piegne.

It was, indeed, a piece of bad luck that she had forbidden him access
to the one spot that tempted him to-day. To-day! Why, if he went down
there, in defiance of her prohibition, he would be able to see her that
very day! But then, whereas, if she had met, at Pierrefonds, some one
who did not matter, she would have hailed him with obvious pleasure:
"What, you here?" and would have invited him to come and see her at the
hotel where she was staying with the Verdurins, if, on the other hand,
it was himself, Swann, that she encountered there, she would be annoyed,
would complain that she was being followed, would love him less in
consequence, might even turn away in anger when she caught sight of him.
"So, then, I am not to be allowed to go away for a day anywhere!" she
would reproach him on her return, whereas in fact it was he himself who
was not allowed to go.

He had had the sudden idea, so as to contrive to visit Compiegne and
Pierrefonds without letting it be supposed that his object was to meet
Odette, of securing an invitation from one of his friends, the Marquis
de Forestelle, who had a country house in that neighbourhood. This
friend, to whom Swann suggested the plan without disclosing its
ulterior purpose, was beside himself with joy; he did not conceal his
astonishment at Swann's consenting at last, after fifteen years, to come
down and visit his property, and since he did not (he told him) wish
to stay there, promised to spend some days, at least, in taking him for
walks and excursions in the district. Swann imagined himself down there
already with M. de Forestelle. Even before he saw Odette, even if he did
not succeed in seeing her there, what a joy it would be to set foot on
that soil where, not knowing the exact spot in which, at any moment, she
was to be found, he would feel all around him the thrilling possibility
of her suddenly appearing: in the courtyard of the Chateau, now
beautiful in his eyes since it was on her account that he had gone to
visit it; in all the streets of the town, which struck him as romantic;
down every ride of the forest, roseate with the deep and tender glow of
sunset;--innumerable and alternative hiding-places, to which would fly
simultaneously for refuge, in the uncertain ubiquity of his hopes, his
happy, vagabond and divided heart. "We mustn't, on any account," he
would warn M. de Forestelle, "run across Odette and the Verdurins. I
have just heard that they are at Pie