You shall have it in time for the _Danicheff_ revival.
I shall be lunching with the Prefect of Police to-morrow, as it happens,
at the Elysee."
"What's that? The Elysee?" Dr. Cottard roared in a voice of thunder.
"Yes, at M. Grevy's," replied Swann, feeling a little awkward at the
effect which his announcement had produced.
"Are you often taken like that?" the painter asked Cottard, with
mock-seriousness.
As a rule, once an explanation had been given, Cottard would say: "Ah,
good, good; that's all right, then," after which he would shew not the
least trace of emotion. But this time Swann's last words, instead of the
usual calming effect, had that of heating, instantly, to boiling-point his
astonishment at the discovery that a man with whom he himself was actually
sitting at table, a man who had no official position, no honours or
distinction of any sort, was on visiting terms with the Head of the State.
"What's that you say? M. Grevy? Do you know M. Grevy?" he demanded of
Swann, in the stupid and incredulous tone of a constable on duty at the
palace, when a stranger has come up and asked to see the President of the
Republic; until, guessing from his words and manner what, as the
newspapers say, 'it is a case of,' he assures the poor lunatic that he
will be admitted at once, and points the way to the reception ward of the
police infirmary.
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