MARCEL PROUSTAt our last glimpse of the poor lady, a fortnight before, she is on
a milk diet, and refusing even that, 'unless you can make it not
taste of milk'. In memory of her beloved mother Mme Proust
began to read and quote Mme de Sevigne, just as the Narrator's
mother does in Sodome et Gomorrke. '''I know another mother who
counts as nothing for herself, who has transmitted herself entirely
to her children,'" she wrote-'Isn't that just like your grand-
mother? Only she wouldn't have saidit!' Proust wept for his loss
and his mother's grief, but was told: 'Think of her, by all means,
and cherish her as I do: but don't let yourself go, and spend days
in tears, because it's only bad for your nerves, and she wouldn't
wish it. No, the more you think of her, the more it is your duty to
be as she would like you to be, and act as she would like you to
act.' But the last days of the grandmother in Le Cad de Guer-
mantes are drawn chiefly, as will be seen, from the last illness of
Mme Proust herself fifteen years later.
Almost every week-end Proust was able to come home on
leave to Paris, which was less than two hours from Orleans by
rail. On one of his first leaves he visited Mme Arman, and there
at last met the famous Gaston, whose military service had just
ended. 'Gaston was so charming to me that our friendship began
immediately.' In the barrack-room Proust talked of nothing else
and so impressed his batman and the corporal that they sent
Gaston an address of homage for New Year's Day. Throughout
that year Proust was to be seen at Sunday tea-time in Mme
Arman's salon, buried in his uniform and the enormous cushions
of one of her best armchairs. The weary head of the soldier lay
back, drooping to one shoulder; his face was serious, his large
brown eyes were melancholy; and then at the least pretext he
would burst into his nervous bt:~ infectious laugh, and the pale
face was lit up by his white teeth. At six o'clock Mme Arman
would stuff him with cakes and sandwiches, and load him with
more to take away-"You may need them in the train"; and then
he would make the round of the drawing-room to say good-bye,
embarrassed by the parcels and his kepi, bustled from behind by
Gaston. When at last Gaston tore him from the final benediction
of Anatole France and pushed him downstairs, their cab had been
waiting for more than half an hour. In the Rue du Faubourg
Saint-Honore there waS a pastry-cook whose clock was always
slow-they were reassured; but in the Rue Royale a restaurant