from venerating him ten years later in a circle where he is admired. It is in like manner that the populace banishes or acclaims its kings. “Come, now, it is not his fault,” said Mme. Verdurin. “It is not mine either, people ought not to dine out if they can’t speak properly.” “I was at the Chercheuse d’Esprit by Favart.” “What! It’s the Chercheuse d’Esprit that you call the Chercheuse? Why, that’s marvellous! I might have tried for a hundred years without guessing it,” cried M. Verdurin, who all the same would have decided immediately that you were not literary, were not artistic, were not “one of us,” if he had heard you quote the full title of certain works. For instance, one was expected to say the Malade, the Bourgeois; and whoso would have added imaginaire or gentilhomme would have shown that he did not understand “shop,” just as in a drawing-room a person proves that he is not in society by saying “M. de Montesquiou-Fézensac” instead of “M. de