One day my grandfather said to my 'father: "Don't you remember Swann's
telling us yesterday that his wife and daughter had gone off to Rheims and
that he was taking the opportunity of spending a day or two in Paris? We
might go along by the park, since the ladies are not at home; that will
make it a little shorter."
We stopped for a moment by the fence. Lilac-time was nearly over; some of
the trees still thrust aloft, in tall purple chandeliers, their tiny balls
of blossom, but in many places among their foliage where, only a week
before, they had still been breaking in waves of fragrant foam, these were
now spent and shrivelled and discoloured, a hollow scum, dry and
scentless. My grandfather pointed out to my father in what respects the
appearance of the place was still the same, and how far it had altered
since the walk that he had taken with old M. Swann, on the day of his
wife's death; and he seized the opportunity to tell us, once again, the
story of that walk.
In front of us a path bordered with nasturtiums rose in the full glare of
the sun towards the house. But to our right the park stretched away into
the distance, on level ground.
Pages:
238
239
240
241
242
243
244
245
246
247
248
249
250
251
252
253
254
255
256
257
258
259
260
261
262