Indeed, like
the same traveller, if he does not awake until he has crossed the frontier
and is again in France, when Swann happened to alight, close at hand, upon
something which proved that Forcheville had been Odette's lover, he
discovered that it caused him no pain, that love was now utterly remote,
and he regretted that he had had no warning of the moment in which he had
emerged from it for ever. And just as, before kissing Odette for the first
time, he had sought to imprint upon his memory the face that for so long
had been familiar, before it was altered by the additional memory of their
kiss, so he could have wished--in thought at least--to have been in a
position to bid farewell, while she still existed, to that Odette who had
inspired love in him and jealousy, to that Odette who had caused him so to
suffer, and whom now he would never see again. He was mistaken. He was
destined to see her once again, a few weeks later. It was while he was
asleep, in the twilight of a dream. He was walking with Mme. Verdurin, Dr.
Cottard, a young man in a fez whom he failed to identify, the painter,
Odette, Napoleon III and my grandfather, along a path which followed the
line of the coast, and overhung the sea, now at a great height, now by a
few feet only, so that they were continually going up and down; those of
the party who had reached the downward slope were no longer visible to
those who were still climbing; what little daylight yet remained was
failing, and it seemed as though a black night was immediately to fall on
them.
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