Page 84 - swanns-way

‘Oh dear, dear; the poor little creature!’ would come with
a sigh from Françoise, who could not hear of any calamity
befalling a person unknown to her, even in some distant
part of the world, without beginning to lament. Or:
‘Françoise, for whom did they toll the passing-bell just
now? Oh dear, of course, it would be for Mme. Rousseau.
And to think that I had forgotten that she passed away the
other night. Indeed, it is time the Lord called me home too;
I don’t know what has become of my head since I lost my
poor Octave. But I am wasting your time, my good girl.’
‘Indeed no, Mme. Octave, my time is not so precious;
whoever made our time didn’t sell it to us. I am just going to
see that my fire hasn’t gone out.’
In this way Françoise and my aunt made a critical valua-
tion between them, in the course of these morning sessions,
of the earliest happenings of the day. But sometimes these
happenings assumed so mysterious or so alarming an air
that my aunt felt she could not wait until it was time for
Françoise to come upstairs, and then a formidable and qua-
druple peal would resound through the house.
‘But, Mme. Octave, it is not time for your pepsin,’ Fran-
çoise would begin. ‘Are you feeling faint?’
‘No, thank you, Françoise,’ my aunt would reply, ‘that
is to say, yes; for you know well that there is very seldom a
time when I don’t feel faint; one day I shall pass away like
Mme. Rousseau, before I know where I am; but that is not
why I rang. Would you believe that I have just seen, as plain-
ly as I see you, Mme. Goupil with a little girl I didn’t know at
all. Run and get a pennyworth of salt from Camus. It’s not

84 Swann’s Way