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would she welcome us, with what sorrow complain that the
weather was still so bad for us, on the day of our arrival,
just before Easter, when there was often an icy wind; while
Mamma inquired after her daughter and her nephews, and
if her grandson was good-looking, and what they were go-
ing to make of him, and whether he took after his granny.
Later, when no one else was in the room, Mamma, who
knew that Françoise was still mourning for her parents, who
had been dead for years, would speak of them kindly, asking
her endless little questions about them and their lives.
She had guessed that Françoise was not over-fond of her
son-in-law, and that he spoiled the pleasure she found in
visiting her daughter, as the two could not talk so freely
when he was there. And so one day, when Françoise was go-
ing to their house, some miles from Combray, Mamma said
to her, with a smile: ‘Tell me, Françoise, if Julien has had to
go away, and you have Marguerite to yourself all day, you
will be very sorry, but will make the best of it, won’t you?’
And Françoise answered, laughing: ‘Madame knows
everything; Madame is worse than the X-rays’ (she pro-
nounced ‘x’ with an affectation of difficulty and with a
smile in deprecation of her, an unlettered woman’s, daring
to employ a scientific term) ‘they brought here for Mme.
Octave, which see what is in your heart’—and she went off,
disturbed that anyone should be caring about her, perhaps
anxious that we should not see her in tears: Mamma was
the first person who had given her the pleasure of feeling
that her peasant existence, with its simple joys and sorrows,
might offer some interest, might be a source of grief or plea-

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