“How did I hear of Méséglise? But it’s a well-known place; people have told me about it⁠—yes, over and over again,” he assured her with that criminal inexactitude of the informer who, whenever we attempt to form an impartial estimate of the importance that a thing which matters to us may have for other people, makes it impossible for us to succeed.

“I can tell you, it’s better down there, under the cherry-trees, than standing before the fire all day.”

She spoke to them even of Eulalie as a good person. For since Eulalie’s death Françoise had completely forgotten that she had loved her as little in her life time as she loved everyone whose cupboard was bare, who was dying of hunger, and after that came, like a good for nothing, thanks to the bounty of the rich, to “put on airs.” It no longer pained her that Eulalie had so skilfully managed, Sunday after Sunday, to secure her “trifle” from my aunt. As for the latter, Françoise never left off singing her praises.

“But it was at Combray, surely, that you used to be, with a cousin of Madame?” asked the young footman.