de
Forcheville had made a mistake. He dashed in boldly to correct it: "No,
no. The word isn't _serpent-a-sonates_, it's _serpent-a-sonnettes_!" he
explained in a tone at once zealous, impatient, and triumphant.
Forcheville explained the joke to him. The Doctor blushed.
"You'll admit it's not bad, eh, Doctor?"
"Oh! I've known it for ages."
Then they were silenced; heralded by the waving tremolo of the
violin-part, which formed a bristling bodyguard of sound two octaves above
it--and as in a mountainous country, against the seeming immobility of a
vertically falling torrent, one may distinguish, two hundred feet below,
the tiny form of a woman walking in the valley--the little phrase had just
appeared, distant but graceful, protected by the long, gradual unfurling
of its transparent, incessant and sonorous curtain. And Swann, in his
heart of hearts, turned to it, spoke to it as to a confidant in the secret
of his love, as to a friend of Odette who would assure him that he need
pay no attention to this Forcheville.
"Ah! you've come too late!" Mme. Verdurin greeted one of the 'faithful,'
whose invitation had been only 'to look in after dinner,' "we've been
having a simply incomparable Brichot! You never heard such eloquence! But
he's gone.
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