e had been in my infancy, before we first went
to Combray, and when my aunt Leonie used still to spend the winter in
Paris with her mother, a time when I knew Francoise so little that on
New Year's Day, before going into my great-aunt's house, my mother put
a five-franc piece in my hand and said: "Now, be careful. Don't make
any mistake. Wait until you hear me say 'Good morning, Francoise,' and
I touch your arm before you give it to her." No sooner had we arrived
in my aunt's dark hall than we saw in the gloom, beneath the frills of a
snowy cap as stiff and fragile as if it had been made of spun sugar, the
concentric waves of a smile of anticipatory gratitude. It was Francoise,
motionless and erect, framed in the small doorway of the corridor like
the statue of a saint in its niche. When we had grown more accustomed to
this religious darkness we could discern in her features a disinterested
love of all humanity, blended with a tender respect for the 'upper
classes' which raised to the most honourable quarter of her heart the
hope of receiving her due reward. Mamma pinched my arm sharply and said
in a loud voice: "Good morning, Francoise." At this signal my fingers
parted and I let fall the coin, which found a receptacle in a confused
but outstretched hand. But since we had begun to go to Combray there was
no one I knew better than Francoise. We were her favourites, and in the
first years at least, while she shewed the same consideration for us
as for my aunt, she enjoyed us with a keener relish, because we had, in
addition to our dignity as part of 'the family' (for she had for those
invisible bonds by which community of blood unites the members of a
family as much respect as any Greek tragedian), the fresh charm of not
being her customary employers. And so with what joy would she welcome
us, with what sorrow complain that the weather was still so bad for us,
on the day of our arrival, just before Easter, when there was often an
icy wind; while Mamma inquired after her daughter and her nephews, and
if her grandson was good-looking, and what they were going to make of
him, and whether he took after his granny.

Later, when no one else was in the room, Mamma, who knew that Francoise
was still mourning for her parents, who had been dead for years, would
speak of them kindly, asking her endless little questions about them and
their lives.

She had guessed that Francoise was not over-fond of her son-in-law, and
that he spoi