And Swann felt himself overflowing
with gratitude to her, as well as to Mme. Verdurin (and almost to Odette,
for the feeling that he now entertained for her was no longer tinged with
pain, was scarcely even to be described, now, as love), while from the
platform of the omnibus he followed her with loving eyes, as she gallantly
threaded her way along the Rue Bonaparte, her plume erect, her skirt held
up in one hand, while in the other she clasped her umbrella and her
card-case, so that its monogram could be seen, her muff dancing in the air
before her as she went.
To compete with and so to stimulate the moribund feelings that Swann had
for Odette, Mme. Cottard, a wiser physician, in this case, than ever her
husband would have been, had grafted among them others more normal,
feelings of gratitude, of friendship, which in Swann's mind were to make
Odette seem again more human (more like other women, since other women
could inspire the same feelings in him), were to hasten her final
transformation back into that Odette, loved with an undisturbed affection,
who had taken him home one evening after a revel at the painter's, to
drink orangeade with Forcheville, that Odette with whom Swann had
calculated that he might live in happiness.
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