Occasionally a couple of my grandparents' acquaintance, who had been
complaining for some time that they never saw Swann now, would announce
with satisfaction, and perhaps with a slight inclination to make my
grandparents envious of them, that he had suddenly become as charming as
he could possibly be, and was never out of their house. My grandfather
would not care to shatter their pleasant illusion, but would look at my
grandmother, as he hummed the air of:
What is this mystery?
I cannot understand it;
or of:
Vision fugitive...;
In matters such as this
'Tis best to close one's eyes.
A few months later, if my grandfather asked Swann's new friend "What about
Swann? Do you still see as much of him as ever?" the other's face would
lengthen: "Never mention his name to me again!"
"But I thought that you were such friends..."
He had been intimate in this way for several months with some cousins of
my grandmother, dining almost every evening at their house. Suddenly, and
without any warning, he ceased to appear. They supposed him to be ill, and
the lady of the house was going to send to inquire for him when, in her
kitchen, she found a letter in his hand, which her cook had left by
accident in the housekeeping book.
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